Читать книгу A Lady in Waiting - Janice De Jesus - Страница 7

Two months earlier…

Running her fingers on the silk train, Sara closed her eyes just as the aroma of freshly-baked bread wafted in the air.

That unmistakable smell of cinnamon—no matter where she would encounter it—always brought her back home. When she would stroll along the cobble streets of Calle de Ayala in Santangelo, bakeries would offer up these delectable unforgettable slices of home. But now that she was actually back in Morada, a medieval village in the principality of Moradonia and her childhood town, there was truly no other place where one could find this bread made as moist and as fragrant as the ones baked by Tía Silvia.

Her aunt had been like a mother to her ever since her own mother passed away several years ago. The cinnamon poppy seed bread recipe had been handed down at least four generations before it reached Tía Silvia’s expert hands.

Opening her eyes to the intermittent crowing of a rooster followed by a cacophony of birds singing a sweet morning song, Sara noted that cinnamon bread wasn’t the only reminder of home. She stood up and glanced down at the ivory satin wedding gown, which had once been her mother’s, laying out on the second bed in the room which had been her sister’s. Indeed, Sara considered herself quite lucky to get time off from being of service to one beautiful young woman in order to cater to another. What an honor it was to now serve as maid-of-honor at her sister Amaia’s wedding.

Before heading downstairs for breakfast, she glanced at the full-length mirror, assessing her long auburn-brown hair, the layers framing her oval face, her olive complexion sun-kissed from the remnants of the past Mediterranean summer. Her navy and white polka dot blouse, skinny blue jeans, black boots and pink leather moto jacket exuded more city flair befitting her current lifestyle.

Even the wood creaking as she descended the stairs was a warm welcome home embrace. As much as Sara enjoyed her job at the palace, her childhood home cocooned her safely like no other abode would ever do. Her family’s country home boasted of period features, including a vast fireplace, a wooden staircase, an attic, a wine cellar or “cave,” as they were called in these parts, and a profusion of alcoves and annexes.

But it’s the kitchen, or la cocina, that’s considered the most important room in the house. With its large wood-burning stove for cooking, hot water and heating, a huge solid wood dining table and a bread oven, where Sara felt most at home. Her family’s Moradonian country kitchen—a nod to earlier, traditional times, with stone and tiled floors and a predominance of wood, tiles and marble—was a stark contrast to the modern kitchen at her palace apartment in the city.

“There you are,” cooed Tía Silvia, wearing an apron as she took the baking pans filled with the heavenly breads out of the oven. “I knew the scent would draw you here in no time.”

“You’re an angel, Tía,” Sara said, rewarding her aunt with a peck on the cheek. Surveying the kitchen, she asked, “What can I help you with?”

Silvia shook her head. “Nothing. Just sit and relax. You’re on vacation remember? Plus you have enough to do as it is with the wedding.”

Sara emitted a light laugh, pouring herself coffee in a mug. “There’s really not much to do for this country wedding. The perks of planning a minimalist event.”

It was true. Sara’s older sister, Amaia, was the queen of simple living. Just a small church gathering followed by a no-nonsense luncheon reception at home. What could be simpler than that?

“I bet helping Her Royal Highness prepare for a state dinner or ball is more stressful,” Silvia said, arranging the bread pans on a cooling tray then gathering ingredients to prepare for her next dish.

The blend of songbirds twittering, chickens clucking outside the house and church bells tolling from the village at a distance caused Sara to rise from her chair. The view of the olive trees and golden fields from the kitchen window may not exactly rival the view of the Mediterranean Sea from the hilltop palace balcony but the groves and fields held a reminder of precious years past when she and Amaia would run around playing hide-and-seek among the rows of corn on one field in the summer then along the rows of lavender fields in the spring and, later in the year, rows of vineyards in the autumn and olive trees in the winter.

“It’s a good kind of stress, Tía,” Sara said, staring at the fields as flashes of childhood memories warmed her heart.

Later, as Sara ventured into town to do errands, she marveled at how lucky she was to have found a job at—to her at least—the most beautiful building in the world—Palais Royal de Moradonia—the Royal Palace of Moradonia, serving as lady-in-waiting to the most beautiful woman in the world—Princess Chantalise Kaitline Genevieve Claudine Alcala Saint-Michel, known in Her Royal Highness’ close circles simply as “Kaitie.”

After serving in the Peace Corps in Africa after college, Sara was ready to dive into work and put her international relations degree into good use. It was pure serendipity when she heard about an opening for a lady-in-waiting for the returning Moradonian princess who had lived in America for fifteen years to seek refuge after the attempted assassination of Chantalise’s father, the Sovereign Prince Sebastien.

Just north of the Moradonian capital of Santangelo, the seaside village of Morada was all decked out for the season, with many a pumpkin lining the cobble streets and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating the cool crisp air. Having been the principality’s founding village where the first settlers planted their ancestral roots, Morada, so named for the crimson sky at dusk, with its rich history and blend of treasures from the sea, boasted the abundance of its farmland and vineyards which had long made it a destination for city dwellers eager for a more relaxed ambience.

Today’s agenda in town meant a day spent searching for a gift for her sister and brother-in-law-to-be. Sara had already purchased the couple a gift in Santangelo but wanted to buy them a specially hand-carved wooden door greeter as was the Moradonian wedding custom and Morada was the place to buy them. She was also due for a dress fitting at the local seamstress that afternoon so she figured she might as well make a day of it.

A copious dose of sunshine coupled with the sounds of the street musicians playing old Moradonian folk tunes with an accordion and guitar brought Sara back to the days when life was much simpler—when she and Amaia and her parents used to stroll along village streets enjoying ice cream cones in the summer. How she missed her mother so. They would have been so proud of Amaia marrying her true love.

A sawing noise greeted Sara as she entered the wood carver’s shop. Old Elrico was busy in the adjoining room with another project and he didn’t hear her come in amid the grating saw noise as his goggle-protected eyes focused on his work sawing long slats of wood. So in the showroom Sara continued to browse through the wood-carved figures—representing the soldiers who fought for Moradonia’s independence—standing tall and proud like Nutcracker soldiers. So fascinated was Sara by the intricate carvings of each figure, that she didn’t realize she wasn’t the only one riveted by the handcrafted work and promptly bumped into another person at the shop.

But instead of holding onto something solid to keep her balance, Sara held onto the person, and found herself leaning against the sturdy chest of a tall man whose hands firmly steadied her.

“Pardon me.” She was flustered as she tried to regain her composure. She doubted the stranger heard as the sawing noise drowned out her apology.

As she felt the stranger’s hands still on her arms, Sara raised her head, her eyes connecting with the bluest sparkling pair she’d ever seen. But they weren’t just a compelling blue as remarkable as the sea—she swore she had seen those familiar eyes somewhere before yet somehow, in her discombobulated state, she couldn’t quite place where.

The man towered over six-feet-tall compared to her slightly over five foot seven frame. She was momentarily transfixed by the weight of his stare as he seemingly eyed her with familiarity.

Thankfully, the sawing noise ceased. All of a sudden, Sara felt shy as she debated how she might be able to pry herself from this handsome stranger’s hold.

“Well, hello to you again, Miss Sara. It is indeed a pleasure.”

Eyes sheltered by dark lashes peeked up at this man with a British accent, whom she was surprised knew her name. Suddenly, Sara’s throat dried up and she longed to cough but wouldn’t dare do so in this man’s face. She settled on clearing her throat as her mind struggled to recall where she had seen him. Being a lady-in-waiting to a gregarious princess meant meeting several new people constantly. Come now, Sara, it’s your job as lady-in-waiting to know everyone you come into contact with to help Her Highness identify people in social situations. Yet, in this case, she couldn’t even help herself.

Was her memory already failing at the ripe “old age” of twenty-six? Or was it just nerves? But what was she nervous about? The man’s blue eyes seemed to only speak of kindness. That much she instinctively knew.

Then suddenly, it dawned on her…where she had seen this very good looking, dashing gentleman.

“Arlen Cromwell,” he said, bowing, his eyes, deep azure pools, still trained on her own.

Ah yes. It was the Arlen Spencer-Cromwell, Viscount Rydelthorpe, otherwise known as the former fiancé of Sara’s mistress—Her Royal Highness, Princess Chantalise of Moradonia.

“Your Lordship,” Sara said, bowing deeply. “Forgive me. I—I, well, I…”

She wished she could just disappear. How could she forget a presence such as Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell? After all, she had spent her first few months as lady-in-waiting assisting the princess during His Lordship’s courtship of Her Royal Highness.

“You didn’t expect to see me here.” With his tone matter-of-fact, he seemed to have read her mind. So contagious was the viscount’s smile that Sara couldn’t help but break into one of her own. Indeed the last person in the world she expected to see in her tiny hometown was the dashing, cosmopolitan British lord. Suddenly, images of her first meeting with him nearly two years ago at his English country estate flooded her mind.

“Yes.” Sara cocked her head playfully to one side. “Yes, my lord.” Then, overwhelmed with timidity, she turned to canvas the shop. “Well, what brings you here to our humble village?”

“I am in search of a door greeter,” he said, surveying the handcrafted landscape. “I’m told this is the place—the one and only place to find an authentic one.”

“Indeed…this is the place.” Sara couldn’t figure out why she seemed at a loss for words, especially as lady-in-waiting, she had been hired for her ability to assist the royals in social situations such as the art of conversation and royal etiquette.

She caught Lord Arlen’s quizzical and, dare she might add, amused glint in his eyes.

“You’re wondering why I might have such a need for a door greeter?” he said.

She nodded. The last time Lord Arlen Spencer-Cromwell was in any way associated with a wedding was with his own, well, “almost” royal wedding. She recalled the time the princess called off her engagement to the viscount.

“Well, it is for a wedding,” he said. “Er—not mine, of course. Rather for a good friend. That is, after all these years, he has sort of become my friend.”

Sara observed as His Lordship’s eyes grew wistful as his fingers thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin, then ran his fingers through his golden-brown hair.

“By any chance, is your friend Moradonian?” she asked. Only Moradonians traditionally are recipients of such a gift.

“Yes, quite so,” Lord Arlen said. “He’s from this village, you see. A gentleman who was my tutor.”

She wondered who the viscount was referring to as Morada was a small town and just about everyone knew if there was a wedding underway. Just then Elrico, the old carver, emerged from his workshop, wood shavings adorning his gray-haired head.

“How nice to see you again, my dear,” said the old man as he reached for a wrapped package. “You are ready to pick up this door greeter, I assume?”

Sara nodded as Lord Arlen greeted the woodcarver with a hearty handshake.

“I see you have quite a fine collection here,” Arlen told him.

Sizing up Arlen, the woodcarver cocked his head to the side where the intricately-carved pieces stood. “The lady here is getting one of our finest door greeters.”

Feeling the viscount’s eyes on her, she nodded and pulled out her wallet as her cheeks flushed.

Elrico nodded at him. “May I help you pick one out, sir?”

Arlen’s eyes scanned the row of finely-carved pieces, then said, “I’ll go ahead and take whichever one this fine lady is purchasing.” He turned to smile at Sara. “Looks like we’re getting the same gift.”

“But you haven’t yet seen the one she actually bought,” the woodcarver said.

To Sara’s surprise, Lord Arlen winked at her. “I trust her taste.”

She was about to protest—to tell him that she didn’t think it was a good idea. What if he later realized, after the recipients of the gift had opened it, the door greeter style wasn’t to the couple’s liking? But far be it for her to intervene. She barely knew him. After all, he was a British nobleman and she was—just a Moradonian country girl. Besides, she assured herself, one couldn’t possibly go wrong choosing any of these exquisite wood-carved figures.

Out of politeness, Sara remained there, tapping her foot on the floor as Elrico wrapped up the door greeter and Arlen paid for his purchase. She could have said something all this time but her tongue was tied.

“Well, it was indeed a pleasure to run into you,” the viscount said, shaking her hand when they exited the shop. “Perhaps, I’ll have the same honor again sometime soon.”

She nodded and then he flashed her a smile and a nod before sauntering away. As she stood on the sidewalk, Sara tried with all her might to peel away her gazing at him but her feet remained rooted.

Just as she was about to turn the opposite direction, she caught Lord Arlen glance back her way.