A gleaming white castle sat on the top of a hill, village and wood descending below it into the valleys beyond. This castle was the home of the local regent, a very dignified King and his very lovely wife. Oh, and Wilber.
Wilber was seated upon the battlements over looking the gate, one knee hugged up under his chin. A bit of a cross frown was settled on his forehead as he sat musing. The subject—girls. He had just about as fine of an opinion of the young female at seventeen as he had had at the age of ten. To him, girls were silly, frilly, shallow creatures who idealized the role of princess to mean a life of complete ease and luxoury. His frown deepened. Why, if these creatures with goose-down in their heads actually knew the work that went into being a princess, then someday a queen, they might not be so eager to garner his favor. He thought of his mother, who was, at that very moment, undergoing the regular strains of having to be polite and politic and charming to a visiting dignitary who, it must be confessed, was quite an obnoxious and trying man to deal with. Bless her heart! Wilber thought. Without his mother, he was quite sure his father's temperament would soon dissolve.
However, Wilber's mind quickly reminded him of the girls. Yes...girls. And within three years he was going to have to marry one of the petty things; it was tradition that just would not do to break! Girls, he thought, were selfish, unintelligent, only outwardly kind, and really only tolerable to look at.
Little did this dissatisfied young man know that his whole conception of the young woman was soon to be irrevocably shattered.
A cart rattled merrily over the rough cobblestones and the frowning prince glanced idly down. He almost snorted with the irony of the scene below him. Here he'd been thinking on girls and there below him, seated on top of what could only be loads of rich, female clothing (only women had that many trunks!), was a rather handsome, under-fed girl. A maidservent, he concluded carelessly. He continued to observe her absently and found himself noticing that she was both shedding tears and smiling at the same time. Intriguing, the females' emotions, he thought to himself.
The cart lurched to a stop at the entry of a grand house just down the street from the castle's main gate. Wilber noted, unconciously, the grace with which the girl scrambled down over the wheel and the humility coupled with an unconscious authority with which she began directing the driver as he started to unload the cart.
Grinding coach wheels distracted Wilber momentarily so that he glanced back down the street. A coach of greater majesty than that of the King's own was rolling down the street. Raising an eyebrow at that, the prince peered into it's interior. Great Snakes! One very bejeweled, slightly heavy woman and one, two, three...no FOUR ornately decorated females of youngish age adorned the interior. Quick as a flash, Wilber rolled himself off the wall and crouched down, mind racing. More damsels to peruse him...and did they ever look like the perusal type. He groaned, then peeped back over the wall.
He had guessed correctly. They too pulled up before the house. In that brief glance he noticed a complete change had come over the maidservent. She no longer stood with an air of authority, but appeared almost to cower into herself. Interested, Wilber propped his elbows on the wall and his chin into his hands, watching.
A strident voice was heard, though not the words, and the girl bobbed a curtsy and dashed into the house. Wilber frowned again. A case of severe mistreatment of the help, it appeared. Poor girl...she was just a small thing too. Once again fully irritated at female behavior, Wilber stood erect and stalked down off the walls, entirely unaware that his parents had seen his strategic roll from the wall as well as guessed his object.
The new occupents of the house were soon presented at court, being the recently widowed Dutchess Henovert and her four darling daughters, Kaye, Junia, Olive, and Margot. The King asked after the daughter of the late Duke Henovert from his first marriage (he had known him personally though they had not seen one another for years). The Dutchess looked mightily surprised, but quickly regained her poise and informed the King that the same illness that took her beloved husband had also taken the child. The King sympathized with her, but Wilber secretly rejoiced that there weren't five girls to vie for his attention—these four were bad enough. Kaye had not ceased to steal covert glances at him (he felt as though he was being appraised for purchase!) Junia kept giving him crooked smiles. Olive giggled any time his glance happened to fall upon her (he admitted that she was the most attractive of the girls)....and Margot, not to be outdone by her elder sisters, was making sheep's eyes at him.
Wilber, we must inform the reader, was a very handsome young man though he himself was rather unaware of it and would have been careless of it even if he had been. He wasn't too tall or too short. His shoulders were broad and his hands big and capable. His neatly trimmed hair was deep brown and his eyes were evenly spaced and gray. His dress would have been of a less stylish fashion had he dressed himself, but as it was, he still kept primarily to darker hues cut as often as possible in a hunting style. High court fashion was the bane of his existence (baring flirtatious females), but had to be put up with when the occasion demanded.
Wilber it seems, made a fine impression on the Henovert ladies. The Henovert ladies, on the other hand, made little impression on Wilber other than one of a desire to avoid contact with them as much as possible. He said as much to his parents and the King and Queen looked at each other disparingly. Nothing they said, no girl they introduced him to, seemed to shake that imperturbable dislike and distrust of young women.
Returning to his favorite spot on the battlements, Wilber returned to his frequent musings on the on coming and uninvited notion of nuptuals—his, with one of the many “qualified” dames. It was a subject he could not shake. He studied hard, he engaged in political discussions, he practiced his eloculation, he hunted, he fenced...but lurking behind enjoyment and task alike, was this fast coming marriage. He sighed. He had to choose—or his father chose for him. He trusted his father greatly, but from time to time, he suspected that a pretty face and speeches blinded his father to the faults of the girls. Their air-headedness, their frills! Their innate cat claws.
A ruckus was being raised from the Henovert mansion and Wilber turned his head toward it the sound. The little maidservent came rushing out of the back door into the garden, her arms thrown over her head. Behind her, brandishing a broom, was Kaye. At least, he thought it was Kaye.
Suddenly, for apparently no reason, Wilber conceived an idea. Slapping his palm against the battlement, he determined to set it into motion at once. Leaping from his seat, he dashed off. The King and Queen, from their observation post looked at one another quite mystified.
He had had to wrangle with him about it, but Wilber had finally gotten one of the stable grooms to give him his clothes. Roughing up his hair and daubing a bit of dirt here and there on his face, he disguised himself fairly well, or at least he thought so. Stepping out into the street, a few of the high born passersby did give him a second look, only to look away with the thought running in their minds that this stable boy looked remarkably like the Prince!
Going round the wall of the Henovert's home to the back, Wilber leaned on the gate idly and covertly peered over his shoulder into the garden. He could see no one, but he thought he heard weeping. He frowned, then began to whistle the first tune that came to his lips. He realized that it was Greensleeves and heartily wished it was any other!
Presently, from a small alcove, the maidservant appeared timidly. Her face was rather red blotched from her tears, but nevertheless, she approached. She was, he surmised as he turned about to greet her, a year or two younger than himself, definitely did not eat enough, but was decidedly pretty despite the red nose and eyes. Her hair was blonde, with just a touch of strawberry to it, and her eyes gray. There was a little quiver to her chin when she inquired if there was ought she could do to assist him?
Wilber was quick on his feet naturally, so it took him but a second to think up a proper answer to that. No, unless they were looking to hire a new groom? He had recently been kicked out his position at the palace...
Her eyes grew wide as she wondered why he had lost his job?
Wilber pulled a bit at his ear as if embarrassed and leaning in confidentially, informed her that he really wasn't much of a hand with horses...
Suddenly, she laughed and it was such a merry sound that he found himself laughing likewise. She sobered quickly though and pressed him further...surely he must be hungry (he wasn't) and she must fetch him a handful of last evening's biscuits—she was very apologetic that they were from last night, but the ladies would not eat them over six hours old and she could not eat them all and it would be a pity for them to go to waste. She quickly reappeared with the biscuits (he had been unable to stop her quick trip to the kitchen) and he demanded if she were the only help the ladies kept?
Yes, indeed...
Just then, while Wilber stood in shock gazing at the frail-looking girl before him, hands full of biscuits, Duchess Henovert began calling impatiently for “Liza!”. A quick kindly smile, a quick friendly squeeze of his arm, and Liza turned and flew toward the house. Wilber had just enough sense to slide out of view at the same instant that Duchess Henovert made her glorious appearance at the kitchen door.
Over the next year, Wilber made many trips in all sorts of weather to that back gate. He got Liza to quit feeding him at all his visits by informing her that he had gotten himself a job and was fed entirely too much as it was.
Sometimes he did not see Liza at all; but these were the times that he left little gifts for her. One, her favorite of all, was a gray and white striped kitten. She was constrained to keep it in the tool shed, but was allowed to keep it so long as it posed no inconvenience for the ladies of the house. The mouser argument was one in the kitten's favor. Liza named the kitten after it's presenter, so Tom-Wilber came to stay.
The Henovert ladies were entirely unaware of the courting going on under their very noses and if they had been, the idea that it was Prince Wilber would have been the last on their minds...and they likewise would not have feared overmuch of Liza's desires to marry a simple groom for they knew the truth of her and assumed that, as a Duke's daughter, she, as themselves, would not deign to marry below her born station in life.
Liza herself never spoke of her parentage. Wilber never asked either, assuming as he did that she was nothing but maidservant. Still, from time to time, her breeding would show through and he would wonder for a few moments, before putting it down to whom she lived with.
The King and Queen noticed after a few months that Wilber was disappearing every Wednesday afternoon—through the postern, in stable-groom dress. Trusting him to have his head screwed on straight, they did not question his actions, though his father chose to mention they fact they were aware of the expeditions. Wilber just smiled and returned his nose to his history text.
By the end of the first year of their acquaintance, Wilber was fast stuck in love and he knew he had a bit of a conundrum. He was really a prince and Liza was, bluntly put, a servant girl. Could a prince, or could he not, marry a servant girl if he wished? Perhaps, he thought, he ought to ask the girl what she thought of him before he got into a political fight about it.
Verily, his next trek to see Liza left him somewhat nervous and sweaty palmed. He knew that the ladies were gone for the afternoon when he arrived having seen them set out and the fact that Liza let him in the gate, which she never did if they were home or expected home soon. Wilber sat on the bench beside the gate, rubbing his palms on the knees of his breeches. Liza sat beside him, her own thin fingers busily engaged with stringing peas. Plucking up his fading courage, Wilber finally broke the silence.
“Liza, I have to know something.”
Liza smiled tenderly and rested a hand on his arm, “I know, Wilber.”
He turned toward her, his hair feeling electric and if it were standing up on it's own, “You do??”
He seized her hands eagerly and looked earnestly into her face.
She shook her head slightly then and pulled her hands free. Standing up, she almost whispered, blinking quickly, “Yes...but I cannot. I simply cannot. They wouldn't let me...I-I'm frightened to think what they would do if they knew I had even ever spoken to you.”
Carried away by his passion and forgetting his position as prince for the moment, Wilber leaned forward and declared hotly, “I should protect you! I can and I am fully able to support you...and...and I love you!”
That last came blurting out so suddenly that he turned as red as the spring roses around him. It got a shade deeper as he suddenly recalled that he was a prince and would have trouble getting the blessing he needed...or wanted...from his parents to marry a girl of such a low position.
His mind was called back to the here and now when Liza knelt at his side, her hands clasped together on his knee. She was looking into his face, as though trying to read him or as if she were trying to see if he would understand her. He put his big hand over her small ones gently. Her eyes dropped down and she looked very long at the pretty scene it made. Then suddenly she moved and drawing one hand out, she lifted his off her other meanwhile saying, “I am sorry, Wilber...I wish it were otherwise, but I cannot.”
She stood then, her air and poise as impressive as any well-bred dame's. Wondering, Wilber stood as well. He turned and began to walk away. Stopping, he turned to look at her one last time. Liza stood upright and poised, but she was not looking at him...she was looking in an entirely different direction and her fingers were working her apron into knots.
Taking a couple of steps back toward her, Wilber asked, “You love me then?”
Liza jerked her gaze away from the nothingness she was staring into and her lips parted, then closed. Finally, she said softly, “Please, Wilber...just go.”
He went.
What he didn't know was that as soon as he was gone, that she had cried out under her breath and dashed toward the gate where she had crumpled up and sobbed. Tom-Wilber came to comfort her and there she fell asleep.
She received a thrashing that night from her step-mother because she had never finished supper or the house-work meted out to her that day.
Wilber arrived home in a fine fettle about the perverse ways of women. His old consideration that all girls were nothing but silly pea-brains was well on it's way of being reestablished as the rule of his thinking. But, to save him from it, came the remembrance of Liza's gentle spirit...and her folded hands resting so trustingly on his own knee. He felt a sudden sense of shame at his irritation and his anger at the Henovert ladies unkindness—not that Liza had actually ever told him of anything specifically—was kindled to such a degree that he was constrained to have a battle with himself before he could go down to supper. Arriving there, he sat quietly, unable to speak much beyond single syllables for fear that he would have a breakdown of some sort. His heart was sore, his pride touched, his reason still having to fight for control, his fear of marrying where he did not wish doubled...all in all, he was a bit of a mess. The King and Queen observed him somberly.
By the next morning, Wilber was in a better state and could behave more like his usual self so that his parent's concluded that he had just had a bad day the day before—until that is, the King told him that they had decided to give a grand ball for Wilber's nineteenth birthday and that they expected him to make some sort of effort at a wife finding at that time. Wilber went first pale, then red, then leaped to his feet and stampeded out of the room.
Three months! That was all the time that he had to cease to love where he wanted to. Burying his head under his pillows, he let forth the sobs he had been able to contain up unto this point.
The preparations for the big ball were underway all over the region. Closer to home the Henovert household was thrown into such a tizzy that poor Liza had no time to rest between dawn and dark. She missed Wilber's visits immensely, but had to admit to herself that it was best he was gone and that she would not have had the time to see him anyway.
A month after Wilber's rather unorthodox proposal, Liza slipped to the back gate in the dark. She was exhausted but she was more lonely than tired. Tom-Wilber had disappeared over the gate earlier in the day and was not yet home. She just wished he'd come, for cat company was better than none. Opening the gate, she nearly tripped on a small box. It was wrapped in brown paper and was tied with a bit of string.
Carrying it in to her tiny room, Liza peered at the name on the box. It was scrawled roughly in handwriting she knew: “Liza.”
Half-frightened, of what she was not sure, she quickly opened the small box and pulled out a length of wide blue ribbon. She wondered vaguely, though not really sorry, why Wilber had left her this present.
The next evening, she slipped out and left a cherry tart on the ledge where she had been wont to drop Wilber a little snack. The next morning it was gone and it it's place was a note: “Go to the ball.”
Taken aback by the very idea, she gasped. Looking straight up the street in the dawn light, she said aloud, “But I can't! She would never even consider it.”
Turning, she hurried into the house. Wilber smiled grimly. He munched the cherry tart and slipped up and left another note which read, “I don't care if she won't let you. Go.”
Thus was the start of a strange one to two line at a time communication that took place over the next two months. It consisted of protests on one side and commands to go on the other. Liza was quite perturbed. How in the world would she be able to manage it? It would be delightful...but she had nothing to wear...and the idea of borrowing one of the girls dresses never entered her head—not that she could have worn them anyway.
Wilber watched her from his perch on the wall when he had time and if she was out. He was seen to smile a little sadly from time to time...only he knew that it was because he was watching Liza read his notes and argue with the non-present writer.
The night before the ball, Liza went to collect her expected note. What she found instead put her into a state of shock. It was a large, heavy package. Carrying it into her room, she opened it up to find an absolutely stunning blue gown, of the exact shade to match the ribbon laying quietly hidden in her meager drawer space. With the dress was a note: “I expect you to go to the ball. Now you have no excuses. ~W”
It was the first time he had signed one of his notes.
Obediently, the next evening, as soon as she had seen the Henovert ladies out the door, she retreated to her room to dress. She knew the evening could end in nothing but disaster, but Wilber's insistence mystified her and she was curious what a royal ball was like...and she had not forgotten how to dance.
Wilber stood on the wall in his usual place watching the arrivals. He supposed he really ought to be in the receiving room, so with one last look down the street to the Henovert place, he descended to play the gracious and obliging host.
The King and Queen were pleased with Wilber's performance. He was being gracious and noble...and yes, the Queen whispered to the King, Politic. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself if you didn't actually know him. Something was on his mind as both parents could tell with one eye shut. He had been somewhat withdrawn for the past three months, spending more time than ever on his battlement seat. And whatever it was, they were both pretty sure that it had to do with this grand scheme of theirs. Anyway, he seemed to be taking it in stride and trying to do the right thing.
An hour and a half into the ball, Wilber kept glancing covertly at the doorway while dancing and chatting with one of the many young ladies who vied for both his attention and his favor. The slightest bit of a frown would begin to creep over his face when he let his guard down; to be quickly erased by a frivolous comment or laugh.
The clock struck 10:30 and at precisely that moment, a lady came in unannounced. The steward hurried to the King and whispered that the young lady had not given any name—but she had had an invitation card. The King hardly heard, for he was staring straight across the room at this very comely girl standing timidly at the foot of the steps. The Queen nudged him discreetly and directed his line of sight toward Wilber.
Wilber turned around and saw the girl. Seeing her, his face lit up and he began to move toward her. The King and Queen looked at one another and their puzzlement grew.
Wilber slipped up behind the girl and...
“Liza..”
Liza turned eagerly at the familiar voice. The pleasure on her face gave way to a look of profound confusion. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes grew wide.
The King seized the Queen's arm so hard that she winced.
Wilber went down on one knee, “Liza, will you marry me?”
The Henovert ladies were there suddenly; the Duchess hissing, “How did you get in here you huzzy??”
As the King approached, she dropped him an immense curtsy, bumbling over herself to explain that she had no idea how her maid had gotten in (and secretly hoping that no one else had seen the Prince's folly!)
In the meantime, Liza had gone to flee and Wilber, leaping to his feet, had caught hold of her hands and through the rising din was demanding if she loved him.
The pressure of the situation shook her to her core and all she wanted was to feel safe at that moment. She clung to Wilber wordlessly and buried her head on his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to drown out the noise. She did feel safe then with Wilber's arms wrapped around her protectively. His head was thrown back and he looked defiantly at his father. The King shook his head wryly and slipped next to his son to whisper in his ear.
“She's not what you think. She is the Duke of Henovert's only daughter...”
Wilber's stared at his father then. Stared until the King shooed him along with a smile. Then, the King turned and began to upbraid the Duchess right soundly.
Meanwhile, Wilber led Liza out of the noise and the heat and the glaring lights into the refreshing coolness of the night.
“Is it true?” he demanded.
“Is what true?” Liza asked confused, now that she no longer felt like running and hiding.
“Are you the Duke of Henovert's daughter?”
She started, “Who told you that?”
“My father...the King.”
“The King! Then...you're...”
“Just plain Wilber to you, E-liza, daughter of Duke of Henovert.”
Liza nervously played with the blue ribbon cascading out of her hair, “I-I am the Duke of Henovert's daughter. But...how did your father know me?”
Wilber looked surprised in his turn, “I really do not know.”
As it turned out, the King knew her because she looked just like her mother and the King had not only been to the Duke of Henovert's first marriage, but the bride had been amongst the Queen Mother's ladies-in-waiting and he had seen her frequently when he had visited with her.
Wilber married Eliza before his twentieth birthday, thus upholding longstanding tradition. Never again would he consider that girls and young women in general were silly creatures with goose-down in their heads or that they were all social climbing cats with claws. Most, but not all. His beloved Liza, even through her transition from maid to princess lost none of her gracious sweetness and charming good-humour. Her laugh was heard quite frequently and she was often to be found assisting her new mother in the duties of entertaining dull diplomats with such grace and poise to fool people into thinking that she actually enjoyed it.
Wilber was seated upon the battlements over looking the gate, one knee hugged up under his chin. A bit of a cross frown was settled on his forehead as he sat musing. The subject—girls. He had just about as fine of an opinion of the young female at seventeen as he had had at the age of ten. To him, girls were silly, frilly, shallow creatures who idealized the role of princess to mean a life of complete ease and luxoury. His frown deepened. Why, if these creatures with goose-down in their heads actually knew the work that went into being a princess, then someday a queen, they might not be so eager to garner his favor. He thought of his mother, who was, at that very moment, undergoing the regular strains of having to be polite and politic and charming to a visiting dignitary who, it must be confessed, was quite an obnoxious and trying man to deal with. Bless her heart! Wilber thought. Without his mother, he was quite sure his father's temperament would soon dissolve.
However, Wilber's mind quickly reminded him of the girls. Yes...girls. And within three years he was going to have to marry one of the petty things; it was tradition that just would not do to break! Girls, he thought, were selfish, unintelligent, only outwardly kind, and really only tolerable to look at.
Little did this dissatisfied young man know that his whole conception of the young woman was soon to be irrevocably shattered.
A cart rattled merrily over the rough cobblestones and the frowning prince glanced idly down. He almost snorted with the irony of the scene below him. Here he'd been thinking on girls and there below him, seated on top of what could only be loads of rich, female clothing (only women had that many trunks!), was a rather handsome, under-fed girl. A maidservent, he concluded carelessly. He continued to observe her absently and found himself noticing that she was both shedding tears and smiling at the same time. Intriguing, the females' emotions, he thought to himself.
The cart lurched to a stop at the entry of a grand house just down the street from the castle's main gate. Wilber noted, unconciously, the grace with which the girl scrambled down over the wheel and the humility coupled with an unconscious authority with which she began directing the driver as he started to unload the cart.
Grinding coach wheels distracted Wilber momentarily so that he glanced back down the street. A coach of greater majesty than that of the King's own was rolling down the street. Raising an eyebrow at that, the prince peered into it's interior. Great Snakes! One very bejeweled, slightly heavy woman and one, two, three...no FOUR ornately decorated females of youngish age adorned the interior. Quick as a flash, Wilber rolled himself off the wall and crouched down, mind racing. More damsels to peruse him...and did they ever look like the perusal type. He groaned, then peeped back over the wall.
He had guessed correctly. They too pulled up before the house. In that brief glance he noticed a complete change had come over the maidservent. She no longer stood with an air of authority, but appeared almost to cower into herself. Interested, Wilber propped his elbows on the wall and his chin into his hands, watching.
A strident voice was heard, though not the words, and the girl bobbed a curtsy and dashed into the house. Wilber frowned again. A case of severe mistreatment of the help, it appeared. Poor girl...she was just a small thing too. Once again fully irritated at female behavior, Wilber stood erect and stalked down off the walls, entirely unaware that his parents had seen his strategic roll from the wall as well as guessed his object.
The new occupents of the house were soon presented at court, being the recently widowed Dutchess Henovert and her four darling daughters, Kaye, Junia, Olive, and Margot. The King asked after the daughter of the late Duke Henovert from his first marriage (he had known him personally though they had not seen one another for years). The Dutchess looked mightily surprised, but quickly regained her poise and informed the King that the same illness that took her beloved husband had also taken the child. The King sympathized with her, but Wilber secretly rejoiced that there weren't five girls to vie for his attention—these four were bad enough. Kaye had not ceased to steal covert glances at him (he felt as though he was being appraised for purchase!) Junia kept giving him crooked smiles. Olive giggled any time his glance happened to fall upon her (he admitted that she was the most attractive of the girls)....and Margot, not to be outdone by her elder sisters, was making sheep's eyes at him.
Wilber, we must inform the reader, was a very handsome young man though he himself was rather unaware of it and would have been careless of it even if he had been. He wasn't too tall or too short. His shoulders were broad and his hands big and capable. His neatly trimmed hair was deep brown and his eyes were evenly spaced and gray. His dress would have been of a less stylish fashion had he dressed himself, but as it was, he still kept primarily to darker hues cut as often as possible in a hunting style. High court fashion was the bane of his existence (baring flirtatious females), but had to be put up with when the occasion demanded.
Wilber it seems, made a fine impression on the Henovert ladies. The Henovert ladies, on the other hand, made little impression on Wilber other than one of a desire to avoid contact with them as much as possible. He said as much to his parents and the King and Queen looked at each other disparingly. Nothing they said, no girl they introduced him to, seemed to shake that imperturbable dislike and distrust of young women.
Returning to his favorite spot on the battlements, Wilber returned to his frequent musings on the on coming and uninvited notion of nuptuals—his, with one of the many “qualified” dames. It was a subject he could not shake. He studied hard, he engaged in political discussions, he practiced his eloculation, he hunted, he fenced...but lurking behind enjoyment and task alike, was this fast coming marriage. He sighed. He had to choose—or his father chose for him. He trusted his father greatly, but from time to time, he suspected that a pretty face and speeches blinded his father to the faults of the girls. Their air-headedness, their frills! Their innate cat claws.
A ruckus was being raised from the Henovert mansion and Wilber turned his head toward it the sound. The little maidservent came rushing out of the back door into the garden, her arms thrown over her head. Behind her, brandishing a broom, was Kaye. At least, he thought it was Kaye.
Suddenly, for apparently no reason, Wilber conceived an idea. Slapping his palm against the battlement, he determined to set it into motion at once. Leaping from his seat, he dashed off. The King and Queen, from their observation post looked at one another quite mystified.
He had had to wrangle with him about it, but Wilber had finally gotten one of the stable grooms to give him his clothes. Roughing up his hair and daubing a bit of dirt here and there on his face, he disguised himself fairly well, or at least he thought so. Stepping out into the street, a few of the high born passersby did give him a second look, only to look away with the thought running in their minds that this stable boy looked remarkably like the Prince!
Going round the wall of the Henovert's home to the back, Wilber leaned on the gate idly and covertly peered over his shoulder into the garden. He could see no one, but he thought he heard weeping. He frowned, then began to whistle the first tune that came to his lips. He realized that it was Greensleeves and heartily wished it was any other!
Presently, from a small alcove, the maidservant appeared timidly. Her face was rather red blotched from her tears, but nevertheless, she approached. She was, he surmised as he turned about to greet her, a year or two younger than himself, definitely did not eat enough, but was decidedly pretty despite the red nose and eyes. Her hair was blonde, with just a touch of strawberry to it, and her eyes gray. There was a little quiver to her chin when she inquired if there was ought she could do to assist him?
Wilber was quick on his feet naturally, so it took him but a second to think up a proper answer to that. No, unless they were looking to hire a new groom? He had recently been kicked out his position at the palace...
Her eyes grew wide as she wondered why he had lost his job?
Wilber pulled a bit at his ear as if embarrassed and leaning in confidentially, informed her that he really wasn't much of a hand with horses...
Suddenly, she laughed and it was such a merry sound that he found himself laughing likewise. She sobered quickly though and pressed him further...surely he must be hungry (he wasn't) and she must fetch him a handful of last evening's biscuits—she was very apologetic that they were from last night, but the ladies would not eat them over six hours old and she could not eat them all and it would be a pity for them to go to waste. She quickly reappeared with the biscuits (he had been unable to stop her quick trip to the kitchen) and he demanded if she were the only help the ladies kept?
Yes, indeed...
Just then, while Wilber stood in shock gazing at the frail-looking girl before him, hands full of biscuits, Duchess Henovert began calling impatiently for “Liza!”. A quick kindly smile, a quick friendly squeeze of his arm, and Liza turned and flew toward the house. Wilber had just enough sense to slide out of view at the same instant that Duchess Henovert made her glorious appearance at the kitchen door.
Over the next year, Wilber made many trips in all sorts of weather to that back gate. He got Liza to quit feeding him at all his visits by informing her that he had gotten himself a job and was fed entirely too much as it was.
Sometimes he did not see Liza at all; but these were the times that he left little gifts for her. One, her favorite of all, was a gray and white striped kitten. She was constrained to keep it in the tool shed, but was allowed to keep it so long as it posed no inconvenience for the ladies of the house. The mouser argument was one in the kitten's favor. Liza named the kitten after it's presenter, so Tom-Wilber came to stay.
The Henovert ladies were entirely unaware of the courting going on under their very noses and if they had been, the idea that it was Prince Wilber would have been the last on their minds...and they likewise would not have feared overmuch of Liza's desires to marry a simple groom for they knew the truth of her and assumed that, as a Duke's daughter, she, as themselves, would not deign to marry below her born station in life.
Liza herself never spoke of her parentage. Wilber never asked either, assuming as he did that she was nothing but maidservant. Still, from time to time, her breeding would show through and he would wonder for a few moments, before putting it down to whom she lived with.
The King and Queen noticed after a few months that Wilber was disappearing every Wednesday afternoon—through the postern, in stable-groom dress. Trusting him to have his head screwed on straight, they did not question his actions, though his father chose to mention they fact they were aware of the expeditions. Wilber just smiled and returned his nose to his history text.
By the end of the first year of their acquaintance, Wilber was fast stuck in love and he knew he had a bit of a conundrum. He was really a prince and Liza was, bluntly put, a servant girl. Could a prince, or could he not, marry a servant girl if he wished? Perhaps, he thought, he ought to ask the girl what she thought of him before he got into a political fight about it.
Verily, his next trek to see Liza left him somewhat nervous and sweaty palmed. He knew that the ladies were gone for the afternoon when he arrived having seen them set out and the fact that Liza let him in the gate, which she never did if they were home or expected home soon. Wilber sat on the bench beside the gate, rubbing his palms on the knees of his breeches. Liza sat beside him, her own thin fingers busily engaged with stringing peas. Plucking up his fading courage, Wilber finally broke the silence.
“Liza, I have to know something.”
Liza smiled tenderly and rested a hand on his arm, “I know, Wilber.”
He turned toward her, his hair feeling electric and if it were standing up on it's own, “You do??”
He seized her hands eagerly and looked earnestly into her face.
She shook her head slightly then and pulled her hands free. Standing up, she almost whispered, blinking quickly, “Yes...but I cannot. I simply cannot. They wouldn't let me...I-I'm frightened to think what they would do if they knew I had even ever spoken to you.”
Carried away by his passion and forgetting his position as prince for the moment, Wilber leaned forward and declared hotly, “I should protect you! I can and I am fully able to support you...and...and I love you!”
That last came blurting out so suddenly that he turned as red as the spring roses around him. It got a shade deeper as he suddenly recalled that he was a prince and would have trouble getting the blessing he needed...or wanted...from his parents to marry a girl of such a low position.
His mind was called back to the here and now when Liza knelt at his side, her hands clasped together on his knee. She was looking into his face, as though trying to read him or as if she were trying to see if he would understand her. He put his big hand over her small ones gently. Her eyes dropped down and she looked very long at the pretty scene it made. Then suddenly she moved and drawing one hand out, she lifted his off her other meanwhile saying, “I am sorry, Wilber...I wish it were otherwise, but I cannot.”
She stood then, her air and poise as impressive as any well-bred dame's. Wondering, Wilber stood as well. He turned and began to walk away. Stopping, he turned to look at her one last time. Liza stood upright and poised, but she was not looking at him...she was looking in an entirely different direction and her fingers were working her apron into knots.
Taking a couple of steps back toward her, Wilber asked, “You love me then?”
Liza jerked her gaze away from the nothingness she was staring into and her lips parted, then closed. Finally, she said softly, “Please, Wilber...just go.”
He went.
What he didn't know was that as soon as he was gone, that she had cried out under her breath and dashed toward the gate where she had crumpled up and sobbed. Tom-Wilber came to comfort her and there she fell asleep.
She received a thrashing that night from her step-mother because she had never finished supper or the house-work meted out to her that day.
Wilber arrived home in a fine fettle about the perverse ways of women. His old consideration that all girls were nothing but silly pea-brains was well on it's way of being reestablished as the rule of his thinking. But, to save him from it, came the remembrance of Liza's gentle spirit...and her folded hands resting so trustingly on his own knee. He felt a sudden sense of shame at his irritation and his anger at the Henovert ladies unkindness—not that Liza had actually ever told him of anything specifically—was kindled to such a degree that he was constrained to have a battle with himself before he could go down to supper. Arriving there, he sat quietly, unable to speak much beyond single syllables for fear that he would have a breakdown of some sort. His heart was sore, his pride touched, his reason still having to fight for control, his fear of marrying where he did not wish doubled...all in all, he was a bit of a mess. The King and Queen observed him somberly.
By the next morning, Wilber was in a better state and could behave more like his usual self so that his parent's concluded that he had just had a bad day the day before—until that is, the King told him that they had decided to give a grand ball for Wilber's nineteenth birthday and that they expected him to make some sort of effort at a wife finding at that time. Wilber went first pale, then red, then leaped to his feet and stampeded out of the room.
Three months! That was all the time that he had to cease to love where he wanted to. Burying his head under his pillows, he let forth the sobs he had been able to contain up unto this point.
The preparations for the big ball were underway all over the region. Closer to home the Henovert household was thrown into such a tizzy that poor Liza had no time to rest between dawn and dark. She missed Wilber's visits immensely, but had to admit to herself that it was best he was gone and that she would not have had the time to see him anyway.
A month after Wilber's rather unorthodox proposal, Liza slipped to the back gate in the dark. She was exhausted but she was more lonely than tired. Tom-Wilber had disappeared over the gate earlier in the day and was not yet home. She just wished he'd come, for cat company was better than none. Opening the gate, she nearly tripped on a small box. It was wrapped in brown paper and was tied with a bit of string.
Carrying it in to her tiny room, Liza peered at the name on the box. It was scrawled roughly in handwriting she knew: “Liza.”
Half-frightened, of what she was not sure, she quickly opened the small box and pulled out a length of wide blue ribbon. She wondered vaguely, though not really sorry, why Wilber had left her this present.
The next evening, she slipped out and left a cherry tart on the ledge where she had been wont to drop Wilber a little snack. The next morning it was gone and it it's place was a note: “Go to the ball.”
Taken aback by the very idea, she gasped. Looking straight up the street in the dawn light, she said aloud, “But I can't! She would never even consider it.”
Turning, she hurried into the house. Wilber smiled grimly. He munched the cherry tart and slipped up and left another note which read, “I don't care if she won't let you. Go.”
Thus was the start of a strange one to two line at a time communication that took place over the next two months. It consisted of protests on one side and commands to go on the other. Liza was quite perturbed. How in the world would she be able to manage it? It would be delightful...but she had nothing to wear...and the idea of borrowing one of the girls dresses never entered her head—not that she could have worn them anyway.
Wilber watched her from his perch on the wall when he had time and if she was out. He was seen to smile a little sadly from time to time...only he knew that it was because he was watching Liza read his notes and argue with the non-present writer.
The night before the ball, Liza went to collect her expected note. What she found instead put her into a state of shock. It was a large, heavy package. Carrying it into her room, she opened it up to find an absolutely stunning blue gown, of the exact shade to match the ribbon laying quietly hidden in her meager drawer space. With the dress was a note: “I expect you to go to the ball. Now you have no excuses. ~W”
It was the first time he had signed one of his notes.
Obediently, the next evening, as soon as she had seen the Henovert ladies out the door, she retreated to her room to dress. She knew the evening could end in nothing but disaster, but Wilber's insistence mystified her and she was curious what a royal ball was like...and she had not forgotten how to dance.
Wilber stood on the wall in his usual place watching the arrivals. He supposed he really ought to be in the receiving room, so with one last look down the street to the Henovert place, he descended to play the gracious and obliging host.
The King and Queen were pleased with Wilber's performance. He was being gracious and noble...and yes, the Queen whispered to the King, Politic. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself if you didn't actually know him. Something was on his mind as both parents could tell with one eye shut. He had been somewhat withdrawn for the past three months, spending more time than ever on his battlement seat. And whatever it was, they were both pretty sure that it had to do with this grand scheme of theirs. Anyway, he seemed to be taking it in stride and trying to do the right thing.
An hour and a half into the ball, Wilber kept glancing covertly at the doorway while dancing and chatting with one of the many young ladies who vied for both his attention and his favor. The slightest bit of a frown would begin to creep over his face when he let his guard down; to be quickly erased by a frivolous comment or laugh.
The clock struck 10:30 and at precisely that moment, a lady came in unannounced. The steward hurried to the King and whispered that the young lady had not given any name—but she had had an invitation card. The King hardly heard, for he was staring straight across the room at this very comely girl standing timidly at the foot of the steps. The Queen nudged him discreetly and directed his line of sight toward Wilber.
Wilber turned around and saw the girl. Seeing her, his face lit up and he began to move toward her. The King and Queen looked at one another and their puzzlement grew.
Wilber slipped up behind the girl and...
“Liza..”
Liza turned eagerly at the familiar voice. The pleasure on her face gave way to a look of profound confusion. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes grew wide.
The King seized the Queen's arm so hard that she winced.
Wilber went down on one knee, “Liza, will you marry me?”
The Henovert ladies were there suddenly; the Duchess hissing, “How did you get in here you huzzy??”
As the King approached, she dropped him an immense curtsy, bumbling over herself to explain that she had no idea how her maid had gotten in (and secretly hoping that no one else had seen the Prince's folly!)
In the meantime, Liza had gone to flee and Wilber, leaping to his feet, had caught hold of her hands and through the rising din was demanding if she loved him.
The pressure of the situation shook her to her core and all she wanted was to feel safe at that moment. She clung to Wilber wordlessly and buried her head on his chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to drown out the noise. She did feel safe then with Wilber's arms wrapped around her protectively. His head was thrown back and he looked defiantly at his father. The King shook his head wryly and slipped next to his son to whisper in his ear.
“She's not what you think. She is the Duke of Henovert's only daughter...”
Wilber's stared at his father then. Stared until the King shooed him along with a smile. Then, the King turned and began to upbraid the Duchess right soundly.
Meanwhile, Wilber led Liza out of the noise and the heat and the glaring lights into the refreshing coolness of the night.
“Is it true?” he demanded.
“Is what true?” Liza asked confused, now that she no longer felt like running and hiding.
“Are you the Duke of Henovert's daughter?”
She started, “Who told you that?”
“My father...the King.”
“The King! Then...you're...”
“Just plain Wilber to you, E-liza, daughter of Duke of Henovert.”
Liza nervously played with the blue ribbon cascading out of her hair, “I-I am the Duke of Henovert's daughter. But...how did your father know me?”
Wilber looked surprised in his turn, “I really do not know.”
As it turned out, the King knew her because she looked just like her mother and the King had not only been to the Duke of Henovert's first marriage, but the bride had been amongst the Queen Mother's ladies-in-waiting and he had seen her frequently when he had visited with her.
Wilber married Eliza before his twentieth birthday, thus upholding longstanding tradition. Never again would he consider that girls and young women in general were silly creatures with goose-down in their heads or that they were all social climbing cats with claws. Most, but not all. His beloved Liza, even through her transition from maid to princess lost none of her gracious sweetness and charming good-humour. Her laugh was heard quite frequently and she was often to be found assisting her new mother in the duties of entertaining dull diplomats with such grace and poise to fool people into thinking that she actually enjoyed it.