The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (13 page)

Then I step inside the prettiest garden I have ever seen. To the right are neat rows of flowerbeds. I can’t recognize any of them except primroses and violets, but the colors are so pretty—rosebud pink, lemon yellow, baby blue. To the left is a latticework arbor with wind chimes and hanging baskets of lavender and starflowers, with an ornate stone bench placed right in the arbor. Stretching to the back is a row of apple trees; one of them has a swing with vines entwining the ropes. The air is thick with the combined fragrance from numerous flowers, and the warbling and chirping from birds in the trees make me feel like I’ve stepped into paradise.

“Wow,” is all I can say.

“Do you like it?” he says, smiling. “I planted it myself.”

I whirl around and face him. “You’re kidd—you can’t mean that. Don’t you have a country to run?”

“Not yet,” he says, brushing away an errant lock of hair that falls over his eyes. “Besides, the royal family currently only has advisory power. Even if my father were to issue an order, for example a tax raise, it must first gain approval from the votes of the parliament.”

Like Congress, I suppose. This is something of a surprise—I’m curious if the parliament will approve of the ball for the prince. Or maybe a ball doesn’t count. Imagine a group of solemn, stuffy members voting, “Raise your hand if you are in favor for a ball so that the prince may find a wife.”

The prince gestures to a beautifully carved wooden bench. “Have a seat.”

I’m more tempted to take the swing, but that seems kind of childish. I’ve got to appear serious and convincing if he’s going to grant my request. So I walk over to the bench and sit down, glad that I chose a no-frills dress. It’s such a pain-in-the-ass to sit on the crinoline during the theater and soirees. Literally.

A breeze comes up and several petals from the hanging baskets flutter down on my lap. I take a deep breath and revel in the tranquil atmosphere. This is so much better than the fuss and bustle of the Season.

“Did you really plant all these flowers and bushes and trees?”

“From the planning, trenching, planting, and watering…everything,” he says, a note of pride evident in his tone.

I still look incredulous.

Amazingly, he guesses what I was thinking.

“I want something to call my own, Miss Katriona. Growing up in this gilded cage, my life has been destined since I was born. Granted, it is a privilege rather than affliction, but still sometimes I wonder…” he looks at the swing, which sways ever so slightly in the wind. “There are times I would like to prove my worth with something unrelated to royal duties. Something unaided by my vast array of servants. By the way, did you know there are more than a thousand rooms in this palace?”

Startled by the abrupt question, I shake my head. God, the Empire State Building probably doesn’t have that many.

“So many rooms, but not a single one I am comfortable in,” he continues. “This garden is my sanctum, where I can seek temporary respite from all the chaos in my life.”

“I know,” I blurt out. “I mean, I don’t have any royal engagements, but all the socializing in the Season is driving me crazy. So my bedroom becomes my sanctum.” I describe to him the comfort of snuggling into bed with a nice fat volume from The Bookworm, a hot cup of cocoa on the low table, and a cheery fire blazing in the hearth.

He’s a good listener but still I end up stuttering when I become aware of his gaze. Those eyes are so damn distracting.

“Apparently we share a similar sentiment,” he says, smiling. “A desire for a place to escape and dream in.”

“Where you can really be yourself,” I add, beginning to smile back, until I remember I had a mission. I flick the petals off my skirt and will myself to speak normally.

“Er…” I pause, wondering how much I should tell him. “I need your help.”

He leans forward, his lips curved up slightly in an encouraging manner. “Pray tell me.”

“Um, do you remember Elle, the girl with me that day? Whose mother is ill?”

The prince nods. “Henry has continued to visit her family.”

I take a deep breath. I’m uncertain if I’m doing the right thing, but I’m out of options.

“Well, this might sound really weird, but I believe Elle may be my stepsister.”

I look up. To his credit, he doesn’t drop his jaw or slap his knee—just a raise of the eyebrows. His gaze, intent as always, rests on my face. This time I don’t blush hotly or look away. I clasp my hands together and speak.

“I went to see her mother, and she told me Elle was adopted, brought to her by a man called Adam Snyder. I learned that Snyder is a gardener, so I asked around, and a clerk at the gardening stores said Galen might know him.”

My words tumble out in a rush.

The prince puts a finger on his chin and looks thoughtful.

“A few questions,” he finally says. “First, why would the mother tell you your servant is adopted? Was it of her own volition, or did you already have suspicions?”

“I…” I decide to stand by the explanation I gave Mrs. Thatcher. “There’s a portrait of my stepfather, the earl, who looks very much like Elle. The resemblance is striking.”

“Was the mother aware that the earl might be Elle’s father?”

“No, but her son, Jimmy, told me Snyder planted a bush near their house and he worked as a gardener. I guessed he might have been the earl’s gardener.”

“Hmm. Does Galen know of Snyder?”

“He says the name sounds familiar.” I unclench my fists on my lap. “Your gardener is reluctant to help and I can’t tell him about Elle. Do you think you can persuade him?”

“You don’t trust him to know about Elle, but you trust me.”

I blush and glance where the sunlight filters through the apple trees.

“If she really is my stepfather’s daughter, then she ought not be deprived of her real identity. She deserves a better life.”

“You care a lot for your maid,” the prince says slowly. “Quite unusual for a lady.”

“She’s a lovely girl,” I say. “She doesn’t deserve to be mistreated.”

Again he gives me that searching gaze. I try hard not to fidget. Is my behavior really that weird?

“I will ask Galen to inquire in his circle,” the prince says, leaning forward. I pinch the back of my hand, willing myself not to get lost in those gorgeous eyes and concentrate on what he’s saying. “I will inform you as soon as we locate any information regarding this gardener you speak of. It may also help to look up the directories of aristocratic families, but I doubt the heraldic records will contain information as remote as a family’s gardener. I will send you word as soon as I receive any news.”

My heart soars. I stand up and manage a wobbly curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Edward,” he says, also rising. “I believe we are past these formalities by now.”

Exactly what counts as beyond formalities? But I recall his willingness to blend in with the commoners when he accompanied Duke Henry, so I smile and stick out my hand. “In that case, you can call me Katriona. Actually, I prefer to go by Kat.”

He grasps my hand—his palm so large that my hand is engulfed in warmth. “I’m honored at the privilege of calling you by your pet name…Kat.”

Warmth rushes through me at the sound of my real name on his lips. I’m suddenly aware that I’m close enough that I can smell his scent—freshly turned soil and the fragrance of violets. And he still hasn’t released my hand, so I pull away as discreetly as I can manage.

“I’d better go. I…I can’t be out too long.”

“Indeed; you must be weary of the endless events in the Season,” he says, a sympathetic look in his eyes.

“Most of the time it’s dreadful, though there’s one thing that sounds fun.” I tell him briefly about the croquet party.

“At the Fremonts’ place?”

“Yes. It’ll be a change from all the eating and talking. Oh, and trying to stay awake during performances.”

He laughs, and my heart skips a beat. I give myself a mental punch and hasten to leave.
Stop mooning over him like an idiot
.
He’s meant for Elle.

FOURTEEN

At lunch, Bianca looks elegant as usual. In fact, she appears to be in a very good mood. For once, she has not admonished me for my figure, complexion, or appetite. Lady Bradshaw also appears to be more benevolent. She doesn’t snap at Elle for being late at bringing her soup.

I wonder why. Maybe the royal family has finally decided to hold the ball?

“Are you certain your sources are correct, Mother?” Bianca says, forking a piece of roast beef.

“The lad assures us that the prince canceled a private hunting session after he received the Fremont invitation,” Lady Bradshaw smirks.

I drop my fork on my plate—not the carpet, thankfully. The prince is coming to Claire’s party?

Lady Bradshaw is too buoyed with the news to notice me. “Even if he doesn’t show up, there is certainly no harm in your going. In fact, I believe that Claire would be offended if you did not go.”

“Of course,” Bianca remarks acidly. “But if the prince is going, I need to apply extra effort to my appearance. Especially while we play croquet.”

“That certainly is a problem. We certainly cannot have you looking dirty and sweaty. But if you don’t play, there is definitely less chance of you attracting him.”

“Provided that he plays.”

“I expect Claire will convince him. We must work on the best advantage you can present to him. Fortunately, attachments are often formed during the game; although it might not be obvious, it offers an innocent opportunity for men to converse informally with women. Of course, we could always use a low-necked dress and powder your collarbone…”

Oh no. Lady Bradshaw’s spy, whoever he is, seems confident that the prince will show up at Claire’s croquet party. If he does show up, Claire and Bianca will definitely mob—er—do their best to gain his attention. I need a distraction. Then another idea pops up—how about making Elle the distraction?

In the evening, I throw aside a new novel I got from Mr. Wellesley’s bookshop. It’s time to act.

“Krev,” I call. “I need your help. Your king won’t have any objection to this one, I promise.”

“Are you sure you wish me to come to the party?” Elle asks, twisting her fingers and rubbing them against her apron.

“Of course,” I assure her. “I need you there in case I mess up my hair or trip over the ball and fall flat on my face.”

“If you say so.” Elle still looks doubtful. “But won’t their servants be on hand?”

“No one has hands as skillful as yours,” I say. “Come on, you’ve been working so hard these days that I’m sure you deserve a little break.” And I mean it. Even though my real purpose is to get Elle and the prince together, I’ve been kind of worried about her recently. She already has this mountain of work at our house, rising from five and going to bed at ten, and now she also goes home to nurse her mother whenever Martha or another servant can cover for her. I also try to ease her burden by trying to bathe and dress myself in the morning, though I’ve yet to succeed in doing the convoluted maze of laces behind my back.

Lady Bradshaw didn’t object when I insisted on bringing Elle with us. Madam is laid up with a cold, and since it’s generally expected that young ladies shouldn’t go anywhere unchaperoned, she consented to have Elle accompany us. Bianca, of course, has no objection. Her elaborate hairstyle could get messed up playing croquet, and it is easier to have your own maid around who’s familiar with your needs.

The party is held in the Fremonts’ private garden. Lady Bradshaw had mentioned caustically that theirs is one of the few houses in the city that can afford a majestic garden. Last time we visited, I didn’t have a chance to see it. Now I see that for a garden in the city, the Fremont one is pretty amazing. Our garden is just a narrow gathering of meticulously-trimmed bushes surrounding the house. But the Fremonts, being one of the oldest and most distinguished families in Athelia, own this huge expanse of land consisting of sweeping lawns, sparkling fountains, symmetrical flowerbeds, and a pavilion for ladies who don’t want to get sunburned. There’s even a river on one side, which shows how big the garden is. In fact, the river gives me an idea. I make a note to mention it to Krev when he appears.

“Dearest Bianca!” Claire greets her friend in an affectionate tone. “I am so delighted that you are here to play with us.”

Although she is smiling, I think her smile is a bit strained. If the prince really shows up, Claire definitely won’t want Bianca there. But it won’t matter. I am here on a mission to make him notice Elle.

“I must say, the weather is damn fine today.” A loud, rowdy voice booms over the lawn. It’s coming from a middle-aged man who’s talking to Lady Fremont. He has a beer belly, a small forehead, and fleshy, drooping jowls. He looks like our neighbor in the real world, the one who can’t be pried away from the TV whenever a game is on. You can hear his voice all the way from the street when a goal is scored.

“Isn’t that Andrew McVean?” Bianca says, raising an eyebrow. “The man who made a fortune in cotton manufacturing?”

“I didn’t want to invite him, but Mother made me.” Claire looks exasperated. “She says times are changing now. You can even buy an earldom if you can afford it. Do you remember Norman Jones, who made a fortune in coal mining? He was able to present his daughter to the queen last summer. Imagine that, the daughter of a coal-miner!”

“Perhaps your mother has her eye on him as providing a prospective husband for you.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “I have not the slightest interest in his sons. Even if they are able to afford fifty servants in retinue and a dozen carriages.” I glance where she’s looking. Two young men stand behind Andrew McVean. One is an exact replica of his father, bulky and boisterous. The other is tall and good-looking, except for a mole on his chin with hair growing out of it. It makes him look like a walrus.

Elle looks quite nervous; she keeps biting her lip and rubbing her hands over her apron. I note with relief that despite her well-worn clothes, she has taken care to wash her face and arms thoroughly. No sign of soot anywhere. Her hair is neatly braided and criss-crossed on top of her head. She looks fresh and pretty—just how I want her to be.