Soot and Slipper Page 10

  Eugenie swallowed. “I don’t want to go. But good luck.”

  “You’ll see us out, as always?”

  Unable to decline, she followed her stepmother and stepsisters downstairs to the front door.

  “Remember you’re supposed to be resting,” Marielle said as she pulled dark gloves onto her hands. “Don’t do anything foolish while we’re gone.” She passed outside behind her girls. Eugenie, cold with anxiety, hung upon the door frame as they climbed into their coach. She almost shut the door when the horses turned back up the lane but belatedly recalled that she always watched.

  As the carriage passed the fence posts, Marielle looked back.

  For the first time ever.

  Even from that distance, hatred shot from her like an arrow straight into Eugenie’s heart. It was only for an instant before she disappeared onto the road. A trick of imagination, perhaps? But Eugenie could not dismiss the warning that flashed through her.

  Heart in her throat, she fled to the front room, to the ash bin by the hearth. She dumped it over, spilling the contents across the flagstones.

  Amid the mess, beneath a coat of fine debris, the second slipper gleamed.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. If Marielle had been snooping, at least she hadn’t found this incriminating piece.

  A clatter of wheels outside pulled her toward the window. Had they returned, or—?

  But the carriage that pulled up to the door now was not the same hackney they had left in. It was the one from the cemetery, complete with the pair of black horses.

  Before the footman could alight from the back, the door opened and Pip hopped to the ground.

  He had told her to expect him as soon as the Elles left, hadn’t he? Sweet relief flooded through Eugenie as she darted to the entryway to let him in.

  Pip grinned as he crossed the threshold. “You’ll never know how glad I am to see you whole and healthy,” he said. “I’ve passed the most wretched night convinced I should have stolen you away yesterday.” He motioned through the open door for his driver to wait, and then shut it tight.

  Eugenie tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, self-conscious. “Marielle suspects something. I’m half-terrified that she’ll turn around and come back for me. She asked me twice whether I wanted to go to court to try on the slipper for myself. She collected the eggs this morning, which she never does, and found your boot prints in the mud.”

  He sobered, but brushed off any additional concern. “She wouldn’t know they were my boot prints.”

  “No. She told us to watch out for tramps crossing the estate.”

  That elicited a laugh. He clasped her hand, his warmth transferring through his white gloves. His clothes, in their understated fineness, created a stark contrast to hers.

  “Let’s collect your things and be gone, the sooner the better,” he said.

  She left a smear of ash upon his glove when she withdrew her hand. What was she doing, keeping company with someone so far above her?

  “This way,” she said and led him further into the house.

  They collected her sketchbooks from her workroom, stashing them in an old satchel of her father’s. Next, in her bedroom, she pulled a pair of diaries she had kept. Pip watched in bemusement as she dropped to the floor to fish beneath her bed. When she withdrew a packet of letters, he frowned.

  “They’re from the prince,” she said.

  He snatched the bundle from her hands, studying the address on the topmost one. “You kept them?”

  She tipped her head, confused at the catch in his voice. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He thumbed the edges of the stack as though counting them. “You spoke yesterday like they were nothing important.”

  Did he worry that she harbored a tenderness for the prince? To be sure, she had adored the stalwart boy of a decade ago, but as an acolyte might adore an icon. Those letters, formal though they had been from one whose rank so eclipsed her own, had provided spots of brightness in an otherwise dim period of her life. “They were important,” she said quietly, apologetically. “He wrote again when my father died, but it was to the whole family. Florelle has that one somewhere. I kept these apart.”

  “You said at the masquerade that you didn’t want to meet him again,” said Pip, worry in his eyes.

  A blush crawled up her neck. She averted her gaze to the window. “He won’t be the same now as he was then. He can’t be. Sometimes, when you want to keep something precious, you guard it against change.” She chanced a peek at him; he looked thunderstruck—dismayed?—his lips parted but with no voice. Guilt pulsed through her. “Is it bad that I kept his letters?”

  Pip shook off his stupor. “No, it’s good. Of course it’s good. The queen has already accepted my word, but if you have these, then that’s all the more proof.”

  “Maybe they’ll jar the prince’s memory,” said Eugenie.

  “His memory doesn’t need jarring,” said Pip, tossing the letters into the bag with everything else. “You can claim your birthright on your own merit, but a handful of old letters won’t hurt your cause. Is there anything else?”

  “My family’s portrait in the gallery,” she said. “I was only a child when it was painted, though.”

  He motioned her toward the hall. “Lead the way.”

  The portrait gallery, easily the largest room in the manor, stretched along the back on the second floor, its high walls featuring kindred of the House of Pluterra from hundreds of years back. Bygone fashions and noble hobbies graced the subjects, pictured riding or dancing or ensconced amid emblems of their earthly life. Eugenie stopped near the center, in front of an image that the other portraits fairly dwarfed.

  Small though it was, the frame was solid and ornate. She hefted it from the wall. “My father was going to have a larger one painted, but my mother fell ill. It became more important to finish it before she passed, so that she could see us all together.” Her fingertips grazed her mother’s lovely face. Her father stood with dignity beside the seated woman. The child-Eugenie between them was round-cheeked, with the rosy blush of youth upon her.

  She crushed her welling emotions, determined not to cry.

  Tucking the painting under one arm, she led the way back downstairs. She stacked it next to the door and glanced around the entryway, as though to memorize every hairline crack in the mortared walls.

  “Where’s the other slipper?” Pip asked.

  “In the front room. I was getting it when you arrived.”

  He crossed to the threshold but paused, observing the mess of cinders upon the hearth.

  Eugenie joined him. “I buried it in the ash bin. Marielle won’t touch ashes—she abhors them.”

  Had the fairy known that detail? Perhaps she had dressed Eugenie as soot because Marielle hated her too. On this sober thought, she crossed to the fireplace and picked up the cinder-covered slipper. “It’s a bit dingy,” she said, rubbing it against her apron.

  “It’s exquisite, regardless of its environ,” Pip replied. He plucked it from her hands, turning it over as he inspected it.

  Her throat tightened. “You’re getting soot all over your gloves.”

  In answer, he wiped the slipper clean, dirtying the pristine white fabric and favoring her with a defiant glance in the process. She suppressed a laugh. When he returned the shoe to her, she slipped it into her apron pocket. He, meanwhile, removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt.

  Upon a trembling sigh, she surveyed the front room one last time. An ironic chuckle escaped her lips. “I think that’s everything I need. If you see anything here you want, feel free to take it.”

  Pip swept her off her feet. She squeaked and looped her arms around his neck to steady herself, gaping up at him with huge, wondering eyes.

  He carried her to the entryway. “You don’t technically qualify as a thing,” he said with a wry smile, “but I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  Her heart might have burst, both broken and patched at the sa
me time. The emotion she had fought spilled over. She tightened her hold and buried her face against his shoulder on a sob. The hands that carried her tucked her close, enveloping her in safety.

  When he paused at the front door, she wiped her tears with one hurried wrist. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s been so long since anyone wanted me.” Embarrassed by the admission and her lack of emotional control, she angled away to rub her face against the collar of her dress.

  Gently he set her on her own two feet. His hands remained looped around her waist. “That’s not entirely true,” he said, as though choosing his words with utmost care. “I wanted you from the moment we first met, as a friend if nothing more.”

  Disbelief shot through her. She jerked her attention to him but found only sincerity in his eyes.

  What had she done to deserve such faithfulness? And how could she possibly express her own? He was so close. It felt completely natural to perch on her tiptoes and brush a kiss against his lips.

  His mouth followed her retreat. The arms around her waist drew her in; her own tightened their loop around his neck. The kiss deepened, unhampered by silly half-masks or fears of judgement.

  “Eugenie, you must know I love you,” he said on a desperate, panting breath.

  A feather-light laugh escaped her. “Then why are you making me try on shoes for the prince?”

  He kissed her again, more insistent this time. She wrapped him all the closer, alive in his embrace.

  13

  Into the Fire

  “Everything is going to change from this moment forward,” said Pip as the black carriage glided into the palace estate.

  Eugenie, cradled against him, stiffened. “Does it have to be a public affair? I don’t mind if Marielle gets away.”

  “I mind,” said Pip. “If you won’t demand justice for her crimes against you, I will.”

  A hundred or more carriages lined the drive, their horses and liverymen idle as they awaited their masters’ leisure. All of Jacondria had assembled before the queen, it seemed. Pip’s coach rolled into the courtyard, and Eugenie tensed. His protective arm around her provided her only solace.

  The carriage stopped in front of the grand staircase. Pip leapt down and helped her descend. A faint tremor in his hand spiked her anxiety all the more. He hid his nerves well, but not completely.

  When a pair of palace guards approached, he gestured to the items left in the coach. “The queen has asked that the bag and the picture be taken to her private chambers for safekeeping.”

  The guards immediately complied.

  “Did she really?” Eugenie whispered in awe.

  “I’m sure she would’ve if she’d thought of it,” said Pip with a wry smile.

  Her stomach twisted in knots. They were taking a lot of liberties and trusting the crown not to retaliate.

  She climbed the guard-lined stairs on his arm, conscious of the many critical glances upon her. Her tattered cloak swished around her calves, her dress short enough to expose her ankles and her thin, worn shoes. Her golden hair, though neat and clean, hung in its loose, natural curls down to her shoulder blades. She had not thought to pull it up until this very moment.

  As they crossed the threshold into the cool palace interior, a royal steward stepped forward.

  “Don’t announce us,” said Pip, raising one hand to ward the man off. “I’ll do it myself.” To Eugenie’s curious look he added, “Remember, just as we planned. Straight to the pedestal and put the other slipper there.”

  A roar of conversation traveled up from the great hall. She had expected a line of hopefuls already trying on the infamous shoe, but it stood untouched upon a marble column in front of the royal dais. Queen Patrice and her consort, Prince Renaud, sat regal in their thrones, but Prince Fernand’s place was empty.

  Perhaps they waited for his arrival to begin.

  “Deep breath,” said Pip, steeling his own nerves as much as Eugenie’s.

  They descended the stairs, each trembling and simultaneously drawing support from the other. A hush rippled through the assembled nobles. They parted, creating a pathway for the strange pair. Eugenie heard a gasp from somewhere to her left and recognized it as one of the younger Elles, but she dared not stray her gaze from the throne directly ahead.

  The Queen of Jacondria, proud and austere, stared straight at her. She was exactly as Eugenie remembered, an intimidating presence in her royal finery, starched to a perfect point with not a hair out of place beneath her heavy, jeweled crown.

  They reached the pedestal. Eugenie dropped her gaze at last. Her pulse jittering in her veins, she extracted the missing slipper from her apron and set it carefully beside its mate.

  A knife could have cut through the silence of the room, so palpable it was.

  Pip cleared his throat, the sound almost jarring. “It is my honor to present to queen and country Eugenie Vivienne, the Marchioness of Pluterra.”

  Sharp inhales punctured the room. The crowd erupted in murmurs, their gazes flitting from Eugenie to a point left and behind her—to Baroness Lavande in their midst.

  The queen raised her hand, motioning for silence. Sympathy flashed through her eyes as she looked upon Eugenie, but then she shifted her attention to Pip. When she spoke, it was in a voice of quiet reproof.

  “Fernand, take your rightful place.”

  Eugenie jolted. In horror she gaped up at Pip, who met her stare with an apologetic expression. He squeezed her hand in reassurance and then left her—abandoned her—to mount the royal dais.

  A glance around the room showed no one else surprised. They all knew who he was. She alone had been ignorant—ridiculously so.

  Mortified, she clenched her hands together. Prince Fernand tried to catch her gaze from where he sat upon his throne, but she lowered her attention to the floor, embarrassment burning her ears.

  “Baroness Lavande,” said the queen, “I believe you owe us an explanation.”

  Rustling behind Eugenie signaled a parting of the crowd. Marielle’s footsteps tapped across the marble floor. Eugenie’s skin crawled as her stepmother came to stand beside her.

  “Please, Your Majesty,” said Marielle in her sweetest, most importuning voice, “you mustn’t blame her. The poor girl was taken ill and hasn’t been right in the head since.”

  Eugenie snapped her attention from her feet to her stepmother’s profile, but Marielle never looked away from the queen as she continued.

  “It was my fault—entirely my fault. I allowed her to nurse our sweet Eugenie in her final days, and when she caught the sickness herself, she never quite recovered from the delirium it brought. We’ve kept her on the estate, hoping in some part to repay the sacrifice she made for us and to shelter her from embarrassment.”

  Horror washed over Eugenie—doubly so when the queen asked, “Then you claim this is not Eugenie of Pluterra?”

  Marielle shook her head, the picture of contrition. “She gets upset if we don’t call her Eugenie, but in truth, she is only our maid, Nanette.”

  Eugenie recoiled. “I am not!”

  “You see, Your Majesty?” said Marielle, triumph tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “I’m not Nanette!” Eugenie cried. “Nanette left us years ago. I’m Eugenie!”

  Her stepmother placed a soothing hand upon her arm. “Shh, I know. We’ll get this settled and get you home, poor child.”

  Eugenie ripped away from her touch, conscious of a hundred or more critical stares upon her. Marielle’s thorn of doubt had struck its mark. The queen remained unmoved, except for one hand upon her son’s wrist. Pip, agitated, looked as though he would fly from his chair if not for that simple restraint.

  “My daughters can verify the truth,” said Marielle, gesturing behind her. Florelle and Aurielle, at the edge of the nobles, nodded vigorously.

  “That’s right,” said Florelle. “She’s only Nanette.”

  “She’s never been right in the head, not since she was taken so ill, poor thing,” said
Aurielle.

  Murmurs erupted anew and the uncertainty of the crowd redoubled.

  The queen spoke above the din. “Their testimony is noted, but it cannot be taken as absolute proof. Filial loyalty renders it suspect.”

  “Forgive me,” said Marielle, bowing her head. She sniffled, and a crystalline teardrop escaped to drop upon the floor. She dabbed at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. “This is all very upsetting. It was difficult enough to lose our Eugenie, but now poor Nanette, who doesn’t even know what she’s doing, would convince you—what? That I faked my stepdaughter’s death? Am I such a monster?”

  “I’m not dead, and I’m not Nanette!” Eugenie cried, more and more flustered.

  “It’s all right, dear,” said Marielle, soothing through her tears. “Florie and Aurie will get you home if I cannot. You’ll be back in your sewing room in no time, drawing your pretty patterns.”

  “She knows things that no mere maid would know,” said Pip, his voice tight and his fists clenched.

  “Eugenie told her everything,” said Marielle. “I thought nothing of it at the time. Only in her recovery, when the injury to her brain became apparent—”

  “I don’t have an injury to my brain!”

  “No, of course. You’re perfectly fine, sweet girl. Your Majesty, please, she’ll only become more agitated the longer this goes on. She’s as innocent as an infant and has no clue what sort of tricks she’s played.”

  Fear cinched Eugenie’s lungs tight. The nobles around her looked upon her with mingled contempt and pity. Marielle, in all her soft-spoken refinement, looked like the picture of honesty and compassion. Light-headedness struck, and she fought against its dizzying effects.

  Almost she doubted herself. Could it be possible—?

  “She’s not Nanette,” said Pip from his throne, his teeth clenched.

  Marielle humbly inclined her head. “Forgive her, please, Your Highness.”

  He started up, but his mother clamped her hand upon his arm and sent him a warning glance. A mute power struggle passed between them.

  At long last, she returned her attention to the petite blonde before her. “These charges are grave, Baroness.”