The Barefoot Princess Read online

  The gentlemen of the antechamber waited until the footman had shut the tall door behind Grandmamma before they broke into speech. All of them. At the same time.

  Amy couldn’t understand a word, but she didn’t care. She was too busy rubbing her cheek against the silk lining of Poppa’s Christmas cape and sniffing the scent of cigars on his clothes. She associated the scent with rare moments spent with a kindly father who had too many duties and too little time for his daughters. Now she was a matter to him.

  Vaguely she heard Lord Octavio say, “Sire, did I detect a threat from the emissary from France?”

  “I think you can safely say that was a threat.” Poppa sighed.

  “And another threat from the emissary from Spain?” Sir Alerio asked.

  “We pay a steep price for living on the spine of the Pyrenees between two old foes,” Poppa said.

  Something about the tone of Poppa’s voice made Amy edge forward and look into the room. “Yet sire, I don’t think Spain or France are our primary opponents.” Lord Silas’s voice was high, almost feminine, but Amy knew Poppa listened to him more than anyone.

  “No.” The king allowed Sir Alerio to remove his cloak.

  “The revolutionaries—” Lord Octavio said.

  “Yes,” Poppa agreed. “The revolutionaries.”

  “In Richarte and in Beaumontagne, too. The whole region has been subverted!” Lord Octavio said.

  “We need to send Prince Rainger back to Richarte escorted by a large armed guard,” Poppa instructed.

  “Damn the French for setting Europe afire with revolution. Damn them for insinuating that old royalty should give way to new blood!” Lord Silas’s drooping chin quivered with indignation.

  Sir Alerio strode toward the wardrobe where Amy hid. In horror, she realized he was going to hang up the king’s cloak. Now.

  She scooted back among the other cloaks, back into the deepest corner, and huddled into a little ball, her head on her upraised knees.

  In the antechamber, she heard the door open and shut, and Lord Carsten’s voice said, “It was a bad time for the crops to fail.”

  “You’re stating the obvious, Carsten!” Sir Alerio opened the wardrobe wide.

  Light and air streamed in, but she peeked out to see if he spotted her.

  “Someone has to,” Carsten answered hotly.

  Poppa overrode the incipient quarrel by raising his voice. “Put that away, Alerio, quickly, and get back here. I have instructions for you.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” Sir Alerio hurriedly hung up the cloak and slammed the door hard enough to make Amy’s ears ring.

  She slithered into a relieved little mound.

  “We need to purchase grain, as much as possible,” Poppa said. “I’ll go out and talk to the people and reassure them, but in the meantime, let me know if more riots break out.”

  “If there are more riots, Your Highness,” Sir Alerio said, “you must consider sending your family away for—”

  Poppa shushed him sharply.

  Amy lifted her head. She scooted forward and looked out the knothole. She wanted to hear what Sir Alerio had to say. Sending your family away for…what? A few days? A vacation?

  “You know what to do.” Poppa waved the gentlemen away. “For now, I’d like to be alone.”

  The courtiers bowed and backed out of the antechamber. The massive door shut with barely a sound.

  Poppa moved to the ancient throne and seated himself, and ruffled his brown hair. He did look tired, as if he’d suffered too many sleepless nights. She didn’t understand. How could her father suddenly look so defeated?

  Then his kindly voice said, “Amy, come here.”

  Her father was looking right at the wardrobe.

  How had he known she was there?

  “I used to hide there when my father was king,” he answered quite as if she’d asked. “And you were lucky only I saw you when the door swung open.”

  Cautiously she pushed the door wide. She inched her foot out until it reached the floor. She craned her neck around to see Poppa watching her steadily, and she smiled with all her teeth. Her daddy loved her. She knew it. But he expected her to behave, not like a princess, but with kindness.

  She had not been kind.

  And she knew it.

  And he knew it. He would be mad.

  She inched toward him, one foot placed carefully after the other.

  He said nothing.

  She sneaked a glance at his face.

  He didn’t look mad. It was worse than that.

  He looked disappointed.

  “Your Highness? Poppa?” Her voice quivered.

  “Come here, Amy.” He even sounded disappointed.

  Oh, no. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach. Daddy had always been her champion, but she had never been so bad before. Her walk across the antechamber seemed to take forever. When she stood right in front of the throne, she stared fixedly at the buckles below the knees of his formal breeches and waited for him to tell her to go cut a switch from the willow tree in the garden.

  “All right, daughter.” His hands came into view. He picked her up and sat her in his lap. “Tell me what happened.”

  He still loved her. Poppa still loved her. He smelled like tobacco and he was warm and kind. She buried her head in his chest and choked, “That stupid prince deserved what he got. He’s a big old stupid…boy.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but what specifically did he do this time?” Poppa didn’t wrap his arm around her.

  That was stupid old Rainger’s fault, too.

  “He said…he said…” Amy took a deep breath. “He said I killed my mother the queen.” She held her breath, waiting for Poppa to deny it.

  He said nothing.

  “He said it’s my fault she’s dead and she must be sorry when she looks down from heaven and sees what a”—she could hardly get the words out—“a dirty, ill-mannered girl I am.”

  “Rainger is not someone to reproach a child for being dirty or ill-mannered.” Poppa’s voice had a snap to it. “When he was your age, he was both.”

  “He still is, and mean, too! He thinks just because he’s the crown prince of Richarte and betrothed to Sorcha and older than any of us, that he’s better, but he’s not!”

  “So since you’ve felt the pain he’s caused in his cruelty, and because you’re smarter than he is, you won’t want to emulate him.”

  Amy’s little bubble of self-congratulation popped. Poppa wasn’t on her side.

  “Amy, let’s not pretend that you’ve been an exemplary child today.” He sounded very grave and very kingly. “Your grandmamma has good reason for wanting to have you disciplined, and so you shall be.”

  Amy never cried when she was disciplined, but she cried when she disappointed her father.

  Now big fat tears worked their way out of her eyes and down her cheeks.

  “Your grandmamma would tell you that you shouldn’t lose your temper because you’re a princess. I’m not your grandmamma.”

  “You’re the king!”

  “Yes, I’m the king, and I tell you you shouldn’t lose your temper because you say hurtful things and wound other people’s feelings.”

  She put her head on his shoulder and sniffled horribly. “I guess I shouldn’t.”

  “And because if you attacked someone bigger than you and meaner than you—and there are many people like that in the world—he might seriously hurt you. I don’t want that, and I would consider myself negligent if I didn’t command you to never physically attack anyone again.” He put his handkerchief to her nose. “Blow.”

  She did.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  She didn’t want to know, yet she had to find out the truth. She had to, because she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t. “Did I really kill Mama?”

  “My dear daughter.” Tilting her head back, he wiped her eyes and smiled into her face. “Your mother died when you were born, but you didn’t kill he
r. She died because she loved you so much, she was willing to risk everything to have you.”

  No one had ever talked about her mother before. When she asked questions, her sisters got all weepy and her grandmamma had tightly folded her lips and told her to be quiet for once. Amy had never dreamed her beloved poppa would take her on his knee and tell her stories, but she had to interrupt. “She loved me? But Poppa, she never met me.”

  “Yes, she did. She held you cradled within her for nine months. You moved in her, she fed you with her body, and after she delivered you, she held you in her arms.”

  “Oh. It’s a great honor that my mother the queen loved me so much.” Amy’s confidence rose. But when her father didn’t reply right away, she faltered, “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. When someone loves you so much she will die so you might live, it is an honor—and a responsibility.”

  Amy wanted to groan. Not another responsibility!

  But Poppa looked grave. So grave.

  So she kept her voice small. She felt small. “I guess so. What do I have to do?”

  “Live your life in a way that’s worthy of that great offering. Be strong. Help those who are less fortunate. You’re a very smart girl.” He tapped her forehead. “Use that intelligence to make someone happy.”

  “Do you do that?”

  “I did—with your mother. She and I loved each other so much we used our intelligence to make each other happy. We spoke without words.” When Amy would have interrupted to ask what he meant, he put his finger on her lips. “We shared a soul. She still lives here”—he tapped his chest—“in my heart. I want that for you. For every one of my daughters.”

  “I can do that.” She sat straighter on his lap. “I can use my intelligence. What else, Poppa?”

  “Most important of all, be true to yourself.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated, then asked, “How do I do that?”

  “Listen to your heart. Follow your instincts. Believe in what they tell you, and do the right thing.”

  “Okay.” Now she understood.

  “Sometimes it’s not easy being a princess.” He hugged her.

  “I know that. I have to wear nice gowns all the time and get my hair curled and wave to the poor children and learn deportment and never have fun riding the big horses—”

  “That wasn’t quite what I was going to say. I was going to say that it’s not easy being a princess, but as long as you live in a way that honors your mother, you’ll be a person I’m proud to call my daughter.”

  More responsibility! Now she had to live her life in a way that was worthy of her mama’s sacrifice, and she had to become someone Poppa was proud to call his daughter. Still, she supposed she had escaped pretty easily…

  Hadn’t she? “What is my punishment?”

  He studied her long face. “What does Grandmamma usually do?”

  “Sometimes she sends me out to cut a switch off the willow tree and whips me with it.”

  “No. I won’t do that,” he said decisively.

  “She makes me write stuff on my slate.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Stuff like I will not kick Prince Rainger really hard in the knee.”

  Poppa sort of choked, then he cleared his throat and said decisively, “That’s not fiendish enough. You know, don’t you, that as king, I have access to devices of torture and war?”

  Her eyes widened until they hurt. She nodded.

  “But I’m your father.” He put her on her feet before him. “I love you, and I don’t want to permanently injure you or keep you in the dungeon for too long.”

  She swallowed. She braced herself.

  He stood. He picked up his scepter. He drew himself up to his full kingly height, and made his pronouncement. “You will be nice to Rainger, to your sisters, and to your grandmamma—”

  Amy caught her breath in dismay.

  “—for three days.”

  “Oh, Poppa!” She put her palms together prayerfully. “Let me go cut a switch!”

  “No,” he said sternly. “You have to be nice for three days to your sisters, your grandmamma, and the prince.”

  “I could write a hundred sentences. A thousand sentences.”

  She thought she saw a glimmer of a smile.

  “Be nice to your—”

  “Sisters, Grandmamma and yucky ol’ Rainger. I know.” She dragged herself over to the tall, heavy door. With great effort, she tugged it open. She looked back at her father.

  He still stood on the dais in front of the throne. He held the jeweled scepter. His hair curled over his forehead and around his ears. His sideburns edged his jaw. He looked very kingly—and very patient.

  “All right, Poppa, I’ll be nice.” Before she snapped the door closed, she said, “But I won’t like it.”

  Chapter 8

  Outside, a sudden spring rain cast itself at the high windows. Wind rattled the casements. The small mound of coals in the stove smoldered, giving off enough heat to take the chill off the cellar. A tallow candle cast a feeble glow over the chessboard and a stench into the air. Miss Victorine did her handwork by the light of a tin lamp filled with oil, and it smelled, too.

  Jermyn saw Amy strolling toward him, a seductive roll to her hips, discarding her clothing as she walked. She was smiling, teasing him as she stepped out of her petticoats and stood clad in her sheer chemise. Her nipples showed through the cream silk, puckered with desire for him—

  Amy’s disagreeable tone shredded his fantasy. “My lord, you have been staring at the chessboard for a full five minutes. Would you like me to make your move for you?”

  He jumped like a lad with his fingers caught in the jam pot. The rickety chair beneath him groaned.

  “Now, Amy, you must be patient with His Lordship,” Miss Victorine chided. “He’s spent the day manacled by his ankle and he’s ready to snarl like a lion.”

  “More like a small, ill-tempered badger,” Amy muttered.

  Jermyn looked across the long length of the table at her. He sat on one end, she sat on the other. She wore a most contrary expression, and her eyes sparked with irritation.

  She made it most difficult to indulge in a dream about her. He wished, just once, she’d give him something to work with—a flirtatious glance, a beckoning smile.

  “Lord Northcliff will be better tomorrow when the ransom arrives and he can be set free,” Miss Victorine said serenely.

  “Tomorrow?” For one moment, he forgot about Amy and her stubborn refusal to cooperate with his whimsy. “Are you sure it will be tomorrow?”

  “If your uncle follows directions, then the ransom will be delivered tomorrow and you’ll be set free.” Amy smiled at him with relish.

  She liked holding him in her power. She liked having men jump at her command. She wasn’t soft and sweet and pretty, the way he liked his women to be. She was clever. She was sharp-tongued. She was too angular, with elbows that poked at her sleeves and thin collarbones instead of plump shoulders. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, and he would have said she never smiled, except that she did.

  She smiled when she gazed at Miss Victorine.

  She might be—was!—misguided in her attempts to extort money from him, but he couldn’t doubt her sincere affection for the older woman. Nor, unfortunately, could he doubt Miss Victorine’s crushing poverty.

  He glanced at the plump figure in the rocking chair. A yellowing cap topped Miss Victorine’s white hair. He recognized the shawl around her shoulders—he had admired the pattern when he was a lad. Now half the fringe was missing, giving it an oddly toothless appearance. She huddled within the wool’s embrace as if she were cold, yet when he demanded Amy add more coals on the fire, Miss Victorine had waved her hand before her face and claimed to be too warm. She moved stiffly and he could see a bruise on her bare arm from his rough handling, yet her gnarled fingers flew as she created her beaded lace.

  The beaded lace that grew as slowly as Amy claimed it did.

  Perhaps in
one way at least, Amy was right. Somehow Uncle Harrison had signally failed when it came to the care of Miss Victorine, and that led Jermyn to the worry that he failed in other ways, too. Jermyn should have kept a closer eye on the proceedings on his estate. Perhaps, if Uncle Harrison had been truly negligent, Jermyn could forgive Amy’s unpleasantness…if not his imprisonment.

  He gave her the kiss of peace, and slid his hand down her arm and up her skirt, and kissed her lips that smiled on him while she begged his forgiveness…

  Blind with lust, he moved his knight.

  “My lord, that was a careless move and I beg…oh!” Leaning over, she studied the board intently. “How very clever of you. I had not seen that stratagem before. Let me think how to counter it.”

  Clever? He had been clever? Perhaps the life of dissipation he led hadn’t caused all his mind to atrophy.

  He blinked.

  From whence had that thought come?

  He looked across the table. Did he even have to ask? After only one day, Amy had put ideas into his head. It had to be her influence. It couldn’t be that all along, he’d been secretly aware he was shirking his duties.

  “How will I be set free?” He hoped they had concocted a stupid plan. That would give him the chance to feel infinitely superior.

  “After Miss Victorine and I are gone from here—” Amy began.

  “You’re running away?” A taunt softly spoken.

  “Yes, rather than stay here and have you order that we be flayed alive, we are leaving.” She challenged him with her sarcasm and her logic.

  “I can’t imagine he’d have us flayed alive, dear.” Miss Victorine’s forehead puckered. “That seems to have gone out of style with the rack. I believe Lord Northcliff would have to be satisfied with hanging us.”

  “True, my lord?” Amy laughed in his face.

  Who was this shrew with her fine accent and her saucy mouth?

  He bent his attention to the chessboard. With a dark glance and in a voice laden with innuendo, he challenged her. “It has occurred to me there are other ways to kill a woman.”