The Birthday Ball (11 page)

"No, an
heir,
Tess. It's not the same. It means a..."

The princess fell silent.

"A what, then?"

"A baby," the princess said in a small voice.

Tess looked outraged. "A baby! No way! Not now, miss! Not when you are sixteen and wantin' to be a teacher! Maybe later, miss! But not now!" The chambermaid paced angrily back and forth across the bedchamber.

The princess stood up, and her embroidered petticoats swirled around her. "Pull yourself together, Tess. It makes me fretful when you pace," she said with resignation. "It is the Law of the Domain, and it is my sixteenth birthday. Help me with my gown."

The chambermaid stamped her foot. "But blimey, miss, it's a bad law! Can't sumbody change it?"

"Only the king. My father."

Tess stood still. "A pa can be hard," she said. "Mine was. Threw me right out of the house, he did. Told me to not come back."

"My father's not cruel like that. He's a good ruler, I think. We haven't gone to war in years because he doesn't believe in it." The princess gestured to the silvery-blue gown that was laid out carefully on her bed.

"He never raises taxes," she went on, "and he outlawed hangings. Get the gown, Tess."

Tess carefully picked up the elaborate gown and lowered it over the princess, taking care not to muss the elegantly upswept hair. With her voice muffled by the heavy folds of the skirt, the princess continued, "He holds celebrations, and parades, and invites traveling circuses. Last year he built a
hhssspp—
"

"What's that, miss?" The chambermaid eased the gown down so that the head of the princess emerged.

"Hospital. He had a hospital built because he learned that the villagers had none. Do you remember when Cook chopped her hand, Tess, when she was aiming for a turkey? It was the hospital stitched her up so nicely."

"So they did, miss. Hardly a scar." The chambermaid began to button, one by one, the long line of pearl buttons on the back of the gown.

"He's a good king," the princess said again.

"Yes, he is, miss. Hold still."

"He loves me dearly."

"Don't squirm. I can't button when you squirm, miss."

"He only wants the best for me."

The chambermaid stopped buttoning and stood back indignantly with her hands on her hips. "Well then, miss," she said in a loud voice, "all I got to say is he has an odd way of showin' it iffen he wants you to have a air when you're still nothin' but a girl. I know he don't beat you like my pa did, or throw you out, but iffen he was a
really
good king he would change the Law of the Domain, and that's all I got to say, miss!"

A small golden clock on the dressing table chimed.

"Button, Tess. It's almost time."

"And as for them suitors, miss—well, we haven't talked about them suitors. But I
seen
them, miss, when they arrived. One is the ugliest man in the world, miss, with teeth that stick out and a huge snarl of dirty hair all ratted up. And the next one, miss, well, the next one don't do nuthin' but strut and look at hisself every minute, and his hair is sleeked back with foul-smelling oil. And the last one, miss, blimey, the last one is two stuck together, slapping at each other and spitting and using the coarsest language—"

"Tess, don't talk about them—I can't bear it!"

"But miss, they say you have to choose tonight! They say below-stairs that at the ball you have to choose, and I don't see how you can, when the choice be so horrible!"

The princess took a deep breath and drew up her shoulders. "Tess, be still, and button my gown! That is a command!"

The chambermaid sniffed. Her freckled face was pink with outrage. "Yes, miss," she said, and curtsied.

16. The Banquet

The banquet tables had been set with the finest of the castle's engraved silver flatware and handpainted china. Masses of flowers had been arranged in crystal vases placed at intervals along the length of each table. Footmen in full uniform stood at attention around the walls, waiting to attend the guests, and serving maids in freshly starched aprons scurried in and out, carrying plates of butter and celery and baskets of fresh-baked breads of all sorts. In the kitchen far below, massive tables held the plates of food, all of it waiting to be lifted up by pulley and served to the guests. The pigeons were creamed, the pistachios shelled, and two hundred artichokes had been stuffed with goose liver and arranged on plates.

In the corridor, the three singing serving girls, exempted from serving duties, were rehearsing their song. They had spent the entire previous night perfecting the rhymes and practicing the harmonies.

"
Tonight's the night of the Birthday Ball,
" they sang.

"
Dinner first in the banquet hall,
" they sang next.

"
Banquet hall Banquet hall Banquet hall!
" Here their voices divided into a complex harmony and formed a chorus.

"
Gifts and fun for one and all...
"

"
Birthday Ball Birthday ball Birthday Ball!
"

The elderly serving boy hobbled past them, carrying a fresh case of sardines. "That blasted cat's gone and had kittens. More mouths to feed," he muttered irritably. "Why don't you make up a song about
that?
" He glared at the serving girls in their pinafores. "Plenty of words to rhyme with
cat,
I'd say.
Brat
and
fat
and
drat,
for a few." He continued on his way, muttering.

From the bell tower, suddenly, the sound of the carillon began. Usually it played only the number of the hours, but now it rang a melody to signal the start of the event. The villagers, bathed and dressed in their best, had all been waiting at the gate to the castle grounds for the signal. Now they pushed the gate open and flooded through, the children skipping happily, the older village folk, many of them wearing unaccustomed shoes, trying to walk with dignity and purpose.

From their three encampments on the grounds, the visiting suitors emerged from their tents.

Duke Desmond wore a one-piece form-fitting green outfit, stretched across his pudgy belly and outlining his legs down to the ankles. On his feet he wore pointed green suede shoes with slippery soles that would help him to glide on the dance floor; he had practiced the waltz again and again, back in his own domain, and had created his own version of the dance, using dips and twirls that made his thick cord of hair fly back and forth.

Now, as he walked in a stately fashion toward the castle, surrounded by his courtiers, he did a little hop here and there, holding his arms out, pretending the princess was already encircled in them. He murmured sweet nothings under his breath in preparation, and blew some spit-laden air kisses (not easy to do, around his protruding teeth), relishing the thought that very soon his saliva would be decorating her lovely pink neck.

The splashers scurried ahead of him, rushing to flutter their hands in the castle birdbaths, and behind him came the bearer of the butterfly, carrying the elaborate bamboo cage that housed his gift to the king.

At the same time, from another direction, completely surrounded by mirror bearers walking sideways in the prescribed manner, Prince Percival began strolling toward the castle entrance. He was dressed entirely in black, and had enhanced his eyelashes with jet black mascara and added a little metallic gray shadow above, on the lids.

He was practicing his own dance steps, pointing his toes and wiggling his slim hips in a kind of tango. He turned from left to right, admiring himself in the mirrors as he did, stopping occasionally to check his makeup (for in addition to the mascara and eye shadow, he had applied some blush) or to adjust his mustache. Frequently he ordered another whisking of his shoulders by the valet, who trotted immediately behind him, carrying the dandruff brushes.

He carried his gift in his own back pocket, adjusting it now and then when the mirrors revealed that it was causing an unsightly bulge.

Behind his group, though unseen, a large swarm of bees was following in a slow-moving, purposeful cloud. The ringing of the carillon, which continued playing birthday music, masked the deep buzzing hum.

Finally, the conjoint counts, wearing a red plaid suit that they had finally agreed grudgingly upon, lurched forward from their encampment. They moved in circles because of their disagreements, one turning left while the other turned right, which invariably slowed them down and required a full circle before they could get aimed toward the castle once again.

Cuthbert had combed and trimmed his beard, but Colin had poked him in the ribs while he was doing so, causing the scissors to slip, so the beard now had an oddly scalloped shape. Colin himself had shaved, but Cuthbert had nastily jostled the arm that held the razor several times. So Colin's cheeks and chin were peppered with small dots of blood-smeared toilet paper, which he intended to remove as soon as they reached the castle entrance.

The villagers arrived first and were welcomed and ushered inside, then led up the grand staircase to the banquet hall. Their eyes were wide at the magnificence of the marble floors, the fine tapestries on the walls, and most of all, when the banquet hall doors were pulled open, at the huge tables set with embroidered cloths and decorated with flowers, candles, and plates that hinted at the food yet to be served.

Footmen pulled out individual chairs and helped each villager to be seated. In a corner of the banquet hall, a harp player began to pluck the strings of a magnificent instrument, and the deep, vibrating chords filled the room with background music.

A footman consulted his list and looked down at a very small girl in a patched dress who seemed to be all alone and a little overwhelmed.

He leaned down and said gently, "Might you be Liz?"

She nodded.

"An orphan?" he asked, still looking at his list.

"Yes, that's me, a norphan," she whispered. "I never been to nuffink like this before."

He took her hand. "You're to sit here," he said, indicating a gilt chair, "next to the princess." He lifted the little girl into it and sat her on its satin cushion. She found herself beside the chair of honor, which was still unoccupied.

"Blimey," Liz said aloud. She grinned and scratched her mosquito bite.

***

The harpist played a long chord and then fell silent, and buglers entered the hall. Standing at either side of the doorway, they waited while a butler called out "Their Majesties!" and then played a fanfare as the king and queen entered.

The king hated parties. He loved his daughter, wished her well on her birthday—in fact, wished for the best for her always—but he hated parties and hoped that this one would not last long. He disliked ceremonies, was uncomfortable in his gold tights, and wanted to get back to his butterfly collection.

The queen, in contrast, adored elaborate occasions. She had spent the entire morning trying on one gown after another, having her hair done and redone, fussing with jewels and makeup, and enjoying time-consuming preparations for her daughter's birthday. Even now, as she entered the banquet hall, nodding her head graciously to the left and right, she was thinking that she should have worn the patent leather shoes with the stiletto heels instead of the soft satin ones she had chosen.