Some Enchanted Evening Read Online Free PDF Page A

woman's type. Mistress Dubb would tell the story of the princess in her shop until the other women were ready to roast the seamstress on a spit. And Clarice needed to speak to Miss Rosabel alone. But there was no helping it; she had to show Mistress Dubb the proper courtesy. To fail would be discourteous . . . and eventually bad for sales. "I thank you for your kindness, to me and to Amy."
    Mistress Dubb simpered, curtsied again, and opened the narrow green door. A variety of hats were set in the small window, all as dull and lusterless as everything in this village.
    "You're a milliner also!" Clarice exclaimed. "How talented you are."
    "I do me best, Yer Highness." She flung the door wide and bobbed up and down as Clarice entered.
    In the dim interior of the shop Miss Rosabel stood by the mirror, smoothing the last of the clay off her nose and chin.
    Clarice blocked the entrance. "Turquoise is the newest fashion color in London . But you knew that, of course." Clarice lavished a smile on the seamstress as she picked the one color most likely to complement any complexion. "I imagine you're working on hats and gowns of that color right now."
    Mistress Dubb took a breath. "Aye. Aye! In the back."
    "I'll be doing a private consultation with Miss Rosabel now." Gently she pushed Mistress Dubb away. "Of course, you'll have your turn later. I'm sure you understand." She shut the door on Mistress Dubb's blossoming smile.
    "That was skillful." Miss Rosabel stepped out of the shadows. "The old biddy will brag about your kindness for a fortnight."
    Her hostility was palpable, her tone scornful, for Miss Rosabel was, in fact, Clarice's younger sister, seventeen years of age. She was Princess Amy of Beaumontagne.
    Before she answered, Clarice switched to German. Changing languages as they spoke was something she and Amy did frequently — it kept their linguistic skill thriving and befuddled anyone who might be listening. "I am a princess, and I do try to be kind."
    Amy's exasperated adolescent sigh said too clearly that she found Clarice dim-witted and conventional. "Yes, yes, we're both princesses. Princesses of Beaumontagne." With a jerky motion Amy wiped at the white powder on her face. "Sisters bound by a royal bloodline, trapped together in exile. According to you, that justifies everything."
    Bustling forward, Clarice tried to take the towel. "Here. Let me."
    Amy jerked away from Clarice, from her touch, and said fiercely, "I can do it. I've done it often enough before."
    Clarice's heart sank. The longer they peddled their wares, the more unhappy Amy became.
    Clarice wandered about the shop, examining the gowns laid out to be sewn, while Amy completed her transformation from a dull, plain seamstress recently come to town to a girl hovering on the edge of prettiness. After a few more sessions with Clarice, she would be beautiful, a living testimonial to the royal face cream. And when the time came for Clarice to leave, Amy would slip out of town in her wake.
    When Amy finished, she leaned her fists on either side of the mirror and closed her eyes. Her voice vibrated with fury as she demanded, "What do you think you're doing?"
    Clarice winced but said brightly, "It went well, didn't it?"
    "No, it did not!" Freed of the constraints of the public eye, Amy allowed her ferocity free rein. "When I wrote you, I warned you this was not the place to do our act. But you always think you know best."
    Clarice changed to French. "We were out of money and we didn't have time to find another town."
    "We could both work as seamstresses." Amy's gaze met Clarice's in the mirror. A silver necklace glinted at her throat. A necklace with a cross that matched Clarice's. "We could settle down somewhere and design clothes. I'm good at it. I wouldn't have to pretend to be ugly. We wouldn't have to keep moving from one place to another."
    Slowly Clarice shook her head.
    "Oh. I forgot. We're princesses ." Amy almost spat out the words. "Princesses don't do