Chapter 5,
in which everything changes



     He really is sort of handsome, isn't he? Rhema thought, swinging her legs off the edge of Charis' high bed. For a prince.
     "Did you hear me, Rhema?" Charis said as she bustled around her suite to pack hers and Charlie's belongings. Their suite, Rhema noted with some astonishment, was considerably smaller than her own. It hardly seemed fair that Charis, who had been the baroness less than a year ago, was now regarded as no more than the wife of funny Mr. Overton.
     A breeze puffed through the open window, reddening the cheeks of the unoccupied maid who had been sent to help Charis pack. The maid folded her arms and leaned against the wall, waiting for Charis to allow her to do something.
     "We cannot leave until Mama, Papa, and Charlie are released from the king's conference," Charis said.
     "Whatever could it all be about?" said Rhema.
     "Honestly! Have you not yet guessed?" said Charis, pushing down the lid of an overstuffed suitcase.
     Rhema had not guessed, because the truth was so distant, so estranged from her everyday thoughts that it never occurred to her as being something of a possibility.
     "If I had guessed, I would not have mentioned the subject," said Rhema. "But I now see that you must have an idea what this mysterious business is about. I will tear out my hair if nobody tells me what is happening."
     "If you do not know already, then I will not speak of it unless what I have guessed proves to be true."
     "I can keep a secret. You know I can. Not a soul shall hear it from my lips. Except for Tom, naturally." Rhema reclined across the bed and stretched her palm over the leather of the suitcase. She wondered what sort of animal it had once been.
     "Tom? Oh you and that silly duck!" Charis flung out her arm, coming within inches of hitting her maid in the head. "You are sixteen now, Rhema. You should no longer talk about such things. When are you going to grow up?"
     "And when did you grow up, Mrs. Overton? Not three months ago you would play at stick fighting with me and Roger in the garden."
     "I grew up when I became a wife. I am not just your sister anymore. I am the lady of a house. I have responsibilities. Someday soon, you too will have to stop make-believing so you can live your real life."
     "I know how to live." Rhema folded her arms and squinted her eyes.
     Charlie came into the room suddenly, which was the way Charlie often preferred to come into rooms.
     "You will not believe it!" he exclaimed, hugging and kissing Charis. Rhema lowered her eyelids and looked at her lap.
     "What is it? What has happened?" said Charis between embraces.
     "The Van Severs have commissioned a vehicle from me and they will spare no expense! If they like it, they might sponser our company."
     "Oh, this is wonderful! That is exactly what we hoped."
     Charlie kissed her again. Rhema averted her eyes until it was over. 
     "Is that what all this last minute business was about?" asked Charis, with a sudden, anxious glance at Rhema.
     "That was all for me. Your parents are still with the king settling family business or something of the sort. Why? Were you expecting some other news?" said Charlie.
     "No, nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."

     The 'nothing at all' delayed their departure for another hour.
     "What did the king want?" Rhema asked when she finally saw her parents again.
     "Later," said her father. Her mother said nothing
     It was not the custom for the king to personally see his guests depart, but when the De Frees family went down to their carriage, there was King Harold with his entourage waiting on the palace steps to say goodbye. By his side stood the prince, who looked even more glum than he had on the previous day, if that were possible. Rhema's father shook the hand of the king as he might shake the hand of a business partner. When it came Rhema's turn to say goodbye, the king took her hand firmly and said, "You are always welcome here, Baroness."
     "Very kind of you, Your Majesty."
     "Safe journey," said the prince, as if there were someone behind him with a revolver forcing him to speak the words.
     Rhema curtseyed. If he so obviously didn't want to speak to her, she wasn't going to be the one to begin a conversation.
     Becky dutifully followed her to the carriages, arms full with boxes. Rhema stood by and watched as Becky loaded them into the back next to the other bags.
     "Thank you for everything, Becky," Rhema said. "Perhaps next time we may become better acquainted."
     "Yes, baroness." Becky nodded, blushing as if she had done something wrong by answering.
     Charlie's horseless carriage sputtered up the drive, lurching a few feet at a time under the hands of a baffled coachman. Smoke and steam rose from great black pipes in its backside.
     "Confounded contraption!" Lord de Frees exclaimed, stepping away from the steam. His wife covered her mouth with a handkerchief to keep out the smell of dust and burning oil. Charlie ran beside his contraption and slapped the hood, yelling instructions at the coachman to bring it to a stop.
     Charis coughed, then turned to Rhema and said, "We are going by the same road for at least ten miles. Mr. Overton and I would be happy to have you ride with us."
     "Can I go too?" Roger cried out. His powers of hearing magnified when it came to Charlie's contraptions.

     “Next time, Master Roger,” Charlie said. “There is only enough space for three at the moment.” Roger grimaced.
     “Is it all right, Papa?” Rhema asked. Her parents exchanged looks. After twenty years of marriage, they had become masters of the silent debate. It ended with a disapproving turn of Lord de Frees’ eyebrows and a merciful shrug from Lady de Frees’ shoulders.
     “Very well then,” said her father. Rhema and Charis smiled identical smiles of relief.
      Charlie finished buttoning his motorist overcoat and ran around the vehicle to help Charis step into the back seat.
      Rhema searched for the step on which to place her foot. She absently held out her hand, expecting Charlie’s assistance. Charlie’s grip, stronger than she expected, steadied her wobble as she leapt into the carriage of the machine.
     “Was it this shaky the—“
      Rather than Charlie, the prince himself had a grip on the curve of her fingers.
     “I mean, I am much obliged, Your Highness.”
     “I am sorry if I hurt you,” he murmured.
     “Hurt me?”
     “Your arm,” he said, softer still. She recalled the purpled bruise beneath her sleeve from where he had grabbed her yesterday.
     “It is nothing,” she said, pulling her hand out of his.
     “Stealing another look at this beauty, Your Highness?” Charlie said as he climbed into the driver’s side of his vehicle and patted its steering device affectionately.
     “I look forward to the day I will have one of my own,” Prince Bastion answered. The shadow lifted from his expression as he turned his attention toward the exposed engine.
     “Oh, but you do not want this one, Highness. The car we will build for you will be a superior mechanism. Wait and see. My partners and I are forever grateful to you for this opportunity.” Charlie put on his goggles. His sideburns lifted as he grinned.
     “I am sure it is I who will be much obliged to you,” said the prince. “Until next time, Mr. Overton.” He had a smile in his voice and a pleasant, easy-going demeanor such as Rhema never saw when he spoke to her. He must hate me, she thought.
      Perhaps princes, like ducks, could hear her thoughts, because at that moment, he looked directly at her face.
     “Until we meet again, Miss de Frees,” he said with a slight bow.
     “Until then.” She mirrored his bow.
      He is a very odd prince.
      The two carriages carrying the rest of the family rolled in a gentle loop down the drive. Rhema and the Overtons sputtered loudly behind.           

      After five miles, Charlie’s contraption wailed like an elephant with an ulcer before jerking to a smoky stop. Fortunately, the carriages weren’t too far ahead. Charis joined the De Frees party while Charlie walked back to town to rent a cart that could drag his ailing invention home.
     “Now Charis can ride with us in the back carriage. Mama, Papa, and Mr. Highwater can take the front carriage, like the old days,” said Rhema, pulling Charis’ suitcase in the intended direction.
     “Let Mr. Highwater do that, Rhema. Ladies do not need to be scuffling about in the mud,” said her father.
     “It is not a problem. Should I be worried about a muddy hem among my family?”
     “Rhema...”
      She dropped the suitcase. Mr. Highwater took it up and flung it onto the carriage rack with one swing.
     “I could have done it,” Rhema said. Mr. Highwater escorted her up the steps of the lead carriage.
     “I am sure that you could have, Baroness,” he said, bowing and shutting the door. She waited until he was out of earshot and turned, expecting to tell Charis and Roger how tired she was of being called ‘baroness.’ Instead, her parents were on the bench opposite of her own. Did Mr. Highwater make a mistake?
     “There is something we need to talk to you about,” said Lord de Frees. Rhema swallowed. This phrase coming from her father was never followed by good news.
     “We were going to wait until we got home to have this discussion, but this way is better. More private,” said Lady de Frees. Rhema stuck her head out the window, watching Charis and Mr. Highwater enter the back carriage with Roger. Charis motioned Rhema to sit back down.
      The horses began to move, jostling Rhema into her seat. Her carriage slushed through the muddy road. Between the uneven light hitting them from under the coach curtains and their oblique frowns, Rhema’s parents reminded her of the palace lawn statues. She crossed her legs together and pressed them under her skirt, hiding the patches of mud that had splashed on her stockings.
     “What do you know about politics, Rhema?” asked her father. The question surprised her. Was she going to get another lecture about paying attention to world events?
     “A little. Jonathan likes to discuss topics of the sort.”
     “Do you remember why Prince Bastion was engaged to Princess Dahlia?”
     “Of course. Everybody knows that.”
      A small cluster of wrinkles formed above Lord de Frees’ nose, a sure indication that he was preparing to either give or receive bad news. Lady de Frees laid her hand over his and smiled at Rhema. Her mother had a smile for every emotion. Most of the smiles were pleasant – the happy smile, the surprised smile, the just-finished-a-very-good-meal smile. But behind some of her smiles lurked unpleasant feelings. The smile she wore at the moment was the worst. It was the reassuring-even-though-you’re-about-to-hear-something-you-dislike smile. This was more frightening to Rhema than her father’s nose wrinkles.
     “I know about the alliance, Papa, but to be honest, I do not understand the necessity. There has not been a war with Freesia since—“
     “About a hundred years ago, yes. But another one nearly started after King Gervais was assassinated.” Lord de Frees felt around in his coat for some tobacco and a pipe, even though he usually made it a point not to smoke in the company of ladies. “You are too young to remember those days.” Lady de Frees slipped her arm into his. He continued, “We can thank God that Penelope is a sensible, rather than vengeful, queen. She signed a treaty with King Harold so that their children could still marry, and so that both their monarchies would come out of the whole mess unscathed.”
     “But the prince could marry anyone and still continue the Van Sever monarchy,” said Rhema. Her mother nodded, but her father frowned at the idea.
     “Yes, but what would happen then? We are a small country. Freesia is even smaller. Our economy is stagnant, and our army is about as effective as a school girl with a rock and a stick. If something is not done, both Gallia and Freesia will have no choice but to seek the assistance of our more powerful neighbors, become indebted to them, and, eventually, let ourselves be absorbed by them. While we indulged in petty wars, other nations have founded colonies and empires, or excelled in art and industry. Why do you think so many Galls have sailed to America to find work? Our heritage is all we have left, and we will lose that if we and Freesia do not join together, both in state and in spirit, to build an empire of our own.”
      By this time Rhema felt extremely knowledgeable. The world was changing. More importantly to her, if the nations joined, nobody would ever call her or her siblings ‘freesies’ again.
      Her father continued, “A treaty is not enough. Your mother and I can testify to how difficult it is for Gall families and Freesian families to agree.” Lady de Frees squeezed his hand. “There will be revolutions unless we provide a common symbol under which both nations can stand.”
     “Bastion and Dahlia,” Rhema said. The empty feeling she had felt during Dahlia’s memorial returned.
     “Yes, and more importantly, whatever children they might have had.”
     “What are you trying to tell me? Dahlia died. Are we going to war?”
     “Not necessarily. She was Gervais’ only child, but there are other girls in the Freesian royal family – nieces, cousins, second cousins – who might be able to fill the role. Although, it goes without saying that the people will not love anybody so much as they loved Dahlia.”
     “Queen Penelope has a niece, um, Princess – what’s her name? She came to Iderburg for Christmas a few years ago. She is not married yet, is she?” Rhema searched her memory for a name. She remembered meeting a surly little princess who looked like a Christmas tree but had half the personality.
     “Drucilla,” said her mother. “No. She is not married, and your father and I did speculate that she would be the next choice. She is next in line to the Freesian crown. But this morning, we met with Harold and—“ She paused and looked to her husband to finish the sentence. He did not fill the silence right away. He looked at Rhema, trying to gauge how his daughter would react to the news he was about to give her.
      Something flickered in Rhema’s stomach. A ‘pixie warning’ was what her Neha called the feeling.
      Her father took a puff from his pipe and waited until the smoke expelled from his cheeks before continuing. “You know how loved your great-grandmother, Princess Annabelle, was in her day, and how much of a loss it was considered that she married Phillip of Freesia. She died and was buried in Freesia, but her children were passed up for the throne by the children of Phillip’s second wife, Sophia, who was Dahlia’s great-grandmother. Harold is a Gall, heart to bone. Now that Dahlia is gone, it appears he is set on the notion of his son marrying one of Annabelle’s descendants.”
     “Then it will be Duchess Annette. Annette would make a lovely queen.” Even as she said this, Rhema imagined Annette’s lily-green eyes gleaming coolly out from behind a bridal veil. She didn’t know why, but this image chilled her to the heart.
     “So would you, my dear,” her father said.
      The pieces fell together. Everything from Rhema’s strange week suddenly made sense. Why then did it feel like everything was breaking apart?
     “Me?” she said. “Do you mean to tell me that the prince of Gallia is considering marrying me?” The words were almost too absurd to be spoken aloud.
     “No,” answered her father, “I mean to tell you that the prince of Gallia has already decided to marry you.”
      Rhema’s eyes darted back and forth between her parents. “I would be a terrible queen. I would not know where to begin. I abhor politics, and Charis will tell you my manners are wanting. She would be much better prepared for the job than I.”
     “It might have been her, had she not been already married,” said Lady de Frees, transferring herself to Rhema’s side of the coach.
     “There is already talk of the Baroness of Sever at long last returning home to Iderburg. Symbolically, I can see how the match would mean a great deal to the king,” said her father.
     “Sever? Is that what this is about? A strip of land? I will abdicate then. Roger can have it. I do not want it.”
      Her father’s expression darkened. “That strip of land is your heritage. I was the Baron of Sever before you were ever conceived. It is yours because I have given it to you. I would not have done it had I known my children would treat it as a toy.”
     “I know it is not a toy, Papa,” said Rhema. She had never been so ashamed in his presence as she was then. Never again would she talk of abdicating. “But is it land that the Van Severs want? Annette is duchess of the Freesian county of Devon, which is much larger and also lies near the border. Forgive me, but the prince is a fool if he does not marry her. She is beautiful, mannerly, descended from the same line as I, and much more Freesian. I am too Gallish now. Even if I were still a Freesian, I would not accept me as a queen.”
     “Je suis Freesien, and I would accept you,” her father said.
     “You can hardly be considered impartial. Besides, there is the other matter. I was under the impression that our family is not especially popular, particularly among the Freesians. Has this not changed?”
     “On that matter, I am also confounded. My guess would be that Harold thought mostly of pleasing the Galls and not the Freesians when he allowed your name as a possibility. However, as a great-granddaughter of Phillip, I would wager that you still have some Freesian supporters, and that might be enough.”
     “My goodness, Papa. You talk as if this thing has already been done, as if I actually want to marry the prince or that he wants to marry me.” Rhema began running the possibilities through her mind of what would be the best method to leap out of a moving carriage.
     “His Majesty told us that Prince Bastion was insistent on the point that it should be you. I must ask, Rhema, what have you done to so impress the prince?”
      Rhema couldn’t tell whether her heart was beating harder or the carriage was moving faster.
     “I do not understand,” she said. “I have hardly seen the man since the day I fell into the moat. I have done nothing but exchanged a few words and danced badly.”
     “Nevertheless, you are to be the next princess...”
     “No! No, I am not!” Rhema ground her knuckles into her seat cushion.
     “Your mother and I have already agreed to it.”
      Lady de Frees no longer smiled. She sat still, one hand upon the other in her lap. She looked at Rhema as one might look at an injured animal. She nodded smally to Rhema’s questioning gaze.
     “What do you mean you have agreed to it? Is this the dark ages?” Rhema directed her questions to her father. “It cannot be done without my consent, and I say no.”
     “Have we not taught you that there is a price to pay for our many privileges? This is it. You do not know how difficult it is for your mother and I to ask you to do this, but, my dear little honeybee, this is not about you. It is something that must be done, not for us, but for Gallia.”
      His words hit their mark. No matter how much Rhema tried to be impartial, she loved Gallia. Gallia was winters counting the steps to the bell tower of Wenderry Chapel. Gallia was summers fishing in the pond with Yash. Gallia was ducks and grass and friends and memories. It was the Cottage. It was home. The idea of someday losing all that one day to a foreign dictator made her almost as sick as the idea of marrying a man she did not love.
      And she did not love him. How could she now? How could she ever? Thinking back on the prince, she now considered him not attractive at all, but common; not stoic, but dull; not intriguing, but arrogant; not kind, but begrudgingly polite.
      She did not like crying in front of her parents. Their happiness was so entwined with the happiness of their children that Rhema made efforts to behave at all times happy when she was around them. It was bad enough to suffer alone but even worse to burden the people she loved with suffering that was not theirs. She lost control of her world and herself. Tears, unbidden, wetted her cheeks. Her heart beat like a kettledrum. Her breaths gave her pain. Her mother wrapped an arm around her while Rhema gasped in the bitter certitude of hopelessness.
     “It will not be immediate, Rhema.” Her mother’s voice came to her like from the bottom of a valley. “The king can wait a year or two. There must be time to grieve Dahlia and to educate you. He would not give us longer than that. It is important to him that.... that an heir is born as soon as possible.”
      I am a breeding horse. Rhema could not stop crying.
      Lady de Frees made another attempt to smile reassuringly. “You will stay at home with us for a while. You won’t have to move until the engagement is announced. Harold said you may live in Westbridge Manor after that, so that you may better plan your wedding and attend etiquette school. That will be exciting, will it not? To be a guest in Westbridge? My liebchin princess.”
      There was a mystery about Westbridge, the empty house on the hill across from the palace. She had always wanted to know what it was like on the inside. The possibility excited her, but Rhema was in no state to admit it.
     “Bastion really is a handsome man, is he not?” Her mother said. “From all I can tell, he is a fine gentleman too. I had thought that you would like him, for he seems to me like you in temper. Yes, I am certain that, given time, you will come to like him. I do not find him wanting in anything.”
      Rhema lay her head in her mother’s lap and breathed deeply. With her outward breath she said, “He does not make me laugh.”
           
      They say that when a person dies, they see their life before their eyes. Rhema had a similar experience on the road home. She wasn’t aware of time or of movement, of her mother’s hand in her hair or the clip-clop of horses on the street. She was aware of what had up until this moment been a snow-globe life. She remembered something of the shape of the house they had lived in in Freesia. She remembered playing in the garden of the Cottage. She remembered falling into the Iderburg moat. And she remembered a boy prince running along the high bank calling for help.
      Though she didn't sleep, her world fell into darkness. No light touched her soul until she saw the Cottage rising over a hill. She wanted nothing more than to climb into her room, with all her cherished things, and make the past week disappear.
      She didn’t talk to anybody when she arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Cartweller waited on the doorstep with their smiles, expecting to each receive a welcoming hug. Neither got one. Jonathan met her at the door.
     “What is the matter? Did you burn down Iderburg?” he said. This was his usual way of welcoming her home.
     “Yes, I did,” she answered. “It is all up in flames.” She pushed darling Jonathan out of the way and ran to her room.
      Downstairs, echoes of voices whispered in the house. Whispers always fell on Rhema’s ears harder than shouts, because they fell just into the point of hearing, but just out of the point of understanding. This time, she knew what the topic of discussion must be. She guessed that her parents were explaining to the others what they had just told her. Her suspicion was confirmed when Mrs. Cartweller’s shout of, “Rhema! Our Rhema! I don’t believe it!” came through the ceiling.
      She fell into the softness of her bed. The sheet below and family quilt above were softer than any priceless palace sheets. There is time. Things can change, she reminded herself as her lids closed over tear-exhausted eyes. Hope returned like a good dream, long lost. As long as she was home, there was hope.