Entwined(39)

My lady, it read, who isn’t?

Bramble pursed her lips and kicked Lord Bradford beneath the table—hard. His face twitched before regaining its solemn expression. Azalea buried her face in her hands.

“All we ask is for you to consider it. That is all,” said Fairweller.

“Oh.” Lord Bradford’s voice was slightly strangled. “Yes. Thank you.”

Bramble threw the pencil-smudged napkin onto her plate. “I’m done,” she said. “May we go to our room now?”

For the first time since the beginning of dinner, the King snapped to awareness.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Certainly not. To the library, young ladies.” He stood and cast a significant look at them all. “Those are the rules.”

Already horrified by her sisters’ treatment of Lord Bradford, Azalea spent the evening in the library sitting on the sofa across from him, dying a thousand tiny deaths. Delphinium “accidentally” spilled coffee on him, Lily crawled to his shoe and began gnawing on his laces, and Ivy and Hollyhock crowded him on both sides, stitching samplers and asking him every two minutes what he thought of them. He replied he thought them very fine.

In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. Inexplicably, so did the King.

Intent on saving some aspect of the evening, Azalea herded the girls upstairs, then slipped to the front court, where Mr. Pudding tended to Lord Bradford’s horse. Azalea explained why she was out, and he gave her the reins, patted her on the head, and went inside.

Azalea waited patiently, twisting the reins around her hands. Lord Bradford’s horse pawed the gravel, but was well trained enough that it did not try to nose her hair, a horse trait Azalea hated. Presently Lord Bradford appeared at the door with a stack of books, probably political, as the King and Fairweller bid him good night. Azalea ducked behind the horse, grateful that black blended in with so many things.

When the door closed, Azalea stepped out from behind the horse.

“Lord Bradford—”

“Gaah!”

He fell back against the banister, tripping over the stairs.

“Sorry! Sorry!” said Azalea. “I didn’t frighten you?”

“No, no, quite all right,” he said. He peeled himself from the banister and set to picking up the scattered books. “Naturally—”

“Naturally—” said Azalea, relieved. She picked his hat from the gravel and helped him with the books. “Sorry. I just had to apologize. About tonight. Honestly, we don’t kick or bite or throw potatoes at all our guests.”

A crooked smile touched Lord Bradford’s lips.

“Your family has spirit,” he said, taking his hat from Azalea. “I enjoyed the evening.”

“Well, yes, you’ve just come from a war,” said Azalea.

Lord Bradford laughed. It was a nice laugh. Quiet, unpracticed, sincere. Azalea liked it.

“I’m so sorry we’ve kept this for such a long time,” she said, pulling the watch from her skirt pocket. She unfolded Mother’s handkerchief from around it, and offered it to Lord Bradford cradled in her hands. “We shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.”

Lord Bradford’s eyebrows rose at the offering, and he opened his mouth, then closed it. He lowered his eyes to the books in his hands, then back to Azalea, and he managed a smile.

“When we first met,” he said, “ages ago, you gave me a candy stick. Just like you did now, with your hands like that. Do you remember?”

Azalea raised an eyebrow.

“It happened when my father had just died,” he said, quietly. “You came to the graveyard, licking a candy stick. You saw me. You put the stick in my hands, folded my fingers over it, and kissed my fingertips.”

“That must have been sticky,” said Azalea.

Lord Bradford laughed. A warm, tickling sensation rippled through Azalea, and a memory flickered through her mind; one of wandering off from Mother on market day. The air smelled of cider. And then, peeking through the iron slats of the graveyard gate and seeing a forlorn boy on a stone bench. The memory, so distant, felt like a faded dream.

“You know,” he said, “all these years I thought you were your sister.”

Azalea gave a nod-shrug. “A lot of people make that mistake. It’s because we’re so close in age—less than a year apart each. In fact, of all of us, Clover looks the oldest, we think.”

“I still have your handkerchief, from the Yuletide.”

“Raspberries, do you really?”

He produced a crumpled, clean handkerchief, and gave it to Azalea. She tried to hand him the watch, but he wouldn’t take it.

“It’s still for ransom, is it not?” he said. “I’ll collect it when I set the tower again.”

Azalea smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. “Well, it has been awfully useful. Thank you, Lord Bradford.”

He mounted with ease, even with the books, and smiled a crooked smile.

“Mr. Bradford,” he said sheepishly.

“Mr. Bradford,” said Azalea. And now, her cheeks burned. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat. “For the pleasant evening. Sleep well, Princess Bramble.”

“What?” said Azalea.

But he was already off at a canter, spattering gravel. Azalea gaped after him, then turned to the handkerchief in her hands. The sloppily embroidered B.E.W. in the corner made all the warmth drain from Azalea’s face.