by Mez Blume
Whatever I’d expected to find inside, it was not in a hundred years what met my eyes. The walls were lined with trunks, and above those were pegs, each holding the oddest, most dazzling assortment of clothes: jewel-spangled velvets, peacock feathers, fairy wings and enough frills and lace to dress the entire King’s Court. Strung across the ceiling were hooks with every sort of hat, mask or headpiece imaginable: mesh horse faces, soldier’s helmets, jesters’ hats, wild white wigs and a whole string of fake beards. I reached up above my head and rubbed one of the wigs between my thumb and finger. It felt just like sheep’s wool.
“Very observant of you,” Tom said over his shoulder. He was washing his paint-stained hands in a water basin when I turned around. “It is identical to the one the Baron wore with his disguise as Master Van Hoebeek. But of course you have worked it out for yourself.” He dried his hands on a rag and gestured to a stool in a snug sitting space between the racks of costumes. I sat, and so did he. He offered me some dried apricots, then lit up a pipe, took a few puffs of it, and eased back into his story.
“You see, Mistress Katherine, I’m not a true artist. I make my living as a travelling mask maker. I’ve been invited to many a great house, and even to Court when there is a masquerade or a theatrical performance to supply for. But once the masque is over, I’m sent away, my craft forgotten.” He smiled sadly again. “I’ve always dreamt of becoming a real court painter. A master even. Then I’d be able to give my Bessy a proper home … a cottage where she could raise chickens, grow herbs.” He pulled off his cloth cap and wiped his brow. I detected his chin quivering ever so slightly. With a cracking voice, he continued. “And now, thanks to my greed, what I’ve earned for her instead is a prison cell.”
To see an old man filled with regret and on the brink of tears made me feel so sorry for him, I wanted to reach out. I tried to sound caring rather than accusing when I asked, “But how did it happen? How did you begin working for the Baron?”
Taking another puff of his pipe, Tom squinted as if to see into the past. “I said the nobility forgot me and my craft, but not the Baron. I supplied the masks for his ball last spring. He came personally to my wagon to look at my collection of costumes, but when he saw my paintings, he asked if I had any interest in a commission as an assistant court painter. And, of course, I had. He told me a little of his plan — he wanted to infiltrate his brother’s house for information. I knew deception would be involved, but it seemed nothing more than another masquerade to me then.”
I watched Tom closely. His eyes stared into nothing, fixed on something only he could see. He continued. “When at last I discovered the sinister nature of the Baron’s plot, I professed I wanted no more part in it. But I was too late. He had already taken Bessy. He locked her away and swore she’d burn as a witch unless I saw the job through and told not a soul. If he knew I told you this tale now …” His eyes darted nervously towards the door, then fell back to his lap. He sighed, and slumped over like an old dog. “I know not what to do.”
I had come to Tom looking for hope. It seemed hope was the very thing Tom needed too. But what hope could I offer? The Baron had us all tied up and chained to his plan. I just sat there in silence.
The silence was shattered by a sudden, explosive AaaaCHOOO!
I jumped to my feet. “What was that?”
Tom’s eyes were fixed anxiously on a curtain just behind me that separated a smaller area of the wagon from the main room.
AaaaCHOOO! It came again. I knew that sneeze.
“No, don’t …” Tom stood and reached out his arm to stop me, but he was too late. I yanked back the curtain. There was a straw mat on the floor, and above my eye level, reclined in a sort of loft, was a bear. It startled me at first, until I understood what it really was: Frederick holding a bear mask over his face. I could still see his eyes through the holes in the mask, and they gave the bear a sheepish expression.
I stared in amazement, not knowing what to say except the obvious: “Bless you.”
22
The Plan
“So, wait. You’ve been hiding here the whole time, ever since the banquet?” I asked the boy with the bear face.
Frederick took off his mask and climbed down from the loft. “Hornsby came to warn me about what had happened to the Earl, and that Van Hoebeek had accused me and Bessy of conspiring the whole thing. When I heard Digby had been arrested in my place, I wanted to give myself up then and there. But Hornsby rightly made me see that my coming forward would not save Digby from danger. As long as I was free, there was hope of putting things right … somehow.” The muscles in Frederick’s square jaw twitched. “Jack didn’t know where to hide me, though. Luckily, we met Tom in the park. He explained Van Hoebeek’s true identity and that his daughter was caught in the Baron’s web as well. He offered to hide me here, where I could think … make a plan.”
“It was the least I could do, considering how much of that web was my own spinning,” Tom muttered from his stool where he’d begun whittling away at some sort of flute.
“You’re not to blame, Tom. No more than I am. Sophia was the wise one. Had I only accepted my duty and chosen to make the most of it rather than gratifying my whims, Digby would be free this day. The fool I was!” He pounded his fist against the wall, causing the wagon to rock like a boat.
I stumbled and threw my hand out to catch my balance, which must’ve drawn Frederick’s attention. “Katie, what are you wearing?” he asked with a tinge of worry.
I looked down at my mud-smudged apron and linen frock. “New clothes?” I offered. But Frederick was too quick to have the wool pulled over his eyes. He knew right away something was up.
“Where is Sophia? Is she safe? Has the Baron turned her into a kitchen wench as well?”
“No …” I hesitated.
“Tell me, Katie.” He looked almost dangerous. “How is my sister?”
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, bracing myself for the storm I knew would break loose the moment I spoke. “She is safe, but … Just after the Baron arrived … I mean, just after he stopped pretending to be Master Van Hoebeek, he separated us. He gave Sophia some of his own ladies to wait on her, though I’m sure it was really to spy on her and make sure she didn’t get up to anything.”
“And the Baron sent you off to the servants’ quarters?”
I nodded.
“Then you haven’t seen her?”
“No. Yes, I mean. I have. Just this morning we met in the hayloft while everybody else was busy sending off the hunting party.”
“And she is well?”
“She is well, but …”
“But? But what?” Frederick took a step closer. His eyes flickered with electricity.
There was no hiding the truth. I spat it out in one breath. “The Baron is forcing Sophia to marry him in exchange for Digby’s life … your life.”
I watched my words sink in. A deep red flush crept up Frederick’s neck and into his cheeks. His nostrils flared with every fuming breath. Then the explosion. I winced as he drew a long sword out of a scabbard hanging from the loft and pushed past me with the force of a hurricane.
“The Baron shall wed Sophia over my dead body!” He growled.
“Yes!” Tom stood in Frederick’s way with his hand outstretched. “That is exactly how he shall wed her if you rush out in this manner.”
Frederick lowered his voice but spoke through clenched teeth. “Let me pass, Tom, or I shall have no choice but to remove you.”
“Tom’s right!” I shouted. “And anyway, Sophia will never forgive you if you go and get yourself killed.” I noticed Tom’s Adam’s apple jump. His daughter’s life was at stake here as well. “And don’t forget Digby and Bessy,” I added. “Do you really think you can save them by turning yourself in?”
“I will not turn myself in. I’ll kill the Baron.”
Tom grabbed Frederick’s sword hand and wrenched the weapon out of it. “Then you’ll be hanged for sure.”
> “So you two would have me sit here, safely holed away, while others pay the price? While that bloody Baron makes a slave of my sister?”
“No.” I felt a confidence that amazed even me. This was my time to live up to the name Watson. To make Charlie proud, if he could only see me. “We’ll save Sophia together, the three of us. And Bessy.” I looked to Tom who cast me another sad but grateful smile. “And Digby as well. But we can’t do it without a plan. What we need is hard, cold evidence to prove that the Baron is guilty. Tom?”
Tom crossed his arms and stroked his chin in deep thought. “The Baron has hidden his effects within Otterly Manor. He keeps them all in a trunk: his disguise, the bottle of poison he used to kill the Earl, and the draught he’s giving the Countess to keep her in a stupor until he deems it safe to kill her as well. I have also seen there a stash of letters from his mistress in Chudleigh expressing her impatience to come and live at Otterly Manor once he has married the ‘little German Princess’.”
Frederick let out a growl, but Tom continued. “It’s all there, safely tucked out of sight.”
“You’ve seen all that in Otterly Manor?” I asked. “But where could he hide it that nobody would see?”
“Can you not guess?” Tom winked at me, just as he had from the painting a lifetime ago. So that was it.
“It’s hidden in the secret room where I saw your painting, isn’t it?” Tom winked again. “So that’s why the Baron as Van Hoebeek didn’t like me going near it. And he hung his own portrait over the panel. What a snob!”
Frederick looked between the two of us, confused. “There’s a secret room in Otterly Manor?”
“It’s off the Billiard Gallery, behind a fake panel,” I explained. Then, turning back to Tom, asked, “And you’re sure all of that stuff is there?”
He looked down. “The Baron locked Bessy away in that room on the night of the banquet. I was permitted to go into the chamber to speak to her one last time, to tell her it would be alright. To lie.” He paused. “I saw everything I’ve mentioned there that night.”
“Then we’ve got to get in there.”
“I will go,” Frederick blurted.
“Frederick!” I snapped. “You can’t go in there!”
“It is my house!” He beat himself on the chest just like a male gorilla.
“Yes, I know it is, but your waltzing in there would ruin everything! The house has been crawling with the King’s guards ever since the Earl was murdered. You’d be arrested in no time, which would defeat the purpose of making THIS PLAN, REMEMBER?”
“Yes,” he said, again through gritted teeth.
Boys, I thought. “It only makes sense for me to go. I’m still a part of the household. As long as I steer clear of Nurse Joan … and Mary Hayes … and probably Anna, nobody will think twice about my being in the house. I could go during supper when the gallery is deserted.”
Frederick and Tom exchanged an uncertain look. I guess neither of them liked the idea of sending a little girl into danger’s way instead of going in himself. But we all knew it was the best way of getting the evidence without our plan being found out, and we all agreed we had to get that evidence tonight. After all, there was no time to lose. The wedding — not to mention the execution — was set for tomorrow.
Tom nodded first, then Frederick. “Supper it is then,” the younger man said running his fingers through his blonde hair.
The only thing to do then was the thing I’d grown to hate most: wait. It wasn’t even noon yet. The hunting party would still be out in the park — we could still hear the dogs baying. Supper wouldn’t be served before six. That’s when I would make my move.
23
Last Hope
I didn’t go back to the kitchens all day, but stayed hidden away at Tom’s wagon along with Frederick and Vagabond. Tom reckoned I’d get a good scolding if I went back, and Mary Hayes would keep me doubly busy so I was sure not to wander off. And then there was the hunting party I didn’t care to run into again. I only had one more tennis ball to spare! But not going back did mean my task would be even more dangerous. I was now a runaway servant, shirking my duties. Mary may already have reported me to Nurse Joan, and she would have her hawk eyes on the lookout for me. She might even speak to the Baron about me once he returned to the house.
“Maybe I should wear one of your beards when I go back, so no one will recognise me,” I joked to Tom while he stirred a stew over the fire. I was trying to ease my own nerves.
But instead of laughing, he looked thoughtful. “I could paint on a sprinkling of pox boils here and there. That way if anybody gives you trouble, they’ll at least believe you were ill in truth … and they are likely to jump away from you faster than a jack rabbit.”
“Or maybe throw me out of the house faster than a jack rabbit,” I laughed, holding my palm out to Vagabond so he could nibble up the carrot stalks I’d collected for him from Tom’s chopping block.
Tom glanced up. “That horse is a different beast in your presence.”
“He reminds me of my horse back home, Gypsy,” I said, but of course that wasn’t quite true. “Or, at least he used to be my horse.” And somehow, just like that, I was telling Tom Tippery everything — about my accident and how I hadn’t been able to mount a horse ever since, about Charlie going off to university, about all the things that used to worry me so much. But it was all so far away. “It’s strange, but now all of that stuff sounds so silly and unimportant. I always wanted someone else’s life … an exciting one, like Sophia’s. But now that I know what it’s like, I miss my old life. My family. I guess I had it pretty good after all.”
“I think …” Tom began without looking up from his stew, “we all find ourselves in circumstances we wouldn’t choose at times. But still we have a choice.” He looked up and smiled. “What we make of them. We can choose courage. Responsibility. Truth.” He clacked the spoon against the pot and sat down on a log. “I chose cowardice. Now others are paying the price.”
“But your daughter’s life was in danger. Who could blame you?”
Tom shook his head. “I should have trusted in God rather than fearing the Baron. Then I might have found help.”
I moved over to sit on the stump beside Tom’s. “It’s not too late. You can still find help.” I felt it sounded a little hollow, but Tom smiled with what looked like genuine gratitude.
“You know, Mistress Katherine, there is one thing I do not regret, and that is bringing you here. Were times less dire, I should like to hear all about the world you come from.” He sighed. “Suffice it to say, you have served many here. May your time here serve you as well.”
We sat silently for a minute, then the question that had become buried under the day’s events bubbled up to the surface once again. “You know, Tom, you still haven’t told me how you did it. How you brought me here. If it wasn’t black magic, then …”
Tom smiled. “I will show you.” He got up and went into the wagon, then came back a second later carrying his wooden box of paints. “Here. Have a look.” He held out the box to me.
I took it and looked at the carving on its top. It was of a face hidden in a ring of oak leaves. A Green Man like the one on the trick panel. I ran my fingers over the face and heard a latch click. Inside the box were two rows of three pots, each one filled with a different colour of paint. I’d done enough of art class to know there was something definitely peculiar about these paints. The colours had a sort of shimmering silver sheen to them, and they moved. Though I held the box perfectly still on my knees, the paints swirled non-stop in their pots like living creatures. “What kind of paints are these?” I asked, unable to stop watching the colours perform their whirlpool movement.
“I bought them from an old woman I happened to meet at a travelling fair. She told me they were magic paints and claimed that when the onlooker beheld in a painting his deepest desire, the paints possessed the power to give him the thing that would content his heart.”
I thought
about that for a minute. “When I looked at the painting, I wished for a different life. One with more excitement and adventure.”
He took the box from me and closed it gently. “I didn’t truly believe her at the time. I only thought the pigments were interesting and wondered what effect they might make on a canvas. But I suppose a bit of curiosity lingered. So I painted myself as a court painter, drawing the portraits of the nobility. No sooner was that picture done, the Baron offered me a commission. So I thought just maybe …”
A horrible thought occurred to me. “Does the Baron know about these paints?”
Tom shook his head. “I never told him, nor did I use them to paint any of the Baron’s commissioned portraits. I had enough sense at least to know that such power, if truly power there were, could be put to terrible purposes. Once I discovered the Baron’s true intentions, I intended to destroy the paints. But first I decided it could not do much harm to give them one last try … This time not for my own ends, but for the sake of someone whose heart’s desire was something pure and simple.”
“Sophia,” I said. “She told you she wanted a friend.”
“Yes.”
My mind churned over everything Tom had just been telling me. “So then, when Sophia looked into the painting, she saw a friend. And when I looked, hundreds of years later, I saw myself in a different life.”
“And when I looked,” — He sat so we were knee-to-knee and face-to-face — “I saw our last hope.”
I looked up into Tom’s earnest, fatherly eyes. “So you really do think I’m here for a purpose? That I’ll be able to help change all this somehow? I mean, it will take a miracle.”
He placed his rough hand gently over mine where they lay folded on my knees. “You’re here, aren’t you? Miracles happen.”