Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(5)
“Yes, Your Highness. This being your wedding day, I wished no delay in any correspondence between you and the lady in question.”
Foxbrush tried to speak. “Uuuah . . .”
“Did I do right, Your Highness?”
With gargantuan effort, Foxbrush swallowed. A continental shift could not have been more agonized. “When did you deliver it, Tortoiseshell?”
“I put it in the lady’s hand not a quarter of an hour ago. I happened upon it while— Pray, Your Highness, where are you going?”
Good Tortoiseshell’s words, spoken with such concern, fell upon deaf ears. Prince Foxbrush, mumbling inarticulate curses or prayers (it would be difficult to say which), was already out of the study and into the hall, where he realized he was in his shirt-sleeves, a state of undress not to be borne even under direst circumstances. So he dashed back into his dressing room, crying, “No time! No time!” to a baffled Tortoiseshell, whom he pushed from his way as he snatched the nearest available jacket. This turned out to be Tortoiseshell’s. As the household livery was not intended to go over a blousy affair such as Prince Foxbrush’s shirt, it was a mercy to everyone concerned that Tortoiseshell was twice Foxbrush’s size. The jacket bagged across the prince’s thin shoulders and flapped out from his sides like wings as he, thus attired, flew through the corridors of the Eldest’s House.
An army of invading guests from across the nation, from as far as Beauclair and the northern kingdoms of the Continent, had fallen upon the House in the last few days. Few recognized the prince, new as he was to the title and half clothed as a valet. Those who did spot him each had some congratulation to make, some remark upon the occasion, the newly rebuilt Great Hall . . . something to stop Foxbrush in his tracks. He, squirming with embarrassment (for he had been brought up to be polite), squeezed and sidled and dodged like a mosquito skimming the surface of a pond.
At last he came to Middlecrescent’s series of apartments. And here he faced another, more dreadful obstacle.
“Great Iubdan’s beard and mustache!” Foxbrush gasped.
The hall was flooded with women.
Although a bridegroom is a useless enough specimen on his wedding day, the women jointly make up for his lack. Every one, be she friend, relative, nodding acquaintance, or total stranger, seems to have some vital role, which she pursues with as much chatter and flutter and perfume and feminine grace as possible. And each and every one is on the lookout for one particular person.
Foxbrush’s jaw sagged in dismay. Ducking his head and muttering “Pardon” as he went, he took the plunge, scraping along the wall, hoping against all reasonable hope.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
It was all over now.
Upon that signal, every woman, matron or maid, turned her predatory gaze upon him and pounced.
“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day!”
“Trying to sneak a peek before your time, you naughty boy!”
Foxbrush, pinned to the wall, put up his hands, hidden beneath Tortoiseshell’s too-long sleeves, to ward off the hosts of femininity attacking from all fronts. “Please,” he protested, his voice hoarse in his thickened throat. “Please, I need to talk to her, just one moment, I beg you!”
“That’s what they all say.” A severe personage, possibly a maiden aunt, with stubble on her chin, made gorgeous in silks and embroidered veils after the old Southlander style, stepped forward from the throng. Someone had gilded her fingernails so that they looked like the talons of some otherworldly eagle as she jabbed a finger into Foxbrush’s breastbone. “Nefarious!” she declared, and the surrounding women either laughed or growled their agreement.
Foxbrush was on the brink of muttering whatever feeble excuse sprang first to his lips and making good his escape when mercy fell in the form of a most unexpected angel.
“Lumé’s light, if it isn’t you, dear boy!”
At the voice of the mother of the bride, even the most avenging aunt must give way.
The crowd parted with a rustle of petticoats and creak of supportive wires to admit the passage of Baroness Middlecrescent. She was a creature made impressive by connection and influence rather than by any personal attribute, but this was hardly her fault. Her once renowned beauty long since turned to plumpness and good humor, she wielded the power of her husband’s title with all the cunning of a monkey playing the organ grinder’s instrument. Which is to say, none at all.
“What a delight!” cried the baroness, for it was her way to see joy and sunshine even where storm clouds gathered. She reached out and took Foxbrush’s hands in her bejeweled fingers, pressing them as though he were a long-lost son she had not seen in years rather than the scarcely known, soon-to-be son-in-law with whom she’d dined the night before.
“Have you come to see my dear ducky?” she asked, and it took the following statement before Foxbrush realized she meant Daylily. “Ducky” was not a diminutive one would naturally apply to the Baron of Middlecrescent’s daughter. “She looks glorious, simply glorious in her gown. You won’t even believe it! But then, you’ll see her in another few hours, so you’ll have to believe it then.”
The other women drew back, casting Foxbrush dire looks but not daring to interject as the baroness prattled on. “We had it made for her for the last wedding, you know, to your dear cousin. It was such a shame when they called that wedding off, but then, you’re probably not so disappointed, are you, lucky boy that you are! And now she gets to wear her beautiful gown all over again, and could the day be happier?”