Ollie had officially decided she hated court life. She was only twenty-two and already prepared to retire somewhere quiet. Perhaps a forest. Or a cave. Anywhere but here.
The great hall was enormous, blindingly bright, and filled with people who looked like they'd been born with crowns on their heads. Every face seemed to say, You don't belong here, Duchess. Her red silk uniform felt suffocating, even though it fit perfectly. She gripped her gloves tightly, trying not to trip over her own feet.
Next to her, Thomas gave a half-hearted smile. "You'll be fine. Just, uh, don't insult anyone important."
"That's helpful. Thanks, Tom," she muttered, shooting him a glare.
Before she could say anything else, Thomas abandoned her like a coward, leaving her alone to fend off the sea of judgmental stares.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
***
The first disaster came in the form of Lady Vivienne Mayfair. Dressed in a gown so elaborate it probably required scaffolding, Vivienne drifted toward Ollie with a practiced air of grace.
"Duchess Dawson," she said, her voice sugar-coated poison. "Welcome to court. I hope you find everything... satisfactory."
Before Ollie could respond, Vivienne 'accidentally' tipped her teacup, splashing the contents across Ollie's pristine uniform.
"Oh, dear," Vivienne cooed. "How clumsy of me. I do hope you can clean that up."
Ollie forced a smile, even though she was already mentally drafting Vivienne's obituary. "I'm sure it'll come right out. Just like your subtlety."
A tiny gasp rippled through the nearby courtiers. Vivienne's smile tightened, but she recovered quickly, turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.
***
The second disaster was Sir Percival Henshaw, who cornered Ollie near the staircase, holding a massive book that looked older than the palace itself.
"Ah, Duchess of Wessex!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "Did you know your ancestor once insulted a French diplomat by comparing him to a cabbage?"
Ollie blinked. "I... can't say I did."
"Well, now you know!" Percival beamed. "And there's more where that came from. The royal archives are simply bursting with fascinating tidbits. I could show you if you'd like!"
"That sounds fascinating. Maybe... later?" she said, sidestepping him as gracefully as possible. Percival didn't seem to notice, already muttering something about vegetable metaphors.
***
The third disaster was Margo Dyer, the head of palace staff, who stormed into the hall waving a ladle like it was a weapon.
"Who left muddy footprints in my kitchen?!" she bellowed, her glare sweeping over the room. "If I find out it was you again, Your Majesty, I swear—"
George appeared out of nowhere, twirling dramatically and grinning like he hadn't just been accused of a crime.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Margo," he said, his voice dripping with mock innocence.
Margo pointed the ladle at him. "Stay out of my kitchen, or you'll regret it."
Ollie tried not to laugh, but a small snort escaped. George caught her eye and winked. She looked away quickly, her cheeks burning.
***
The fourth disaster was Lord Benedict Fairchild,(but the world called him Benji, so we will too) who arrived late and immediately began causing chaos. He pulled out a chair too far, sending Thomas tumbling backward and spilling a goblet of wine all over himself.
"Wow, you're really committed to being a disaster, huh?" Ollie said as Thomas groaned from the floor.
Benji grinned. "You're causing quite the stir, Duchess."
"I'm just trying not to trip," she muttered.
"Well, if you do, make sure it's on Vivienne's gown. That would be marvelous."
***
And then, after all the disasters, came the quiet moment.
When Ollie finally sat down at the dining table, a single peony was waiting for her. She froze, staring at it. No one else seemed to notice, but she couldn't help wondering who had left it.
Vivienne's gaze flicked toward the flower, her expression souring. Ollie tilted her head. Weird. Oh well.
She tucked the peony into her pocket and focused on her meal, completely missing George's triumphant smirk from across the room.
YOU ARE READING
The language of peonies
Historical Fiction"I'm just a page, Your Majesty. What could possibly go wrong?" Ollie Amber-Rose Dawson, Duchess of Wessex, never asked for this. Being a page for a 22-year-old king? Absolutely not on her to-do list. But, as usual, life didn't care about her plans. ...
