He said nothing, merely lifted his narrow brows.
She scowled at him as if it
had
been a trap. “It won’t. She’s strong. Fifty years of this has barely made a mark on her; she could go for a hundred more. And Ktistes is working to mend the palace, anyway.”
“I wish him all the good fortune in the world.” Aspell sighed again, looking melancholy. “I could also wish her Grace had better support to sustain her in these crises.”
“Support?”
He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “It isn’t my place to question the Queen’s choices. The selection of the Prince is and always has been her prerogative.”
Galen. In some respects, he was the best support Lune could hope for; the young man worshipped her, and would do without hesitation anything she asked of him.
But that wasn’t enough, was it? Lune needed someone who wouldn’t just
react
, but
act
. Someone who thought ahead, or sideways, and came up with ideas she never would have dreamt of. Someone she could trust to address problems on his own, so that she didn’t need to handle it all herself.
And Galen was not that man.
He
wanted
to be. Perhaps someday he would be. He’d shown signs of it already; this notion of Dr. Andrews and the Royal Society was different, at least, and might bear fruit. But he was more a Prince-in-training than an actual Prince.
Irrith remembered the obelisk in the night garden, with its names and dates. “Lune didn’t expect to lose the last Prince so soon, did she?”
Aspell shook his head. Six years. The least of them had gone for decades longer. She would have expected more time, to find and educate a suitable successor.
Was Galen really the best she could do?
“I have said too much,” Aspell murmured, shaking his head again. “Such matters are the Queen’s affair, and none of mine. I thank you, Dame Irrith, for speaking honestly with me. Uncomfortable as it may be to consider such matters, I feel it’s vital to face them, and to consider possible solutions.”
Like replacing the Queen. The wounded mistress of a wounded realm. Irrith shuddered inwardly. She didn’t want to see Lune deposed, but with the Hall fraying . . .
Aspell reached into one pocket and pulled out a small mother-of-pearl box that he laid atop her cabinet. “For your aid, Dame Irrith. Good day.”
She ignored the box for hours after he left, before curiosity finally overcame her reluctance and spite. Inside lay two items: a locket containing a miniature of some fellow’s beloved and a snippet of her hair, and a piece of mortal bread.
Irrith shut the box, shoved it into her cabinet, and wondered if she’d done the right thing.
Rose House, Islington: June 30, 1758
Islington seemed much closer than it had been. The Aldersgate entrance was still just as far from the Goodemeades’ home as ever, but the land in between had changed; the streets now stretched well beyond Smithfield and the Charterhouse, before suddenly giving way to the market gardens and green grass Irrith expected. After that, Islington was only a brief walk. It didn’t seem right—as if someday she would leave the Onyx Hall and walk past houses and shops, churches and manicured little parks, and find herself at the Angel Inn without ever having left the city at all.
Her mood didn’t help with such discontented thoughts. Ordinarily a visit to the Goodemeades was a happy occasion, for they were always eager to feed guests. Today, however, she had a purpose in mind, and it was not a happy one.
Only the Queen herself knew why she’d chosen Galen St. Clair as her Prince. But if there were two souls in London who could guess at Lune’s reasons, their names were Rosamund and Gertrude.
The brownies had guests when she arrived, two apple maidens and an oak man from the fields around London. They welcomed Irrith, though, settling her down with a plate of food and a mug of their excellent mead, and perhaps it was a good thing; the hospitality loosened her tight muscles and made her questions easier to face. By the time the tree spirits were bid farewell, Irrith felt prepared for whatever the Goodemeades might say to her.
“Now, my dear,” Rosamund said, as Gertrude whisked away the dishes. “You came in here with a face as long as a week of mourning, and though it’s brightened up since then, I’m guessing you didn’t come just for cakes and mead. What troubles you?”
Irrith licked crumbs from her fingers. “Something I have no right to ask, but I will anyway. It’s about the Prince.”
“And the way he’s in love with Lune?” Gertrude asked, coming back in. Her plump hands tugged her apron straight. “Poor lad. He’d make a fine ballad, but it must be dreary living.”
“Did Lune know how he felt before she chose him?” The brownies nodded in unison. “Is that why she chose him?”
Gertrude went still. Rosamund busied herself with brushing the last few crumbs from the tabletop. Glancing from one to the other, Irrith said, “I promise, I’m not malicious. I just—I don’t understand. He isn’t political, and he doesn’t have connections in the mortal world, not like some of the men before him. I know the previous one died awfully fast; is it just that Lune expected to have more time to educate Galen?”
Rosamund pursed her lips, then tossed the crumbs into the fire. “Well, for questions one has no right to ask—but that’s hardly ever stopped us, now, has it? Irrith, my dear, a little whisper has reached our ears that you’re sharing Lord Galen’s bed.”
If she’d stopped to consider it, she never would have believed they could keep it secret, not in the Onyx Hall. But she hadn’t, and so the mention surprised her. “I am. I didn’t think the Queen would mind.”
“She doesn’t. He’s hardly the first Prince to enjoy a little dalliance among her subjects. It’s more a matter of how it affects
you
. Do you love him?”
Irrith laughed, incredulous. “Love? Can you really imagine me shackling my heart to some mortal who will be dead in a few years? Not hardly. He interests me, certainly.” That mild description fell far short of the truth.
Fascinated
would be closer.
Entranced.
The brownies exchanged one of their usual inscrutable glances. After untold ages of practice, they were very good at them. Rosamund said, “But you’re on his side.”
With Valentin Aspell’s oily concern fresh in her memory, Irrith didn’t have to guess what she might mean. “Well, he seems determined to hurt himself with this adoration of the Queen—but no, I don’t want to add to it.”
“Good,” Gertrude said, with unexpected firmness. “Because the truth of the matter is something Galen must never learn.”
Irrith’s eyes widened. Rosamund laid a reassuring hand over hers and said, “Now, Gertie, it isn’t so bad as all that. Just that things have changed, Irrith, and they’ve made new problems for Lune, that none of us ever foresaw.”
“Isn’t that always the case?” Irrith asked sourly, thinking of the comet.
The sisters sighed in rueful agreement. “The problem in this case,” Rosamund said, “is that there have usually been three requirements for the Prince, and two of them don’t fit together very well anymore.”
Three requirements? “He has to be someone Lune likes.”
“And he has to be a gentleman,” Gertrude said.
“And,” Rosamund finished, “he has to be born within the walls of the City.”
Gertrude held up a cautionary hand. “Might be within the sound of the bells. But no one’s quite dared test that yet.”
Irrith thought of the City as it had become—not London as a whole, but the City of London, the central part, and specifically the part within the increasingly broken wall. Galen, when he told her where he lived, said Leicester Fields was no longer as fashionable as it had been, that the better sort of people were moving farther west. No one wanted to be within the narrow, twisty, dirty lanes of the City, which had scarce been changed even by the Great Fire. There was a broad new street cutting up from the river to the Guildhall, called Queen Street south of Cheapside and King Street north, but that was the biggest difference. Most of the City was still as it had been these hundreds of years, and that was not good enough for fashion.
She murmured, “So he was the only gentleman who fit?”
“There have never been all that many gentlemen in the Onyx Hall,” Gertrude reminded her. “Well, there aren’t that many gentlemen at all, are there? Not compared to ordinary folk. Peers are even rarer. So most of the ones who get brought below are common. Lord Hamilton was the grandson of a viscount; for all that he wasn’t what anyone would call wealthy, and that was good enough for them as cared. But then he died, and Lune had to choose someone new.”
“Galen was a bit of luck,” Rosamund added. “His mother went into labor without much warning, and they couldn’t move her; so he was born in the house where she’d gone to have dinner.”
Irrith just kept blinking, trying to absorb it all. No, they hadn’t foreseen that—who would expect that London would grow so much, and all the wealthy people would move out to its western edge? “She’s going to have to stop choosing gentlemen. The place of birth has to do with the Hall’s enchantments, doesn’t it, and we can hardly ask her to work with someone she doesn’t like—but the rank, that’s just because no one wants their Queen to be paired with a commoner.”
The brownies looked unhappy. Gertrude said, “If she
can
. There was an apothecary a few years ago who might have done, but her lords and ladies didn’t much like the idea.”
Rosamund snorted. “And then he ran mad and flung himself off Westminster Bridge, so maybe it’s just as well. Not a stable mind, I fear.”
“Galen isn’t bad,” Gertrude hastened to say. “A trifle green, to be sure, but that’s nothing time won’t cure. Especially if those around him help out—give him advice when he needs it, that sort of thing. He’s too embarrassed to ask for it, poor dear.”
No wonder Gertrude had said he must never know. Hearing this laid out so baldly would only cripple him with doubt. And Galen had enough trouble with that already.
“You
will
help him, won’t you, my dear?” Gertrude gave Irrith an entreating look that would have melted the heart of a stone.
Irrith nodded. “Yes. I will.”
If I can.
Sothings Park, Highgate: July 7, 1758
Nothing brought home to Galen the importance of this evening like his first sight of Sothings Park.
His mother, seated by his side in the carriage, breathed out her nose in something that was almost a snort of disdain, but the look in her eyes was a mixture of envy, hope, and regret. It wasn’t that Sothings Park was especially impressive; Aldgrange, the St. Clair estate in Essex, was much larger and grander, if sadly run down for want of money to maintain it. But the fact that the Northwoods could afford to rent not only a townhouse in Grosvenor Square far superior to anything in Leicester Fields, but also this little manor, just far enough outside London to be pleasantly situated, made it clear without words what Miss Delphia Northwood could offer in exchange for the St. Clair name.
The prospect cheered Charles St. Clair sufficiently that he had hired out
two
carriages for the evening, and neither of them common hackneys. Galen’s sisters followed in the second one, for the Northwoods had invited them all to dinner today at Sothings Park.
It was not the first meal shared between the two families. Since that encounter at Mrs. Vesey’s in May, Galen had dined in Grosvenor Square four times, twice with his mother and father along, and the Northwoods had come to Leicester Fields twice. He had met Miss Northwood’s younger sister Temperance, and missed her brother Robert only because he was somewhere in Italy at the moment. In short, Galen was perfectly well acquainted with the Northwood family.
He would have been less nervous had he gone to dine with the lions in the Tower of London.
The carriages pulled to a halt in front of the austere entrance, built in the revived Palladian style. Galen handed his mother down, wondering if she felt his own arm trembling. He’d mastered it by the time they were shown in to the parlor where the Northwoods awaited them, but it still lurked inside, where no one could see.
They soon went into dinner, and the dining room on the piano nobile was fully as grand as could be hoped. The amiable chatter between Mrs. St. Clair and their hostess revealed that the furnishings there, from the mahogany table to the spoons upon it, were the property of the Northwoods, and not rented with the house. Irene was young enough to gape at that, before Cynthia nudged her into better behavior.
For his own part, Galen was caught between contradictory impulses to look at Miss Northwood, and to look everywhere
but
at her. She was once more clothed in a sacque gown too elegant for her plainness, with ruffles and bows and sewn-in pearls, but she might as well have been a magnet, so difficult was it not to stare. Cynthia made easy conversation with her, and drew Galen into it at convenient times; he formed a resolution to fall on his knees and thank her as soon as they returned home.
By such means did he survive the interminable courses of dinner, though he ate at little as he could without giving offense.
The Northwoods had chosen to dine at the fashionably late hour of five o’clock, and the drawing room in which the men rejoined the ladies after their drinks had a splendid view of the sunset and Sothings Park’s gardens. Galen managed to conduct a credible conversation with Mrs. Northwood on the subject of the roses there, despite a tongue that felt like it belonged to a stranger, and when she said “You should go down, before the light is gone, and see them for yourself,” he made his reply without a single stumble.
“That would be delightful. Might I impose on Miss Northwood to guide me?”
Mrs. Northwood’s broad smile answered him well enough on its own. “I’m sure she would be more than glad to.”
Whether she was glad, nervous, or any other thing about it, Galen did not see; he was too nervous to look at her face. They descended the staircase in awkward silence, went out through the doors the same, and only when they reached the first rosebush did Miss Northwood say anything, which was, “I’ve always quite liked this one.”