Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Ch. 34: Spilling the Tea

I find my presence largely ignored after I’ve greeted everyone. Empress Katya leads me to a short seat beside her impromptu throne as the ladies commence discussing the upcoming debutante ball. Apparently, the ‘season’ has started officially with the commencement of the Spring Ball and there are many events for unmarried ladies that need planning. The subject matter feels vapid and I quickly zone out, instead stewing on my unfortunate introduction the highest pinnacle of high society.

This gathering is what every girl with a drop of noble blood longs to join? It all feels very surface level and pointless, altogether leaving a bad taste in my mouth. Free of the constraints of making conversation since I’m the only child in the room, my eyes wander around the spacious boudoir.

There are large arched windows displaying a green yard artfully decorated by the palace stylists. The wallpaper is wine colored with fleur-de-lis adornments. Paintings of outdoor scenery are tastefully arranged throughout the room, the attention to detail displaying the empress’ wealth. Aside from the chairs and cushioned benches we are all seated on, there is a piano and a harpsichord along with a small writing table. I also observe the women as they speak.

One of the ladies, a meek lady-in-waiting addressed as Viscountess Emerson who just echoes whatever Empress Katya decides on, suggests going outside at some point, but another lady-in-waiting insists that it is ‘far too hot’ for her to even think about it. There is a clear pattern of lower-ranked women yielding to higher-ranked ones, so I place the viscountess on a lower rung on my mental map.

“That poor Lady Westmont’s mother passed away a few weeks ago. Just thinking about how that poor girl has debuted a year or two ago, yet is sitting all alone at the Westmont estate makes my heart ache,” someone murmurs yanking me back into the conversation. The name rings a bell, but the answer is just out of reach like an itch I can’t scratch. It leaves me feeling uneasy.

“Indeed!” The ladies jump on the topic like dogs to a bone.

“Why when I was her age, I do believe I was well on in my engagement to Lord Bryce,” titters a lady-in-waiting who is married to Marquis Bryce. She doesn’t look much older than 20, but she speaks as if she is an elderly matron.

“Well how old is that Lady Westmont?” asks a middle-aged lady with a curious gleam to her eyes.

.....

“17.”

“17? Why that’s not too late then. As her seniors, I suppose it falls onto our shoulders to take care of her marriage,” the lady says, stroking her chin with a poorly obscured look of greed.

“Lady Vernice! Aren’t you just trying to snap up this girl for yourself?” an imposing woman bitterly glares at Lady Vernice and snaps her fan shut, not in the mood to play games.

I peer curiously at this new speaker, who thus far has not engaged in any conversation. Her stern features and gray locks give her a severe aura, making her frowning face even more imposing. Her flinty voice is at odds with the amiable, insincere conversation but no one dares to contradict her, causing her ranking to rise in my mind.

Lady Vernice awkwardly clears her throat. “Duchess Taylor, my husband is often away at war for long periods of time and takes my only son with him. Is it wrong for me to want a daughter-in-law to keep me company at the manor?” she says sullenly, unwilling to back off.

“Hmph! You just want to pave your son’s road to an early promotion. Don’t think I can’t see the things going on in your little mind,” the Duchess bites back quickly. The two women fiercely glare at each other, momentarily forgetting typical court formalities.

A twinkling laugh that isn’t harsh on the ears but still draws one’s attention rings through the room, dragging the attention back to my stepmother, Empress Katya.

“How impolite of me not to offer tea to you all when you came in. Linette, bring tea for the ladies,” Katya says, laughing behind her hand at her silly error. It made her seem kind and relatable, drawing many women to insist that this was not a big deal. It also effectively cuts off where the conversation of this poor Westmont girl was undeniably heading. To not have a mother in your corner in this era, I’m witnessing firsthand how my life could fall to the whims and machinations of these shallow women.

“Your majesty, it is but a trifle! If I’m to be honest with you, I drank too much tea with my breakfast this morning and entirely forgot the matter!” Lady Mullgard assuages in a long-winded, desperate attempt to rekindle her favor with the empress after the earlier rebuke.

I’m seated beside Katya, her beautiful face inches from mine, giving me an up-close view of her reactions to the women seated around the room. She waves off Lady Mullgard’s comment playfully, but the corner of her mouth curves slightly downwards, the sole evidence of her disgust. Suddenly, her chilly amber eyes arc down at mine before I can look away and I give a big, ditzy smile as my heartbeat picks up its pace. I don’t think anything good will come out of drawing Empress Katya’s attention to myself. And I’m right because the next words from Katya are about me.

“Sisters,” she says with a familiar air as she grabs my hand with her soft ones, “Today we have a new addition with us, Princess Winter. She has come to us from afar, in need of a loving home. I hope to pass on the same grace and etiquette that we have learned in our youths to Winter as the ward, Helio, has brought to become my second daughter.”

Flowery words that cleverly remind everyone of my dubious heritage and my status as a bastard. At the same time as I feel the first stirrings of hatred in my chest, I can’t help but admire her. No wonder Winter was so cleanly taken care of in the novel. With an opponent like Empress Katya, you’d need to be an exceptionally clever individual with many cards in hand. And currently, I have none, neither money nor influential backers. Even if I don’t want to, the subtle hostility reminds me that acquiring the title of the promised child is my sole path of survival.

“You are truly a saint,” simpers a lady-in-waiting whose name I don’t know. Katya has 4 ladies-in-waiting composed of noblewomen who reside permanently in the capital, denoted by a special star-shaped pin, from which the empress’ initial, K, hangs from.

Katya waves away the compliment in a show of humility. “It is simply my duty as the mother of the empire.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes as Katya relinquishes my hand for a teacup from a tray the maids have swiftly set up. I’m seated on a shorter, more uncomfortable seat beside Katya, clearly displaying our difference in status. I am the last to be served despite my rank technically being higher than quite a few of the ladies within the boudoir.

The young maid approaching me has a daring look that instantly sets me on edge. Katya’s informal throne is at the head of the circle of chairs and furthest from the door. As the maid’s back is to most of the ladies, only Katya and I can properly see this maid who is to serve me tea.

“Your highness,” she says, bobbing into a quick curtsey that doesn’t match the deeper curtsey I’m entitled to, “Your tea.”

For some reason, she is extending the tea tray towards me rather than the short tray table beside me. A true royal would never take the tray by hand but out of natural instinct and the suddenness of the situation, I reach out for the tea she is handing.

Something flashes in the maid’s eyes and just as we are about to make the handoff, her right hand fumbles. Just a few seconds is all it took. The tray tumbles from her hands, banging my knee painfully on its journey to the floor. But it is quickly overshadowed by the upended china teapot that shatters into a million pieces and generously douses me in boiling hot tea.

My pain tolerance is not above or below average, the moment the burning sensation bleeds through my skirt to my bare skin, I let out an undignified, “Ow!”

Brown liquid drips from my lap to the floor and I stand immediately so the soggy fabric stops burning my flesh.

“Heavens!” cries Lady Emerson dramatically. If eyes weren’t already on me, with her loud shout, now they are.

I’m not one to scold someone unnecessarily after having been on the receiving end of a client’s anger. However, the unapologetic smirk on the maid’s face as she kneels on the floor leisurely picking up the shards of glass ignites my fury.

“Oh dear,” the empress says before I can get a word in edgewise, “Winter you are too clumsy. The maid is meant to place the tray on the tea table, not directly in your hands.”

Huh? The switch-up of the narrative blindsides me, and I’m left with a foolish expression on my face as the ladies smugly nod in agreement.

“But I didn’t-” I start impatiently, ready to clear my name.

“I can see that your assigned etiquette teacher did not educate you properly in this matter.” Katya makes a show of shaking her head and looking at me in concern as if I’m nothing more than a fumbling fool incapable of the basic function of drinking tea. The maid deliberately dumped piping hot liquid all over my legs and now Katya has spun the tale against my favor.

There is little point in arguing with my stepmother now as people shake their heads disapprovingly at my clumsiness. Between the word of an empress and a small child, not even a half-wit would believe me.

I quickly turn to the empress and a flash of surprise runs through her eyes as I humbly say, “It is my fault for not paying attention during my lessons, not Mrs. Laroche’s fault. My apologies for splashing tea on you, mother.”

It’s a respectful apology and my head is bowed in deference, probably the opposite of the freakout Katya expected. There is a mild approval floating in the eyes of the noblewomen, along with murmured words of appreciation. Katya sees all this and recovers quickly, not even allowing me to leave to change out of my ruined court dress.

“It is of little consequence that you spilled the pot of tea. However, to sully the eyes of all the women in Ladies’ Court, don’t you think you might owe them an apology as well?” she replies gently. I grit my teeth and turn towards the ladies in the circle with my tea-stained self.

“My apologies, noble ladies,” I say, my jaw aching as the women preen under the apology. Forcing an imperial princess to show deference to lower-ranked women, it will be far more difficult for me to cultivate any respect in their hearts after this day.

“Your majesty,” Lady Bryce says with a cunning look, “I have a method that tames the unsteady hands of children. It greatly aided my younger sister, Elizabeth, when she kept her head in the clouds rather than listen to her governess. I don’t know if you are willing to let me try?”

“If you please, Lady Bryce,” says Empress Katya, giving the lady-in-waiting a green light.

“Maids! Bring another pot, but replace it with water instead of tea!” Lady Bryce orders. The rapid feet of the help immediately arrange her request, almost running out with a single pot and cup sitting on a tray.

Lady Bryce shows off her graceful movements as she expertly picks up the pot of tea with a few fingers before daintily pouring a full cup of water. I see steam rise from the gold embossed cup and a wave of dread washes over me.

“Quick, go deliver this cup over to her majesty,” she orders the personal attendant standing by her side. The attendant, full of the same bravado as her mistress, strolls over to where I am standing and parks herself in my face.

“Simply have her highness balance the cup in her hands for the remainder of the meeting. As long as a drop of water doesn’t spill from the cup, then it will show us she has truly been learning in her classes. If not...” Lady Bryce trails off at the end, but the implications are not in my favor.

Up close, I can see that this cup is boiling hot. Faint bubbles still dance on the surface of the pot, telling me that the water must have been immediately poured and brought out without leaving it to cool as one is supposed to. The cup itself is composed of delicate china, with a thin handle that barely seems able to support the weight of the cup.

“Go on and pick it up, Winter,” Katya coaxes gently as the women look on with excitement as if watching a show. “Be sure to use both hands in holding the body of the cup rather than the handle, that way both of your hands can learn how to steady themselves,” she adds thoughtfully.

I want to claw her face off.

“Yes, mother,” I say obediently with a little curtsey. I gulp nervously and grab the cup, nearly letting go at the scalding heat on my fingertips. Tears prickle my eyes as I firmly pick up the cup from the tray, the icy white-hot pain nearly driving me mad. My hands shake and tremble and Katya beams at me with her saintly smile.

“I knew you wouldn’t drop it,” she says as if she’s proud of me.

I remember from the webnovel that this is a common punishment for children and one that Clara was subjected to when she was relearning all her etiquette after appearing in this world. But those teacups for practice are always full of cool or room temperature water!

My body shakes like I have a fever, but I don’t want to hand Katya another matter for her to trouble me over so I steel my willpower into clutching the scorching teacup. I can’t hold in the pain any longer and a single, cool tear slides down my face, dripping onto my burnt hand. After the first two minutes, my fingers have begun to go numb, which makes clutching the body of the cup even more difficult.

Conversation flows around me unfettered, with the occasional sly look thrown my way. The impression I gained of Erudian nobility last night tumbles to new lows as I see these women find glee in making a little kid suffer. There are black hearts under their pretty dresses.

About 10 minutes into my subtle torture, an unexpected person speaks up for me.

“Your majesty... perhaps the princess has learned her error?” Duchess Taylor asks in a far kinder manner than she spoke to Lady Vernice in.

Some people are bewildered by her speaking out for me and although I don’t look away from the cup of water, lest I accidentally spill some, I commit her gesture to heart.

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