by Sarah Zettel
I was about to present myself to royalty, and I felt like a cross between a piece of lady’s china and a high street mountebank. My hands were shaking yet again. I clenched every muscle tight against my bones to stop the tremors. I could do this. I must do this.
All this while, the Abbott circled me slowly, searching for a flaw or signs of weakness. Much to my surprise, she nodded.
“C’est bon.” Did I see the tiniest glimmer of approval in her eyes? I dismissed that as a figment of my terrified imagination. “Her Royal Highness is expecting you in her private apartments. You know the way, of course?”
“Of course.” The words were still warm on my breath when I regretted them, but I could not take them back any more than I could fail to sense the blade of Mrs. Abbott’s smile as I attempted to sail past her out the door.
She closed that door behind me, and I was alone in the gallery.
Did I mention that palaces are poorly lit places? Or that they are cold? It was the height of summer outside, but as I moved, my skin prickled with goose bumps. Where had all the people gone? Hampton Court had seemed full to bursting with life and motion when I entered it. Now I walked through shadowed galleries without encountering a soul to keep me company or, more important, point the way to the princess’s private apartment. I struggled to call up the floor plans of Hampton Court that Mr. Tinderflint had so diligently tutored me in. Why, oh, why had I spent so much time wishing to be elsewhere when I should have been committing every line and notation of that map to memory?
In the midst of these bitter reflections, I heard a new sound, a ferocious and suppressed hissing and grunting, like someone cursing through clenched teeth. I froze in place, my heart hammering, but only until I heard a violent ripping, as if someone was tearing cloth. Visions of Sebastian’s attack in the greenhouse propelled me to action. I snatched up the poker from the hearth that stood nearby. I meant to charge forward, but swaying hoops and suffocating stays permitted only a quick waddle.
Despite this, I rounded the corner into the darkened chamber, brandishing my weapon before me. Ahead, I could just make out a man’s form wrestling with something unseen. Suppressed curses and groans sounded in the cool, still palace air.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Somewhat to my surprise, the shadow did stop. Buoyed by this success, I ventured a further utterance. “What are you doing?”
Slowly, the shadow turned. I stood my ground, lace fan in one hand, poker in the other. As my eyes adjusted to that deeper darkness, I saw the shadow was a young man. He wore a plain linen smock covered with stains in a variety of shades and thicknesses. Crumpled lumps of paper lay scattered all about him. Both his hands clutched yet more paper that he had plainly been in the act of tearing in half. He stared at me. I stared back. Understanding came late and reluctantly to my fevered mind and, I realized, to his.
The shadow bowed. In return, I curtsied. He looked down at the scattered, ruined papers. I looked at those same papers. I nudged one with the tip of my poker.
“I do not believe they present any further threat,” I said.
“I would tend to agree.” The shadow had a light, cultured voice, although the burr of the north country hung about the r’s and e’s. Something in it made me want to see him more clearly, but I stayed where I was.
“Perhaps they were not quite so dangerous as originally supposed?” I suggested.
“There you are wrong, mademoiselle,” the shadow replied gravely. “They were far worse. Veritable demons from the seventh circle.”
“Then you have saved us all. I thank you, sir.” I curtsied once more.
“It was the least I could do.” The shadow bowed with becoming modesty. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw that shadow smile. A blush crept up my throat, and I became acutely conscious of the poker. I am not proud of what I did next, but in the interests of laying down a faithful memoir, I will report: I hid it behind my skirts and scooted backwards.
“Wait,” said the shadow. “If I might . . . perhaps escort mademoiselle to her destination? The streets are not safe at this time of night.”
“Demons?” I suggested.
“Just so.” He aimed a swift kick at the nearest paper lump. “And that for your impudence, sirrah!”
I laughed. Now that he had come closer, I was able to gain a clearer impression of this young blade. He was tall. I’m far from petite, but my eyes were only level with his chin. That chin, I can report, had a cleft in it that lent a jaunty air to a face that might otherwise have been too sharp and lean. The stains on his smock appeared to be paint, and more stains covered his hands and wrists. Several locks of his unpowdered hair had escaped his queue, and there was just enough light for me to see they were a dramatic dark copper color. I could not make out the shade of his eyes, and I realized this disappointed me. That realization, in its turn, brought on the rapid and most unwelcome return of my blush, and I wished I had some way to retreat without tripping over my train.
“But we’ve not been introduced,” I said, my voice oddly tight.
“A thousand apologies. Matthew Reade, at your service.” He bowed again.
“M—” I caught myself just in time. “Lady Francesca Wallingham.”
“Lady Francesca?” Matthew Reade stiffened. “Ah. Yes. I should have seen. Well, Lady Francesca, if you’re prepared to bear a shabby cavalier company, where might he escort you?”
“To Her Royal Highness, my good cavalier,” I said loftily. “Before the miscreants recover themselves.” I jabbed my poker at a crumpled page.
“Then if I may?” He took the poker. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and his fingertips brushed mine. A thrill ran up my arm, only to collide with memory. I’d been touched like this before in the dark. By Sebastian. I didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. What a wonderful thing a fan is. I snapped it open and peeked over the edge of that most welcome shield. Mr. Reade, oblivious to the warring impressions he had set off in me, shouldered the poker like a musket, positioned himself in front of me, and set off at the march.
I picked up the nearest lump of paper and tucked it hastily into my décolletage before I followed.
Matthew Reade moved more slowly than Molly Lepell but still had a good stride, as a man who has never had to contend with stays and light-soled slippers will. Still, he navigated the chambers and galleries with certainty, and I was grateful to follow his lead, even though I struggled to keep up. At last he turned us down a broad flight of stairs and descended to the first landing. There he stopped and bowed yet again. “Your door, my lady.”
The corridor below was brightly lit from sconces and chandeliers that flickered in the drafts and lent the illusion of motion to the many paintings decorating the red walls. A pair of carved and gilded doors was flanked by two footmen, one of whom had his eyes rigidly fixed ahead of him, and the other of whom was staring directly up at me in a way that made me want to pat my wig to make sure it was on straight.
Instead, I curtsied to Matthew Reade. “I thank you, sir.” Feeling greatly daring, I added, “I hope we may meet again. Perhaps without the demons?”
Mr. Reade took longer to answer than was strictly comfortable, as if he were considering whether to answer at all. “I will look forward to it, my lady,” he said at last, in a tone of utter neutrality. He took my hand and bowed over it, turned, and vanished up the stairs.
I faced the doors below and snapped open my fan. It was time. I would either succeed now, or I would fail. I wished there were some third option, but none occurred to me in the all too brief time it took me to descend the remaining stairs.
The portly footman on the left cleared his throat, reminding his compatriot they were on duty. How the right-hand man could have forgotten, I don’t know, because his eyes were fixed on my approach. The footman on the right was twenty years or so younger than the one on the left, much trimmer, and might have been handsome if his face hadn’t been so pale and sickly-looking at that moment. Together, this mismatched pair heaved open the g
ilded doors. Light and heat rolled over me, and I stood blinking like a mooncalf in the flood.
This was no simple chamber such as I was accustomed to. The apartment of a princess was a vast series of rooms leading one into the other. Every light blazed. Every surface glittered. And now I knew what had happened to all the people I had seen previously. The entire population of Hampton Court was crammed into these rooms. The myriad shimmering colors of coats and mantuas made it look as if a rainbow had met some terrible accident and been scattered across the room. Some pieces of it stood in knots or sprawled in armchairs. Other bits sat at small tables, cards in hand. Others clustered around a table decorated with an array of bottles and decanters, while still others helped themselves to dainties heaped upon little round tables.
And as the doors opened, every wigged and powdered head of that rainbow gathering turned toward me.
Mr. Tinderflint stood at the edge of the silken mob, near the vast fireplace. He was a splendid orb of emerald green and sapphire blue all done up with chartreuse and silver stitchery. He excused himself from his companions and began to edge his way through the crowd. Before he could reach me, however, one of the young women at the nearest card table turned her head, slowly and ostentatiously late, to stare at me. As if to make up for lost time, she now made a great show of looking long and hard, from my wig down to my ruffled hemline and back up again.
“Well. Look what the wind blew in,” she said. “Roughly, and from a distant country.”
That great room full of people began to laugh. Mr. Tinderflint froze in place, startled and trapped. Nor was he the only one. It would not be too much to say that if there’d been a parapet to hand, I would have gladly hurled myself off it. But absent any convenient cliff, I found my sustaining strength. It came not from Mr. Tinderflint’s advice, but from surviving Lady Clarenda’s parties. This time I was not simple Peggy Fitzroy, poor relation. I was Lady Francesca, if you please. I had rank and money, and I could sweep into that room with the finest of them, having been severely drilled in the art of the sweep, and look that card-playing wit in her bright green eyes.
“And I can’t tell you how very dull it was in the country,” I said, fluttering my fan and pitching my voice to be overheard. “Not one word of pleasant conversation to be had, either. How very kind of you to make me feel at home once again.” I smiled and bent to kiss her cheek and took a risk. “Hello, Sophy.” I saw by her tight little smile I’d guessed correctly. As I straightened, I also glanced down at her cards, which I could see perfectly from this angle. Then I shook my head and murmured to her partner, “Oh, dear. Are you sure you should wager that much?”
A trail of soft chuckles followed me as I walked on, and I felt the painted cherubs overhead sing choruses of triumph. Mr. Tinderflint finally edged himself free of the crowd to offer me his arm.
“Well played, well played,” he breathed as he laid his gloved hand on mine. “Now for it. The princess is waving you over.”
My mouth, which had been dry before, was now positively desertlike. But Mr. Tinderflint’s grip on my hand did not allow for retreat. We crossed through the crowd. It took a long time, and I gained an appreciation for the grand scale on which Her Royal Highness lived and entertained. We passed thresholds that led to at least three other chambers, each of which opened onto side chambers of its own. This main room that we now crossed had its own recesses and alcoves, increasing the size while giving the illusion of including some snug comfort. The people of the splintered rainbow smiled and nodded, or murmured behind their fans, but I saw no suspicion in their eyes.
“Is this really happening?” I whispered to him. “Do they actually believe—”
Mr. Tinderflint’s grip grew hard. “People see what they expect, my dear. You wear the clothes, you bear the name. Who on earth would dream of substitution?”
I hadn’t stopped to consider that. The audaciousness of the plan bolstered its chance of success. Because, really, who would envision such a scheme? But I had no time to think on that now, because I faced the woman who would one day be my queen.
My first thought upon seeing Her Royal Highness Caroline, Princess of Wales, was that the tattling papers had gotten their facts more than usually correct. She was a large, plump woman. She had the famed fair Germanic complexion, and her blue eyes popped out slightly on either side of her straight, narrow nose. On another person, this might have made her look foolish, but those eyes were quick and clear. They combined with an expressive mouth and an alert bearing. The impression produced by all these features was quite at odds with the studied languor I had been told ladies were supposed to cultivate. I decided I could like this woman, which was as well, because she was my mistress now. But those clear, clever eyes worried me.
I lowered myself into the deepest curtsy my mantua allowed, my own eyes carefully directed at the floor and my heart rattling against my ribs.
“Oh, do stand up and come here, Francesca,” said Her Highness, in perfect French without any trace of Prussia flavoring her words. “Let me look at you.”
I did not want to get any closer to this alert, intelligent woman, but I had no choice. I couldn’t even put up my fan to hide any part of my face, because this was the princess and that would have been unforgivably rude. Her Royal Highness leveled her calm, clever eyes at me, drinking in every detail. I was lost. She turned in her chair, ready to summon the footmen from their duties carrying in fresh bottles or decorating the doors to throw me in the Tower. Mrs. Abbott was somewhere pulling out her knives, getting ready to feast on my failure.
“But, Lord Tierney, she’s so thin!” said Her Royal Highness to Mr. Tinderflint. “Did no one feed her during her convalescence?”
Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney, bowed to the princess, perfectly calm and apparently very much at home. “If I had had my way, ma’am, she would have rested another month, but she was so eager to return to her place . . .” He waved his hand, indicating a general helplessness.
“As tractable and obedient as ever, I see.” Her Highness smiled at me. “Surely a sign she has made a full recovery. Well, we are glad to have you back among us, Francesca. You are well enough to come walk with me tomorrow, yes?”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I murmured to the gold-embroidered tips of the royal slippers. “I would be honored.”
The Princess of Wales nodded. Mr. Tinderflint bowed. I curtsied. Mindful of my train, I let him help me back away into the rainbow, while another pair of courtiers came up to speak with the princess.
“Don’t let go,” I whispered. “I’m going to faint.”
“Of course you’re not,” replied Mr. Tinderflint. “You’re perfection itself. Ah, there’s Sir Everett!” He hailed a tall, saturnine man. “Now, Francesca, what was it that you were saying I must remind Sir Everett of, now, what? Ah, yes, I have it.”
And so it went. Far from letting go of me, my guardian steered me deftly through the hot and crowded rooms, subtly introducing me to an array of people I was already supposed to know. All the while, I was conscious of Sophy Howe shooting me sharp little glances over her gilt-edged cards, and despite the crushing heat of the room, I shivered.
A full five hours of hot air, chilled punch, bright gossip, and lingering introductions later, Mr. Tinderflint informed the room at large that I must be excused on account of my still delicate health, and Her Royal Highness gave us permission to back into the blessed, blessed dark and cool of the galleries.
“You were splendid, my dear!” My guardian all but bounced on his toes as we climbed the stairs. It was strange to see this ebullient manner matched with sotto voce praise. “Splendid! All I could have hoped for and more.”
I reminded myself sternly that this man was a liar and perhaps the reason Francesca had been forced to conceal those mysterious sketches. But it didn’t matter. I flushed at his praise and felt the ring of my success in every nerve. When we reached my door, Mr. Tinderflint took my hand and bowed deeply over it. That strange gravity I had glimpsed
on the riverboat came over him. “I am aware this is a difficult circumstance, my dear. Truly. And I am grateful to you.”
“Do you . . . do you think my mother would have approved?” I asked him.
When Mr. Tinderflint lifted his head, his eyes were shining brightly in the gallery’s dim light. “I think she would have been enormously proud. Yes, enormously. And I tell you, she could have done no better on such a day than her brave and clever daughter.” With that, he opened my door and bowed me through.
I glided into my beautiful new chamber, carried by a creditable amount of deportment and effervescent relief. I had done it. I was accepted by the court, the maids, Her Royal Highness, and one paint-stained mystery man. Mr. Tinderflint had said my mother would be proud. I could do this after all. I could do anything.
So full of this pleasant contemplation was I, that I completely failed to see the man standing behind the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEREIN THE IDENTITY OF THE MYSTERIOUS ROBERT IS REVEALED.
“Fran! It is you! I can’t believe it!”
Wiry arms wrapped tight around me, and a rough cheek scraped mine as I was enthusiastically and repeatedly kissed on every portion of my face. How he could endure the taste of the talc was beyond me.