We fall silent. Greer’s cards crumple as she grips them too hard. I burn with something akin to embarrassment. Was I naive enoughto believe that the moment with Bram in the garden meant that I was special? Bram may be a prince, but he is also just a boy.
“I’ll let you be my ladies-in-waiting when I win,” Olive says.
“Screw you, Olive,” Faith says.
Marion nods in agreement. Greer puts her cards down and marches up the stairs, the rest of us following.
The road to Hampshire is long and muddy. We’re piled into post chaises pulled by teams of four horses for a day’s journey southeast of London, and I’m jittery with nerves the whole way.
We play I-spy games out the window but see little other than trees and thatched-roof villages. Emmy falls asleep against the window, and Marion and I pull out sketchbooks and little nubs of charcoal to pass the time.
I find myself drawing Pig and his ridiculous little face.
“What is that?” Marion peers at my paper from across the carriage.
“A dog,” I answer.
“It’s hideous,” Marion replies. I crumple it up and throw it at her, both of us laughing.
The sun sinks golden behind the trees by the time we arrive at the hunting camp.
Palace staff have transformed the Hampshire wilderness into a small city overnight. Elegant canvas tents have been built on wooden risers. There is cheery red and white bunting hung all over the camp, an impressive firepit, stables for the horses and the dogs.
The footmen take us to our tent, comfortably set up with seven beds.
Viscountess Bolingbroke is already there when we arrive, layinga baby pink duvet, five different-size pillows, and a lacy doily on top of her bed.
“How do they expect us to live in these conditions?” she huffs. The hem of her traveling dress is caked with dust, and her normally pristine white bouffant is looking deflated.
Palace staff carry in our trunks, complete with everything we’ll need for a weekend hunting party. We’ve all been outfitted with sporting dresses. Mine has a smart overcoat made of spring-green tweed, with gold buttons that pin in my waist. Greer chooses the bed next to mine. She’s been particularly quiet since the queen’s visit. I look over and give her a small smile. She gives me one in return, and it feels like ice thawing. It takes so much energy to be mad at her, I don’t know if I have it in me anymore.
A bugle horn blows, and we poke our heads outside the tent to see the hunting party arrive. Bram and Emmett cut through the center of camp atop their horses. I recognize some of the sons of dukes and barons among their group of friends, familiar faces from this season’s parties and their rowing teammates.
I catch both Emmett’s and Bram’s gazes as they pass our tent. Bram has a wide smile on his face, infectious and warm. Emmett’s expression is predictably unreadable, his mouth in a tight line.
We dress in gowns and meet for dinner at long tables that wind through the trees. As the young, unmarried girls of the party, we’re set at the very end, under Viscountess Bolingbroke’s ever-watchful eye.
This whole trip is in celebration of Bram’s nineteenth birthday, coming in just a few days.
He stands up halfway through dinner, a crystal glass raised in his hand. “If you would all indulge me in a toast. Each and every oneof you has welcomed me and embraced me as one of your own, but tonight we revel the way we do back home. Cheers!”
He raises his hands, and a few dozen globes of light, each a pale shade of shimmering gold, float into the air, casting the forest in sparkles. A cheery tune floats in on a breeze, and someone pulls out a fiddle to play along.
Everyone cheers, their drinks sloshing over the table. “To Bram!”
After dessert is served, Bram walks along the table, greeting his guests with a ready smile and clapping his friends on their shoulders. Emmett stays close to his side, silent and sullen, his brother’s foil, as usual.
“Thank you all for attending my birthday celebration. How lucky I am to count you among my blessings this year,” Bram says once he reaches us.
Olive looks up to him, grinning, like he’s hung the moon single-handedly. I catch a subtle eye roll passing between Faith and Marion. Something has shifted since the queen’s rule change, the veneer slowly chipping away from us all.
I lean over to Bram. “Happy birthday. Any good gifts this year?”
He smiles at me. “This.”
“The party?”
He shakes his head. “You. Here.” I smack his shoulder, taking it as a joke, but it still sends a riot of butterflies through me.
