The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (20 page)

He lowers his voice. “Lass, I know it wasn’t very friendly of them, but you cannot help who you are and how you look. You’re a lady of privilege, and even if you’re sympathetic toward the working-class, you have never experienced how it is to be poor and struggling.”

“It’s not the class issue,” I mutter, brushing off some dust on my skirt. “I didn’t hear him criticizing Edward for being part of the sheltered rich. They see me as a useless woman who shouldn’t be poking her nose into public affairs. In their opinion, women aren’t intelligent enough.”

“It is sufficient for you to lend moral support,” Mr. Wellesley says. “See here—we’ve been organizing assemblies and forming unions and gathering petitions for the government. Even if you want to contribute, you can’t put yourself out there in the public sphere.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Wellesley gives me a weird look. “Your mind sure works differently than other young ladies’, that’s for certain. Have you arrived from another planet?”

Ha. Pretty close to the truth.

“Anyway,” his tone is brusque and firm, “there’s little you can do. Best leave the problem to us.”

I resent his patronizing tone and resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

“By the way, isn’t the annual flower show opening in a few days? If you didn’t see it last year, I suggest you attend the event. It’ll take your mind off troubling matters. Let that pretty little head of yours have a rest.”

It is then that I realize I’ve been an idiot. Why should I care for the injustices of Story World, when it’s clearly not any of my business? I really should get back to the mission.

“I’m sorry you had to do my hair again,” I say as Elle brushes my hair with a deft hand. I had tried doing a few of the hairstyles in fashion, but eventually gave up. My clumsiness extends to my hands as well. It’s evident from how badly I play the piano—my fingers move like sausages over the keys. I’ve improved a little, but nothing can replace years of practice.

I’ve just returned from a morning walk in the park, where I fretted over the impossibilities of going after Duke Henry and nearly ran into a low branch that jutted out from some stupid tree. Still, quite a few leaves found their way into my hair.

“But I like doing your hair.” Elle catches an auburn lock that curls over my collarbone. “It’s so pretty and thick and wavy, like wine-colored silk. Besides, you must change out of your riding clothes, so we might as well redo your hair. Shall I pin a rose near your ear? The roses you got at the shop are so lovely that it would be a pity not to use them.”

I glance at my window. That last time I visited the palace, Edward had insisted on giving me a sample from his private garden. Since I’d told Martha I wanted to get some flowers, I’d decided to accept his gift. The roses grew well, despite the smoke from nearby chimneys and the dust from the street below. I have no idea what kind of roses they are, but Edward sure knows his stuff. They’re huge and crimson-red, with an intoxicating scent.

“But the flowers are so large,” I say. “Won’t I look ridiculous wearing a huge rose in my hair?”

“Absolutely not,” Elle says emphatically. “It’s an elegant touch; it’s not like you’re putting an entire bouquet on your head. Aren’t you going to the royal flower show this afternoon? A flower in your hair will be just the thing. I’ll bet scores of other girls do the same.”

She turns my head slightly to the side so I can see view my hairstyle in the mirror. She has swept my hair into a low chignon at the nape of my neck. The rose rests snugly in the center of the chignon. Honestly, I do look good—I might even pass for a bridesmaid.

Someone knocks on the door. The parlor maid comes in, bearing the silver calling card tray.

“Who can be calling at this hour?” I turn around slowly so as not to mess up my hair. “It’s not even noon yet.” By now, I know that making calls is restricted to the afternoon. Morning calls happen only between close acquaintances, and I doubt I have any friends close enough for that.

“It’s not a calling card,” Elle says, handing me an envelope. The paper quality and color are familiar—I received the same type a month before. Fingers slightly trembling, I open the envelope and slide out the letter within:

My dear Miss Katriona,

Regarding your expressing the desire to tour my library, I regret to inform you that my schedule recently has been quite booked, as medical lectures, practical training, and of course visiting Elle’s family, have taken up most of my time.

However, please do not let my current schedule deny your pleasure in reading. You are very welcome to visit my house and browse the collection at your leisure anytime. I have informed my butler, Thomas, that he may expect you to drop in, and that he should provide assistance with anything you wish.

I remain, faithfully yours,

Henry
.

TWENTY-ONE

I put down the letter, letting it rest on my lap. He’s being really considerate, telling me I’m welcome in his house even when he’s absent. Perhaps seducing him won’t be as hard as I imagined?

“Is it from an admirer?” Elle asks. She has just cut a rose from the window. A small smile plays on her lips.

My first instinct is to say no, but hey, this is Duke Henry we’re talking about. A man that I’m planning to get away from Elle.

“It’s from Henry.” I wave the letter. “He has invited me to use his library whenever I want. Isn’t it generous of him? He knew I liked books, and he even showed me his collection when he sent me that personal invitation to his house party.”

Elle reaches for the brush, misses, and snatches it up on her second try.

“How nice of him,” she says quietly. “Mr. Henry has always shown nothing but kindness for us. I wish you the best of luck, miss.”

There’s no bitterness in her voice, but clearly she’s hurt. I feel awful—how could I deliberately rub salt in her wound?

“Elle, I don’t—” I stop myself and harden my heart. Think of Mom. Paige. I need to be ruthless if I want to return. I take a deep breath and say instead, “can you help me with the new dress I bought yesterday?”

Minutes later as I stand before the mirror, I find myself regretting my choice. It’s an off-the-shoulder dress with a neckline that dips so low, half of my boobs are showing. It wouldn’t look out of place at senior prom or even at a wedding in the real world, but it probably goes into the slut category in this old-fashioned world. It reminds me of the golden dress Belle wears in Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
, only a lot more revealing.

Even Bianca raises her eyebrows when I come down the staircase.

“Are you setting your sights on someone you met at the duke’s ball?”

“Maybe.” I lift my chin high, relishing the chance to be snotty toward her.

It doesn’t work, though.

“As long as your object is not the duke himself. He might fall easily in love, but a display of bare flesh is not enough.” Bianca adjusts a diamond pendant so that the jewel nestles in the hollow of her throat. I hear the sound of skirts rustling—Lady Bradshaw appears.

“It is uncertain if the prince will make an appearance,” she says, a note of anxiety in her voice. “I overheard Lady Mansfield mention that he has been recently occupied with the parliament. Moreover, since the flower show is attracting more and more visitors every year, he mayn’t show up.”

“Not to mention it will be difficult to find him in the crowds,” Bianca says, folding her arms. “Nevertheless, it is never a bad idea to be prepared.”

“Katriona!” Lady Bradshaw sweeps toward me, her eyes as round as saucers. “What’re you thinking of, going to the show in that scandalous outfit? Honestly, when I told you to prepare yourself for the marriage market, I implied you dress up to impress, not put your body on display!”

Heat creeps into my cheeks; I wrap my hands around my elbows and make a half-hearted effort to argue. “But you didn’t complain when I bought the dress.”

“I meant that it should be complemented with a shawl and brooch,” Lady Bradshaw snaps. She orders Elle to fetch the accessories. I slip the silken wrap around my shoulders, figuring that it might work better this way. If there’s the slightest chance that Edward is present, I don’t want him seeing me in this Belle dress. I’ll save the full effect for Henry’s place. I fully plan to take him up on his offer of visiting his library, though I won’t go until the evening, when he’s more likely to be home.

The flower show is amazing. It’s actually called the Royal International Horticultural Exhibition, but everyone simply calls it the flower show. I’ve been to Edward’s garden, but that was simply one beautifully-designed garden. The show is a combination of multiple gardens, some unusual, some of ingenious workmanship. It’s a mix of creative minds at work, each garden outdoing the next. There’s a garden that actually resembles the Japanese zen style I once saw on a postcard—mostly stones and low bushes and sand. Another has a display of cacti with paintings behind it to look like a desert. But not all are unusual-looking. There’s this wooden arch that attracts dozens of ladies murmuring with appreciation and children squealing with delight. Peonies and roses and lavender twisted into long ropes hang from the arch like a bright, colorful curtain. I’m tempted to take a picture, and then for the umpteenth time, I’m reminded that cameras don’t exist.

When Bianca appears at the entrance, several men zoom toward her as though they have installed a Bianca-radar on their heads. I try to slip away—Lady Bradshaw has her hawk-look on, which means she’s scanning the crowds for eligible young men. Luckily, a middle-aged lady wearing a hat full of flowers happens to wander by and call to her, “Aileen! Oh my goodness, has it been ten years since I saw you last?”

While Lady Bradshaw is occupied with her old friend, I pretend to be drawn to the curtain of flowers. Then I weave my way through the crowds like the snake in the PC game Nibbles. When I emerge from another end, Lady Bradshaw is nowhere to be seen.

Yes! I give myself a mental pat on the back. The last thing I need is more suitors breathing down my neck. Now I’m at liberty to explore the flower show at my own leisure.

For some time I wander through the show, admiring the displays while keeping an eye out for Henry and Edward.

“Five hundred pounds for a meager potted flower?” An enraged voice booms somewhere to my right. “I don’t care how rare it is, any price above a hundred is an outrageous sum for a plant. Even if the prince planted it himself!”

Andrew McVean. Urgh, I sure don’t want to run into him. I dart in the direction opposite his voice, down several moss-covered stone steps, past patches of flowers grown in large ball-like shapes, and reach a pavilion surrounded by several hedges trimmed into the shapes of cat-and-dog heads. I lean against a pillar of the pavilion, breathing heavily. My wrap is coming loose; I adjust it more securely round my shoulders. The place I’m in seems to be deserted at the moment, when a voice behind this giant green cat head breaks the silence and signifies I’m not alone.

“Please tell me you are not trifling with me.”

It’s Poppy!

I haven’t seen much of Poppy since Lord Mansfield’s dinner party. She tried to visit me, but Lady Bradshaw wouldn’t let her in, as I’m supposed to be grounded. I’m glad she hasn’t ostracized me from her companionship.

I edge toward the hedge and peek out. Sure enough, there’s Poppy with both her hands firmly clasped in Mr. Davenport’s, who suddenly pulls her close, and Poppy closes her eyes…

Snap. I step on some dried twigs on the grass.

Both of them jump apart as though electrified. I curse my clumsiness for the umpteenth time.

“Sorry!” I give Poppy an apologetic nod. “I didn’t know…anyway, don’t mind me. Please carry on.” And I lift my skirts slightly so I can hurry away faster.

Omigod, I can’t believe I just witnessed Poppy about to be kissed by her boyfriend! Or suitor, I guess. I just knew it—all that bantering and taunting between them have transformed into sexual attraction. They looked so cute together, standing behind those animal-shaped hedges. I am so going to demand all the details later

I resume my wandering in the gardens, keeping an eye out for McVean, Henry, and Edward. But all I run into are a few acquaintances I made at the Season parties. I receive a few polite nods, but nothing enthusiastic. Oh well, I guess they all see me as the girl who has no manners and no marriage prospects.

Suddenly I spot Galen carrying an earthenware tray toward a long table. On the tray sits a toy cottage covered entirely in shrubbery, ivy, and flowers. It’s kind of like a Christmas gingerbread house; just substitute floral adornments for the icing and candies.

I wonder if he has any news of Snyder? It’s taking so long that I’ve almost forgotten about it.

I move toward Galen, but someone gets to him first. Claire, along with a middle-aged woman that I recognize as her mother, both of them dressed in fabulous clothes and expensive jewelry. I hide a smile; Claire’s hat is exactly the same as Bianca’s. I guess they haven’t met yet, or she certainly wouldn’t be wearing it.

“Lovely house,” Lady Fremont says, nodding at Galen. “Not part of His Highness’s handiwork, I suppose?”

Galen has his trademark surly look on. “No.”

But Lady Fremont isn’t to be deterred. “I gather His Highness will not be joining us today?”

“No.”

“Mama.” Claire lays a hand on her mother’s arm. “His Highness is currently too busy to attend the show. Papa says he’s trying to pass a new law.”

“Which has been rejected,” Lady Fremont says, her tone reeking of disapproval. “It is in point of fact that his attempt is hardly necessary. A man of his position is entitled to a life of leisurely pursuits. He could have been here, cutting the ribbon before the show.”

“I’m sure His Highness would have liked to be here,” Claire says hastily. “It’s only that he currently is more concerned with the welfare of the people.”