Princess of the Midnight Ball - Jessica Day George [24]
And the contest to win one of the princesses’ hands.
Galen need not have worried about that. A week later the Spanian prince left empty-handed and furious. One of the other gardeners, who was courting a chambermaid, told Galen and Walter that the prince had spent several nights in the hall outside the princesses’ rooms, one night waiting in the garden under their windows, and had even been permitted to spend a night in the sitting room that led to their bedchambers. He had seen and heard nothing, yet their shoes were worn out every morning and they were as tired as ever.
Galen stood with Walter and watched Fernand leave. The prince was quite a dandy, and as he supervised the loading of his many trunks into the luggage wagon, he waved his arms in the air expressively and ranted to the Spanian ambassador, who had come to see him off. The lace on Fernand’s cuffs flew, but his elegantly styled hair was so thickly pomaded that it hardly moved as he raged.
“Too proud,” Walter commented.
“What’s that?” Galen jumped. They had been standing there in silence so long that he’d almost forgotten Walter’s presence.
“That young man is far too proud. He was in the gardens a few days ago, and I thought to give him some advice, the benefit of my wisdom, as it were. But he was too proud to listen.”
“I see,” Galen said, giving Walter a sidelong look. “And what advice did you try to give him?”
“The advice I would have given him is vastly different from that I’d have given you, young Galen,” Walter said cryptically. “He hasn’t been as … blessed … as you have been.” And with that, the older man stumped away.
Shaking his head, Galen turned his attention back to the courtyard.
Seeing Galen watching him, the prince whirled around and began to rave in his direction. Galen thought about answering back, but the only Spanian he knew was extremely unflattering, so he merely bowed and went back to the gardens.
A week later, the second son of the king of La Belge arrived.
La Belge
The second son of the king of La Belge was handsome enough, Rose thought as he bowed, if you liked dark hair and blue eyes. Which Jonquil did, judging by the look on her face. As for Rose, she was indifferent, reclining on a sofa in their sitting room, propped up by pillows and draped in shawls. She nodded her head graciously.
“I am Prince Bastien,” he said in heavily accented West-falian. “It is a pleasure to meet you. All of you.” His eyes flickered appraisingly over the rest of the girls.
Pansy and Petunia shared a sofa to Rose’s right; Daisy was on the sofa to her left, with her twin, Poppy, curled up at her feet. None of them were at their best: red noses and watery eyes still abounded. Half of them were racked with lingering coughs, and Rose was too weak to stand for long. But her fever had cooled, so she had agreed to greet the Belgique prince formally.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Bastien,” Rose said, very softly. If she talked any louder, she would cough.
Jonquil, who had recovered almost as fast as Poppy had, came to the rescue and introduced her sisters. Rose could see the prince’s eyes glaze over as Jonquil rattled off the twelve flower names to him, and suppressed a sigh. From experience she knew that he would remember her name, since she was the oldest, but she steeled herself for Poppy’s complaints about being called Daisy, or worse: Pansy. Few visitors could tell the twins apart, and fewer still bothered to sort out the names of anyone younger than fifteen-year-old Hyacinth.
True to form, Prince Bastien barely spared a moment on the younger girls after the introductions were made. He pulled a chair up to Rose’s sofa and proceeded to regale her with the story of his journey