“Oh…all right,” he said. “Or you could all come to my manor! Mother will host a corking ball; we have a horrifically gigantic ballroom, you’ll love it!”
And then Lord Teddie turned to Bramble, who Azalea realized had been silent the entire time. She hadn’t greeted Azalea, or even looked up. Instead she stared at her lap, fingering the threadbare black lace on her cuff that was coming unstitched. She kept pressing the frayed ends back into the cuff, over and over, almost feverishly. Her lips pursed together so tightly they were white.
“Do you like it, Bramble?” said Lord Teddie. “Better than porridge, I should think!” He hopefully nudged a jam jar toward her. “Er…princess?”
Bramble tore her eyes from her lap and fixed a celery green glare on Lord Teddie. It froze the smile on his face.
“Mrs. Graybe,” she said. “Mrs. Graybe! Do we have any porridge?”
“What?” said Lord Teddie. “You don’t want—”
“I love porridge!” Bramble snarled.
“But—”
“I don’t want your stupid charity!” Bramble cried. “Go back to your stupid manor! Leave us alone!” She threw her cake at him. It missed and landed jam down, on the floor.
“Miss Bramble!” said the King. “Apologize, at once!”
Bramble shoved her chair aside and fled from the nook, her face buried in her hands. Bramble never exactly cried, but she had a sob-whimper that squeaked when she inhaled, and it echoed sob squeak sob squeak-squeak-squeak down the hall.
Lord Teddie stared at the glass nook doors, then at the flat cake breakfast, then back at the doors. His mouth tightened. He leaned and shoved his plate away.
“The devil,” he said, in a tone that was not jovial or cheerful at all. “My ship leaves soon, doesn’t it. I suppose I ought to go catch it, then! Good day!”
Azalea found Bramble, several minutes later, huddled behind the curtains on the window seat. The window light made her deep red hair fiery. Bent over with squeaky sobs, she fumbled with a needle and thread and tried, one-handed, to mend the shabby bit of lace on her cuff.
“I hate him,” she sobbed. “And I hate me.”
Azalea took Bramble’s arm and mended the cuff herself, then unpinned Bramble’s hair and combed it until Bramble dipped into a fitful sleep. She could understand, a little, how she felt.
Their sulky moods trickled down to the younger ones, who argued and whined, Christmas spirits low. Perhaps the King had noticed it, for just before tea, a great commotion of stamping boots and calling orders echoed from the entrance hall, and the girls ran to see the hullabaloo. The King, dusted with snow and pine needles, arrived at the palace main doors tugging a great pine tree. The girls squealed with delight.
“Clover’s Christmas tree!”
“Huzzah!”
The girls joined hands in a reel and started to sing a nonsense Christmas song.
“It is not a Christmas tree!” said the King, so firmly that all the girls stopped jumping about. “This is a house of mourning. It is nothing more than a tree. I thought it would look nice. Inside. That is all.”
Puddles formed on the wood as the King began to set it up in the corner beneath the mezzanine, the girls hopping from foot to foot.
“Are we allowed to decorate this tree-that-is-not-a-Christmas-tree-that-is-just-meant-to-be-inside?” said Bramble.
The King took in Bramble’s red eyes and hollow-cheeked face and frowned.
“If you will pluck up, young lady,” he said. Then, as the twins brought the basket of yarn-stitched ornaments from the library, “Where is Miss Clover?”
Everyone looked about, surprised. Clover wasn’t with them.
“She’s probably helping Old Tom in the gardens again,” said Delphinium. “She’s been doing that a lot lately. Running off to the gardens.”
“More cider for us,” peeped Hollyhock, bringing a steaming mug of rewarmed cider from the kitchen. Azalea took a shawl and was out the door.
“I’ll fetch her,” she said.
Since it hadn’t snowed for several days, the garden paths had been cleared, and Azalea saw no footprints. So she searched for the likeliest places Clover would be: the stone benches in the overgrown topiaries, the stairs by the drained fountains. She kept an eye out for Old Tom’s wheelbarrow.
She had nearly given up when another sight gave her pause. In the far back part of the gardens, tethered to the gazebo, was a large white horse with a long, snowy mane. LadyFair, Fairweller’s horse!
The old garden gazebo was a sort of Eathesbury lovers’ landmark. They had been chided as children to leave it be and let the couples visiting the gardens have their time alone, but Azalea still remembered peeking with her sisters through the lattice, listening to gentlemen read poems or murmur sappy words of love.
It had been funny, then. Now, having some experience of love, Azalea didn’t see much humor in it.
Still…Fairweller…