“A shipment came yesterday afternoon, I believe. What does it look like?”
“It is silver. A ribbon clock. And—” Something flickered over Fairweller’s face. Azalea wished she were closer. “And delicate. So delicate and fine that…a person would not touch it, for fear of breaking.”
Azalea gaped. Fairweller! Fairweller was in love! She resisted the impulse to laugh an evil laugh. Oh, the poor lady. She waited while Mr. Bradford arrived from the back room, carrying a small box. The watch must have been expensive, as Fairweller wrote a bank note for it. When he took the box from Mr. Bradford’s hands, he handled it with the utmost care, cradling it. Azalea was astounded beyond words.
When the door jangled closed, Azalea burst from the closet.
“Good heavens,” said Mr. Bradford. “There’s a lady in my coat closet.”
“Did you see that?” said Azalea. “Fairweller! In love! I’ll bet that was an engagement gift. I wonder who it is. Lady Caversham? She must be mad.”
Mr. Bradford smiled. Azalea chattered on as she helped him prepare the tea from the boiling kettle, taking over the strainer when he fumbled with it. Soon enough they sat on the stepping stools in front of the black stove, Azalea wrapped in two coats and slowly unthawing while they drank tea from the shop’s old mugs.
“I hope he loves the lady because she is her,” said Azalea, thoughtful as she stirred her steaming tea. “And I don’t like Fairweller, but I hope she loves him, too. I hope she’s not marrying him for his money. That would be so…sad. She should marry him for his mind and soul.”
“You’re a romantic?” said Mr. Bradford.
“No,” said Azalea. “Not. I think that’s what everyone wants. I mean, I would want someone like—”
She cut off abruptly, horrified that her mouth had run off before her mind had caught up with it. She had almost said “like you.”
And then she realized she had meant it.
She was in love!
The tea in her mug shook as she blinked at it. In love! Azalea had always smothered the thought—what was the point? Parliament would choose her husband. And yet here he was in front of her, the perfect king—even the King would admit that—and the perfect gentleman, with his soft, cinnamon bread eyes and his gentle touch, his quiet wit, rumpled hair, crooked, bashful smile. He was so lovable.
Blood flushed to Azalea’s cheeks as she suddenly became shy.
“Yes,” said Mr. Bradford. Even his voice was lovable. “I should think you are right.”
“Ha,” said Azalea, giddy. “Yes.”
“In fact, I feel a bit of pity for your older sister,” he said.
The ticking of the wall clocks cracked like whips.
Azalea slowly lowered her mug.
Oh…
That. She had forgotten about that! He thought she was Bramble! More unpleasant thoughts bubbled to the surface of her mind. They would probably never get his watch back. And—why the devil did he feel sorry for her?
“You pity her?” said Azalea slowly.
“Because she is the future queen consort. I expect a person can’t find genuine attachment in that.”
Azalea’s fingers tightened on her mug’s spoon.
“But…what if she…found someone who…perhaps…did love her?” said Azalea.
“Would he be a good king, though?” said Mr. Bradford. “I should think—”
“You would be a good king,” said Azalea.
Mr. Bradford looked unsettled. He turned his spoon in his mug.
“I think not,” he said.
“You would,” said Azalea, clutching her mug so tightly it burned her hands. “You’re sensible, and kind, and good with politics—”
“Well,” he said, coloring. “That is—kingship…I—I could never want it on my head.”
Azalea’s insides sank. Her heart, stomach, all the blood and curly insides that lay in a person’s torso fell hard to her feet. She blinked at the dregs in her mug.
“You really wouldn’t?” she said.
“It would…be ghastly, don’t you think?”
“Ghastly,” Azalea echoed. Beneath her smile, she wanted to cry.
“Your father does an excellent job,” said Mr. Bradford, seeming to sense a conversation gone awry. “He is a fine king—our best. What I mean to say is—”
“No, no,” said Azalea in a hollow voice. “You are quite right. Any gentleman with common sense wouldn’t want to be king. The Princess Royale shouldn’t possibly expect more.”
Azalea stood, took her mug to the glass counter, and set it next to the teakettle, placing the spoon beside it. She was finished.
“What I mean to say is,” said Mr. Bradford, finishing his thought. “Is—it is—Miss Bramble—” He stood, leaned in, then back, caught between going forward or retreating. In the end he remained by the cheery stove, holding his mug and nervously stirring with a clinkety clinkety clink.
“What I mean to say is,” he said, “Miss Bramble, I know you are in mourning. But I had a thought. Perhaps…to call on you? After mourning is through? If it is agreeable with you, of course. Naturally. And your father. Naturally.”
Clinkety clinkety clink clink.
Clinketyclinketyclinkclinkclinkclink—