by Laura Powell
The Grand Duchess sent for Pattern the night before the banquet. Pattern had begun to wonder if her mistress had second thoughts about confiding in her, and was surprised by how anxious and unhappy the idea made her feel. She realized how much she would like to trust the Grand Duchess in turn. Being needed was one thing; being wanted was another, and was something Pattern had little experience of. And what if the girl had changed her mind? However, as soon as Pattern came into the room all such doubts were set aside, for the Grand Duchess seized her hands and, even though there was nobody else to hear them, whispered hotly in her ear.
‘Thank heavens we are alone at last! I have been thinking what to do all day – what I may speak of, and how much must stay silent. I am so confused! It is my burden, you see. A secret that no one must ever know. It is for your own sake, Pattern, believe me. And yet . . . yet I am feeling reckless all the same. Come, we are going to the library again!’
Once there, she snatched the oil lamp from Pattern and hastened into the maze of stacks and shelving, examining every corner to check they were alone and unobserved. There was a door concealed in a wall of books that Pattern had never noticed before. She assumed it would take them into one of the rat-runs used by the servants, but instead it led to a stairwell with rough stone walls and crude, uneven steps, whose edges had been worn smooth by the passage of many feet over many years; centuries, perhaps.
‘We are now in all that remains of the Old Castle,’ the Grand Duchess told her, voice low. ‘It has been so completely swallowed up by the new one that most people do not realize that there is any remnant left, or else have forgotten how to reach it. This is part of Prince Elffin’s own fortress.’
The ancient stairway led up to a similarly ancient door, very thick and squat, its wood black with age. ‘Nobody may enter here but me. I have forbidden it. Besides,’ she said, fishing in her pocket, ‘I am the only one who has a key.’
The door opened on to a gallery, with a ceiling of vaulted stone, and panelled walls. Traces of faded gilt clung to the carved wood. The Grand Duchess held up the lamp to show the row of portraits lining either wall. They were all of young girls: each and every one richly dressed, and sad-eyed.
‘Behold,’ the Grand Duchess said. ‘The Hall of Maidens.’
‘Who are they, Your Highness?’
‘They are my ancestors. Royal Princesses of the House of Elffin.’
There were about twenty portraits, spanning a time frame of over five hundred years. As far as Pattern could judge from the style of painting and the subjects’ dress, the greater concentration of portraits dated from the late Middle Ages through to the reign of England’s Elizabeth I. There were considerably fewer portraits for later years. The most recent painting showed a girl wearing the costume of a hundred years before. She looked not much older than twelve.
‘Is there to be a portrait of you, Your Highness?’
It was the wrong question.
The Grand Duchess drew herself up; for a moment Pattern thought she was about to strike her. ‘God forbid,’ she said, crossing herself. ‘God forbid.’
‘I – I am very sorry, Your Highness,’ Pattern stammered. ‘I didn’t mean to offend –’
The Grand Duchess drew a shaky breath. ‘No, it is me who should be sorry. The offence is not yours. For how could you know that every girl on this wall died young, and that these paintings are their funeral monument?’
Pattern looked at the painted faces, the quiet mouths and melancholy eyes, and felt a coldness trickle down her back.
‘A fine collection, is it not?’ This time the Grand Duchess’s voice was bitter and black. ‘Oh yes, there is much to admire in the House of Elffin, and its saintly dead.’
This conversation with the Grand Duchess disturbed Pattern more than she liked to admit. She could not get the sleep-talking interludes out of her mind either. There was something so ominous about them, something unnatural. She herself did not sleep much for what remained of the night and, rising before dawn, she made haste back to the library. There she consulted several learned tomes on the history of Elffinberg. She was surprised to find them as dull as they were brief, for the Grand Duchy’s history appeared to be almost entirely without incident. The country engaged in no wars and suffered no invasions; there had been no struggles for the succession, no civil unrest. An occasional crop failure or outbreak of influenza was as close as the country ever came to crisis.
Only one book diverted from this happy narrative. It was a tattered old thing that Pattern only found by chance, since it had been carelessly shelved between the collected journals of the Royal Elffish Society of Ceramicists and the memoirs of a long-dead Lady of the Bedchamber. The history it recounted was much as she had read before, except for a list of dates at the front of the book. Although these dates chiefly related to the ducal succession, there was a recurring entry that greatly intrigued her, and referred simply to a ‘Great Bane’. The last ‘Great Bane’ occurred just over a hundred years ago. A ‘bane’ was a kind of curse, Pattern believed. She thought back to the Hall of Maidens, and wondered if perhaps it referred to the untimely death of Princesses . . .
‘So you are a reader too.’
She jumped.
‘Mr Madoc, you startled me.’
The valet had emerged from behind a tower of shelving, and was surveying the book in her hand with interest. Though she had done nothing wrong, she somehow felt herself at fault. ‘I, er – that is – Her Royal Highness said I could make use of the library.’
‘How generous of her.’ The valet spoke with an ironical edge. ‘Perhaps she is not aware of how dangerous a book can be. An educated mind may think for itself, and so grow restless.’
‘I merely wished to know a little of the history of the country.’
‘So you are interested in facts? Yes, I can guess the kind of reader you are – you seek to understand the world through its statistics, and have little patience for tales of magic and adventure.’
Pattern resented his condescending tone. ‘Is that what you prefer to read?’
‘Those of us who are alone in the world, and must survive on our wits and our toil, rarely have the luxury of reading for pleasure.’ Madoc ran his finger down a crumbling spine. ‘But don’t give up on the fairy tales entirely, Miss Pattern. The old stories are often more true than one thinks.’
Madoc’s sudden appearances made her uncomfortable. So did his way of looking as if he was enjoying a private joke – and one that was at her expense. She found she did not wish to explain her particular interest in the history of Elffinberg.
Pattern returned to her room, deep in thought, just as Dilys was arriving with her breakfast. Her eye was caught by a locket glinting at the girl’s neck. It reminded her of the stall of amulets in the marketplace, the ones that were supposed to protect people from sorcery.
Feeling a little foolish, and fully expecting a sarcastic reply, she asked Dilys if she believed in magic.
‘I believe in our Good Lord, and that He will defend the innocent from the snares of wickedness,’ Dilys replied virtuously. ‘But the devil works in mysterious ways, and so do his demons.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean I heard of a woman who was bewitched so that whenever she tried to speak, nothing but black slime came out of her mouth. And there was a baby, back in my village, who got stolen by spirits, and replaced with a pile of dead leaves.’
Pattern felt increasingly out of her depth. Still, she pressed on. ‘Then do you know what a “Great Bane” might be?’
At this, the housemaid started violently, and almost dropped the tray.
‘Good gracious, Miss Pattern, why would you ask?’
‘It was . . . something I read.’
‘Well, it’s a deal of nonsense, I’m sure.’ The housemaid unsteadily set down the tray. ‘And nothing that need trouble us now, God willing.’ She crossed herself, and tugged on the amulet for good measure. Then something of her old snap returned. ‘You sho
uld keep your twitchy mouse nose out of it, in any event.’
The door slammed behind her.
After the dark hints and sorrowful looks of the night before, Pattern expected to find the Grand Duchess in very low spirits. In fact, her mistress was exceedingly cheerful, and already up and dressed when Pattern went to wake her. First, she made her a present of a pearl brooch – ‘You must wear it always, as a reminder that we are friends.’ And then she announced that she wished Pattern to know her better – ‘So I will begin with my beginnings, and show you my darling papa and mama.’
She led the way to the Throne Room, where a portrait of the late Grand Duke looked down on his former seat. It had been painted in the year of his death, and perhaps he was already sick, for even allowing for the artist’s flattery, his face appeared careworn, and deeply lined. Yet he looked, as Pattern said, a most dignified and kindly man.
From there they went to the ballroom, with its parquet floor as wide and shining as a lake, and chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling like crystal stalactites. Here it was a painting of the Grand Duchess’s mother that dominated the room. She was slim and raven-haired, with sloping white shoulders and laughing eyes.
‘I hope I grow up to be as beautiful as my mama. Everyone expects a princess to look the part. It is not enough for us to be kind and clever, but we must be as decorative as the heroine of any fairy tale.’ The Grand Duchess sighed. ‘And what of your parents, Pattern? For I wish to know you better, too.’
Pattern explained that she knew next to nothing about them, and related the story of the disaster at sea.
‘Oh well,’ said the Grand Duchess carelessly. ‘Immigration is always a risky business. If my guard had caught up with them, they would have been put to death in any case. People are not allowed to leave Elffinberg. They have to ask for my permission. Yes – even my godmama the Baroness.’
Pattern had to sit down abruptly in one of the spindly gold chairs. It felt as if her legs had given way from under her. ‘The state executes those who attempt to leave it, Your Highness?’
‘Well, it’s a fearful shame, and I’m very sorry about it, naturally, but we can’t have people leaving the country willy-nilly and selling secrets to our enemies.’
Pattern was scarcely able to hide her indignation.
‘But, Highness . . . what enemies does Elffinberg have?’
And what secrets?
‘We are a tiny country, surrounded by many large and aggressive ones. If it were not for . . .’ The Grand Duchess stopped confusedly. ‘Well. Never mind. And now you are upset! Oh dear. Perhaps when I am come of age, and have real power at last, I will find another – better – way to stop people leaving.’ She looked at Pattern anxiously. ‘I am very sorry for your parents. I’m sure they were good people, whoever they were. Come, I’ve a notion that will cheer you up.’
CHAPTER NINE
What I would particularly caution you against, however, is giving advice when you are not asked, or thrusting your opinion upon your mistress, whether she seems desirous of having it or not.
J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid
The Grand Duchess’s grand notion was that Pattern should procure for her a maid’s uniform, and that thus disguised, she and Pattern should walk into the city together.
‘I mean to go about my subjects as a humble servant girl and hear what they say about me. Like Harry the Fifth of England did, before his battle with the French. It will be the most marvellous fun!’
Pattern thought this was neither wise nor practical, let alone marvellous fun, but the Grand Duchess overrode all her objections. ‘Now, you must remember, Pattern, not to call me “Highness”. You may call me Eleri, as it is my favourite of my names, and there are plenty of ordinary girls who share it. And because we are to play at being equals, I shall call you by your first name too. Isn’t it funny I don’t know it?’
‘Pattern is the only name I have, Your Highness.’
‘Eleri, remember. Dear me – you are very slow today! But I don’t understand this business of having no Christian name. I have four, and even that is considered mean by royal standards. Did you forget yours or merely lose it?’
‘There is no record of what my parents christened me, and the orphanage neglected to fill the gap.’
‘Oh, then you can take whatever name you like! I should think that a marvellous liberty. Though you had better not choose one of mine,’ the Grand Duchess added hastily, ‘as I do not think that would be quite proper.’
Her own name, there for the choosing! Now she came to think of it, it was odd she had not taken the opportunity to pick one before . . . Yet Pattern’s mind was a perfect blank. ‘I think I will know the right name when I find it, Your Hi— Eleri. For now, plain Pattern will have to do.’
The escapade began with a visit to the laundry. Since it was not appropriate to clean a bootboy’s linens in the same soap and water as a baronet’s, the castle had one washroom for the court, and another adjoining it for those who served them. As always, the place was obscured by a fug of steam, and noisy with splashes, drips, and the hiss of irons. Pattern made her way past copper baths full of linens boiling in sudsy water, and through to where drying racks, operated by ropes and pulleys, dangled a forest of dripping cloth overhead. It was here she found a pile of clean uniforms set aside for mending, and picked up a Third Housemaid’s heap of black flannel and white linen. With a bit of luck, the distraction of the banquet meant that she could return the clothes before they were missed.
The Grand Duchess was delighted with her costume, and Pattern had a hard time getting her to stand still long enough for her to stitch and pin it to an approximate fit. ‘I think it must be exceedingly nice to have a uniform,’ the Grand Duchess observed, ‘and not to have the bothersome business of deciding what to wear three times a day.’
Her boots gave Pattern particular trouble, since their soft kid leather was far too fine for a servant. She took the oldest pair and dirtied them in the mud of the yard, trampling and scraping them as best she could. Then she bundled her mistress’s hair under a white cap, pulling the brim so that it shaded her face, and stuck a basket into her hands.
‘Keep your head down and follow me,’ Pattern instructed, adjusting her bonnet and shawl, and feeling very nervous indeed. The Grand Duchess, of course, would not get into trouble if they were found out, but the other servants would regard Pattern’s actions as base treachery. They would move from slopping her tea to spitting in it.
The Grand Duchess was much impressed by the maze backstairs, and Pattern felt proud of her own competency in navigating it. Her mistress could scarce believe it when – after several twists and turns – they came out in the main passageway that went past the servants’ hall to the kitchen. On the day of a state banquet it was filled with nearly as much heat and steam as the laundry rooms. The scents were overwhelming: roasting meats and stewing fruits, burnt sugar and scalded fat. Mrs Fischer and her assistants shouted orders; kitchen maids and boys scurried to obey. The Grand Duchess stood and stared, and when Pattern tugged her along, she stamped her foot. ‘This is my kitchen. Why shouldn’t I stay and watch a while?’
‘You can inspect the kitchen whenever you wish – I’m sure your steward would be very pleased to give you the tour. But today you wish to pretend to be one of us. You are either Highness, or you are Eleri. You cannot be both.’
The Grand Duchess’s scowl turned into a sigh. ‘I don’t like being Highness much, in any event.’
Pattern remembered her moment of weakness with the gingerbread, when she had dreamed of another life as a pastry-cook. She softened her voice.
‘This is a holiday for both of us. Let us make the most of it.’
With so many servants going hither and thither on so many errands, nobody thought to challenge them as they made their way out of the castle. Once under the cover of the wood, it was evident the Grand Duchess felt the same sense of release that Pattern had enjoyed on her own stolen afternoon. Sh
e skipped about and chattered away, and Pattern allowed herself to hope that perhaps the adventure would not end in disaster after all.
When they reached the marketplace, the Grand Duchess looked around her with as much wonder as an ordinary girl might show on visiting London’s zoological gardens. She was especially taken by a stall that sold patriotic souvenirs, and examined a wooden doll, made in her own image, with much amusement. ‘Such pink cheeks! Such bright eyes and glossy curls! I fear I make for a very poor copy.’ After shopping for supplies, she pronounced their meal of sausage and brown bread the best luncheon she had ever tasted. Then they took a stroll through the public park, and the Grand Duchess linked Pattern’s arm in hers, the better to confide her distaste for the evening’s festivities.
‘Banquets are fearfully dull things: six courses of food, yet none of it very nice to eat, and so much speechifying that most of the guests have nodded off before pudding. The ladies are the worst. The husband-hunters make sheep’s eyes at my uncle, because he is what passes for an eligible bachelor in these parts. And the married ones keep pushing their horrible chinless sons at me.’
‘Surely you are a long way from marriage?’
‘Marriage, yes; betrothal, no. No doubt my uncle is plotting a match that will be entirely to his advantage and not at all to mine.’
Pattern wished to avoid further talk of Prince Leopold. He might dislike his niece, but it was hard to believe in the villainy of a man whose chief delight was collectible figurines. As a distraction, she pointed to where a gang of urchins were dashing about under the trees. The group were baiting a boy wearing a snout made from a cone of paper. He rushed and roared at them, and if he managed to touch one of them on the head, the child would immediately drop to the ground. Meanwhile, a solitary girl stood motionless on a bench, hands clasped as if in prayer, as her fellows tumbled around her.
‘What are they playing, do you think?’