The Secret Prince (9 page)

A
t chapel the next morning Henry squeezed into the
pew next to Adam. “How’d it go?” Henry whispered under the cover of the pipe organ.

“Ahjusurnitin,” Adam mumbled, yawning hugely.

Henry pretended to misunderstand him. “You just came from confession?”

Derrick, who was seated in front of them, snorted. “I just turned it in,” Adam repeated crossly, closing his eyes and slouching down in the pew. “Now leave me alone. I’m sleeping.”

Henry tried to listen attentively to the service, as he didn’t fancy a detention should Lord Havelock look over
in their direction, but so much had happened the day before, and he’d barely had a chance to wrap his mind around any of it.

It’s a funny thing, the flavor of a new school term; unlike the price of a penny newspaper, it is entirely unpredictable. Back on the platform at Hammersmith Cross Station, juggling his too heavy suitcases, Henry had felt certain that very little would change—his three best friends would be up to their usual mischief, the other students would ignore them, his status as an outsider was signed and sealed.

He’d thought Rohan’s idea of becoming friends with the other students was absurd—until he’d tried it. And suddenly he understood. Because smuggling sandwiches out of the library in a diversion of loud, joking classmates had been precisely what he’d hoped school would be like, before the terrible incidents of last term had made him certain that he was, and would always be, an outcast.

But Rohan had been right. They didn’t need to walk past when their classmates were choosing teams, pretending they needed to borrow a book from the library. They could join in.

Unfortunately—and this was the crux of Henry’s
worries—in order to be included, he’d
excluded
Frankie. Of course it had been unintentional, but that’s what had made it even more hurtful—how, in the excitement over fitting in, Henry had forgotten that he’d promised to spend the evening with someone else.

Every time he pictured it, he felt horribly guilty: Frankie, standing outside their window with a cake meant for a celebration, waiting for them to let her in, wondering where everyone had gone, and, finally, giving up.

Henry glanced tentatively toward the front pew, where the headmaster and his family sat. Frankie glared in his direction, and he quickly pretended to be absorbed in the sermon.

“I want to explain,” Henry said, approaching Frankie after the service.

He was met with a polite curtsy. “Good morning, Mr. Grim. I hope you’re well?” she asked demurely.

“I, er,” Henry said, caught off guard.

They never spoke formally. Not unless Grandmother Winter was watching. But the adults weren’t paying them any attention. So, then, why was Frankie treating him according to his proper station as a Knightley
student, and acting as though he were just another boy in a uniform decorated with an impressive school crest?

“Er, I’m very well, thanks,” Henry said stiffly. “And yourself?”

For a moment Frankie seemed as though she wanted to call the whole thing off, drag him outside and loudly accuse him of forgetting their plans.

But she didn’t. Instead she giggled and twisted a strand of her hair.

“How kind of you to ask, Mr. Grim. I am also well,” she said sweetly, but a slight curl to her lip betrayed the game they were playing and the challenge she’d set.

“I trust you’re enjoying the lovely weather, Miss Winter,” Henry returned.

At this, Frankie very nearly snorted, as it was slush again that morning, with clouds the color of charcoal. Henry straightened his tie with a smirk. They stood there in stalemate, the chapel emptying out around them.

Frankie’s tone was blandly polite, but Henry wasn’t fooled. He could see that he’d hurt her, and that she’d rather hurt him back than hear his apology.

“Would it be possible to speak in private, Miss Winter?” Henry pressed.

Frankie fake gasped. “But that would be entirely
improper, Mr. Grim. Whatever would your friends think?”

Henry sighed in frustration.

Fine, then. If she wanted to rub it in that he was becoming a proper student at Knightley, that at any moment she could call off their friendship without warning, he’d do the same to her. After all, he’d earned an “above average” in Protocol last term.

“As you wish,” he said, and before he could lose his nerve, Henry reached for her hand, touched it to his lips, and gave a suitor’s deep bow. He excused himself to the dining hall, trying not to laugh at the look of outrage on Frankie’s face.

By their first lesson Henry was sorely regretting the bow. Rather, he was regretting his classmates’ reactions. Edmund had been bouncing in his seat at breakfast with a dozen questions, and Derrick had clapped him on the back in congratulations.

“It was a joke,” Henry tried to explain, but how could he tell these boys, whose families had attended Knightley for generations, that he’d only done it to get back at Frankie for acting as though they’d never been friends? It sounded ridiculous even in his head.

“Listen,” Rohan whispered during the fencing warm-up, “maybe it’s better this way.”

“Better how?” Henry returned. “How can we play cards with her? Or even say hello in the corridor? Everyone will talk.”

“Exactly,” Rohan said smugly, executing a perfect practice lunge. “I suppose we’ll just have to spend all of our free time with the other boys in our year and
not
get expelled for having a girl in our room.”

Henry settled into the on guard position, lowered his back arm to signal an attack, and glared.

“
I
liked her first,” Adam complained on the way to languages.

“It didn’t mean anything,” Henry repeated uselessly.

“You know how Frankie is.
She
started it.”

“Well, you certainly
finished
it,” Rohan put in, gloating.

Adam glowered. “It isn’t fair,” he grumbled.

“Adversus solem ne loquitor,”
Henry said with a shrug, taking his usual seat.

“There was reading for languages, too?” Adam looked scandalized at the injustice.

“No, it’s Latin for—Never mind,” Henry said as
Edmund, James, Luther, Derrick, and Conrad piled into the surrounding seats and Professor Lingua waddled into the room.

The weather had warmed slightly, and the ominous clouds had retreated, giving way to a surprising late-afternoon sunshine that flooded through the windows of Professor Lingua’s classroom. Everyone was bent over his Latin exercise—except for Henry, who had finished early but was trying to look as though he hadn’t. Which was why he noticed when James discretely passed a note to Rohan.

Rohan slid the note under his desk and tried to open it without glancing down. His hands fumbled, and the note slipped to the ground. He went grayish and twisted in his seat in a panic, nearly giving himself away to their professor.

Henry scribbled
“Reach down for a spare pen and put the note in your satchel”
on the edge of his notebook and tilted it toward Rohan.

Rohan nodded slightly and did as Henry told him.

At the end of the lesson, James sauntered over. “Well?” he prompted.

“Sorry,” Rohan said retrieving the unread note from his bag. “I didn’t have a chance to open it.”

“Stop being such a
prefect
, Mehta,” James teased. “And anyway, you were meant to pass it on down the row.” James took the note and smoothed it onto the table. It was a list of students. For one horrible moment Henry was reminded of his midnight exploration of Partisan Keep—the hidden room filled with illegal weapons, the targets shaped like human torsos, and the lists of Partisan students with their ranks in combat.

But then Rohan read the heading aloud with a grin. “ ‘Cricket trials.’ ”

Henry felt ridiculous. Of course it was a sign-up list for cricket. Now that he looked closely, he saw James St. Fitzroy down as captain.

“Who’s the other team, then?” Henry asked. “A group of second years challenged us to a match this Saturday,” James said. “Put your names down if you’re interested in playing. We’re having trials today on the quadrangle.”

Rohan scribbled his name at the bottom of the list. “Shall I put you as well?” he asked Henry and Adam.

“I’ve never played before,” Henry said, looking to Adam.

“I’ll teach you,” Adam offered. “Put us both.”

Adam tried to explain the rules on the way over to
the quadrangle, but Henry was hopelessly confused.

“Wait, so who gets run out? Didn’t you say something about partners?” Henry asked.

“It makes sense if you see it played.”

To Henry’s dismay, it
didn’t
make sense when he saw it played. He could barely keep the rules straight, never mind the terms for everything. The other boys dashed around the quadrangle, their ties and jackets draped haphazardly over one of the benches, playing seven-a-side as though they were practicing for professional scouts. Henry gave up about twenty minutes in.

“Too distracted to play, Grim?” Conrad teased, nodding toward the rock garden.

Frankie and her chaperone were taking a leisurely stroll through the grounds, clearly spying on the cricket trials. Henry shrugged and tried to ignore them. After all, Frankie had already caused him more than enough trouble that morning.

Henry shuffled over to the sidelines, where he stood watching his classmates and brooding over the recent discovery of his inability to comprehend cricket. He didn’t notice Adam’s approach until his friend joined him on the sidelines.

“You’re not playing?” Henry asked in surprise.

“I’m rubbish,” Adam admitted. “I know
how
to play, but I haven’t really—I never—I mean, it’s not like there are parks in the East End.”

Henry sympathized. He’d forgotten that Adam had been to school in the city and lived at home, while most of their classmates had been off at posh academies with private cricket pitches at their disposal.

“Rohan seems to be enjoying himself,” Henry pointed out.

“Yeah, he couldn’t wait to be shot of us.”

“That’s not true,” Henry argued. “He’s just tired of being an outsider. And anyway, I quite like Derrick and Conrad. You should give them a chance.”

“I’d rather be friends with Frankie, thanks.” Adam folded his arms across his chest and sulked.

“I’m
sorry
,” Henry said. “I didn’t mean to. She kept calling me ‘Mr. Grim’ and goading me.”

“So you kissed her?”

“I didn’t kiss her,” Henry hissed. “It was her
hand
.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Just admit it. You’re cross with me because you like her.”

“Of course I like her,” Adam said through clenched teeth. “Are you
blind
?”

“No, I’m just a stupid servant boy who doesn’t understand upper-class customs. Happy now?”

Adam’s face flushed. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, staring at the ground. “I didn’t mean—”

Henry never found out what, exactly, Adam didn’t mean, as Frankie chose that moment to interrupt.

“Hello. Who’s winning?” she asked, innocently twirling a lacy white parasol.

Colleen sighed. “Miss, we should be gettin’ back—”

“Nonsense,” Frankie said. “Supper isn’t for nearly an hour.”

“No one’s winning,” Adam said. “It’s trials. There’s going to be a match against the second years on Saturday.”

“Why aren’t
you
playing?” Frankie asked Adam, ignoring Henry completely.

“I’m too skilled a player. Don’t want to ruin everyone’s self-worth,” Adam said.

At this, Henry snickered.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Grim. I didn’t see you there,” Frankie said coldly.

“Good afternoon, Miss Winter. What a lovely sunshade you’re carrying,” Henry returned, in the same posh, polite tones that had so infuriated her that morning.
“Perhaps I could escort you for a turn about the garden?”

Frankie fake gasped. “But, Mr. Grim, you’re in nothing but your shirtsleeves! It would be a scandal.”

“Would you two
stop it
?” Adam fairly yelled in frustration.

Frankie and Henry glared at each other. “
I
will when
she
will,” Henry muttered, looking to Frankie.

“You treated me like a
girl,
” she accused.

“You
are
a girl.”

Frankie looked like she wanted to slap him. “You’re just like the rest of them, given half a chance,” she said. “And I know what you were doing last night. I saw you playing chess with Valmont while I stood outside and
froze
.”

Henry digested this new piece of information. No wonder Frankie was furious. She loathed Valmont. “I trust you are unwilling to hear an explanation?” Henry pressed.

“That would be correct, Mr. Grim. Good day.” Frankie shot Henry a look of pure disdain and whirled around, intent on a dramatic exit. Her parasol, however, was intent on making a dramatic exit of its own. It smashed neatly into the side of Henry’s face.

Henry cursed, cupping a hand to his right eye, which throbbed painfully.

Frankie’s chaperone was so affronted by Henry’s colorful language, and raised such a racket with her gasps and protestations, that everyone stopped playing cricket to watch the spectacle.

“Are you all right?” Frankie asked with genuine concern.

“Just go,” Henry muttered, turning away. “Pretend I offended you or something.”

“I don’t have to
pretend
,” Frankie snarled.

Henry waited until Frankie had left before wincing and removing the hand from his face. “How bad is it?”

Adam let out a low whistle.

“What happened to you?” Valmont asked nastily at supper. “Did someone mistake your face for a cricket ball?”

“If you must know,” Henry said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I was assaulted by a lace parasol.”

This sent everyone nearby into hysterics.

“What did you say to her, Grim?” Derrick asked, delighted. “We’re all dying to know.”

“I called her a girl,” Henry said, shrugging. “And it was an accident.”

“You called her a girl by accident?” Edmund asked through a mouthful of potatoes.