A Pearl Among Princes Page 2

  There is another ship.

  That cannot be. I count them again, poking my finger in the air, one to three, until I reach thirteen. Indeed, a thirteenth ship approaches Miramore.

  How is that possible? There are only twelve branches of the Royal Order. Each branch sends one ship. No merchant vessels or recreational boats ever make their way to Miramore. Safe passage here is a well-guarded secret, only known to the royal families. You will not find the island on a seafaring map, nor divined by navigation device. And if the constant circle of fog around the isle, as thick as Saturn’s ring, is not enough to keep visitors away, the dangerous spiked shoals on the left arc, like the spears of armored knights, or the fiery whirlpools that can suck a boat down into a dragon-fierce inferno on the right arc, would discourage an idle explorer.

  The only people who come here are the PITs. Their trusted captains deposit them in June and return to collect them in September along with the reams of cotton and wool, linen and lace ordered from the mills. Only these faithful old seamen know the way.

  A thirteenth ship? Who can this be? I turn my spyglass for a closer look. Judging from the boat, this royal is not wealthy. He comes in a simple vessel, two modest tarp sails without adornment, no regal coat of arms.

  There is the captain at the wheel, but where is his royal passenger? This ship bears no such grandeur as a lower deck. It is really no more than a fishing boat.

  Hmmm, how interesting. How exciting!

  I gather my skirts about me and hurry down the tower steps to find Lu and Nuff.

  CHAPTER 3

  The PITs

  What are little boys made of ?

  Snips and snails,

  And puppy dogs’ tails!

  That’s what little boys are made of.

  What are little girls made of?

  Sugar and spice,

  And everything nice!

  That’s what little girls are made of.

  Rushing down the hill toward the beach to meet my friends, I pause to pluck a callaberry blossom and loop the stem around my ear. The red flower with a yellow heart is lovelier than the ruby hair brooch that brash PIT from Sycamore, Aldous, offered me last summer. His girlfriend, a duke’s daughter, insisted he take the ornament for the summer to remember her by. Sir Aldous had the nerve to say I could “borrow it” in exchange for a kiss. “Pig’s chance of that,” I told him.

  Hopefully Nuff is finished ironing the royals’ fine linen sheets and Lu is done dusting their quarters. Thanks to Father, on this arrival day, I am not due in the kitchen until later.

  “Have fun, Gracepearl,” Father said this morning in the kitchen, feathers flying up about his happy face as he plucked the freshly slaughtered chickens for tomorrow’s feast.

  “And give those poor princes a pity-try this year,” Nora Baker shouted to me as she took a tray of muffins from the oven. “If yer lucky maybe one’ll call ya princess.”

  I smiled and caught a feather in the air. “Or I could stick this feather in a prince’s hat and call him macaroni.” Swiping two hot muffins I dashed off, Father’s laughter ringing sweet in my ears.

  Down one flight of stone steps, then another, I reach the beach, toss off my sandals, and sink my feet in the cool soft sand.

  “Gracepearl! Gracepearl!” Lu and Nuff call from an elevated spot by the docks.

  Over there are the Muffets in their matching pink shawls primping their hair and fidgeting about for the best spots for the princes to see them.

  Maneuvering through the crowd, I search faces for Mackree as I go.

  As they have on this first day of summer for ages, the people of Miramore have gathered here to welcome the royal boys. Fishermen, farmers, carpenters, weavers, tinkers, butlers and scullery maids, stable hands, grounds-keepers, those who toil in the orchards and vineyards and vegetable gardens, the flax and wheat and cotton fields, the farms and the fabric mills. Miramore exists primarily as a summer school where royals learn the charming arts. Secondarily we provide reams of wool and cotton fabrics, linens and fine embroidered pieces for the wealthy families of the Order.

  The isle provides us food aplenty and surely everything a cook could wish for. Father furnishes delicious meals for the professors who remain here all year long, but as he would be the first to boast, the food he prepares in the summer is truly fit for a king.

  Over there on the raised dais are Headmistress Jule and the instructors in their university robes. I scrunch my nose as I do at the smell of blue cheese at the sight of mean pockmark-faced Pillage, Professor Emeritus in the military arts. He once taught for the House of Ash and has come to Miramore for the warm climate and fresh air to soothe his smoke-diseased lungs. It’s rumored that Pillage wants to teach this year, but we can’t imagine he would stoop to teach the charming arts. Not that he has an ounce of knowledge on such matters—he is the least charming man I’ve ever met.

  Reaching my friends, I hug them. “Lu! Nuff!”

  “Gracie,” Lu says, relieved, “thank goodness. Where have you been?”

  “We feared you’d miss the rating,” Nuff says.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. Inside I’m thinking, Especially this year. But even as I think this I wonder how I could leave Father and Mackree and my dear best friends, Lu and Nuff.

  Sweet Lu, short and plump, pale and pretty, a heart as good as gold. She wants a big family, a gaggle of children. Nuff and I tease her about turning into that lady who lived in a shoe who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.

  And Nuff, beautiful Nuff, tall, thin, and ebony-skinned, smart and so quick-witted, the sweet aroma of frangipani always about her. Nuff adores Miramore and insists she could never leave. Nuff’s mother, so wise in formulating soaps for their laundry work, is equally gifted at crafting luscious perfumes from the sweet petals of the island’s flowers. She is teaching her daughter her trade. One day Nuff will take her mother’s place. Any prince who falls in love with Nuff will have to fall for this island too.

  The trumpet blows. The first ship lands. A roar of excited chatter rises up.

  “This prince is from Oakland,” Nuff says, pointing to the large brown-leafed coat of arms on the sail.

  Of all the forest trees, I like the oak least of all. Its fat leaves make heavy wet piles on the ground over winter, blocking sunlight from the flowers in spring.

  Two docksmen work to secure the ropes. The Oakland captain lowers the wooden steps. The crowd hushes. A red feather is the first to appear, then a brown velvet hat, yellow curls, and long bony nose on a powder white face as this round-bellied royal one ascends from his cabin.

  “He looks our age,” Lu says.

  Standing on the deck this first PIT sniffs the air and squints his eyes as if he is not accustomed to sun. His captain supports the PIT’s elbow as he waddles down the steps to the dock. This PIT could use some exercise. I start to say as much, then stop. Lu forever battles with her weight and I’d never want to hurt her feelings again. Last year I kindly suggested she might want to eat more apples than apple tarts, and I offended her greatly.

  The wind whips off the Oakland PIT’s velvet hat and drops it into the sea, where it skits across the surface like one of Mackree’s skipping stones. The stones I used to collect for him on my morning beach walks.

  Without a word of instruction, Lu’s little brother, Leem, and his friend Brine tear off their shirts, run to the water, and dive toward the floating hat. Reaching it first, Leem holds up his dripping trophy, waving it triumphantly in the air. He swims back to shore, hoists himself up on the dock, and wrings the water from the hat as he has no doubt watched his mum do with towels countless times. Then with a clumsy but practiced bow, Leem kneels and presents the hat to the royal.

  “Your Highness,” Leem shouts in a too-loud voice, and then steps back reverently.

  The royal one of Oakland, oval shaped like a fat farm egg, scowls as if he’s been proffered a rat. “Toss it there, boy,” he says, pointing to a refuse barrel.


  Some Muffets giggle as if this is amusing.

  “He’s not very nice,” Lu says.

  Leem does as he is instructed, then walks quickly off the dock, head down, arms crossed tightly over his shivering chest. Anger rises within me. Poor Leem.

  The Oakland captain hands a missive to the Welcome Guard and after a prolonged blowing by the trumpeter, the guard announces: “Presenting His Royalness Sir Humbert of Oakland.”

  I note Leem’s face, still flushed red with shame, then turn my gaze back to the PIT fussing with his preposterous blond curls. You’re no prince, Sir Humbert.

  “Well, girls?” Nuff says with a sniff, pen poised. “How do you rate him?”

  We give stars, one to five, one being the lowest, five the top.

  “One,” Lu says.

  “Zero,” I say. “He’s Humpty Dumpty with hair.”

  The second ship to dock bears the insignia of the House of Ashland. This PIT politely refuses his captain’s offer of assistance, stepping out of his cabin, down the stairs to the dock, where he stops to survey the shore before him.

  “Ooh, handsome,” Lu says. “And older than us. Nineteen, twenty maybe?”

  “Why hasn’t he been here before?” Nuff says.

  The festooned display of badges and medals on this PIT’s fine fitted jacket glints in the sun. “Most likely he’s been at war,” I say.

  “Presenting Sir Richard of Ashland,” the guard calls out. The Muffets ooh and aah and jostle to be noticed. There’s movement from the dais as Professor Pillage stands with a flourish and salutes. The Miramore men copy him.

  Sir Richard has neatly shaven brown hair and stunning blue eyes, cheeks and jaw chiseled sharp. We curtsy as he passes. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. This soldier prince has potential. I’m about to say as much when I see Lu’s face, eyes glossy wide and cheeks flushed crimson as her curls.

  “Five stars,” Lu whispers, “fifteen . . . fifty. I am smitten to the core.” She clutches her palm to her chest with great drama.

  “Steady, girl,” Nuff says. “We don’t know what he’s made of yet.”

  “Oh, Nuff,” Lu sighs. “A handsome soldier of royal birth, what more do you need to know?”

  Nuff looks at me and rolls her eyes. I shake my head and smile.

  Next to arrive is Sir Peter of Elmland, long black hair in a ponytail, a silver loop hanging from his ear. The Muffets titter and wave. As Sir Peter passes, his piercing dark eyes meet mine and I feel a flutter inside. Another possibility, this pirate prince.

  “That one’s a looker,” Nuff says, smiling as she makes notes.

  “He’s most likely a rogue,” Lu says. “Remember that long-locks one Ivan, here last summer, got me in a hornet’s nest of trouble?”

  Sir Ivan cornered Lu for a kiss and when she refused he accused her of being a thief. Lu’s worm-spined father unfairly punished her. Heaven forbid a PIT ever tried to hurt me. Father would chop off his head with a carving knife and toss him to the swine.

  “We shouldn’t hold a ponytail against him,” Nuff says, still following Sir Peter with her eyes. “I’d give him five stars. What say you, Grace?”

  Five stars is our highest rating. “Five for his looks anyway,” I say.

  The sun strengthens. Sweat beads on my brow.

  The next arrival is “Sir Henry of Hickory.” Sir Henry is short and rotund with closely set eyes, an upturned nose, and ears too large for his head. He hurries past us, head shaking with a nervous twitter.

  “He looks like a mouse,” Nuff says. “Hickory, dickory . . .” Lu and I join in.

  “Hickory, dickory, dock,

  The mouse ran up the clock

  The clock struck one,

  And down he run,

  Hickory, dickory, dock.”

  We end in a gale of laughter.

  “We shouldn’t be so harsh,” I say.

  “He didn’t hear us,” Lu says.

  “I’m not so sure,” Nuff says. “Those are some serious ears.”

  The morning wears on, eight more ships dock. Eight more captains present letters. Eight more trumpetings. Eight more royals announced. We make notes on each prince in training. I’ll have the chance to gather more impressions working the banquet tomorrow night.

  The PIT from Maple is muscular and strong. “I’d give him three stars,” Nuff says.

  Sir Blake of Birch looks studious but weak. “Two,” Lu says.

  “Three,” Nuff counters. “I’d take brains over brawn any day.”

  “But he looks like one gusty gale could send him flying home,” I say, then feel a twinge of guilt. I know, Mother, it’s wrong of me, casting judgments on first impressions, but what’s that they say about love at first sight? I think maybe you know from the start. Mackree. Where is Mackree? I step up on my toes, look all about, but he is not here.

  There’s a swill of loud chattering as the thirteenth boat makes its final approach. Everyone is excited to see who this arrival will be, for surely he cannot be a prince, all twelve branches being accounted for.

  The boat washes in against the dock. The captain, an old man, at least Nora Baker’s age, with a sea-roughened face, wild gray hair and beard, is wearing an unusual green leather cape. He waves off the Welcome Guard.

  “Just me, Cap’n Jessie . . . Jessie Tru,” he says. “No royals aboard. I’m here on business of the Order is all.”

  Lu, Nuff, and I exchange looks. How very curious. We watch as Captain Jessie slings a canvas bag on his back and heads up the hill, his left leg limping a bit.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Rhymes

  Mary, Mary quite contrary,

  How does your garden grow?

  With silver bells, and cockleshells,

  And pretty maids all in a row.

  “As I was going along, long, long, singing a comical song, song, song, the lane that I took was so long, long, long, and so I went singing along.” I sing as I head to the gardens the next morning to gather the vegetables Father needs for the banquet.

  Mother taught me all the rhymes. First how to sing them, then how to read them. The one we loved best was Old King Cole. The name was like our name, Coal, for the black lumps that fuel our fires. Father played his fiddle with joyous glee as Mother and I danced happily, whee!!!

  When Lu and Nuff came for tea parties, Mother taught them the rhymes as well. The little ditties became like our own special language. When Sally Tailor, the seamstress’s daughter, and her friends started acting silly around boys, making believe they were scared of spiders and such to get the boys’ attention, we named them the Muffets like Little Miss Muffet. Those girls seem to care for nothing except primping their hair and fussing with clothes, spinning webs to snare a husband, preferably a prince.

  Maybe someday I will pass on Mother’s frayed-edged book of rhymes to my own child—teaching the words and the melodies, turning the pages my mother’s hands turned, touching the very words she touched. I always assumed that one day, far in the future, Mackree would be my husband and we would have children, a girl and a boy. But now . . .

  As I pass the carrot patch, two sets of furry ears perk up. “No worries, little friends,” I call to them. “No carrots on Cook’s menu today.”

  First to the tomatoes. How pretty they are, rows and rows of tall, thick, prickly vines straining with fat garnet jewels. The sun heats my back as I bend to pluck the first of thirty as Father instructed. In celebration of the PITs’ arrival, tonight’s Welcome Banquet will be especially fine. Father is thrilled that he’ll be cooking for such a large class this year. “The more the merrier,” he always says.

  Those royal boys may be used to the finest food in all the world, Humpty Dumpty Sir Humbert especially, as evidenced by his shape, but none has ever experienced Cook’s masterful work, the deliciously inventive pairings and artfully presented plates that he will create tonight.

  My mouth waters in anticipation. For on each banquet night, once the princes have retired to the den for cribbage or
chess, Father serves a second, I think even finer, meal for all the attending servants.

  I lift a tomato from its fuzzy green stem, brush the smooth warm skin against my face, breathing in deeply of its earthy scent. Ahhh.

  Counting out thirty, exactly thirty, no need to be wasteful, as Father says, I set the basket of tomatoes in the shade and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Taking the spade from its casing tied to a loop on the belt of my skirt, I swing the other basket and move to another section of the hill, where I kneel to dig potatoes.

  Potatoes are harder work. I double the lower folds of my skirt to make a padding for my knees. The sun beats without a break on my back. I stop and shed my outer sweater, tying it about my waist. I turn my face toward the sea, welcoming a bit of breeze, then dig my spade back in the dirt to unearth another thick brown tuber.

  “Well, what have we here?” A boy’s voice breaks the silence.

  Humpty Dumpty. He is wearing a wide-brimmed hat, no doubt to protect his thin shell from the sun. He holds a book and a butterfly net. Raising the binoculars that dangle from his neck, he stares at me as if I’m some strange bird he hopes to identify. He stares and stares and stares.

  “Sir, how dare you study me so!” I stand up, spade in hand, tossing a potato into the basket.

  Sir Humpty cackles like a barnyard hen. “My apologies, fair maiden.” He fingers a yellow curl and sniffs the air. “I’m simply getting the lay of the land, examining the flora and fauna of the isle. I find the present sight most . . . appealing indeed.” His thin lips rise on one side into a most unattractive smirk.

  “Well I’m no flower or fawn, sir. You would do well to cast your gaze elsewhere.” I’m reminded of that rank Sir Ivan last year, how he felt he could take advantage of Lu because she was a servant.

  The royal boy’s smirk ceases and his nose stiffens. “I will gaze at whatever I desire,” he says in the same rapid cold cadence he used with poor Leem at the docks yesterday morning. His eyes move down and up again, taking in the full view of me.