by Sarah Zettel
“Just so, Your Highness,” my cousin agreed. “With permission, I will come for her tomorrow and bring her traveling basket and blanket.”
“I’ll give orders that you’re to be admitted.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Olivia, showing only slight regret, set Guinevere down to make her curtsy.
“And now we must be going, Your Highness.” The false sociable gaiety in the Portland’s voice barely concealed the warning note.
The princess rolled her eyes and shook her curls. “ArthurLancelotGawainTristanGarethGuinevere, come along.” Princess Anne was especially generous in the matter of sharing cakes and cream and such treats. As a result the entire flock yipped at the sound of their names and followed in a tight knot when she trotted out of the room. We all made our respective bows again.
“I’m sorry,” I said to my uncle as I straightened up to meet his poisoned glower. “I told Her Highness I would be busy this evening, but you know how it is with little girls, even princesses.” I shrugged.
“Spare me your prattle,” he snapped. “You have demonstrated your native cunning and your pride in it. Very well. Olivia will visit. But nothing else has changed, Margaret Fitzroy.”
He cast a glance back at Olivia and his wife. This time, Olivia made a great show of modesty, with folded hands and lowered eyes, and followed her father as he stalked out the door Norris held open.
It was my aunt who paused and hissed in my ear, “Peggy, you must stop this game. If he gets truly angry, it will not go well for anyone.”
I pulled back, startled. But Aunt Pierpont had already turned away to follow husband and daughter.
Norris closed the door behind them all. I stared at the ruins of my dinner and pressed my hand against my stays, suddenly very afraid.
Why would my uncle insist on this marriage? What was it all for? If Uncle did not think I was any good to him when I had the ear of the Princess of Wales, what on earth did he think he would gain if I was married to the second son of a baron from some obscure county in the southeast?
If only . . . I drew up short and had to clap my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. For I had been about to think, If only there were some way I could find out.
“You seem to be forgetting, Peggy Fitzroy,” I murmured. “You not only know people in high places, you have royal permission to spy on them all.”
SIX
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE BOLDLY ATTEMPTS, JUST ONCE, TO BEGIN A NORMAL SORT OF DAY.
That night, Robert Ballantyne returned. It was only in my dreams, of course. At least, I prayed that it was only a dream.
As ever, I heard his approach long before I saw him. The hard heels of his boots clacked against the floorboards, circling my bed and circling it again. When my eyes finally pried themselves open, he stood at the bed’s foot, washed in the cold corpse light that always accompanied him. Old blood spread over his shirt and waistcoat, and his head lolled against his shoulder at an unnatural angle that he seemed unable to rectify. In life, Robert had been a handsome young man. Now his shade’s lean face was a mottled gray, and his hollow, colorless eyes were sad and staring. His sword dripped black blood as he leveled the blade at me.
I could not move. I could not make a sound. He spoke, but I could not hear. I screamed silently, crying for help, unable to move, unable to even look away.
I woke to unbroken darkness and a throat burning from the force of my screams. It took a long moment for the thunderous beating of my heart to slow. It took a longer moment to understand that I was pressed back on the bolsters. Apparently, in my sleep I’d tried to climb the headboard to escape. I eased myself down, but gingerly, as if I thought the ghost might suddenly return to visit my waking self. May Heaven help me, but that was closer to the truth than I would have wished.
Gradually, I became aware of the night noises of the palace—the creaking of wood, the faint sound of the wind beyond the walls, a patter of entirely earthly footsteps. There were no boot heels, no corpse lights. I laid myself down, as stiff and uneasy as an old dame with rheumatism, and for a long time blinked uselessly at the dark, fighting to stifle my sobs. When my groping hand finally brushed Flossie’s ruffled skirts, I curled around my doll like a child and squeezed my eyes shut in a desperate attempt not to see my nightmare return.
No matter how late my nights might be, all mornings were early ones when I was in waiting. Libby was under strict instruction to pull the curtains back, or—in the case of my windowless rooms at St. James’s—light the candles, at six of the clock. This was to be done rain or shine, desperate pleading and bribery attempts notwithstanding.
That Friday morning was no different. Once Libby had driven me from my bed, a breakfast in the form of chocolate and a roll was consumed, usually at my writing desk. An increased correspondence was but one of the many changes that had taken hold in my life since becoming a maid of honor. Uncle Pierpont might have forbidden me to write Olivia, but I had other friends whose families were not nearly so fastidious, to say nothing of the new acquaintances I had made since my arrival. These were in addition to the letters from my patron, Mr. Tinderflint.
Mr. Tinderflint was not that gentleman’s given name. That was Hugh Thurlow Flintcross Gainsford, Earl Tierney. The Earls Tierney were among the oldest peers in England. If my particular earl was to be believed, they had also been intimately involved in a number of the more, shall we say, abrupt changes regarding which elevated individual’s posterior had the right to seat itself upon the throne of England. After the exploits of the summer, I was quite prepared to believe this.
Those exploits, and the Jacobite conspirators they had helped unmask, led not just to my joining the court, but to Mr. Tinderflint’s hastily arranged exit from the country. The Prince of Wales had decided it might be prudent if he was away until the worst of the furor died down. Fortunately, an excellent and timely excuse to send Mr. Tinderflint to Paris had arisen.
His Most Christian Majesty, Louis XIV, the Sun King, had finally died.
As almost no one living had ever known any other king of France, the whole of Europe had spent much of the past year in something of a dither. The nature and extent of that dither was among the things Mr. Tinderflint was meant to clarify for the Prince of Wales. But most importantly and urgently, he was to try to discover whether the new regent of France, Philippe, duc d’Orléans, really meant to honor the late king’s promise to give aid and comfort to James Edward Stuart.
James E. Stuart was the only legitimate son of James Stuart Sr. (I have never understood this rationing of names among royalty. One would think they’d want to be told apart). J. Stuart Sr., in his turn, had once been King James II and VI of England and Scotland. This was, of course, some years ago, before James Sr. so angered the nobles of our fair isle that they sent him a letter informing him that if he did not surrender the throne to his daughter Mary, her husband, William, and William’s army of Dutchmen, they would cut off his head. Those nobles thought this would be a permanent change of power. James Sr. apparently considered it a temporary inconvenience and spent the rest of his life, and a number of other people’s lives, trying to reverse his circumstances. Thus the Jacobites were born.
Now, like King Louis, J. Stuart Sr. was dead as any doornail. But rather than a crown, he had bequeathed to his son a court in exile, a crowd of dissatisfied nobles, rebellious Scots, restless Irishmen, and a burning desire to kick all scions of Hanover off of English soil and restore the British Crown to the storied House of Stuart—meaning himself.
Discerning the extent of the Jacobite support in France was an important assignment. Of course, our king had his ambassadors and ministers working on this very project. There was not, however, any guarantee that those ministers would acquaint the Prince of Wales with the relevant facts, or even tell him the truth. Royals might share names between father and son, but it seemed they did not necessarily share goals. So it was that while King George was away, our prince and princess were creating their own court not simply
for entertainment, but also to control politics and power.
Mr. Tinderflint’s assignment was a sign that the prince placed a great deal of trust in him. I tried very hard to stop wishing this mark of faith had fallen on somebody else. Which was nothing short of ridiculous. I did not entirely trust Mr. Tinderflint. I had seen firsthand that he was ruthless. I knew for a fact that he was an accomplished liar. But he liked me, and against my better judgment, I liked him.
So it was with a sense of dread and anticipation that I broke the plain seal on his latest letter and unfolded it to decipher as I sipped my chocolate. Mr. Tinderflint wrote his letters in a series of alternating languages, under the guise of giving me lessons. In truth, this was meant to flummox any unauthorized pair of eyes that might catch a glimpse of our correspondence.
My Dear (he wrote, in Latin),
I hope that these few poor lines find you well. The weather keeps me stranded at my inn at Dover, but the captain informs me he expects it will clear tomorrow, so that we may at last be off across the channel. I did receive your letter. Alas, while very pleasant and diverting, it chiefly served to remind me how much I already miss your conversation!
Do not be charmed, I instructed myself. Do not be flattered.
The inn is snug and the food is good, but it is very dull and I’m more hungry for news than for the admittedly excellent fish stew my landlady sets in front of me . . .
I snorted. Mr. Tinderflint was as close to a perfect sphere as it was possible for one human being to become, so the delights of the table were of no small moment to him.
I am, of course, particularly anxious to hear how our Jane is doing. You said nothing about her in your previous letter. Before I left, it was being bruited about that she might find herself noticed by some persons of importance. I trust you will exercise your good sense and guide our young friend away from the most reckless of such beaus. I am thinking particularly of Mr. W, but also Mr. T.
“I am delighted you think so much of my powers of perception, sir,” I muttered. “But you could give me more than one letter to work with.”
Jane was, of course, myself. Among his other complex rules of correspondence, Mr. Tinderflint forbade me to set down anyone’s real name.
For the next paragraph, Mr. Tinderflint switched to being enigmatic in Greek, which he seemed to write with even more flourishes than he did his Latin, let alone his English.
Any letter addressed to M. Gainsford, the Sign of the Little Pig in the street of St. Denis, will find its way to me. Write soon, so I may know you translated this passage properly, and tell me Jane’s news.
Remember, my dear, that I remain, as ever,
Yr. Srvt.,
Mr. T
I dropped the letter into my skirt and rubbed my eyes. He wanted all Jane’s news. What on earth had Jane to tell him? I’d been too wrapped up in my own affairs to go tiptoeing about looking for Jacobites. Should I tell him about Sebastian’s reappearance? Mr. Tinderflint surely knew of my betrothal. It was the sort of thing he kept himself informed of. Perhaps he even knew something of my uncle’s business, or better yet, of Sebastian’s father, Lord Lynnfield. He might even be able to give me some hint as to why Sir Oliver and Lord Lynnfield between them insisted on this marriage.
I grabbed up a fresh sheet of paper and prepared to muster every Latin verb I possessed.
“Ahem,” announced Libby from her post at the closet door.
“Yes, yes, coming,” I said, dipping my quill into the ink pot.
“You’re not. You’re starting another letter, which will make you late for the princess, and then you’ll blame me for it.”
“Nonsense, Libby,” I said as I began to write. “I’d never think of blaming you.”
Dear Mr. T (I wrote),
I am glad you are safe arrived at Dover and that the fish stew is to your liking. I hope the salt air does not spoil your blue silk, as you feared it might . . .
In addition to his love of good foods, Mr. Tinderflint had an extraordinary love of fine and elaborate clothing. The collision of these two obsessions had the unfortunate result that in person Mr. Tinderflint looked like nothing so much as a living confection of spun sugar and marzipan.
I regret to say I do not have much news from here to relate. All continue in good health. Guinevere is breeding and will soon be delivered of her children.
Given all my personal worries and the mental shadows remaining from my night visitor, composing this letter was something of a relief. Concentrating on my declensions and on turning accurate phrases to describe the previous night’s disastrous dinner party left little space in my thoughts for worry.
Then I bit my lip and slowly, with gritted teeth and clumsy hand, switched over to Greek.
Jane is still in town, and very well. She was asking rather anxiously after Baron L. You know she is acquainted with his younger son, through Sir OP. Of late, however, their business matters seem to have come to a head, and Jane finds herself very confused as to why this matter remains both unsettled and sitting on her doorstep. I told her as you were surely well acquainted with both gentlemen, you would be able to shed some light on the situation.
I underlined the surely for emphasis. Was it too obscure? Perhaps I should add a postscript for clarity. But then I thought about the postmaster possibly scanning my lines for any indication of treason and plot, and hesitated again.
There was one other matter of importance to bring up. For this, I switched to German, just to show him I could.
Jane also asks after that jewel you said you might find for her. While I know you will be busy with your Paris friends, I trust you will write soon with any information you have on that score.
Yr. Devoted,
Miss Mostly
That “jewel” was, of course, not a jewel any more than I was a girl named Jane. The jewel was no less a person than my long-absent father, Jonathan Fitzroy.
My father had vanished when I was still a small child. As I grew, I assumed this to be a simple, sordid case of desertion such as men of weak moral underpinnings committed every day. Of course, I remained a pious and dutiful daughter and did not harbor any bitterness toward the man who had never once written or given me any other sign as to whether he still lived. Perhaps in my tender years, I had attempted to blot out the kind memories I held of a smiling father who carried me on his shoulders, let me play with his signet ring, and called me Pretty Peggy-O. However, as a grown woman, I understood such heartfelt resentment was unfilial and unwarranted, especially as I now knew both my parents had been confidential agents to our previous monarch, Queen Anne.
Still, it must be deemed acceptable at all levels of society for a dutiful daughter to provide a delicate reminder of the commonly understood responsibilities belonging to a father. She might also ask a few discreet questions regarding the confluence of events occasioning such a long absence without a word, even after his wife had died alone in her bed.
But before I could impart any such calm and entirely rational communication, someone had to find Jonathan Fitzroy. Mr. Tinderflint had agreed to undertake this task. It was not entirely his idea, and he did not like it, but he owed me a debt. I could, and I would, exact my payment.
“Ahem! Miss,” said Libby.
“I said I was coming.”
“And is there any indication of the hour when this happy event is likely to occur?” she inquired.
“Yes, yes.” I sanded and folded my letter. “Now . . . no, wait.”
That Libby rather too visibly bit back a scream was entirely forgivable.
“Those two who waited on table . . . Norris and Cavey. Do you know them?”
“Why? Nothing’s missing.”
I tucked this statement away in my mental journal for examination later. “I may need someone who can run errands for me, some of which may be long and complex. That person needs to be one I can trust. And yes, since I know it will be asked, I would pay for time and trouble.” Between the possibility of arranging clandestin
e meetings with Sebastian Sandford and the unwelcome reminder from my patron that I had concerns beyond the personal, I was going to need help.
The most extraordinary change came over my maid. A moment ago, Libby had barely been able to spare the patience to listen to me; now she seemed to positively glow with the light of eager expectation. “Norris, I’d say, miss. Cavey, he’s . . . more particular. I’m sure you understand.”
I did. She meant Cavey was more interested in keeping his post than in taking risks to feather his nest. This made him more intelligent, but less useful.
“Libby, we need to make sure no one knows about this. If word gets about . . . it will all be no good. Do you understand?”
At this, I saw again that hard intelligence in my maid’s eyes, and a respect that was grudging and uncertain. At last, she curtsied. “Leave it to me, miss. I’ll see it done.” Suiting deeds to words, my maid left me there, presumably to go inform Norris of his new status as assistant to Miss Margaret Fitzroy, spy of honor. We might be late, but what was that now that there were tips to be made?
I fell back into the chair at my desk. I took the key from the chain around my neck, unlocked the drawer, pulled out my purse, and counted my much diminished stack of coins. It was still another week until the Quarter Day. At that point, I could expect fifty pounds of my salary. Before then, however, I had to pay Libby, and now this Norris, enough to keep them quiet and going about my business. What’s more, bills from the provisioners of my family’s dinner waited among the letters on my desk. Notices had also come from mantua makers, glove makers, milliners, and jewelers. Then there was my upcoming release from waiting to be thought on. Her Royal Highness had so far said nothing about my staying at court all the year round. If this did not change, when the royal family moved back to Hampton Court for the summer, I would be fully expected to quit the palace, or at least stop depending on the royal household for my maintenance.