A Pearl Among Princes (5 page)

I laugh. “Oh, you are wrong,” I say. “You are the handsomest boy on the island.”

“I have a duty to my family, Pearl, and to the Order.”

“But what of
me
?” I say.

Our eyes lock. My heart pounds

“I would do anything for you, Pearl. I would give you the world. But the world you want is not mine to give. Only a prince can take you there.”

“But—”

“We're done, Pearl. Leave me be. Find a prince this summer and go quickly. I grow my hair long so I won't see.”

Mackree parts the pine branches and is gone.

“Wait, Mackree, wait!” I shout, running after him.

But Mackree was always faster than me. When I reach the clearing, he is gone.

I look up at the sky. The sun hangs low. It must be near dinnertime. Oh no, the vegetables. In Father's absence, Nora will command the kitchen. Even though she knows Cook's in the hospital, she'll still be expecting the vegetables.

I race up the hill to the garden. Out of breath, panting, I reach the place where I left the baskets. The potatoes are there, but what of the tomatoes? I look up and down the vegetable rows. Finally I spot the basket, there at the far edge of the garden, where the land drops off quickly into cliffs.

I reach the basket. It's empty. I look down over the cliff.

There are the tomatoes, splattered bloody red over the pale sea-burnished rocks. Gulls are swooping down, picking at the feast, trying to beat the tide, which will wash it all away.

Sir Humbert, it had to have been. “What an evil creature you are,” I shout.

The rhyme taunts loudly in my brain as I race to the kitchen with the potatoes.

Or the tomatoes, for that matter.

CHAPTER 7

The Welcome Banquet

After bearing Nora's tongue-lashing for being late and tomato-less, I set to peeling a mound of potatoes. When I go to get my cloak at the end of the day, I see one of the other kitchen workers, “Tattlebug” as I call her, as she is forever listening in to conversations and spreading gossip like a flea among dung heaps. She's standing at the hallway window looking out, giggling. She has my spyglass! Just then Nora calls me urgently and I go to answer her. When I return, Tattlebug is gone, my spyglass back in the pocket of my cloak. So Nell Tinker's a gossip and now a snitch too.

After work I hurry home to dress for the banquet. I wash up and put on the emerald green dress Father says matches my eyes. I slip the oyster shell necklace around my neck and weave a green satin ribbon through my hair.

There. I smile at myself in my mother's gem-rounded looking glass. Tonight I will be wearing an apron, a kitchen servant, yes, but I may also woo a prince. Surely Father's service bondage could be lifted now that he is ill. If I become a princess, I will see that he enjoys a life of comfort. He'll never have to cook again, and neither will I, for that matter. Oatmeal is my best dish, but practice, practice as I've tried, it still comes out all sticky clumps, despite the extra sugar lumps.

Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old
. . .

That rhyme always makes me smile.

Before I leave, I step into Father's empty room. There, on the table by his bed, is the giant purple-rimmed clamshell I gave him as a birthday gift one year when I was little. “A bowl for the ashes from your pipe,” I suggested. He hugged me as if I'd given him a crate full of gold. And now, even though Father stopped smoking right after Mother died and never took it up again, just like the pine pillow, Father keeps this gift still. Now the clamshell is a candy dish, always filled with something sweet.

Passing the wooden bookcase by the hearth, I notice one spine jutting out from the rest. It's the book of history Mother schooled me with. When we read about kings and queens who waged war against one another for power or land, knights with crosses emblazoned on their shields, fighting in the “name of God,” I would get angry and ask Mother how that could be true. I didn't think God cared about who owned what. Surely God cared more about the peasants lining the roadways, hands outstretched, begging for pity coins or crusts of bread, bowing and curtsying respectfully as royal coaches rumbled by. “That's right, darling,” Mother would say to me. “You are learning well.”

I flip through the old book, noting the ripped-out pages, always a curiosity to me. Here's the section where the branches of the Royal Order are called . . . Oak, Ash, Elm, and so forth . . . the page ripped after the name of the twelfth, then onward random words etched out, leaving holes like rats had nibbled for dinner, more pages gone here and there, and then the last chapter torn out completely. When I would ask Mother about the missing pieces she would wave it off lightly. “It's of no concern to you, dear daughter. Some history is better off forgotten.”

As I walk to the royal dining hall, I think about the PITs. How dashing Sir Richard, the soldier prince, smiled at me on the beach. And ponytailed Sir Peter, the pirate prince, how his dark eyes locked with mine. Both beautiful outside, but what of within? Will their inside colors be five-star too? Honesty, integrity, compassion . . .

Mother said I will have a “choice.” Possibly a choice between two princes? I giggle. Gracepearl, you gallop ahead of yourself.

Outside the royal hall the heady aroma of food sweeps over me like a sea squall, and as I enter the kitchen the most delicious wave nearly topples me down. I think to save a plate to bring to Father later, but I have a notion that the goat-cheese-stuffed baked chicken, potato soufflé, brandied mushrooms, and such will not be on Cook's hospital diet tonight. I think of pencil-nosed Nurse Hartling and hope she's treating Father kindly.

“Here ya go, girl,” Nora barks when she sees me, thrusting a too-big gray apron in my hands and motioning to a silver serving dish with two wells full of salad dressing. “Blueberry or champagne vinaigrette,” she says. “Take a ladle for each.”

“Ooh, fancy,” I say as a compliment, but Nora ignores it, never one for praise.

I enter the dining room and look toward the two long tables where the PITs are seated. Sir Humpty's eyes catch mine and I swear he is laughing at me. I scowl and move toward my post, circulating around the professors' table, offering dressings for the fresh green but tomato-less salad. Nora cleverly thought to substitute strawberries. What a good idea. She's surprising me. I bet they taste lovely.

Headmistress Jule is seated at the head table, orchestrating conversation with her signature ease and grace. Slight as a fairy, she sits propped on pillows to compensate for her height, her white hair swept up and clasped with jeweled pins, a shimmery silver dress fanning out around her. I note the tiny velvet pouch by her wine goblet. She keeps her honey sweetdrops in there. Lady Jule is known for her sugary tooth.

“Blueberry or champagne vinaigrette, Lady Jule?”

“Champagne, thank you, Gracepearl.” She touches my arm as I ladle out the dressing. “How pray tell is dear Cook?”

Lady Jule favors Father as much as her sweets. “Better, ma'am. Thank you.”

“Here,” she says, proffering me the velvet pouch. “Bring these to Cook with my best wishes for a swift and full recovery.”

“I will, Lady Jule, thank you.” I slip the pouch into my apron pocket and continue down the line.

I hear giggling and note four small dirty boots sticking out from beneath the draperies, holes in two of the soles. Leem and Brine have snuck in again this year, I see, hoping to sample the succulent fare. Nora Baker will bat their bums home with a broom if she discovers they are there. Leem peeks out. I smile and wink, tapping my finger to my lips, reminding him to be quiet.

When I approach Professor Pillage he is crinkling his nose at the salad, stabbing out the strawberries as if they are beetles. He waves away my offer of dressing, without so much as a “no thank you.” Professor Millington, instructor of Manners, Protocol, and Etiquette,
tsk, tsks
at him. “Not a very good example for the princes,” she says.

Lady Jule taps her crystal water goblet with a spoon and rises. The room soon comes to attention. “Royal visitors, distinguished faculty, loyal staff. As headmistress of the Miramore Academy of the Charming Arts, it is my great pleasure to welcome . . .”

Nora and I stand along the wall at attention, listening to the speech with the other kitchen servants. Tattlebug is hovering by us. She has long had a crush on Mackree and likes to report to him on any snippets of our conversation she can overhear.

Nora is wearing the tall white hat of the lead chef, an honor I'm certain Father would have insisted upon, and yet it makes me sad to see. I tell Nora about Captain Jessie arriving as he did on a thirteenth ship saying he was here on the “king's business.”

“
Ahh.
. . .” Nora sucks in air. “Jessie Tru?” She turns away. “Already?” she whispers to herself, but I hear.

I begin to question her, but then the gong chimes and we must be silent.

Headmistress Jule announces each PIT by name and each young man stands to be recognized. The professors clap. We servants bow or curtsy. Pillage applauds a particularly loud and long time for Sir Richard, who seems uncomfortable being singled out from the others.

Humility, I think to myself. A lovely quality, Sir Richard.

Almost as if Sir Richard heard my thoughts, his eyes glance about the room. When they meet mine, he smiles.

The smile is not lost on Nora, who nudges me with her elbow, nor on the nosey Tattlebug. “Oooh,” she says, “looks like Mackree has competition.”

When Sir Humpty is introduced, I can feel him staring at me, but I refuse to look his way. I think of toying with his dessert plate. Maybe I'll tuck a bonus into his berry shortcake, a bee or a . . .
No
, that wouldn't do. If discovered, Nora might be blamed.

Lady Jule introduces the faculty.

“Professor Millington . . . Manners, Protocol, and Etiquette . . .

“Professor Quill . . . Letters . . .”

I can almost see Professor Quill pulling the ever-present feather quill pen from behind his ear, scrolling it through the air as he explains his area of expertise to the PITs on the opening day of class, “words, words, beautiful words . . . love letters, poetry, sonnets and rhymes, etcetera, etcetera . . .”

“Madame Bella . . . Ballroom dancing.”

“Bella, bella,” Professor Quill says, and Madame Bella smiles approvingly.

“Madame Bella will see that our royal charges are well-heeled in the waltz before the Summersleave Ball,” Lady Jule continues.

“Professor Gossimer . . . Language and Conversation . . .

“Professor Daterly . . . Special Occasions . . .

“Professor Blunderfuss . . . the Sports of Kings. Professor Blunderfuss will be overseeing the ever-popular tournament, which we look forward to in the coming weeks.”

I think of Mackree, who works in the stables. Tonight Mackree is mucking out horse dung, no doubt, pitch-forking heaps of hay, filling the troughs with water. He is a fine rider, the best on Miramore, fast and controlled. Mackree could race any prince and win. I have watched him these many summers as he watched the royal visitors mount the horses he raised and trained, his face a potent double potion of envy and shame.