Thought His Name Was Inglebert
“A parcel for you, Your Highness,” Rodering murmurs. “I left it in your study.” He bows and withdraws from the sitting room where we are entertaining the Lady Hitchingford and her daughters for the evening.
I don’t reply, my mouth growing strangely dry. Could it be from—from Hester?
It’s been four days since I last saw her, leaving Hugh’s room and declaring that she was going home. I haven’t heard from her; why would I?
Hugh’s been growing increasingly irritable, and his beautiful smile looks sharper tonight. The younger Miss Hitchingford bats her eyelashes at him, and he pays her exaggerated compliments. He hasn’t mentioned Miss Flanders to me recently, but then again, I’ve been avoiding him.
Hugh looks over and catches me staring, his lips curving dangerously. He murmurs something to Miss Hitchingford, who pouts in reply. He ignores it, rising and strolling across the room.
“Why so solemn, brother?” he asks, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Don’t you care for the company of our lovely guests?” His voice is too loud. I try to shush him, but he laughs. “I know you haven’t arranged things with that princess yet, either,” he adds, “so don’t try to pretend you have any good excuse for not entertaining one of our charming friends. You can’t tell me your heart is already engaged .” His voice is light; his eyes are not. They bore into me with a meaning I don’t quite grasp.
I unfold myself from my chair. “Excuse me.” There’s nothing I can say that will make me sound less boorish, so I bow to our visitors and leave the stuffy room. Mother keeps her smile pasted in place, but I can tell from the fine lines around her eyes that she’s annoyed with my ungracious exit.
I slip a finger under my collar to loosen it as I walk away. I hardly know why I’m being so taciturn. I’ve never had a problem with this sort of evening before. Tonight, for some reason, I just can’t think of anything to say.
I remember Rodering’s message. Maybe I had never forgotten it, and that’s why I was so eager to leave. I make my way to my study, heart thudding. Perhaps Hester has written. I just want to know that she is well.
My breath catches when I enter my study and see the book-sized parcel, reminding me of the penny dreadful I still keep locked in a private drawer. But the direction is not in her handwriting, and when I carefully peel off the paper, the title on the spine is Methods and Measures to Increase Taxable Imports. I let out a sigh. I forgot I’d ordered this. Well, since it’s here, and I’ve already rudely left Mother’s guests, I may as well read.
I take a seat, crack the book open, and settle in for a lonely evening.
An hour later, I’ve read the first page six times without understanding a word. I shake myself and start over. Perhaps a seventh read will catch my attention.
The door bursts open and Hugh stalks into the room. He’s still smiling.
“Loutish of you to leave like that,” he says, helping himself to the most comfortable armchair in the room. His eyes rake over the book I hold and the discarded wrapping still on the desk. “I see you had better things to think about.”
“One of us must give attention to economics.”
“It won’t be me,” he agrees, paying no mind to my sarcasm. He scratches at his chest absently. “I thought perhaps you’d heard from the lovely Miss Smith.”
I raise an eyebrow, slowly, and am proud of the detached tone I use when I answer. “Miss Who?”
“You know who I mean.” His smile hasn’t changed at all since he entered the room, even though his voice has grown strained. “My betrothed, unless you’d rather have her.”
“Your what ?” I gulp and turn the page. The first probably didn’t say anything important.
Hugh’s fingers tap a rapid beat on the arms of the chair. “My intended, my future wife, the soon-to-be princess, whatever you want to call her. Where is she?”
“Don’t tell me you’re considering marriage now ,” I say, closing the book with a snap. “You spent the past three hours flirting with Miss Lauria.”
“Yes, and Miss Lydia was green, wasn’t she!” Hugh’s eyes are bitter. “But enough about them. Where is Hester?” He rises and stalks across the room, places his hands on the desk and leans over it. “Have you heard from her?”
“Why would I hear from Miss Flanders? But,” I add before he can say whatever he is about to say, “no, I have not.” I’m glad that I can tell Hugh honestly that she hasn’t sent a message. I’ve never been a good liar. He would know if I tried.
His gaze bores into mine for several more heartbeats, that unnerving grin never slipping, but he finally relaxes. “I need to find her.”
I stare at him, baffled. “Why?” I ask. “And why do you think I would help you? You know I’m entirely opposed to the idea of you bothering the poor girl—not to mention marrying her! ”
He clicks his teeth together. “Dear brother,” he says. “Inglebert, I really do insist that you tell me if you hear anything from Miss Hester Flanders.” His eyes are alight with a strange fervor.
“Insist all you like,” I snap. “You can’t tell me what to do, Hugh!” I reach for the bell, snapping it harder than necessary.
Hugh’s nostrils flare. We sit in sullen silence until Rodering appears.
“A cup of tea,” I say. “Actually, bring the whole pot.” Rodering bows and looks to Hugh. “And if Hugh wants tea, he can take it in his own room.”
Hugh laughs and rises. “I am dismissed, it seems!” He eyes me once more with that conniving expression. “And you are firm in your decision not to help me, brother?”
“I’ll be glad to help you when you decide to act in a manner befitting your station.”
“Very well.” Hugh follows Rodering out, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll get someone else to help. I keep my word, you know.” He smiles an unpleasant smile and withdraws with a self-satisfied hum, not even bothering to close the door.
HESTER
The physician comes back each morning; by the fourth, he looks less grave, although not much. I overhear him whispering to Mum about a surgeon, so when we go out to thatch the new sty, I waste no time asking the questions that have been roiling in my mind for days.
“Will Dad get better?”
Mum flattens her lips and looks over the hills. “I believe he will.” The words are defiant, not hopeful.
I climb the ladder and wait for her to hand me the first bundle of thatch. “Why didn’t any of the neighbors come help put out the fire? ”
Mum stills. “What?”
“Surely someone saw the flames.”
“It was night,” Mum says, recovering herself. She thrusts the bundle into my arms and bends to grab another. “Besides, we had nothing to trade.”
I take a moment to fix the thatch in place. “It shouldn't matter.”
“What?” Mum says again.
“It shouldn’t matter.” I twist on the ladder so I can see her face. “Someone should have helped.” Mum shakes her head, but I’m not done. “Maybe, if someone else was here, Dad wouldn’t have been hurt. Maybe—”
“But the Folk, Hester!” Mum’s voice is terse. “Would you have us trapped in a bargain?”
“Have you ever even seen one, Mum?” I turn back to the roof. “Are they even real? One of my—my friends said that I wasn’t actually afraid of them, just hideously stubborn.”
“Your friend is a fool, then,” Mum says, eyebrows knotted. “Don’t you remember poor Flossie from Upper Splott? Or my great-aunt Hattie’s baby, who was replaced by a changeling?” She thrusts another bundle of thatch to me. “Better to be stubborn, if that’s what it takes!”
I bite my lip. Of course I’ve heard the stories, and I’ve never questioned them, but now … “Perhaps Hattie’s baby was just—”
“A mother knows,” Mum says firmly. “A mother always knows.”
I won’t argue the point. After all, I’m not even sure that I’ve stopped believing in the Folk.
But I have started believing in something greater than the Folk. Perhaps they exist, and perhaps they are treacherous and powerful; but friendship and kindness are powerful, too.
“I’m going to write to my friend.” I tie off the bundle of thatch and reach for another. “And I’m going to ask him to help me get Dad to a surgeon.”
“Hester!” Mum gasps. “Ask for what ?”
“Help,” I reply firmly. “We need help, Mum. And I know where to get it.”
The rest of the day is tense. The clouds grow thicker as the afternoon lengthens, so Mum and I rush to finish the sty. She doesn’t try to dissuade me from my plan, even though her movements are choppy with displeasure. Either she thinks Dad will be able to talk sense into me, or she knows as well as I do that we can’t continue like we are. I won’t allow Dad to suffer for the sake of our pride.
I expect her to bring it up over our supper of boiled potatoes and salty ham, or while I’m washing up and she’s tending to Dad, but she ignores the subject. I dry my hands and rummage through a cupboard for a sheet of paper. I spare a glance for Mum and Dad, but they’re talking quietly together—why do I feel so left out by that?—so I sit at the table, sharpen my quill, and begin my letter.
I don’t get any further than Dear Prince Lucas before I lay my quill back down. A weight settles in my chest. Never in my life have I left a debt unpaid, and never in my life have I asked for a favor, and here I am, about to ask a prince for aid! How can I do it?
A glimpse of Dad, face drawn in pain, reminds me of the stakes. I am not asking for myself. I take my quill back up and scratch out an inelegant request.
Mum appears over my shoulder. I try to cover up the sheet, smudging ink all over my sleeves in the process, but it’s too late.
“Does that say Prince ?” She gapes.
I twirl a lock of hair around one finger and smile sheepishly. “You saw that?”
“Hester!” Mum snatches the paper, and I have no choice but to let her read the whole thing. “You intend to send this to a … a Prince ?”
“Well, he’s rather used to me,” I say, and Mum gapes even more. I wasn’t aware of how terribly well she could gape; perhaps I never used to give her cause. “Anyhow,” I say brightly, trying to slide the letter away from Mum, “I’ll take this to the village tomorrow to send it. ”
“ Why is a prince ‘rather used to you’?” Mum sounds as though she’s about to faint.
“He’s the friend that sent me cheese.” I blow on the ink, hoping it’s legible enough for Lucas to read.
“What’s that?” Dad says from his bed, surprise etched on his tanned face. “Who’s talking about a prince?”
“Hester’s young man was a prince!” Mum stares at me accusingly. “And you said they were brothers—you had two princes after you?”
“I did not,” I protest. “Hugh was only after me to—well, I’m still not sure what he was up to, but he wasn’t serious; and everyone knows that Lucas has to marry someone important.”
“And when you say Lucas , you don’t mean the crown prince, I hope.” Mum’s voice is at least an octave higher than usual. I look at her in alarm.
“Please sit down, Mum! You’re about to topple over! Here.” I stand and usher her into my chair. “I suppose you could say that I do mean the crown prince, yes.”
“You can’t go around calling the crown prince Lucas!” Mum says.
“Thought his name was Inglebert.” Dad scratches his chin. “Who’s this Lucas, now?”
“Middle name,” I say. “But he told me I could call him that.”
“I think you’d better explain a bit more,” Mum says, still sounding reedy.
“Let me put the kettle on, Mum, and I’ll confess everything.” I hang the black kettle on the hook over the fire and perch myself on the edge of Dad’s bed. “I suppose it all started when I went to the Commoners Ball.”