by Sarah Zettel
“Good morning, Margaret.” As we entered, the princess waved me to a stool beside her. I made my curtsy and sat where indicated, back straight, hands folded. From this position of appropriate modesty before royalty, I both waited for her to speak and attempted not to panic.
Her Royal Highness reclined in an armchair. The spindly table at her elbow held a teapot and cup, and a maid hovered in the background to refresh pot or cup as required. If the Princess of Wales was taking to tea, everyone would soon be doing it, and hang the expense. Would I have to bid farewell to my beloved chocolate?
“You may all go,” Her Royal Highness said to the other maids who moved about the room. “Mrs. Titchbourne, you will close the door.”
Mrs. Titchbourne did as instructed. I noted she stayed on this side of it, however. She took a stool beside the great four-poster bed, picked up a bit of embroidery, and set about pretending not to listen.
“You were keeping some very interesting company last night, Margaret.” The princess had switched to German. “You and Mr. Walpole held some conversation, I believe?”
“We did, Your Highness.” I pressed my lips together. “Ma’am, do you trust him?”
My mistress smiled at the question. “One does not trust men such as Mr. Walpole. One may make use of them, however.”
This, I suspect, was not the ringing endorsement Mr. Walpole had been expecting. “I imagine Mr. Walpole thinks he’s making use of you.”
“I would be most shocked if he did not,” the princess replied. Then she winced.
“Ma’am?” I started to my feet, with my hands out but no idea what I actually meant to do. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly, perfectly.” She rubbed her rounded belly. “I am sure this is a prince in here. He certainly kicks like one.”
“Perhaps I should . . .” I looked toward Mrs. Titchbourne for assistance, but she remained apparently engrossed in her embroidery.
Her Royal Highness rolled her eyes to Heaven for patience. “Margaret, I have given birth to four living children. Should something be wrong, you may trust I will be the first to know it.” She winced again. “But come, you look grave. Surely that is an unusual attitude for a young woman who was so very much in the company of a single swain all evening.”
So, Sebastian’s would-be rivals were not the only ones who took note of us. “It was not company I sought, Your Highness, I do assure you.”
“But it was company you kept,” she said evenly. “I am interested in the source of this contradiction.”
My fingers were twisting. I glowered at them, willing them to stop. They took a long time to obey. “His name’s Sebastian Sandford, ma’am. He’s a son of Lord Lynnfield’s, and . . .” I bit my lip, but it was already too late. Princess Caroline had the patience of a stone. If she thought she had not heard the whole of a story, she could wait for the rest until the palace fell apart around her.
“We’re betrothed,” I said.
Her Royal Highness reached across for her tea. She took one long, slow sip, and then another. She set the delicate cup down silently on its saucer, laid the silver strainer across its rim, and carefully refilled it from the pot. Watching all this slow, precise motion tightened every fiber in my body until I thought my bones would snap.
When my mistress had filled her cup as she liked it, she took it up in both hands. “You will tell me the whole story,” she said.
I did. By that point, I’d been wound to such a pitch that talking was a relief, which was certainly the royal plan. My words came out in a muddle of confused German and French with a syllable or two of English thrown in to bob along in the flood. Princess Caroline glowered at me, and I could not tell whether this was for my confessions or for mangling her native tongue.
When I at last ran out of breath, all Her Royal Highness did was sigh.
“Do you know, Margaret, I understand what it is for someone to attempt to browbeat you into marriage.” I must have looked surprised, because Princess Caroline smiled over the rim of her teacup. “You have not heard that story? I am surprised. I was supposed to be married to Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor. I would have had to become a Roman Catholic, of course, but I was not to mind that. The question of my preferred religion was as nothing. Marriage to an emperor was the most desirable match to be imagined.” She shook her head. “Sadly, it does not matter how highly we women are born. When it comes to marriage, we are all the pawns of family ambition.”
“But you married His Royal Highness.”
“He visited me in disguise and was smitten. It was most romantic.” She ran her hand fondly across the swell of her belly. I thought of Mrs. Howard out in the parlor and kept my mouth shut. “At the time, he was only the son of the future Elector of Hanover. This was a rank not to be disdained, but certainly nothing so very special. Not one of us truly believed we would ever be here in London.” She sighed again. “Margaret, if you discover a way in which my word may be of assistance in this matter of your betrothal, I will speak for you. But we both have our names in the papers enough, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Then I realized there was something. It was impudent, to say the least. It also wasn’t anything close to what Sebastian wanted, which lent the idea definite charm. It also might mean I wouldn’t have to engage in another round of housebreaking, or at least I could put it off. I marshaled my finest German.
“Ma’am, this betrothal was arranged by my uncle. My father, he was an agent for Her Late Majesty Queen Anne and vanished while in her service. If you could say with confidence that my father is still alive, my uncle could not force me to marry.”
Even though it was rude, I looked directly at Her Royal Highness. She saw what I asked. I asked her to lie for me. I also saw that for a long moment, she considered doing so.
But, however long it was, that moment did not last. “I am sorry, Margaret. I have been given no information on this subject. I believe, however, that Lord Tierney is looking into the matter on your behalf?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered, trying to sweep my disappointment quickly aside. “But, well, it is that, you said . . . you said men like Mr. Walpole were not to be trusted. What about Lord Tierney?” I spoke Mr. Tinderflint’s real name in a rush, afraid to be considering the question at all, let alone asking it aloud. He swore he was looking for my father, but at this point, I was beginning to doubt whether my own shadow was really following me.
“Men like Lord Tierney become a fixed point,” she replied slowly. “When they have thrown in their lot, they will not change their side, only their approach. The trick, then, is to discover what side they are truly on.” She held me full in the gaze of her clear, intelligent eyes. “It is up to you, Margaret, to discover which side that may be, for everyone’s sake. I would so hate to lose you, my little friend.” She reached out then and squeezed my hand. “You, Margaret, I do trust.”
Tears were forming. It was ridiculous, but trust was not something I had been given much of. Impulsively, I kissed her hand. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Her smile was genuine, and it reached her eyes as she sat back, dismissing all our serious conversation with a single wave of her hand. “Now I trust you to let me get properly dressed,” she said, switching to French. “It is Sunday, and we are commanded to rest, but I think God will comprehend that there are many preparations yet to be completed for my husband’s birthday celebrations, and I am over my knees in lists. Then tomorrow, we have the theater, yes? Yes. Mrs. Titchbourne, you will open the doors.”
Dismissed, I made my curtsy and backed away until I reached the parlor. All the women and ladies were still in their former positions, as if they were statues who came to life only when there was someone to see them. I picked my way between them as quickly as I could and then retreated through the empty drawing room. I had wasted my best chance to ask a favor of the princess. Now it would have to be the bank, or the house, or some kind of stalling maneuver, and just then, they all looked equally hopeless.
I was most of the way across the room before I realized I was not alone.
“Miss Fitzroy,” said a soft, deep voice behind me, “may I walk with you for a space?”
It was Mrs. Howard.
I suppressed a mighty urge to squirm, or stare, or at the very least cry, “Now what?” I could not see any way a conversation with the Prince of Wales’s mistress—his married mistress, no less—could simplify my overly complex situation. I didn’t even know what to think, or to feel, about this woman. We were told such women were to be scorned, and that they habitually ended up dead in gutters, probably of unspeakable diseases. They did not sit in a princess’s parlor, or wait at table during the public dining. This was the modern age, after all, not the shameful, scandalous court of Henry VIII. Or James I. Or Charles I, Charles II, or James II.
Then again, King George had taken his mistress to Hanover with him, as well as his three illegitimate daughters. His former wife was not our queen, because she had been locked up under house arrest in a German palace somewhere, a state of affairs that occurred after her lover had been murdered on his way to their assignation.
In my mind, I threw up my hands.
“I should be glad of your company, Mrs. Howard.”
“That is kind of you to say.” And you don’t mean it. I saw this last pass behind her gray eyes. I looked for signs of the malice or petty intrigue that hardened the visage of those like Sophy Howe, but saw none. There was only her peculiar resignation.
The footmen pushed open the door to the hallway. Sunlight fell in bright bars across the corridor, and the diamond-paned windows showed the sky was bright autumn blue.
“You are, I think, friends with Molly Lepell?” Mrs. Howard asked, but not, I noticed, until we were out of earshot of the footmen attending the princess’s door.
It was odd to hear someone infer, however obliquely, that we maids of honor might not all be loving sisters. “I hope we are friends.”
“You know then about her . . . ” Mrs. Howard’s eyes flickered this way and that. But we were still alone. “Affection for Mr. Hervey?”
“Something of it,” I admitted, remembering how Molly had looked at the handsome John Hervey, and how in that moment the polished, perfect Molly Lepell had become nothing more than a besotted girl.
“I do not have much time,” breathed Mrs. Howard. “I am going to speak plainly. As Miss Lepell’s friend, Miss Fitzroy, I urge you, most strongly, to counsel her against forming any lasting attachment in that quarter. Mr. Hervey is not a safe man.”
“You say that very decidedly.”
She’d stopped in one of the sunbeams. I had a clear view of her face. If she was lying or acted from some selfish motive, it did not show. Not that this meant anything. I could name any of a dozen courtiers who could lie without batting an eyelash. I was on my way to becoming one of them.
“I have some familiarity with the type, and the man himself,” she said. “His motive force is money, and need of money will drive him harder and farther than love ever could. If Miss Lepell attaches herself to him, she will be likewise driven.”
Money again, always money. My mind’s eye showed me Lady Bristol—her neck and chin thrust forward, her eyes cold and stern as she clutched her cards. Such a prisoner of the gaming tables would be much in need of money to feed her habit of play.
But I could not separate the words from the messenger. This was not a good woman in front of me. She was deceitful. How could she be anything else? She might even desire the handsome—and much younger—Mr. Hervey for herself.
This time Mrs. Howard’s wry, tight smile was notably lacking in sympathy. “I have done what I have done, and for my own reasons.” She did not look away from me as she said it, not once. “Nevertheless, I mean none of you any harm and would help you if allowed.” She drew herself up, all calm and resigned dignity. “Please consider what I’ve said, Miss Fitzroy, for the sake of your friend.”
As I watched Mrs. Howard take her leave, I could not escape the sensation that some opportunity had been missed. I tried to tell myself that was not possible. I could not be loyal to the princess and make friends with her deceiver at the same time. Except it was impossible that the princess should be deceived on a point that was common gossip. Except she could not be allowing this alliance between Mrs. Howard and her husband.
Except she clearly was. I pressed both hands against my scalp as if to keep my hair from flying off. I did not need a confidential secretary to keep track of what was happening around me. I needed my own Royal Bureau of Plots, Gossip, and Conspiracy. Perhaps I could apply to Mr. Walpole for the funding.
SEVENTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE ENGAGES IN A PAIR OF ENTIRELY UNSATISFACTORY CONFRONTATIONS.
One of the great frustrations of a maid of honor’s life is that her time is not her own. That frustration is multiplied when the maid is supposed to be engaged in conspiracies and robbery.
I had planned on asking Molly to take my afternoon waiting. I could send Norris for Olivia and Matthew, and we could find a way to assay the bank. But I arrived at the pavilions Monday morning to find Mary Bellenden was not in waiting. Her maid—an ancient dame with a hunched back and a knowing gleam in her eyes—came to tell us that Mary had a terrible cold and did not wish to expose Her Royal Highness to the contagion. This meant there was no maid to spare, and I had no escape for the rest of the day.
During that entire morning’s gathering, I was conscious of the most unusual hope that Sophy’s witty quips would turn in my direction. I was angry and restless and far too aware I was wasting a whole day. This all left me itching for some sort of fight. But Sophy remained serene. Worse, when I took my leave to rest and change clothes for supper and that evening’s excursion to the theater, she smiled at me.
The disquiet bred by that smile was profound. Sophy was not a complex personage. The list of things that made her happy was short—a new lover with money, a new scheme that met with success, or a new verse in the paper complimenting her charms. In an effort to mitigate my growing reputation for indulging in the extremes of tardiness, I had not paused to read the papers that morning, so I might have missed a new verse. I did not believe even Sophy could have tumbled Sebastian so quickly as to consider him her lover; besides, he said he had no money. That left only a new scheme, and one she thought was working.
Contemplation of this unpleasant possibility may have caused my footsteps to lag a trifle as I returned to my rooms. Libby was waiting for me, of course.
“About time,” she said as she got to her feet. There was also something about “strapping a clock to your back to give you some notion of time.” I ignored that. “I was asked to give you this, miss.”
She held out a folded paper. I took it, puzzled. It wasn’t ordinary letter paper, but heavier and rougher. I felt somehow I should recognize it. I undid the black ribbon to find a raggedly torn piece of newspaper and my answer to the riddle of What Made Sophy Smile.
The article was titled Fashionable Observations, and it did not take long to discover why this had been sent to me.
What are we to make of Miss F—, this mysterious miss who so recently tripped into the most exclusive of court circles? This ever-elusive Fair One is not noted for allowing herself to be fascinated. Yet recently, a young swain whom Our Observer names as the Honorable Mr. S—, one son of the Baron of L—, seems to have scaled that parapet. The Observer reports that they spoke in low tones and on the terms of greatest intimacy for some considerable length of time.
Alas! We must hope that Miss F— has not yet entirely lost her heart, for she has a rival for Mr. S—’s affections. Despite her repeated efforts and the best use of all her considerable charms, Miss F— was not able to keep Mr. S— from leaving her side to join her sister maid, Miss H—, at a game of cards. There, according to the knowing eye of Our Observer, Mr. S— proceeded to charm all at the table with his wit and gallantry. Miss F—, on the other hand, was seen to leave the room in a state of consid
erable pique.
One would not look to see a vow of vengeance upon so lovely a face, but it is well known that a young lady who has been crossed in so deep and obvious an affection may act in a rash manner—
“That’s not what happened!” I cried. “That’s not even remotely what happened!” But it might not matter, because on the heavy paper that wrapped the article was a single line written in Matthew’s clear hand.
Was this your Sebastian?
I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. “Did Matthew bring this?”
Libby glanced aside. “I was not to say.”
The sentence had barely left her lips before I ran into the corridor, in some vain hope of seeing Matthew step out from a nearby room. But there was no one. Even the sunbeams had deserted the dim hallway.
“I tried to keep him, miss,” said Libby behind me. “But he wouldn’t wait.”
Neither did I. I flung the paper in Libby’s direction and snatched up my hems to run down the hallway. If my maid tried to follow me, she gave it up as a bad job, because I was alone by the time I reached Mary Bellenden’s door and pushed my way through.
“Wad on eard?” she cried. “Peggy! Wad are you doing here?”
Mary was in bed, propped up on bolsters and clutching a massive handkerchief. Her nose was an extraordinary shade of red, and her eyes were streaming and shadowed. At the hearthside, her ancient maid poured boiling water into a basin full of something that smelled remarkably foul.
“You stupid, poisonous, careless, mindless . . . creature!” I shouted at Mary. “Did she pay you to tell her my secrets, or did you just decide it would be fun?”