The Duke of Snow and Apples (3 page)

“Oh indeed,” said Lady Enshaw. “If anyone was hurt, we’ll probably hear about it soon, but she’s usually very careful.”

“What…?” Charlotte sorted through the myriad exclamations that warred for dominance in her mind. “What is it that the Seven Dowagers
do
, exactly?”

Aunt Hildy spread her hands. “We create. We sing, we write, we cast magic. Whatever we like, I suppose. I simply provide the haven these women can do it in.”

A knock on the door sounded, and the tea arrived. Lady Alderley poured herself a generous cup, ignoring the milk and sugar. “None of us live the lives that are…
expected
of women. But our children are grown, and our aristocratic responsibilities have dwindled, so we come here to Charmant Park, as often as we can, to pursue those arts that have always inspired us. Here, there is peace.” A muffled, smaller boom sounded, followed by a frustrated yelp. “Of a sort.”

“Except for the occasional lavish affair put on to entertain our families and distract them from worrying over our propriety,” said Aunt Hildy with poorly masked glee. “I hope you brought a costume for the masquerade I’ve planned.”

“I just have one question,” said Charlotte.

All three Dowagers leaned in.

“You said you were called the Seven Dowagers. You’ve only mentioned six. Who is the seventh?”

The glance the three older women shared soared straight over Charlotte’s head—an inexplicable mixture of trepidation, wariness, and concern.

Aunt Hildy was the first to pull out of the Dowagers’ silent tête-à-tête. “Dorothea is the seventh.”

“Dorothea who?”

“Just Dorothea,” said Lady Alderley, with a note of finality.

“And what does she do?”

“Whatever she pleases,” said Lady Enshaw. Although the women were no less friendly, Charlotte sensed a growing distance between them and realized this was a thread of conversation that would go no further.

They made short work of the tea and cakes. Afterward, her great-aunt clasped the bellpull, murmured, “Freddy,” in precise accents, and pulled.

A minute later, a footman came in, the charmed bell on his shoulder knot still jangling from the bell-pull’s summons. With a start, Charlotte recognized him as the one whose head she had cordially introduced to an apple.

Freddy
, was it? It was bad enough she’d thrown a tantrum in front of a servant, but knowing his name made him a person. Throwing a tantrum in front of a person made it worse. She dropped her gaze, only to notice he wore his indoor livery now, which meant that instead of boots, he wore clean white stockings and buckled pumps that showed off the powerful line of his calves.

She turned away in embarrassment, then mentally slapped herself. There was nothing wrong with admiring a footman’s calves. That’s what they were hired for. They were supposed to be lean and muscled and beautiful. Admiring a footman’s calves was like admiring the intricate molding on someone’s ceiling—it was a testament to the owner’s taste and discernment. Nothing more.

But knowing Freddy’s name made him a man, and admiring a man’s calves made Charlotte feel hot, embarrassed, and wicked.

“Charlotte, this is Freddy Snow, our first footman,” said Aunt Hildy. “Now to be
your
footman.”

That caught her attention. “I beg your pardon?”

Aunt Hildy held up a hand. “I will hear no buts. When you are under my roof, you follow my rules, and my one rule is that you are to be pampered shamelessly. He will accompany your every walk, knock on your every door, and snap smartly to your every command. You will not, under any circumstance, lift a finger for yourself, or I will be
very
disappointed. Is that clear?”

Charlotte refused to disappoint her great-aunt just because she’d thrown an apple at her footman. He probably had fruit thrown at him all the time. It probably made his day more exciting. Freddy’s unsettlingly lovely, too-blue eyes settled on Charlotte, and once again she felt a peculiar stirring of warmth in her belly. “Perfectly, Aunt Hildy.”

Chapter Three

The heels of Frederick’s pumps
click-click-click
ed against the polished hardwood floors as he led Charlotte toward her room. As they moved through the oldest and grandest part of the house, the eastern wing, it felt a bit like walking backward in time. The windows grew smaller and narrower, with panes of stained glass depicting intricate scenes of battle and myth, streaking the silent air with colors. The carvings upon niches, walls, and ceilings became simpler, but more elegant.

Unbeknownst to the casual observer who was never called upon to scrub dust and grit from those carvings once a year, there were also subtle glyphs, spells of warding and protection, integrated into the curling stone leaves and scrollwork. Even looking at them made Frederick’s neck ache.

“This was always my favorite part of the house when I was a child,” Charlotte said. “I felt like a princess in a castle. It’s so lovely and old. Look at it all!”

The breath caught in Frederick’s throat, as Charlotte’s excitement stirred his own. Reality brought him back to earth with a thud. Lovely and old he had thought it once, but a servant’s more practical concerns had overtaken his awe. Like how many loads of coal and salamanders had to be hauled in to keep the rooms warm, how many candles and lampstones had to be trimmed, polished, and replaced to light the hallways that grew impossibly gloomy once the sun dimmed.

And yet, a remnant of that wonder remained, a persistent beating ache in his chest.

They arrived at a double set of mahogany doors, upon which the royal coat of arms had been carved and detailed in gilt. Charlotte stopped dead.

“Is there something wrong?” Frederick asked.

“This is to be my room?” she asked, eyes wide. “For me?”

“Yes, miss.”

“But these are the state rooms. For kings and queens.”

“The old state rooms,” said Frederick. “When the rest of this house was built, new ones were commissioned near the central hall.” Taking a key out of his pocket, he turned it in the lock and opened the doors wide.

Charlotte whooped. “It’s
marvelous
!”

The state chambers, the old ones anyway, were a massively ostentatious display of Allmarch’s national colors, a patriotic riot of green and gold splashed across nearly every fabric and surface. The linens had been aired, the furniture polished to a mirror-shine, and nests of fiery salamanders glimmered in every hearth. Charlotte danced into the first room, the state parlor, spouting delighted, infectious laughter, her feet barely kissing the thick Elassine carpet before darting toward something else that caught her fancy.

Nonplussed, Frederick followed her, and watched as she ran her fingers over the malachite-inlaid writing table and sank onto a luxurious couch upholstered in bottle-green silk with gold brocade. Then she dashed into the state bedchamber and leaped, giggling, through the green velvet hangings decorating the enormous four-poster bed to land with a satisfied little
thump
on the matching bed linens.

“Freddy,” she called, her voice muffled only a little by the bed hangings. “When Her Majesty Queen Glorianna comes calling, you will have to send her packing! This room is occupied!”

Frederick felt his face twitch into an instinctive smile. He settled his mouth back into a firm line and tried to recall his earlier apprehension. “I take it these rooms are to your liking, miss?”

“I’ve never had anything so fine,” she said.

“Her ladyship is determined to offer you the very best of her hospitality.”

Two hands pulled the hangings back, revealing Charlotte’s face, surrounded by her now-disheveled hair. “What you mean to say is that I should have come back to visit sooner.”

The charming wildness of her stance caught Frederick by surprise and made him back up a step. “I neither said nor implied anything of the kind, miss.”

“Well, no. But I’m trying to hold a conversation with a footman and by necessity that means I have to keep up your side of it.”

“I could, that is, I mean, if it should please you…” He fought against the absurd urge to babble, to keep his lips too occupied with words to grin at her cheekiness. “I’d be more than happy to oblige, miss, provided you allow me a word in edgewise.”

“
Well
,” Charlotte huffed, but that rebellious corner of her mouth gave her amusement away. What a childish, changeable girl she was. Through some obscure magic Frederick couldn’t define, all of his nerves jangled to life around her, as if her presence repeatedly struck a sensitive bone inside of him.

At the creak of an opening door, both of them turned their heads as Miss Lamonte tiptoed in from the attached dressing-room.

“My
pardonnes
,” she said, dipping into a curtsey. “I did not hear you come in. I have finished airing your gowns in the closet. There is a particular one you wish to wear to dinner, no?”

“Yes, of course,” said Charlotte. She waved her hand at Frederick, dismissing him as easily as if he’d become invisible. “I’ll ring for you if I need you.”

…

Lamonte was far too pretty to be a lady’s maid. Too fashionable. Too proud. Charlotte suddenly felt silly, leaping onto beds and dancing across fancy carpets as if she’d never entertained a sophisticated thought in her life.

She hadn’t been too embarrassed to do so in front of Freddy, but then, he was different. She didn’t need to fear the loss of his good opinion—she’d already lost it with the toss of an apple. She could have danced the
water-step
naked into the village square and he wouldn’t have blinked. Freddy knew his place.

Charlotte slid off the bed, smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirts with her hands, and put on her haughtiest expression, staring down this arrogant sparrow who fancied herself a peacock. “I think I shall wear the yellow print muslin gown tonight.”

“Very good, miss. And shall I air out the red silk as well?”

Charlotte flinched. She had no special occasion in mind for that red gown, except maybe a bonfire, but her choices had been to take it with her to Charmant Park, or leave it at home to risk someone finding it and asking questions. She doubted she’d ever have the heart or the stomach to wear it again. Perhaps she would ask Freddy to fetch her some flammable materials later. “I have no plans for the red dress. Not yet. The pale yellow print muslin.”

“Certainly. Shall I dress your hair now, or did you want to rest a bit before dinner?”

Charlotte checked the gilt clock ticking away on the bedside table. Two hours to dinner. That didn’t leave her a lot of time. Attending a dinner or a ball was the same as a battle to Charlotte, and she always preferred to prepare in advance. She nodded.

As the maid went to work, Charlotte’s mind traveled inward. Like a prim, efficient clerk, she sorted through her memory for the materials she needed to face a party of ladies, gentleman, and most importantly, bachelors. Harmless pieces of gossip. Her small store of witticisms, carefully rehearsed. Pleasing political commentary that called for general improvements without offending either party. She would have to budget and scrimp to remain charming for a party of this duration, but it helped that proper ladies were applauded for saying very little.

Everything she said would have to be perfect. Every movement had to be precise.

For there was one way to truly get back at her sister Sylvia for her betrayal with Mr. Peever, and it was to come home from this party with a fiancé. Preferably one richer and more handsome than Sylvia’s. Sylvia and Peever could rot in sickeningly happy wedded bliss, but Charlotte would not be the spinster relation who had to watch them do it while taking their charity.

For all Lamonte’s arrogance, she was more than competent at her tasks. No pinching or pulling as she dressed and powdered Charlotte’s hair, no clumsiness when she applied glitter or subtle perfume. With a steady hand, Lamonte used the finest of kohl-pencils to inscribe a spell, in maddeningly tiny glyphs, onto the back of Charlotte’s neck that shocked her hair into bobbing curls. She jumped.

“
Veleo
, miss,” Lamonte apologized. “Curls are the fashion. Perhaps you would prefer a different style?”

“N-no, it’s all right,” Charlotte said. “I just didn’t expect you to use any high magic.” Fey blood provided some resistance against the physical ravages of spells cast in the civilized languages of Benine or Kelok, but even her sister Sylvia checked herself for lines or spots whenever she cast something especially strenuous. Unblooded, how could Lamonte risk even a hair-curling spell without damage to her looks?

“It is nothing.” Lamonte waved a graceful, unblemished hand. “When it comes to spells, I suppose I am lucky.”

Or illegitimately Blooded.
Charlotte bit her lip, storing that piece of gossip for later.

“Besides, it is far better to have a ladies’ maid who knows all her craft, magical and physical, yes?”

“That makes sense,” Charlotte said, eyeing her magicked hair. The curls bounced and swayed with every movement of her head. They were styled enough to draw attention, but loose enough to look natural. Wild, artistic spells that gave one butterfly wings or trails of stars or dancing embroidered figures were all well and good—but when it came to modifying one’s true appearance, one’s natural face and features, underplaying was key. Lamonte, clearly, was a master of the arts and magics of her profession. Perhaps she knew about other things, as well.

“Tell me, Lamonte,” said Charlotte, as the maid fixed an ivory comb in her hair, “What do you know of the other guests attending this house party?”

“Lady Enshaw’s son is here, and her grandsons,” Lamonte replied. “Lady Alderley’s granddaughter. Lady Leighwood’s
carrou
, how do you say? Youngest son?”

“You know perfectly well
how we say
,” Charlotte snapped. It was difficult enough to prepare herself mentally and physically for a house party, and Lamonte’s silly false accent ravaged her last nerve. “What I mean is, what do you know
about
them?”

In the mirror, Lamonte’s fist clenched, fingers white, even as her face remained serene. “Nothing, miss. I take no time to listen. My job is all that is important to me.”

Belatedly, Charlotte realized she’d gone too far. She knew Lamonte’s look, that glass-smooth facade. She’d worn it herself on occasion. No more private information would be forthcoming from that quarter.
Boils-curse it. What am I going to do now?

Her hands tensed in her lap, then relaxed.
I still have my footman.
Freddy, was it? Well, if the apple hadn’t scared him off, nothing would.