“Too long,” I say without turning around. I dash up a few more steps, hoping no rotten egg is stuck on the back pleats of my gown. “Hope Lada has been entertaining you?”
“Yes, the kitten has. Are you well? You sound different.”
“Just tired. Do you mind continuing to entertain Lada?”
“Of course. Are—”
“Oh, I’m late.”
Making it to the top of the stairs alone seems a blessing. Lydia’s giggles float to my ear. She’s still in the library. I have a chance to watch her lessons. The princess said today she’d have my daughter instructed in geography.
I dash into the room. A very old man with a long white beard hovers over maps.
“Katherine!” Lydia jumps up and points. “You made it in time to see the maps. I found St. Petersburg.” She dances around. “Oh, Katherine. I …” Her head tilts more toward me. Her eyes glitter, then grow big. “What happened to you? Did you fall off the dray?”
“Something like that. How is the—”
She rushes over to me and tugs me to kneel. Her little hands touch the bruises on my forehead, my cheek. “You look hurt. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“You don’t want me sick?”
“Goodness, no. I don’t want you hurt, either.”
I reach my arms out to her. And she hugs me—a real hug, neither forced nor fake.
And I begin to weep.
The tutor backs to the door. “Lady Lydia, I’ll see you tomorrow. We must have fewer interruptions.”
“Yes, sir.” When the man leaves, she tells me, “Stop. Stop sobbing. Katherine, I told you I don’t want you hurt. Why are you crying?”
“Lydia. I’m crying because you care.” I’d flood the library with my tears, all the way to the top shelf, if she’d say she still loves me.
She puts her little brow to mine, something I’ve seen Jahleel do with her. “I can be mad and still care. I’m not a baby. I can have lots of emotions. It’s good. And healthy.”
“You’ve been spending time with Aunt Scarlett.”
“Yes.” Lydia looks both ways. “She’s Princess Grama’s favorite.”
Scarlett should be. She’s keeping Jahleel and Lydia well. I stand up. “Let me go clean up. Maybe we can read later.” I give a long yawn. “Or the morning.”
“Morning is just fine. Go rest.” She goes back to writing something on a large piece of paper. It looks like Russian, the Cyrillic language.
I turn and walk right into the princess.
Her eyes sweep over my bruised face to my stained slipper toe. “Lady Hampton, may I have a word with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leave sweet Lydia and brace myself for a conversation with a woman who’s mad and doesn’t care for me at all.
Walking fast, just shy of a run, I head into my bedchamber, but the princess follows me. “Lady Hampton, I must speak with you.”
Maids are in front of me. They get a good look at me and giggle. I try not to let them know I notice; I just want to be alone. When I open the door to my room, I’m gutted. Without my permissionor input everything has changed—new white furniture, and a vase of chrysanthemums sitting on a writing desk. “Why did he do this?”
The princess follows me into my room. “My son has busied himself funding you a new wardrobe.”
I light a sconce and together we observe a bed dressed in scarlet. A pile of blue velvet boxes with scarves and hairpins sits near the footboard. My small silver jewelry box centers a glass-topped vanity that hosts other velvet boxes. Every drawer has new things. I pull out new silver stockings and a sheer nightgown. “Guess the duke’s done with reading.”
