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America.
And very quickly now, her potential began to be realized. From twentieth, she
jumped within two weeks to fifteenth, an unheard-of change in such a time. But
three weeks after that she was already ninth and moving. The competition was
tremendous now, but the day after she was ninth a three-page letter arrived
from Westley in London and just reading it over put her up to eighth. That was
really what was doing it for her more than anything her love for
Westley would not stop growing, and people were dazzled when she delivered
milk in the morning. Some people were only able to gape at her, but many
talked and those that did found her warmer and gentler than she had ever been
before. Even the village girls would nod and smile now, and some of them would
ask after Westley, which was a mistake unless you happened to have a lot of
spare time, because when someone asked Buttercup how
Westley was well, she told them. He was supreme as usual; he was spectacular;
he was singularly fabulous. Oh, she could go on for hours. Sometimes it got a
little tough for the listeners to maintain strict attention, but they did
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their best, since Buttercup loved him so completely.
Which was why Westley's death hit her the way it did.
He had written to her just before he sailed for America. The
Queen's Pride was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences
always went: It is raining today and I
love you. My cold is better and I love you. Say hello to Horse and I love you.
Like that.)
Then there were no letters, but that was natural; he was at sea. Then she
heard. She came home from delivering the milk and her parents were wooden.
"Off the Carolina coast,"
her father whispered.
Her mother whispered, "Without warning. At night."
"What?" from Buttercup.
"Pirates," said her father.
Buttercup thought she'd better sit down.
Quiet in the room.
"He's been taken prisoner then?" Buttercup managed.
Her mother made a "no."
"It was Roberts," her father said. "The Dread Pirate Roberts."
"Oh," Buttercup said. "The one who never leaves survivors."
"Yes," her father said.
Quiet in the room.
Suddenly Buttercup was talking very fast: "Was he stabbed? . . . Did he drown?
. . . Did they cut his throat asleep? . . . Did they wake him, do you suppose?
. . . Perhaps they whipped him dead. . . ." She stood up then. "I'm getting
silly, forgive me." She shook her head. "As if the way they got him mattered.
Excuse me, please." With that she hurried to her room.
She stayed there many days. At first her parents tried to lure her, but she
would not have it. They took to leaving food outside her room, and she took
bits and shreds, enough to stay alive. There was never noise inside, no
wailing, no bitter sounds.
And when she at last came out, her eyes were dry. Her parents stared up from
their silent breakfast at her. They both started to rise but she put a hand
out, stopped them. "I can care for myself, please," and she set about getting
some food. They watched her closely.
In point of fact, she had never looked as well. She had entered her room as
just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a
great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and
beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge
of suffering.
She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She
didn't seem to care.
"You're all right?" her mother asked.
Buttercup sipped her cocoa. "Fine," she said.
"You're sure?" her father wondered.
"Yes," Buttercup replied. There was a very long pause. "But I must never love
again."
She never did.
Two
THE GROOM
This is my first major excision. Chapter One, The Bride, is almost in its
entirety about the bride. Chapter Two, The Groom, only picks up Prince
Humperdinck in the last few
pages.
This chapter is where my son Jason stopped reading, and there is simply no way
of blaming him. For what Morgenstern has done is open this chapter with
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sixty-six pages of
Florinese history. More accurately, it is the history of the Florinese crown.
Dreary? Not to be believed.
Why would a master of narrative stop his narrative dead before it has much
chance to begin generating? No known answer. All I can guess is that for
Morgenstern, the real narrative was not Buttercup and the remarkable things
she endures, but, rather, the history of the monarchy and other such stuff.
When this version comes out, I expect every
Florinese scholar alive to slaughter me. (Columbia University has not only the
leading
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