three

Morning light streamed through the breakfast room windows, catching the dust motes that danced in the air above the polished mahogany table. Isabelle sat quietly, nibbling at a piece of toast while her mother fretted over the day’s correspondence. Priscilla had not yet descended, a privilege afforded to her beauty—no one expected the family jewel to rise at an unfashionable hour.

 

“Bills, invitations, bills,” Mrs. Ellwood muttered, sorting through the small pile with increasing agitation. “Mr. Ellwood will be most displeased at the milliner’s account.

I told Priscilla that the feathers were an extravagance, but she insisted they were all the rage in London.”

 

Isabelle made a noncommittal sound, knowing her mother expected no real response. The cost of maintaining Priscilla’s wardrobe was a constant source of complaint, though never when Mr. Ellwood or Priscilla herself was present to hear it. Her father indulged his elder daughter’s every whim, while her mother’s protests were merely for show—both understood that Priscilla’s beauty was an investment that required proper framing.

 

Mrs. Ellwood paused at an envelope of thick cream parchment, her fingers trembling slightly as she examined the wax seal. “Oh! This bears the royal insignia!”

 

Isabelle looked up, her interest genuinely piqued. Royal correspondence was unprecedented at Ellwood Estate. Her mother broke the seal with uncharacteristic haste, unfolding the document with reverent care. Her eyes widened as she read, her complexion alternating between pallor and flush.

 

“Merciful heavens,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her breast. “Isabelle, ring for your father immediately!”

 

Setting aside her toast, Isabelle rose to pull the bell cord. “What is it, Mother? Has something happened?”

 

Mrs. Ellwood clutched the parchment to her chest as if it might take wing and fly away. “It is an official proclamation from Cresthaven Palace. His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian Winthorne, is to select a bride!”

 

Isabelle paused, one hand still on the bell cord. “I see. And this concerns us because…?”

 

“Because, you impossible girl,” her mother exclaimed, patience fracturing, “all eligible young ladies of quality are commanded to attend a month-long selection season at the palace! Priscilla among them!”

 

The door swung open before Isabelle could respond, admitting Mr. Ellwood in his morning coat, his expression one of mild irritation at being summoned from his study.

 

“This had better be important, Margaret. I was in the middle of reviewing the quarterly accounts.”

 

Mrs. Ellwood thrust the parchment toward him, her hands shaking with excitement. “Read it, William! Read it and tell me if I am dreaming!”

 

Mr. Ellwood took the document with a skeptical frown that transformed into wide-eyed astonishment as he read. When he looked up, his face bore an expression Isabelle had never seen before—a strange mixture of triumph and disbelief.

 

“Is this authentic?” he asked, turning the paper to examine the seal once more.

 

“It bears the royal seal,” Mrs. Ellwood insisted. “And it is addressed specifically to us—to the Ellwood family!”

 

Mr. Ellwood read aloud, his voice gaining strength with each word: “’By decree of His Majesty King Edward IV, it is hereby announced that His Royal Highness Prince Sebastian Winthorne, having reached the age of thirty years, is commanded to select a suitable bride from among the kingdom’s noble families and those of particular merit.’” He paused, clearing his throat before continuing. “’The Ellwood family is invited to present their eligible daughters at Cresthaven Palace for a period of one month, beginning the fifteenth of May, during which time Prince Sebastian will become acquainted with potential brides before making his selection.’”

 

A hushed silence fell over the breakfast room. Isabelle found herself staring at her father, trying to reconcile the enormity of the invitation with the mundane surroundings of their morning meal. The gilt-edged cup in her hand suddenly seemed cheap, a poor imitation of the royal splendor they were being invited to witness.

 

“Our Priscilla,” Mrs. Ellwood whispered, eyes shining with unshed tears, “could be queen.”

 

Mr. Ellwood’s laugh was sharp with exultation. “I told you the new silk mill would elevate our standing! ‘Those of particular merit’—they speak of us! Of our contribution to the kingdom’s prosperity!”

 

Isabelle sipped her tea, allowing her parents their moment of fantasy. The likelihood of Priscilla—beautiful though she was—catching the eye of a prince amidst what would surely be a gathering of the kingdom’s most exquisite and well-connected young women was slim at best. Still, the invitation itself was a coup for the Ellwood family’s social aspirations.

 

“What is all this commotion about?” Priscilla appeared in the doorway, resplendent in a morning dress of pale yellow muslin that set off her golden curls to perfection. She yawned delicately behind a white hand. “One can hardly sleep with all this excitement.”

 

Mrs. Ellwood rushed to her eldest daughter, grasping her hands. “Oh, my darling girl! The most wonderful news! You are to be presented to Prince Sebastian as a potential bride!”

 

Priscilla’s blue eyes widened. “Prince Sebastian? The Crown Prince?”

 

“The very same,” Mr. Ellwood confirmed, puffing out his chest. “Our family has been specifically invited to

Cresthaven Palace for a month-long selection season.”

 

“A month?” Priscilla sank into a chair, her expression dazed. “At the palace? With the prince?”

 

“Yes, yes! And you shall have new gowns—the finest that can be made on such short notice. Silk, satin, whatever you require,” Mrs. Ellwood declared, already mentally calculating the expenditure. “We must send for Madame Beaumont from London immediately. No local seamstress will do.”

 

As her parents and sister launched into feverish plans for Priscilla’s wardrobe, Isabelle quietly poured herself another cup of tea. The invitation had stated “eligible daughters”—plural—but it was clear her parents envisioned only Priscilla attending this grand event. In truth, Isabelle felt more relief than disappointment. A month of royal scrutiny, of standing beside her radiant sister while courtiers and nobles assessed and dismissed her, held little appeal.

 

“The blue silk for the welcome ball, I think,” Mrs. Ellwood was saying, “and perhaps the pink for less formal gatherings. And we must order dancing slippers, gloves, fans…”

 

“The emerald necklace will need to be reset,” Mr. Ellwood added. “It’s old-fashioned now, but the stones are fine. And perhaps a new tiara—something tasteful but impressive.”

 

Isabelle stirred her tea slowly, watching the leaves swirl at the bottom of her cup. In the seven years since that stormy afternoon, she had often wondered about the identity of her rescuer. A nobleman, certainly, given his bearing and the quality of his mount and clothing. But a prince? The thought was absurd. Princes did not ride alone through summer storms, rescuing unremarkable girls who had wandered too far from home.

 

“And what of Isabelle?” Priscilla’s voice cut through her thoughts.

 

Isabelle looked up to find three pairs of eyes trained upon her with varying degrees of concern.

 

“What of me?” she asked.

 

“Will she not accompany us to the palace?” Priscilla pressed, glancing between their parents. “The invitation mentioned ‘daughters.’ Surely that includes Isabelle.” Mr. Ellwood frowned, as though the question had not occurred to him until this moment. “Well, I suppose she must, as a matter of form. Though I doubt the prince—”

 

“Of course she must come,” Mrs. Ellwood interrupted, though her voice lacked conviction. “We can hardly leave her behind when the invitation specifies both girls.”

 

“It would be unseemly,” Priscilla agreed, with surprising firmness. For all her vanity, Priscilla had never been deliberately cruel to Isabelle, and occasionally displayed this sort of unexpected loyalty.

 

Mr. Ellwood sighed heavily, as though the expense of outfitting two daughters instead of one was a burden almost too great to bear. “Very well. Isabelle shall have new gowns as well. Nothing too elaborate, mind you—no sense in wasting money on fripperies that won’t catch a prince’s eye.”

 

“Thank you, Father,” Isabelle murmured, knowing this was the closest thing to generosity she could expect.

 

“I wonder,” Priscilla mused, “if Lord Blackwood’s son will be at court during the selection? Cassian, I believe his name is.”

 

Mr. Ellwood seized on this tangent eagerly. “Ah, yes! The Earl of Northaven’s heir. He would be an excellent match for you if the prince should look elsewhere.”

 

“A contingency plan!” Mrs. Ellwood nodded approvingly.

“Very sensible, my dear.”

 

Isabelle noted the faint flush that colored Priscilla’s cheeks at the mention of Cassian Blackwood. Interesting. Perhaps her sister’s heart was already engaged elsewhere, despite the allure of a crown.

 

“And what of Isabelle?” Priscilla asked again, surprising everyone with her persistence. “Surely there will be many eligible gentlemen at court. Perhaps she might make a match as well.”

 

Mrs. Ellwood’s laugh was thin and nervous. “Well, one never knows. There might be some widower or second son who would find Isabelle… suitable.”

 

The familiar sting of her mother’s assessment prickled beneath Isabelle’s skin, but she kept her expression neutral. “Please don’t concern yourself with my prospects, Mother. I am perfectly content to observe the proceedings as Priscilla’s companion.”

 

“Yes, that’s sensible,” Mr. Ellwood agreed, relieved. “You’ve always had a level head, Isabelle. Unlike some girls your age, you harbor no unrealistic expectations.”

 

Whether this was meant as praise or criticism remained unclear, but Isabelle accepted it with a slight nod. Let them think her resigned to spinsterhood if it spared her the humiliation of being paraded before the court as an afterthought to Priscilla’s brilliance.

 

The conversation turned to logistics—which servants would accompany them, how many trunks would be required, what social connections might be leveraged at court—leaving Isabelle free to retreat into her thoughts once more.

 

Prince Sebastian Winthorne. She knew little of him beyond the usual gossip that filtered down to their modest corner of society. Handsome, they said, with his father’s commanding presence and his late mother’s dark coloring. Well-educated, with a passion for literature and art that had earned him a reputation as a patron of culture. Unmarried, despite having passed his thirtieth year, fueling speculation about his reluctance to fulfill his royal duty.

 

And now, by royal decree, he was to choose a bride from among the kingdom’s eligible young women. It was like something from a fairy tale—the kind Isabelle had long since ceased to believe in.

 

A sudden memory flashed through her mind: strong hands lifting her onto a horse, a scarred knuckle brushing against her arm, a deep voice asking if she was lost. She shook her head slightly, dismissing the fancy. Thousands of men in the kingdom might have scars on their hands. The notion that her childhood rescuer might be the Crown Prince was the sort of romantic nonsense she normally avoided.

 

“Isabelle, are you listening?” Her mother’s sharp voice pulled her back to the present.

 

“I beg your pardon, Mother. My mind wandered.”

 

Mrs. Ellwood’s lips thinned in disapproval. “As I was saying, you will need at least three evening gowns, two walking dresses, and appropriate morning attire. Nothing too bold in color—perhaps grays, browns, mauves. We must work with your… limitations.”

 

“Yes, Mother.”

 

“And for heaven’s sake, try to improve your posture before we arrive at court. You have a tendency to hunch your shoulders, which only accentuates your…” Mrs. Ellwood gestured vaguely at Isabelle’s bosom.

 

“I understand.”

 

“Remember, your role is to support Priscilla. To help her shine. The prince will have ladies-in-waiting to attend him after marriage, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if he chose you for such a position once Priscilla is queen? You could live at court, with a modest stipend and all the books you could wish for.”

 

The scenario, presented as a tantalizing future, struck Isabelle as a particular kind of prison. A lifetime spent in her sister’s shadow, watching her wear a crown, bearing witness to her happiness while subsisting on royal charity. She forced a smile. “How thoughtful of you, Mother.” Mrs. Ellwood missed the irony, patting Isabelle’s hand distractedly before returning her attention to Priscilla. “Now, my dear, about the question of jewels…”