What Comes of Attending the Commoners Ball

by Elisabeth Aimee Brown

The man is still considering me. “Does Miss Smith have a first name?” “No,” I blurt. “My parents couldn’t afford one—commoners, you understand.” Hugh laughs, but I flush deeper. What am I saying?

“I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands, but not because I am tired of you!” He bows. “I think you will annoy him very much, and if there’s one thing I love more than causing a scene, it’s annoying Luke!”

“Has no one ever said no to you?” I demand. A smile breaks across his face. “That’s just it. You’re the first. It’s absolutely captivating.”

His touch is both strong and gentle. Warmth sparkles up my arm and lodges itself firmly in my heart. Wonderful. Now I can never wash this hand again.

Lucas bends to help, fingers grazing mine as we reach for the same one. Well, there goes that hand too.

“Do I need enlivening?” I brandish a book at him. “You have economic books in your bedroom!” “You should see my study.” His eyes catch mine, and he smiles—actually smiles—at me! Oh dear. How long have I been staring?

He’s still thumbing through his book, and—and—well, it’s quite adorable, that’s all!

He looks down at me, and I see another real smile on his face for a moment. And it is a very nice smile.

“I would gladly be of service to you. If you ever have a need, you have only to ask.” “After all my talk about favors?” I raise my eyebrows. “Tricksy. Half-Folk, for sure. Has one of your parents ever exhibited signs of being a changeling? Does your father seem to have too many teeth?” Lucas stops in the middle of the hall. I think I may have startled him again, and I should not be proud of that, but I am! “I have not counted recently,” he says, rather choked. I pat his arm—I pat his arm!—why am I patting the prince’s arm?—and say, “I understand if it is a terrible shock.”

“If there happens to be anything you need from me—my parents have a fine collection of woolly hogs and would happily send one on the next coach if you desire.” His lips twitch again. “As kind as your offer is, I fear that I would not know what to do with a woolly hog.” “They’re wonderful to hug,” I say solemnly. “Quite soft, if you don’t mind the smell.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I have no secrets from Rodering. I have no secrets from anyone. I am a simple man with nothing to hide. And yet, I will not open the package while he is with me.

“They grow all over back home. I used to fight the hogs for them—they wanted a snack, and I wanted a centerpiece for the dinner table, and great was our quarreling.”

And yet I had grown accustomed to nibbling a bit of sharp cheddar before bed with Chemmy, like overgrown mice stuffed into our attic room, giggling about the events of the day.

There is nothing I want less than for Mistress Mungon to help me into that silken malformation, but she herds me upstairs while Hugh makes himself comfortable in the common room, and so I press my lips together and do as I’m bid. She helps me wriggle into the ugly thing—it is so very orange!—and ties the bow, and fluffs the petticoats, which I expect will cause me to trip and fall headfirst down all three flights of stairs, but at least a broken neck will mean I don’t have to go.

“Ungus bought a crumpet for us to share.” “Sharing crumpets! That’s as good as a declaration!”

I don’t think sharing a jacket is anything near as wonderful as sharing a crumpet.”

I want to dance with Lucas again, and talk with him about books and economics, and make him laugh more, and be held by him. I want moments with him that are not stolen and scandalous.

I gather the orange silk—farewell, you hideous creature, and may your vivid hue never again cross my vision!—and try to fold it back into the box it arrived in.

I close my eyes and exhale—a mistake, because then I have to inhale, and I sputter on the piscatory fumes.

Leaving their pies to get cold! Clearly, our priorities are not in alignment!

My heart beats erratically. I cannot—I should not—I must not love Miss Flanders. To love her would be inappropriate, injudicious, undutiful, irresponsible.

Maybe this longing is not related to a debt at all, but only my heart whispering its desire to stay here. Foolish.

“People were meant to rely on each other. Life is more than bargains.”

“He sent her gifts of cheese,” Mum tells Dad. “Foolish boy.” “We’re all fools in love,” Dad says.

“What? Giving you cheese without being in love? I’ve never heard such things,” Dad says. Mum pats his arm. “I suppose people in the city are different.”

Mum would never respect our monarchy if she knew how liberally they gave away their cheese!

“You can’t go around calling the crown prince Lucas!” Mum says. “Thought his name was Inglebert.” Dad scratches his chin. “Who’s this Lucas, now?”

But my happiness is not ruined, I remind myself. Just delayed.

Prince Inglebert—the hog—snuffles at my boots, and I pat his woolly neck.

I still have plenty of problems: Dad still needs a surgeon, and apparently the queen is Folk, and apparently I’m Folk, and I’m still in love with a man who’s more unapproachable than ever. But if I don’t think about those things for a few minutes, I’m actually doing quite well.

“I have a—an idea to present to you. The paperwork is in the carriage.” “Paperwork?” My eyebrows raise to the sky. “You kiss me like that, and then talk about paperwork?” “It’s interesting paperwork,” Lucas murmurs. Then he kisses me again.

“When I asked Hester’s mother to marry me,” Dad says mildly, looking at the ceiling, “I told her I loved her.” Lucas flushes. “That is pages six through twelve.” “Oh, read that part.” Mum leans forward. “I’d like to hear.”

“Perhaps,” I say, heart racing, “you would like to help me with the chores. I’m sure you’d enjoy meeting Prince Inglebert.” “I thought I was—oh, you mean the one who bit you?” Lucas asks. “He hasn’t bitten me in years.” “He bit me just last week,” Mum says. “His monthly quota should be fulfilled, then. Come.”

“I didn’t do a very good job of proposing, I’m afraid.” Lucas looks at me ruefully. “I’m not a romantic man, Hester.” “Did you ever propose? Or just read a treatise on revenue augmentation, whatever that means?”

“Stubborn! Whatever could you mean?” I flutter my lashes, probably the picture of innocence.

“Perhaps I love you because you’re a scoundrel.” I hear the smile in his voice. My heart flutters. “I’m not the one who’s half-Folk.” I sniff. “Do you really love me?” “I really love you, Miss Hester Flanders.” He shifts so he’s facing me, leaning a hip against the pasture wall. His hands slip around mine. “Let me ask you again, properly: will you marry me?”

“I’m not sure I’d be a very good princess. I’d demand cheese with every meal—or at least once per day—and I would insist on a herd of woolly hogs being housed in the stables—and I would make you read penny dreadfuls every night before bed—and I am very bad at dancing.” “I agree to your terms,” Lucas says promptly, but I frown. “No terms, Lucas! If you—if you really want—I mean—” The breeze ruffles his hair. A lone bird chirrups from the stone fence. “No terms, and no bargains between us,” he agrees. “A heart freely given and freely received.”

“Of course I want to marry you. No one else has ever made me feel so—so safe, and so warm, and so understood, and I think I’m very much in love with you! Now help me water these hogs!”

If I’m to be a princess, I’ll buy flowers every day.