Page 2 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

Salt and fish perfumed the air, burning eyes and noses, yet filling the lungs and mind with life-fulfilling happiness; all the while, gulls soared overhead, screeching in song the call of the bounty, clinging to the foam-covered fishing nets below.

The cycle of nature working together, as it always had been, as it always would be—harmonious in its symbiotic simplicity. There in the middle of it all, yet quite hidden from view, spying eyes peered out, taking in all the sights, transforming them into fantastic, fanciful images much grander in scale and sensibility than their reality could ever live up to.

“Millicent! Millicent Merchant, where are you, stupid girl?” Robert Kingscross, father Merchant’s apprentice and fiancé to the ever-so-much prettier, smarter, graceful, elegant princess of the Merchant family, Margaret, called out to her. A daily ritual that neither Millie nor Robert embraced, as each felt this little exercise in propriety was an unfounded disturbance of activities both held in higher regard and importance. “Your father and dear mother have sent me to fetch you once again, like a hound.”

“If you don’t like it, quit.” Millicent stepped out from underneath the gangway planks, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress and making sure to conceal her knickers.

“As if it were that easy. Why don’t you try remembering your station in this community and that you are, in fact, a girl—a stupid girl—but a girl?”

“I’m not stupid. I may be very un-Margaret, but I’m not stupid.”

“You areveryun-Margaret.” His ever-present, disapproving sneer, at least where Millicent was concerned, turned on her. “You smell of fish, there’s dirt under your fingernails and your hair could be used as one of those fishing nets you so desperately wish to keep company. Go home.”

“I don’t smell like fish!” Millicent spat as she made her way back up to the boardwalk that led away from the harbor.

Incensed that her parents had once again interrupted a most glorious adventure for no better reason than learning needlepoint or how to pour a cup of tea, she lollygagged, drinking in the wondrous fragrance of the lilacs growing on the bushes in front of the town hall, and watched the bees sapping nectar off the tiny blue forget-me-nots in old Mrs. Hollingsworth’s garden.

Sometime after Mr. Kingscross was sent to fetch the girl, having forgotten all about her parents and instead found herself the heroine of yet another fine adventure, she drifted onto the stoop and through the front door of her parents’ brick and mortar home. Painted white and covered in lush, deep green ivy. Although not the largest, it was by far one of the loveliest homes in the area.

Millicent moved through the home taking note of Father Merchant sitting behind the desk in his study, going over his daily ledger with Mr. Kingscross annoyingly close, and how Mother and Margaret scuttled about the kitchen, having already started preparation for dinner.

Charles and Jules, youngest of the Merchant children, lay playing war with lead soldiers in the front parlor. Millie stared deeply into the flickering light coming off the flames in the fireplace. How beautifully the orange and yellow flares bowed or curtsied to one another before gracefully stepping a minuet. Elegance, charm and beauty for certain, but what of its other side, a darker side, the raw merciless power of heat and passion? She stood, mesmerized by the flaming chariot pulled by six massive burning draught horses barreling down upon the graceful minuet dancers, scattering them across the stones of the hearth.

“Millicent? I thought I saw you… Where have you been? We sent Robert for you ages ago.” Margaret walked from the kitchen wiping her hands with her apron, a small streak of flour marring the pristine look of the perfect woman. “We need your help. Father has a guest coming for dinner tonight. There’s no time for your foolishness now.”

“Yes, Millie dear, please come help us,” Mother called out to the girl.

“As you wish, Mother.” She walked back to where the missus was rolling out dough for the pie crust, relieving the older Merchant to carry on with her other supper tasks. “Who does Father have coming to dinner?”

“Mr. Leland Barnabas.” Her mother brushed the graying hair from her temples with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Why would Father have Leland Barnabas for dinner and what are you sorry for?” Millicent trimmed the crust, making a braided edge before replacing it into the oven to bake.

At quarter to eight, there was a knock on the door. Millicent, unable to control her inquisitive nature, popped her head around the kitchen door to see Father Merchant send Mr. Kingscross to answer. In the doorway spot-on with his promptness, his ginger hair bristling like the back of a hedgehog, stood the man in his entire crooked-nosed, crooked-teethed glory. Mr. Barnabas. He wrinkled the senses with his smell of antiseptic, Mr. Barnabas Sr. being the local apothecary and Leland, his apprentice. The entire Barnabas family smelled of formaldehyde, and they were avoided if at all possible.

Robert Kingscross held a finger under his nose, looking as if he could barely hold back the bile from rising in his stomach at catching the first whiffs of the preserving agent.

“Please come in. Mr. Merchant is waiting to receive you in the parlor,” Robert said.

“Thank you, Mr. Kingscross.” Leland followed Robert back to the parlor, where Father Merchant poured brandies for the gentlemen.

Millicent was torn by the commands from her mother to “come away from the door and help finish the meal” and her need to hear what the men discussed. Mr. Barnabas was far from a familial acquaintance. Therefore, there had to be a reason for his invitation. In the end, curiosity won out and Millicent slipped from the kitchen to eavesdrop on the company.

“Good of you to come, good of you to come.” Father Merchant handed Mr. Barnabas a brandy and patted him firmly on the back.

“Thank you for having me. Please pardon my boldness, but does she know the occasion of my visit?”

She? Hmm…

“No. No. Her mother doesn’t feel she’s ready for such an arrangement.” Father Merchant calmly sipped his drink. “We’ve been having some issue since the decision was agreed upon.”

“That, I hope, is not a family trait. I will not tolerate any such questioning of my judgments in my own home.” Mr. Barnabas raised his glass to the older Merchant and tipped it back as well.

“I assure you, Mr. Barnabas,” Robert Kingscross said, interjecting himself into the conversation. “It is not a family trait, as I will be wedding the lovely Margaret not two months from now.Shewill make a perfect wife.”

While the three men sat discussing the future of whatever unlucky girl the men were making agreements for—maybe Ruby Tuttle, her father passed last year and her mother had not the means to arrange a good match, and maybe Father Merchant stepped in to help ease her mother’s burden, still, poor girl—Millicent felt a pluck at the back of her dress and jumped, turning to see Mother Merchant who ordered Millie to rejoin she and Margaret in the kitchen to finish up the remaining preparations to the dinner menu.

The places were set. Margaret called the men to the table and they all took their seats. All except Millicent, who was ordered to serve the first course.

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