“You have a crowd of thirty waiting to hunt.” Otto turned to face the prince. “It will be quicker to pull it out with the ox.”
“You’d give my opportunity to be chivalrous to a bull?” Simeon raised his hands—a mock gesture of defeat.
“Wouldn’t want you injuring yourself again.” Otto turned his horse around. “I’ll get the men.”
Simeon scrambled up and out of the ditch, and held out his arm to show me his injury: nothing but some cuts and a bruise. Lips pulled sideways in amusement, he explained: “Otto will use even the smallest hunting accident to keep me from having any fun. No enjoyable activity is worth doing without a little bit of risk. Not that Otto would agree. All he does is try to reduce risk. And here I am, unable to help a maiden in distress.”
I was no maiden. Under the force of those clear eyes, I blushed as if I were.
With a quick gesture, Simeon rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them once more. He had an ease in his own skin—and a tall frame with broad shoulders—that reminded me, a little, of Henry. I tossed my head in the direction of Rosie and Mathilde, waiting on the carpet behind us. “Might I introduce you to my daughters?”
He met my eyes with a broad smile that was impossible not to mirror. “Certainly.”
The girls were nervous, Rosie reaching self-consciously to twirl a lock of her hair, and Mathilde measuring her words so carefully she had pursed her lips in concentration. But Simeon turned to me after our introductions and said: “Lady Bramley, your daughters are ascharming as this setting.” I surmised he meant the undulating grasses that surrounded us and not the massive ox that was twenty feet away, being led toward the ditch.
But he soon put us at ease, listening as Rosie and Mathilde answered questions about our home, the apple paintings, and the provenance of the biscuits, which were quickly offered to him. My daughters’ nervousness turned into a flirtatious kind of alertness when the prince settled himself onto our carpet.
The picnic had been prepared as a prop—a diversion to be observed through a carriage window from afar. I couldn’t help but see the bruises on the fruit and the crumbs on the carpet, but Simeon appeared to notice neither, taking an oversized bite of a biscuit and then returning the rest to the plate in front of him. “Forgive me for trespassing on your lunch. I would dine outdoors more—the point of a picnic is to experience the peacefulness of nature. But I can’t go anywhere without people in tow, which defeats the purpose.” He leaned back, sinking his weight into his palms, which pressed into the carpet behind him, and eyed the men of his caravan. He huffed—a private acknowledgment of a thought I couldn’t read on his face. A desire for freedom? Autonomy? It occurred to me, not for the first time, that privilege was its own kind of burden. He sighed, nodded to his men, and added: “Even now, the few feet of separation makes them nervous.”
I laughed. “As if three ladies in the grass could cause you harm.”
He joined my laughter and turned to Rosamund. “That was an exceptional biscuit.”
“The best in the kingdom.” She offered him another with a sweet smile.
“Though I would be scared to say otherwise to our cook,” Mathilde mused.
“She is formidable,” Rosie agreed, gazing at the prince through her eyelashes and fingering some of the ribbons at her neckline.
He leaned closer to her. “The world is afraid of kings and armies, but there is nothing scarier than the wrath of a woman.” Simeon’s hair,which was naturally wavy, had been brushed and lay back, but as he leaned closer to Rosie, a lock fell across his forehead and into his eyes. He flicked it away, mindlessly, and when he looked up, he caught my eye. Or rather, caught me looking at him.
I hadn’t expected to like him. He was a prince, but he was also flesh and blood, and, if I had wanted to, I could have reached out and pinched him. “We are lucky you happened to be here,” I said. “And we had a chance to meet before we attend your name day celebration.”
He looked pleased. “You are coming?”
Over Simeon’s shoulder, I could see the men working to right the chaise. Otto was nearly out of sight, for he had gone down into the ditch himself. I hoped he would be down there a long while.
Simeon tilted his head, observing us. “It is I that am the lucky one—for I never would have gotten a taste of the kingdom’s best biscuits otherwise.”
“A fair trade, I hope, for keeping you from your hunt.” Rosie’s face was soft and open.
With a quick gesture, Simeon affectionately fingered a lock of her hair. “You ladies have so many options when it comes to being accomplished. Apple paintings! And all the things you do with a needle and thread. Books. Poetry. Language. Art.” He gave an appreciative nod to the two easels and dropped his hand. Rosie reached up to touch her curls where his fingers had lingered, listening. “I have but cards and hunts. We go out nearly every week and I do not even like hunting.”
“Then why go?” Mathilde interjected.
He nodded at the men of the caravan. “They like it. And they are my friends.” Seeing that the counselor was striding toward us, he added, “Even Otto.” He called out so Otto could hear him: “Have we succeeded?”
Otto waited until he had reached the edge of the carpet to respond. He stood stiffly and clasped his hands behind his back. “The chaise is righted, but you won’t be able to drive it away. Needs a wheelwright.”
“Alas,” I exclaimed, though that outcome was more than obvious:The chaise stood upright in the road and one of the wheels was missing a piece.
“We’ll escort you home,” Simeon reassured us.
“You’re lucky no one was hurt.” Otto towered over us. He glanced at the easels. “You were painting?”
“The girls love to paint.” I widened my eyes at Mathilde.
“Oh, indeed,” she added, quickly.
