Dinner was different, too, with the girls bringing in flowers for the centerpiece, teasing Mr. Oswald, and chattering on about the gardens over fish stew. The King asked them how their day went, and they answered shyly that it had been very fine. Azalea asked him how his hand was, and he sucked in his cheeks, raised his bandaged hand, and wiggled his fingers in response. Dinner didn’t progress so differently than it did when they had eaten with him before, but it was…nice. Something twisted inside Azalea. She had missed eating as a family.
In his three days’ stay, Mr. Oswald toured the gardens and scribbled in his notebook while the younger girls plucked snapdragons and pansies to show him. He was fascinated with the lilac labyrinth, the fountains, and the midnight flower clock, ringed about with stepping stones. The King remained in the gardens, too. He brought all of his work, inkwells, papers, blotters, and set them on a stone bench, stubbornly keeping sight of them all. He worked over papers while the girls took tea underneath canopies of ivy and honeysuckle, the fresh breeze ruffling their hair and dresses.
At night, Azalea pinned the soft blooming flowers into the younger girls’ hair, and they crowded in front of the vanity, trying to catch a glimpse of their reflections in the small mirror.
The next gentleman came as Azalea sorted underneath the beds in their room, searching for the sugar teeth and only turning up dust, buttons, and several dead spiders. She abandoned her search to tend to the gentleman, reluctantly.
It was Mr. Penbrook, from the Yuletide. Still moist, too. A thin sheen of sweat glazed his face. While they took tea that afternoon in the gardens, he talked, and talked, and talked about parliament, passing bills, and how much his estates brought in. Bramble stood behind him and pretended to pour tea on his head.
Eventually the girls scarpered off with the cheese, and Bramble made to follow them into the blossoming foliage.
“Wait,” said Azalea, nearly overturning her wicker chair. She grabbed Bramble’s hand. “We haven’t finished searching the room.”
“Oh, really, Az,” said Bramble, pulling her hand away. “We have plenty of time. If we find them now, that’s the less time we have to dance in mourning.”
“But what if we don’t find them before Christmas?”
“Oh, they’ll turn up,” said Bramble, smiling brightly. “Ready to massacre the next person. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will be him.”
From his wicker chair, Mr. Penbrook smiled at both of them. A vague, clueless smile.
“Don’t leave me,” said Azalea. “Please.”
Bramble dipped into a flowing gracious-to-leave-you curtsy, her thin strand of balance infuriatingly perfect. Then she took off into the bushes.
“Miss Azalea!” said Mr. Penbrook. He grasped her hand. “We are finally alone! It is fate!”
“Mr. Penbrook!” said Azalea, trying to twist her gloved hand from his grip. “Really!”
“I am quite taken with you, Miss Azalea!” he said.
“Oh, honestly,” said Azalea. “I can’t feel my fingers anymore. Please let go.”
Mr. Penbrook released her hand, but he remained smiling his wet smile. Azalea peered past his face and even past the King, who stared at Mr. Penbrook with narrowed eyes, and saw the purple-flowered hedges in the distance.
“Mr. Penbrook,” said Azalea, standing. “Do take a turn through the gardens with me.”
Mr. Penbrook bounded to his feet. Azalea ran against the breeze to the lilac labyrinth. The thick smell of lilac dizzied her, and she had to duck beneath the hanging branches as she ran.
“Hurry now, Mr. Penbrook,” said Azalea, turning through the twisted, leafy tunnels. “You’ve got to keep up!”
“Ah, I see! Ha ha! This is perfect, my lady! Ah…princess…you are going a bit fast—”
“Come along, Mr. Penbrook!”
“Princess? Princess Azalea? Hello?”
Guilt reamed through Azalea as she finished searching the bedroom by herself. She knew she shouldn’t have done it. Unfortunately Mr. Penbrook was the sort of gentleman Mother had told her about. You could poison their horses, steal their pins, set their manors on fire, chop off their fingers, and they would still think you the sweetest little thing.
After dark fell, Azalea sent Mr. Pudding to fetch him. Mr. Penbrook arrived at the dining room, dazed, twigs in his hair, and smiled broadly at Azalea. Azalea groaned inwardly.
The next morning Mr. Penbrook did not show up to breakfast. Azalea discovered that the King had sent him to write a forty-two-page report on the bridge conditions in Hannover. Both relieved and shy at this, Azalea helped Mrs. Graybe make basted chicken for dinner—the King’s favorite dish—and decided that having meals with him these next few weeks wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“So far we’ve been through eight gentlemen,” said Eve, one night several weeks later, at the pavilion. They retied their dance slippers, now coming apart at the seams, and sat on the floor in a ring. It was early morning, and the youngest ones had fallen asleep, little lumps on the side sofas, and everyone was yawning, signaling to Azalea that it was time to gather up the flock and go to bed.