Entwined (23 page)

“I saw a light,” came Fairweller's voice, completely emotionless and flat as always. “I thought to come in. I ordered a lady's watch from Delchastire that was to be sent here, and it is already a day late. Do you have it?”

A lady's watch! Azalea leaned forward for a better look, catching a bit of Fairweller's face and the counter.

“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—

“I need to go,” said Azalea.

Mr. Bradford's entire countenance fell. He was far too bright a gentleman, Azalea knew, to misconstrue that for anything else.

“Naturally,” he said.

“They'll miss me at breakfast,” said Azalea.

“Nat-naturally,” Mr. Bradford stuttered. He somehow regained his solemn composure and helped Azalea with her things. “If you want. I'll call a cab and escort you back. Take this coat—it's freezing out.”

“I don't want a cab,” said Azalea, near tears. “I'll walk back.”

“You will not,” said Mr. Bradford, with an edge Azalea had never heard before. “You'll freeze. You will take a cab.”

Azalea whipped around to face him—

And Mr. Bradford said, “Please.”

She relented. She had to. He was only being kind, and she couldn't blame him for that. Azalea was wrapped in an old-fashioned lady's coat. Mr. Bradford hailed a cab, and moments later they trundled in awkward silence to the palace. Mr. Bradford, sitting across from her, focused on the riding whip in his lap. He twisted the end loop of it around his fingers, around and around, until surely it
cut through his glove. Azalea miserably stared at it.

Oh, how could she be so
stupid
? She always knew it would be like this, she had just stupidly hoped that—

Azalea cried. Not the noisy sort, but the sort you could blink away if you were careful and didn't think about how awful you felt. She turned her face to the window.

“You're cross with me,” Mr. Bradford finally said. He leaned his head back against the leather seat, untangled his fingers from the riding whip, and fumbled in his suitcoat for a handkerchief, which he handed to her. “I'm—I should have done it properly. I should have asked your father first, or had my aunt invite you to tea—”

“It's not that,” said Azalea. “It's nothing to do with you. It's just—circumstances.”

Mr. Bradford blinked several times.

“Circumstances,” he said. The edge to his voice was still there. “Naturally. Of course it is circumstances. I suppose you could have any fellow you wanted, couldn't you.” He twisted the riding-whip loop around his fingers again, hard. “Well, I couldn't let you freeze to death. Tell me, these
circumstances
, Miss Bramble. Do they have to do with a
Mr. Keeper
?”

A stab of fear shot through Azalea. She looked up sharply, blood draining from her face. Now Mr. Bradford turned to the window, avoiding her eyes.

“I heard you outside the graveyard,” he said. “Forgive me. I shouldn't have listened. Is he one of the gentlemen from your Royal Business?” Mr. Bradford kept his eyes on the passing town houses and brick shops.

Azalea grimaced. Mr. Bradford took it as a no.

“A gentleman, though?”

Azalea could only dry swallow. Mr. Bradford turned to her. Concern was etched in his face.

“Is it to do…with magic?”

Azalea choked. The carriage jolted to a stop just outside the palace gates, and she flung herself to the door without waiting for Mr. Bradford to help her out.

“I'm late,” she said. “Thank you for the tea. Good-bye.”

Mr. Bradford leaped from the carriage after her. “Wait—Miss Bramble—”

“
Don't
call me that!” said Azalea.

Something, perhaps hurt, flickered through Mr. Bradford's soft eyes.

“Princess Bramble,” he said.

“I'm Princess Azalea,” said Azalea. “Azalea, for heaven's sake. It was Bramble's handkerchief I gave you at the ball. I…meant to tell you. I'm sorry.”

Mr. Bradford's dark eyebrows knit, then rose. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Azalea did not stay to see any more. She ran through
the gate and through the gardens, skirts billowing and lungs burning. She slammed against the brick of the palace, sobbing, trying to erase the image of Mr. Bradford's hurt expression from her mind.

A long while later, numb both inside and out, she went inside. The warm kitchen air burned her cheeks. She wanted dearly to collapse into bed. Passing the nook glass doors, however, she drew back. Instead of the usual morning sight—the girls yawning into their porridge as the King sorted through the post—all the girls laughed and chattered as Lord Teddie passed around a platter full of flat cakes. The King sat at the head of the table, bemused. Lord Teddie laughed and jabbered so loudly Azalea could hear him through the glass.

“You put berries, or cinnamon, or whatever you like on it and fold the sides around—oh, well done, Hollyhocky! It's ripping! Oh, hulloa, Princess A!”

Azalea made to run, but in an instant Lord Teddie had thrown open the glass doors and pulled her in.

“I don't feel like eating,” she said as everyone pushed her to a seat. She was too tired to make a fuss. “What is all this?”

“Ha!” Lord Teddie beamed. A bit of flour smudged his nose. “That's what your father said. I was just explaining to them, I just was explaining, I saw Miss Bramble yesterday at breakfast and I saw how she
hates
porridge and who can blame her, really? So I thought, I say! I'll make a corking present! So Cookie and I went to market yesterday and we were up early this morning and we made a Delchastire breakfast and it's
smashing
! Isn't it, Cookie?”

It was hard to tell what Mrs. Graybe thought of Lord Teddie. She set a jug of cream on the table, said, “Yes, m'lord,” and left for the kitchen.

“We eat it with our
fingerth
!” cried Ivy, whose hands dripped with jam.

“Use a knife and fork,” said the King. “We are not animals! Silverware, at once.”

“Oh, but that would ruin it!” said Lord Teddie. “Breakfast is meant to be splattered everywhere! It wakes a person up!”

The King sucked in his cheeks.

“Young man,” he said, a term that did not bode well for Lord Teddie. “Does your ship not leave today?”

Lord Teddie's face fell.

“Oh…yes,” he said. “It does.” He gave a wan smile, and stumbled on. “I—I wish I didn't have to go. These past several days have been ripping. Rippingly ripping. I—I'm awfully chuffed about you all. I…sort of feel at home here.”

Lord Teddie smiled hopefully at the King over the dripping jam jars and jugs of milk.

“I wish I could stay longer,” he said. “If I were to be invited, I would.”

The King folded his arms, complete iciness. A pang of sympathy ran through Azalea.

“Perhaps you can visit next year, Lord Haftenravenscher,” she said.

Lord Teddie brightened. A little.

“Oh…all right,” he said. “Or you could all come to my manor! Mother will host a corking ball; we have a horrifically gigantic ballroom, you'll love it!”

And then Lord Teddie turned to Bramble, who Azalea realized had been silent the entire time. She hadn't greeted Azalea, or even looked up. Instead she stared at her lap, fingering the threadbare black lace on her cuff that was coming unstitched. She kept pressing the frayed ends back into the cuff, over and over, almost feverishly. Her lips pursed together so tightly they were white.

“Do you like it, Bramble?” said Lord Teddie. “Better than porridge, I should think!” He hopefully nudged a jam jar toward her. “Er…princess?”

Bramble tore her eyes from her lap and fixed a celery green glare on Lord Teddie. It froze the smile on his face.

“Mrs. Graybe,” she said. “Mrs. Graybe! Do we have any porridge?”

“What?” said Lord Teddie. “You don't want—”

“I
love
porridge!” Bramble snarled.

“But—”

“I don't
want
your stupid charity!” Bramble cried. “Go back to your stupid manor! Leave us alone!” She threw her cake at him. It missed and landed jam down, on the floor.

“Miss Bramble!” said the King. “Apologize, at once!”

Bramble shoved her chair aside and fled from the nook, her face buried in her hands. Bramble never exactly cried, but she had a sob-whimper that squeaked when she inhaled, and it echoed
sob squeak sob squeak-squeak-squeak
down the hall.

Lord Teddie stared at the glass nook doors, then at the flat cake breakfast, then back at the doors. His mouth tightened. He leaned and shoved his plate away.