by D D Croix
The speculation wouldn’t be kind. It never was to girls like me.
And yet, I was in no position to decline.
So here I stood, at the bottom of a servants’ staircase to the Long Gallery, dressed in a frilly apron but feeling worse than ever.
Just be done with it.
All I wanted was to get back to my familiar corner of the kitchen alongside Mrs. Crossey. Where I didn’t have to wear a fussy apron, or pull my shoulders back, or avert my eyes from my betters.
I had no patience for any of it.
Just get it over with.
Somehow, I forced one foot in front of the other and ascended the staircase. At the door, I tightened my grip on my basket and turned the knob to peer down the wide corridor that led to the Queen’s sitting room.
At least I appeared to be alone. No pages, no other maids, no wandering courtiers.
Still, I remained in the shadows to catch my breath and calm my nerves.
It was only my second time upstairs. My first was a chaperoned visit that took place on the day of my arrival, when I was still reeling from my abrupt departure from Chadwick Hollow. I wasn’t as observant as I should have been. The only thing I remembered keenly was the jarring opulence. The scarlet carpet, the silks and gilt, the crystal and wood polished to a mirror-like gloss.
It had been an unsettling introduction to a world so different from the one belowstairs and the one I had known at Chadwick Hollow.
But now, just as then, I forced myself onward, cringing beneath the stares of long-dead royals and nobles peering down from the walls as I made my way toward Victoria Tower.
Do what you’re told.
Those were the words I had told myself on that first day at the castle, when all the new rules and duties and chaos threatened to paralyze me.
Somehow I had gotten through that day, and somehow I would get through this.
By sheer force of will, I reached the door to the sitting room. On that first visit, it had been occupied, and I hadn’t been allowed in. So this was entirely new territory. Carefully, I eased the door open.
I don’t know what I expected to find inside, but it wasn’t three ladies already in their day dresses—dark and modest as Her Majesty preferred—standing in a huddle at a window overlooking the castle’s Quadrangle, teacups and saucers in hand.
One, taller and more serious than the others, smoothed a hand over her sleek black chignon and frowned at me. “Do say you’re here with the firewood. It’s colder than the winter Alps in here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, feeling my cheeks burn but not daring to breathe another word. Speak when spoken to was the servants’ rule, though I would prefer not to speak at all. I stared at the carpets beneath my feet and hurried to the room’s fireplace. Across from it, a round table was set for four, and I could see the slender silhouette of a parlor maid arranging biscuits and toast points on a polished silver tray.
When the ladies returned to their conversation, I went to work unloading the wood from my basket, placing it in a copper receptacle beside the hearth. In furtive glances, I took stock of the room. Smaller than the formal drawing rooms by half and filled with cozy cushioned chairs. In fact, the whole room was cozier than anything I’d seen in the castle so far.
Dozens of framed photographs and painted portraits occupied the side tables and the bookshelves. Images of the royal children. The Queen and her Prince. Aunts and uncles and cousins.
One on the mantel stood larger than the rest. A silver frame containing the likeness of the Queen’s mother, the Duchess of Kent and Strathearn, and not as the porcelain-skinned beauty of her painted portraits, but as a stout and stoic matron of mature years. Standing beside her in the photograph was the Queen, still fresh faced and young. Perhaps not yet crowned.
And this frame didn’t gleam as the others did. Its polish was worn in places and spoke of recent handling, perhaps frequent handling, by ungloved hands. A daughter’s hands, if I were to guess.
But then, I didn’t have to guess, did I? If I could hold that frame in my bare hands, what secrets would it unlock?
Instantly I pushed away the thought. I shouldn’t covet royal memories.
But hadn’t Mrs. Crossey said she wanted me to learn what I could? Anything to protect the Queen?
Peering into Her Majesty’s past might yield helpful information.
At least that’s what I told myself.
Beneath my gloves, my fingers twitched as I squatted beside the hearth, arranging logs on the iron grate and considering how best to lay my hands on that frame without being noticed.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I hardly noticed the women behind me. Not until someone mentioned the Slopes.
I set down the last log, brushed the residue from my gloves, and leaned back.
“But, Lila, are you sure she was discovered on the Slopes?” said a pale and timid woman I believed to be Lady Wallingham, the widow of the Queen’s former equerry and the most recent addition to the Queen’s household. “Not closer to the river? The riverbank would be more likely, wouldn’t you agree?”
My breath caught in my throat. Were they speaking about me?
“It was most certainly the Slopes,” replied the one named Lila, who could only be Lady Lila Bassey, a close confidant and frequent attendant of the Queen. She sipped from her cup and set it again in its saucer. “It was a farmer’s daughter. She was coming over the hill to make a delivery to the kitchen. She was attacked near the trees. That’s what I heard the guards telling the Master of the Household. The man was beside himself, as you can imagine.”
I stared at the logs on the grate, but every inch of me was riveted to the conversation behind me.
“Odd, wouldn’t you say?” The soft voice was keenly accented with a Scottish burr. It had to be Lady Merrington from the Highlands, a daughter of an earl who had returned with the royal retinue.
“Odd? How so?” Lady Wallingham leaned back, intrigued.
“Why was she found near the trees if she was coming from over the hill?” Lady Merrington said. “It’s quite off the path, isn’t it?”
“I hardly know the particulars,” Lady Bassey said, already sounding bored with the conversation, “but no one’s likely to be allowed out there now. The guards were discussing how to cordon off the area by order of the House Steward.”
I recalled my earlier encounter with Mr. MacDougall. Was that why he was so curious where I’d been? Had he already been aware of the death?
“Did they say anything else?” Lady Wallingham asked, giving voice to my own question.
“Nothing I heard. They clammed up at the sight of me, but I can only imagine the distress it’s creating with the Queen’s masquerade only a few days away.”
There was an “oh dear” and an “oh my” then silence, until:
“What a tragedy,” Lady Wallingham said with a heavy sigh. “I do hope you’ll write to tell me what they discover. I’ll be afraid for you, both of you, knowing something is out there.”
Her words flooded me with fear, an eerie foreboding of something lurking in the empty space of my lost hours.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about,” Lady Bassey said, “but I will write if there are any developments. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were back before they learn anything, however. When did you say your sister is due?”
“A fortnight is the doctor’s guess. But the last child was early, so who’s to say? My sister always enjoys a house full of people doting on her, though. I wouldn’t put it past her to draw out the proceedings as long as possible.”
She sighed again, then the conversation turned to the whims of difficult family members.
My mind wouldn’t be diverted from the farmer’s dead daughter, however. Had she been attacked near the path I was on? Had the killer been nearby as I walked about? That shadow in the trees, could it have been… but then another, even more terrifying thought occurred.
Had Mr. Wyck killed her?
&n
bsp; Had he planned to kill me, too?
That thought—that fear—pushed everything else from my mind.
I sat there, frozen, until somewhere deep within me, a tiny voice broke the spell. Get out of this room.
It was reason tearing through my fears. I had to get back to Mrs. Crossey, so I could tell her what I’d learned.
I removed a match from the box beside the fireplace and took one out to strike.
“What’s taking you so long?”
My heart skipped, and I whipped around to see the parlor maid hovering over me. Only it wasn’t a parlor maid. It was Abigail.
Her mouth curled into a sneer. “You shouldn’t still be here. The Queen is expected any moment.”
“Of course.” I rose to get away. Eager to get away.
“Wait a moment,” she said, “I’m going to make sure you didn’t take anything.”
I opened my mouth to tell her to look all she liked, but the opening of the door stopped me.
Before I could step aside, she was in front of me. The sovereign herself.
My chin dipped to my chest, and my knees bent till they nearly buckled. “Your Majesty.” Speak only if spoken to. I stared at the ground and hoped—prayed!—she hadn’t noticed my breach.
It didn’t work.
“My goodness. Rise, child.” Queen Victoria’s throaty voice belied her stature, standing as she did only a hair over five feet, but she had long since mastered the ability to command any room she entered.
I glanced up to beg forgiveness, but she was hoisting the plump Princess Beatrice in her arms while her ladies surrounded her and fawned over the royal toddler.
Without hesitation, I took advantage of the distraction, grabbed my empty basket, and rushed from the room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I ran down the stairs with the empty basket as quickly as my feet would carry me. Mrs. Crossey needed my help with the servants’ breakfast, but I had someone else to see first. And fast.
Dodging eye contact with every page, footman, and maid I passed, I made it to the kitchen courtyard in record time. Only then did I slow down, inching along the winding path between patches of rosemary and thyme, sage and mint.
“Where are you?” My eyes searched for movement among the morning’s gray clouds. My dragonfly had to come. She had to.
I walked and listened for her buzz over the scraping of my boots. It couldn’t be a coincidence that a girl had been attacked—killed!—so near to where I’d been. And I was more convinced than ever that Mr. Wyck’s presence had not been a coincidence, either.
Had I nearly met my own untimely end out there?
A wave of nausea washed over me. I clenched my eyes against the pain, but the instant I did, I could see them again. Those strange menacing eyes.
My own eyes shot open again, and my dragonfly was in front of me, hovering not more than a foot from my nose. At last she’d come. I would have hugged her if I could.
“Did you see what happened last night?”
She circled, then paused, waiting until I offered her a finger perch.
“You were there. You must have seen something.”
She skipped forward over my knuckle and back. After a moment she repeated the dance.
“I know I shouldn’t be out here, but I have to know.”
She was pretending not to catch my meaning or ignoring it, so we trudged on in strained silence. As we turned from the garden path to a lane that wrapped inside the upper ward Quadrangle, I wanted to yell at her, even as I sensed her irritation with me.
“No, I won’t go back, not until you—”
“Who are you talking to?”
I whipped around and nearly lost my balance. Mr. Wyck stood behind me, his fists shoved in his front pockets, his jaw set in a hard, inscrutable line.
The fear of being caught talking to my dragonfly paled against the realization that once again I was alone with a person who was quite likely a killer.
“Are you following me?” My voice cracked. I cursed myself for not mustering more courage. He wouldn’t dare do anything to me in broad daylight, would he? He couldn’t be that bold. But still, where were the castle guards? Even my dragonfly had already fled. Realizing that, I lowered my hand to my side as casually as I could and tried not to give in to the terror taking hold.
Mr. Wyck kicked at the dirt in front of him with something like a smirk on his face. “I’m not following anybody. I like to take in the morning air over here when I can. It’s better than the stable smell, if you know what I mean. But I’m sure I heard you talking to someone.”
“Sometimes I talk to myself,” I said. “When I think I’m alone.” I gave him a spiteful look in case he didn’t catch my not-so-subtle meaning.
His lips curled, but I wouldn’t call it a smile. He didn’t believe me, I could see that. But I didn’t care. I just wanted him to go away.
As the seconds ticked by, it became clear that he didn’t intend to go anywhere. He simply watched me.
I inched toward the lane, back to the kitchen and to safety. “If you’ll excuse me then, I should be getting back inside.” Silently I begged my dragonfly to follow so we might finish our conversation.
Behind me, I heard the scuff of his footsteps following mine.
My heart beat quickened.
“I’m glad to see you’re up and around,” he said, matching my pace. “I wasn’t sure you would be after last night’s ordeal.”
A cold shudder shot through me, but I forced myself to stand straighter and return his glare. “I certainly fared better than the poor girl they found on the Slopes this morning.”
He blanched. “What girl?”
Was he pretending to be surprised? Or was he just surprised I knew?
“The farmer’s girl. The one who died.” Saying it aloud gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach again. It still hardly seemed possible.
The way his eyes rounded with horror, he thought so, too.
“Died? How?”
“How should I know?” If he was lying, he was doing a good job of it. He fell back a step and stared at the ground.
“Didn’t you know?” I watched him closely, searching for a crack in his charade.
But he was good. He pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through the mess of his hair. His gaze drifted to the far side of the Quadrangle. “That must have been what they were doing,” he mumbled.
“What who was doing?”
His gaze snapped back to me. “What?”
“You said ‘That’s what they were doing.’ Who?”
He scowled and waved me off. “It doesn’t matter.”
I wanted to grab his dusty twill jacket by the lapels and shake him, but I feared it would only make him laugh. “It matters to me,” I said instead. “A great deal, in fact.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been on the Slopes before last night?”
“I have.” Of course I hadn’t but that was none of his business.
“Mrs. Crossey allows it?”
“She doesn’t have to,” I shot back. “Why should she? But what about you, Mr. Wyck? What were you doing on the Slopes?”
He stared at me without blinking for a long moment. “Are you implying I had something to do with that girl?”
Before I could answer, the sound of a conversation coming from the other side of the gate stopped me. Without warning, Mr. Wyck pressed his finger to his lips and pressed himself up against the wall so he wouldn’t be seen by those coming through.
“What are you—”
He stopped me with a more forceful press of his finger against his lips. He mouthed, “Listen.”
I huffed. Who was he to order me about? But I joined him at the wall and leaned forward to listen just the same.
“We’ve done all we can for the lass,” a man said. “She’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
“Indeed,” intoned a voice that struck me like a lightning bolt. It was Mr. MacDougall.
“Sure you want me
to drop you off here, sir? It’s quite a walk, and you’d be understandably weary after dealing with such a nasty business. If you don’t mind me saying so, the Constable should have shown more respect. We practically did his job for him, yeah? Collecting her like that instead of leaving her to the elements.”
“Yes, well,” Mr. MacDougall said, “the Constable did have a point. Perhaps I was too hasty in my efforts to protect the Queen. I should have more carefully considered the impediment to the investigation.”
“What’s to investigate? If it were an animal or such, there would have been signs of it. Had to be a fall, plain and simple. Maybe hit her head on a rock, nothing more, nothing less.”
“I’m sure you’re quite right, Mr. Jameson. Her appearance did suggest such an end, I must agree. And her strange pallor, it would be expected, I suppose, lying out there as she did. Wouldn’t you say so?”
“I would indeed, sir.”
“Good. Very good.”
I heard boots landing hard on the ground and the slapping of hands against limbs that accompanied the general brushing off of dust and dirt.
“Jameson, you have put my mind at ease. I am grateful for your assistance in this matter, and if I might impose on your goodwill once more, I would be grateful for your discretion as well. I know questions will be asked and curiosity will abound, but for the girl’s sake—”
“Sir, you needn’t say another word. I see no reason to speak of it to anyone.”
“Good,” Mr. MacDougall said. “It sums up my own feelings as well. Our part is done. The rest is in the Constable’s hands. Ah, Mr. Bailey! I wasn’t expecting—”
“I have been waiting for you.” Dismay was plain in the man’s voice. But then his tone, especially these past few months, was never what you’d call pleasant. As the Master of the Household’s second in command, Mr. Bailey was often charged with carrying out the more unpleasant duties of the office, and lately that meant overseeing the elimination of staff.
Were more dismissals coming?
“Ah, yes,” Mr. MacDougall said, sounding flustered. “I was just taking care of that matter we discussed… I mean, the unfortunate…”