Page 47 of Disenchanted
“I can see that. But where did it come from? Who sent it?”
“Can’t tell you that. My only ’structions were to deliver the box.”
“But who instructed you?”
“Nope. I’m mum.” The boy motioned with his fingers as though sewing his lips closed. “I get paid extra for my ’scretion. Now if you’ll ’scuse me, I got other affairs to tend.”
He made a quaint bow and then tore off running back down the lane. I stared after in bemusement before turning my attention to the parcel. I peeled away the paper wrapping to reveal a small, plain wooden box. When I lifted the lid, my breath caught in my throat. There, nestled against the silk lining, were my mother’s emeralds.
Recovering from my shock, I bolted out the garden gate, hoping to summon the pert lad back and oblige him to answer my questions. The urchin had already vanished down the lane. Upon reflection, I decided it did not matter. There was onlyone person who would have employed such a messenger and returned my earrings in this anonymous fashion. Mal.
He would have been aware if he had proposed buying the earrings from Withypole, my pride would have prevented me from accepting his offer. I worried about how much coin and effort he’d had to spend to redeem the emeralds. It could not have been easy or cheap to persuade the fairy to surrender the “twinkles” he had so obviously coveted.
I would have ordered Mal not to do it, but I was so grateful that he had. Deeply moved by his gesture, my eyes filled with tears. The man was a complete rogue, but how I did love him. Malcolm Hawkridge was truly the best friend a woman could ever have. As I wended my way back to the house, clutching my precious parcel, for the first time, I allowed myself to wonder.
Was it possible for friendship to develop into something warmer?
After all the excitement of the morning, I had difficulty getting Amy and Netta to settle down to the task of working on the gowns. Neither of my sisters was fond of sewing. Netta could set a neat enough stitch, but Amy was so restless and inattentive that her seams often had to be picked out and redone.
As a girl, I had never had much patience for needlework either, but necessity had obliged me to master the art. Making clothes for my family had turned me into an accomplished seamstress and now I rather enjoyed the task.
At least I did when I was allowed to stitch in peace and quiet, absorbed by my thoughts as my needle dove in and out of the fabric in a soothing repetitious rhythm. Alas, such was not the case with all four of us crowded into the parlor. Imelda had returned from a morning visit to Madam Dearling, the woman’s previous unkindness forgotten. My stepmother tended to forgive easily so the two were fast friends again. Consequently, Em wasfull of the latest gossip and my sisters were no less eager to discuss the prince’s morning ride.
All the chatter and the state of the parlor grated on my nerves. I preferred to work in a tidy, organized space and our sitting room was a total disaster, sewing boxes, scissors, stray spools of thread and bits of fabric scattered everywhere. Netta’s green silk and Imelda’s mauve brocade were still in pieces, the garments slowly taking shape. Amy’s pink gown was nearly done, or it would have been if I had not had to pick out her gnarled stitches from the hemline.
The conversation shifted from the prince to his brothers. I only half paid attention as I struggled to pick out the knots without damaging the delicate silk.
“Florence Bafton says the reason that Prince Florian’s brothers never visit Midtown is because they are far too snobbish,” Amy said. While waiting for me to undo the mess she had made, she played annoying games with thimbles, clacking them together on her fingers.
“I do hope not,” Imelda replied. “I remember them as being such sweet little boys, well except for the twins who could be a bit naughty.”
“I have heard that the next oldest brother, Kendrick, is very sweet and charming,” Netta said. “Never disagreeing with anyone, never cross, always smiling.”
“That could get really tedious,” I grumbled as a stubborn knot refused to yield. The silk was fraying from my efforts. Likely, the entire hem would have to come out and be redone. I hunted for my scissors and discovered Amy had appropriated them again. As I retrieved my shears, I plucked the thimbles from her fingers and dropped them back in the sewing basket. In too good of a humor to pout, she playfully thrust her tongue out at me.
“I was told that the twins, Dahl and Dashiel are the charming ones,” Amy said. “Full of fun and mischief. They like to fool people by pretending to be each other.”
“Surely they are too old for such childish pranks,” I said as I resumed my seat.
Amy continued, “And then there is Prince Ryland who is reputed to be so brave, going on quests and slaying dragons.”
“What did some poor dragon ever do to him?” I muttered.
“Ella!”
I looked up from threading my needle to find my stepmother frowning at me.
“Attitude, my dear,” Imelda reminded me gently.
I donned a simpering smile, which caused Amy and Netta to giggle and Imelda to heave a long-suffering sigh. As the conversation resumed, I tried to listen without offering acid remarks.
Conspiring with Mal had caused me to forget the true purpose of the ball. Like my sisters, I would be expected to look over the field of men in search of a future husband, a prospect I found more daunting than the theft of the orb.
Imelda had gone off into rhapsodies again, assuring us all what a magical night the ball would be when a knock sounded at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Amy cried, leaping up with such alacrity, she knocked over her sewing basket. Glad of any diversion that would get her away from the needlework, she rushed from the parlor before my stepmother could protest.
While Netta and I righted Amy’s basket and set about gathering up pin cushions, thimbles and stray spools of thread, Imelda fretted. “Oh dear! I do hope that is not your friend Mr. Hawkridge calling again with more gifts of chocolates.”
