by Sarah Zettel
“You can stop looking like that, Peggy,” Olivia said. “It’s not as if we didn’t know this was coming. I’ve known Mother was involved from the moment I found those letters among her things. As did your father,” she added.
I shook myself. Standing and staring like a stunned sheep would do nothing for any of us.
“You don’t have to do this, Olivia. This isn’t a drama and—”
“How dare you!” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous. “Stop treating me like a child! I know what is happening as well as any of you! She betrayed me!”
“No, Olivia, you mustn’t think that,” said Matthew.
Olivia turned on him, both literally and figuratively. “Then what am I to think? Tell me!” She flung her arms wide. “She helped him! She kept his secrets even after he was dead, and then, when it looked like she might be discovered, she ran away and left me alone! I hope she is caught!” Olivia shouted. “I hope she is hanged! She and Grandmother both, and then they can all be dead and done together and I can get on with my life!”
Another girl would have broken down sobbing after such an outburst, but Olivia stood up straight, proud and absolutely unashamed. I had known something boiled beneath my cousin’s skin. Not even Mary Bellenden could have been as insouciant regarding her family’s troubles as Olivia had appeared to be. Now here it was, and I had not the first idea how to answer it.
Except with one slim possibility. “What if your mother is innocent?” I asked softly.
Olivia’s glower was beyond contemptuous. It was positively murderous. “How could she be? Are you blind?” Olivia stabbed a finger toward the door. “She has the coded letters. Even if she isn’t ‘Mrs. Tinderflint,’ she kept those letters for a reason!”
“Yes, I agree—Aunt Pierpont knows more than she’s said.” I walked toward Olivia, one cautious step at a time. “But so does Mr. Tinderflint, and so does my father.”
“So do we,” said Olivia. Something in her tone set me wondering again what had happened those days I’d been away from the house. I opened my mouth to ask, but Matthew spoke first.
“And that’s the real reason Peggy needs to tell the princess what’s happened. No one else can force them all—us all—to speak the truth.”
Olivia’s face twisted up again, this time with fear and with strain. “I thought it would be over tonight,” she whispered. “I really did. I thought we’d find . . . whoever it is, whatever they’re doing. We’d unmask them and it would all be over. Bring down the curtain. But all we’ve got is more questions.” She turned her gaze to me. “Is being a spy always like this, Peggy?”
Her hand shook as she reached out, and I seized it tightly. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but it is. There are always more questions and more conspirators. I don’t think it’s ever really going to be over.”
“But we will find out what my parents—and yours—did. We can find out about our families.”
“Yes,” I said to her, and to Matthew. “We will find out what they’ve done to all of us in the name of kings and crowns. This much I do swear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHEREIN OUR HEROINE IS GIVEN HER FINAL INSTRUCTIONS.
It was nearly dawn by the time I walked Matthew down to the Color Court. Despite the freezing air and the unseasonable hour, revelers still filled the yard. Many of them would likely be carried away by wheelbarrow once the sun rose.
“I wouldn’t leave if there were a choice.” Matthew’s breath steamed in the light of the dying flambeaux. I wore my dark traveling cloak, and he had pulled up the hood of his scholar’s robe. This made us as close to anonymous as two persons could be in such a gathering. “My work here is supposed to be done, and I have to at least make an appearance at the academy today.”
“Matthew . . .” I risked a step closer. Surely there were things I had left unsaid. I would think of them all in a moment.
“I will be back as soon as I can.” He kissed me lightly. “If there’s any delay, I’ll send word.”
I murmured farewell and watched him thread his way through the crowd. Only when he had vanished through the open gates did I turn and walk the long, cold way back to my rooms.
As tired as I was, two very strong factors argued against actually going to bed. The first was that Princess Caroline was a habitually early riser, and my best opportunity to speak with her would be before the court’s formal day began. The second was that Olivia very clearly needed to talk more than she needed to rest.
So it was that I spent the time between Matthew’s departure and the day’s dawning curled up in my chair by the fire listening to Olivia. Olivia, for her part, alternated between sitting on my stool with her hands clasped together and feverishly pacing as she talked. She did not say much of consequence, but I let her meander on, occasionally contributing an affirmative or sympathetic sound. What other comfort could I give? Some little time after the clock struck seven, I was able to persuade (and bribe) a drowsing Libby to try the kitchens for rolls and chocolate while Templeton laced Olivia and me into acceptable gowns and made sure we were pomaded and painted well enough to hide any dark circles that might have formed beneath our eyes.
“Olivia, why don’t you go to Princess Anne this morning?” I ventured as I poured some chocolate into her cup. “You know she always welcomes your company walking the dogs.”
“Yes, and Lady Portland is always so glad to see me,” Olivia muttered around a bite of roll. “Almost as glad as she is to see you.”
We both rolled our eyes in acknowledgment of this. “You need to fetch Isolde back, in any case.” I had an ulterior motive for this suggestion. A morning with a young princess and puppies would distract Olivia while I was closeted with Her Royal Highness. “I’m also giving Libby a note for Molly Lepell. We can trust her. You haven’t got a post, but if you’re with Molly, you can still attend all the public events. That way you can keep an eye on Sophy Howe while I’m off fetching Father.”
We assumed that once Her Royal Highness heard what we had discovered, she would send for all the parties involved. This assumption was accompanied by the hope that she would give me leave to go directly to my father’s house. If I did not find him at home, I would beg, bully, and badger all the servants until I learned where he was meant to be. Wandering freely about the countryside was no longer an option for any of us.
Because he was still wandering. I had to believe that. Even the simplest alternatives were too much to bear.
“I’ll give you a full report.” A determined gleam showed in Olivia’s eye. As surprising as it might seem, I was relieved to see it. It meant Olivia’s natural spirits were reasserting themselves, even under the weight of all that had happened and must still happen.
“Thank you,” I said, striving for calm. “And for Heaven’s sake, remember to tell Mary that Orlando Preston has fled the country.” My cousin looked mulish at this but agreed. We toasted each other with the last of the chocolate, and then I got to my feet. What came next, I must do alone.
There was no protocol for this. In fact, it was in direct contravention of all rules of palace behavior. I was the princess’s servant and agent, but not her intimate. My access to her presence was not unfettered or casual. And yet, alone, uninvited, and empty-handed, I had to present myself at the doorway of Her Royal Highness’s antechamber. There, I lied to the drowsy yeomen, saying I’d been summoned. I told the same lie to the footmen in the drawing room.
At the far end of the drawing room waited the private parlor. This, normally, was occupied by the women and ladies of the bedchamber who did not have other duties. As I crossed into it, it was quite empty.
The other set of doors in the parlor led to the royal closet. These were firmly closed. I glanced at the footman who had accompanied me this far. Another pair of men, similarly attired in full livery and curled white wigs, looked down at me.
“I’m sorry, madame,” said the right hand of the pair. “There is no admittance.”
I had to do this, and I had
to do it now. There was no choice. I faced them both.
“I must speak with Her Royal Highness at once!” I shouted. “It is a matter of the utmost urgency!”
There was a slow susurration of cloth and blankets from inside the closet.
“Keep your voice down, you little fool!” growled the right-hand man. “I’ll have the yeomen throw you out!”
“I am Margaret Fitzroy and I am on Her Highness’s business!” I shouted back. “I must see her, now!”
“What is all this!” cried a voice from the other side of the doors. A man’s voice.
It was, in fact, the groggy, annoyed, and highly recognizable voice of the Prince of Wales.
This particular understanding took a long time to penetrate my frozen mind. So long, in fact, that the doors flew open before I remembered to bend my knees into a curtsy.
I saw a pair of slippered feet stomp up to me. I saw a pair of bandy legs encased in white woolen stockings and a flapping shirt hem.
“It’s Miss Fitzroy, ain’t it?” he boomed. “What in God’s name is the meaning of this, Miss Fitzroy? Eh? Disturbing my wife at this hour?”
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” I gasped. “Truly, I would not, if it was not urgent. I . . .”
“Let her come in, sir,” called the princess’s voice, also groggy and also entirely unmistakable. “I will get to the bottom of this. If you will, you may send the man for Mrs. Claybourne and I think Mrs. Howard.”
“Hmmph.” The prince snorted. “Well? Do as Her Highness says, girl—get in there.” Probably there was a gesture to accompany this, but I was too terrified to lift my eyes. “And remember you’re presuming a great deal on your special status here.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll . . . with your permission, that is . . . I . . .”
It is forbidden to turn one’s back on royalty. Nor can one approach royalty backwards. But I had royalty on opposite sides, both already distinctly annoyed with me, and I had to move from one to the next. The result was a sort of sideways scuttle combined with a desperate attempt at respectful reverence that I hope I shall never have to repeat.
A single candle burned in the princess’s bedroom. The draperies were all closed. My mistress sat up in the huge, scarlet-canopied bed, propped on bolsters, with a plain white shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a nightcap trimmed with lace and blue ribbons on her head. It made for a surprisingly domestic scene, especially with her pregnant belly showing clearly under the quilts.
“Close the door,” she said sharply. “There is no point in either of us catching cold.”
I did as I was ordered and went to stand at the foot of the bed.
The princess sighed. “Well? Speak, girl. Tell me what occasions this extraordinary behavior.”
I licked my lips and framed my reply in German. “Your Highness, I beg you must excuse me. The investigations you set me on have taken a bad turn.”
“You will explain,” she snapped. She gave no indication that I should sit. She made no motion for me to come closer. Therefore, I stayed where I was, drew a deep breath, and began.
I told her of Mrs. Oglethorpe’s appearance at my uncle’s funeral and her connection to the Jacobites and my father. I told her of the arrival in my room of the first Mrs. Tinderflint letter and its cipher and of how my cousin had found other letters with similarly enciphered lines. I told her about Lord Lynnfield’s flattery and Sebastian’s treachery and the attempt to burgle my writing desk. My story exhausted the whole of my German vocabulary, but I did not permit myself to hesitate or stumble. I told her about Sophy Howe. I told her about Aunt Pierpont.
Lastly, I told her about following Sebastian and finding Sophy and the hidden letter sealed in Jacobite blue and bearing the seal of the House of Orléans.
Princess Caroline did not once interrupt my recitation. She did not ask a single question, nor did she give any indication of what she thought or felt as I poured out my words.
It was only when I finally fell silent that she looked away from me, as if contemplating the burning candle at her bedside. I did not know what she saw, but I could be fairly certain it was not the clear yellow flame. That simple sight could never engender such bitterness or contempt as clouded her pale and dignified countenance.
“Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, it all fits.”
“I don’t understand.” I could not seem to raise my voice above a whisper.
The princess turned her face toward me again. I dropped my gaze at once, partly out of protocol, partly out of fear of what I might see.
“What you have told me fits very well with certain other pieces of information that have recently been relayed to His Royal Highness.” Her voice was studiously neutral, almost bland. “You should have come to me before, Margaret.”
“I know it, Your Highness. I was afraid, for myself and my cousin, and my aunt.” There. I’d said it. I’d confessed to one of the most powerful personages in the land that I believed Aunt Pierpont capable of duplicity on the grandest scale. “She’s a good woman, truly, madame. She was always as kind to me as she could be. She . . . whatever she’s doing, I’m certain she believes it to be out of loyalty to her late husband, not . . .” Not because she really wanted the House of Hanover thrown down. Not because she meant harm to my mistress and her family, or anyone’s family.
“I have heard you, Margaret,” the princess replied. “It will all be taken into account.” I longed to be able to ask what information the prince had been given and where it had come from. There had to be some sort of reassurance I could take back to Olivia. Despite her angry words, she could not really wish Aunt Pierpont taken up for her crimes, whatever they might be.
Princess Caroline sighed and shifted uneasily on her bolsters. “Knowing you, Margaret, you have come here with some plan in mind.”
“Yes, madame,” I said. “You see, the letter . . .”
“Is with Lord Tierney—yes, that is to be expected.” She spoke this last bit softly, almost regretfully. “You will not concern yourself with it further, Margaret. It will be taken care of by the proper persons.”
Not concern myself with it? How could I not? But I swallowed this question and took my thoughts all firmly in hand. “Yes, madame, but I thought it might be best to bring my father to the palace. He has additional information about this Mrs. Oglethorpe and the Sandfords that might prove useful.”
“And you want to be the one to fetch him, do you not?” I had seldom heard such weary skepticism from her.
“If Your Highness will permit it. And I thought . . . again, with your permission . . . if I was away on that errand, Olivia might accompany Molly Lepell to waiting today.”
“Yes, yes.” The princess waved her hand. “It would be for the best. You may make the arrangement, if you have not done so already. Is there anything else you would have of me?”
To say that this last question was pointed would be a gross and unprecedented level of understatement. “No, madame. I’m so sorry to have intruded. Should I go now?” There was a shameful note of strained hope in those last words.
“In a moment, Margaret.” The silence that stretched out after this was long and as hard to bear as her cold words had been. “I would not have you believe it is you I am angry at,” she said at last. “I am angry at the world, and its necessities, and how our paths at times all cross those of the wrong men.” She shook her head slowly. “Once you bring your father here, you are done with this work.”
“Done?” I cried. I could not help it. “But—”
“You have accomplished the task you were given. From now on, these matters are in the hands of others. You are one of my waiting maids, and nothing more.”
My mind reeled. My mistress surely could not expect me to just assume the persona of one more frivolous courtier and leave my family’s fate in the hands of others.
And yet she did. She’d laid the order down, and I had no more say in the matter than Libby.
“Yes, m
adame,” I whispered, because it was the only answer available to me.
“Good. This one”—she touched her belly—“will be making its appearance in the next few days. I will need your steady nerve and your skills at language with me.”
“Yes, madame,” I said again. “I . . . I will not fail you,” I added.
“I will hold you to that, Margaret.” There was a scratching at the door behind me. “Enter,” she called in French, and then in German she said to me, “Go get this father of yours. I feel certain what he has to say will prove most instructive.”
Light spilled in from the parlor, along with a draft of chilly air. Mrs. Claybourne and Mrs. Howard stepped up to the foot of the bed and curtsied, but this did not prevent either of them from looking askance at me.
“He . . .” I swallowed. “He has said he should not be seen at the palace.”
“Well, that was before.” The princess closed her eyes. “I am very tired of all this, Margaret. You will go now.”
“Yes, madame.” I made my reverence. “I am sorry, madame.”
She did not even open her eyes as I took my hurried leave. It was not until I was halfway across the drawing room that I dared lift my hand to wipe the damp from my cheeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE RECEIVES A MORNING CALLER IN SUSPECT CIRCUMSTANCES.
“You must know something!”
It is a mark of refinement, not to mention good sense, to speak politely to housekeepers and all other persons charged with the task of making sure one’s life and home function smoothly. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my father’s house, my good sense had apparently packed up and gone on holiday.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fitzroy.” Father’s housekeeper, Mrs. Biddingswell, folded her hands and turned on me a show of patience that would have done Libby proud. “He went alone, on horseback, and left no instructions beyond that we were to keep the house ready against his return. If he said nothing more to you, it is hardly my fault.”