“Delightful, isn’t it?”the duchess inquired.
“It is indeed,”my grandmother agreed, with a strange kind of knowing smile upon her lips.
A servant approached with a large tray of gingerbread, and each of us indulged in the seasonal treat. Captivated by the grand tree and the transformation of the great hall, I held onto mine, intending to savor it during the short carriage ride back to the cottage.
“Now, you will just have to wait to see the rest of it tomorrow night,”the duke declared, walking back into the hallway and closing the doors.
“I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow evening for the ball,”he added, waving us toward the door. We bowed and expressed our gratitude before making our way down the entryway to the grand front doors. As I exited, I turned back for one last glimpse of the castle adorned in its Christmas charm, a newfound excitement bubbling within me for the upcoming ball.
Just as I stepped through the door, I collided with a gentleman entering, my gingerbread landing squarely on the center of his chest. Looking up, I encountered the gaze of a handsome man around my age, with chestnut hair and eyes as green as the tree in the great hall. My heart raced as our eyes met.
“Peasant, watch your step,”he scolded, brushing the crumbs off his chest before storming into the castle. He blew past the duke’s guards and down the hallway that led to the dining room, leaving a trail of arrogance in his wake.
Nora stopped reading, a realization hitting her like a shockwave. Was she going crazy, or was that almost the same thing that she had experienced at the market with the obnoxiously rude man? What the hell was going on? One event could be dismissed as nothing. Two, a coincidence, maybe. But three? Now that formed a pattern.
A sense of unease crept over her as she stood up, set the book down, and began to pace the room. She walked to the window and looked down onto the street below as the snow began to fall heavily once again, swirling about on the wind, echoing the chaos she felt in her head.
The events in the book seemed to align too closely with the unfolding of her own day. She shook her head, trying to dispel the thought. The idea of a book predicting her future was absurd. After all, weren’t there arrogant men back then as well? It wasn’t so much a coincidence as it was a testament to the fact that things hadn’t changed much with the opposite sex over the past four hundred years.
All the same, before she left the city tomorrow, she planned to go back to the bookstore and question the woman about the odd little book. While she might not have the answers to the strange coincidences that had subsequently unfolded since she bought it, Nora hoped the woman could at least tell her the title and author, offering a little more information that she might be able to google.
Nora looked back down at the book, every rational cell in her body telling her to close it and turn on a TV show until her pizza arrived. But the little irrational voice in the back of her mind urged her to keep reading, just in case there was something she might want to avoid tomorrow.
Chapter Fifteen
The Ball
Iimmersed myself in a bath filled with lavender-infused water, attempting to wash away the grime accumulated over the past few days. No matter how vigorously I scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away the disgust that lingered in my mind from yesterday’s encounter with the intolerable man at the castle.
Throughout the night, I tossed and turned, still put off by his rude behavior. I chided myself for allowing him to stir my emotions in such a way, my heart pounding at the mere memory of his rudeness. Who did he think he was, calling me a peasant? I might not have been born a noble, but I was far from a peasant. Did I stand out so much from the other guests at the castle that he deemed me to be of the lower class? The thought sat heavy in my mind, stirring up a wave of unease.
I loathed the fact that he had managed to burrow under myskin, occupying even a sliver of space in my thoughts, and I hoped he would not be present at the ball tonight. As I sat with a sour expression upon my face, my mind should have been focusing on the importance of tonight for my family. My mother’s hopes rested upon me finding a suitor of considerable financial standing, one who could provide for not only me but her as well.
I had always dreamt of marrying for love, much like Shakespeare’s Lysander and Hermia from Midsummer Night’s Dream,whose love was true. My mother, however, would scoff at such romantic notions. Marriage is a duty,she’d say,and if you’re one of the fortunate ones, love may follow.Despite her grim perspective, I had always chosen to believe otherwise. Admittedly, though, as I found myself mere hours away from meeting a potential suitor, her words echoed in my mind.
Attempting to calm myself, I sank under the water, unwilling to part with its soothing warmth. Upon emerging, I found Gran standing there, offering a cloth for me to dry off.
“You best be getting out. It will be hours until that hair of yours is dried, and we will need time to tame it,”she advised as I stepped out of the tub into the chill of the room.
Swiftly donning my chemise, I settled in front of the fire while Gran skillfully brushed out my long dark wavy hair. It brought me back to my childhood when I would visit, and she would gently brush and braid my hair into a crown that wrapped its way around my head. She would tuck small sprigs of lavender and rosemary in and around the braid, and I could still remember the sweet earthy aromas lingering from the mere memory.
In contrast to my mother’s harsh tugs and complaints about my wavy locks, Gran had always seen the beauty in them, saying the goddess had blessed me with hair as beautiful as the ocean’s waves. I cherished her deeply, not only for the countless acts of kindness she had shown me over the years but also for loving me for every ounce of the person I was, not wishing me to be anyone other than myself.
“Remember, your mother is expecting you to find a husband, which means you need to be poised and gracious. If I don’t send you home with a decent suitor, she may never speak to me again,”she remarked with a wispy little laugh.
The notion of finding a suitable match sent my heart into a whirlwind of apprehension again. What truly defined a man as suitable? His title, his looks, or perhaps his temperament? I did not know. Through my father’s work, I often found myself in the company of gentlemen and even engaged in light flirtations at social gatherings. However, the thought of any of them as potential husbands had never crossed my mind.
“How shall I know if he is a suitable match?”I asked, turning in my seat to look at her.
“You will encounter many gentlemen this evening, all vying for your attention with their charm and wit. Some may possess striking looks, others wealth or titles. Allow the butterflies in your stomach to be your guide. Should you feel them stir, focus on that feeling and heed its meaning. Let your intuition be your compass, my dear,”she advised. Her soothing words brought a sense of peace, quieting my anxious heart and calming my breath.
Why were women subjected to the ritual of being beautified and paraded around like some possession to be purchased? We should be free to find love, not chosen by a man for a mutually beneficial arrangement. It was absolutely dreadful. Despite my distaste for being paraded around the ballroom as if I were for sale, a small spark of excitement flickered within me. I had never attended a royal ball after all, and I thought of the scene from The Faerie Queene, where knights and ladies danced amidst enchanting courts, a world of allegory and chivalry that seemed far removed from the harsh realities of my own time.
Despite Gran’s spryness for her age, her hands no longer moved as swiftly as they once had, and it took a considerable amount of time for her to fashion my hair. A comfortable silence fell between us as she secured aroll of horsehair at the crown of my head and skillfully pinned my hair up and around it, allowing a few strands to dangle gracefully around my face. She had woven one strand into a long braid and artfully tucked it around the pouf to give it a graceful touch. The remaining strands were fashioned into ringlets using a set of hot iron tongs that she skillfully wrapped the hair around.
“Can I ask you a question?”I said, breaking the silence that had settled over the room as Gran worked.
“Of course, my child,”she replied, her gentle voice inviting the conversation.
