Princess of Athelia: An Unfinished Fairy Tales Novella (2 page)

It’s too much to bear. I wrap my arms around him and cling to him as though that can ease the pain.
Stay with him
, my mind screams.
We’ve been through this a million times
, another voice in my head answers.
Even if you choose to abandon Mom and Paige, you still can’t marry Edward.

A while later, Edward gently pushes me away. His expression returns to his everyday mask of calm, collected indifference. “There is another matter I need to mention. Galen returned this morning from his travels.”

I distinctly remember that Edward granted Galen a few weeks off to give him a well-deserved break after all that strenuous preparation for the ball. Organizing a nationwide event is no small feat.

“He brought us a letter from Adam Snyder’s widow.”

Adam Snyder! “He had . . . his wife is still alive?”

“Galen inquired in his circle and tracked her down. I’m not sure how he did it, but during his travels to the earl’s manor, he convinced Mrs. Snyder to write a letter of confession. Her written proof will greatly aid us in restoring to Elle her rightful identity and inheritance.”

Edward extracts a folded paper and hands it to me. The letter is crudely written, but the message is clear. Mrs. Snyder overheard her husband taking orders from Lady Bradshaw to have Elle drowned. She didn’t know that Meg had appeared and forced Adam Snyder to let Elle live, but she did know that the little girl Snyder brought to the capital was actually the earl’s daughter. Later, Lady Bradshaw rewarded Adam Snyder with a huge sum of money that paid for his daughter’s dowry. Mrs. Snyder even expressed her wish that her husband would be lauded as a hero for saving Elle’s life.

I crumple up the letter. I don’t know if Mrs. Snyder is being completely truthful, but I don’t feel like pursuing the issue any further. It is possible that she believed her husband had defied Lady Bradshaw at the last minute and that she didn’t know a fairy had ordered Snyder to preserve Elle’s life. Whatever the truth may be, I’m holding proof that Lady Bradshaw tried to have Elle killed—and that Elle is the earl’s daughter.

“I’m so glad for Elle,” I say. “Although in the beginning, I expected that she’d go from poverty to riches because of you. But this way is even better. She achieved her new status from justice.”

“Speaking of justice”—Edward tweaks a lock of my hair—“I have a special gift for you.”

I give him a suspicious look. I had long since refused any jewelry or dresses from him as I already have an overflowing wardrobe. Usually he opts to get me books when I can’t visit Mr. Wellesley’s bookstore, or sometimes he surprises me with flowers from his garden. But as he simply came from a meeting with the Lord Chamberlain, I don’t see anything that may indicate a gift.

Edward extracts a card from his pocket. The size isn’t much different from that of a calling card, but the card itself is plain white, apart from a red and gold border running along the edge. A paragraph, written by hand, reads:
I hereby grant the Lady Katriona permission to attend the parliament session that will take place on 15 September
. It is signed by the king.

I look up at him. “I . . . don’t understand.”

“I believe it should be obvious. After all the hard work you have been doing with pushing the eight-hour bill, I thought that you would like to attend the meeting when the Third Reading takes place.”

“I’d
love
to see the Third Reading. But are you sure it’s okay? Has there been any precedent of a woman in the parliament?”

“The only instances that I can recall are when there is a female monarch on the throne, because it is her responsibility to open the parliament with a formal speech.”

Just as I expected. Nevertheless, I’m grateful that he had taken the steps to seek out his father and speak on my behalf.

“Thank you”—I tuck the card securely in my pocket, then rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek—“for making exceptions for me. Did I tell you again how much I love you?”

He smirks, clearly pleased, and snakes his arm around me again. “What else to expect when I’ve fallen in love with the most extraordinary girl in the kingdom?”

3

“Name the great-great-great-grandfather of His Highness, Edward.”

I don’t have an effing clue
. I’m sitting in this gorgeous but stuffy room, where Madame Dubois is making me memorize the royal genealogy—right up to twenty generations back. Guess what? Princess lessons are even more stressful and frustrating and demanding than the lady lessons I had earlier. But I try not to complain; I have to make an effort for Edward’s sake. Although the king and queen have assured me that they have no objections to Edward’s choice, many people have found it incredible that a plain, insignificant younger daughter of an earl could attract the prince’s attention. I don’t want to prove them right.

Madame Dubois—a tall, stately woman with huge butterfly-like spectacles—raps her cane on the table. Instead of treating me with more respect now that I’m a princess, she makes me feel like a seven-year-old on her first day of school.

But with genealogy, at least it’s only names I have to memorize. Royal protocol is more of a pain in the ass, with complicated rules that are even more demanding than those for being a lady—like the exact angle I should extend my arm when greeting a subject.

“When you are hostess to forty guests for dinner, what is the precedence of their seats?”

“Um . . .” Can I say that the most guests I’ve ever had to entertain are . . . five? Last Christmas, we had Grandma and Grandpa over, which made five of us. Then I can’t help it—I cover my mouth to stifle a yawn. I’m well aware that it’s rude, but being up since six doing nothing but princess lessons is bound to take a toll.

Madame Dubois’s eyebrows lift to form a V on her forehead. “You have
hugely
disappointed me, Miss Katriona! I had expected that your mother would have ensured you had a more thorough education.” She points a bony finger at a chair placed near the window. “Sit there, and memorize the first ten chapters on the etiquette of royals. I shall be back to test you in an hour. Should you fail to answer any one of my questions, you will be forbidden to go down to lunch. You shall stay here until you have every single rule imprinted in your mind.”

I try hard not to appear relieved. Not that the king and queen are that intimidating. But when every meal has three to five courses with an army of servants hovering around and making sure the butter plate is always full and the coffee is always hot, it does get on my nerves. I miss the days when lunch was just Mom, Paige, and me sitting around our tiny kitchen table, making sandwiches and lemonade. I wish I could have that small but homey table here, with just Edward at my side. But privacy in the palace is a luxury.

“Yes, Madame,” I say, trying my best to look meek and humbled. I take the heavy book of royal etiquette and sit by the window. It’s actually quite nice sitting there, with the late summer air still humid and warm, and hearing the distant chirps of sparrows. If only I could read a Gothic romance instead. And if only I could tuck my feet under my bum and prop a hand against my cheek.

I’m halfway through the book when someone knocks on the door. I fly up with a wild hope that Edward has come to seek me. Maybe the Lord Chamberlain is in a good mood and decided to let him off early.

My heart sinks when Amelie enters. She curtsies and hands me a letter. “ ‘Tis from Miss Elle, Your Highness. She said it was urgent.”

Oh dear. I hope that Lady Catherine de Burgh—I mean, the duchess—didn’t scream at her and declare that she’s still unworthy of Henry. At least I have the approval of the king and queen—though that may be due to Edward’s reluctance to get married.

“Where’s Elle?” I glance at the doorway. “Does she look all right?”

Amelie shrugs. “I invited her to stay for a cup of tea, but she insisted on leaving. Something about seeing a lawyer.”

Can it be about her newly acquired inheritance?
I tear open the envelope and hastily unfold the letter within.

Dearest Kat,

I have been meaning to visit you as promised, but a recent happening has compelled me to remain indoors for now. A visit to the physician a few days ago has confirmed the happy news: I am with child. Jonathan and Elle have been a constant joy and comfort, yet I do not dare to venture from the house till the symptoms of my pregnancy become more tolerable. I send my regrets but am positive that we shall meet very soon.

Yours truly,

Poppy

I can barely contain my excitement. Poppy is pregnant! Needless to say, I can’t sit still and continue with my lesson. Too bad she can’t come and visit. I had planned to take her on a tour of the royal menagerie. It’s the next best thing to the library.

I snap the book shut. Why can’t I go and see her instead? She and Elle are the only true friends I’ve made. Outside the window, I spot Edward heading toward my wing with brisk footsteps. I wave at him, flapping my arms like a windmill, but he doesn’t look up.

Frustrated, I do something I haven’t done since I was eight: I curve my thumb and forefinger to form a circle and give a shrill whistle. That does the trick. He looks up—along with several courtiers and servants. All of them stare at me as though I’m mad.

Suddenly, I feel like an idiot, but it’s too late to undo my action. I may as well make the most of it now that I have Edward’s attention.

I curl my forefinger and beckon to Edward like a femme fatale in a movie. “Get here—now,” I mouth.

4

I literally cannot contain my excitement when I clamber into the carriage. While the palace may be the stuff of fairytales, it is, to borrow a cliché, a gilded cage. I can barely walk through a corridor without passing a servant who asks if I need anything or a courtier who makes a polite comment but can’t mask the confusion on his face.

Oh well. I should be glad that the paparazzi in Athelia have yet to become as annoying as those in our modern world. Here, as cameras are huge, bulky monsters that are outrageously expensive, the chances of any unflattering photos of me appearing in tabloids are low.

Edward also seems to be in a good mood as he settles in the carriage next to me, languorously stretching out his long legs, his mouth curved in a lazy smile. He takes my hand, and I lean against him, savoring the moment. Privacy at last.

“How did you convince the Lord Chamberlain that you had to leave early?” I ask.

“Prior engagement with Henry,” he says. “Which is actually the truth. I wished to discuss with him the implementation of the healthcare service you told me about.”

“Good—even though that doesn’t really give me a legitimate reason to tag along.”

“How could I refuse your request when you whistled to me like that?” His voice is subtly shaded with amusement. I flush, recalling how shocked the servants looked. One even dropped a basketful of apples.

“If there were cell phones, I could’ve called you,” I mumble, burrowing my face into his chest. He always smells wonderful—of leather and soap and something distinctly masculine. “Madame Dubois will kill me if she knows.”

Now he laughs, a deep, rich sound that rumbles through his chest. A moment later, his arm goes around my back, fitting me into a snugger position against his body.

“It is my fault.” A note of regret resonates in his tone. “Because of who I am, you must endure these lessons. Perhaps if I speak to Madame Dubois—”

“No!” I quickly say. It isn’t his fault that tradition required that I should train to be a princess. “Don’t do that. Moving into the palace is a LOT better than staying at Lady Bradshaw’s.” And I mean it. I had to endure Lady Bradshaw’s scolding, Bianca’s snipes and Pierre’s exasperation, and with the exception of Martha and Elle, the servants’ indifference or even hostility. My only comfort came from books.

Here at the palace, Edward has been everything I could ask for in a boyfriend. He’s gone out of his way to ensure that I wouldn’t feel out of place, such as defending me in front of courtiers, showering me with books and flowers, and breaking or adapting conventions to accommodate my modern behavior.

“Edward, stop blaming yourself. Being with you is worth facing ten Madame Duboises.” Then I lean in and kiss him. In response, he pulls me onto his lap and runs his fingers in my hair, making it impossible for me to pull away, but I don’t care.

The temperature seems to go up until the carriage halts. Edward lets me go just before Bertram opens the door, but the latter gives us a grin that hints that he knows we’ve been making out.

I smooth my hair, lift my chin, and assume a mask of dignified indifference as befitting a princess. Sometimes Madame Dubois’s lessons can be useful, after all.

* * *

This isn’t the first time that I’ve gone to Poppy’s house. Still, it is usually her visiting me in the palace. Mr. Davenport is often away since he has an internship with a big-name barrister. Sir Montgomery hired a cook, a housekeeper, and a maid for Poppy. Even though he looked murderous when he arrived at Poppy’s elopement, he really does love his daughter.

When Edward and I arrive, a maid answers the door and ushers us into a neat, comfortable parlor. Edward declines an offer to take his coat, as he’ll be leaving soon to see Henry. When Poppy enters, her hand flies to her mouth, then a huge grin spreads over her face. Sometimes she still seems like a young girl, not an old, matronly married woman.