Queen Bee(4)
Author: Amalie Howard
Not that I would admit that to anyone, not even my best friend. What if he was a toad with bad breath and bad manners? Still, I couldn’t hide the fact that a thrill rippled in my chest. Papa was a peer, which made me firmly off-limits to anyone without a title, including the village boys. It would be nice to meet someone with whom I might be allowed to form an acquaintance, and possibly a match as well. Unless, of course, he fell for Poppy, like every other boy in the history of Burghfield.
My hope waned as quickly as it had flared.
“What are you girls doing?” a voice inquired from behind us.
“Papa, you’re back!” I screeched, and flung myself into his arms. Parliament took up a lot of my father’s attention during the busy London season, but he also traveled to Europe from time to time. He always tried to hurry back from the Continent to see me at home, especially since Mama’s death.
I missed the days when Mama was well and we would accompany him on his travels. The three of us had visited France and Italy when I was much younger, but I couldn’t wait until I could go back to London with him. Hopefully, I would make my bow at court before Queen Charlotte in two or three years. I was nearly fifteen, after all!
“Hello, my little Ela-Bean.”
“I’m not a bean, Papa,” I told him with a sniff. “I’ve grown another eighth of an inch, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I should call you my String Bean, then.”
I wasn’t tall but was holding out hope that I was a late bloomer. I did not want to be short. I wanted to be willowy and beautiful, like my mother had been.
Poppy slid off the sofa and fumbled with a nervous curtsy. “Good morning, Lord Marwick.”
“Good morning,” the earl greeted my friend. “How is your mother?”
She gave him a small smile. “Well, my lord.”
Though Poppy was a fixture in our home, she’d always been in awe of my very gruff and stern-looking father. Like most everyone else, she couldn’t get past her jitters around him. No matter how much I assured her that he wasn’t so scary, she never believed me. She was convinced my father didn’t like her.
Which was silly. Everyone loved Poppy.
Especially Mama. They had bonded over hours of needlepoint, which I especially loathed. Embroidery was a vile kind of cruelty that existed only to torture the fingertips of innocent girls. After my mother became sick from a wasting illness, Poppy had visited every day, bringing flowers—mostly poppies, which were arguably a bit vain but were also endearingly her.
She’d given my mother great comfort when she’d talked about our bosom friendship and how we would always be there for each other. Poppy had wiped my tears when my mama was buried nearly fourteen months earlier, and she’d become my sole solace. A sister of my soul. A sister in all ways that mattered, really.
I didn’t know what I would do without her.
With her long butter-blond curls, pink cheeks, and angelic face, Poppy charmed everyone, from our cook to the gardeners to the grooms. When she smiled, one simply had to smile with her.
At eleven years old, when we’d first met, she’d been an adorable delight. By fifteen, Poppy had grown enough curves to catch the eyes of the village boys. She had Michael, the vicar’s nephew, wrapped around her little finger, but Poppy had always confided that she was meant to be much more than a mere vicar’s wife.
By contrast, I was short and rail thin with no bosom to speak of, so no one, especially the opposite sex, gave me a second glance. Not that I minded. Boys were tiresome. And boring.
I didn’t begrudge Poppy her looks, of course.
We were best friends. We both liked to read mysteries and invent wonderful adventures about fairy princesses and handsome squires. She usually played the princess, while I acted as the squire. I made an excellent squire in our amateur dramas. Poppy was much too good at swooning to be anything else, whereas I loved swinging the wooden small sword I’d carved myself, while climbing the huge oak trees of our fictitious towers.
“Shall we go to the village for ices, then? They might have new flavors!” Poppy said, interrupting my musings. “My treat.” She grinned, knowing my weakness for sweet icy desserts, and flopped down onto the sofa beside me. “I was told that Elderton’s has a new shipment of ribbons straight from London. I should like to see them, too.”
Ugh, ribbons. Who would want to spend hours staring at swatches of shiny fabric when it would only end up edging a bonnet or cinching a reticule? I’d rather gouge my eye out with a knitting needle. I swallowed my true feelings and faked enthusiasm. “From London, you said?”
She nodded enthusiastically and looped her arm through mine. “Yes! We must go, Ela, trust me!” Poppy batted her eyes, all sugar. “Please with a dozen cherries on top?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at her puppy-dog eyes. She really did love all things fashion, and it was no secret that I had a mouth full of sweet teeth. I squeezed her arm. “Well, a dozen cherries does make everything more exciting…”
I was just about to add that it might be nice to walk, which would be a way to get some of the fresh air I was craving, when she flung her arms around me, nearly knocking us both off the seat. “Shall I tell the coachman to summon the earl’s carriage?”
I rubbed my chin. It wasn’t that far a walk to the village—we’d done it loads of times even in the cold—and taking my father’s coach with the family crest on the side was a huge to-do, more of a chore than anything else. But I took in her pretty blue dress—another new one, from the looks of it—and assumed she didn’t want to wreck it. The woods could be unpredictable, with all the frost we’d had in recent weeks.
Wrinkling my nose as I grabbed a well-worn but warm cloak and tied my bonnet, I stared down at my plain dark gray frock. “Perhaps I should change?” I asked. Despite the year of mourning for Mama being over, I hadn’t yet been able to bring myself to wear brighter colors.
Poppy tugged her gloves on after a cursory glimpse at me, then reached over to pull a short tendril from under my bonnet. “Nonsense, you look fine—and there, now you look fetching. Let’s get there before the ribbons are all gone. Come on, slow poke, before we miss the best ones!”
She was being kind, of course. My ungovernable hair was a nightmare. Unlike Mama’s, which had been thick and so glossy that it looked like a waterfall of ink, my short and spiky brown strands refused to succumb to anything resembling a brush. It had taken forever for my lady’s maid to tame the bird’s nest into submission this morning. I liked to wear my hair short because it was less work, but now I sighed and blew the wavy fringe on my forehead out of my eyes. Perhaps a new ribbon would spruce me up a bit. Might as well make a good impression on our new neighbors.