Entwined(73)

He was teaching the lady a version of the waltz Azalea did not know. The lady’s shoes turned, graceful. She was good, even in boots. So was Fairweller. Azalea remembered how well he had danced at the Yuletide.

The lady said something, so quiet Azalea did not hear it.

“You are very good,” came Fairweller’s voice. “You are incomparable.”

The lady’s feet turned again, meaning Fairweller had brought her into an under-arm turn, spinning her. Her feet stepped just in front of Fairweller’s, and stopped. The lady laughed quietly, a light, pastry-sweet laugh, then—

Silence. Azalea drummed her fingers against the lattice, waiting for something to happen.

“I’ve spoken to Father Benedict.”

Fairweller’s voice was low and quiet. The lady’s feet stepped back.

“He says he is willing at any hour. We could leave tonight. On my ship. I’ll take you to Delchastire. The ballrooms there are so grand, they are fit for you—”

“No.”

The lady’s voice was firm, and the timbre of it made the hairs on the back of Azalea’s neck prickle.

“Oh, my lady. Your father would never approve. I know him too well.”

Azalea leaned in. Elopement…forbidden love…if Fairweller was caught courting a young lady without her father’s permission, he would end up in a duel. Azalea cringed.

“It is not the way a wedding ought to be done,” said the lady. “Weddings are meant to be with family. I will not allow it unless my sisters are there.”

Azalea stopped breathing. The sweet, crystal way the lady had said “my sisters” curdled in her ears.

“If your sisters come to your wedding, my lady, it will only be to murder me.”

Azalea slowly stood.

“Well, at least they will be there.”

Fairweller laughed, a foreign sound to Azalea, and through the lattice and dead vines, she saw his dark figure pull the lady into his arms. A lady who had golden blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a smile like a chorus of angels.

Clover.





CHAPTER 22




“Oh—oh!” Azalea stormed to the entrance of the gazebo. On her way rested Old Tom’s snow-capped wheelbarrow, and she snatched up a frozen pair of gardening gloves from it.

Fairweller and Clover broke apart at the sound of her boots stomping up the stairs. Fairweller turned to face Azalea—

And got smacked in the face with a pair of ice gloves.

“How dare you!” cried Azalea. “Just because she’s beautiful and kind doesn’t mean you can—can do this!” She whapped him again across his handsome, colorless face. Her temper flared, stinging her eyes. “You know better! The King will never stand for it!”

Fairweller flinched at the word king. “I don’t—” he began.

Whap!

“I think you ought to go now, Minister,” said Clover, grabbing Azalea’s hands and pulling her away before Azalea could manage another whap. “It’s all right. I’ll talk to her.”

Fairweller opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, cast a despairing look at Clover, and closed it again. He took his hat from the frozen bench, looked again at Clover, then mounted LadyFair and left.

When the hoofbeats faded, Clover broke her serene calm and laughed. She threw her arms around Azalea, laughing and weeping at the same time.

“I’m so glad you know!” she said. “So glad! It’s been wholly torture to keep it to myself! I thought I would burst!”

Azalea made an odd strangled noise.

“Yes—I suppose it’s a bit of a shock,” said Clover.

“A bit!” said Azalea.

Clover pulled Azalea to the rickety gazebo bench and clasped Azalea’s hand in her own. “It does make him seem like a—a cad, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t him at all. I’ve loved him for ages, Lea. For over a year!”

Azalea stared at the dainty ribbon watch pinned to Clover’s waist. It was beautiful, held suspended in a sweep of silver swirls. Clover gently touched it.

“You know—since—I’m not very good at—at speaking, I like to just—watch people,” said Clover. “Ever since he became the Prime Minister, I’ve watched Fairweller. Did you know he’s a member of our household?”

“Only technically,” said Azalea.

“Yes,” said Clover. She smoothed a fold on her black skirt. “But he’s always acted like it, too. Even—even when we’ve treated him so horridly. Do you remember when Ivy got lost in the gardens, when—when she was four?”

“Yes,” said Azalea slowly. She brought to mind the image of Ivy chasing after a hopping bird with a hatbox, pushing her way through the bushes one fall afternoon. They had laughed over it and returned to clipping flowers for Mother’s room. They thought nothing more of it until Ivy hadn’t shown for dinner. They all blamed one another for not watching her, then ran to the chill gardens to find her.

“She turned up, though,” said Azalea defensively. “She’s never far from the dinner table, you know that.”

“She turned up,” said Clover, “because—because Minister Fairweller searched the wood with his hound. I—I was at the back gate when I saw him leading LadyFair out of the mist into the meadow, Ivy huddled on her back. It—it was like a picture from one of Eve’s storybooks—except for the part where Ivy threw up all over him, when he helped her from the horse.”