A Royal Trap

Aunt Rosalind - Part 2

As the carriage rolled toward town, Doria stared out the window, already envisioning herself as the undisputed jewel of the ball. Eden sat straighter, mentally cataloguing the lessons in etiquette their aunt had drip-fed them over the years. And Aunt Rosalind watched them both, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. This was something she could do. This was how she could fight back against her brother-in-law’s neglect and her sister’s quiet suffering.

The bustling town square was a kaleidoscope of hopeful faces and anxious energy when Aunt Rosalind's carriage rolled to a stately halt. As Aunt Rosaline alighted, her eyes immediately found Elowyn, who was lingering near the bookstore, her new volume tucked under her arm.

“Elowyn, come along now,” Aunt Rosalind commanded, not with a greeting but with the brisk efficiency of a general marshaling her troops. "We have no time for literary loitering. We must get you all ready before the world runs out of thread.”

Ever compliant, Elowyn fell into step without question, though her mind whirred. She had missed the pivotal negotiation at the mansion and could only marvel silently at her sisters’ success.

“Kaelas!” Doria’s voice, bright and commanding, cut across the crowd. She descended from the carriage in a flutter of skirts and immediately linked her arm possessively through his. “We are going to the modiste! I want the biggest fan, the tallest feathers, the finest silk. Sparkles, everything!”

Kaelas raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Be careful now, Doria. One might think you are heading for the circus, not the palace.”

The group erupted into light laughter, a brief, sunny moment in the tense afternoon. Eden’s eyes, however, were on the modiste’s shopfront. “I wonder if we’ll even be able to get anything but scraps,” she murmured, noting the queue that snaked three blocks down the cobbled street, a ribbon of anxious women in worn woolens.

“We do have some dresses at home,” Elowyn offered softly, thinking of the carefully mended garments hanging in their shared wardrobe.

“Don’t be tacky,” Doria chuckled, the sound lacking warmth. “Only you would think of wearing our Sunday best to a royal ball. They’d mistake you for a particularly pious scullery maid.”

Eden reached over and gave her sister a sharp thump on the head, shooting her a warning glare. Before Doria could retort, Kaelas spoke, his gaze fixed on Elowyn with a softness that seemed to still the air around them.

“Elowyn would look good in anything.”

The words hung, simple and devastating. A profound, scorching blush flooded Elowyn’s cheeks, mirrored precisely on Kaelas’s own face as he realized the quiet intimacy of his declaration. Discontent with their exchanged Doria tightened her grip on Kaelas arm while Eden suppressed a knowing giggle.

Elowyn, to steady herself, looked back at the long line. Her heart sank as she noticed the modiste’s assistant discreetly turning away group after group of women, their faces crumbling from hope into resigned poverty. They had no means. That would have been their fate, too, without Aunt Rosalind.

As their party bypassed the queue following Aunt Rosalind’s determined figure, they drew the sharp, glowering attention of those left waiting. The women’s eyes lingered with particular venom on Doria, whose arm was still tucked proudly into Kaelas’s. The attention didn’t intimidate Doria; it inflated her. She stood taller, preening under the glare, feeling their envy like a tonic. Kaelas, uncomfortable with the spectacle, gently but firmly extricated his arm under the pretense of adjusting his coat.

Elowyn observed him—the lean strength, the broad shoulders that seemed to carry an easy grace, the sharp, handsome planes of his face framed by light brown hair. His grey eyes, the color of a winter sky, briefly met hers before darting away. This, she thought is why it could never be.

They reached the shop entrance, where the harried assistant was blocking the door. Without a word, Aunt Rosalind drew a small, heavy purse from her muff and pressed several generous coins into the woman’s palm. “Let us not waste time with the democratic process” she stated, her voice leaving no room for negotiation.

The assistant’s demeanor transformed instantly. “Of course, madam. Right this way, please.”

As they were ushered past the threshold into the hushed, fabric-lined sanctum of the shop, Doria could not resist a final, haughty glance over her shoulder at the line of waiting women, her chin lifted in triumphant superiority. The door closed, muffling the sounds of the common world outside.