Her unfinished hems trembled as she swept back up the stairs. Rosie and Mathilde turned to me, questioning. Perhaps they had the same doubts. Perhaps I could have helped Elin more. Perhaps I should have spent more time looking for a solution. Perhaps I had smudged the line between self-preservation and cruelty.
But the Enrights were knocking at the door, and I could not overlook the fact that my stepdaughter had cost me my most prized possession.
In the Enrights’ carriage, there was much embracing and kissing of cheeks and exclaiming over one another’s dresses. Lavinia had, ludicrously—for a man can only marry one woman—dressed the twins as she usually did: matching outfits.
She sat in between her daughters in the forward-facing seats, so I squeezed into the opposite side with Rosie and Mathilde, grateful that circumstances had kept Elin at home. There was hardly room. Our knees all met in the middle.
“Bethesda,” I greeted one of the twins.
“Bethia,” she corrected me.
“Bethia,” I amended, nodding.
The other leaned forward. “Bethesda.”
“Bethesda,” I repeated.
“Girls,” Lavinia said. “I need more air. You must move to give me a window.” They stood and crouched and reshuffled, a frenzy of oversized hoopskirts and petticoats. When they had resettled, I realized I hadn’t managed to track which twin sat where.
There was a two-hour carriage ride to sort it out.
As we approached the castle, at long last, an afternoon of waiting came to an end and all accelerated. The sky had gone dark. The path to the palace’s walls was lit by a series of torches, and the large gate, surrounded by white-coated guards, stood open. Ahead of us, and behind us, there was carriage after carriage, like a strand of pearls.
We left our wraps in the carriage and, bare-shouldered, were handed down by royal footmen and ushered inside. The entry hall was filled with flowers and lit by hundreds of candles, moving pricks of light that danced in the chandeliers and sconces and on the many tables.Gloved men and women gathered in groups, jostling for their moment of presentation. We lost Lavinia and her children in the crowd. Young women eyed one another, holding their trains over their arms, before they were ushered in small groups into the royal antechamber.
We moved closer to the double doors at the end of the chamber, awaiting our turn. My daughters were breathless and overwhelmed. Rosamund bloomed, spinning as she looked at the painted ceiling above. I gently pulled on her arm to still her. Mathilde had gone grim—her way of showing she understood how serious this all was. All over, mothers were muttering last-minute instructions into daughters’ ears.
In the antechamber, an attendant helped each girl lower her train and smooth it behind her. We could partially see ahead, into the throne room, and watched as each was presented. Some simpered and smiled. Some held small bouquets or sprays of flowers. Some were so nervous they could barely speak.
“Where is the prince?” Rosamund whispered. “I do not see him.”
“He must have stepped out.” I fought dismay, for I did not see him, either. “Hush now.”
Nervously, I pulled the girls aside, pretending we needed more time with their trains, waving other women ahead of us. Finally, when we could delay no longer, Rosie and Mathilde handed their cards to the herald at the door and we walked through, into the throne room.
Sigrid stood on a raised platform wearing the largest pannier I had ever seen. Her hips extended by feet on each side. A jewel the size of an egg hung from a necklace. We moved forward, into the stronger light, as the herald announced us.
“Miss Rosamund Tremaine and Miss Mathilde Tremaine of Bramley Hall,” the herald announced. “Chaperoned by Lady Etheldreda Bramley.” The three of us sank into curtsies.
Sigrid watched with interest. “Why, they look just like you, Etheldreda. Who would have thought there could be three of you.”
Behind us, I felt the room tighten with attention: The queen was talking.
“Indeed, Your Majesty.” I stood back up. “Though I see their father as well.” All the ghosts of Agatha’s little wounds were making themselves known to me. A throbbing in my knuckles. The feel of fingers grasping my upper arm.
“So, Henry’s daughters have made it to my ball after all.” Sigrid’s expression was unreadable, but my attention went to Rosie and Mathilde, whose necks had gone taut. I could not see their faces, but I watched the discomfort in their shoulders. They had not expected mention of their father—had not expected to be singled out by the queen.
“We are honored,” I replied without smiling.
Sigrid laughed. “I am sure of it. Where is the third? The… half daughter? Stepdaughter?”
“Ill,” I said, too quickly. I wanted to ask where Simeon was but couldn’t bring myself to reveal my interests. Instead, I added: “I hope we will have the honor of greeting the princess as well?”
“Ill,” Sigrid replied, mimicking the same intonation of my own invocation of the word.
All three of us, Rosie, Mathilde, and I, made the quick implied noises of sympathy the occasion demanded, but we were saved from formulating any real response when a side door opened—a disguised panel springing forth from the wall—and the prince entered. He strode to his mother’s side, turned, and saw us.
“Hello,” he said, in a tone of both surprise and familiarity—one that threw the room into quick relief. Agatha released her tight grip on my arm. The girls, wrapped and cosseted in all their finery, goose bumps on their shoulders, loosened. How the inflection of one word could promise the world! So much was riding on a moment—a bat of an eye, a gesture with a wrist. All of us curtsied, murmuring quietly.
