Entwined(84)

“…as soon as Miss Bramble is willing, of course,” said the man in dark, rumbling tones. He mounted his horse.

“As you say.” The King looked up from Dickens’s side, seeing Azalea at the stable door. “Miss Azalea,” he said.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Azalea. “I need to talk to you. I’m not interrupting?”

“No, it is quite all right.”

Intrigued, Azalea waited until the gentleman had ridden away, giving her a polite nod as he passed, before she pulled the creaking door closed. The King remained at Dickens’s side, buckling and harnessing and adjusting straps.

“Bramble?” said Azalea. “Willing? What did you give him?”

The King cinched the saddle. “It is going to snow,” he said. “You should head in.”

“Mrs. Graybe says you’ve been talking to him all morning,” said Azalea, stubbornly curious. She did not like how the King deflected her question.

“Azalea, did you have something to talk to me about?” said the King.

“Oh, yes,” said Azalea. She hesitated. “Tell me about Bramble first. Please. I’m supposed to watch out for the girls.”

An odd expression crossed the King’s bearded face. He considered Azalea, sizing her up. He paused.

“Well,” he said.

“Well?” said Azalea encouragingly.

The King gave a nod. From his suitcoat he produced a green broken-sealed letter. He handed it to Azalea.

“He has inundated me with letters this past week,” said the King. “Three a day at least. He’s even bought a town house on High Street. This is his most recent letter. Tell me what you make of it.”

Azalea eagerly unfolded the much-creased letter and read the hurried, loopy handwriting.

Your Most Exalted Majesty, Your Grace, etc., etc.:

I don’t know what ruddy else I can offer. You won’t have a fig to do with my lands or my money or anything, I suppose, of value to anyone else. I suppose that makes you a good father but it certainly makes things rum for me. I haven’t anything else to offer, but a sincere heart, one that aches for Bramble, her sweet, plucky spirit, her smart whippish mouth, her heart, and her dear hand.

“Her hand?” said Azalea.

I’m in agony now, hoping that my steward will convince you. If not I think I’ll break all the windows in the house and drown myself in a bucket.

A most sincere heart—

Lord Edward Albert Hemly Haftenravenscher, Esq.



Azalea stared at the letter.

“Marriage!” she said. “Lord Teddie wants to marry her! Marry Bramble!”

The King smiled. “Just so,” he said. He slipped the letter from Azalea’s hands. “He thinks her a run-a-hoop in a croquet game, raspberry jam on toast, cadmium red in a paint set. That is what he has written.”

“He’s around the twist,” said Azalea. “Breaking all the windows? He’s mad.”

“Ah, no,” said the King. “It’s only madness if you actually do it. If you want to break all the windows in the house and drown yourself in a bucket but don’t actually do it, well, that’s love.”

Azalea was consternated. “You told him of course not, didn’t you?”

The King paused. In a long, heavy moment, everything turned upside down, and Azalea thought, Oh, no…

“Ah, Azalea.” The King put a hand on her shoulder. “I told him he could.”

“What!”

“I just sent the marriage contract with his steward,” said the King. “I certainly told him no often enough. But—ah.” The King placed both his hands on her shoulders. “He loves her. He doesn’t give a fig for her dowry; he loves her for who she is.”

Azalea mouthed wordlessly at the King until words finally pushed themselves to her mouth.

“But—but—that’s not the way it’s done,” she stammered. “You can’t just arrange Bramble’s marriage without even asking her! That’s not how it is done nowadays!”

“I am perfectly aware of how it is done nowadays,” said the King crisply. “I am not that old. You yourself said that if Lord Teddie proved himself in earnest—”

“Not like this!” said Azalea.

“And furthermore,” said the King, his tone rising in volume and crispness, “since when are any of my wishes not met with outright rebellion from you all? Do you honestly think if things were not arranged as such, Bramble would even consider it?”

We watch out for each other, Azalea had promised Bramble. The King would never arrange your marriage—and I would never let him—

Azalea’s nails dug into her palms, clenching so hard they broke the skin. She paced up and down the aisle between the stalls, scattering straw with each step. Her skirts snapped as she turned. Her cheeks blazed, hot and feverish. Dickens grew skittish at Azalea’s sudden movements.

“How dare you!” said Azalea, fists shaking. “My sisters will have a choice! Sir, you’ve got to get that contract back!”

“I will not—”

“Mother never would have allowed you to do such a thing!”

“Don’t tell me what your mother would do or would not do!” The King yanked Dickens to the mounting block. “I am already aware I am not her. You shall have to accept me and my decisions, painful as that is!”