The Hatmakers

by Tamzin Merchant

The moment passed.

  Archibald blinked several times, the Love Beetle wings glinting on his hat. Ferdinand gasped quietly, one hand went to his chest and the other (the hand holding the pistol) fell limply to his side.

  Archibald dropped his pistol on the grass. He was gazing at Ferdinand with the kind of eyes that idolize. Ferdinand looked tenderly back at him.

  The boys walked bashfully toward each other.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Janet hissed at Archibald, who ignored her.

  Goose, crouching behind the tree, had his eyes screwed shut and his fingers in his ears. Cordelia tapped his arm.

  “Goose!” she whispered. “The hats worked!”

  The boys were face to face now.

  “Oh, Baldie,” Ferdinand breathed.

  “Ferdie,” Archibald answered softly. “You are not a thorn; you are a beautiful rose.”

  “And you are no dull pebble—you are a diamond!” Ferdinand whispered.

  He reached up and tenderly touched Archibald’s cheek. Archibald blushed and, in one sweeping rush, Ferdinand kissed him.

  “WHAT?” Janet shrieked. “This is not what was meant to happen!”

  Ferdinand and Archibald kissed so passionately that their hats came off.

  Cordelia gulped as the boys pulled apart, staring at each other in surprise. For a terrible, frozen moment Cordelia thought they would kill each other with their bare hands.

  Then Archibald did something nobody expected. He leaned forward and kissed Ferdinand again.

  A church bell bonged triumphantly. It was quarter past the hour and Cordelia grabbed Goose’s hand and pulled him up.

  “Come on, Goose! We can’t be late for the theater!” she cried, running full pelt along the street.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, WAS A towering building with soaring pillars and golden statues of angels around the grand doors. Inside, jewel-encrusted ladies and grand gentlemen in white wigs milled around the candle-lit foyer.

  “Cordelia Hatmaker,” Cordelia said when asked for her name by a stern doorman in a gold-trimmed jacket.

  Immediately he bowed very low and said, “This way, Miss Hatmaker, and sir. We have the second-best box in the house ready for you.”

  He led them up the red-carpeted stairs and ushered them into the box, lush with velvet finery. They threw themselves into squishy armchairs and peered over the railing at the dazzling scene below.

  The theater was packed and buzzing. Cordelia searched the crowd for the princess but could not see her anywhere. She recognized many Hatmaker hats bobbing around on the heads below them. In the pit, lads threw handfuls of peanuts at each other and jostled to impress ladies wearing jewel-colored silks that Cordelia thought made them look like Birds of Paradise. The whole auditorium was a great breathing beast, panting for the play to begin.

  A young man stepped onto the stage and blasted a brass trumpet.

  “Pray be upstanding for Her Royal Highness, Princess Georgina!” he cried.

  He continued to blow loudly on the trumpet until a long stick with a bent end appeared from off stage, hooked itself around his middle and yanked him back behind the curtain.

  A hush descended and all eyes in the audience turned toward Cordelia. For a strange moment Cordelia thought the crowd below was looking up at her and Goose. Then she realized that Princess Georgina was in the box next to theirs—the royal box!

  “Perfect!” Cordelia whispered.

  The partition between the boxes meant they couldn’t see more than the princess’s delicate nose as she nodded to the adoring audience. Cordelia decided that she would ask to speak to her during the intermission.

  Around the theater, the candles were snuffed out until everything but the stage was in darkness. The purple velvet curtains swept aside and Sir Hugo Gushforth was revealed, posing heroically in the middle of the stage. He was wearing the magnificent hat that Cordelia had made him and a frilly outfit to go with it.

  The audience burst into applause. The golden stars on the hat twinkled in response and the Upstart Crow feather dipped and wagged as Sir Hugo took bow after bow.

  “Isn’t he meant to bow at the end?” Goose whispered to Cordelia as the actor blew a kiss to the princess.

  “Maybe if you’re a sir, you bow at the beginning,” Cordelia suggested.

  They heard a sigh from the royal box.

  “Are you quite all right, Princess?” said a man’s voice. He sounded important and somewhat familiar.

  “I told you I did not wish to come to the theater tonight,” the princess answered. “It is far too frivolous an activity when there is serious talk of war.”

  “But, Your Highness, your presence reassures the people that all will be well,” the important voice replied.

  “You are right, Lord Witloof,” the princess said with a sigh. “As you keep reminding me, I am sadly lacking in political expertise.”

  Cordelia frowned. If Lord Witloof was with the princess, he might again stop her from lending Cordelia a ship. She would have to get the princess on her own.

  Before she could formulate a plan, Sir Hugo threw himself flat on the stage and began wailing. For a dreadful moment Cordelia thought her hat had malfunctioned. Then she realized he was acting. The play had begun!

  First a powder-white ghost swooped on stage, wailing and moaning. Then a damsel wailed and moaned a bit too. A scheming uncle plotted in plain sight and a pair of young chaps were slapped and tripped up by Sir Hugo and danced around the stage trying to avoid him.

  Cordelia was pleased to see that her hat was working wonderfully: Sir Hugo showed no trace of stage fright. In fact, he frequently stopped in the middle of scenes to take bows and blow kisses to members of the audience. During these pauses the other actors were left shuffling their feet upstage, until Sir Hugo deigned to rejoin them and carry on with the acting. He even appeared in some scenes that Cordelia suspected he had no business being in.

  Halfway through the play there was an intermission. The curtain went down and the theater filled with an excited hubbub and a haze of pipe smoke. Cordelia and Goose were given strawberry ices in silver bowls. As Goose ate his, Cordelia peered around the partition between their box and the royal box. Neither Lord Witloof nor the princess looked as though they were going to move. Cordelia chewed her lip, thinking. How to speak to the princess alone?

  She then heard Lord Witloof announce, “Your Highness, you have just received another letter from the French king.”

  There was the clink of a silver spoon in a bowl as the princess said, “I hope it isn’t as rude and unkind as the last two letters he sent.” There was a rather long pause before she continued: “I gather from your silence, my Lord, that the letter is indeed rude and unkind?”

  Lord Witloof coughed delicately.

  “The French king is an insufferable popinjay,” he declared. “He has a dangerous ego and a pathological obsession with exotic fruits.”

  The princess sighed. “Read me the letter, please.”

  “I do not think that Your Highness’s delicate ears should hear such words.”

  “But if I stop communication with King Louis,” Princess Georgina said patiently, “there will be no hope of making things better between England and France.”

  Lord Witloof rustled the pages and said, “Your Highness should enjoy your strawberry ice unbothered by the insults of the French nincompoop.”

  “If I am to be a good leader, I need to listen to the people who disagree with me,” the princess reasoned. “Besides, when I was five, Lady Elsa Clustertrunce (who was five and a half at the time) called me a ‘stinky snivel-whinge’ for riding too long on her rocking horse. I am sure the French king can do no worse.”

  Lord Witloof gave a small sigh and began to read.

  PRINCESS GEORGINA,

  YOU ARE LITTLE MORE THAN A GIRL PLAYING IN THE PALACE WITH A CHINA TEA SET. AND YOUR FATHER IS AS GIDDY AS A SPINNING JENNY. MY SPIES TELL ME YOU ARE AFRAID OF TALKING TO ME, MO
ST LIKELY BECAUSE I AM THE KING OF THE GREATEST COUNTRY ON EARTH—FRANCE. PERHAPS YOU SHOULD ALLOW A MAN TO TAKE CHARGE OF ENGLAND, WHICH WAS A BRAVE AND POWERFUL NATION WHEN ONE RULED. IF NO MAN CAN BE FOUND, I SUGGEST THAT ONE OF MY MOTHER’S POODLES, FROU-FROU, TAKE THE JOB. FROU-FROU THE POODLE IS A VERY GOOD DOG. HE SITS ON COMMAND AND CAN COUNT UP TO TEN, WHICH IS MORE THAN I HAVE HEARD ABOUT YOU.

  YOURS RESPECTFULLY,

  Silence followed. Then the dry sound of paper being folded.

  “Well. This is a new vista of impudence,” the princess said. Though she sounded calm, there was a catch in her voice like a thread that might unravel.

  “Indeed,” Lord Witloof answered gravely. “It is one thing to send spies to spy upon one’s neighbors; it is quite another thing to admit to it.”

  “I thought spies were meant to be secret, yet he has told me about them … How very strange,” the princess said.

  “And he has insulted you! And insulted your father, and spinning jennies, and, frankly, everybody in England!” Lord Witloof cried.

  “He is very cruel and unkind,” the princess admitted, her voice quavering.

  “There now, Princess,” Lord Witloof said, his tone suddenly soothing. “Perhaps he will be less rude if you write back to him and tell him that you can count up to ten thousand. And that you have counted each of your new cannons personally.”

  “New cannons?” the princess murmured. “What new cannons?”

  “If you sign this paper, Your Highness, I can order ten thousand new cannons from the Ironfire factory tonight,” Lord Witloof announced. “Your father was meant to sign this paper yesterday.”

  “But I have commissioned Peace Clothes from the Makers,” the princess said. “I would like the peace talks to succeed.”

  “As would I, Princess. But the Makers failed us before. Should we really put our faith in them yet again? Their ways are rather old-fashioned, you know …”

  “The Makers’ clothes are an important tradition in my family,” the princess said. “I do not intend to give them up at the drop of a hat, so to speak.”

  “Indeed. But some might say there are more sensible inventions to be concentrating on that will help achieve peace,” Lord Witloof ventured. “Like guns.”

  Cordelia leaned forward so she could see the princess’s profile. There was a wrinkle of concern creasing her forehead. Lord Witloof waved a piece of paper under her nose and held out a quill, its nib already slick with ink. “The peace talks should go ahead as planned. But the French king will talk far more politely when you have a great number of cannons pointing in his direction.”

  The princess hesitated. The quill dripped a black ink-spot onto her pale gown.

  “The Ironfire Cannon Factory is ready, Your Highness,” Lord Witloof pressed. “It has the very latest in modern technology. All that is needed is your royal commission to take the money from the coffers, and the cannons will be ready within three days.”

  The princess paused, watching as the candles were snuffed out around the auditorium again.

  “War is a terrible thing,” she eventually said. “And my father believes in peace. I am meant to be honoring his wishes while he recovers at the seaside. So I will not order any cannons from the Ironfire factory. I would like to try for peace first. And at the peace talks I’ll show King Louis that I am not afraid of speaking to him.”

  Lord Witloof began, “But it is foolish, Princess, to—”

  “Hush, my lord, the play is starting again!”

  Cordelia heard a lordly sigh and a frustrated shuffling of papers. She turned to look at Goose. Behind his impressive mustache, Goose looked worried.

  “Your Highness! Ladies and gentlemen! The Very Dramatic Tragedy of Hamlet is about to continue!” the boy with the trumpet shouted as the curtains rose.

  The second half of the play featured more yelling and groaning from Sir Hugo, even louder wailing from the damsel and, most exciting of all, a sword fight.

  The second half of the play featured more yelling and groaning from Sir Hugo, even louder wailing from the damsel and, most exciting of all, a sword fight.

  Sir Hugo swished his silver sword with violent flourishes. His opponent seemed anxious to avoid the wide arcs of the weapon, so the fight was more of a chase around the stage as Sir Hugo brandished his glinting blade and his enemy dodged and ducked out of the way.

  Perhaps, thought Cordelia, the enemy is frightened because he has a sword made of wood painted gray, while Sir Hugo’s seems to be made of real steel.

  Cordelia jumped up as soon as the curtains closed, ready to waylay the princess. But Sir Hugo reappeared between the curtains and took nineteen bows before he finally went away.

  Goose got out of his seat, hands red from clapping, as Cordelia threw open the door. She found herself face to face with a guard who was standing outside the royal box.

  “Good evening,” she said politely. “I don’t suppose I can see the princess for a minute?”

  Her request was met with a scowl.

  CHAPTER 13

  CORDELIA AND GOOSE SQUEEZED BETWEEN THE rustling dresses of women in hooped skirts and ducked under the elbows of fops.

  “Let’s stand here by the door, so when the princess comes past we can stop her and talk,” Cordelia said. “Can you distract Lord Witloof?”

  Goose looked uncertain. “How?”

  “I don’t know, maybe compliment him on his wig?”

  Sir Hugo sashayed into the foyer, still wearing his spectacular hat. The starry sequins winked and the Loquacious Lily filled the air around the actor’s head with a halo of golden pollen. He was immediately encircled by an admiring gaggle of aristocrats, all giving him compliments and flowers and blowing him kisses.

  “Ah! Some have already said ’tis my finest performance yet!” Sir Hugo announced loudly. He caught sight of Cordelia and winked. The lady next to her keeled over, taken by a fit of the vapors.

  “Make way for Her Highness!” a guard barked.

  The princess appeared and a swathe of ladies curtsied and whole legions of gentlemen in white wigs and gold-buttoned jackets bowed. Everyone crowded forward, eager to compliment her. Cordelia was jostled in the mob and Sir Hugo managed to end up at the front of the crowd.

  “O Royal Highness!” he began. “Upon thy pale cheek, a lily of Eden would seem shabby—”

  “Yes, yes,” Lord Witloof said, taking the princess by the elbow and ushering her along.

  Cordelia struggled to see through the horde. The princess was almost at the door, and Cordelia was going to miss her chance—there were a dozen people pushing in front of her. Then the crowd surged, and Lord Witloof was swept away from the princess.

  “It’s now or never, Goose!” Cordelia hissed.

  She crouched down as low as she could and pushed her way through a thicket of stockinged legs and swishing skirts. She heard Goose struggling along behind her. They popped up right in the princess’s path.

  “Your Highness!” Cordelia cried.

  “Oh, Miss Hatmaker!” the princess gasped. “What a relief to see a familiar face … All these people are a little too friendly.”

  Cordelia wasted no time. “Please can you lend me a boat?” she asked. “I’m certain my father is alive but I need a boat to go and find him!”

  The foyer was loud. The princess leaned in close.

  “I wish I could help you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll only need to borrow the boat for a little while,” Cordelia urged. “Just long enough to find my father. He’s been out there for nearly three days.”

  Princess Georgina put her hand on Cordelia’s arm and said quietly, “This afternoon the palace received word that the Jolly Bonnet’s cabin boy survived the wreck.”

  Cordelia felt her eyes widen. “Jack?” she gasped. “Is he all right? Where is he?”

  “He is at the sailor’s sickbay at Wapping Docks,” the princess said. “Lord Witloof went to visit him as soon as we heard there was a survivor. The poor lad was deliri
ous, speaking nonsense—but from what Lord Witloof managed to piece together … Miss Hatmaker, I am so sorry, but—”

  “O most esteemed Highness!” Sir Hugo swept toward them with a flourish, somehow getting himself between Cordelia and the princess.

  And that was when it happened.

  There was a shout. “Sacré bleu!”

  And a gunshot rang out. The air ripped down the middle as though it was made of cloth.

  Around Cordelia, everybody slowed. The hubbub thickened into blunt sounds till all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

  People were silently pulling grotesque faces, faces like theater masks, hands splayed in the air.

  Was that somebody screaming?

  “Goose!” Cordelia tried to say, but her tongue was too big for her mouth.

  Her eyes stung as plaster dust fell from the ceiling.

  And suddenly she was in the middle of a seething sea of people. The crowd swelled, panic rising in a riptide. The air was choked with screams.

  “ASSASSIN!”

  Cordelia saw a guard scythe through the crowd. Lord Witloof, white with shock, was right behind him.

  “Georgina! Are you hurt?” he cried.

  The princess shook her head.

  “An assassination attempt! Look! The bullet!” Lord Witloof pointed.

  In the ceiling right above the princess’s head, the black O of a musketball was wedged in the bare bottom of a plaster cherub.

  The princess turned a terrified face to Lord Witloof. “But—why?” she whispered.

  “The French, I’m certain of it,” he barked. “Guards! The carriage!”

  A dozen guards crashed into the foyer, flinging fops and ladies aside to get to the princess. They seized her and carried her out, Lord Witloof hastening behind. Cordelia staggered to the door and saw the carriage thunder off toward the palace, horses at a gallop.

  Then Goose was at her shoulder.

  “Come on—let’s get out of here!” he puffed, pulling her by the hand out into the London night.