A Pearl Among Princes (10 page)

“Here I come,” I say, and now I am floating cloud high in the sky, beneath the flapping wings of a giant gray gander, suspended from her beak by two shiny ribbons in a purple-rimmed clamshell with dainty ridges, arms wrapped about my knees tucked to my chest, rocking ever so gently, peaceful and safe.
Will you heed the call, Gracepearl
, Mother asks, her voice so close I can nearly touch her.
This birthday, the gift will surprise you, my dear
. . .

“Mother, where are you, what do you mean?” And then she is gone and the goose is singing, “Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop, when the wind blows the cradle will rock, when the bough breaks the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and . . .”

“Ahh!” I sit up, shaking, a cold sweat on my forehead.

“What is it, Gracie?” Lu asks, waking too, touching my arm.

“A nightmare?” Nuff says.

“No,” I say, “just too many confusing dreams.”

CHAPTER 14

Taming Onions

When I report to the kitchen for my afternoon duties, Nora Baker is ready and waiting, no “hello” or “how was your lunch,” just a hurried nod toward the pile of onions on the counter. “There ya go, girl.”

Oh, no. Not the onions. They make my eyes cry so. Father always spared me this least favorite of the kitchen tasks. I rinse off my hands, roll up my sleeves, sigh a loud sigh, and begin. Picking up a fat yellow onion, I peel away the shiny skin, crinkling my lashes, bracing myself for the sting. Sure enough, just as I slice it in half and then quarters, my eyes burn and my nose leaks like a spigot.

Tattlebug sneezes loudly at the sink, sending soap bubbles everywhere.

“Shove a hunk of bread in your mouth,” Nora shouts over to me from the table where she's gutting a fresh catch of shark, blood smattering everywhere.

“What,” I ask, sniffling.

The old baker turned head chef rolls her eyes as if I'm dimwitted. “The bread will soak up the stinging airs,” she says. “Never let an onion take ya down, girl. Gotta learn to tame it.”

I smile thinking how I'll tell Lu and Nuff about this bit of wisdom. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, cut off a piece crust from the loaf, and stick it in my mouth. Feeling foolish, but hopeful, bread hanging from my lips, I reach for another onion. I peel it and halve it and quarter it, and like magic, this time my eyes don't water.

“Fank you, Miff Mora,” I say, my words muffled in the soggy bread. What a smart idea. I make a mental note to ask about the science behind this phenomenon when school with Lady Jule resumes in September. But then I won't be here in September. Summer days are slipping away. If Sir Peter is the prince for me, I must step up my pursuits . . .

“Aye,” Nora says, the faintest hint of a smile the only indication that she heard the compliment in my thanks.

Later I steal a closer look at the old woman's nearly always stern face. Nora Baker has plump cheeks and hazel eyes, her thick gray, white-streaked hair hangs down her back in a braid, nearly long enough to sit on, with just a few raven strands as evidence of the color it once was. As she deftly scales and bones another fat gray fish, scraping the waste into a pile, later to be tossed in the mulch bin, Nora seems to forget the rest of us working beside her in the kitchen. Her face takes on a soft, tranquil expression.

She looks happy, I think. That's it. She is doing work she loves. To me, kitchen work is drudgery. To Nora, kitchen work is joy. How different we all are. Each with different gifts. What is mine, I wonder. All I know for certain is that I'm to find out somewhere other than Miramore.

Later, after dinner, Father suggests a game of chess.

“How are you doing, daughter?” he says, lining his pawns in a row.

“Fine,” I say, lining up mine, wanting to say much more, but not wanting to burden him in his sickness and uncertain of how he will react to my strange and haunting calling. I long to tell him of this anxiousness, how I love Mackree but instead have been flirting with princes, and then there are the faces that . . .

My hand freezes on the last pawn as I fight back tears.

“Gracepearl,” Father says, covering my hand with his grand one. “Talk to me. How can I help?”

There is a knock at the door. Mr. Sparks, the candle maker, one of Father's best chums. “Welcome,” I say. “Do come in. Father will be much cheered to see you.”

I head outside. The garden's in full bloom. I gather some blue lilybells, purple and pink asters, and three sprigs of Queen Anne's lace and bring them inside to find a ribbon and a basket. Mackree's mother's birthday is this week, I know. Mrs. Byre has always been kind as a mother to me and I have missed her lately. I call in to tell Father where I'm going.

“Be home before dark,” he says.

Hopefully Mackree will be out in the stables, far enough away from his cottage to even know I am visiting. When I come up over the hill to the Byres' horse farm, I hear galloping and then there's a whirl of dust as Sir Humpty races past me on Mackree's prized steed. The egg-shaped PIT strikes the muscled stallion's glistening brown coat with his long black rod.

“Charge! Charge! We shall be victorious!” he shouts, digging his heels in roughly. He is bouncing up and down like he's taming a wild colt rather than riding a prize-winning Thoroughbred.
Fall off and crack,
I yell in my mind.

Humpty whips the horse again. “Charge!”

Fool. Cruel fool. I have half a mind to shout to him. There is no need to beat Ransom. Mackree already said that Sir Richard will ride Ransom in the tournament, and the finest horse on Miramore needs no rod to win a race. Mackree would be furious if he knew. But I won't intercede and shame Mackree again. Sometimes it's so hard to know what to do.

Frustrated, I turn toward Mackree's cottage. When I reach the porch, my breath catches in my throat. Nuff is sitting with Mrs. Byre.

Mrs. Byre pours Nuff a cup of tea. Nuff says something and they laugh, so familiar, like old friends or family. Since when does Nuff visit my Mackree's mother? Maybe this is why she was so oddly quiet that night by the fire. Maybe it's not Sir Peter that Nuff is fond of. Maybe it is Mackree! My heart is pounding. My stomach churns. What is wrong with you, Gracepearl? You should be happy. If Nuff likes Mackree, then you are free to pursue Sir Peter without concern. Mackree said he would seek a girl who was happy living on Miramore. Nuff is that for certain. And see how kind and beautiful she is. Why wouldn't Mackree be charmed by her?

“Gracepearl!” a man's voice calls, and I turn.

Mr. Sparks, the candle maker, huffing and red-faced, is hurrying toward me.

My heart stops and starts again. Father.

I drop the basket. “The hospital?”

“Yes,” he says. “Not to worry. I'm sure he will be fine. Just a bit of indigestion is all.”

CHAPTER 15

A Miramore Moonlight Sonata

Reaching the solemn building faster than I would on Ransom's back, I yank open the heavy door, scrunch my nose at the medicine smell, and race to the room where Father was last time.

His face is pale as flour, his breathing faint as a kitten's. I cup my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob, and fall into the chair next to his bed.

After a long while, Father opens his eyes. His smile is the sun winning over a storm cloud.

“Gracepearl, my love,” he says quietly. He inches his large frame upward with labored effort and a grimacing wince.

I lean in. He wraps me in his arms.

“Now, now,” says the gnome-faced Nurse Hartling, sailing swiftly into the room. “Let's try to keep our patient calm, young lady. Cook is stable now. Let's keep it that way.” She looks at Father and—wait, is that a small smile on that usually stern face?

No surprise though, really. Wherever Cook Coal is, it is merrier.

“What happened, Father?” I say.

“I'm fine. Doctor said it was indigestion.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” I sigh, relieved.

Nurse Hartling clears her throat, wanting me to go. I want to tell Nurse Hartling to go, but remembering the power of honey, I say, “Yes, Nurse, of course, you know best.”

The nurse's thin lips pucker into another smile. “It's late, but I will give you a few minutes.” She touches her cap and adjusts the collar on her dress. “I'm off to my other patients now. I have some sixteen to attend to, you know.”

“Oh, sixteen? That is very many patients indeed,” I say.

Father winks ever slightly, just for me to see.

At the door, Nurse Hartling turns back, unable to resist her nature. “Just a short visit,” she says to me. “Cook needs his rest.”

When she leaves, Father smiles broadly and mimics my earlier comment about Nurse Hartling's patients. His eyes are bright and happy. “You've got your mother's sweet way with words you do. And her beauty. And her heart.”

Father and I visit for a bit. I am sure he is getting better and he will come home with me soon. Leaving the hospital, I take a deep breath of sweet island air. Captain Jessie, where has that man been, passes me on the path. We exchange greetings. What a curious man. I wonder what he's up to? I turn as if I'm going into the chapel and when it's safe I take a peek back up the road just as Captain Jessie is entering the hospital.

Hmm. Interesting. Maybe he likes Nurse Hartling. The thought of that makes me laugh. Feeling happier now that I know Father is okay, I head home with a hopeful heart.

There is something on my front step. As I approach I see it is the birthday basket for Mrs. Byre that I dropped when I hurried off to see Father. The flowers are wilted now. Who brought this? Nuff? Mackree? My head is swirling with so many confusing emotions. Enough of this. I cannot care about these Miramore matters. Clearly Mackree has moved on and I must too. It is a prince I need. A prince and passage to the world that calls me.

Sir Peter. I will find Sir Peter this instant. I'll not sit idle on a tuffet waiting for him to come calling again. This time, I will take charge of my destiny.

Sir Peter seems stunned but delighted to see me outside his lodge.

“Lady Grace,” he says, bowing his head slightly, a smile springing to his lips. “To what do I owe this most welcome surprise?”

“Will you walk with me?” The words rush out like a gale of wind.

The smile leaves his face for a second and when it returns, there is a sweet joy in his eyes to match. “Gladly,” he says, offering me his arm.

I hear a rustle in the bushes. Tattlebug, no doubt.

“Gracepearl,” he says. “May I call you that?”

He looks so dashing in the moonlight. “Yes, of course.” I nod my head.

“And you must call me Peter.”

“Peter,” I say, “of course.”

We walk toward the beach. A breeze wafts by us, setting two sets of my sea-chimes on nearby cottage doorways tinkling.

“How lovely,” Peter says, “like music.” He stops and reaches out to touch one of the chimes. “I've never seen anything like this before.”

“I made it,” I say.

He looks into my eyes and smiles. “And so your list of talents grows. I'd much prefer this music to the lutes and pipes I must endure at home.”

“Thank you,” I say.