The Spare Princess, Chapter Two
The Spare Princess
Chapter Two: The Thorn Price
Evangeline was not as small as he had imagined; he’d seldom heard her name without some variation of ‘frail’ or ‘fragile’ tacked onto it somewhere. But she didn’t seem noticeably smaller than any of the other Prince daughters. It was relative, of course. Most women seemed the same size to Walden: smaller. Everything else filtered down into two distinct categories: attractive or not. And Evangeline was, he noted with some relief, very beautiful. She smiled at him politely as he approached, awkward in his ill-fitting robes, too tight across his broad shoulders.
“Hello, Mr. Macnair,” she greeted him kindly, her eyes dark in her pale, thin face. “Would you like to sit down?” Her long-fingered, lily-white hand swept in a graceful arc to indicate the seat next to her on the stone bench. The chaperone was duly introduced as Aunt Ermengarde and furthermore ignored by Evangeline. Walden rather suspected it was easier that way; the old woman was shooting venomous glances down at the girl. Whether envying her youth or the fact that the girl had narrowly escaped sharing her lamentable fate, there was nothing pleasant or familial in the coolness between the two, but Walden was quickly learning that was nothing uncommon in the Prince clan.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice sounding rough and uncultured even to his own ears after the soft, educated tones of hers. It was just as well she had some grace to her manners, because he had none.
She was a lovely little hostess, polite and calm. He didn’t speak much and he didn’t need to; she neatly kept the conversation up without seeming overly chatty or gossipy, pausing every once in a while to ask his opinion on this or that, all in a soothing, mellifluous sort of voice that was almost like white noise. She seemed to have an endless supply of appropriate conversation topics, all of which skirted neatly around the reason for the both of them sitting here in this garden, the unpleasant Aunt Ermengarde in a chair to the side, eyeing them beadily.
After her father’s display of disdain and disapproval, he had been expecting some sickly little waif, corralled against her will and cowering before him as she cried helpless, lamb-to-the-slaughter tears. Most people, women especially, cowered anyway; he was frightening, huge and imposing and possessed of a very dark, heavy manner that brooked no frivolities. But Evangeline seemed perfectly at ease, dwarfed beside him yet with a strength of presence that seemed to shine from the hairline fractures in her chipped china shell.
She almost seemed to enjoy his company, from her light touch on his arm and gentle smiles up at him, but he wouldn’t allow himself to imagine things were as easy as all that. This was a gift from old Mr. Prince, this beautiful little creature who smelled innocently of lilacs and honeysuckle, and that old devil gifted no one a rose unless its thorns were sharp as razors.
The afternoon darkened into evening, and Evangeline suggested a walk through the hedge maze. The walk, slow and short though it was, with the spinster Aunt trailing a few steps behind them, was Evangeline’s first demonstration of weakness, the thorn price for her beautiful face and kind ways, for she had shown nothing but good manners and fine breeding in their conversation on the bench. Her pale face went grey with exhaustion mere minutes after they had risen to walk arm in arm into the maze, her breathing rasped as she drew it quick and shallow as though she couldn’t quite catch it. He slowed to accommodate her, stiffened his arm to take more of her weight.
The old aunt clucked unkindly behind them, a sort of dismissive, disgusted exhalation at Evangeline’s weakness. The girl’s grey-pink lips drew into a line and she pressed on. Walden felt a strange mixture of respect and disappointment; both unusual sentiments for him in the first place, even more extraordinary twined so closely together. She struggled bravely even as her body failed her, and there was some nobility in that. But he could not deny the disappointment; this fragile girl was more than he had expected, but so much less than he had hoped, as well. She might try, she might fight, she might have the strength of mind and character to be great, but in the end, she was not much more than a pet to be coddled and cared for, and Walden Macnair was no gentle master.
They turned a corner and the conversation turned with them. “So, we are to be married in the fall,” Evangeline said, breaching the one subject they’d been pretending didn’t exist. She’d gathered her breath along with her courage and, though her face remained ashen grey, her voice was strong and sure.
He thought about lying, giving her some pretty phrase about ‘if it pleased her’ or that it ‘was his honor’ but already he knew she would not appreciate such false words. It pleased her grandfather and Walden knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Though Everard’s gift might be chipped and damaged, it was beyond anything he ever would have had on his own, and Walden was a man duly appreciative of valuable things.
Walden settled for the truth, simple as it was. “Yes.”
Evangeline smiled, approving, and her eyes glittered up at him in a way that was anything but breakable. “And I think we shall do very well, Mr. Macnair.” And, he found quite to his own surprise, he very much believed her.
Her first letter arrived three days after that meeting in the gardens, elegant calligraphy that took him far too long to decipher spidered across the rich vellum page.
Dear Mr. Macnair,
It is my simple desire that I should know you, if just a little, before I am to bind myself to you as your loyal wife. If it is not too forward of me, I would propose an exchange of letters, if your schedule should allow such an expenditure of your time for me.
My mother suggests that I write to you of myself, that you may know me better, as well. It seems not unreasonable to me, but I would not trouble you with such things if that is not your wish.
Yours faithfully,
Evangeline Ariadne Prince
The quill he put to paper to write a reply was hesitant.
Dear Miss Prince, he wrote in his heavy-handed, parchment-ripping print.
There is not much to know about me. I write my own history, there is nothing put down that is not in my own hand. Whatever it is you would like to know, though, I would be more than happy to tell you.
And it would be nice to hear about you, it would not be trouble at all. All I know about you is that you are beautiful and your eyes are blue like how the North Sea looks from my bedroom window during a storm and I have seen enough in them to think that anything you might tell me I would not find unpleasant.
Your servant,
Walden Ian Macnair
Her reply was not long in coming; he imagined there was not all that much for her to do that would keep her from writing.
Dear Mr. Macnair,
Your kind words are unwarranted but very much appreciated. Soon, though, I imagine we shall stand together in your home by the North Sea and you will realize how my eyes fade before the beauty of the water.
And, if you would know of me, I will begin. My name is Evangeline Ariadne Prince and I am nineteen years old, the youngest daughter of Elliot and Catherine Prince. I enjoy reading, Ice Mice are my favorite sweet, and until you came along, I was meant to remain, useless and alone, in my grandfather’s house until I withered away in bitterness and old age.
Perhaps the most important thing that you should know about me is that I am deeply and eternally grateful to you for the chance you have given to me, and will do everything within my (perhaps woefully limited) power to bring you the sort of happiness and opportunity you have given to me. There is nothing else I can commit in mere ink and parchment that can give you better insight into me than that, so I will say nothing else and hope that what you find when we meet again is sufficient.
I look forward to our wedding day with great anticipation, and hold nothing but great hope for our future together.
Yours Faithfully,
Evangeline Prince
Words were not Walden’s strength; a dozen sheets of ruined starts filled the rubbish bin next to his desk.
In the end, he posted a letter of plain words and plain sentiments, for he was nothing if not a man of simplicity; all of his clumsy attempts at the flowery and elaborate rung false and empty.
Dear Evangeline,
Your gratitude is a pond and mine is the Atlantic. It is truly my honor, and while I am not good with words, I hope my future actions will, someday, show some fraction of my high regard for you.
Unworthy but yours,
Walden Macnair
Chapter Three: The Unexpected Champion