The Paper Princess

“Probably our imaginations,” drawled Lord Arthur. “More wine, gentlemen?”

Felicity and Miss Chubb reined in their mounts at the top of the cliff. The governess told Felicity of how she had set the fire to cause a diversion. “You are really very clever and bold, Miss Chubb,” said Felicity. “I declare, I am proud of you.”

Miss Chubb blushed with pleasure in the darkness. “I am glad I was able to be of help, Miss Felicity,” she said. “Lord Arthur Bessamy is a most terrifying man.”

“Indeed, yes,” agreed Felicity with a shudder, thinking of those clever, searching black eyes. “At least we need not trouble about him anymore and need not bother our heads about him again… thanks to you.”

But in her bed that night, as a fierce gale whipped round the castle and moaned in the arrow slits, Felicity lay awake, plagued by memories of Lord Arthur Bessamy. She had never met anyone like him before.

“And probably never will again,” said a gloomy voice in her head. “Not the sort of gentleman to be pressed into marriage with anyone, and a cut above your stepfather's usual choice of husband.”

A large tear ran down her nose, and she brushed it away. She had drunk far too much and become maudlin, she told herself severely. Who in her right mind would want the terrifying Lord Arthur Bessamy as a husband? She pulled the pillows round about her ears to drown out the crying of the wind, and plunged down into an uneasy dream where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of a tailor's shop stitching a wedding coat for Lord Arthur Bessamy, who was to be married the next day to the Queen.

* * * *

Before he set out the following morning, Lord Arthur Bessamy made inquiries in the village for a tailor's assistant called Freddy Channing, but did not look in the least surprised to find no one had ever heard of the boy.

Chapter Two

For the next two weeks, life at Tregarthan Castle returned to normal-that is, normal for Tregarthan Castle.

Mrs. Palfrey lay on a chaise longue in the drawing room during the day, sleeping or reading novels, or writing long letters to friends with whom she often corresponded, saying she was still too ill to receive visitors. The physician had diagnosed “a wasting illness,” and had recommended quiet. In fact, Mrs. Palfrey would have been greatly cheered by a visit from some of her old friends, but Mr. Palfrey frowned on that idea, insisting that such excitement would be bad for her health, but privately thinking that his wife's friends were blessed with too many children-children who might chip the gloss on the legs of the furniture and make slides on the glassy surfaces of the floor.

Felicity stayed in the nursery wing with her governess, sharing all her meals with Miss Chubb as usual, rather than face formal dinners with her stepfather in the chilly, polished dining room where only a very small fire was allowed to battle with the winter cold, as a large fire might create more dust and ash to sully the pristine surfaces of tables and glass cases.

Although she should have been glad that no sign of an arranged marriage had reared its ugly head, she was bored. Very bored. The brief meeting with Lord Arthur had shown her a glimpse of a heady world of sophistication, a world where ladies could expect to be allowed one Season in London and have at least a chance of finding someone suitable out of a selection of gentlemen. But Mr. Palfrey would never countenance the expense of a Season.

The rain had fallen steadily since her visit to The Green Dolphin with Miss Chubb. Both ladies had been confined to the castle. But at the end of the second week since their “great adventure” as Miss Chubb called it, the wind shifted to the east and then died down. Frost glittered on the lawns on the other side of the frozen moat and icicles hung down in front of the nursery windows.

Felicity and Miss Chubb were just getting warmly dressed, preparatory to going for a walk, when a liveried footman appeared with a message from Mr. Palfrey. Miss Felicity was to present herself in the drawing room immediately.

“Marriage!” whispered Miss Chubb as soon as the footman had left.

“I do not think so,” said Felicity. “No one has come to call.” She giggled. “They might leave wet footprints on Mr. Palfrey's precious floors. I shall not be long. Meet me in the hall.”

Mr. Palfrey was seated in a wing chair in front of the small fire in the drawing room. Lying on the chaise longue drawn up in front of the window was Mrs. Palfrey, her eyes closed, a piece of half-finished embroidery lying on her lap.

“Come in, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey, “and sit opposite me. I have good news for you.”

Felicity sat down in a tapestried chair opposite. The pair surveyed each other cautiously.

Mr. Palfrey decided again that Felicity could hardly be classed as a beauty. There was something so… wayward about her appearance, and always a hint of rebellion at the back of those wide, innocent eyes.

Felicity was always struck afresh each time she saw him by how petty, nasty, and ridiculous her stepfather looked.

His sparse, graying hair was teased and combed back on top of his head. His blue morning coat was padded on the shoulders, and his cravat was built up high to cover the lower part of his face. He had a long thin body and very short legs, legs that were encased in skintight, canary-yellow pantaloons. With his thin yellow legs and his crest of hair, he looked like Mr. Canary in a children's story book. He had a little beak of a nose and very pale blue eyes.

“What news, Mr. Palfrey?” asked Felicity. After his marriage to their mother, Mr. Palfrey had begged the little Channing girls to call him “Papa.” But not even the biddable elder girls had been able to call him that. He was so fussy, prissy, and spiteful that not one of them could view him in the light of father, so all had continued to call him Mr. Palfrey

The castle was very quiet. The servants were expected to remain unseen and unheard as they went about their duties. If Mr. Palfrey came across, say, a housemaid, who had not time to run and hide, she was expected to turn her face to the wall and try to look as invisible as possible until he had passed.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a rapid chattering tick-tock, and a flame spurted out of a log in the fire and died, while Mr. Palfrey considered his reply.

“I credit you with a natural modesty and humility, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey. “So it may have occurred to you that you are notexactly pretty.”

“Not in a fashionable way, no,” said Felicity mildly.

“Not inany way at all, ” said Mr. Palfrey sharply. “I have therefore had some difficulty in finding you a suitable husband.”

Felicity went very still and tense. Who? Who? Who have you found for me? chattered an anxious voice in her brain along with the restless chatter of the clock.

Mr. Palfrey made a steeple of his fingers and looked at Felicity over them. “There is, moreover, a shortage of young men. You cannot expect ayoung husband such as your more fortunate sisters have found.”

“Maria married the Bishop of Exeter,” said Felicity tartly, “and he is in his forties.”

“Enough!” said Mr. Palfrey, holding up one hand. “But you will consider yourself fortunate when you hear that I have found a suitable gentleman for you. A titled gentleman.”

“Who is?”

“Lord St. Dawdy.”

A faint moan came from the direction of the window. Felicity looked anxiously at her mother, but that lady still lay with her eyes closed, apparently asleep.

“You are not going to marry me off to anyone,” said Felicity in an urgent whisper, her eyes blazing, “least of all to an ancient gentleman who has been married twice before. Besides, he is abroad.”

“You have no choice in the matter,” said Mr. Palfrey. “The baron has returned and has honored me by accepting