Still, Lady Aubrey’s column was not the reason she had kept the paper. On page three, where the captains and conditions of each regiment had been listed, Azalea found Lord Bradford’s name—Captain Bradford’s name—and although there hadn’t been any more information than that, she had pored over the type, worrying the paper until her fingertips were black. Now she considered the watch, tracing the gold ornamental swirls.
Your gentleman. Why would Mr. Keeper have guessed such a thing? If anyone had seen the watch, they would have guessed was it the King’s. How Mr. Keeper knew it belonged to a gentleman, not her gentleman, naturally, but a gentleman…. That was…unsettling. The glint in his eyes, just before they met hers…
Azalea gripped the pocket watch, suddenly feeling protective. They had kept it too long as it was. When Lord Bradford came back from the war, she promised herself, she would give it back.
CHAPTER 10
The end of summer brought warm rains that pattered against the draped windows and scents of lilac wafting from the gardens. The girls by now knew everything from a ladies’ chain, to an Eathesburian quadrille, to dance positions one through four, and every galop ever invented.
One hot day near the end of August, when the girls were enjoying tea in the cellar among the crates of potatoes, Eve burst through the door, flushed and breathless and waving the paper about in the air.
“Look,” she managed to say between breaths. “Look!”
They looked.
“The war!” cried Azalea.
“It’s over!” said Bramble, gaping and smiling at the same time.
“Over!” the girls echoed.
“A victory!”
“Huzzah!”
The younger girls hopped around in a quasi-reel, crying, “Huzzah! Huzzah!” in squeaky, excited voices, and kicking up dirt.
Azalea pored over the headlines and articles, heart fluttering so quickly she thought it would burst. It had ended with a battle; Azalea raked the front page, and then the ones after, searching for any familiar names among the wounded.
“Anyone we know?” said Bramble. “Anyone…at all?”
“No,” said Azalea, relief sweeping over her. “No.”
Everyone exhaled.
“Not that we cared, naturally,” said Bramble.
“Naturally,” said Delphinium.
“I mean, I certainly don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“It’s over!”
The paper changed so many hands that day that it became wrinkled and curled. Mrs. Graybe made cinnamon bread, a treat they could only afford on holidays, and Mr. Pudding walked about the palace, singing “Huzzah” in wheezing, out-of-tune tones. The Harold Herald, alive with news of the war, even printed an extra edition the next day, and among the news of the front page, the girls discovered that Minister Fairweller had been wounded. Clover, so tenderhearted, cried.
“Oh, he’s probably all right,” said Bramble. “It would take a lot to kill him. Like garlic and a stake through the heart.”
Clover still cried. That was Clover for you.
All of Eathesbury seemed to spring with life now the war was over. Gentlemen came and left the palace on Royal Business, speaking with Mr. Pudding about regiments and ships returning to port. Minister Fairweller was the first of these to arrive, striding into the palace on a sunny Tuesday morning.
He did not extend any greeting to them, in typical Fairweller fashion, but instead went straightaway to the library to sort through paperwork. To the horror and utter fascination of them all, he had a red, raw wound that extended from beneath his collar up the side of his neck, reaching his ear. It was bandaged, but a rust red mark had soaked through. He winced whenever he turned his head.
Clover, flaring pink with indignation, stormed into the library with a steaming kettle of ginger tea and a teacup, and set them both hard on the King’s desk.
“You,” she said. “You—you—you—you drink this! At once!”
Clover was so very rarely angry that this was both amusing and frightening. Fairweller paused in his paperwork and blinked at her, which made Clover even angrier.
“Three cups,” she said, pouring the tea and thrusting it into his hands. “Three cups, at least! Have you seen the doctor? Well? Drink it!”
Fairweller drank.
He was not used to being ordered about, Azalea supposed. He lived alone in his austere manor. Clover folded her arms and watched him with pursed lips as he meekly sipped the tea. He almost looked like a frightened schoolboy. The girls watched from the doorway of the library.
“Will the King be home soon, Minister?” said Flora, the first to dare a question. She raised a finger, as though she were in lessons.
“He should arrive within three weeks,” said Fairweller, smelling the tea and cringing. “He remained behind to see to the regiments. If you had written him, you would have known this already.”
The girls flared up with indignation.
“We haven’t written him?” said Bramble, her ears red. “He hasn’t written us!”
“Yes.” Fairweller took a sip of the strong-smelling tea. “Your family is very interesting.”