That Folk-Cursed Creature
Mistress Corthope is more irritable than usual, or maybe I’m more irritable than usual. The late night and the annoying realization that I’m falling in love with a man I can’t have—and, most pressingly, spending the entire day in wet socks—combine to set me on edge, and I prick my finger more than once.
I’m late getting out of Mistress Corthope’s shop, and I rub my back as I exit. A scowl covers my face, both at the steady drizzle already dampening my skirts, and at Mistress Corthope’s treatment. I’d finished the piece moments after Jinna left for the day, but Mistress Corthope insisted on inspecting it before I left, and she refused to inspect it until she had puttered around doing her bookkeeping, and so I was forced to wait. My stomach growled louder and louder as time ticked past.
If only I could find another position! I sigh, pulling the hood of my cloak lower to keep the drizzle out of my eyes.
I know I shouldn’t be so cranky. Didn’t I have the treatment of a princess last evening? Shouldn’t I be grateful that Lucas took notice of me? And Hugh, too, even if I don’t like him—and then, the queen herself!
And yet I want more—more— more. Not of Hugh, clearly.
I want to dance with Lucas again, and talk with him about books and economics, and make him laugh more, and be held by him. I want moments with him that are not stolen and scandalous.
My scowl deepens as I skirt a puddle and nearly run into a coffee-seller’s table. “Look out!” the woman scolds. “You almost upset my stand!” I sniff the bitter aroma of the coffee longingly before I skitter away.
I’m still ruminating on my misery when I reach the boardinghouse. Head down, I shake myself like a sheepdog on the doorstep before entering. The first thing I see when I open the door is a pair of well-oiled riding boots; my eyes follow them up impossibly green breeches and a close-fitting jacket dotted with raindrops to find a handsome face with a roguish grin.
Hugh. Wonderful.
“Your Highness. How good of you to come and fetch your things.” I don’t bother with a curtsy, instead peeling off my dripping cloak. I resist the urge to wring it out on his toes.
“My things?”
“The gown you sent? I’m afraid it’s a bit wrinkled. If you care to wait, I can press it.” He had better not take me up on that; if there’s one thing I loathe, it’s pressing clothes. I’d probably burn the ruffles, anyhow.
“Keep it.” Hugh smiles. “A gift.”
I shoot him a sideways glare as I hang my cloak on its peg. Raindrops roll off and dot the floor. “I don’t take gifts.”
“And yet, my brother keeps sending you things.” Hugh leans against the whitewashed wall and inspects his nails idly. “You prefer his gifts?”
“I’ve never taken a gift from him either. I always pay him back.” Of a sort.
Hugh raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“If you will be so good as to wait here”—I pronounce the words with fearsome purpose, smiling through gritted teeth—“I shall fetch the gown. ”
“Keep it,” Hugh says, stepping away from the wall so he’s standing in my path. He’s still smiling, but it’s a trifle less jolly.
“No.” I tilt my chin and cross my arms over my chest. Ridiculous to be in a staring match with a prince, but Hugh never has been normal!
He matches my stare for a moment, eyes narrowing, before suddenly relaxing and moving aside with a shrug. “As you wish, Miss Smith.” He offers a disarming smile. “Perhaps another gift will suit you better. I’ve heard you’re fond of cheese.”
I dart around him and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly fall on top of Chemmy when I enter our room.
“The prince was here!” she says, eyes wide.
“Still is,” I grumble. “I’m making him take this back.”
“You can’t make princes do things, Hester!”
“Well, he can’t make me do things.” I gather the orange silk—farewell, you hideous creature, and may your vivid hue never again cross my vision!—and try to fold it back into the box it arrived in.
“You’d never make it as a dressmaker folding gowns like that ,” Chemmy says. “Here, let me.”
She manages to get the offensive dress mostly tucked into the box. “Good enough,” I say, hefting it into my arms. “Thank you.”
I exit the room back to the narrow stairs, hoping I won’t trip and break my neck on the way down. “If this dress kills me, write to Lucas and tell him that the crown owes my family something,” I toss over my shoulder to Chemmy as I begin feeling my way down the stairs. The box is too big to see around, and my hands are too full to grope the walls to steady myself, so I mince my way, step by step. I am down to the last flight when a mouse scurries across the floor.
Now, I am not afraid of mice. Harmless little things, really, and cute enough in their own way. Rationally, I don’t mind them one bit.
Unfortunately, my rational mind is not in control at the moment.
The mouse startles me—so much that I leap aside with a yelp, which makes me miss the first step after the landing and hurtle headfirst down the remaining stairs, bumping and thumping and collecting bruises as I go.
But what’s worse than the indignity and worse than the bruises is the fact that Hugh catches me, arms wrapping around places I’d rather not have them and crushing my nose right into his top jacket button.
I’d rather have a broken neck.
“Why, Miss Smith! If you wanted my embrace, you only had to ask!” He chuckles and shifts his grip so that it’s less of a tackle and more of a snuggle.
Wonderful. Now I need a bath.
“You’re ruining the dress,” I grind out.
“I think you’re ruining the dress, jumping into my arms like that.”
“I did not jump into your arms! Let me go!”
Hugh sighs, but loosens his grip enough for me to wriggle away. I press the misshapen garment box into his arms.
“Thank you for the gown.”
“You loved it, I suppose.” Hugh leans back on his heels and smiles at me, all beneficence and goodwill.
I stare at him narrowly. “I’m never sure if you actually believe what you’re saying.”
“Always, Miss Smith, always! Well! Shall we dine together this evening?”
I raise a shoulder. “You’ll have to ask the mistress of the house if you want to eat here.”
“Oh, not here. I’d take you somewhere nice.” He grins.
I shiver. Something about all those teeth makes me uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I have chores.”
“You’re always working.” His grin turns to a pout. “It’s very inconvenient.”
“I didn’t work last evening, if you remember,” I say dryly. “And now I’m behind. If you’ll excuse me—” I make to curtsy and back down the hall, but Hugh’s hand darts out, catching me by the wrist.
“At least tell me you had a good time last night.”
“Didn’t I already thank you?”
“But you never said you had a good time.”
I sigh. “Will you let me go if I say it?”
Hugh’s smile returns. “I will.”
“I had a delightful time.” I roll my eyes. “There.”
“With me?”
“You didn’t specify that wording. Now release me, please.”
Hugh drops my wrist suddenly, chuckling to himself. “Clever girl,” he says, nodding.
“Well?” I say, shooing him toward the door. “Are you going to leave?”
“Rejected yet again!” He sighs with his whole body. “And now I must ride in the rain, too!”
“It’s not my fault it’s raining. You should get a covered carriage if you dislike it so much.”
“But I do so hate getting wet.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you want me to take your horse back to the palace and fetch you something warmer to ride in?”
It was supposed to be sarcastic.
Hugh brightens, standing straight once again. “Would you? Not as a favor. I’ll pay you.” He pats his pockets and pulls out a coin. It flashes toward me through the air; I manage to catch it between two fingers. “Erm, is a crown enough for now? And I’ll give you another once I’m home.”
“Two crowns?” I goggle. “I’d do it for a shilling. I can stay up late to finish my chores here.” I shove the coin in my own pocket, snatch my cloak back off the peg and sling it over my shoulders, droplets of rainwater flinging out from its folds. “Seems a bit too trusting of you, though.”
“What, are you planning on running away with Kelpie?” Hugh says, sauntering into the common room.
“She’s probably worth a fortune. ”
Hugh sits down on a sofa and leans back, crossing one leg over the other. “You couldn’t steal something if you tried, Miss Smith. Actually,” he smiles, “I’d rather like to see you try. You’d be squirming like anything.”
“You shouldn’t goad me,” I say, tugging my mittens on. “If I’m not back in half an hour, you’ll know I’ve sold Kelpie to a cabbie and made off with my riches.”
Hugh leans his head back on the sofa and smiles a little absently at the gray ceiling, tapping a finger over his heart. “Try it. It would entertain me very much.”
I don’t waste time replying. Leaving Hugh in the common room, I step back out into the evening drizzle.
Kelpie and the phaeton are tied to a hitching post a few doors down; Mistress Mungon doesn’t have a post outside her place. I should’ve noticed her before, but I was too focused on keeping water out of my eyes. “I didn’t mean it,” I mutter to myself. “He should have a groom with him to do this sort of errand!”
Of course, if Hugh did have a groom, then the groom would be taking Kelpie to the palace and leaving me inside with Hugh—so I suppose I’m glad he doesn’t have one, after all.
I eye Kelpie dubiously. She nickers, rolling an eye at me. “Well, then.” I untie the reins from the hitching post and pat her shoulder. “Shall we be off?”
Hoisting myself into the phaeton is not a precisely graceful feat on my part. It’s a tall contraption, and my skirts are already damp and heavy and clinging to my bruised legs. I grasp the side of the phaeton and pull myself up, scrambling to get my leg over the high wheels.
A tapping sound pulls my attention back to the house, and I scowl at Hugh, who’s standing at the window and laughing. He’s getting a much more expansive view of my legs than I’d like him to have. Well, an entire crown is worth the embarrassment. My pouch of savings hasn’t grown much recently.
I finish shimmying onto the wet seat, finally managing to get myself upright, and snap the reins. Maneuvering the phaeton is different than the donkey-cart I’ve driven back on the farm, and Kelpie doesn’t want to cooperate; she turns left when I want her to go right, and leaps forward instead of stepping nicely, and generally proves to be a handful. I manage to get her down the alley, but just barely. Hugh’s amused face watches through the boardinghouse window. Kelpie whinnies when she sees her master, shaking her head and rearing up onto her hind legs. The reins rip from my grasp. I squeal and cling to my seat. “Hugh! Come get your blasted horse!”
Hugh takes no notice of my predicament, so there’s nothing for it but to hold tight and let Kelpie do what she wants. She whinnies again and darts out of the alley. A collection of pigeons scatter in front of her, so she veers sharply to the right. The side of the phaeton scrapes against a bricklayer’s shop, leaving a trail of black paint along the building.
Soggy fishmongers and dripping pedestrians yelp and dive out of the way as Kelpie continues her mad dash. The reins trail along the ground, too far away for me to reach, but maybe if she slows down I can somehow leap onto her back—
She doesn't slow down. In fact, she seems to delight in running straight at people; I think she’s laughing at their terrified squeals. She barrels through a coffee-seller’s table—the same one I nearly ran into before, I note. “Pardon!” I yell to the angry woman picking up her pot. “I’ll pay you for it!”
I don’t know if she hears. Kelpie gallops helter-skelter down alleys and across streets, huffing and puffing. Once or twice the cursed animal looks back at me and rolls her eyes in an exaggerated sneer before diving directly into a puddle. The spray from the wheels arcs across anyone unlucky enough to be standing close, but at least she doesn’t trample anyone, so things could be worse.
They could be much better, too; for example, it would be nice if she were running toward the palace instead of away from it. Such a beautiful creature, and yet such a hellion!
“Kelpie!” I finally bellow. She turns down yet another winding alley. “Stop this, and I’ll get you an apple!” She twitches her head, so I lean forward on the seat and try again. “Two apples! And some warm oatmeal! I’ll make it myself!”
She slows her pace and looks over her shoulder. “I promise,” I snap. “If you take me back to the palace.”
She whinnies, then stops and paws the ground.
“I’m going to get out and make sure you didn’t hurt yourself on that coffee stand,” I say. A raindrop rolls off my nose. “No treats if you run away!”
Her nicker is surprisingly conversational, as if she’s agreeing to the terms. I squint at her, suspicious of this sudden acquiescence. “I should’ve offered oatmeal earlier.” She whinnies her agreement, and I slide out of the high seat. The sharp sound of tearing fabric makes me wince; a wet ribbon of calico, previously part of my skirt, is now dangling as a sort of pennant from a nail on the side of the phaeton. “Perhaps it will become the new fashion,” I mutter. Kelpie stands still as I walk around her, checking her legs and hooves. Satisfied that the only injuries were to the coffee-cart and my dress, I grab the reins and hoist myself back up into the phaeton.
“Do you know the way back to the palace? Or do I need to direct you?”
Kelpie huffs and tosses her head before turning back the way we came. I don’t really trust this Folk-blasted creature, but she seems reasonable now that I’ve promised her a snack, so I let her trot where she wants.
“One crown,” I muse, brushing at my mud-splattered skirt. “Minus a penny for a couple of apples, one for the pot of oats”—Kelpie neighs her approval—“three more to have this dress laundered, and the rest for the coffee-woman.” I sigh and wipe rainwater out of my eyes. “So much for tucking it all away!”
Kelpie makes quick time getting back to the palace now, heading straight up the avenue and to the stables with an expectant whine. “I didn’t know horses could whine.” I slide down in a soggy mess of dripping skirt and muddy stockings. She replies with another whine, louder, and a stomp of her foot. “I’m getting it, I’m getting it! ”
A middle-aged groom appears, eyebrows raising when he sees me.
“His Highness Prince Fitzhugh is at a boardinghouse,” I say primly, pretending I look like a respectable messenger instead of a dingy gremlin. I give the groom the directions. “He would like a carriage to come fetch him so he can stay dry .”
The groom rubs a hand over his chin, mustache quivering with an emotion that is probably not flattering to my own self.
“At once,” I add.
His lips quirk, but he nods. “I’ll get one prepared for His Highness immediately,” he says in a friendly tenor, “and get Kelpie rubbed down.” I pretend not to notice the way he eyes my bedraggled skirts. “You can return to—wherever it is you’ve come from.”
Kelpie lets out an earsplitting whinny. I wince. “I’m afraid I bribed her with some apples and a bowl of warm oatmeal.”
“I can get her some apples, miss, but oatmeal?” The groom rubs his chin again.
“Warm. I suppose there is a pot somewhere I could borrow—?”
“Uh—I’ll see to the horse, miss—” the groom begins, but Kelpie stamps a front foot, neighing in a way I take to be disagreement.
“I promised her,” I say. I give the horse a tentative pat on her soggy shoulder. “I’ll be right back with that, Kelpie.”
I leave the groom gaping behind me and stalk through the stables. Out of all the foolish things I’ve done recently, promising a horse that I would make her warm oatmeal —! I sigh, pushing back the hood from my cloak so I can shake my wet curls. I find the office of the stable master, who remembers me—I suppose that is not a good thing—and although he twitches his long nose when I explain my errand, he directs me to the stable kitchen, where I find a pot and a fire easily enough. I hope the water boils quickly; Kelpie’s impatient screeches are echoing through the building, and I’m afraid she’ll start biting innocent grooms if I take too long.