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“Is that from Mama?” Amelia asked, pointing at the letter Justine held in her hand. The elaborate state seal of the Weslorian monarchy could be seen from clear across the room.
“It is,” Justine confirmed.
“What does she write?”
Justine broke the seal of the letter and scanned the contents. She could almost write the letters herself these days, as her mother’s admonishments were consistently and frequently given. “Mostly that you are spending far too much.”
Amelia gasped so loudly that Lady Bardaline jumped.
“And that you should not frequent Holland House, because it isungehörigto be perceived as favoring one political party over the other.” Sometimes their mother couldn’t think quickly of the English word and substituted her native German. Particularly when she was displeased.
“What does that mean?” Amelia asked.
“Umm...unseemly, I think.”
“Unseemly! How can it be unseemly? How can she possibly expect me to know which political party the Hollands prefer? I don’t even know what political parties there are to choose from.”
Justine laughed at her sister. She often wondered if Amelia was terribly clever or truly daft. “How can you not know that all your new friends are Whigs, Amelia?”
“What are you talking about?”
Lady Bardaline said soothingly, “The Hollands host many prominent members of the Whig party in their salon.”
“Do they?” Amelia asked and sounded, at least, entirely innocent. “How doyouknow who they host in their salon, madam? You’ve not been there, have you? I certainly hadn’t noticed and even if I had, I hardly care. What can Mama possibly mean, I am spending too much? It’s not possible! I am very careful with my purchases.”
Yes, Amelia was very careful with her purchases—careful to ensure that every new gown was properly accessorized. Here she sat now, in a new gown, with matching new slippers and a new shawl. She and Lady Holland had returned from Bond Street just yesterday with more boxes and wrapped packages than Justine had ever seen, filled with kid leather gloves and ribbon-trimmed hats and silk undergarments. Justine scarcely left Prescott Hall at all. Lord Bardaline wouldn’t allow it without at least two guards to accompany her.
“She means that she has seen the outrageous receipts for your many purchases and finds them costly,” Justine said.
Amelia abruptly stood up, even though she had two braids that had not been looped and pinned. She marched across the room and held out her hand for the letter, her fingers wiggling in a manner that suggested Justine ought to hand it over. Justine was more than happy to oblige her sister and even pointed out the paragraph.
Amelia read the sentence,I have seen the outrageous receipts.She thrust the letter back at Justine. “She didn’t say they were too costly, just that she’d seen them. And it’s not even true!”
When Amelia insisted that something wasn’t true, it generally meant that it was.
Her sister marched back to her chair and sat, and Lady Bardaline continued her task of pinning the braids. “Any word of Papa?” she asked sweetly, clearly wanting to change the subject.
Yes, there was word of their father, and it roiled Justine’s stomach. She despaired she would never see him again—perhaps because he’d all but told her, as she was preparing to leave for England, that it was entirely possible they would not meet again in this life.
Justine refused to accept that. She wanted to believe she would see him again and would tell him what a good king and better father he was. “Mama writes that his health has not improved, but that he does enjoy sitting in the garden in the afternoons when the sun is warm.”
No one said anything until Lady Bardaline broke the silence by proclaiming Amelia’s braids done. She put her hands on Amelia’s shoulders and leaned over the top of her head, as if Amelia was her niece or daughter. “You look very appealing.”
“I do, don’t I?” Amelia asked, examining her reflection.
Justine was saved from retching at that little exchange when her master of chamber appeared at the door of the drawing room and bowed to Justine. “Your Royal Highness, if you are ready?”
“I am, thank you.”
Bardaline glanced at his wife, who gestured impatiently for Seviana to carry off the mirror and pins and began to smooth her gown. Justine stood up and put her back to her lady-in-waiting and walked to the door. “Shall we?”
“Your Royal Highness, my wife—”
“No, thank you,” Justine interjected pleasantly. “I will go on my own.” She walked to the door, aware that Bardaline did not follow her straightaway, and mentally braced herself before looking back. She pasted a smile on her face and turned. “Is something the matter, my lord?”
“If I may, Your Royal Highness, it is appropriate for you to have an escort.”
“Oh, that.” She laughed airily. “It’s just as appropriate if I don’t.”
