Entwined(54)

“Thank you,” said Azalea, through chatters. She managed a shivering smile as he helped her to the broken path. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to return the books I borrowed,” he said. Even dripping wet, his hair still stuck up in tufts. “I’ve been looking for the King.”

Azalea guessed he had gotten lost—she still could get lost in this part of the gardens. She insisted on taking him to the King, who wasn’t far. She also insisted on helping Mr. Bradford gather his books and hat, which he’d thrown down pell-mell and which lay in a jumble over tree roots and fallen leaves.

To his credit, Mr. Bradford did not ask what Azalea had been doing in the stream. Together they walked over the uneven path, ducking tree branches, leaving a trail of water on the old brick.

“What would you do,” said Azalea, to keep from chattering as they hurried on. Their boots oosh eesh oosh eeshed with every footfall. “I mean, if you did win a seat in the House?”

The light in Mr. Bradford’s eyes brightened.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Gutters for the Courtroad bridge, so it doesn’t get icy?” Azalea teased. Mr. Bradford grinned bashfully, and absently smoothed down his wet hair.

“I’ve been thinking about transportation and things,” he admitted. “Railways.”

“A railway!” said Azalea. “In Eathesbury?”

“I went to the Delchastrian Exposition last year,” he said as they progressed into the tamer part of the gardens, where the trees actually stood in rows and the trellis above them didn’t have too many vines hanging in their faces. He had a spring to his steps and was more animated than Azalea had ever seen him. “Such technology, it is beyond me! They’ve a new engine; the pistons utilize the steam differently so it harbors more energy. It’s a wonder. I could only think, if Eathesbury had that! All our imports and exports are through ship and cart—”

He spoke on, of roads and checkpoints and imports, surplus and expenses, and in his excitement, Azalea could only think, Egads. Fairweller was right. You would be a good M.P.

“…I suppose it’s a bit boring,” he admitted, when he had finished after several minutes. “But I could talk all day about it.”

“Not boring at all,” said Azalea, smiling. “Mr. Bradford, why don’t you run for parliament? You would be quite as good as your father.”

Mr. Bradford’s cheerful demeanor went out like a snuffed candle. He fell quiet, his eyes solemn and serious.

After a long moment, he said, “Government wore my father down.” His rich-cream voice was low. “After my mother died. It etched in every line of his face and pushed him to breaking.”

Azalea reached out a soggy glove and touched his arm. Softly, just at his elbow. She wanted to give him toast. The sort that had melted butter and a bit of honey spread on top. It was a stupid thought, but there was something comforting about toast.

Mr. Bradford turned, and though his eyes were sad, they were hopeful, too. He placed his own soggy gloved hand over Azalea’s. Azalea’s heart nearly exploded.

“Princess—aaack!”

They broke apart, stepped away from each other, and turned to see Lord Howley at the end of the trellis path, shaking out a handkerchief to hold to his face. In the distance, on a stone bench, was the King. He looked irritated. “Lord…Howley,” Azalea stammered.

“What the devil happened to you?” he said. “You smell like—like—wet fabric! And who the devil are you?”

Mr. Bradford turned to stone. Even his brown eyes hardened. The only movements to him were the bits of water that dripped off his face and suitcoat. He looked at Lord Howley, his expression completely unreadable, then to Azalea, then back to Lord Howley.

“This is Lord Howley,” said Azalea, hoping to smooth over the awkwardness with Princess Royale grace. “He’s a guest here. On…Royal Business.”

“Oh. Yes.” Mr. Bradford remained stony. “Royal Business. I have heard of it.”

Who hasn’t? Azalea thought. To Mr. Bradford, she suppressed a smile. “If Lord Howley becomes King,” she said, “he says he’ll raise the taxes.”

“Oh, does he?”

For a moment, the gentlemen glowered politely at each other.

“Well,” said Azalea, breaking the tension. “I’m an icicle. I’ve got to get changed. There is the King, Mr. Bradford. Thank you—again.”

Mr. Bradford visibly softened, no longer stone when he looked at her. He bowed smartly, clicking his heels together in regimental fashion.

“Princess,” he said.

Azalea ran to the palace. She dripped the entire way there, determined that the next time she saw him, she would have his watch in her hand. Her icy skirts and blouse clung to her, but she didn’t feel it, for how much a pair of soft brown eyes could warm her.





CHAPTER 18




Snow came a week before Christmas, turning the gardens into a fairyland. Everything shimmered with white ice, each twig and stubborn leaf coated. All the statues had cakes of snow on their heads, and it topped the hedges and pergolas dripping with icy vines. The air had a new, fresh smell and the cold whipped the girls’ faces, leaving them rosy cheeked.

They spent the day playing snow games, sliding on the pond ice, and throwing snowballs at the latest gentleman, Baron Hubermann. He was a decent sort, but he stormed away the third time they knocked his hat off, and the girls gathered at the end of the gardens to watch the King, riding in the meadow.