Princess of Athelia: An Unfinished Fairy Tales Novella (10 page)

Before I can respond, he is already heading toward the door that leads to the parlor. Lillie throws me a smirk—I get the impression she is pleased that Edward has decided to go ahead without me. For a moment, I itch to pull her away, grab Edward’s arm, and say I’m sorry. But I don’t want him spending the rest of his life with the old Katriona—a girl I’m sure he barely knows. A girl who could be similar to Bianca.

I bite my lip and wait till Edward and Lillie have disappeared from sight.

* * *

Rosie is doing needlework when I arrive. Her head is bent over a snowy white dress, her pale blond curls spilling over her shoulder, the thimble on her thumb gleaming silver as she sits by the window. From a distance, she looks like the ideal Athelian woman—demure, patient, hardworking. But as I approach her, the dress on her lap seems too large and cumbersome. Moreover, despite being of similar age, her face lacks Paige’s carefree, bucolic expression.

“Hello, Rosie.”

Her hand pauses and she looks up. Her entire face lights up. “Aunt Kat! You really came!”

“It’s Kat,” I say, leaning over her chair. “Don’t you have a maid or a servant to sew for you?” Not that there’s anything wrong with Rosie doing her own work, but after witnessing the army Constance commands, it feels strange to me that she can’t just get someone else to do menial tasks.

She shrugs. “Mama said
every
girl must learn how to use a needle and thread. Sometimes Thomas makes me sew the buttons on his shirt even though he can have Faith do it.”

Yeah, Thomas does look capable of bullying his little sister. Still, I’m surprised that she has to do embroidery when she’s only nine.

“Isn’t it the same with you, Kat?” Rosie’s large eyes are full of curiosity. “Don’t you have to do things for your father—and brothers, if you have any?”

“My father passed away when I was a child. And no, I don’t have any brothers.”
One Bianca is enough
, I mutter in my head. “But surely you have other stuff you can learn. That math book your older brother gave you . . . do you have math lessons?”

Rosie shakes her head and looks down. “Mama said a girl ought to learn music and literature to the extent of making her company pleasant with a male acquaintance.”

“Rubbish,” I say without thinking. Her mouth falls open; she stares at me—an altogether familiar expression for those moments when I let slip evidence of my un-Athelian upbringing. I really should conceal it when I can, but sometimes there are things—such as child labor—that are too shocking for me to keep my mouth zipped. “You only need to learn for yourself. And I don’t get why you don’t need to learn math.” I remember Poppy, her brow furrowed as she tried to balance the checkbook while Elle explained patiently to her. “Look, you’re supposed to grow up and get married and run a household, right? What if you give a servant some money for purchases, and he comes back with the wrong change, and you couldn’t tell the difference? Do you want to be swindled?”

Rosie is speechless.

“Um . . .” I drop my hand when I realize I’ve been waving in the air. “Sorry. But I just thought you should know. Don’t mind me.”

“But Papa said that girls can’t think for themselves, and that’s what men are for.”

I try very hard not to roll my eyes. No wonder Thomas acted so condescending. “But what about Tristan? Didn’t he give you his workbook?”

“Papa said he always had weird ideas. That’s why he told me that I should keep the book out of sight.”

“Do
you
want to study it? Don’t give me any more of that ‘Papa said’ or ‘Mama said’ stuff. Tell me what you really think.”

Rosie glances at me, still kind of bemused, but I give her a firm nod. “Tell me.”

“I . . . I guess I don’t want to be stupid,” she says, her hand bunching around a handful of the dress. “That’s what Thomas always calls me.”

I pull up a chair. “Great. I’m glad you said that.”

We spend the next hour or so plowing through Tristan’s workbook. Rosie had to dig up an even older one because the one Thomas wanted to copy was too advanced. I show her how to add and subtract, and how to recite the multiplication table. She is a bit slow in the beginning, but after working through the same sum over and over again, she seems to grasp the concept, and the rest of the problems go much quicker.

While Rosie works at her desk, I walk around the room. There are dolls sitting in a cushioned chair, a bright, painted rocking horse in a corner, and a couple of rubber balls. Of course, I can’t resist browsing the bookshelf. Books with titles like “
How to Be a Good Daughter, Wife, and Mother
.” And as Rosie grows older and is eventually presented, she’ll also get those books on ballroom manners and fan flirting like the ones I used to have when I was in Lady Bradshaw’s house.

And then I realize that even though I feel disdain toward the company Constance keeps, and the awfully boring conversations the ladies have when the men go hunting—it’s inevitable that they can’t talk much beyond gossip. They’ve been brought up to be ignorant and taught not to think for themselves. What else can they do when the resources aren’t provided for them?

“Kat!”

Rosie has left her desk; she has her nose pressed against the window. “Thomas . . . he went rowing in the lake, and he’s fallen in!”

I rush to the window. Outside, a small boat is bobbing on the lake while Thomas flails in the waters, one arm clawing the air.

“Doesn’t he know how to swim?”

“No one taught him!” Rosie clutches my arm. “Oh, Kat, what can we do? Papa and Mama have gone to the village, and I don’t even know who can swim.”

I don’t even pause to think. “I can.”

* * *

I race toward the lake as fast as I can. Once I stop at the bank, I try to take off my gown but without success. My fingers fumble at the convoluted web of laces, and the more I try, the tighter I lace myself. Frustrated, I rip the laces off my dress. It falls on the ground in a heavy heap of velvet. Next I cast off my corset. Now with only my chemise on, I dive into the lake.

My heart contracts when the ice-cold water hits me. The sun may be shining, but it is still autumn. But I don’t have time to think about it. I swim over to Thomas, who is still struggling in the water. I grab his arm, fully intending to drag him back to the bank, but then he fastens his arms around my neck in a death grip. We both go down in the water.

Dammit!
If he doesn’t loosen his hold on me, we could both drown. I open my mouth but swallow a mouthful of water. I can’t tell him to let go. And even if I could, I very much doubt he would listen to me.

I struggle to get Thomas to loosen his grip, but he holds fast to me. He might only be thirteen, but his strength is already more than I can handle. For a moment, I apologize to Edward.
I’m sorry that I can’t be with you for the remaining months.

But then I hear Edward’s voice in my head.
We still have nine months left. Make them the happiest nine months I have yet to live.

A newfound strength rises within me. I manage to wrench my arm free from his grasp. But instead of trying to get Thomas back to shore, I punch him in the face—hard. That does the trick. He sags from the blow, falling limp in my arms.

I say a prayer of thanks, but my troubles aren’t over yet. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to drag him back to the shore. After a moment of hesitation, I start to head toward the boat. After much difficulty, I manage to dump him on it. I swim back to the bank, towing the boat with the unconscious boy on it.

“Kat!”

Rosie and several servants are now standing on the bank, their eyes as round as saucers. I deposit Thomas on the grass and check his pulse. He is still unconscious, so I tilt his head back and clamp my mouth over his, using what health class taught us about mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“What are you doing?” the steward cries.

“Trying to save his life,” I snap.

I continue with the ministrations, ignoring the horrified looks on their faces.
Please wake up,
I pray frantically.
Please open your eyes.
A few minutes later, my prayers are answered. Thomas starts to gurgle and cough, and water dribbles down his chin. Then his eyes flicker open, and he looks up at me, his expression dazed.

I let out a huge sigh of relief. If he didn’t wake up . . . if he didn’t wake up . . .

A choked cry comes from Rosie.

A servant—the housekeeper, I think—gasps. “Praise the Lord—he’s alive!”

I get to my feet—wet, cold, and shivering. But then a gust of wind comes up, and I sneeze.

“Can someone get me a towel?”

14

I sit in bed, propped up by two pillows, warming my hands with a mug of hot chocolate. I have a hot water bottle snuggled near my feet, and as if that isn’t enough, thick blankets provide layers of comfort. A huge fire burns in the grate, with a servant bringing more logs. Another servant told me that the estate gets pretty cold during the winter, so they are well equipped for dealing with the cold.

I’ve just taken a hot bath, and my hair is still damp, wrapped in a towel. Wearing only my chemise, I wiggle my toes and drink some chocolate, enjoying the warmth that spreads from my stomach to my body.

“Where is she?” Edward’s voice is urgent, commanding, as though if he’s prevented from seeing me, he’ll put everyone under arrest. The door is flung open, and he storms inside, ignoring the cries of, “But she is indecent!”

He sits on the bed, which sags from his weight. He searches my face, his gaze filled with concern. “Are you feeling well? Any injuries? Has the doctor been sent for?”

“Yes, no, and no. I’m feeling fine now that I’m out of the lake.”

He still looks at me in disbelief, as though I said I just emerged unscathed from a building on fire. “I heard that you saved Thomas from drowning. How did you survive the waters? The lake is much deeper than the river at the Fremont house.”

“Oh. I’m . . . we had swimming lessons in high school,” I say in a low voice. “And my father took me to the pool when I was a kid. I know it sounds impossible, but yeah, it’s not uncommon for a girl to know how to swim where I come from.”

He lets out a sigh and pushes his hair from his face. “I should have known. When they told me you dived into the lake, I . . .” He swallows and looks away. “I thought it was only by a stroke of luck, or because help arrived just in time, that you survived.”

I put my hand on his. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, “but there wasn’t anyone nearby. I couldn’t let him drown.”

“No.” He threads his fingers through mine and tightens his grip. “That is not what you should apologize for.”

Instantly, I know what he is referring to. My stomach tightens, and I look down at our hands clasped together. “Krev visited me.”

“The goblin you have mentioned? The one who is responsible for sending you here?”

I nod. In a low voice, I repeat what Krev told me about my changing Athelia’s history—and about the old Katriona coming back.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, “but I’m scared—worried for you. I’d hate it if you were stuck with someone you didn’t know. What if she is as horrible as Bianca?”

When I look up, my heart jumps. His face is so close that his breath warms my cheeks. His eyes are blazing; my instinct is to back away, but the headboard prevents me putting any distance between us.

“Even if that happens”—his voice is low but underlaid with passion—“it is
my
choice. I’ll handle whatever comes after you’re gone. But
now
, all I want is to make the most of my time with you, and yet you choose to foist another girl on me. Did you ever consider how I might feel? Have you forgotten what I told you that day?”

The anguish in his voice is palpable. Remorse, shame, and affection for him rise up within me; a lump forms in my throat, and tears start to gather in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, blinking away the tears. “I shouldn’t have tried . . . it was thoughtless of me.”

His expression softens, though the sternness in his eyes is still there. Footsteps approach the door; he looks back for a second but ignores whoever is coming our way.

“I should teach you a lesson for your heartlessness, Kat.” He says it with such a serious face that for a second I wonder if he’s joking.

“Are you saying that what I did warrants a punishment?”

“Correct.”

His hands clamp down on the blankets around my hips. Edward leans in and kisses me, completely disregarding the open door, completely ignoring the fact that I am only wearing a chemise, completely forgetting that he shouldn’t be initiating such intimacy before marriage. Nevertheless, I don’t bother to dissuade him. I bunch my fingers on the hem of his coat and pour my feelings into the kiss—partly to make up for the pain I’ll cause when I leave, but mostly for encouraging him to warm up to Lillie.

Someone coughs loudly. Edward breaks off the kiss and stands up, and I catch a flash of annoyance in his eyes. There, in the doorway, stand Philip, Constance, and a bunch of other lords and ladies, all of them wearing identical expressions of pure shock. Lady Fremont has a hand over her mouth. There’s also Lillie, who looks like someone struck her on the head. She meets my eyes for a second and suddenly dashes off. I can almost hear her heart breaking.