Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Ch. 35: Lady Arabella Westmont

“But Duchess Taylor, the standards that we are held to are quite rigorous. Wouldn’t you agree that it is important for Princess Winter to learn proper etiquette while she is still young? A good husband will not simply fall out of the sky for her to marry.” Katya speaks with her eyebrows slightly raised, a picture of innocence and good-naturedness.

It is the polar opposite of Duchess Taylor, whose face visibly darkens. I have a feeling that it has something to do with Katya’s last sentence and vow to look into her background when I have the chance.

A maid posted at the door shuffles to where Katya is seated and whispers in her ears. I already know what it is and scream, “Hallelujah!” at the top of my lungs. Just kidding, I say it in my head.

Katya turns to me and in the same, even voice she has spoken in all morning, like a placid lake without a ripple, she says, “Winter, it seems it is time for your etiquette lesson. I hope you will take greater care in paying attention during the class. Can you do that for Mother?”

A maid approaches with a chair and I gracelessly plonk the cup onto the tray.

“Of course, Mother!” I say, channeling all my fury into false cheer.

My body shivers like I’ve weathered a terrible illness. From suppressing the urge to drop the delicate teacup and wail, my body shakes uncontrollably from the pressure. The sensations of hot and cold surge through my body like a thermometer gone wack. One second I can feel sweat forming on my forehead and in the next, I’m standing in an icy tundra.

Nevertheless, I grab my skirt with shaking hands, alarmed at how the tips of my fingers do not feel the sensation of the court dress.

.....

“Thank you for having me!” I manage to flash my megawatt smile, even crinkling my eyes a bit to make the overall effect cuter.

Numerous ladies are bewildered by my sudden cheerfulness. Any other child would’ve probably been struggling to hold back tears or just have thrown a tantrum. I’ll leave the tantrums to Julia.

The image I struggle to hold falls apart when I reach the front gate where Marie waits with a strained expression.

“Your highness!” my nursemaid cries when she sees my bedraggled self, a far cry from how I looked an hour ago.

I’m too exhausted to assuage her.

“Let’s go, Marie.”

A light breeze goes by and there is still no sensation at the end of my fingers as if there are weights hanging from the tip of my finger. I’m more than slightly concerned about the state of my hands. I don’t greet the guards as I normally do, only stumbling in and slumping onto the sofa in front of a surprised Mrs. Laroche. The shock on her face is so poignant she has forgotten to nag me about how unladylike I was when sitting down just now.

“Your highness-” Mrs. Laroche starts, uncharacteristically breaking from her drill sergeant routine to look at me with concern. She’s not a highly ranked noble, but as a well-educated noblewoman, she surely knows I went to the exclusive Ladies’ Court just based off my dress.

“Can we,” I pause, my voice containing a faint warble like I’m about to embarrassingly burst into tears, “Can we study the higher-ranked nobles today?”

After all, books can only tell me so much about this Empire and its people. Marie brings a bowl of ice water and I dunk my hands in them as Mrs. Laroche launches into the most esteemed Houses of the Empire.

The great Houses of the Empire are the ancestors of the humble warriors who had helped the Empire’s founding mage, Erudian in the founding of the original kingdom. There are five main houses, who now simply go by their noble titles, and they are composed of his closest comrades.

House Amarelius, House Taylor, House Avernall, House Duvernay, and the most elusive of them all, House Wolfe.

As Mrs. Laroche carefully explains the powers that have long controlled the Empire, I further rearrange my hasty rankings from the Ladies’ Court. I knew Duchess Taylor held high footing, but I didn’t expect that second to the empress, she was the woman who held the most sway in the Empire. And as for the remaining noble lineages, a few were branches that had broken off from the main Houses over the years while the remainder were aristocracy that had established themselves after the Erudian Empire was founded.

It’s a wild history lesson that makes me almost forget about my horrible initiation to Ladies’ Court. But when Mrs. Laroche makes a subdued exit and my stomach rumbles, I’m reminded painfully as my fork clatters from the numb hands. I fruitlessly try to pick a pea off my plate, but my hand is clumsy and ungainly.

“Fuck!” I mutter under my breath as I diligently chew after Marie feeds me.

This is absolutely humiliating. I temporarily forget that it isn’t that weird for someone to hand feed a child, my mature mind wounded by the grievance. Marie raises her eyebrows at my language but says nothing as she helps me undress from the cursed court dress and tucks me into bed.

A tear slowly slides down her slightly wrinkled face, dripping onto her maid’s uniform.

“Marie?” I ask with concern, forgetting my own injuries.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” she says, her voice thick with sadness.

“Why?”

She holds up a small bottle in a ceramic container. “When I saw that you were burned, I sought out the royal physicians in order for one of them to attend to your injuries. But-”

Marie breaks into a fresh round of tears and I can already guess what happened.

“-But when I walked in and began to ask for a doctor to attend to you, a maid from Sunrise Palace rushed over and said that Princess Julia had fallen and been severely injured. Without another care for my words, every physician rushed out to take care of the princess. Only an apprentice gave me a salve for your wounds and a candy to suck on!”

She opens up the container to reveal a smooth brown paste with an unpleasant scent. When it wafts into my nose, I wrinkle it unconsciously.

“I know it stinks, your highness! Just eat this candy while I apply your medication,” Marie says reassuringly. There is a flurry of unwrapped paper and then Marie shoves the small morsel into my mouth for me to eat.

My little eyes widen. Peppermint!

I’ve always been a pacifist at heart, but if the author for this stupid web was standing in front of me, I would gleefully strangle them to death. Marie notes my sharp intake of breath, but she associates it with the pain from my burnt fingers as she starts cooing at me like a baby while applying the stinky salve.

The candy I spit out when she’s not looking, the dreaded red and white pinwheel spinning across my cover and tumbling to the floor. But the minty flavor has branded my tongue, unpleasantly lingering as Marie bandages each finger in thin swaths of fabric and shuts the heavy curtains of my room.

Small bolts of pain run through my fingers, a welcome contrast from the numbness that has plagued me for the past few hours. I have little faith in the medical technology of this archaic world, but the paste is quite effective. But the tingling in my hands also reminds me of an unpleasant truth that I have too quickly forgotten – my every move is closely watched by Peppermint. I vow to myself to start digging for answers on how to cut Peppermint’s influence out of my life and fall into a fitful sleep plagued by strange dreams.

At the same time on a small mansion 30 miles outside of Radovalsk, Lady Arabella Westmont discovered something unusual on the window sill of her bedroom. She had been doodling the dresses she longed to create with her own hands, channeling her longing to escape the confines of her family mansion onto paper.

Her family mansion was no longer her home, just a shell containing painful memories.

First, her father had fallen in battle years prior, failing to leave behind an heir besides Arabella and her ailing mother. That was when the families that smelled blood in the water came to bite. Relatives she had never met, old family friends her mother didn’t know, they all came knocking at their doors with a hungry look in their eyes.

It all made Arabella feel sick. Her family had never been noble by trade, only by virtue of her father accomplishing huge merits and gaining massive respect within the Erudian army. Apparently, in taverns, they even sang songs of the victories of one of the most famous knights. But on an occasion she had happened to hear one, it fell flat in her ears.

“To all those young and old, the knight Westmont deeds must be told!”

For the sake of being a valiant war hero, the Sir Westmont that was so beloved had forgotten his family in search of honor on the battlefield. Arabella laughed bitterly to herself, after all her father had eventually earned it. But now, the weight of his newly acquired title fell upon her shoulders, subjecting her to the most hellish teenage years at the hands of “true” noble girls.

“What is this?” she inquired aloud, gently cracking open her window to fetch the letter. Her simple bedroom was on the first floor and easily accessible, so she looked around the bushes just beneath the window but saw no one. Arabella had a keen eye for materials and goods, easily discerning that the envelope was of top quality, the kind purchased by those with money. But there was no seal on it, making her wonder if it was a new sick joke her tormentors had come up with.

Her cheek was still bright red from the slap at the Spring Ball by the younger Lady Till, making her more suspicious than usual of the letter. Her quick hands deftly sliced the letter opener, revealing one thick piece of paper with slightly messy handwriting. Arabella’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher as she began reading, first from shock then pleasure.

The fact that she had never shared her dream to create a successful dress boutique never crossed her teenage mind as Arabella’s hands began to tremble while holding the letter. To be honest, Arabella was keen on avoiding excessive social interaction and holed herself up in the Westmont mansion with its increasingly hostile servants. Since she was 11, she had drawn dresses as a hobby and even taught herself how to sew by observing the stitches on her own clothes.

For the Spring Ball this year, Arabella had taken the first plunge and sewn her own dress, pawning off the few valuables the servants hadn’t already made off with for fabric. With this 1500 gold coins the mystery person promised, she could certainly buy a shop space on a busy street in East Bend as well as skilled seamstresses!

“My lady, your tea!” came a snide voice outside the door, nearly startling her into dropping the ink pen she was writing her reply with.

Without invitation, in butted one of Arabella’s most unruly personal maids. The young maid, Penny, had always been discourteous, but since her mother had passed away a few weeks prior, that discourteousness had morphed into outright disrespect. But what could Arabella do about it? In the entire mansion, Penny was feared for her belligerence and everyone followed suit.

Penny strolled casually into the room with a tray of afternoon tea, her gray maid dress bringing a frown to Arabella’s usually calm face.

“What are you wearing?” her soft voice snapped at the maid. According to typical mourning rituals, the maid along with all the personnel in the house should be wearing all black. Black dress, black apron, and a black cap. Was this not a slap in her face? Even if she was only a noble by merit, wasn’t this a bit much?

But Arabella had never had a way with words, the anger failing to spill out of her mouth in words as her cheeks puffed to a red color. She resembled a helpless porcupine rather than an imposing noblewoman.

“In the wash, the black color washed out of my dress. Please forgive me, my lady,” Penny replied flippantly. She set the tray down on Arabella’s writing desk with a thud.

“You-!”Arabella started furiously. Her sickly mother had just been buried, but no one in the entire mansion seemed to care other than her.

“If there is nothing else, my lady, I will leave.” Penny quickly exited before Arabella told her she could, leaving a fuming girl in her wake.

“Hmph!” Arabella sniffed angrily, but the waves of anger subsided as she looked at the golden ticket sitting on the table before her.

Dear Lady Arabella,

You have big dreams.

Let me help you fulfill them.

Arabella traced the first words of the letter, a pleased smile on her face. The mystery benefactor did not ask for much, just a 20% stake in profits after the first six months of opening and exclusive designs made to size when requested. Arabella had been ready to mortgage the Westmont mansion, a matter which would have caused much shame if discovered, so this was a welcome solution. She ignored the lukewarm glass of tea as she wrote back eagerly, her elegant handwriting flowing across the page.