In Which the Princess' Foreboding is Justified

From the diary of Dulcie, Crown Princess of Bentlefay

I suppose it is good for me in a way to feel as though I were a slightly extraneous guest in my own home. I can’t deny it came as a surprise.

Because Lady Marta has been here for a fortnight, and not only do I feel like she owns the place, I feel like she always has. I begin to see what Mother means when she talks about social responsibilities being more important than I give them credit for – I can’t count the number of things I never felt were worth bothering with, but that Lady Marta does effortlessly and has the entire court wrapped around her little finger in consequence.

It’s bad enough that she has the ladies and gentlemen dancing attendance. They were always going to pounce on any new addition to relieve their boredom, and will doubtless turn on her if she stays long enough, as they do everyone else. Besides, theirs is the life she was bred to, and she is clearly in her element. I suppose I would find it charming too, if I were that sort of person.

Then the staff would clearly lay down their lives for her, but I’m sure that’s only out of relief that she bothers to be nice to them. After some of the guests they have had to put up with I can imagine why they would be prepared to celebrate a young woman who says please and thank you, and doesn’t throw boots at them. I know I would.

I don’t really mind all that because I am used to feeling out of place in the ballroom and the receiving, but the solar? The dinner table? My own boudoir? She goes everywhere, she charms everyone, and after a fortnight of siege I find that I have nothing to say in conversation and my most intimate acquaintances seem to be looking over my shoulder for her when I do manage to trouble them for a few moments.

The first to fall was Winnie. It hurt less than it might have done, since it was somewhat to be expected – Lady Marta would have been a perfectly docile and malleable princess for Winnie to train up, and I can see myself how much easier Winnie’s job would have been with her instead of me. Now that Lady Marta is going to be Princess Consort of Marshweather, she bombards Winnie with questions of etiquette and precedence, which Winnie answers tirelessly and appears to love it. I sit sulking with the princesses’ tapestries and can’t even keep up, much less turn the conversation.

Lynde’s defection stung a little more. If anyone had asked me I would have said there was nobody she would be less likely to have anything in common with than a chattering empty-headed clotheshorse, but by my oath Lynde makes a beeline for her as soon as she gets to the boudoir after practice and they huddle together like newlyweds. It’s the knitting, of course. I’ve never seen anything like knitting to form instant friendships among women – it’s like a cult. Lynde taught Lady Marta a lace pattern and Lady Marta taught Lynde how to knit two socks at once, and they were fast friends before the bell rang for luncheon. That damned embroidery makes me nothing but enemies.

But the lowest blow was Father. I would have confidently expected a girl like Lady Marta to be a champion flirt and from what she’s let slip she has indulged in the sport enthusiastically in the past, but to do her credit she is devoted to Prince Hugo’s reputation and never shows the slightest sign of allurement to anyone under forty. That, however, leaves her a wide and varied field upon which to exercise her talents, especially in this mausoleum. And I suppose as her host and the ranking gentleman in the room, Father would be her obvious target. It’s a compliment, in a way, and if he took it as a bit of diplomacy like any other I would like it better. But the spectacle she makes of herself and him would turn a stronger stomach than mine, and he seems to adore it. Eyes batted across the dinner table, air kisses when passing in the courtyard, handclasps that go on quite ten seconds too long during the receiving – why, once I saw her chuck him under the chin during the dancing, and almost spat out my wine. If I ever catch her sitting on his lap, I really will run away to sea, and this time I mean it.

I almost believe it would be easier to stomach if I thought she was doing the whole thing on purpose, but aside from not having the brains of a boiled cabbage she is so obviously at that disgusting stage of a betrothal in which one wants the entire world to share one’s happiness that I can’t in good conscience accuse her of malice. My only comforts are Mother and Rafe – not that either of them has said anything critical or even looked askance, but they always treat her exactly as though she is behaving perfectly normally, which helps me to do the same thing.

Ah, well – as I said, I suppose it is good for me, and at least it’s temporary. King Lucan is taking an awful time about putting together the treaties for their release; it seems he relied on Bleake for all that sort of thing. I could almost wish Bleake back for an hour or two just to expedite the process.