by Sarah Zettel
I looked at my meager supply of coins. I looked at my journal, where I tried to keep notes as to my various outlays, and thought ruefully on all the times I had seen Uncle Pierpont working at his ledger. I had always wondered what kept him so chained to that book. Now I had begun to learn.
Perhaps I should add a postscript to my letter and ask Mr. Tinderflint for money. As soon as I thought this, pride rebelled. I had been a dependent before. It galled me to think that after scarcely three months on my own, I must become dependent again. But it was not simply pride, or, at least, not only pride. Mr. Tinderflint had come into my life suddenly. He might leave it just as suddenly. I needed to be able to rely on my own resources.
I scooped my coins back into my purse. I could write my patron at any time. There were other means of increasing my income to try first.
SEVEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE FINDS HERSELF ONCE MORE OUT IN THE COLD.
My royal mistress, Caroline, Princess of Wales, is an enlightened woman. She reads much, and argues more. Very little escapes her sharp eyes and clever brain. Included in her extensive studies are the most modern ideas regarding the health of the body. These ideas include, unfortunately, a near fanatical dedication to Fresh Air and Exercise.
Under normal circumstances, nothing short of fire or flood can keep Princess Caroline from walking two or three hours through whatever park might be nearest, or riding out with her husband, who regards time on horseback as one of the greatest felicities known to man.
The current circumstances, however, were not normal. The princess was less than a month from being delivered of her latest child. The physicians and His Royal Highness had all but cornered her and ordered that the daily walks cease for the good of the baby, who might otherwise be tempted to make its entry into this world prematurely. Princess Caroline agreed, reluctantly, but she drew the line absolutely at the kind of close confinement regarded as necessary for English ladies. “Apart from the fact that I will not tolerate being shut up in a dark, smoky room for a month, we shall have no nonsense of warming pans or illegitimacy here.”
As there were those who still doubted which side of the blanket the Prince of Wales had been born on, there was sense in this. Still, I was not the only one she made nervous. It was commonly understood that if a breeding woman took in too much fresh air, it might well expose the babe to harmful and noxious vapors. I am no student of medicine, but I can state that if there is one thing that abounds in London, it is noxious vapors.
However, Her Royal Highness had relented exactly as far as she intended. If she could not have exercise, she would, by hook or by crook, have fresh air. So a series of pavilions were daily erected in St. James’s singularly plain and symmetrical gardens so that the princess might read, or sew, or argue with the learned gentlemen she frequently invited to visit, all the while imbibing the dubious benefits of the London air.
Blessedly, our mistress regarded these pavilion mornings as casual affairs. Servants waited with pots of coffee, chocolate, and baskets of the French pastries she favored, lest the breeding princess grow faint. But even better was the fact that more than one chair was placed beneath the green canopies, and we waiting maids and ladies were allowed the luxury of sitting down.
I was the last of the maids of honor to arrive in the royal presence. The moment I walked into the pavilion, every eye turned toward me, or almost every eye. Molly Lepell, the person I most wanted to see, sat embroidering a handkerchief and studiously not looking about her. Mary Bellenden, on the other hand, actually smothered a giggle, and Sophy Howe showed her sharp smile. I knew at once I was about to receive the finest sallies of wit that the assembled ladies could muster.
Unfortunately, this appeared to include Her Royal Highness.
“Ah, here you are at last, Margaret,” she said, marking with one finger her place in the book she was looking over. Princess Caroline spoke entirely without rancor. When you possess royalty and wit, rancor is seldom required. Not to mention the fact that my mistress would have remained a commanding presence even without the help of her royal status. In appearance, she was a clear-complected, sturdy, and well-curved woman whose poise made her stand out even among the proud and sophisticated ladies who surrounded her. Her advanced state of pregnancy only enhanced these attributes. On this morning, she was clad in a pale green and white sacque gown, rather plainer than her usual style. The Mistress of Robes had been tearing her hair out for months trying to acquire suitable clothing for a woman who could not be tightly corseted and yet refused to hide the fact.
“Tell me, Margaret, do we blame your new maid for your dawdling this morning?”
I felt my cheeks heating. “No, Your Highness,” I murmured. “I’m afraid she should be blaming me. I was delayed over my correspondence.”
“Ah. Well, that is good.” For a moment, I dared hope that I would be let off lightly. Unfortunately, this hope was as false as the smile on Sophy Howe’s painted face. “In truth, we were beginning to wonder if you had left us in search of more exciting company.”
And thus were the floodgates opened. Unfortunately, Mary Bellenden was the first to leap through.
“Oh, our Peggy’s far too organized for that!” She laughed as she took up a dainty from the pastry table.
“What makes you say so, Mary?” inquired Sophy Howe before I could get my mouth open. Sophy was a tall, golden beauty. Among her other noteworthy accomplishments, she had elevated the art of the sly smile to an exact science. The one she turned on me now, for example, was a perfect witch’s brew of hollow cheer and sugared poison.
“Why, when she wants excitement, it’s brought to her, fresh and piping hot!” Mary doubled over in her laughter as far as corsets and stomacher allowed.
“And does she share?” inquired Sophy.
“Oh, no indeed, greedy thing.” Mary licked the crumbs off her finger. “She keeps her hot excitement all to herself.”
“Whereas everyone knows there’s plenty of Mary Bellenden to go around,” I shot back and immediately regretted it. Not only was the princess frowning at me, but Mary’s eyes glittered in a dangerously cheerful fashion. Careless she might be, but Mary was proud of her wit and never willingly let anyone else get the last word.
“And what, one wonders, is the flavor of this excitement?” said Sophy. “Is it highly spiced, one wonders?”
“Or exotic?” inquired Mrs. Titchbourne, with an arch look at her friend and companion, Mrs. Claybourne. “Perhaps imported from France?”
The Mistresses T-bourne & C-bourne were determinedly grand ladies who shared a set of fine apartments in whatever palace the court happened to be resident. The princess depended on them a great deal, and invitations to their parties were as sought after as those to any event hosted by the royal family. They did not quite know what to make of me yet. For my part, I respected them the way one should respect any creature with sharp teeth and the willingness to use them.
“France,” agreed Mrs. C-bourne. “Or Spain.”
“Do you imply Miss Fitzroy has Catholic tastes?” inquired Lady Cowper, with only the briefest glance up from the letter she perused. Part of me wanted to like Lady Cowper. She was possessed of a strong personality and lively wit. She, however, was not inclined to take part in my plan. I knew she had relatives among the Jacobite factions, some of whom had recently been tried and convicted for their treason. Sometimes I caught her looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and wondered just how much she knew about my recent adventures.
“Have you changed your favorites, Miss Fitzroy?” drawled Sophy with pretended surprise. “I believe you previously favored delicacies drawn from the Italian.”
“Not everyone has the appetite for such rich and varied dishes as you, Sophy.”
“Or such an eye for profitable business as you, Peggy,” she replied calmly.
“Miss Fitzroy is much involved in her own business these days,” muttered Molly Lepell without looking up from the handkerchief she was pretending to e
mbroider. I winced. I had hoped for a quiet moment alone with Molly, to apologize and explain. That now seemed at the least highly unlikely.
Mary Bellenden did not even give me time to frame a meek reply to Molly’s barb. “Perhaps I shall enter into business myself.” Mary tossed her head. “It does seem to bring one such tasty rewards.”
That earned me a fresh round of pursed mouths and wide-eyed looks. But Sophy was not to be deterred. “You sound as if you know something about it.”
“Mary knows all about everything,” I put in as pleasantly as possible. “I wonder that she doesn’t turn to writing verses for the popular press.”
“Perhaps I shall.” Mary raised her hand and struck a dramatic pose. “And oh! The blushing dawn does rise above the rooftop. Where she looks in vain for the face she sees not—”
“For the fairest maids still lie abed, and for shame of business hide their heads,” added Sophy.
“Safe from those with no business to mind, but in minding others’ pass their time,” said Mrs. Howard quietly.
A smattering of laughter and applause rippled through the gathering. For my part, I turned and stared.
This was my first look at the famed Henrietta Howard. Mrs. Howard’s return to court had been much anticipated in the newspapers, all of which described her as “the loveliest and most charming woman to be found the length and breadth of Britain.”
I will pause here to make sure my readers understand that I do not peruse the gutter press looking for my own name, as some of my sister courtiers do. Rather, it is to keep informed as to what those outside the court believe about those of us within it.
Mrs. Howard did not return my overtly curious glance, but concentrated instead on stirring the cup of coffee she was fetching for the princess. I had to agree with the general assessment that she was a beauty. Her long, fine neck broadened into a pair of sloping shoulders and a generous bosom. Her hair was a rich chestnut color, and she wore it simply, which emphasized her oval face and wide-set eyes. Despite her quiet display of wit, I doubted she would prove as interesting a companion as Lady Montagu, who had recently departed for Turkey under something of a cloud. That cloud, incidentally, was caused by a careless verse. Words, in our world, are dangerous things.
As Mrs. Howard turned to carry cup and saucer to Her Royal Highness, I saw that she looked nothing so much as resigned. This I thought strange, especially as the other rumor regarding Mrs. Howard was that she was the current mistress of the Prince of Wales.
“Very witty, Mrs. Howard,” said Sophy with just a shade too much enthusiasm. “But then, you were not here to witness what happens when Peggy Fitzroy turns her hand to business. Molly could tell you all about it, I’m sure. Could you not, Molly?”
“Oh, lud, Sophy.” Molly Lepell sighed. “If we are to occupy ourselves with telling tales, can they at least be about someone interesting?”
That earned a laugh from the general assembly, but not, I noted, from the princess herself. She eyed me over the rim of her coffee cup, and with the arch of one carefully sculpted royal brow, silently asked me what I intended to do about all this.
“Well, I for one would be glad to be dull for a bit,” I began, hoping no one noted my slightly desperate tone. “Too much spice is bad for the digestion and the complexion, as I’m sure Miss Howe could tell us.”
Which turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to say. “That’s right!” cried Mary, with an air of triumph. “Our Peggy favors good English cooking. Or perhaps I should say English cooking favors her!”
My heart plummeted. She was going to tell them about Sebastian. She was going to tell Sophy Howe about Sebastian, right there, in front of all the ladies and women of the bedchamber. Once she named him, the betrothal would be quickly sniffed out. It would be in the gossip columns by morning. Matthew would read it. Worse, he’d have it read to him. Did the princess know? I hadn’t told her. She couldn’t find out like this. I’d lose my countenance, and my place.
I had to stop this, now. But panic blanked my wit. For a moment, I wondered if I should actually have to resort to the Faint.
I must have done some good in my life, because at that moment my white knight appeared. He came in the form of a liveried footman who swept open the pavilion door. His stentorian voice rang clearly across all other conversation and killed it stone dead.
“His Royal Highness, George Augustus, Prince of Wales!”
EIGHT
IN WHICH ORDERS ARE GIVEN, AND ACCEPTED, WITH A CERTAIN AND PERFECTLY COMPREHENSIBLE AMOUNT OF RELUCTANCE.
The men of Hanover are not a tall breed and are inclined to a certain thickness about the middle. I would not suggest this extends to a certain thickness of skull. I would, in fact, take most special care not to suggest this while still in service.
It may be truthfully acknowledged, however, that our prince is not inclined toward art, or philosophy, or any theater save the opera. Still, he carries his thick frame with a soldier’s bearing, and he does possess the art of accurately judging men’s characters, especially when it comes to discerning who is actually in agreement with his cause and who is merely flattering. If there is a form of intelligence useful to a future monarch, that is surely it.
As the prince entered, those of us who had been seated shot at once to our feet and then dropped into deep curtsies, which is not, I assure you, as easy as it might sound, especially on a lumpy carpet covering an uneven lawn. As my gaze lowered, I saw a saucy grin spread across Careless Mary’s face and risked tilting my head toward Sophy. Sophy raised hard and glittering eyes from under her low lids, but not toward the prince. Sophy’s venom was aimed at Mrs. Howard.
Prince George, for his part, smiled kindly all around and motioned for us to straighten as he strode to the princess.
“And how do you find yourself this morning, my sweet?” Prince George bowed courteously over her hand. He spoke in French, the language of the court here and in Hanover where he had been born.
“I am very well, sir, thank you.” At first blush, our hearty, martial prince and his learned wife did not appear to be well matched. But to my eye, there was a mutual understanding in evidence whenever they met. It was partly affection, but there was more to this marriage. This royal couple needed each other, and they were not entirely sorry for it.
I saw this now, even though not ten feet from me stood Mrs. Howard, cloaked in all her rumors.
“It’s good, it’s good,” the prince was saying. “I, unfortunately, find myself dull this morning. I wish you could come riding with me . . .” He shrugged. “But perhaps you could lend me your Mrs. Howard instead?”
The whole air of the gathering became charged with that subtle current created by the formation of fresh gossip. The princess surely felt it, but it caused her not a moment’s hesitation. “Of course, sir. I am sure Mrs. Howard can have no objection to riding out with you.”
We all now strained our lowered eyes for a glimpse of Mrs. Howard as she made a fresh curtsy.
“I thank Your Highness for the kind invitation,” she said. “I fear, however, I would only delay your enjoyment, as I am not dressed to ride.”
In response, His Royal Highness smiled benignly but firmly at her. “You could be ready in a trice, I am sure.”
I might only be able to see the world in slivers and glimpses, but my ears were wide open, and I clearly heard that resignation in Mrs. Howard I’d taken note of before. “Certainly, sir, if you wish it.”
His Royal Highness waved, indicating that he did indeed wish it. Mrs. Howard dropped her curtsy another fraction of an inch and backed out of the pavilion. Careless Mary, in the meantime, trod discreetly on my foot and rolled her eyes. How she could do that from under lowered lids was beyond me, but she managed it most effectively. I could not tell, however, if she meant to indicate her delight at this apparent confirmation of the rumors about Mrs. Howard. It might have also been because Sophy Howe looked ready to expire from jealousy.
I ignored them both and loo
ked to the princess. Her Royal Highness continued to converse smoothly with the prince about who was likely to be present at the next drawing room. I told myself the rumors could not possibly be true. The alternative was to believe that this strong-willed, clever woman was also an ordinary, put-upon wife, and that was too depressing a possibility to entertain.
“It’s good, it’s good,” said the prince again. “Now, I am off. Do not stay out too long, my sweet. The day is chilly.” He took his wife’s hand and kissed it, looking for all the world as if he were doing anything except going off to ride with another woman.
To say that the silence that followed his departure was awkward would be committing a gross understatement. Glances shifted sharply sideways, and the air was thick as porridge with unspoken words and witticisms about the prince coming for a lady right under his wife’s gaze. I personally did not know who to think less of: the prince, for the fact that he had done this, or Sophy Howe, for so plainly wishing it were she he’d come for instead.
My contemplation of this awkward conundrum was cut short by the princess herself. “Come here by me, Margaret Fitzroy. I would speak with you.”
“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” I did not look back at Mary Bellenden. I was sure she was smirking and mustering her next set of witty remarks. For the moment, however, I did not have to endure them. Protocol dictated that all the other ladies pretend to be doing something else to lend a patina of privacy to the conversation.