by Sarah Zettel
“I . . . I hope that it was, Your Highness.” I did not say it had not been a duel. The princess’s frown told me she was not in a mood to bear contradiction patiently.
“Dare I hope it was in regard to that particular business with which you have been charged?”
“That was my intention, madame.”
“And were you successful?”
My tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth. Was I successful? That depended entirely on whether I could trust Sophy’s word. If she was lying, if this was another of her attempts to discredit me in the eyes of our mistress, I was doomed.
I couldn’t trust Sophy. Not an inch. I could trust Sebastian even less. But I could, and I did, trust Molly Lepell, and it was Molly’s assessment of Sophy that gave me my answer.
I squared my shoulders. “Your Highness, I believe the Sandford brothers are plotting to continue their father’s treasonous activities. Exactly what that plot is or how it has progressed, I do not yet know, but I suspect it will reach a turning point at the prince’s birthday masque.”
The princess made no reply. I was forbidden by protocol to so much as shift my weight, but all the sinews of my body tightened until I was sure my bones would snap.
At last, she said, “You can bring me proof of this?”
“Not yet, madame.” I thought of telling her about Sophy’s involvement, but what did I really suspect her of? It would have been easier if I still thought she might be hand in hand with the Jacobites, but since talking with Molly, I couldn’t honestly accuse her of anything worse than wanting a rich marriage. There was her cheating at cards, but if my mistress didn’t know about that already, she was deaf and blind, and I knew from hard experience Princess Caroline was not deaf. “I . . . I can tell you what I have overheard; that is all.”
“No.” The princess shook her head slowly. “That will not do. Not anymore.” She paused. “You may have heard His Majesty the King has cut short his visit to Hanover.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” It had, in fact, been the talk of the drawing room that morning. Some people speculated that his abrupt return was meant to put an end to the rumor that His Majesty did not actually care about his British kingdoms. Some suggested it was to get more money out of Parliament to fund his German wars.
Not one of those speculating persons said to me what the princess did now. “His return and the Sandfords’ rise are both entirely your fault, you know, Margaret.”
This pronouncement so startled me, I barely remembered to keep my gaze properly downcast. “I . . . I don’t understand, madame.” Mr. Tinderflint had said the king had planned to return early because of the Swedish plot, and that discovery was mine. But how could I possibly be blamed for the prince favoring Lord Lynnfield?
“The details of the Swedish plot you uncovered were forwarded to His Majesty, as is to be expected. Now he is most concerned about how affairs in his kingdoms are being managed.” She looked down at her hand where it lay upon her rounded belly. When she spoke again, it was softly and with a regret such as I seldom heard from her. “My husband is perhaps being a little hasty in his attempts to solidify our separate influence before his father’s return. He is accepting help from . . . sources he might not otherwise.”
There it was. Lord Lynnfield had positioned himself as the prince’s ally, using some combination of lies, flattery, chicanery, and good plain English bribery. Plus, of course, adroitly shifting blame for his treasons to his dead father. The princess, with her keen eyes, saw through him. The prince, angling to undercut his father’s power, did not.
Regret never lasted long with Princess Caroline, however. She was a woman of determined action, even when action must be concealed under a smile and a laugh. “You understand, therefore, that proof of Lynnfield’s doings is vital. It cannot be a matter of my telling someone something that one of my maids, however trustworthy, overheard.”
“Yes, Your Highness. I do understand.”
“And what will you do?”
I bit my lip and hastily released it. “There is someone I need to speak with, madame. Once I have, I will know better how to proceed.”
“Then do so as soon as possible, Margaret. We do not have much time. Will you need to be excused from your rehearsals to do this thing?”
“I very much wish I did, madame, but no.”
For the first time since I had entered her chamber, the princess smiled. “Then go, Margaret. And please inform your artist he is not to threaten any more of the English nobility in the palace.”
“Yes, madame.” I made my curtsy and began my withdrawal, but her next words stopped me.
“A great deal depends on this, Margaret. You and I may believe the Swedish plot was only one strand of the web, but I must have something indisputable to convince His Royal Highness.”
There was only one answer to this.
“I will make sure of it, Your Highness.”
I confess that I made my way toward the lower hall, and the appointed dance rehearsals, with something less than ordinary enthusiasm.
The lower hall of St. James was normally used as a kind of secondary banqueting area or ballroom. Currently, however, it was given over to preparations for the prince’s birthday celebrations and resembled nothing so much as a warehouse. Lumber, wicker frames, crates, barrels, and dozens of workmen filled the great space. The stale air reeked with paint, sawdust, and mineral spirits and tallow. Everywhere rose a mighty clamor of hammering and sawing and the shouts of all those craftsmen and their laborers.
Even amid this huge and variegated crowd, I was at once able to spy Matthew. He knelt on the floor, plying his brush on a pink cherub that was decorating a section of board probably destined to be a festive archway. I caught his eye, and we shared a grimace. Matthew and cherubs had an uneasy history. Unfortunately, I had no time for further commiseration, as I had to hasten to stand with my sister maids in front of the Master of the Revels.
With such a title, one might have expected Garrick Wolverton, Lord Beckenstile, to be of a cheerful and exuberant personality. Instead, he was a severe, dumpling-shaped individual with a great red nose and a pair of the smallest eyes I have yet beheld on a human face. Those eyes, however, proved to be as sharp as any when it came to calling out the faults of his newly recruited players.
“Now, pay attention, if you can!” he bellowed. “This X”—here he slammed his cane against the floor—“is the entrance to the bridge, over which the seasons will cross. That is the four of you. Following this line here”—again the cane slammed down—“each of you will stop at this X”—whack!—“to make your bow to His Royal Highness and then recite your speech. You have memorized your speeches, have you not?” His little eyes glared at us and we all nodded in solemn affirmation. I suspected that Mary Bellenden, at least, was lying. I certainly was. “Once your speech is completed, you will then proceed to this X, where you will wait, smiling, in your row. Then, upon the signal thus”—he swung the cane up—“you will all begin the dance of the seasons, following this line, which indicates the path across the green, to this X . . .”
“It does make one wonder what the letter X has done to merit such treatment,” I murmured to Mary.
“If you have some edifying remark, Miss Fitzroy, you may address it to the whole of the assembly!” snapped Lord Beckenstile. “Now, to the dance of the seasons itself. You will follow this line . . .”
We certainly tried. Unfortunately, four sets of hems and slippers turned those elaborate chalk lines into colorful blurs long before the movements of the dance impressed themselves into our minds. This caused our steps to wander, which caused Lord Beckenstile to bounce up and down on his toes in frustration, which caused Mary Bellenden to laugh out loud, which caused her to be singled out to walk through her routine in front of the rest of us.
Which left me standing beside Sophy, hands neatly folded, pretending to watch Mary’s trial with undivided attention. Molly Lepell, sensibly, managed to keep herself well out of earshot.
“I see you have arranged for your artist to be here as well,” murmured Sophy to me. “Do you fear some imminent attack? Or perhaps you simply don’t trust him out of your sight?”
“He’s working for Lord Beckenstile,” I muttered back.
“Of course he is. Really, Margaret, I had not thought you to be quite so transparent.”
I had any number of replies available for this. I decided not to waste my time with them. Mary actually seemed to be making some progress, and our moment for communication would soon be over. “Sophy, I’ve thought on our earlier conversation. I will be able to do as you asked.”
“Oh, that,” Sophy murmured, apparently intent on watching Mary turn in a graceful circle. “Thank you, Margaret, but you won’t be needed after all.”
“What?” I exclaimed before I could catch myself. Lord Beckenstile hollered. I did not hear a word that he said. “I . . . but . . . you told me . . .”
“Whatever I may have said, and I confess I truly cannot recall much of what it was, it has all changed.” Sophy’s gaze never wavered as Mary stepped down the line that was the bridge, paused in the center, and raised one hand to strike her pose. “Our misunderstandings are cleared away, and Lord Lynnfield and Sebastian and I are in perfect charity with one another. So much so that Sebastian has gone home.”
Lord Beckenstile gestured furiously toward us. Sophy lifted her chin and glided forward. She made the required reverence on what I assumed to be the required X, because Lord Beckenstile only glared at her. He was rather more voluble with me as I, quite literally, tripped along the same path. I could not remember the first thing about where to put my feet. Sophy’s reversal had driven what little I knew of our dance out of my head.
Sophy and Sebastian both in perfect charity with his brother? I didn’t believe it. It was impossible. The Sandford brothers had never displayed any emotion for each other beyond contempt.
What could Lord Lynnfield have possibly said to change Sophy’s outlook so entirely? And where was Sebastian? He could not have really just gone home.
These questions so fully occupied me for the rest of the rehearsal, I was a little surprised to find myself outside my chamber door. I did not remember anything of walking here, let alone whom I had passed or what they may have said to me.
“Libby?” I called as I let myself inside. I received no answer, which was surprising and a little aggravating, as I needed yet another change of clothing to prepare for that evening’s concert. There was no sign of Isolde either, so I assumed Libby had taken the pup out to the courtyard to tend to her own particular business.
What did catch my eye was a letter laid neatly on top of my locked writing desk.
The paper was thick and of excellent quality. There was no direction on it, only my name written in a bold and flowing hand. Its seal was plain brown wax.
My immediate thought was that some overheated swain among the court had sent me a love note. This happened on occasion. But I didn’t recall seeing any new moonstruck youth or smitten venerable among the gentlemen. I settled myself at my desk and broke the seal.
The initial paper inside was blank, but it had been folded around a second sheet. This inner page was much thinner, stained with both damp and age. I unfolded it carefully and squinted at the neat, small words written in fading ink.
My Dearest Mrs. Righthandwall,
I received your last letter, and I am all in astonishment. The news is too wonderful. Are you certain of it? The arrival is set? And he’s to come in full state and good company? Your daughter has indeed written we are assured of our good uncle’s help?
You must think your young friend very foolish for writing with such show of nerves, but this waiting has been such a long and difficult business, I can barely believe all our hopes are soon to be realized and he is to come safe to us after all.
Write as soon as you can and let me know what I can do to help with the preparations.
Yr. Loving Friend,
Mrs. Tinderflint
12578091 039185 387109
440295 652011 330912 670076
1149018 884019 743090
MRS. Tinderflint?
I read the signature again, and yet again. What on earth was this? When had Mr. Tinderflint been married? True, I knew little of his personal life, but still, one would think a wife, living or dead, might have come up in conversation.
Of course, Tinderflint was not and had never been my patron’s real name. Up until this moment, I had believed Lord Tierney had adopted the pseudonym of Tinderflint at the beginning of our association. But this letter looked quite old. Could Mrs. Tinderflint be a nom de guerre for his mother, or perhaps a sister? Spying ran in families, as I had reason to know.
Or could my patron have adopted a female persona in order to further deceive any unauthorized person who might happen across these lines?
But the most important question was why? Why would such a letter come to me now? Lord Lynnfield had said he would leave the task of persuading me to other voices and other pens. This must be what he meant.
A cold shudder ran up my spine. I closed the letter swiftly and turned to unlock my desk. As I did, my fingertip snagged against a jagged edge of the metal plate. I gasped in surprise and snatched my hand back. Then, slowly, reluctantly, I bent closer to look at the desk’s lock. The keyhole was set in a small, decorative plate shaped like a blooming rose. I touched it again. The place was scratched and, in one place, sharply gouged. Had those scratches always been there? Possibly. It was a piece of furnishing given to me when I took up residence here, and I’d never looked closely at it. But that gouge, at least, and the accompanying snag—those were new.
Someone had tried to force the lock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN WHICH LETTERS ARE ENDANGERED, SUSPICIONS ARE STACKED, AND CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS ORGANIZE AN OVERLY HASTY DEPARTURE.
I spent the next hour combing through my letters and possessions, trying frantically to determine if anything had been stolen or interfered with.
I spent the hour after that trying to decide if there was anything I should burn. For a long, uncertain moment, several of my most prized letters from Matthew were in distinct jeopardy.
At some point during this process, Libby returned with Isolde. At once, I launched into a barrage of questions about whom she had seen, when she had left, and how long she had been gone.
The result of these operations was twofold. First, Libby dropped Isolde into my lap and locked herself in my dressing closet until I apologized for suggesting there might have been some neglect on her part. It also meant a sleepless night, one during which I didn’t scold Isolde for barking at every little noise, for fear one of those noises might be the return of my burglar.
One thing, at least, seemed absolutely clear as I stared into the darkness: This intrigue had gone beyond my powers to understand. If I wanted to unravel its mysteries before the masque, I would need help.
My ultimate decision to remain at the palace for the next three days was one of the most difficult I had ever undertaken. But the arrival of the letter and the attempted burglary of my desk came too soon after Sophy’s revelation that Sebastian had gone home for me to believe the incidents were unconnected. I had to find out, if possible, why Sebastian had really left and where he had really gone.
To this end, I kept myself constantly at the ready as I waited at the levees, the drawing rooms, the reception for the Venetian ambassador, and the public dining. I searched every cranny and corner of the palace for any word or glimpse of Sebastian or, better yet, Lord Lynnfield. I strained to overhear as many conversations as possible. I asked all the leading questions I could think of at the card tables, especially when the gentlemen had finished their third or fourth bottle of wine. All that I received for my pains, however, was laughter and sweet remarks about how concern with politics would surely ruin my pretty face.
It will not come as a surprise to those readers who have most closely followed these memoirs that
the gentlemen who said such things tended to lose rather heavily afterward.
But all this work and waiting yielded me exactly nothing. Not even the cabinet members such as Mr. Walpole could tell me more than that Lord Lynnfield had accompanied his brother back to their country estate with no word as to when they would return.
Sophy was the only person who might possibly have known more, but she appeared to be studiously avoiding me. I was reduced to the uncertain course of enlisting Libby and her confederates to watch Sophy’s correspondence. Either no letters came from the Sandfords, or Sophy and her confederates were better at concealment than Libby and her confederates were at spying, or I needed to pay my allies better. It was difficult to tell.
These days tasked my professional abilities at waiting to the utmost. I lost track of the number of times I began writing to Mr. Tinderflint to tell him about the attempted burglary, as well as the strange and secretly delivered letter signed “Mrs. Tinderflint.” An equal number of times, I reminded myself that I would be seeing him shortly. The attack on my innocent desk was fresh proof that letters were not a safe means of communication.
I attempted to keep myself occupied by attending to my own affairs. For instance, I taught Isolde three new commands. I also took her to visit her family and Princess Anne every day, as I had promised. I wrote to Father, Olivia, Mr. Tinderflint, and Matthew asking them all to be at Father’s house on Wednesday afternoon “so that we may say a proper farewell to Aunt Pierpont before she travels to her family and Olivia comes to stay with me at the palace,” although my intentions went far beyond bidding adieu to Aunt Pierpont. I did not reveal any more in writing. I did, however, remind Mr. Tinderflint that despite my open invitation, he should take the precaution of not arriving until the late afternoon so we could be certain that he and Aunt Pierpont did not cross paths. They had met once, long ago, under circumstances that involved my uncle losing the majority of his money. As mild a person as she was, Aunt Pierpont might conceivably harbor some resentment on this point.