“Shall I read on?” Mercedes inquired.
Ariadne waved a hand without turning.
Mercedes apparently took the gesture as one of agreement. “She returned almost a month ago. Prince Rupert huffed and puffed and threatened to punish her at first, but he has since forgiven her. She says she was staying with Mrs. Brown-Jones the entire time.” She paused and looked up. “We ought to have thought of her immediately, now that I think on it.”
Mercedes raised a fingertip to her mouth and chewed the edge of her nail for a few seconds. “But if that were the case, why did Emma not just tell us where she was? Why all the secrecy?”
“Because she wasn’t staying with our old teacher, if I don’t miss my guess. At least not the entire time she was away. Go on.”
Mercedes frowned, then lowered her gaze to the letter once more. “She’s having an entirely new wardrobe made up. She’s to be presented soon at the English court. They are holding a grand ball in celebration of their visit. Of her betrothal, nothing has been said yet. Apparently… apparently the king plans a visit near Christmastide and the announcement will be made soon after.”
“So she’s going through with the marriage?”
“Yes. She—” Mercedes paused, the rest of her words dwindling away.
Slowly, Ariadne turned. “She what?”
The other girl lifted her eyes and met her gaze. “She sounds dreadfully unhappy.”
“And so would you be if you going to wed some old man.”
Mercedes shook her head. “Perhaps, but I sense that it is something more, something she’s not telling us. Of course, I may be wrong, since one can only discern so much from a letter. But still, she seems… despondent.”
Ariadne’s forehead drew into lines; she extended her hand. “Let me see that again.”
Quietly, quickly, she read her friend’s words, seeing what they said as well as everything they did not.
Mercedes was right.
Emma gave a faithful report, but that is all it was—a report without life or vibrancy. Had she not signed her name, Emma’s letter could have been written by a stranger.
More disturbed than she cared to admit, Ariadne walked across the room and sat down at her desk. Opening a drawer, she extracted a sheet of paper, then reached for her quill pen and bottle of ink.
“What are you doing?” Mercedes asked curiously.
“Writing to her brother. Surely even Prince Rupert cannot be so cruel as to deny his sister the comfort of her friends.”
“But what about our classes and the rest of term?”
“Term will be over soon enough, and I can see no great difficulty if we leave a few days early. In the meantime, we shall finish our lessons while arrangements are made. You and I are going to England to see Emma. Then we shall discover exactly what is amiss.”
“If you would indulge me yet again, Your Highness, might I ask you to raise your arm another inch?”
Emma shifted, the faint jab of a pin startling her out of her reverie. She sent a blank stare toward the diminutive dressmaker, only then truly taking note of her.
Despite the woman’s frantic activity over the past forty-five minutes and the continuous hum of conversation between her and her assistants, Emma had managed to drown out most of that day’s dress fitting. It was a skill she’d honed to near perfection over the last month, since her return to the estate. She had become quite adept at being physically present for an event yet able to divorce herself mentally from the proceedings.
Generally, no one seemed to mind; her attendance was often all that was required at the small gatherings and intimate dinner parties given in honor of her brother.
“What do you require?” she said, looking directly at the modiste.
The tiny woman paused, a piece of chalk and a tape measure clutched inside her small hands, a long paper filled with straight pins draped like a boa constrictor over her neck. Offering a slight smile of apology, the older woman looked away. “Only a few more minutes of your time, Princess. We are very nearly finished.”
Emma resisted the urge to shrug, scarcely caring either way. What she did—or did not do—made little difference to her lately. She bathed and dressed, ate and slept, letting her ladies-in-waiting advise her where she ought to be next and exactly what she should be doing. At moments she felt as if someone else were living her life and she was observing it all from afar. Often she did not feel like herself—or feel at all, for that matter.
She supposed she ought to take a more active interest in her life, but each time she cracked open the door on her emotions, the pain would come rushing back—a pain that was nearly unendurable. And so she slammed the door closed again and let the distraction take hold once more.