The Duke of Snow and Apples (11 page)

Conversation resumed once the servants left, but other topics of discussion replaced the arguments regarding mud hunting and Charlotte found herself once again in the dark. Somehow, this cheered her. Now she had a self-serving reason to talk to Frederick, something that placed them on familiar ground. Far easier to face a servant when she wanted something from him, rather than the disturbing, sudden desire in her to discover if he wanted something from her.

Chapter Eleven

Charlotte’s opportunity came as soon as dessert was cleared away and the ladies stood up to retire to the drawing room. As Charlotte trailed behind the other women down the hallway, she heard a small cough. She stopped.

Frederick stood to attention next to a marble bust of Good King Robert, his expression just as grim and immobile. All too soon, the whisper of silk and perfume faded as the other guests departed, leaving Charlotte and Frederick quite alone.

“We need to talk,” he said. When she opened her mouth, he silenced her with a raised hand. “Not here. The orangery should be deserted as this hour. This should be private.”

For a brief moment Charlotte thought he intended a tryst, to finish what she’d provoked in him earlier that morning. Three days ago she would have thought the idea ludicrous. Now, remembering how his mouth had borne down on hers, she felt taut and suspended, as if the floor had vanished beneath her and in the next moment she’d fall.
Will Frederick catch me?

“Well, come on then,” he said, his neutral tone salted with impatience. The floor rushed back into place beneath Charlotte’s slippers with a hard little
thump
. Sheepishly, she followed as he turned and strode down the hallway.

The orangery was quiet, fragrant, and indeed deserted. A newer addition to Charmant Park, it jutted out from the rest of the building, with the two outward-facing walls and part of the ceiling entirely paned with glass. With the night sky bare to them, and humid vegetation rustling around them, it felt as if she had stepped into some forgotten pocket of summer.

Somewhere along the way, Frederick had acquired a couple of lit candles, which he placed by an ornate wooden bench, one of many in a room designed like an indoor garden.

He gestured to the seat. Charlotte complied, but he remained standing. Instead of speaking immediately, he coughed once or twice, clearing his throat for words that remained stubbornly on the tip of his tongue.

Charlotte sensed that this was a “talk” she might not enjoy having, so she spoke up over his anxious struggles. “Have you ever escorted the Seven Dowagers on a mud hunt before?”

Nonplussed, he replied, “Yes. On occasion.”

“Oh good, then you can explain it to me.”

He frowned. “I called you here for a reason.”

Her eyebrows leapt into high, amused arches. “And I followed you for a reason. You seem to forget who gives the orders around here.”

“I forget a lot of things when I’m around you.” With a sigh, he plunked down on the bench next to her. “That’s the problem. It’s time you went to your great-aunt and requested someone else be your personal footman.”

“If this is because of the kiss, I’ve already completely forgotten it!” said Charlotte, too loudly. “It was sweet of you, really, but it wasn’t exactly a memorable event.”

He stared at her, his stony face stark in the moonlight. He blinked, and dawning surprise released his features to open and his lips to curve upward. “Liar.”

With a growl, she got up and walked away, toward some of the fruit trees nestled comfortably in pots painted with nurture-charms.

“What are you doing?”

Charlotte refused to look at him. This wasn’t going at all how she’d planned. She was supposed to confound
him
, not the other way around. “I’m looking for an
apple
tree!”

“Looking for ammunition?” Laughter tinged his voice.

She whirled around, desperate to drag the conversation back to the subject at hand. “What can you tell me about mud hunting?”

“A great deal. As can every footman on the Dowagers’ staff.”

“Then you’ll do as well as any other.”

“That’s debatable.”

Charlotte returned to the bench. “You’re frightened of me.”

Frederick snorted. “You don’t know what my fear looks like.”

“It’s yellow.”

His face paled to the color of his powdered wig. In the watery moonlight, he no longer looked frozen and imposing like a pillar of marble, but rather something fragile, ephemeral, easily melted. A man created out of winter’s breath, out of frost. However, when he finally found his voice, his words emerged as cold and sharp as chips of ice. “What did you say?”

“It’s yellow,” Charlotte repeated. “I saw it. I saw all sorts of colors this morning, and last night as well. Somehow I know what they mean. I can’t explain it. Will you?”

“No.”

She sat next to him. “Let’s go with an easier question, then—what happens during a mud hunt?”

Frederick’s stiff posture never relented for a moment. “Charmant village’s Earthkeeper summons a herd of gnomes, and people chase them for sport.”

“With guns or spells? Wind spells come easily to me, but Earth is a more difficult subject.”

“Wind rifles. Or their own wind spells.”

“It doesn’t hurt gnomes, does it?” Charlotte asked.

“No. They just dissolve and return to the earth, leaving a clump of dirt behind.”

“When you looked at me this morning, I saw indigo. And orange. Do you see colors when you look at me?”

Frederick stood up, but he didn’t flee the room, as he had the last time. Instead, he stalked toward the darkened windows and stared out, without speaking.

Charlotte looked away.
Try again
. “So, why do gnomes need a season?”

“Red,” he said, his back to her.

“What?”

“I see red when I look at you,” he said quietly. He removed his wig. His natural hair was even darker than the blue-black night sky in front of him. “It’s not always very bright. Sometimes I just get a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.”

Even though they were alone, Charlotte lowered her voice to match his. “What does that color mean?”

“You probably don’t even know you have it,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her. He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “But it’s always there, red as rust, under all of the fear and uncertainty and stubbornness. Even when you act like a ridiculous wind-up soldier, or pretend to have nothing to say, or play at being the wilting hothouse flower instead of the wild, ragged weed you are.”

“What is it?”

He turned and looked at her then, with those eyes that held her still even when they were only eyes, dark and fathomless. Then, a flicker, a spark, and they filled with light. “It’s courage. I know bravery when I see it, even when I have so little myself.”

You’re beautiful
, Charlotte wanted to say, even as her mouth dried at the thought of saying it out loud. He was an exquisite meeting of light and dark, the shadow of his hair against the glow of his skin. His night-black brows stood guard over eyes as blazing as day. Who was this footman who looked like an angel and called her brave?

…

She fixed him with those eyes, the color of warm brandy, and Frederick felt intoxicated just looking at them. “How long have you been able to do this? To
see
these sorts of things about people?”

The warm pulse of his power dizzied him into almost thinking he could answer honestly. He tried to think of pounding sleet, sheets of ice, smothering snow—and safer subjects. “Gnomes devote their energy and magic to nourishing soil and plant life. If you hunt them in spring or summer, you deplete their magic too early, which leaves little left for the fall crops. That’s why you hunt them in late fall, after the harvest.”

“Frederick…”

“It’s even beneficial.” He fixed his wig back onto his head. “Gnomes that grow restless during winter cause slides and sinkholes. Tiring them out with a good fall mud hunt helps them sleep more deeply.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Shades of curiosity warred with disappointment, pale pink and dusty brown, in a crisscross pattern across her face. Frederick frowned. She deserved brighter emotions, jewel tones in scarlet and purple and gold.

“I’ve had this magic as long as I can remember.”

“Ah,” said Charlotte. She blinked very slowly. “I shall have to keep all that in mind when I join in the mud hunt tomorrow. I believe I shan’t embarrass myself too much.”

An overpowering urge to laugh rose from his belly, the kind of wild, uninhibited laughter that clenched the body like a fist to wring as much mirth as possible from every pore. He hadn’t laughed that way in such a long time he had a sudden fear he might forget how and end up howling or screaming instead, so when the laughter seized his throat he spat it out as words.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” he said. Vivid hues bloomed in the air between them, rich, varied shades of longing, most of them his.

Charlotte cocked her head to one side. Her lips bowed into a slow, lopsided smile. “Liar.”

“God help me.” He chuckled weakly. “I’m not very good at being a rapacious footman.”

“True. But I can always use a friend. So could you, it seems.”

You’re wrong
, Frederick wanted to say, but his throat constricted at the thought of contradicting her. She looked into his eyes and saw his magic’s light and the parts of himself he normally kept hidden and she said nothing, as if they were natural. As if she saw past the jagged and uneven puzzle pieces of him and saw a whole, fitted picture. He suddenly wanted to drag out all of his secrets, like a line of starving and ragged prisoners before a queen who could pardon them and deem them good. Who was this changeable, beautiful girl who looked into his eyes and called him friend?

His power didn’t seem to harm her. She sat before him, vibrant with feeling, a kaleidoscope that only he could see. He couldn’t imagine anything could deaden her colors, even the Gray.

Friend
. Such a simple thing to ask, wasn’t it? Friends were safe. Friends were normal. Frederick himself had them—Tall John, Ben, Gregory. He could have friends and still keep his secrets, still keep himself intact from them. Working belowstairs for ten years without being discovered had to count for something.

“Perhaps you are right,” he allowed.

Charlotte smiled. “Haven’t you learned by now? I’m always right.”

Chapter Twelve

Frederick woke up at an ungodly hour the next morning, and smiled. He continued to smile, even as he fumbled around his freezing room to find and light a candle. Even when he had to break the ice in his water jug to wash and shave. He smiled as he went downstairs and became just another foot soldier in Mr. Lutter’s army, sworn to defeat the evil forces of Muddied Boots, Tarnished Silver, and Unfolded Linen Serviettes that rose in frightening numbers as the hour of the mud hunt drew near.

Battles raged everywhere belowstairs in anticipation of the mud hunt. The kitchen transformed into a dragon’s lair, a cavern of steam and smoke and shouting. Her ladyship’s gardeners and forest keepers joined forces with the village’s Earthkeeper to run last-minute checks on the solidity and soil quality of the area selected for the hunt’s starting point. Shipley, the coachman, rallied the grooms, both his and his guests’, to prepare the mounts, inspect harness, polish saddles. Upstairs, lady’s maids held practicality slightly above beauty and chose sensible yet dashing half-boots, colorful yet sturdy riding habits for their mistresses—expensive, fashionable clothes that could nevertheless withstand a spot of mud or a strong gust of wind.

Through all this madness, Frederick smiled. He tempered it a bit around others, but he could feel it stretching inside him, pulling everything straight. Even his inability to quite understand this strange buoyancy couldn’t dim it. The Seven Dowagers had hosted countless balls, hunts, musicales, routs, and festivals before this, each social event a spun-sugar delight upstairs and a grueling, sooty trial below. Frederick had never shirked in his duties—but now, beneath the strenuous pull of muscle, beneath the sweat and the dust, something bubbled inside of him, something light and clean and unbothered by the acrid smells of silver-cleaning potion and hard soap.

“Freddy.”

“What?” Frederick looked up from the soup tureen he struggled to clean to find his fellow footmen staring at him. This morning, the under butler had nearly collapsed with a stroke when he’d discovered a tiny, infinitesimal nick on one of the salad forks in Lady Balrumple’s prized Faalum service. Inflicting an incomplete service upon the exalted guests was out of the question. Now Freddy, Tall John, Eric, Gregory, and Ben counted on Lady Leighwood’s foul silver-cleansing potion, fiendish rubbing, and fervent prayer to clean her ladyship’s second-prized Welslyn silver in time for luncheon.

They’d all been doing a serviceable job, despite the potion’s overpowering smell and the tiny windows in the butler’s pantry, until they’d stopped to gawk at him like a gaggle of sprites surprised by a bright light. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re
smiling
,” said Tall John.

“No, I’m not.” He denied the sudden urge to check his face to see if it was true—of course he wasn’t smiling. He knew his own face.

“You’re almost smiling,” Ben said.

Eric jabbed his rag at Frederick’s mouth. “Just about.”

“You can tell by the corners,” said Gregory. “They’re twitching.”

“So I’m
almost
smiling?”

“For you, that’s practically a grin,” said Ben. “We’re cleaning her ladyship’s silver with the tender skin off our hands and you’re grinning like a fool.”

“I’m not grinning.” He glanced down into the tureen. Surely he wasn’t. The rounded tureen threw his reflection upside down, but his mouth remained professionally straight—except for the odd tilt. At the corners.
Damn
.

“Nothing wrong with smiling,” he grumbled.

Ben shook his head in wonderment. “It must be the fumes.”

“Maybe it’s a girl,” Eric suggested.

The room fell silent but for the rough whisper of cloth on silver, hands continuing to rub away tarnish even as minds registered shock. Then Gregory snickered again, cracking the silence like an egg, until everyone else’s laughter tumbled out.

All except for Tall John. Son of the head gardener and a former upstairs maid, Tall John had lived at Charmant Park his entire life, and of the all the Lower Five, he’d known Frederick the longest. He neither laughed nor spoke, and kept his head bent toward the large oval-shaped salver he was cleaning—but the eyes of his reflection in that salver shot Frederick a long, open look that sent prickles of unease scurrying down his spine.

Thanks to a good dollop of divine intervention, the Seven Dowagers’ footmen managed to bring the Welslyn silver up to sparkling standard and just as quickly they fled the butler’s pantry for cleaner air, as well as to exchange their grubby smocks for more appropriate clothing. Tall John grabbed Frederick’s arm as he made to leave with the others.

“What is it?”

Tall John hesitated a moment before speaking. “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“I’m fine. I’m happy.” Frederick stopped. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d felt the need to add that last part.

“You are, aren’t you?”

The wonderment in Tall John’s tone pricked Frederick’s pride. “I’m allowed to feel happy.”

“Of course.” Tall John raised his eyebrows. “I’m just wondering how, after ten years, you’ve only discovered this
now
.”

Frederick wanted to shrug, to deny, to feign misunderstanding, but he knew none of that would satisfy his friend. From the start, when Frederick had stumbled his way through his first chafing, humiliating, bone-tiring year in the Dowagers’ service, Tall John had helped him keep a firm grasp on his tongue, strangle his complaints, and anticipate others’ needs before his own. If he couldn’t tell Tall John the truth, at least he didn’t have to insult him with an obvious lie.

“I don’t know,” Frederick said, which was true enough. He just felt something building inside of him, something rising and unfurling. Anticipation. Frederick had served at hundreds of soirees, but nothing had really strayed too far from the servants’ rhythm of wake, work, eat, and sleep. He often woke a little earlier, worked a great deal harder, ate better, and slept less, but he knew he’d wake up the next day to work, eat, and sleep again, just in varying amounts. Now, however, he had something to look forward to.

A
friend
. Somehow, the term applied to Charlotte meant something entirely different than the label he shared with his fellow footmen, like a word in an altogether foreign language that happened to share the same pronunciation.

“Either way, it’s a pleasant change,” Tall John said. He followed Frederick up the servants’ staircase, hanging back on the second-floor landing as Frederick continued on to the third. He called out, “
Is
there a girl?”

“Why?” Frederick asked, looking back.

Tall John smirked. “Only curious. Any woman who could make you smile after ten years would have to be miraculous indeed.”

“I’m not smiling!” Frederick shouted. They both knew he was lying.

…

Wrapping her red, woolen scarf around her neck, Charlotte tried to keep a smile pasted on her face. The Dowagers’ stable yard rang with shouted orders and loud, masculine laughter that curled into steam in the late-autumn chill. Grooms paraded horses for their masters, man and horse alike tossing their heads, stamping, on fire for attention.

Guests from the surrounding neighborhood arrived to join in the mud hunt, accompanied by their own animals and retainers, adding to the noise and chaos. All gewgaws, jewels, and glamours were abandoned at the prospect of a rousing hunt. The hunters came garbed in simple, stark colors, plain fitted jackets without embroidery, sturdy starched neckcloths, high leather boots.

They looked none the worse for lacking Society’s baubles—instead, Charlotte thought most of the men looked better, more primal, their long-boned grace all the more apparent in simple clothing. Those who, for reasons of age, gender, or delicacy, had declined to participate, had already assembled nearer to the hunt site to watch from the sidelines, so Charlotte felt particularly alienated.

She should have prodded Frederick for more information on mud hunting the night before, but she’d been hesitant to test the strange trust between them. Now she stood in the middle of the stable yard with no horse or wind rifle nor any real idea what she was expected to do.

Perhaps now was the time to slip away before anyone really noticed her and join the spectators as if that was what she had intended all along. She’d sit with the more elderly Dowagers and pregnant Mrs. Colton and the hunters’ wives and applaud politely with her gloved hands.

How boring.

Were those truly her options—sit to the side like a helpless female or blunder forward like a fool? Backing out did sound tedious, but this wasn’t about her. This was about finding a husband. She’d already lived her life by her own rules, and what had it got her? Hands scraped from falling out of trees, bruised knees, nights without dinner, and the taste of the switch on her palm.

Perhaps if she followed the rules for once in her life, something in the world would go right for her.

Before she had a chance to go forward or flee, or even decide which alternative was the least distasteful, a voice hailed her from behind.

“Charlotte! You’re riding with us, are you?”

Charlotte turned to see who had spoken, and slapped a tight rein on her shock before it could gallop across her face. Augusta, Lady Tamsin, strode toward her from the stables, leading a handsome black mare. She wore her hair in a tight crown of braids around her head, a sleek brown hunting-jacket—and
breeches
, an article of clothing that emphasized the shape of her legs from the curve of her buttock down to her calf, where a pair of supple boots completed the scandalous display.

“You certainly came…prepared,” said Charlotte. To Augusta’s credit, even in male clothes the cut of her jacket and breeches failed to disguise the swell and dip of her feminine lines. Several men had stopped to stare, high and low born both.

“Nightstar can’t abide the side saddle,” Augusta said, giving her mare a fond pat, “so breeches are useful to us both.”

It took a moment for Charlotte to realize this meant Lady Tamsin would be riding
astride
, a notion that struck her as strangely delightful. That an awkward wallflower could ride to hunt dressed as a man, and astride like a man, and still garner the attraction of a man cheered Charlotte immensely. It meant there was still hope for her.

“You have a stiffer spine than I,” she admitted.

Augusta ducked her head for a moment, a blush creeping up her neck, past the lapels of her jacket. “In truth,” Augusta said, “I’ve never had an opportunity to learn riding side saddle. Growing up in Tamsin Heath, both my parents insisted I learn astride first. I fear I’m far too set in my ways to ride any other way.”

“Tamsin Heath sounds like a wonderful place.”

Augusta brightened. “Oh, indeed. I love it there. I suppose I grew up rather wild, so sometimes I forget that wildness is not wholly appreciated elsewhere, as it is there.”

“Oh, you’re being appreciated. Quite avidly.” A flick of Charlotte’s gaze indicated their silent audience of men pretending to cast protection-charms on their saddle girths. She smiled. “I don’t think a spot of wildness could go amiss at Charmant Park.”

“I suppose not.” Augusta laughed. “If you’re riding to hunt with us, where is your horse?”

“I can show you, miss.”

Charlotte turned around, too quickly to prepare herself, too quickly to completely contain the joy that bubbled up at the sound of that familiar voice in this strange and unfamiliar situation.

Frederick stood out amongst all the plain and practically dressed hunters like a phoenix among hens. His bright blue greatcoat blazed with flamboyant gold embroidery, and his spotless white gloves and powdered wig glowed in the cold morning air. The only concession his outdoor livery made to the realities of nature were his sturdy top-boots, replacing his dashing pumps and their silver buckles. Even when the exertions of a hunt prevented upperfolk from wearing their fortunes literally on their sleeves, servants could be counted on to wear it for them.

Frederick bent into a formal bow. His raised cheekbones and arched brows betrayed the desire to smile. “Miss Charlotte, her ladyship would like to offer you the use of one of her horses for the purposes of the hunt. If you would follow me.”

“Of course. Augusta, may I…” She realized, trailing to an awkward stop, that she had nearly introduced Frederick to Lady Tamsin. It was the polite thing to do among friends, among people. Augusta’s face remained bland.

“I’m going to go get my horse,” Charlotte finished lamely.

“Oh, good!” said Augusta. “I’ll show you how to fire a wind rifle, too, if you like.”

Charlotte, troubled, nodded acquiescence and followed Frederick back to the stables. How quickly she forgot. Augusta hadn’t even noted Frederick’s presence. He might as well have been a sylph—like a wind elemental, servants were easy enough to take notice of when one needed something done, but otherwise were as invisible as air. Charlotte could tell herself that Frederick was her friend and between them it would be something meaningful, but it would never mean the same thing to anyone else.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Frederick asked. He slowed his ground-eating gait to let Charlotte catch up.

“Well—Augusta, I tried to…she didn’t…” How could she explain it to Frederick when she couldn’t understand it herself?

Frederick arched an eyebrow. “Slow down before you hurt yourself.”

Outrage choked Charlotte’s reply, reducing it to a strangled cough.

Frederick, however, kept on smiling-without-smiling, his ink-dark eyebrows arching with a secret cheer his mouth couldn’t express. Charlotte couldn’t hang onto her anger for long, and once Frederick led her to where her horse stood, breath steaming, outside the stables, all acrimony seeped out of her mind like quicksilver.

“This here’s Quicksilver,” said Frederick, as if reading her thoughts. “She’s as quick and canny as they come.”

Quicksilver whickered, gracefully accepting the compliment. She stood fifteen hands high, sleek and supple, her coat gleaming silver except where it lightened into white stockings around her hooves. The grooms had outfitted her in splendid green-and-silver tack, steady-me and fall-not spells elegantly stitched upon it in white thread.