A Pearl Among Princes (3 page)

And Nuff, beautiful Nuff, tall, thin, and ebony-skinned, smart and so quick-witted, the sweet aroma of frangipani always about her. Nuff adores Miramore and insists she could never leave. Nuff's mother, so wise in formulating soaps for their laundry work, is equally gifted at crafting luscious perfumes from the sweet petals of the island's flowers. She is teaching her daughter her trade. One day Nuff will take her mother's place. Any prince who falls in love with Nuff will have to fall for this island too.

The trumpet blows. The first ship lands. A roar of excited chatter rises up.

“This prince is from Oakland,” Nuff says, pointing to the large brown-leafed coat of arms on the sail.

Of all the forest trees, I like the oak least of all. Its fat leaves make heavy wet piles on the ground over winter, blocking sunlight from the flowers in spring.

Two docksmen work to secure the ropes. The Oakland captain lowers the wooden steps. The crowd hushes. A red feather is the first to appear, then a brown velvet hat, yellow curls, and long bony nose on a powder white face as this round-bellied royal one ascends from his cabin.

“He looks our age,” Lu says.

Standing on the deck this first PIT sniffs the air and squints his eyes as if he is not accustomed to sun. His captain supports the PIT's elbow as he waddles down the steps to the dock. This PIT could use some exercise. I start to say as much, then stop. Lu forever battles with her weight and I'd never want to hurt her feelings again. Last year I kindly suggested she might want to eat more apples than apple tarts, and I offended her greatly.

The wind whips off the Oakland PIT's velvet hat and drops it into the sea, where it skits across the surface like one of Mackree's skipping stones. The stones I used to collect for him on my morning beach walks.

Without a word of instruction, Lu's little brother, Leem, and his friend Brine tear off their shirts, run to the water, and dive toward the floating hat. Reaching it first, Leem holds up his dripping trophy, waving it triumphantly in the air. He swims back to shore, hoists himself up on the dock, and wrings the water from the hat as he has no doubt watched his mum do with towels countless times. Then with a clumsy but practiced bow, Leem kneels and presents the hat to the royal.

“Your Highness,” Leem shouts in a too-loud voice, and then steps back reverently.

The royal one of Oakland, oval shaped like a fat farm egg, scowls as if he's been proffered a rat. “Toss it there, boy,” he says, pointing to a refuse barrel.

Some Muffets giggle as if this is amusing.

“He's not very nice,” Lu says.

Leem does as he is instructed, then walks quickly off the dock, head down, arms crossed tightly over his shivering chest. Anger rises within me. Poor Leem.

The Oakland captain hands a missive to the Welcome Guard and after a prolonged blowing by the trumpeter, the guard announces: “Presenting His Royalness Sir Humbert of Oakland.”

I note Leem's face, still flushed red with shame, then turn my gaze back to the PIT fussing with his preposterous blond curls.
You're no prince, Sir Humbert
.

“Well, girls?” Nuff says with a sniff, pen poised. “How do you rate him?”

We give stars, one to five, one being the lowest, five the top.

“One,” Lu says.

“Zero,” I say. “He's Humpty Dumpty with hair.”

The second ship to dock bears the insignia of the House of Ashland. This PIT politely refuses his captain's offer of assistance, stepping out of his cabin, down the stairs to the dock, where he stops to survey the shore before him.

“Ooh,
handsome
,” Lu says. “And older than us. Nineteen, twenty maybe?”

“Why hasn't he been here before?” Nuff says.

The festooned display of badges and medals on this PIT's fine fitted jacket glints in the sun. “Most likely he's been at war,” I say.

“Presenting Sir Richard of Ashland,” the guard calls out. The Muffets
ooh
and
aah
and jostle to be noticed. There's movement from the dais as Professor Pillage stands with a flourish and salutes. The Miramore men copy him.

Sir Richard has neatly shaven brown hair and stunning blue eyes, cheeks and jaw chiseled sharp. We curtsy as he passes. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. This soldier prince has potential. I'm about to say as much when I see Lu's face, eyes glossy wide and cheeks flushed crimson as her curls.

“Five stars,” Lu whispers, “fifteen . . . fifty. I am smitten to the core.” She clutches her palm to her chest with great drama.

“Steady, girl,” Nuff says. “We don't know what he's made of yet.”

“Oh, Nuff,” Lu sighs. “A handsome soldier of royal birth, what more do you need to know?”

Nuff looks at me and rolls her eyes. I shake my head and smile.

Next to arrive is Sir Peter of Elmland, long black hair in a ponytail, a silver loop hanging from his ear. The Muffets titter and wave. As Sir Peter passes, his piercing dark eyes meet mine and I feel a flutter inside. Another possibility, this pirate prince.

“That one's a looker,” Nuff says, smiling as she makes notes.

“He's most likely a rogue,” Lu says. “Remember that long-locks one Ivan, here last summer, got me in a hornet's nest of trouble?”

Sir Ivan cornered Lu for a kiss and when she refused he accused her of being a thief. Lu's worm-spined father unfairly punished her. Heaven forbid a PIT ever tried to hurt me. Father would chop off his head with a carving knife and toss him to the swine.

“We shouldn't hold a ponytail against him,” Nuff says, still following Sir Peter with her eyes. “I'd give him five stars. What say you, Grace?”

Five stars is our highest rating. “Five for his looks anyway,” I say.

The sun strengthens. Sweat beads on my brow.

The next arrival is “Sir Henry of Hickory.” Sir Henry is short and rotund with closely set eyes, an upturned nose, and ears too large for his head. He hurries past us, head shaking with a nervous twitter.

“He looks like a mouse,” Nuff says. “Hickory, dickory . . .” Lu and I join in.

We end in a gale of laughter.

“We shouldn't be so harsh,” I say.

“He didn't hear us,” Lu says.

“I'm not so sure,” Nuff says. “Those are some serious ears.”

The morning wears on, eight more ships dock. Eight more captains present letters. Eight more trumpetings. Eight more royals announced. We make notes on each prince in training. I'll have the chance to gather more impressions working the banquet tomorrow night.

The PIT from Maple is muscular and strong. “I'd give him three stars,” Nuff says.

Sir Blake of Birch looks studious but weak. “Two,” Lu says.

“Three,” Nuff counters. “I'd take brains over brawn any day.”

“But he looks like one gusty gale could send him flying home,” I say, then feel a twinge of guilt.
I know, Mother, it's wrong of me
, casting judgments on first impressions, but what's that they say about love at first sight? I think maybe you know from the start.
Mackree.
Where is Mackree? I step up on my toes, look all about, but he is not here.

There's a swill of loud chattering as the thirteenth boat makes its final approach. Everyone is excited to see who this arrival will be, for surely he cannot be a prince, all twelve branches being accounted for.

The boat washes in against the dock. The captain, an old man, at least Nora Baker's age, with a sea-roughened face, wild gray hair and beard, is wearing an unusual green leather cape. He waves off the Welcome Guard.

“Just me, Cap'n Jessie . . . Jessie Tru,” he says. “No royals aboard. I'm here on business of the Order is all.”

Lu, Nuff, and I exchange looks. How very curious. We watch as Captain Jessie slings a canvas bag on his back and heads up the hill, his left leg limping a bit.

CHAPTER 4

The Rhymes

“As I was going along, long, long, singing a comical song, song, song, the lane that I took was so long, long, long, and so I went singing along.” I sing as I head to the gardens the next morning to gather the vegetables Father needs for the banquet.

Mother taught me all the rhymes. First how to sing them, then how to read them. The one we loved best was Old King Cole. The name was like our name, Coal, for the black lumps that fuel our fires. Father played his fiddle with joyous glee as Mother and I danced happily,
whee!!!

When Lu and Nuff came for tea parties, Mother taught them the rhymes as well. The little ditties became like our own special language. When Sally Tailor, the seamstress's daughter, and her friends started acting silly around boys, making believe they were scared of spiders and such to get the boys' attention, we named them the Muffets like Little Miss Muffet. Those girls seem to care for nothing except primping their hair and fussing with clothes, spinning webs to snare a husband, preferably a prince.

Maybe someday I will pass on Mother's frayed-edged book of rhymes to my own child—teaching the words and the melodies, turning the pages my mother's hands turned, touching the very words she touched. I always assumed that one day, far in the future, Mackree would be my husband and we would have children, a girl and a boy. But now . . .

As I pass the carrot patch, two sets of furry ears perk up. “No worries, little friends,” I call to them. “No carrots on Cook's menu today.”

First to the tomatoes. How pretty they are, rows and rows of tall, thick, prickly vines straining with fat garnet jewels. The sun heats my back as I bend to pluck the first of thirty as Father instructed. In celebration of the PITs' arrival, tonight's Welcome Banquet will be especially fine. Father is thrilled that he'll be cooking for such a large class this year. “The more the merrier,” he always says.

Those royal boys may be used to the finest food in all the world, Humpty Dumpty Sir Humbert especially, as evidenced by his shape, but none has ever experienced Cook's masterful work, the deliciously inventive pairings and artfully presented plates that he will create tonight.

My mouth waters in anticipation. For on each banquet night, once the princes have retired to the den for cribbage or chess, Father serves a second, I think even finer, meal for all the attending servants.

I lift a tomato from its fuzzy green stem, brush the smooth warm skin against my face, breathing in deeply of its earthy scent.
Ahhh
.

Counting out thirty, exactly thirty, no need to be wasteful, as Father says, I set the basket of tomatoes in the shade and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Taking the spade from its casing tied to a loop on the belt of my skirt, I swing the other basket and move to another section of the hill, where I kneel to dig potatoes.

Potatoes are harder work. I double the lower folds of my skirt to make a padding for my knees. The sun beats without a break on my back. I stop and shed my outer sweater, tying it about my waist. I turn my face toward the sea, welcoming a bit of breeze, then dig my spade back in the dirt to unearth another thick brown tuber.

“Well, what have we here?” A boy's voice breaks the silence.

Humpty Dumpty. He is wearing a wide-brimmed hat, no doubt to protect his thin shell from the sun. He holds a book and a butterfly net. Raising the binoculars that dangle from his neck, he stares at me as if I'm some strange bird he hopes to identify. He stares and stares and stares.