by Sarah Zettel
“Oh, Robert, there you are,” Sophy was saying from her carriage as I settled in with the lady and the princess. “Help Molly in beside me. Oh and, poor Mary, you’re quite blue with cold. Fetch her a rug, Robert.”
“Mr. Russell and Lord Blakeney were quite full of your praises last night,” said Her Royal Highness to me. “You are going to have the ladies in jealous fits if you keep stealing all their gentlemen in this way.” Did the royal gaze flicker toward Sophy, who was fussing over how Robert arranged the rug on Mary’s lap, or was it just my eyes that could not help turning in that direction?
“Some young ladies need to learn to be satisfied with what they have,” remarked Lady Cowper. “Or they’ll be chasing swains like our gentlemen chase the deer, and no one comes out the better for it.”
“Except for those who would rather feast upon gossip than good venison,” agreed the princess. Lady Cowper laughed at this royal quip, but Her Royal Highness was regarding me too steadily for my own laugh to be anything but forced. Fortunately, I was saved from further bon mots by one of the host of liveried footmen approaching the carriage and bowing deeply. It was Robert, and he held a silver tray bearing a single cup and a single letter.
“I was instructed to bring this to you, Your Highness.” He handed across the letter. “And a cup for my lady.”
He held out the tray and the cup, and as I took it, he was joggled, it seemed, and caught my hand to steady himself.
“I do beg your pardon, my lady!” Robert let go almost instantly. Almost, for he took time enough to press a scrap of paper into my hand.
I drew back sharply and wrapped my hands around the warming cup.
“Who gave this to you?” demanded the princess suddenly, clutching the open letter in her gloved hands. A flush of anger glowed underneath her face powder. “Where are they?”
Robert fell back, bowing hastily. “I . . . Carter passed it to me, madame, since I was coming with the cup. I didn’t see who gave it to him—”
“Is there a problem, my sweet?” called a voice in German. The prince brought his great roan gelding alongside Her Highness’s carriage. He looked down on her with grave concern.
By dint of heroic and visible effort, the princess swallowed her anger all in a lump. She then answered her husband easily, and in French, so all listeners might more readily comprehend. “No, no. I wanted another shawl, that is the only matter. But we’ve already delayed enough, do you not think? Is it my husband’s pleasure to sound the horn?”
The prince saw the missive clenched in her fist, and their eyes met. Whatever they shared between them in that moment, it surely included the understanding that at times silence is best, because His Royal Highness bowed his head.
“Of course.” He signaled to his men, and the first among them blew three long, looping notes from his curved brass horn. The courtyard gates were opened by a team of men to allow the hounds and their masters, the prince and his huntsmen, and finally our carriages, to pass out into the lane through the gardens that led to the hunting field. I took advantage of the general distraction to stuff the scrap Robert had given me into my sleeve.
“Burn this.” The princess shoved her letter at Lady Cowper, but snatched it back at the last moment. “No. I reconsider. Lady Francesca, you shall take care of this for me.”
Slowly, and with the feeling of entering into a new trap, I took this new paper from the royal fingertips.
“You may as well read it,” she said. “You have become such a quick study of late, I will be most interested to hear your opinion.”
I opened the paper and read.
Dear Madame,
It is well known that you are a God-fearing and Christian woman. As such, I do urge that for the benefit of your immortal soul you shall consider the great error and falsity of the position of your husband, George Augustus, called Prince of Wales. For it is well known to all that the prince is no legitimate son of the house of Hanover, but rather the bastard child of Sophia Dorothea of Celle, and her lover, Philipp von Königsmark, who was most foully and unnaturally murdered to silence him before he could confess the paternity of their child.
It is for you to consult God and your conscience and proclaim that the only right and true heir to the throne of Britain is James Edward Stuart, called by some the Pretender. For he is as surely the legitimate son of James II of England as your husband is the bastard of Königsmark.
God Save the True King!
The letter was, not surprisingly, entirely lacking in the matter of a signature.
“So? What do you think of it, Lady Francesca? Have I not charming correspondents?”
I swallowed and looked up at my royal mistress. Her clear eyes had gone hard as sapphires. “I have heard this story before.” In fact, I’d read it in the papers, around about the time last autumn when I read of the men and arms being amassed in the North. “I also heard that the baby who grew into James Edward Stuart was carried to his mother’s bed in a warming pan to substitute for her stillborn child. The one seems to me as likely as the other.”
The corner of the princess’s mouth twitched. “Promptly spoken.”
“It is not worth dwelling upon, Your Highness,” said Lady Cowper stoutly. “It is malice and madness. Let it be destroyed and forgotten.”
“Such malice and madness have already cost hundreds of lives, not to mention thousands of pounds the treasury can ill afford,” said the princess. She was still speaking to me. “And there are too many ready to spread slander if it might persuade others to their cause. Is that not so, Francesca?”
I folded the letter back up and took my time about it.
“I think there are those who would dare anything for gain,” I said. In the other carriage, Sophy was leaning forward, tapping Mary on the knee and laughing about something. “And they cannot see how small that gain will truly be or how much pain it causes.”
“Our Lady Francesca has turned quite the philosopher,” said Lady Cowper. “I advise you to send her to Herr Liebniz to study, Your Highness. Who knows what heights she could reach?”
“Who knows?” replied the princess thoughtfully as our carriage rattled down the lane. “Who knows indeed?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN WHICH A BRIEF ACQUAINTANCE IS EVEN MORE BRIEFLY RENEWED AND AN ORIGINAL IS DISCOVERED.
My own little missive, when I was finally able to pull it gingerly from my soaking sleeve, was only moderately less distressing than that handed to Her Royal Highness. The running ink read I will find us a place.
At least I think it did. Despite my best efforts, it tore in two between my cold fingers.
The rain had begun before we were a half hour out the gate, and it proved to be a heavy, soaking downpour that left us with our dresses clinging to our skin, as Mary had predicted, and our noses swollen and streaming, as I had predicted. For once I was grateful for Mrs. Abbott’s brusque efficiency as she stripped me down to my skin, wrestled me into dry clothing and a warm wrapper, and stuffed me into the armchair in front of the fire with my feet in a mustard bath. The result of this was that my nose and eyes dried up in time for the evening’s gathering, although I felt my feet, having been so thoroughly stewed in hot mustard, were now good for nothing but to be served up with a boat of gravy and furnishings of boiled greens.
While I steamed, however, I could not but wonder about the letter the princess had received. Perhaps when Robert found a place for a tête-à-tête, I could question him more closely about who gave it to him and where it came from. I could then make sure that information got to Lady Cowper or Lady Montague—quietly, of course. The idea pleased me and did much to alleviate my overstewed feelings.
But either Robert was not in as much of a hurry to see his lady again as might be thought, or the weather thwarted him. It certainly thwarted the rest of us. The rain continued through that night and into the next morning. We played so many hands of cards that my letters to Mr. Peele about the games and the players filled multiple sheets, and I act
ually began to wish he would write me back, just once, so I would have something new to read.
The princess was unable to indulge in her habit of an early walk on these dreary mornings, and the conversation in her salon grew listless. The gentlemen in attendance that day were of the political breed, and although I tried to follow their reasoning regarding the virtue of reforming the banking system to more fully acquire for the Crown the benefits and profits to be brought in by easier investment in the ships of the merchant navy, I was in grave danger of fidgeting. Even Molly Lepell, that paragon of maids, had shifted her weight from foot to foot twice in the last half hour, causing the Howe to roll her eyes, ever so delicately, which in turn caused Mary to snort, and the princess to frown, although Mary, being Mary, immediately put on an elaborate show of insouciance.
The princess turned to her guests. “My Lord Owens, my Lord Dalton, I don’t believe you have yet had a chance to view the Great Work.”
Lord Owens, a tall, austere gentleman in an impeccable green coat, looked taken aback, as if he could not understand why anyone would introduce a new topic when he had barely begun to warm to his financial theme. He and my uncle Pierpont would have gotten on extremely well. Lord Dalton, however, looked relieved.
“And how does Mr. Thornhill, madame?” Lord Dalton was the older of the two, dressed in blue and black. His face was as wrinkled as last year’s apple, but he possessed a surprisingly cheerful eye for a banker.
“You shall ask him directly.” The princess got to her feet, which required the gentlemen to do the same and bow as she passed. They fell into step behind her, and we maids formed ourselves into a train behind them.
“Well, well,” murmured Sophy. “This should be most amusing.”
“Oh, why?” fussed Mary. “We’ve seen the wretched ceiling a hundred times.”
“You’d know if you paid any attention at all.”
I looked to Molly, who tipped me a sly nod. Everybody knew what was so interesting, except me—a phenomenon I was growing both used to and increasingly tired of.
But I knew what they were on about as soon as we walked into the new rooms. This grand apartment was constructed on noble lines. Despite that, it appeared more closely related to a lumber room than a royal chamber. There were no curtains on the windows, and the watery daylight filled the room. There were also dozens of candles lit, and the air was heavy with the scents of fresh paint, plaster, and strong oil. The reason for this was clearly the partially completed mural decorating the high ceiling. It appeared to be another arrangement of ancient gods and modern cherubs. Doubtlessly, it was some new and significant allegory to join the others that graced the walls and ceilings of the palace. But I scarcely noticed the painting. The first thing I saw among the drapings of canvas drop cloth and the forest of scaffolding was Matthew Reade. He was bowing too deeply to the princess for me to see his face, but I knew him by the dark copper of his hair and also by his form and motion, even though it had been weeks since I last glimpsed him. This was not a realization that made for calm reflection.
“Mr. Thornhill,” said Her Royal Highness brightly as she gestured for the lean man in front of her to straighten up. “A tour of your great works, if you would be so kind. My guests were pining to see what progress you make.”
“I am most honored, as always, Your Highness, and I think you will be pleased with what we have accomplished.” Mr. Thornhill was a pleasant-looking man of middling height, with an oval face and a long nose. His hands were bare, and the skin was strangely mottled-looking, stained, I supposed, by the colors of his work. He dressed in plain breeches and a plain smock but carried himself with an air of consequence.
He also turned to me and flashed a broad courtier’s smile. “And you have brought me Lady Francesca! How delightful to see you again, my lady.”
By this time, I had some experience with greeting people who knew me far better than I knew them, and I made a shallow but polite curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Thornhill. I trust you are well?”
“Very well, thank you. But I will have words with you later, my lady. I understand you have been ill, but you have not my leave to permanently neglect your studies.” He turned to the princess. “Your maid, madame, has a wonderfully deft hand at sketching. And a quick eye. It is a shame she is not a boy. I would have taken her on to ’prentice immediately. I’m sure she’d profit from the office more than some . . .” His voice trailed away, and I could not help but notice his gaze trailed away too, until it was pointed straight at Matthew Reade. Mr. Reade was not looking at his master. He was instead hunched over a crowded worktable, laboring busily with mortar and pestle. I had the distinct feeling he’d been through similar scenes before, and I wondered what he had done to earn so much disdain from Mr. Thornhill.
“Well, Lady Francesca,” said Her Royal Highness, bringing my attention back where it belonged, “you did not tell me this was what you were doing with your free days.”
“Oh, I did not want to bore Your Highness with a recitation of my little hobbies.” Modesty, I had found, made for an excellent distraction, and was almost always an acceptable excuse for neglecting to mention some point later found significant.
“Nonsense.” Her Highness spoke lightly, but I felt the regard of her clever eyes like a fingertip laid against my arm. “I wish more of my ladies would decide to spend their time engaged in such improving activities.”
Why do our mistresses say such things? Now all the maids were looking at me; Molly thoughtfully, Mary mockingly, and Sophy Howe as if she heartily wished I were the one being ground to powder by Mr. Reade.
“Now, Mr. Thornhill,” the princess went on briskly, “let us hear your report.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Tobias, Ezikial, bring the plans here.”
The two young men bustled forward, laying out great sheets of paper for the princess and her guests. Everyone clustered around to hear Mr. Thornhill expound on the composition of his ceiling decoration, drawing our attention now to the plan, and now to the partially completed painting over our heads. He sent Tobias and Ezikial scurrying about the room, fetching other sketches and plans to further explain what he had done in regard to other ceilings, and how that decoration compared to this. Not once did he call on Matthew to perform any function.
All the party obligingly clustered at the center of the room and looked up or down as directed. I will freely acknowledge it was a splendidly rendered scene. The illusion of sunlight and open sky created to surround the old gods was indeed impressive. Yet my eyes kept straying to Matthew Reade. His table was apart from the bustle and clutter. It was covered with wooden boxes and jars of glass and clay. For a long moment, he seemed aware of nothing but his hands and their work. But then he raised his eyes, just a bit, to see me looking at him. One corner of his mouth turned up, and I saw he knew me, as I knew him.
“And here, of course, we have the figure of Leucothoe attempting to restrain Apollo from entering his chariot, and . . .”
As everyone again lifted their eyes to the sun god facing the defiant woman, I slowly faded backwards toward Mr. Reade’s table, keeping my eyes dutifully pointed upward. It was against all protocol to turn one’s back on royalty, so walking backwards without tripping over my hems was something I’d been able to practice with great regularity of late. I prided myself that I was getting rather good at it.
“You have not encountered any more demons, I hope, Mr. Reade?” I asked, keeping my back to him and my gaze toward the ceiling.
“I have done my best to avoid them, Lady Francesca. I trust you have not been troubled?”
“Knowing you are on watch, how could I possibly be?” I risked a glance back and saw that a small smile had appeared on Mr. Reade’s face.
“So this is your occupation?” I gestured at the table.
“As you see.” The smile vanished, replaced by a much more bitter expression. In addition to the mortar, there were delicate trowels and knives, brushes and palettes arranged neatly around him. There w
ere also scoops and scales and vials of viscous liquid enough for any alchemist to begin work at once on his philosopher’s stone. “Mr. Thornhill regards it as fit work for the son of a London apothecary. Sometimes I am permitted to trace a fresh line on a plan or tie a new brush.”
“You have my sympathies.”
“And this is your occupation?” He cocked his head toward the maids and lords. Mr. Thornhill was leading his guests about in a small circle, describing the various shades of blue and the allegorical significance of the robed figures. Something about the ceiling bothered me, but I could not say what.
“Today we are permitted motion. It is a wonder and a delight.”
“You have my sympathies.” He grimaced and looked down at the bright yellow compound he had been grinding. “I’m sorry. This is done. If I work it any more, the consistency will be wrong and then . . .” He glanced significantly at Mr. Thornhill, who was tracing sweeping arcs with his arm to illustrate some progression among the images. I contemplated them, aware that Matthew Reade was contemplating me.
“Lady Fra—”
Why my mind chose this exact moment to realize I’d been a blind imbecile, I will never know. But it did, and I was, because I knew these figures and this mural. I clapped my hand over my mouth to muffle an undignified squeak.
I owned a copy of this work, drawn in pencil on a page that I had stared at as often as I could contrive to do so. It had taken me so long to recognize this because the penciled copies, it seemed, were not exact. In fact, they were quite poor. Francesca’s rendering of the portraits of the Prince and Princess of Wales in their medallions, for instance, was nothing like what I now saw overhead. Her sad and desperate version of the figure of the winged Leucothoe attempting to pull Apollo back from his chariot was quite different from Mr. Thornhill’s decorously determined lady. In fact, the only figures she seemed to have taken a good likeness of were the cherubs.