Eight O’clock Sharp
“You look lovely, Mother.” I descend the staircase with quick steps and kiss her gloved hand. “As always.”
Mother sits in a straight-backed chair, already dressed for Lady Hitchingford’s masquerade. I pride myself on my efficiency in dressing, and yet she is always the first down. Her bright gaze flicks over me. “No costume for the ball, Luke?”
I pat my breast pocket. “I have a mask.”
She tuts gently, but she doesn’t actually expect me to play dress up like Hugh does. Hugh—I frown and pull out my pocket watch.
“Where is Hugh?”
“Still preening, I expect.” Mother taps the chair next to her with her fan. “He’ll be down soon. But sit, talk to me. Tell me how things are going with the princess.”
I sink slowly to the chair she’s indicated. “I have heard from her.”
“And?”
I don’t quite meet Mother’s gaze, watching the staircase where Hugh has yet to appear. “And I should reply to her letter.”
From the corner of my vision I see Mother’s brow raise slightly. “ I wonder that you have not already done so.”
Why haven’t I already done so? I can hardly say. “Should I go fetch Hugh?” I take out my watch again. “It is not kind of him to keep you waiting.”
“What did her letter say?”
“Oh, just what one would expect. It was quite formal.” I pull my gloves out of a pocket and lay them on my lap.
“Do you think she sounded agreeable to the idea of a union?”
“I did not broach the subject yet.” Where is Hugh?
Mother hums. “Broach it soon. Your father and I are anxious to see you happily settled.” She pats my knee.
I stand. “Shall we ride ahead? Hugh can follow when he’s finished preening.”
Mother smiles and accepts my hand, rising in a rustle of perfumed silk. “Very well,” she says. “We can continue our discussion in the carriage.”
“Very well indeed.”
HESTER
I’d like to say I forget all about Hugh’s invitation, but of course I don’t. My mind is full of ballgowns and princes, and maybe if Hugh had sent a pretty dress, I’d reconsider. But nothing could convince me to wear that orange monstrosity.
Still, I’m on edge all day. Certainly he won’t actually come to pick me up tonight, will he? Certainly it was merely a jest? And certainly I do not secretly wish I could go!
Eight o’clock sharp, he said. And the hours tick by in my bones, drawing closer and closer to the appointed time, when I certainly, certainly will not go to a ball with Hugh.
Chemmy encourages me to change my mind—“You may as well get a proper meal this evening, Hester!”—but I am so certain, after all! So instead of her helping me into that garish gown, I help her primp for a musicale. Ungus finally worked up the nerve to invite her when we walked past his shop this morning, and though Chemmy half-wished to stay home and spy on Hugh, she couldn’t say no to Ungus. So we giggle as she readies herself, and I watch her beam when he arrives to escort her away, then I go back to the kitchen to scrub the dishes for Mistress Mungon.
And I do not keep an ear out for the sound of Prince Hugh—and I do not imagine the music and the dancing—and I do not feel sorry for myself. Or at least, not much.
But when the clock chimes eight, I realize my hands have stilled, elbow-deep in the lukewarm water, and I’m holding my breath, straining to hear the noise of the street. I’m quite alone tonight—several of the other boarders are attending the same musicale, and although one invited me to accompany the group, I couldn’t afford the ticket.
I’m glad I’m alone, too, for unless my ears are terribly wrong, I do hear the sound of a horse, and it’s stopping outside the door, and now there’s a rapping. Well, there’s no one else to answer, so I wipe my hands on my stained apron and nearly trip over myself on the way to the door.
Certainly, certainly, certainly, and yet—
Hugh, dressed in a ridiculous forest-green costume with a longbow over his shoulder, is waiting on the doorstep.
I shouldn’t be surprised, or should I?
“Miss Smith!” he begins, but his bright smile falters when his gaze snags on my stockinged feet and damp apron. “Didn’t you get my invitation?”
“I did, and thank you, but you can’t really expect me to go!”
He frowns. “Of course I can.” He steps closer, so that I have to fall back and allow him into the hallway. “Well, we shall only be late, and that’s of no consequence. I’ll wait for you to change.”
“I can’t,” I protest, and his frown deepens. “Especially not in that dress! ”
“You disliked the dress?” A twinkle lurking in his eyes proves he’s not offended.
“You know it’s very ugly,” I accuse.
He laughs. “Well, if you insist, you can wear that,” he says, surveying me more critically. I flush under his scrutiny. “We’ll say you’re masquerading as an urchin.”
“I’m not wearing this either!”
“Oh? Do you have something else?”
“I mean,” I say more slowly, “that I thank you for the invitation, but I cannot go. So, if you’ll excuse me—” I start to curtsy, but Hugh reaches out and grabs my arm, forcing me to stand back up.
“Oh, don’t be silly. You must come with me. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Well, that’s the only answer you’re going to get! Really, Hugh, isn’t there anyone else for you to bother?”
“No one at all, Miss Smith! I am entirely at your disposal!”
“You are—” I begin spluttering, and am saved by the arrival of Mistress Mungon.
“Did you finish the dishes, Hester?” She asks before she realizes who is lurking in the shadows of the entryway. When she notices Hugh, she lets out a squeaky little gasp and drops into a curtsy. It’s more elegant than mine, which I resent.
“Oh, is that the problem?” Hugh says. “I’ll wait while you finish. Or shall I help you?”
“You can’t help me with dishes!” I protest. “Do you even know how to wash up?”
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Mistress Mungon interjects. “I did not realize Hester had an … engagement.” She says the last word doubtfully, looking at me with her face wrinkled up, and my already-flushed cheeks get hotter.
“You’ll let her go for the evening, won’t you?” Hugh turns his charming grin upon Mistress Mungon, and she has no option but to nod stiffly. He claps. “Then you shall change, and we shall go!”
“I don’t want to—” I begin, but Mistress Mungon interrupts me .
“I don’t think you should argue with His Highness, Hester.”
I glance helplessly between them: Hugh, jovial and smug, and Mistress Mungon, worried and dubious. I could say no; I should say no. I have no right to attend such an event, and Hugh has no right to ask it of me. But I’m not in a mood to argue, and I can’t deny that a tiny bit of me does want to pretend to be someone else, just for an evening. Can that be so very wrong?
I finally sigh. What use is there in arguing? Besides, as Chemmy pointed out, at least I shall get a good meal. “I doubt I could get myself in that—that thing, ” I say, by way of one last try. I can’t call it a dress; that would be an offense to all other dresses, including the dingy one I now wear.
“Don’t you have anyone to help you?”
I glare at Hugh, which is completely inappropriate, but he started it. “No, I do not.”
“I will assist the prince’s guest,” Mistress Mungon says with an annoyingly formal detachment.
There is nothing I want less than for Mistress Mungon to help me into that silken malformation, but she herds me upstairs while Hugh makes himself comfortable in the common room, and so I press my lips together and do as I’m bid. She helps me wriggle into the ugly thing—it is so very orange!—and ties the bow, and fluffs the petticoats, which I expect will cause me to trip and fall headfirst down all three flights of stairs, but at least a broken neck will mean I don’t have to go.
Her frown grows deeper and deeper as she silently arrays me in Hugh’s mockery of an outfit, and I’m not sure if she’s disturbed by the gown’s ugliness or by the fact that he sent it at all. I open my mouth once to offer an explanation, or a justification, or anything to break the awkward silence, but I close it again without saying anything, because my heart knows that her disapproval is just and right. He should not have sent these things, and I should not be going. I should stop her now—I should jump out the window—I should just say no, and let Hugh throw his fit —
But I don’t. I submit to the tugging and the stuffing and the brushing and the braiding, and though I wriggle uncomfortably beneath Mistress Mungon’s frown, I don’t protest, because—well, because I want to go. I could imagine a more agreeable escort, but a ball is a ball, and there will be food, and maybe there will even be Lucas.
I do, however, give thanks that there is no looking-glass in the room I share with Chemmy. I truly do not want to see how I look.
Finally, Mistress Mungon breaks the heavy silence. “Well,” she says, and it’s so inadequate that I smile, which seems to displease her.
“Well,” I agree, glancing down at the violently orange swirl of my skirts. I sway a bit when I take a step. The glassy slippers pinch, and I’m half-inclined to wear my own. I don’t put on the mask yet—may as well spare myself that indignity for as long as possible. “Do I look very ugly?” I say with an attempt at humor.
Her mouth thins and she peers at me. “Is that all you’re concerned about?”
I don’t know what she wants of me. She told me to obey Hugh, she insisted on dressing me, and yet she worries her hands together as though I am doing something disgraceful! I shrug and make my precarious way downstairs.
Hugh’s whistling to himself, tapping his foot in rhythm to the off-key melody. He leaps up when he sees me. “Miss Smith! How marvelous you look!” His eyes rove up and down, and I tug self-consciously at the neckline of the gown.
“Marvelous is not the word I would use.” I say. “I feel like a pumpkin.”
“Don’t you like it? You’re supposed to be a fox.”
“A feathered fox?”
Hugh grins.
I narrow my eyes, considering his leather breeches and quiver. “And what are you?”
“A huntsman, naturally.” He winks.
“Ugh.”
“I thought it was rather clever,” he says, offering me his arm .
“That’s because you didn’t cast yourself as the prey!” Reluctantly, I allow him to drape my cloak around my shoulders and lead me out and into his waiting phaeton. I immediately scoot to the far edge, but he makes himself comfortable right in the middle, so we’re still much too close. Hugh takes the mask I’m still holding, tucks it in his pocket, and clucks to his horse. I huddle down sullenly.
I do hope Lady Hitchingford will have a lot of cheese.