“Gosh,” said Ratafia, awestruck. “However did you know?”
She shrugged. “Because Lional and Sultan Zazoor of Kallarap were in a similar boat. It was all terribly tedious. Lional-”
“I’m sorry,” Ratafia said quickly. “Please, don’t talk about him if it’s painful. If you’d rather, we needn’t talk at all.”
But she wasn’t really listening to Ratafia. Oh, lord. Lional. Slowing, she touched her fingertips to Ratafia’s rose-pink sleeve. “Ratafia-you do want to marry Ludwig, don’t you? I mean, I hope nobody’s forcing your hand.”
“Forcing my hand?” Ratafia stopped, astonished. “Melissande, are you afraid I’m being bullied into this wedding?”
For all the eggshell-walking that diplomacy required as a matter of course, sometimes it was just as important to forge ahead and bugger the mess. She might be in Splotze more-or-less on behalf of the Ottosland government, but if tricky Sir Alec thought she’d stand quietly by while a sweet young girl was sold into wedlock for a bloody canal then he wasn’t half as clever as he liked to think.
“To be honest, Ratafia, I am,” she replied. “Is that what’s happening?”
Ratafia laughed, surprised. “Of course not. I told you, I’m terribly fond of Luddie.”
Well, that seemed genuine enough… but marriage was a two-way street. Struck by yet another horrible thought, Melissande bit her lip.
I wonder if Luddie is terribly fond of her?
It was a ghastly notion, but every possibility had to be considered. What if Hartwig’s brother didn’t want to marry Ratafia? What if he was the one being pressured into the wedding?
What if he’s the one behind Abel Bestwick, and the fireworks, and whatever goes wrong next?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alarmed, Ratafia stretched out her hand. “Are you all right, Melissande? You’ve gone awfully pale.”
“What? Oh. Yes. I’m fine.” With her knees suddenly wobbly, she clutched at the promenade deck’s polished hand rail. And that’s a lie, it’s a great big fib. Staring over the barge’s side, all the way down to the greenish-grey water and the piebald ducks with their yellow beaks and curly tails, industriously paddling, Melissande breathed hard and waited for the horror to subside. “Though I think your mother might be right,” she added, over her shoulder. “That peppercorn sauce. Especially on top of everything else!”
“Hartwig does love his food,” Ratafia said, with a smothered giggle. “And he loves to share. I shall have to be careful or I’ll not fit into my wedding dress.”
Ratafia’s wedding dress. Her wedding. Scant days away now, and no hope of changing her mind. The scandal would be lethal. Frozen, Melissande stared at the ducks. So many of them. This stretch of the Canal was like a little duck city.
How can I ask her if Ludwig’s love is real? I can’t. She’ll pitch me over the side. I’ll create an international incident and Sir Alec will go spare.
She uncramped her fingers from the hand rail and made herself turn round. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Ratafia. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful.”
“Well, I hope so,” Ratafia sighed. “Because I do want to make Luddie proud. And I want to make Borovnik proud, too. This marriage is so important. It’s our chance, perhaps our only chance, for lasting peace.”
She really was a sweet girl. Too sweet, perhaps, to survive the shark-infested waters into which she was about to plunge.
Unless of course she’s lying. Maybe I’m wrong about Ludwig. Maybe Ratafia is being pressured to marry and the only way out is to sabotage her own wedding.
It wasn’t a completely far-fetched notion. Hadn’t she done her own feeble best to scupper Lional’s mad plan to marry her off? And so what if Ratafia was sweet? That could be an act. Beneath the sweetness, the girl might well be a seething morass of bitter scheming. Look at Permelia Wycliffe, that so-called bastion of Ottish Pastry Guild respectability. As it turned out, the woman had been a bogtrotting nutter.
“Melissande?” said Ratafia, anxious. “Are you sure you’re all right? You do look rather odd.”
Ignoring the churning nerves, she made herself smile at Borovnik’s princess. “Well, to be honest, Ratafia, I am a trifle worried. About you. Because I think I know a little bit of what you’re going through just now. Feeling like a leaf swept up in a windstorm, tossed hither and yon, at the mercy of so many powerful forces. It makes you wonder if anyone’s stopped to think about you, and what you want.”
“Oh.” Gaze faltering, Ratafia blushed. “Yes. It is a little- only, not really. I wouldn’t like you to think me ungrateful, or unmindful of-”
“It’s not about gratitude,” Melissande said quickly. “Or owing something to others. Ratafia, your first obligation is to yourself. It must be. How can you make someone else happy if you’re miserable?”
Another blush. “Mother says a woman’s true happiness is found in the happiness of others,” Ratafia said softly. “Especially a husband.”
“Oh, really?” Melissande retorted. “Well, your mother might be a dab hand when it comes to peppercorn sauce, but that doesn’t make her an expert on everything!”
Ratafia stepped back. “Melissande!”
Bugger, bugger, bugger. “I’m sorry, Ratafia,” she said, grimacing. “It’s just-well, the thing is, you remind me of me, from not so long ago. When Lional was determined I should marry Sultan Zazoor. I didn’t want to, and he didn’t care, and I felt so alone, so helpless, that I got drunk and climbed into a fountain full of goldfish. And there might’ve been singing, but it’s all a bit of a blur.”
Ratafia’s rosebud mouth opened into a perfect little O. “How awful for you!” she whispered. “But you’re wrong, Melissande. I don’t the least bit want to get drunk and serenade goldfish. I want to marry Luddie.”
“Because you honestly love him? Not because it’s the only way to seal a lasting peace over the Canal?”
Ratafia stared across the water at the moist brown clods of earth in the ploughed field beyond the Canal’s far bank. Creeping into her lovely eyes, a mingling of iron and acceptance.
“Of course there’s the politics. For people like us there’s always politics, Melissande. But it isn’t just politics. I won’t let it be just politics. And neither will Luddie.”
She sounded so sure of Hartwig’s younger brother, Melissande didn’t have the heart to question her resolve. If the girl was love-blind, marriage would restore her sight soon enough.
And in the meantime, I’ll find out what I can about Prince Ludwig and his resolve.
If it turned out her suspicions were right, and Ludwig proved himself a villain, she’d have Gerald take steps. Which yes, would break Ratafia’s heart.
But better a broken heart than a funeral — or a lifetime of being hexed. Just ask Reg.
She and Ratafia started strolling again, companionably silent, the climbing sun warm on their cheeks. They passed one barge-hand polishing the promenade deck’s railing, and another oiling some rope. Drifting up from the saloon on the middle deck beneath them, gentlemen’s laughter and the teasing tang of cigar smoke. Hearing her Luddie’s raucous mirth, Ratafia smiled. The look on her face caught Melissande sharply unprepared. Stirred up thoughts of Monk, who loved thaumaturgics so much it sometimes seemed there wasn’t room in his life for anything… anyone… else.
She winced. Stop being a gel, woman. You’ve a job to do, so do it. Let her be sidetracked into mooning over Bibbie’s infuriating, bewildering brother and she’d likely miss an important clue.
“Ratafia, can I ask you something?”
Borovnik’s princess trailed her fingertips along a stretch of freshly polished timber hand rail. “Yes, of course.”
“You might think me impertinent.”
An amused smile. “Friends can’t be impertinent.”
Friends. It was a nice thought. A pity she was here under false pretences.
Come on, you ditherer. Ask. It’s not like you’re betraying her. You’ve only just met, and when this business is over likely you’ll never see her again. So what does it matter?