Life isn’t always like the fairytales, trust me. You learn that quite quickly when you’re me.
I’m Nicole, a short, clumsy sixteen year old with bad hair. Mama- bless her poor departed soul- called it strawberry blonde quite stubbornly and my over-optimistic aunt said it was the colour of saffron (which, she reminded me, is more expensive than gold these days), but it’s pretty colourless really. I’m not exceptionally smart or funny, I’ve got two left feet, my voice sounds like a cross between a cat and a crow, animals hate me… I guess you could say I’m the opposite of what a princess should be. Except for the eyelashes. I have fantastic eyelashes. And a title: the Honourable Nicole Cole - yes, a rather unfortunate name. Some great uncle or other died childless and I ended up inheriting the title. I’m an only child - that’s slightly princess-y, but Mama didn’t die in childbirth -she said she couldn’t have another child because of the pain and she died by falling down a well. Not a very queenly way to die, but then she was more clumsy than me.
I know what you’re thinking, so what, your laugh doesn’t tinkle like a silver bell, you’re not a princess so it really doesn’t matter.
Only in six days’ time, I’ll be a princess.
If Mama knew I was getting married at sixteen she’d turn in her grave. But even if I didn’t love him, you don’t refuse a royal proposal.
Perhaps I should go back to the beginning.
*****
The Honourable Lilia held her birthday party in the grounds of her estate every year since she was twelve, and working on the belief that “us Honourables should stick together,” every sweltering hot seventeenth of July my governess or maid shoved me in a dress. This time I managed to persuade Dilly, my personal maid, confidante and everything in between, that I was not wearing pink, but she still somehow contrived to get me into a baby blue monstrosity with chiffon skirts. She was a bit over-enthusiastic with the blush too. But the worst part was the shoes. Whoever invented strappy heels forgot about the fact that some of us mere mortals can barely stand up barefoot.
Having already been outshone by a Lilia dressed in a summery casual green frock with white polka dots, dark hair piled on her head, I had decided to keep out of people’s views and the sun by standing very still near a shrubbery behind a fountain with my glass of punch. I could hear Lilia laughing and being charming from the lawn. I mimicked her and attempted to copy her walk -only I forgot about the shoes. With a crash and a bang and a flailing of limbs I plummeted into the water. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I floated to the other side. Hoping no one would see me, I attempted a quick recuperation, only as I stood up I banged my head off the private parts of some ancient god or other.
Even for me, this was bad.
Apologising profusely to the huge stone guy I had just head butted between the legs, I suddenly realised there was a shadow being cast over me. Fantastic.
I looked up, squinting against the sunlight to see who my would-be rescuer was, and found myself staring into the most brilliant eyes I had ever seen. Liquid amber, like an owl’s.
“Are you alright?” he asked, and I could see he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“I think so,” I replied, taking the hand he offered. “But-” I climbed out of the fountain, nearly turning my ankle in the process. “That guy won’t be having any more children.”
He did laugh at that as I flattened my skirts.
“Charlie Smith,” he said by way of introduction, holding out a hand. I shook it.
“Nicole Cole. The Honourable. Please don’t make jokes about my name.”
“I had no intention of doing so, your Honour,” he said, smirking.
I actually physically gagged for two reasons. One, because he had just called me ‘your Honour.’ And two, Lilia was coming down to us, like a vision in green.
“Nicole!” she said, aghast. “Are you alright?”
In case you haven’t guessed, at this point I should probably mention that Lilia is everything I’m not, once you get over our shared title. Beautiful, clever, flirtatious, kind and above all, graceful.
“Yes, perfectly,” I replied. “Just that the heat was getting to me, so I thought I would go for a dip.”
Charlie Smith smirked. Lilia frowned.
“Would you like to borrow something fresh?”
I considered it. Lilia’s clothes were the height of fashion, she didn’t follow trends, trends followed her. But I also knew that if I came home wearing something nice, Dilly’s feelings would be hurt.
“I’m fine as I am, thanks,” I answered, flicking a wet strand of hair from my face. “Refreshed.”
Lilia’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly. “And your shoes?”
I realised the cause of all the trouble, one of those little heels had snapped clean away. With some relief for an excuse, I kicked them off.
“I can go barefoot I’m sure, Lilia,” I said with a sweet smile as she opened her mouth to offer, no doubt, a loan of spangled sliver stilettos.
Lilia, the Honourable and Perfect, was speechless. Yay, one-nil to me, nothing has ever left me lost for words.
“Lil!” The ear-piercing voice of Henrietta, Lilia’s dog-like follower, floated from the lawn. “Come and tell Gloria about what happened at the dressmakers!”
“Right away, ’Etta!” Lilia gave a charming smile, curtseyed and ran away lightly.
“Yeah, and good riddance,” I muttered. Charlie Smith cast his birds’ eyes at me
“Not her greatest fan, I assume?” he asked, picking up my shoes and handing them to me.
“Oh, I admire her as much as the next person,” I explained. “Only, well, come on, nobody’s perfect like that. I just wish I could catch her falling into a fountain, you know?” We began walking slowly towards to others on the lawn.
“I agree. We’ll make sure we catch her when she does next time.”
I frowned up at him, noticing his hair glinting gold in the light. “How come I haven’t met you before? I’m generally at these dos.”
He cleared his throat. “I just moved North,” he said.
“Right,” I said, then voiced something I had always wanted to know. “Do Southerners really eat rats?”
He grinned. “I’ve never met somebody who does, but I suppose the rumours must come from somewhere.”
I clapped my hands. “That’s what I thought,” I said. “Once I turn eighteen, I intend on investigating.”
“Excellent,” he said faux-pompously. “I shall accompany you, my dear Miss Cole!” He linked arms with me. “May I escort you back to the rest of the party?”
I made a face. “Oh, Mr. Smith,” I said, copying his tone. “Couldn’t we simply sit on yonder bench and play the ancient game rock-paper-scissors?”
“That suits me too,” he said, and we stepped off the path.
*****
When I got home, hair a-tangle and chiffon still damp, Papa smiled and rolled his eyes, before walking quietly away and saying over his shoulder, “You’ve outdone yourself, Nicole. Let me guess, a fountain?”
He dubbed it ‘The Fountain Incident,’ following the Shoelace Incident, the Teapot Incident, the Pear Tree Incident and the Cheese-knife Incident to name a few. At first I had been a little offended by his making light of my embarrassments, then my old nursery maid told me he used to do the same with my mother, and I let him.
A few days later, Dilly and I were trying to make sense of a new embroidery pattern -she said that it should look like a peony, but my sample resembled a donkey- when a footman entered the morning room.
“A letter for you, your Honour,” he said, showing a piece of folded paper on a platter.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it and opening it. It read:
21 July
Dear Miss Cole (the Honourable),
I do sincerely hope your chiffon skirts have dried. I am writing because since I have no friends in the north I wondered if you would like to accompany me in the park this afternoon. There will be white bread cheese sandwiches and orange slices. And chocolate, naturally.
If you would care to come, please tell the messenger ‘yes.’ If not, well… why wouldn’t you unless you disliked me?
Yours,
Charlie Smith.
I giggled. “Tell the messenger ‘yes,’” I told the footman. He nodded and went away. Dilly positively squealed.
“Is it a love letter?” she asked.
“No,” I said, snorting. “An invitation to a picnic, that’s all.”
“From who?” she asked curiously.
“Oy!” I said, nudging her. “A good maid never pries.”
She ducked her head. “Sorry, miss.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dilly! I’m ashamed. I didn’t know you actually wanted to be a good maid. It’s from Charlie, a boy at Lilia’s party. Witness of the Fountain Incident, remember?”
“Oh,” she said slowly, nodding. “Him.” Then her face lit up. “Oh, miss, we must dress you up nicely!”
I thought about the last time she had dressed me and smiled sadly at her. “Dilly, really, I do love you,” I said, standing up. “But I think I can manage by myself this time.”
******
And I did. I felt rather Lilia-ish in the park in my white muslin dress and my hair done up almost elegantly in a blue ribbon. Mama had always dressed me simply when I was little, and had simple good taste herself, and I decided to imitate her. It couldn’t be worse than baby blue chiffon. It was a bright day in the central park of the city, and clearly I wasn’t the only one to enjoy a picnic, there were people spread out everywhere on the emerald green grass.
I was shocked when I finally found Charlie, because not only did he have cheese sandwiches, oranges and chocolate, but apparently every other delicacy in the world. Cocktail sausages, turkey breast, carrot sticks, a bowl of tossed salad with a bottle of vinaigrette, a jug of the Northern orchards’ famous apple cider, all spread out on a rug with him in the midst like the centrepiece.
“You went all out, didn’t you?” I said, after greeting him.
His smile crinkled the skin around his liquid eyes. “I won’t deny it.”
We settled down to the sumptuous feast and were soon talking like old friends. After the main course (dessert, he promised, was to follow but I couldn’t eat another bite), we lay back on the ground and looked up at the fluffy white summer clouds. Abruptly, Charlie asked, “What’s society like here?”
I turned over and looked at him. “Didn’t you get an idea at Lilia’s?”
He gave a half shrug and met my eye. “But what do you think of it?”
“Oh,” I sighed and rolled over. “I suppose it’s not entirely useless. But people are so… frivolous. The boys talk about their latest hounds and the girls discuss the newest neckline for evening gowns. And we’re all supposed to be accomplished and graceful and polite. And you’re supposed to be funny and brave and intelligent. People aren’t like that though, Charlie.”
He nodded. “I know what you mean. Everyone’s expecting something from you.”
“Exactly.” I paused and then went on, “The other dynamic you won’t have encountered in the south is the royal factor.”
“Yeah?” he asked eagerly. “What’s that?”
“You know there’s a prince around our age?”
“Yes,” he replied, seeming cautious as if unsure where this was heading.
“Well, all the time people want to know ‘Is His Highness here? Do you think he’ll talk to us?’ Apparently he was there at the party, but I didn’t see him.”
Charlie nodded. “I think I did. Small, dark guy.”
“Probably. I’ve never met him. The thing is, everybody obsesses over him and the girls all hope he’ll marry them when everybody know that if he marries at all it’ll be Lilia.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, sitting up.
“Well, she’s the obvious choice, isn’t she?”
He gave me an odd look then rummaged in the enormous picnic hamper to bring out a wrapped chocolate gateau. He began cutting it silently and I wondered if he was upset -perhaps he was one of the many poor souls in love with her?
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said quietly. He looked up and gave me a quizzical frown.
“I was just wondering how much of this an Honourable could eat before she explodes,” he said. “Shall we find out?” His owl eyes twinkled.
I sensed what was coming and managed to shriek “Charlie, n-” before he pounced and my cries were muffled by icing and unstoppable laughter.
I hope you like...I know it's completely cliché, but it's so fun. I'm going to be posting Parts Two and Three once I've edited them a bit... critique, please! Stel x
