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“Has it?”
Her mother sighed. “Of course it has. The royal family has been a notable customer, especially since spring. That’s when your father received his first missives from the prince. And now the two of them have traipsed off somewhere out of the city.”
“Father’s gone?”
“Yes! And I needed him this week! I have had to cancel two teas meant to introduce you to potential suitors. It is not a good sign. Very improper.”
Emalyn fought an odd sense of glee. “Surely it would be acceptable if he has an engagement with the Prince of Wales.”
“Acceptable! But still rude!”
Emalyn stood, suddenly desperate to get to her escritoire. “I’m sure they will understand. Such appointments can always be rescheduled.”
Medina peered at her daughter through narrowed eyes. “Do not write him. I forbid it.”
“Of course not, Mother.” She gave a quick curtsey. “But I must go. I promised Mary we would begin to cull my gowns prior to visiting the modiste this week.”
“Hm. See that is all you do.”
Emalyn fled, all but dancing up the stairs.
26 August 1792
My dear N—
My father was summoned back to England by the Prince of Wales! I do not know why. Papa is with HRH now, off on some mysterious journey. It is all quite dramatic and makes my heart fly, and I dearly pray my imaginings are not in vain, that they are not simply off somewhere discussing horses.
Mary and I are off to the modiste’s later this week for new frocks. Many of mine were lost in the transit from Prague. When Papa returns, I will pepper him with questions. I dearly hope he still plans for us to attend Christmas at Ashton Park—where I will have even less supervision than before, for Miss Zamora has left her position.
I know you are off to Cambridge soon and may not have time to write. I do hope it goes well, and that you are not too distracted by the ladies flocking to your side. While I completely understand why they do so, I hate them, one and all, simply because they are by your side, and I am not. Perhaps your studies will command your complete attention.
Ever yours,
E—
*
4 September 1792
My dearest E—
I had heard about your father’s summons but have no more details than you. My father and I have spent the last three weeks at Ashton Park, and he told me while we were there. Since returning to Town, we have heard that HRH is in Cornwall viewing a property that reverted to the Crown several years ago. Those same rumors say that it will be granted, along with a baronetcy, as part of the king’s New Year’s awards. It’s all quite puzzling, since HRH has little sway on the king these days. But far be it from me to decipher the whims of madmen and royalty.
This will probably be my last missive for a few weeks. I leave for Cambridge next month and have heard that the first year is not one for privacy or much leisure time. I do expect to see you at Christmas, the good Lord willing. Until then, I am,
Truly yours,
N—
Chapter Seven
Sunday, 23 December 1792
Ashton Park
Four in the afternoon
Emalyn watched theplant cart lumbering into the ballroom, carrying more of the ubiquitous rosemary trees. Unafraid of discovery this year, she perched on the little stool in the abandoned servant’s room, her hands pressed against the glass. She had sneaked into the room every afternoon, watching as the decorations expanded, the staff positioning boughs and garlands, vases filled with hothouse flowers, and dried arrangements the size of small rooms. Chandeliers, candelabra, and sconces were cleaned and stocked with six-hour candles.
