by Sarah Zettel
“Who else could Mrs. Righthandwall be?” demanded Olivia.
“Mrs. Oglethorpe.” The words burst out of my mouth, followed more slowly by the appropriate memory. “Mrs. Oglethorpe, who was born Eleanor Wall.”
“She also has a house in Godalming,” said Father. He reached again for the other letter, the one I’d received, and flipped it open so he could compare the two.
“Oh.” Olivia pouted. But then: “Oh!” she cried, as fresh light dawned. “If Mrs. Oglethorpe is Mrs. Righthandwall, that means . . .”
That “Mrs. Tinderflint” was my mother. And it meant that, despite what Mr. Tinderflint said, this was not Mrs. Oglethorpe’s first appearance in our mystery. It also meant that Mrs. Oglethorpe could very well have been the one who sent me the original letter.
Unless, of course, it was Aunt Pierpont, who, for some unaccountable reason, had a store of Mother’s old letters.
Isolde had set to barking again. “Secrets, Isolde.” I scooped her up, sat down on the tapestry stool, and covered her with my handkerchief. She circled about in my lap looking for biscuits. This operation gave me time enough to find my voice once more. “Father, did you bundle Aunt Pierpont out of the house early? To keep her from talking to Mr. Tinderflint?”
“Eh?” Father held the book and the letter in front of him, one in each hand, as if weighing them against each other. “No. Of course not.”
The puppy in my lap wriggled and yipped. Olivia frowned at me, scooped Isolde out from under my kerchief, and set her down on the floor. It was then that my cousin saw the distressed turn of my countenance and took both of my hands. Hers, I noted, had gone very cold.
Father had drifted over to the hearth. For a minute, I wondered if he meant to throw Olivia’s notebook into it. The look on his face said he very much wanted to. In the end, however, he only snapped it shut.
“This is it.” He held up the book. “These letters are why Tierney wanted to speak with Delphine today. They must be.”
“But what do they mean?” asked Olivia.
“I don’t know yet, and I won’t until we get these letters deciphered.” He paused. “When is the prince’s birthday celebration?”
“In two days.”
He nodded. “Very well. That should be just time enough, if I leave at once—”
“Leave!” I cried. “Where could you have to go at such a time!”
I trust my readers will forgive this unfilial, and somewhat shrill, outburst when it is remembered that the last time my father left me, it had been for a rather extended period.
“I’m only going as far as Oxford.” Father laid his hand on my shoulder and gave me what I’m sure was meant to be a reassuring squeeze. “There’s a man there, name of Willis. If anybody can break this cipher, he’s the one. I will be back in time for the masque. Don’t worry, Peg.” He squeezed my shoulder again, and even had the nerve to smile. “I’ll find my way in and I’ll find you—you may depend on it.”
I eyed him coldly. Yes, the cipher had to be broken. Of course it did. But there must be a way that did not involve him abandoning me again, especially when we couldn’t be sure as to the extent of the dangers around us. When I wasn’t even certain I could trust Mr. Tinderflint anymore.
When Mr. Tinderflint wasn’t sure any of us should be trusting my father anymore.
Father picked up his hat off the stack of boxes. He did not place it on his head, but stood there with the battered object in his hands, looking more like a servant or a petitioner than he should. Isolde decided she’d had quite enough of his boots and lunged for the toes.
Father reached down, grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, and held her in front of his face. “However did you come by this extraordinary creature?”
“Royal decree.” I took the pup from him and handed her to Olivia. “Sir, let me be plain: if you are to go, please go. I have to change, and find some sort of room for Olivia in this chaos, and dine, and dress, and not be late for the drawing room so that Her Royal Highness will not be further upset with me. I cannot play the spy right now!”
“Can you play the daughter?”
“I’m trying!” I cried. Could he not see? I was trying so desperately to trust him and his judgment, even when my patron said I should not, and my father was giving me no help whatsoever.
The door opened once more and Matthew darted inside, followed more slowly by Libby. Matthew recognized the man in front of us and pulled up short.
My father stared at Matthew, and Olivia, and at last at me.
He nodded once. “I’d best go,” he said. “There’s no need for more suspicions to be raised.”
He started for the door. Matthew stepped back.
“Wait.” I moved to Father. He was a tall man. I felt small looking up at him—small, young, and very uncertain. I saw the stranger I did not know if I should trust, and I saw the father I missed. Just as clearly, I saw the grieving widower whose questions ate at his heart.
“I owe Mr. Tinderflint a great deal,” I said, unsure of where the words were coming from or which might be the next to arrive. “Almost everything since Uncle Pierpont threw me out, and even a little before that.”
“I know, Peg. I—”
“I may owe him my life, but my loyalty is not so unconditional, and I don’t owe him . . . I don’t owe him . . .” I had to stop. “I will not let him stand between me and those nearest me.”
My father smiled, and a warmth spread through me, but also a yearning, because nothing had changed, not even with that smile. He was still leaving.
“I’ll see you in one day’s time, Peg. Two at the very most.” He winked. Once again assuming his posture as the careless adventurer, he made a sweeping bow and left us.
I was a long time staring at the door. My breath strained against my stays. I raised my fist and I set it against the door’s surface. I pounded, once.
Matthew was behind me. I smelled his distinct scent of paint and fresh air. “It’s all right, Peggy Mostly.”
I shook my head hard. “It isn’t! What in God’s name am I supposed to do with two of them!” I cried, indifferent to blasphemy and to the shock on Olivia’s face. “It’s bad enough to have a master, and a mistress, and princes and kings, all insisting I be loyal to them and confess to them and spy for them, but now I’ve got a father in on the game!”
“What do you want to do?” Matthew asked.
“What do we want to do?” Olivia corrected him tartly. “She’s not entirely alone, you know.”
I did know. I also knew my heart strained as badly as my breath. Sailors speak of the worst possible place as being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. They, clearly, had never been caught between a new father and an old spy.
My father and Mr. Tinderflint. Neither of them was entirely wrong but neither was entirely right, and now they were at odds and each wanted me on his side. Who was I to believe?
There was only one answer. I was to believe myself.
“We do what we must,” I told the door firmly.
“Wonderful!” said Olivia. “What is that?”
“We go to the masque,” Matthew answered for me. “We find Sophy Howe, and this Oglethorpe woman if she’s there, and we follow them. Perhaps we find the Sandfords, or,” he added as Olivia opened her mouth, “at least some sign of their genuine whereabouts.”
“Exactly.” I turned around. Decision made everything better. Of course, anything would be an improvement on tangled questions of love, loyalty, and brimming loss. “If we catch them in some act, that’s all to the good. But we see whom they talk with and what they do. Matthew . . .” I met his gaze. “Matthew . . .” I hated what I saw there. I hated myself. One day, we often joked, I would push him too far.
He folded his arms and sighed. My heart plummeted. “Peggy, Olivia . . . it’s time we started thinking about something. Why us? And by that I mean, why Peggy?”
It took me a moment, but I caught the gist of his question. “You mean why did Mr. Ti
nderflint seek me out? Why did he concoct this fantastical scheme of substitution to start me at court on a lie and a prayer, after the last girl he planted there failed rather spectacularly?”
“You mean she died,” said Matthew flatly. “There had to have been others he could have chosen, but none of them would have called your father out of hiding. No one else would have led him to Sir Oliver and Lady Delphine, not to mention this Mrs. Oglethorpe.”
“Bait,” I whispered. “I’m bait.”
“Or the Judas goat,” whispered Olivia.
Matthew nodded grimly. “I don’t know if it’s true, but we have to find out.”
Before one of us went too far. Before one of us died as that other girl had. As my uncle had, and maybe even Sebastian had.
I stared up at Matthew. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t drag him in any further. With Olivia, it was one thing. Her blood kindred was involved in this mess. I couldn’t ask Matthew to risk himself for me, for us, again. Not when I knew so little about what was happening. Not when he’d already risked so much. Not when he’d almost been killed . . .
“Oh, dear! Isolde’s gotten into the closet! Come back, naughty thing!” Olivia called, which only made Isolde howl. Olivia ran into the dressing chamber after her and slammed the door.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even look away as Matthew reached out and took my hands. “Please, Peggy. You have to trust me.”
“I do trust you!” I cried, but he only shook his head.
“No, you don’t. You think I don’t see who you really are.”
“You don’t understand, Matthew . . .”
“This is what I mean!” he shouted. “Just what is it that I don’t know? For the love of God, Peggy! I was there! I kept your secrets while you were impersonating a lady! I helped you break into a blasted palace and cheat a baron at cards in front of the Prince of Wales! I’ve seen you charm half the court while lying through your teeth to the other half. You’re brave, you’re mad, you’re magnificent, and you’re always wondering”—he cupped his palm around the back of my head—“when I’m going to get tired, or afraid, or simply fed up and leave you. After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me to make up my own mind about what it is I’m doing!”
“You deserve someone who isn’t constantly running you into danger. Someone who can be a helpmeet and . . .” A wife. A normal girl who will make you a normal wife.
“I deserve you,” he said, giving me the mildest of shakes. “At least, I want to. I’m not innocent, Peggy. I’ve had the chance to fall in love with other girls. Artists, even just ’prentices, if they like women at all, there’s plenty . . . Well, never mind. The point is, not one of them touched me, not the way you did from the first.” He lifted his other hand to cradle my chin. His calluses rasped against my bare skin and his heat bled straight into my heart. “I love you, Peggy Mostly. Not halfway—not until it becomes too difficult or dangerous. But always, and wherever it may lead.” He paused, anguish rising in his bright gray eyes. “Peggy, if you can’t trust that I am speaking the truth, then tell me so and do it now. Because that is the only thing that could ever make me leave you.”
I couldn’t breathe. I should say it. I knew that. I should save his life and his heart and say that I did not believe him. That I did not trust him. I should send him back to . . . to whoever those other girls had been and let him choose again, choose better, choose normalcy, choose safety.
But I had never once been able to lie to Matthew Reade.
“I do trust you, Matthew, and I always will.”
We kissed, of course. We kissed for a rather long time.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MAKES A SPECTACLE OF HERSELF.
It was only natural that when the time for His Royal Highness’s masque finally arrived, it should bring with it a last-minute storm of deliveries, activities, and raised voices.
“Hold still!” cried Libby as she balanced on her toes atop a stool, where she wielded her entire arsenal of hairpins.
“OW!” I cried in heartfelt response.
“I told you to hold still!”
This elevated exchange was caused by Libby attempting to fix some complex ornamentation onto my head. This would not be unusual, save that the headdress in question was composed of waving golden wires adorned with bits of green ribbon meant to simulate willow leaves. It was a lavish, ungainly arrangement, and its sole purpose seemed to be to topple to the floor the instant I stood up. It was also the crowning glory of the costume assigned to me as the representation of summer for the maids’ “dance of the seasons.”
Probably it would be healthier for all of us if the Master of the Revels remained out of arm’s reach for the duration of the masquerade.
Given all this rattling and rustling and running about, it was a blessing that we had no need to worry about Isolde tonight. Princess Anne had determined that since this was a celebration, the whole lap dog clan should be reunited for the evening, and my puppy was in the bosom of her family, no doubt being spoiled half to death.
This was also fortunate because Libby was attempting to get me ready out in my main bedchamber. Olivia had commandeered the dressing closet a full hour ago and showed no intention of relinquishing it. She had not even allowed her maid, the long-suffering Templeton, to peek inside.
On a certain level, Olivia’s introduction to court life had gone quite smoothly. As promised, Princess Caroline had received my cousin politely and pleasantly at the drawing room. A number of the grand personages present remembered her last sojourn into their midst and were glad to welcome her back, especially as she carried with her the glow of royal favor. The gentlemen were, of course, pleased because she was a pretty face.
On her side, Olivia was over the moon because I was able to introduce her to the poets Mr. Pope and Mr. Gay. Her only disappointment was that neither “Mad” Dean Swift nor the writer Daniel Defoe had been able to attend that evening.
On another, more private level, however, I was beginning to feel the shortcomings of this scheme. I had humbly, on all-but-bended knee, made inquiry of the Lord Chamberlain about arranging apartments large enough to adequately accommodate both myself and my cousin. I mentioned most tactfully that Her Royal Highness had given her blessing to this increase in living space. The Lord Chamberlain responded by blithely telling me that all would be arranged as soon as possible. As matters stood, Olivia and I slept in one bed just as we had when we were children, and in general we lived in each other’s pockets. My love for my cousin was without bounds, but my tolerance for having to wait my turn to get at my own closet was showing distinct signs of wear.
“Olivia, what on earth are you doing in there!”
My cousin’s reply was predictably amiable and informative. “I will be out sooner if you don’t keep shouting—ow!—at me.”
I could have borne all these strains with greater patience if it were not for one grave occurrence. Perhaps I should say the absence of an occurrence. We had arrived at the time of the masquerade without receiving any word from my father. I’d sent Norris, one of my usual errand runners, to the house twice, only to have him be told, and I quote here exactly, “Mr. Fitzroy ain’t home, so no good you hangin’ about.”
At first, this news angered me. How could Father disappear like this when so much was at stake? That anger proved thin and insubstantial, however, when compared to the fear that formed behind it. Had something happened to him? If it had, how would I even know? I had no way to send for him and no knowledge of where he might have gone, apart from the very general destination of Oxford and the name Willis.
Another pin grazed my scalp. I felt Libby lift her hands away. “Try it now, miss.”
I swallowed, and amid a veritable cacophony of rustling emerald ribbons and rattling wires, I stood. The headdress did not immediately fall off, for which I was grateful, I supposed.
“Can you walk?” It was one of the few times I’d heard Libby sound anxious. She did
take her handiwork seriously, even when that handiwork was me.
I walked across the room slowly. The slim gray dress I wore was in the “Grecian style.” It was also two steps from indecent, being exceedingly thin and light. The skirt had no hoop beneath it and precious little in the way of petticoats. You could almost see the outline of my legs. It was also unexpectedly comfortable, despite the winding sash of bright green vines adorned with little purple bundles that, I think, were meant to represent grapes.
I might, in fact, have felt quite stunning were it not for the ludicrous headdress. As it was, any appreciation I had for my gown was overwhelmed by my straining neck and abused scalp. I wasn’t even going to need the sparkling mask that lay on the table at Libby’s right hand. No one would be able to see my face through this absurd forest of glimmering antennae.
I reached the door and turned. I considered shaking my head, quite accidentally, to knock the hideous thing off. I refrained only because I would also have had to quite accidentally trample it underfoot. I might have attempted it, if I hadn’t seen one last yard-long pin clutched in Libby’s tiny fist.
“Try a dance step,” my maid commanded.
I (badly) executed one sliding skip-hop. The headdress wobbled and it rattled, but my maid had done her work too well and it stayed firmly put.
“You are a wonder, Libby,” I said.
“Thank you, miss,” she replied with a most unprecedented trace of modesty.
“Merciful heavens, Peggy!” came Olivia’s voice. “What is that on your head?”
I lifted my chin carefully. “It is the representation of summer, the season of warmth, grace, and plenty as symbolized by the graceful willow tree.” I turned, even more carefully, toward her. I stopped. I was suddenly grateful for my veil of false branches, because it prevented Olivia from seeing my eyes attempt to start out of my skull.
This was not my cousin. Oh, my cousin had indeed gone into the dressing closet; she had simply failed to come out of it. Olivia was the flower of English maidenhood. Her gold and rose beauty filled youths, and any number of older men, with thoughts of love.