Mr. Keeper reached out and brought her hand to his. Azalea gasped; the press of his fingers seemed to touch her core. He felt so solid. It both thrilled and frightened her. Turning her palm upward, he placed the watch and chain in her shaking hand and curled her fingers over it. His hands lingered upon hers.
Then, in a silky movement, he released her hand and bowed them out, so quickly Azalea couldn’t recall even going over the bridge. She clasped the watch in her hand so hard the gold ornament curls imprinted her hand through her glove.
Several hours later, when her heartbeat had slowed to its normal pace, and Azalea didn’t blush every time she thought of Mr. Keeper’s hands on hers, she turned up the lamp on the round table in their room, retrieved a bit of newspaper from under her bed, and sat on a pouf, studying both the watch and the paper.
The Delchastrian war had had two battles in the past month, which worried them all. Between lessons and meals, and now slipper mending and sleep, Azalea read the Herald aloud to the girls. Worry etched in their faces. Afterward Azalea would have them tear and roll old tablecloth fabric for bandages.
This past week, however, the girls had squealed with delight over the paper. Azalea’s name was mentioned in Lady Aubrey’s gossip column. Lady Aubrey wrote the “Height of Society” news, which, in Eathesbury, usually involved a discussion on why Lady Caversham and Minister Fairweller would be such a fine match. Mother had never approved of Lady Aubrey’s column, and Azalea did not either—in theory. She couldn’t help but be interested this past week, when she was the subject.
“It looks like Lady Aubrey’s given up on Fairweller,” said Bramble, teasing and holding the paper just out of Azalea’s reach. “Look who she’s slated to be your fine gentleman.”
Azalea managed to grab the paper from Bramble’s hands, and the girls read over her shoulder. Lady Aubrey wrote of a Delchastrian gentleman, one dripping with lands and railways, who had the most unfortunate surname: Haftenravenscher. She spoke of what a marvelous match it would be economically, and had even interviewed him:
Lord Haftenravenscher states, “I think it would be corking to meet the princesses! I say, did you hear their palace was magic? It must be corking to live there. Our mums were great friends, ages ago! Like sisters! I say—it was a rum blow to hear the news. What a piece of you that takes. I say.”
The rest of the article followed more or less the same, with a lot of “I say”s.
Delphinium giggled at the paper. “Imagine having that surname! Azalea Haften-rafen-what?”
Bramble rolled her eyes and slipped the paper from Azalea’s hands.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, rolling it up and tapping Delphinium on the head with it. “Someone as rich as him would never bother with us. Read the article. We’re just sport to him.”
Azalea ran her fingers through her long auburn hair, feeling a touch unwell. Bramble was right, of course. In fact, if there would be an arrangement between her and Lord Haftenravenscher, he would probably resent her for being penniless. It all felt like an ill-timed dance of accidents.
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.”