by Sarah Zettel
I became conscious of a slow, terrible sinking sensation within. I had pored over those sketches. I had spent hours wondering what great and wonderful clue they might hold to the mystery of my predecessor’s life. Was it possible they were simply a shy artist’s attempt to hide sloppy work?
“What’s the matter?” murmured Mr. Reade. “Don’t tell me you’ve found an incorrect proportion with your quick eye?”
He was trying to raise a tart response, but it was all I could do to remember where I was just then. “No, not here. It’s just . . . another drawing.”
“Another drawing? Of this work? For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell Thornhill. He doesn’t let anyone copy his paintings before their debut.”
“No. No. Not this one.” Several inelegant and descriptive curses rang through my head. All the trouble I had taken to keep those sketches safe, all the time I had wasted attempting to fathom their secret meanings, and here it seemed they meant nothing, except that the other Lady Fran was not so accomplished an artist as she first appeared.
I could tell from his tone that Mr. Thornhill was reaching the end of his lecture. I glanced at Mr. Reade in sympathy and guilty apology and moved closer to the royal party. Molly noted my return with a quizzical and somewhat worried look. Mary gave me that particular cheerful sideways glance of hers that always meant “Caught you.”
I shrugged at them both, but what pleasure I’d felt in seeing Matthew Reade again was now entirely gone. Because not only did it appear that I had been an overly dramatic ninny regarding Francesca’s sketches, I had made an error in deportment in sidling away from the flock to speak with a mere apprentice. I told myself it was nothing serious. We were all supposed to be flirts. It hardly mattered that one or another might be seen talking with any man. If Molly or, more likely, Mary, mentioned it, there would be gossip and a few jokes tossed about the card table, along with professions of jealousy by the gentlemen who wanted their feelings soothed, and that would be that.
At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself of. I might even have succeeded, had Sophy Howe’s sparkling eyes not also been fixed upon me. She lifted her fan to her temple and tipped me a sly salute.
My room was empty when I returned to change for the evening’s gathering, but a silver tray with a sealed letter waited on the table. When I picked it up, there proved to be another missive underneath, with only the letter F written on its face.
I broke open the forest green sealing wax on the first letter and found that it had been written in a tiny, tidy hand, and entirely in Latin.
My dear,
I can only hope you will forgive my most inconsiderate absence. Business has kept me away from court, but I assure you I will return the instant I am able. I urge you to be mindful of your part and behave just as you should. I know you will heed your guardian and give him no cause for concern. If any little thing arises, you may write to me care of Lloyd’s Coffee House on Tower Street.
Yours, etc.,
Mr. T
And that was all.
While I was relieved he’d thought enough of my situation to give me some way to reach him, I missed any sign of friendship. I should not have been left disappointed by this. We were, after all, only partners in a most peculiar crime at best. At worst, he was another danger to me and my hopes for a future, and I should be glad he was keeping well away.
But I also could not help noting that I was to write him care of a coffee house, not the house where I’d been hidden during my ladyship lessons. I thought about the austere and very much absent Mr. Peele, with his delicate hands that belonged to someone so adept at cheating at cards. I thought how Mr. Tinderflint quailed before his anger. I thought about how many lies Mr. Tinderflint had told me, and Mr. Peele’s interest in the people I met during the games at court evenings. Was it possible Mr. Tinderflint didn’t want Mr. Peele to know it when I did communicate with him?
I glanced at the door and tucked Mr. Tinderflint’s letter beneath the sofa cushion. If I had time, I’d hide it in my workbasket. Trepidation fluttered through me as I picked up the second note. This one was much shorter and told me in its few words that my interlude of relative calm was at an end.
The Wilderness. NE corner. Tomorrow. Noon.
R.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE ATTEMPTS THE TAMING OF A DRAGON.
In all dramas featuring heroines of a romantic nature, there is one constant character: the trusty lady’s maid. She may prove false or true, but she is always present at her mistress’s side, fully involved in whatever travails the playwright has seen fit to lay upon her. It was only during my time as maid of honor that I came to I understand why this was.
As a lady, I could not do for myself what the youngest farm hand could: I could not get dressed.
The keen observer of fashion will note that the laces that are so very necessary to securing a lady’s garments all tie at the back. As a result, we frail flowers of gentle English womanhood are rendered helpless by our own clothing. We become dependent entirely on the goodwill of others to escape the necessity of parading about in our night things.
But my assistant was of more dubious character and temperament than any maid in any drama. If I rang for the Abbott, she would want to know where I was going and why, and I remained at a loss as to what to tell her. Surely not the truth. All I knew for certain about Mrs. Abbott was that she remained devoted to her lost and secret daughter. She had assigned herself the part of avenging angel in our particular drama, but exactly what she was avenging and how she intended to carry out her role were still a mystery to me.
As I meditated irritably on this, it occurred to me that I might not need the answer to this mystery yet. I might, in fact, have what I needed to persuade Mrs. Abbott to play along with my plans. I kicked my way out from under the quilts and rang the bell.
Mrs. Abbott entered my rooms under full sail, the glare in her dark gaze lit and well stoked. But I was ready for this. I kept my back straight, my chin up, and my visage calm as I faced her grand displeasure. That my heart was attempting to beat its way out from under my ribs was my own affair.
“I need to get dressed, Mrs. Abbott, if you would be so kind.”
“It is too early,” she snapped back. “You will be remarked on.”
“I intend to walk in the gardens. If anyone remarks, I will say that I am following the example of Her Royal Highness as to the importance of fresh air and exercise.”
“They will think you are currying favor.”
It was with great self-control that I refrained from rolling my eyes. “And in what way will this be out of character for a courtier? A light morning dress, if you please, and my half boots.” With luck, she would not feel the immediate need to send for an undermaid to assist with this task.
Mrs. Abbott clearly did not like any of this, but for now, at least, she failed to find new objections. Instead, she indicated with a curt gesture that I should precede her into the dressing room. I stood beside the table with its oval mirror while she opened the various drawers and boxes. She was not looking at me, and so did not see me take a deep breath and attempt to gather my courage.
“Mrs. Abbott. Have you learned anything new about the footman Robert and Lady Francesca?” Possibly while you were making up a hand cream for Sophy Howe? But this last I kept to myself.
She did not even bother to straighten up. “That is nothing you need to know.”
“I’m afraid it is. Robert has asked me to meet him in the Wilderness.”
“This is why you call me?” The heat of the glare she now turned on me had increased to the point where I was in danger of becoming a charred cinder, rather than simply well-toasted. “You want me to help you to an assignation with that man?”
“I want you to tell me what you’ve found out about him and how things stood with him and Lady Francesca, so I do not give myself away.”
“You do not need to know,” she repeated as she held open the closet door, cle
arly indicating that she expected me to exit now. “You will not meet him. That will end the difficulty.”
This was no less than I had expected. I stood up as tall as I could in my bare feet and nightgown. “Mrs. Abbott, if we are to continue here, I must play the whole part. Robert can expose us as well as anyone with a title. Maybe even better, because no one will know where the gossip comes from if a servant starts to spread it. I know this is painful for you—”
I faltered. Her steady and powerful gaze did not in any way mask her hard mind full of calculations, anger, and grief. It also showed how she disdained any display of pity from such a creature as me.
“I understand that I am not Francesca, and I never will be, and you have every reason to be bitter about my assuming her name and station. But Francesca was keeping secrets, Mrs. Abbott, and you and I both need to know what they were. Yes, I have my own reasons for what I do. Believe it to be the money, if you will. We can help each other in this, and I am ready to pledge that help to you. Which is, I think, more than Messrs. Tinderflint and Peele have done.”
That last was a shot in the dark, brought on by Mr. Tinderflint’s sudden departure from court and the belated letter that contained so little explanation. I held my breath and prayed to the departed soul of my own mother, wherever she might be, for steadiness and luck.
Slowly, Mrs. Abbott closed the door to the outer chamber. Her gaze slid over me without pause as she turned back to the business of my clothing. Our only light now was the candle, protected by its glass chimney and reflected in the mirror. Mrs. Abbott considered possibilities with regard to petticoats and brought out my yellow morning dress to inspect the folds and lace ruffles for damage before pronouncing it fit to wear.
As she worked, Mrs. Abbott began to speak. Against her habit of keeping to English with me, she fell into French. Her words were smooth, but there was a lilt and an edge to them, an accent I did not recognize.
“She came home suddenly. She had not written—she just appeared at the door in a hired coach. She was already not well. She did not sleep. She did not eat. It should have been no wonder she fell into fever. But she was not despairing. No. She was all but giddy with some excitement. I begged her to confide in me, but she would not say what nourished such feeling. That was why I agreed to this mad scheme when Monsieur—Mr. Tinderflint—proposed it. So I could come here and find out who had driven her to her illness, and to be certain they would pay for what they did.”
Giddy. I rolled the word about in my mind several times, trying to grow accustomed to the feel of it. It was not what I had expected to hear. Frightened, possibly. Depressed, or even despairing, most definitely. But giddy? That spoke to happiness and the expectation of good fortune, not the sort of trouble that would drive a maid from court.
“When was this?” I asked. “When did she come home?”
“She came home for the Christmastide. She had before this told me she would be spending the season with the court, but then”—Mrs. Abbott shrugged—“she did not. And no, before you ask, she did not say why she changed her mind on this point either. I questioned her about it and received no answer.”
There was a deep sorrow under those words, and a very old one. I thought of how vehemently Mrs. Abbott had defended her daughter’s character and actions, and the myriad secrets she was uncovering. I wondered at the heart within her, and how many more secrets it would be able to bear before it broke.
“Why were you not here with her?” I asked.
Mrs. Abbott bit her lip, and for a moment, I thought she would cry. “I had a commission from Mr. Tinderflint,” she croaked at last. “Letters that needed to be carried. It took longer than expected. When I at last returned, I myself was ill with fatigue for a time and then . . . and then . . .” She did not go any further, and I did not ask her to. Indeed, I determined now would be a good time to change the subject.
“How did you meet Mr. Tinderflint?”
“Tinderflint.” Mrs. Abbott smirked as she laid the petticoat she’d selected over the back of the chair and gestured that I should assume the position to be dressed. “The man has more masks than a whole troupe of Italian players.” She loosened the ribbons on my nightgown and pulled it off over my head. “When I met him, his name was Taggart. He had come to the Court of Saint-Germaine. You know of what I speak?”
Of course I knew. Saint-Germaine was the palace that King Louis of France had deeded over to James the Pretender. Saint-Germaine was the inmost heart of a recurring series of plots to dethrone the Hanoverians and return the Crown of England to the Stuarts. This last winter, they had come closer than usual to succeeding. In addition to the fighting in the North, there had been Jacobite riots in the streets of London. Aunt Pierpont had locked Olivia and me into our bedrooms and had the male servants stand guard with staves and carving knives. Uncle Pierpont had been away from home at the time, and when he returned, he was not at all pleased with his wife’s dramatics.
“Five years ago, Tinderflint had come to Saint-Germaine to speak with some English exiles,” Mrs. Abbott was saying as she tightened the laces on my stays and held out the petticoat for me to step into. “And Francesca and I . . .” She shrugged in that so-eloquent French fashion. “I was able to do some favors for him, to make sure some letters reached certain parties and others did not. It was the beginning of our . . . association. In payment, he promised to bring Francesca and myself to London, to furnish her with education. He had turned her head with his stories, I think. After we met Tinderflint, she begged me to let her go to England. If it would help her become the lady I knew that she could be, I was ready to make the attempt.” Mrs. Abbott smiled wanly. “Blood will out, you understand, and my Francesca had the blood, but also the quickness and the beauty. All she lacked was a chance.”
A chance, and a father who would acknowledge her, I suspected. But given my own uncertainties in that regard, I was not going to cast aspersions.
“Let me help, Mrs. Abbott,” I said. “Let me find out what part Robert played in what happened to Francesca.”
“Why would you care?” she demanded.
“Because I know what it is to be alone and to have no choices.” The words came to me slowly, so weighted down with truth were they. “Because I’d be sorry to help anyone who hurt such a girl.”
I could not reveal my whole reason, but this was the foundation of all. It was not, however, anything like enough to please Mrs. Abbott. Her rigid stance and her grim expression told me as much. She was determined I should be nothing more than an adventuress without conscience, while her daughter, who had worn this same disguise, was a sweet and clever girl lacking only opportunity. Although how any girl of dubious birth raised among a court made up of the ambitious and disappointed of three different nations could remain as sweet as Lady Francesca was purported to be was surely one of nature’s great mysteries.
Still, Mrs. Abbott also wanted to know what had driven Francesca from the court, exhausted but giddy, and that was the desire that won.
“This footman Robert’s family name is Ballantyne. They have been in service to the kings of England for three generations.” She moved about me, knotting the laces of my overdress and straightening the bows at my elbows and waist. “Robert is the last son of the family. His father died waiting at the door of old Queen Anne, at the same moment she herself died, or so they say.” Mrs. Abbott shrugged again, indicating what she thought of the probable veracity of this detail. “Robert Ballantyne is not much liked among his fellows. They say he is ambitious, which is acceptable, but he thinks himself better than they, which is not. He is not the only servant who willingly consorts with the quality, but it is said he is not careful enough and that he will one day bring trouble to himself because of it.”
“Do you think that he was looking to Francesca as a way to fulfill his ambitions?”
“I think it is possible.” She pushed me into the dressing table chair with her customary roughness and set about brushing and pinning my hair. Alli
ance was evidently not reason enough to grow soft with me. “Men are known to do such things.”
“Did Francesca care for him?” I asked.
Mrs. Abbott knotted a hank of my hair in her fist. “He bragged that she did.”
After that, Mrs. Abbott’s mouth shut like the lid of a box. I let her have her silence. For now, it was the only favor I could return her for her pain and her honesty. At least she had helped allay one fear. Francesca had met her end at home. The story I had gotten from Messrs. Tinderflint and Peele about her fever matched what Mrs. Abbott now told me, and that was something. At least I hoped it was. This little conversation with Mrs. Abbott raised yet more questions, though. Why had Francesca so suddenly changed her mind about where to spend Christmastide? And what had made her so happy?
When Mrs. Abbott had finished with my hair and pinned my dainty cap in place, we faced each other. She still did not like me, and she probably never would. That was fair, as I would probably never like her. But we needed each other. I believed that as long as I was of use, she would help me, and in so far as I was doing her work, I could trust her.
It was not much, but it would do for now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHEREIN WE OBSERVE THE ALCHEMICAL FORMATION OF CERTAIN DANGEROUS ENTANGLEMENTS.
Among her many other pursuits, the Princess of Wales was much addicted to fresh air and vigorous exercise. On fine days, she rose early to walk through Hampton Court’s parks and gardens for two or three hours. This was done at a clip that left all of us poor maids and ladies breathless, except Lady Montague, who I had begun to believe could have outstripped the king’s best hunting horse if she had a mind to. It also meant that I was at least as well acquainted with the grounds surrounding the palace as I was with the galleries inside it.