Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Page 14

  “Oh, I must get it back to Peter as soon as possible. To Mr. Stark, that is.” Molly felt heat rush to her face. When had she started thinking of him as Peter?

  “Aye, probably a good idea to return to Fanning Bank a few minutes early,” her father said.

  Her mother rose and went to the stove. “Perhaps you can ask one of the footmen to deliver it to Mr. Stark’s room without telling him what it is or how you came by it. But now, child, you must rest.” She turned with a stick of firewood in her hand. “Who will dress your hair? Oh my, this is so unexpected.”

  “I shall ask Allison, if she’s not kept at some other duty,” Molly said. “She’s very good at hairdressing. If she can’t help me, perhaps another of the maids can. Rosaleen has offered to help me get ready, and my dress is waiting in Deborah’s room.”

  “I suppose all shall be well, then.”

  Molly couldn’t help smiling as she remembered the white gown. “Oh, Mum, I wish you could see the dress they’ve loaned me. It’s the loveliest thing, but not at all pretentious.” She shot a glance at her father. “Or immodest.”

  “Well, that at least is a comfort,” he said.

  Not much else about the situation comforted Molly. She’d never danced in public, though Papa and Grandpa had whirled the children about the kitchen enough that she knew the rudiments of the art. She and Allison had practiced clandestinely a few times in the Johnsons’ barn. But she didn’t consider herself at all skilled in dancing. What if she tripped over the prince’s feet or stepped the wrong way at a critical moment in the quadrille?

  The men went back out to the barn, and Mum shooed Molly upstairs to lie down. In the little chamber that she slept in with Kate, Molly removed her apron, dress, and shoes. As she stretched out on her cot, Kate tiptoed in.

  “Hello, Katie.”

  Her little sister sat down on the quilt that covered her cot, opposite Molly’s bed. “Are you really going to dance with Prince Bertie?”

  Molly smiled. “I don’t know. Perhaps not. We shall see tonight.”

  “Will they have cake and tea?”

  “I expect so. I saw the chef put pans of batter in the oven today.” Kate sighed. “Nathan and Joe say there will be fireworks tonight.”

  “I heard that.”

  “I wish I could see them.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t. I don’t think I’ll see them, though, if that’s a consolation to you.” Deborah’s tiny room on the upstairs back of Government House, where Molly would dress for the ball, held no windows.

  “It’s not.” Kate’s face was very grave.

  “There now, sweetie, let me rest, if you please.”

  Kate stood and walked to the door. She turned back. “Could you bring me a little cake, do you think?”

  “If I’m able.”

  Her little sister left her, but Molly lay wide awake, hearing the distant lowing of the cattle and the rattle of wagon wheels on the road. So much to think about… Returning the formal clothes she had borrowed. Finding someone to do her hair. Dressing in the ethereal white gown that Thompson had never worn. Remembering the proper forms of address for a prince, a duke, an earl, and countless other gentlemen. If need be, she must recall whether to say, “Thank you very much, Your Grace,” or “Thank you, sir,” or even “Thank you, Your Highness.” And what if a gentleman asked her to dance and she didn’t know his rank? How should she address him then?

  Despite all the fretful details, one thought stayed uppermost in her mind and kept her from drifting off to sleep. One all-consuming, burning question: would Peter be at the ball?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peter fetched his boots from the armoire and sat down in a chair covered with jacquard brocade to pull them on. They gleamed in the afternoon sunlight that spilled in between the heavy gold curtains—fine boots the earl had insisted on buying for him for just such an occasion as this, riding out with the prince.

  He finished with the boots, rose, and reached for his hat and gloves. All set for the ride now. Peter looked out the window. The prince and his friends—the two equerries, Captain Grey and Major Teesdale—were heading for the stable while the band carried its instruments to the back garden. They would have only an hour for the ride, after which the prince must put in an appearance at the lawn party. Peter hurried down the stairs and out to the stable yard. Gravel and straw had been strewn in the worst of the muddy spots and made getting to the barns easier.

  “Oh, there you are, Stark,” the earl called. Peter hastened to his side. Washburn stood with the Duke of Newcastle and a local couple named Mulgrave. “We’ll be riding in a carriage behind His Royal Highness and the others.”

  Peter bowed slightly. “If you’d prefer, I can ride in the carriage, my lord.”

  “No, no. You go on and enjoy yourself. You young fellows seem to have no end of energy, and I know how much you love riding.” Washburn stepped away from the others and lowered his voice. “Newcastle’s complaining of a sore throat, and St. Germains has the sniffles. It’s this damp. At least the prince is holding up well.”

  “Yes, he has a strong constitution.” Peter looked up at the gray sky. For now, the rain held off, though the soft breeze brought moisture that beaded on every surface and a threat of more showers to come.

  Washburn sighed. “Well, he knows he can’t get sick before he opens that bridge in Montreal and lays the cornerstone for the parliament building in Ottawa.”

  Peter repressed a smile. Washburn seemed to believe that royals could control their health until all official duties were completed. Maybe they had a secret the likes of Peter didn’t know.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure the prince will perform admirably at those events.”

  “Hmm, yes, he’s done very well so far. Well, go on, lad. Get your horse and have at it. I shall enjoy a good visit with these folks. I believe a couple more carriages are coming along.”

  Peter hurried to the stable door. The prince’s ride was turning into a cavalcade of dignitaries, rather than a peaceful outing with a couple of friends. At least the young man would get some exercise and fresh air. By the time they led out their saddled mounts, the clouds had thinned even more and the sun shot tentative rays between the wisps that remained. Peter began to hope that Mrs. Dundas’s party would not be deluged after all.

  The horseback party included George Dundas. He was privileged to slip off for some recreation while his wife fussed over the final details of the public lawn party. The two young army officers, Teesdale and Gey, were also going, and Captain Stapleton of the local militia, besides Peter and the prince. The six saddle horses trotted out smartly in the van, quickly outdistancing the carriages that rumbled along behind.

  “You’ll want to get a view of our racecourse,” Dundas told the prince gleefully. “Too bad you can’t stay long enough to enjoy a racing meet, Your Highness. You’d like it excessively.”

  “I’m sure I would—right, Chris?” The prince looked expectantly to his friend, Major Teesdale, who rode beside him.

  “We all would, Your Honor,” Teesdale said. “I’ve heard you’ve some good racing stock on the island.”

  Dundas smiled. “As good as any in the Canadas.”

  The prince spurred his mount into a canter through the acreage behind the house, and the others followed. Major Teesdale kept his horse within a few strides of the prince’s magnificent black gelding—standing in for General Bruce, Peter assumed. The prince’s governor had succumbed to the catarrh many suffered from and had retired for a nap rather than join the riding party.

  They rode through the streets of Charlottetown at a sedate trot, but once out away from the busy streets, the riders let their horses again break into a canter until they reached a muddy stretch of road. The prince reined in his horse, and so the rest of the party did the same.

  Peter hung back, content to ride last of those on horseback. The equerries laughed and bantered with the prince comfortably, as friends are wont to do...but Peter would never be privy to s
uch a conversation with royalty. He let the military men and the governor enjoy their time with Albert Edward, while he enjoyed the freedom and contentment he always found in the saddle. He’d never owned a horse—he and his mother couldn’t afford to stable an animal. But over the last few years he’d had the privilege of riding the earl’s horses often while carrying out his duties. One of his dreams was to have his own horse one day and enough turf to graze it on.

  The party turned onto the North River Road—Dundas was taking them on Peter’s suggested route. Satisfied, Peter let his mind wander. A couple of miles from town, they rode past fields of lush potato plants, long rows of them stretching to the tree line on the horizon. Almost all the fields sloped along the gentle hillsides, and the damp red earth between the rows of blossoming potato plants, framed against the blue-gray sky, presented a picture worthy of an artist’s brush.

  A fenced pasture was next, with a score of brown-and-white milk cows grazing placidly. One of the equerries said something to the heir apparent, and the prince pulled up his horse to wait for the governor to come alongside him.

  “This is one of the places you said we might stop at? Charlie says it’s a nice dairy farm. I believe dairying is a great industry in the colony?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Highness,” Dundas said. “Potatoes are our biggest export, but dairying is extremely important to the economy, as are fishing and shipbuilding.” He pointed to a neat house, whitewashed and tidy, in the distance. “I believe that is the farmhouse that goes with these fields. Would you like to meet the owner?”

  The prince surveyed the compact house and the solid barn connected to it. Several other outbuildings dotted the half acre around them.

  “Yes, I would, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “We shall have to make it a short stop,” Dundas said. “I don’t suppose the farmer would object to a dooryard call, though. As it happens, he is one who was at the levee today. I imagine he’d be delighted to receive you.”

  Dundas turned and searched the faces of those in the party. His gaze lit on Peter. “Mr. Stark, would you be so kind as to ride ahead to the farmhouse and ask the householder if he’d mind answering a few questions about his dairying for His Royal Highness?”

  The prince looked Peter’s way. “And ask them if I might beg a cup of water. Riding is thirsty business.”

  Peter bowed his head and steered his horse around the others, into the short farm lane. The prince was showing a commendable interest in the local people, as well as displaying his amazing energy. Already that day, in addition to the levee and luncheon, he had inspected the regiment of Volunteers, allowed journalists to take photographs, gone by carriage to the Colonial Building—where he received the addresses of the Executive Council—and shot a few birds with the governor and the equerries. Now he was cantering about the farmland near Charlottetown and would soon return to Government House for the lawn party. After mixing with the public there, he would dress for dinner and the formal ball. Somewhere in there, he was expected to view the illumination of ships in the harbor. How long could the young man keep up this frenzied pace?

  A tall, white-haired man emerged from the barn as Peter approached and stood eyeing him as he rode up. Peter tugged gently on the reins, and the spirited roan halted before the gentleman.

  Though he held a rustic cap in his hand rather than a silk top hat and wore homespun trousers and a shirt instead of a fine suit, there was no mistaking the elderly man. His blue eyes twinkled as he surveyed Peter.

  “Mr. Stark. Imagine that.”

  Peter nodded. “Mr. Orland. This farm was recommended as one where His Royal Highness could stop while having a ride with the governor and a few others of his suite. I’m sorry we didn’t give you advance warning, but the prince is just up at the head of your lane. He asked if he might meet the owner of so well-kept a farm and obtain a glass of water.”

  “Indeed. I shall have to call out the rest of the family as well, if it’s all the same to you. I’m sure my daughter-in-law would like to meet you—and His Royal Highness, of course. And my son and I would be happy to lift a glass with the heir apparent.”

  Peter laughed. “I’m not sure there’s time for that, as he must be back at Government House soon for Mrs. Dundas’s fete.”

  “Too bad. I’ve a fine local ale inside.”

  “It might not be remiss to offer a glass. Go and tell your son and any other family members you’ve got about the place. I shall tell His Royal Highness you will receive him with a good will.” Peter lifted the reins.

  “Aye. Oh, and Stark—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Is the Earl of Washburn in the party?”

  Peter nodded toward the road. “You see the three carriages coming in the wake of the riders? He is in the first of those, with Lord Newcastle and a couple of your local dignitaries.”

  “Ah. I don’t suppose now is the time to try to speak to the earl, then. Too many folk about.”

  “On the contrary, His Lordship is willing to set up an audience with you and your son.”

  “Is he, now?”

  Peter nodded. “He instructed me to tell you so if I had the opportunity.”

  Orland gazed up the road at the approaching carriages. “Go on. We’ll be ready in a moment.” He turned and walked toward the barn door.

  Peter wheeled his horse about and trotted to meet the other horsemen as they entered the muddy lane.

  The prince smiled at him. “What’s the word, Stark?”

  “Your Highness will be received with pleasure.”

  “As if they would refuse,” said Captain Grey.

  The prince laughed. “There now, Charlie, these farm folk are more polite than you are.”

  Peter watched the other members of the party, but no one seemed to think Grey had acted in an overly familiar manner. Grey and Teesdale, he understood, had been friends with the prince from boyhood. Perhaps when they were alone the Prince of Wales dropped all aloofness and became an ordinary boy. Did he wish he could act with the easy freedom his friends did at other times? Grey and Teesdale could walk about the capital unattended any time they wished, stop in at a pub, or pause to watch a troupe of strolling musicians. The prince could never do that unless accompanied by a retinue of bodyguards.

  Thankfulness for his own station in life—and the ensuing liberty it gave him—swept over Peter. The prince had noticed Molly and liked the look of her, so he’d seen that an invitation was issued to her for the ball. They might have one dance together, during which Molly would likely be tongue-tied. Peter, on the other hand, had managed a couple of conversations with her and anticipated getting to know her better at the ball. He could even approach her between dances and, if God favored him, ask her to walk in to supper with him.

  Ah, Lord, that would be more blessing than the likes of me deserves.

  “Well, come on, Stark,” the prince said.

  Peter jerked his head up. “Yes, Your Highness.” Surprised, he guided his roan back toward the farmhouse in advance of the other riders. He’d expected to follow last in line as usual.

  Molly’s father, with crutches supporting him, and her grandfather had emerged and stood before the door of their snug little house. A woman in a plain housedress stood beside them. Her cheeks bloomed bright red and her hair was a bit windblown, but she was lovely. Peter couldn’t help but smile as he traced the lines of Molly’s features in her delicate chin and well-proportioned nose. A lad of about the prince’s age and a boy of ten stood beside their grandfather, and a girl somewhere in age between them hovered in her mother’s shadow. All the children bore the golden hair and blue eyes he’d found so striking on Molly.

  Peter dismounted and held the horse’s reins as Anson stepped forward.

  “My daughter-in-law is Eliza,” Anson said in a stage whisper.

  Peter nodded in gratitude and noticed that the old man held a frothing tankard.

  The prince, Dundas, and the equerries drew up and remained in the sa
ddle.

  Peter gulped. It seemed to be up to him to take on the steward’s role. Would the prince recognize the Orland name and connect it with Molly, the maid he’d insisted be invited to the ball? He could do nothing about that.

  “Your Highness, may I present the Orland family? We have here Mr. Anson Orland and his son, David, who were presented to you earlier today, and Mrs. Eliza Orland, and...three of their children.”

  The prince nodded with a smile. The Orland men bowed, and Eliza and her daughter dipped curtsys.

  Peter hesitated then cleared his throat. “The queen’s representative, Lieutenant Governor Dundas.”

  Dundas inclined his head, and Peter went on to name the other gentlemen in the party.

  Anson Orland stepped forward, extending the tankard to Peter. “If it pleases His Royal Highness, I would like to offer him a draught of our local ale.”

  “I shall accept with pleasure,” said the prince.

  Peter took the tankard and carried it to the near side of the prince’s horse. He’d never directly served a member of the royal family, and it was all he could do to keep his hands steady as he raised the drink to the prince. He’s just a lad, Peter told himself. I’m handing a mug to a boy.

  The prince raised the tankard to his lips and drank deeply. Teesdale whipped out a handkerchief and handed it to him. Albert Edward blotted his lips and smiled down at Anson.

  “Excellent. I must say, this colony has shown us food and drink of fine quality.”

  Anson bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. We’d be happy to serve the rest of these gentlemen as well.” He shot an anxious glance toward the road. The three carriages had caught up to them, and the first one now turned in at the farm lane. Peter could almost hear Anson’s thoughts as he inventoried his stock of ale.

  As he spoke, Eliza and the three children scurried to the doorstep, where they’d left a tray of cups and two pitchers, and managed to pour out cups for all the riders before the first carriage gained the dooryard and made a sweeping turn through the mud. The other two carriages paused in the road at the head of the lane. Apparently the coachmen had second thoughts about stuffing all three vehicles into the slick yard.