A Pearl Among Princes (11 page)

“Could I impose on you to make one for me?” Sir Peter asks.

“You can purchase one tomorrow at Trading Day,” I say. “I have a booth.”

“And the lady is skilled at commerce as well?” He laughs. “Lady Grace, you are delightful. So absolutely refreshing.”

I think I hear the telltale sneeze of Tattlebug. “Let's keep walking,” I say.

Soon we reach the beach.

“I came to visit you earlier,” Sir Peter says. “Your father was being carried off on a stretcher and I couldn't discover where you were. The nurse at the hospital, a tight one she is, wouldn't let me enter without family permission, prince or no prince she said . . .”

I laugh. “That would be Nurse Hartling. She could use a charm class herself.”

Sir Peter laughs, relieved that I am laughing. He looks up toward the heavens.

“Such a beautiful night,” he says. “Too perfect to waste on sleep. Miramore is a paradise. I could get used to living here.” He stands there looking out at the water.

I think of Nuff, how they would make a winsome pair, then I think of the faraway faces, still calling out in my dreams. I glance up at the squid ink sky, vanilla cookie moon, sugar-speckle stars glistening. Just now, one star leaps toward another. The wind blows. It is so romantic here.

“Yes,” I say. “The night is grand. Too lovely to waste on dreams.”

The pirate prince smiles a smile that could melt a chocolate bar. He bows, then extends his bended arm forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “A dance, my lady,” he says.

I curtsy. “My lord.”

We dance as if we are royalty. A picture wafts into my mind. I am processing into a grand ballroom, not the modest one here on Miramore used once a year for the Summersleave Ball, but a golden grand ballroom in a regal palace. There is a man, his back is to me, dressed in royal garb, standing alone at the bottom of the staircase. I try to see his face, but he turns from me. Who is he?

Shaking off this vision, I look at the very real Sir Peter. How dashing he is in his wild sea-tossed hair and silver loop.
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, silver buckles on his knee
. . . A silly child's nursery rhyme.

I am no longer a child. Tonight I feel very grown-up.

“I understand your birthday approaches,” Peter says. “August tenth, yes?”

“Very good, Peter. Professor Daterly would be pleased.”

He laughs, and I do too.

“I thought you were older,” Sir Peter says. “And I mean that as a compliment. You seem wiser than sixteen, so much more mature than those flitty pink girls.”

“The Muffets?” I say.

“The Muffets?” He laughs. “That's perfect. The Muffets have surely mastered how to chatter and flatter a man, but I search for a wife who will be my equal. I desire a mate, not a muffet.”

His words waltz through my mind as we dance. I imagine boarding Sir Peter's ship in September, the wet sea breeze on my face . . .

“Achoo.” The telltale sneeze of Tattlebug lets me know we are not alone.

But I will not let her occupy my mind. Just for this moment, I will not worry about a thing. I breathe in the citrus scent of the larabond trees, hear the wind whistling like piper flutes through the leaves, and now the strong drumbeat of the surf, wave cymbals clashing against the rocks . . . Ahhh, shhhhm . . . ahhh, shhhm, a Miramore moonlight sonata . . . just for this prince and me.

CHAPTER 16

Mermen

The next morning as I return from my early walk on the beach, three treasures—a quill feather, a fishing hook, a silver spoon with lacy holes burned through from the salt water—in my pocket, I pluck a callaberry flower, stick it behind my ear, and turn up the bend to my cottage.

Sir Richard is walking toward me. He nods his chin upward. Clearly he is coming to call. He has seen me—I can hardly pretend to be away.

His eyes are a startling deep-sea blue, his handsome face freshly shaven. There's a scent of lime about him. Wearing swimming shorts, he is shirtless, a towel draped carelessly over his broad shoulders.

“Good morning, Lady Gracepearl,” he says with a bow, a wide smile flashing to display perfectly straight white teeth. His eyes scan my face and hair, the red callaberry flower, settling on my eyes. His look is so intense, I look away, then back again.

“Just when I am certain I have seen the most beautiful sight on this isle of paradise, I am even more enraptured,” Sir Richard says.

My face blushes in the glow of his praise, in spite of my good friend's heart.

“It seems the fine gentleman from Ashland has no need of the course in flattery this summer.”

Sir Richard laughs. “And I see the fine flowers of Miramore have voices and wits to match.”

I smile. “How are you finding your stay here, Sir Richard?” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a more formal direction. With Nuff and Mackree, and Lu's claim to Sir Richard, I can focus on Sir Peter and hurt no one.

“Better by the minute,” he says, “but, please, call me Richard.”

“And the classes,” I say, “how go they?”

“Professor Quill nearly puts me to sleep droning on about love letters, sonnets and poems, etcetera, etcetera.”

I laugh.

“Is it true ladies are so charmed by the turn of a candied phrase?”

“I suppose it depends on the lady,” I say, “and the phrase. And the candy.”

“Well done.” Sir Richard laughs. “And what of you, Gracepearl? What sort of sweets do you favor?”

“Chocolates and nut crunches, honey-drops, mint wellups, and sea taffies . . .”

“Ah, yes.” Sir Richard smiles. “A pretty girl leaves sea taffies on my pillow when she cleans my room.”

“That's Lu!” I say. Oh, yes, good. “My friend Lu. Isn't she beautiful? And so kind. And oh what a cook. The sea taffies are just one of her specialties. She makes them herself. And such a good heart. She would do anything to help another. That's my friend Lu. Beatiful inside and out—”

“I came to ask if you would care to join me for swim,” Sir Richard says, interrupting me.

“No thank you, Sir . . . Richard. I am not dressed for the occasion.”

The sound of male voices and laughter swells up over the cliff from the beach below. Richard turns toward the noise and with a look of reluctance says, “Well then. Maybe we shall meet again tonight. I hear there is a bonfire and dancing in the woods.”

“Yes. I'll be coming with my friends Lu and Nuff. I'd like you to meet them, especially Lu.”

“Yes, Lady Lu,” he says. “She of the sweet taffies?”

“That's right.” I start to walk away and then turn back. “Do you want to have a big family someday, Richard? With lots of children?”

He laughs. “The more the merrier. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I smile, thinking of Lu. “I am not sure what I want.”

Sir Richard raises his eyebrow, and I add quickly, “Be careful of the sun, my lord. You wouldn't want to burn at the height of summer.”

Laughing and shaking his head, he's off down the pathway to join the other PITs.

I race to Lu's cottage, where she's just waking up. “Hurry,” I say, filling her in.

We run to Nuff's cottage and Lu calls her to join us. “Nuff, posthaste. The PITs are swimming!”

The sounds of shouting and laughter rise up loud as we approach the shore.

“I wonder, does Sir Peter keep his hair tied or let it hang loose like a merman,” I say. Nuff casts me an odd look, then shrugs her shoulders.

“Do you think Sir Richard has a hairy chest?” Lu gushes, blushing.

“What I wonder,” Nuff says, “is does Humpty Dumpty boy swim or just float like a hardboiled egg?”

We giggle and duck under the branches of the scrubby beach trees, inching our way out to a secluded ledge where we will be able to perch and see the princes swimming without them seeing us.

Mackree and I used to come here. Last Hallow's Eve he tried to kiss me. I was startled. I giggled, turning my cheek away. Then, at the Christmas Eve dance in the woods, he pulled me close, trying to kiss me again, but I twirled away. “Silly boy.” I would not push Mackree away now. No, Gracepearl, it is over. I force my mind to silence my heart.

Lu is the first one to reach the ledge. “Ahhh!” she gasps.

Nuff is the next one out. “Oooh!” she says.

“What? What?” I say, finally edging out.

I look down, the scene below me coming into focus.

The PITs are swimming, frolicking like seals. One ducks another's head underwater to what seems will be the point of drowning, but then the dead-head bobs up and spits and coughs, and arms lunge back to return the favor.

“What's wrong?” I say. “They look like they're having fun.”

“Wait,” Lu says, “watch.”

The royal boys, usually so given to pomp and circumstance and rules and protocol are, here in the sea, playful as nursery boys, carefree as mermen.

There is Sir Richard. He dives down and flips up. Wait. Was that his bum? Lu and Nuff giggle. I saw myself just moments ago he was wearing swimming shorts. A gull caws and my eyes follow the bird to where it alights on a large boulder draped with towels. Towels and shirts and shorts. Oh dear!

“The PIT from Maple is swimming in,” Lu says. “Marcus, his name is.”

When Sir Marcus reaches shore he stands and we nearly fall off the ledge.

This prince is wearing nothing but his birthday suit and he's wearing it quite well.

“Grace,” Lu says, “did you by chance bring your spyglass?” We all laugh.

“I've got an idea,” Nuff says. “A naughty idea. Come on!”

We follow her from the ledge, back through the brush and around down to the boulder where the PITs' clothes are strewn. “Blame the laundress in me,” Nuff says, laughing mischievously, “but clothes tossed in a heap must be on their way to washing, right?” She starts scooping up the PITs' things.

“Come on,” Nuff says. “What are you waiting for?

“I don't know,” Lu says, ever the more cautionary one. I think of her sea taffy presents to Richard, surprised at her secret boldness.

“Let's do it,” I say. “A little joke never hurt anyone.”

It was easy to spot Sir Humpty's apparel, being of a certain extra-rotund girth, and while we safely deposited the other PITs' shorts and towels, folded nicely in a spot up the beach where they could easily find them, as Nuff had suggested, we had taken our time in finding a good revenge for what he did to Leem on the beach and me in the garden, and now a truly perfect method had presented itself. We added a bit, well, to be honest, more than a bit, of poison-ivy itching powder to his preposterous pink and yellow flowered undershorts.

“He'll be scratching his shell all week,” Nuff said. “Just wait. You'll see.”

“I think I'd rather not,” I say, laughing.

“You two are wicked.” Lu shakes her head. “Wonderfully wicked.”

CHAPTER 17

Trading Day

The sky is gray and heavy with clouds on Trading Day. Hopefully the rain will hold back until after I've sold my sea-chimes. There are twenty at least, this month, with colorful shells of various shapes and sizes, from the delicate yellow periwinkles to the thick purple whirled sunsprays. I look for shells with holes bored through them and then I string and knot and arrange them. The right combination makes a sweet melody when they meet in midair.