Once Upon a Marigold (7 page)

Christian
was
a quick study. In fact, the instructions were so simple and straightforward, he could only figure that anyone who couldn't get them would be, as Ed would say, dumb as a box of doornails.

Sedgewick was in quite a twitter, as was apparently everyone in the castle, because of the evening's dinner for Prince Cyprian and Sir Magnus, the shirttail relative. Well, Magnus had some minor title—Baronet of something-or-other—but it was only a courtesy title, without any property or wealth. So he was by far the more motivated suitor, according to Sedgewick. He wanted a kingdom at least as much as he wanted a princess. The servants, in general, favored Prince Cyprian. He seemed more relaxed.

"But he would be, wouldn't he?" Christian observed. "Because he's not trying as hard. Sir Magnus has more at stake and therefore more to lose." Christian knew from hunting that the harder one tried, the more likely one was to make some perfectly stupid mistake that blew the whole operation.

"Indeed, yes," Sedgewick answered, giving Christian an appraising look. This was no ordinary serving boy, he could see that. Not at all.

As time neared for the state dinner, the atmosphere behind the scenes became ever more tense. It was a relief when the trumpets finally sounded, announcing the procession into the dining hall. At last the action could begin.

Christian had to admit he was dying for a look at these suitors. He wondered if either of them had ever read any Greek myths. Or watched the stars, or taught tricks to dogs; if either of them had any idea of what it took to be a best friend. His station was at the wine table, and his job was to keep the glasses filled. He reviewed the order of wines as he stood at his station, waiting for the diners to make their stately way in.

King Swithbert came first, with Queen Olympia, shimmering in damask and diamonds, holding his arm. He looked even older than he had through the telescope, and the queen's grip on him seemed more supportive than affectionate. She, on the other hand, was beautifully maintained and even quite radiant, a look perhaps achieved by artificial means. Under the arm not supporting the king, she carried Fenleigh, his eyes narrow and glittering. The animal wore a gold collar and chain leash.

"She never goes anywhere without that ferret," Sedgewick whispered to Christian. "Talks to him like she expects him to answer back. Even asks his advice about things."

The king and queen were followed by various courtiers and relatives and hangers-on. Prince Cyprian entered alone, clad in white and gold, his blond ringlets adorned with a crown of topaz and pearls. He looked quite pleased with himself. Behind him, also alone, came Sir Magnus. He could hardly have been more of a contrast to Prince Cyprian. He was tall, dark, and handsome in his black-and-silver finery, walking as if he owned the world. Only his quick blink and the worried pucker between his eyebrows gave away the fact that he knew he didn't—not even a little piece of it.

Last of all, almost an afterthought at her own party, came Princess Marigold, trailed by her three little dogs. Christian had to steady himself against the wine table, and his heart was beating so hard he was sure she would be able to hear it. The expression on her face made it plain to anyone who looked at her—and hardly anyone did, Christian observed—that she wished she were anywhere but where she was. He could see the corner of a book protruding from the pocket of her Prussian blue gown, which gave it a homey, personal look in spite of the ruffles, furbelows, poufs, bows, and brilliants that somebody, completely misunderstanding her style, had got her up in. The crown she wore was too much as well. Too big, too heavy, too gaudy. She looked like somebody forced to go to a costume party and not enjoying it a whit. But to be so close to her after seeing her only through a telescope for so long—why, what did Hayes mean, saying she was plain? Her skin was clear, her eyes were bright and curious, her hair was shining—well, she was beautiful, that's all. His beautiful, unreachable princess.

Marigold sat herself at the foot of the table, her chin in one hand. The little dogs trampled around on her puddled skirts for a while until the diners, freely imbibing of Christian's rapid pourings, began to drop morsels of their dinners onto the floor. Then the dogs took to grazing under the table, vacuuming up anything that fell. Christian couldn't help thinking how much Bub and Cate would have enjoyed such an opportunity. And thanks to Ed's etiquette book, he knew that dropped tidbits were supposed to be left for the dogs.

Prince Cyprian deliberately slipped pieces of roasted meats beneath the table, making sure Marigold saw him do it, and then watched as the little dogs gobbled them up. It was hard for Christian not to be partial to a dog lover even when he didn't want to like either of Marigold's suitors. He watched Sir Magnus to see if he would take any special interest in the dogs. Magnus never even looked at them—or at Marigold, either, for that matter. He concentrated only on the array of silverware on either side of his plate, uncertainly picking up first one fork and then another, with a perplexed frown. Christian could have told him that the oyster fork was the small one with the three tines.

Sir Magnus didn't drop any meat on purpose—in fact, he hardly ate at all. Christian could see his knees jiggling nervously under the table. This was definitely a fellow out of his depth and sure to be trying too hard. And Chris knew what could happen under those circumstances.

Christian was the only one to notice when Prince Cyprian deliberately dropped a piece of meat onto the toe of Sir Magnus's shoe. So it didn't surprise Chris in the slightest when one of Marigold's dogs sank his teeth into Sir Magnus's elegant instep. Startled, Mag nus jerked reflexively out of his chair and kicked the little creature halfway across the dining hall.

Marigold screamed and jumped to her feet.

"Oh, well done!" one of the courtiers shouted to Magnus. "Though hardly sporting."

Instinctively, Christian rushed to the dog and picked it up a split second before Princess Marigold reached it. Breathless at being so close to her, Christian handed the yelping dog to the princess without a word. Their hands touched beneath the furry body, and then their eyes met.

Christian felt as if he'd downed a fast couple of glasses of the Château Mutton de Rothschild '47 that he'd just been pouring for the banquet guests.

"Oh my," Princess Marigold whispered. Then, cradling the whimpering dog, she turned and called, "Flopsy! Mopsy!" The remaining two dogs ran to her, and together, the little retinue swept out of the dining room.

Queen Olympia rose from her seat. "Marigold!" she shouted. "You come back here!" Fenleigh raised his head and bared his teeth, approximating Olympia's look.

Marigold, her back straight and stiff, kept going. She attempted to slam the tall dining hall doors behind her, but two burly footmen caught them before they could crash shut. Marigold hurried on, rushing up the sweeping staircase with her dogs.

Christian had to admire the arm on her, shoving those heavy doors so hard while holding on to her distressed pet.

"What?" King Swithbert said. "What happened to Marigold?" Nobody paid any attention to him.

"I say, old chap," Prince Cyprian said smugly to Sir Magnus, "do you think that furthered your suit with the princess?"

"It was an accident," Sir Magnus muttered unhappily. "The little devil scared me. I never liked dogs, anyway."

"Well, it's done now," Prince Cyprian gloated. "Accident or not, I wonder what you can do to atone. I'm quite sure she took note of the way I generously fed the little ... devils, as you so colorfully call them. Did you know she raised them after their mother died? Fed them with a baby bottle every four hours around the clock, I'm told. She couldn't love them more if they were her own children."

"I didn't know that," Sir Magnus said, stricken. Then he straightened his shoulders and affected a more manly demeanor, though Christian could see that his knees were shaking under the table. "I'm sure I'll be able to explain to the princess what happened."

Christian no longer favored the smug and crafty Prince Cyprian. But he wasn't so much in favor of Magnus, either, who seemed harmless enough but not even close to Marigold in spirit, brains, and grit. To be honest, he didn't like thinking about Marigold marrying
anybody.
It gave him a pang right in the center of his chest.

Marigold never came back to the table, even though Queen Olympia sent several volleys of servants to fetch her. King Swithbert kept asking what was going on, but nobody ever answered him. Cyprian and Magnus gave each other suspicious glances for the rest of the dinner, and the other guests got so rowdy that by the time the dessert arrived, there had been five fights, three threatened duels, and one broken engagement. Christian wondered whether five kinds of wine at dinner was really such a good idea. And he wondered where Marigold had gone and what she was doing. He bet she could use a best friend right about now.

It was very late when the dinner was over, the en-tertainers had finished their juggling and dancing and madrigal singing, and the guests had staggered off to their beds.

Christian and the other servants were left to tidy up the mess that had been made of the dining hall—spilled wine, scattered nutshells, dropped utensils, and various forgotten handkerchiefs, veils, shawls, and, inexplicably, a set of wooden false teeth. Christian knew that if these people had to pick up after themselves for just one week, they'd learn to be a lot tidier. Even he had learned to clean up the messes he made with his inventions. Being waited on hand and foot was not good for one's personal development.

When he finally made it to his sleeping place in the straw of the stable loft, he was so exhausted, physically and emotionally, that he was out like a log, as Ed would have said. His last thought as he plunged into sleep was of his hand touching Marigold's under the distressed dog—and remembering that with that touch, she could tell his thoughts.

E
DRIC SLEPT
hardly at all. Bub and Cate were unsettled, too. The only thing on all their minds was, Where was Christian? There was no way to be sure he'd made it to the castle. Or, if he had, that there was a job waiting for him. And if there wasn't, would he come home or would he move on, trying to prove himself? Ed felt awful. What had he been thinking, urging Chris to go away?

Sometimes things that seem like good ideas in theory, in practice turn out to be the worst kinds of boneheaded blunders.

Ed flopped and turned, and shoved the dogs—huddling near him for reassurance—this way and that. Finally, near dawn, he drifted off, figuring that there was nothing he could do about it now; it was all spilled milk over the dam.

The next morning Christian was in the scullery repairing a butter churn. As he worked on it, he got an idea for a more efficient way to operate the dasher. He needed a chain and a handle and a gear, that's all. Thinking about such things was easier than thinking about Marigold, who had never seemed so far away.

Mrs. Clover, swamped with the demands of the extra guests at the castle, shooed him off to the blacksmith's, where he found what he needed in a pile of discarded parts at the back of the shop.

"Handy, are you?" the smith asked. He was a burly man, red-faced from the heat of his forge, wearing a leather apron.

"I like to build things," Christian said. "It's fun."

"Me, too. You should see some of the things I've made. Great stuff. But not everything works out, does it? Not my perpetual-motion machine, or my flying machine, or my corn picker. You might be interested in having a look at my failures. They're dumped in the dungeon. Maybe there'd be some parts you could use."

"The dungeon?"

"Oh, it hasn't been used as a
dungeon
dungeon since old King Swithbert took the throne. He's too softhearted to torture anybody. He prefers to exile troublemakers. Queen Olympia, she's another story. If she were ruler, that dungeon would have standing room only. That's why I'm rooting for Sir Magnus to marry the princess. Then Marigold'll get to be queen when poor old King Swithbert croaks."

Chris got that pang in his chest again. "I served at the state dinner last night. She doesn't seem very interested in either one of her suitors."

"She may not be, but I think the queen sure is. She's ready to have a wedding. She's been running candidates through here for a year, and the princess has turned up her nose at all of them. And when Olympia runs out of patience—look out."

This was not good news to Christian. "Well, thanks for the stuff," he said. "If it works the way I think it will, pretty soon butter making's going to be a lot faster around here."

"Let me know how it turns out." The blacksmith brought his hammer down on the soup ladle he was fashioning on the anvil. A great shower of sparks exploded outward like fireworks as Christian headed back to the kitchen.

Meg, the scullery maid, was overjoyed at the new butter churn. "Oh, look how fast it goes," she said, turning the handle. "There'll be butter in no time, without me breaking me arms hauling that dasher up and down. Oh, Christian, luv, you've made a miracle, you have. And I'll not be forgetting it." She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. "Maybe I can find a way to thank you."

Christian, ignorant of the art of flirting, said, "Don't worry about it. I enjoyed fixing it."

"Well, I'd enjoy thanking you, I know I would," she said, batting her lashes and turning the churn handle in a way that displayed her shapely figure to advantage.

Christian, uncomfortable, shrugged. "Well. You're welcome."

The next chore Sedgewick assigned Christian was to begin repairs on a section of the wall bordering the terrace overlooking the river.

"And if the princess is out on the terrace, and she is out there a lot," Sedgewick said, "whatever you do, don't touch her."

"I wouldn't think of it," Christian said obediently, though there was hardly anything he'd like more. "I know she's a princess and I'm just a servant." That was perfectly true, but—though he knew better—it was something he kept hoping didn't really matter.