Peccadillo at the Palace

by Kari Bovee

  Mr. Gladstone had a grandfatherly face, snow-white hair, and downturned lips that gave him a perpetual frown. His eyes too, turned down at the corners, but quickly brightened, pulling up his mouth when he smiled as he stepped out of the carriage. Holding out his hand, he assisted his wife, a tiny woman with silvery hair topped with a velvet hat trimmed with a bright scarf that cascaded down her back. Her bright blue eyes popped open in wonder as she saw all the Indian players lined up to greet them.

  Chief Red Shirt and Black Elk, who had both dressed for the occasion in full war paint and feathers, with brightly colored blankets wrapped around their shoulders, stood stoically next to Annie and Frank.

  Frank had slept till noon, and when Annie returned to their tent with a plate of Hal’s pork chops and potatoes for him, he was up, dressed, and sitting in his rocker. He still looked like a ghost of his former self, and Annie could tell his strength had not returned. She hoped the food would restore him but was disappointed when he ate only the potatoes and a small portion of the meat.

  She turned to look at him as they waited to meet Mr. Gladstone. His eyes looked glassy and out of focus, and perspiration shone on his forehead. At least he was up and eager to meet England’s former prime minister.

  Red Shirt’s handsome face, with its broad forehead, long straight nose, and square jaw wore a mask of proud stoicism and was framed by his thick wavy hair. The long tails of a bright red scarf he had wrapped around his head hung in unison with the thick braid that trailed down to his slender hips. Next to Frank, Annie thought Red Shirt the most handsome man in the outfit, and she was not alone.

  After greeting the American officials and English noblemen, the colonel, Mr. Salisbury, and Mr. Gladstone—his wife’s delicate hand nestled in the crook of his elbow—strode directly over to Red Shirt.

  “Chief, this is the former prime minister, the great white chief of England,” the colonel said. Gladstone held out his hand.

  Red Shirt drew his blanket closer around his chest, his gaze settling somewhere on the distant horizon. The colonel repeated the introduction to Red Shirt in Sioux. He added, “You must take his hand, Chief.”

  Finally, the chief took the former prime minister’s hand, but remained silent.

  “What think you of the English climate, Chief?” Gladstone asked.

  The chief did not answer.

  “Do you see those similarities in Englishmen and Americans which might be expected to exist between kinsmen and brothers?” Gladstone tried again.

  Annie held her breath, hoping the chief would answer the question.

  “I don’t know so much about being kinsmen and brothers,” the chief said, his voice monosyllabic.

  All the gentlemen let out uproarious laughter, but the chief’s face never changed. Annie was a little taken aback by the laughter. She knew that Chief Sitting Bull and Chief Red Shirt had some resentment toward the American government, and rightly so—how could he feel a kinship with the people who had taken everything from him?

  She supposed Mr. Gladstone would never understand. Even though the colonel had formed a genuine friendship and partnership with his former enemies, others had more trouble bringing themselves to understand the Indians.

  “Ah. Well. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chief Red Shirt. I look forward to seeing you perform,” Mr. Gladstone said.

  The chief gave a curt nod and left the group. Mr. Gladstone turned to the colonel.

  “I understand Miss Parnell traveled with you—under an assumed name.”

  “That is true, Mr. Gladstone.”

  “Yes. Unfortunate business with her brother,” Gladstone continued. “We tried to work together on some of this Home Rule business for the Irish, but he’s just been recently accused of taking some kind of role in the Phoenix Park murders five years ago—one of the victims was brother to one of my ministers.”

  Annie listened with rapt attention. If Miss Parnell’s brother had in some way been involved with the murder of one of Mr. Gladstone’s ministers, what would stop him from employing his sister or his niece to do the same to one of the queen’s private staff? Annie couldn’t imagine Miss Parnell doing anything so horrible, but this squabble between the Irish and the Crown was much more malicious than she’d ever considered.

  Lost in her thoughts, Annie almost didn’t hear the colonel address her.

  “This is Miss Annie Oakley, Mr. Gladstone. Pride of the Wild West Show.”

  Annie snapped back to attention. “Oh, Colonel. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “I’ve heard about you,” Mr. Gladstone said, his face beaming. Annie took his hand and then greeted his wife.

  “I’m so looking forward to seeing you perform,” the tiny woman said.

  “We’re giving the former prime minister and the Prince and Princess of Wales a private showing,” said Mr. Salisbury. Annie wished she had known sooner. She had hoped Buck would have more time to get acquainted with his surroundings.

  “I hope you enjoy the show,” Annie said, releasing her hand.

  The colonel introduced Frank, and the two men exchanged a few words about English politics, the weather, and Annie’s success. Frank, always proud of her, boasted about her talents, but with less than his usual enthusiasm. The weakness of his voice conveyed the weakness in his body, and Annie’s heart broke a little.

  The colonel and Mr. Salisbury stepped forward. “Nate, should we give them the tour?” the colonel asked his manager, tucking his fingers into the pockets of his waistcoat.

  “Splendid idea.” Mr. Salisbury held his hand aloft for the group to pass by. After they had filed past him, he turned to Annie.

  “There is a party tonight and we need you to be there. We are to be presented to the Prince and Princess of Wales.”

  “Wonderful,” Annie said, giving him her brightest smile. “I look forward to it.”

  She hoped he could not hear the dread in her voice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After their names had been loudly announced by a man wearing a stiff, tailed tuxedo and an equally stiff expression, Annie and Emma entered the grand parlor of the estate and settled into a corner of the ballroom to view the crowd. Frank, still weak, had opted to stay in their tent, at Annie’s insistence. She needed him to be well when she started performing.

  The room’s expanse seemed never-ending, with large crystal chandeliers casting a rainbow of colors on the white carpet decorated with silk-threaded roses intertwined in the weave. Elegant silk sofas and chairs, all in white, sat clustered throughout the room, with handsome potted palms strategically placed to encourage private conversations. Other areas of the room had been left wide open to accommodate group discussions.

  The walls of the ballroom, which soared high to the ceiling, were covered in silk damask and trimmed with dark wood wainscoting. The silk walls were hung with elegant tapestries and portraits of stoic looking men in tailored suits and puffy white ascots accompanied by beautiful ladies in silk, jewel-toned gowns.

  “Who is hosting this extravagant party, Emma?” Annie laid her hands against the bones at the front of her corset, fighting for breath. She’d chosen one of the dresses she’d been given by the show’s former manager, Derence LeFleur, three years ago, as opposed to a new one Hulda had made. The new dress, bright green with a daring décolleté, made Annie feel like a doll on display. She knew the older dress wasn’t the latest fashion, as her sister pointed out in disgust, but she felt it complimented her soft brown hair and her famously tiny waist, which was all she cared to show off.

  Trimmed in fine ecru lace at the throat and the cuffs, the dress fit Annie’s torso like a second skin—after Hulda had sewn her into it for the evening—and the skirt billowed out modestly with the help of petticoats and a bustle. Hulda had also expertly arranged all of Annie’s shooting medals above her left breast. Annie cringed at “showing them off” but the colonel had insisted. She hoped she wouldn’t faint dead away from embarrassment at the crude display of her accomplishments, or the la
ck of air in her lungs.

  “I believe it is a Mr. George Glyn—or should I say, Baron Wolverton?—who owns the manse,” Emma replied. “I assume he is the host. Rumor has it we are to be presented to the Prince of Wales and Princess Alexandria tonight. I’m all aflutter.”

  “You don’t easily impress, Emma. I’m surprised.”

  “I know. But, Annie, they are royalty—the fairy prince and princess of my old schoolgirl storybook days. It’s thrilling. I’m on air!”

  “I wish I had some air.” Annie pulled at the neckline of her dress. Already, she could feel a trickle of sweat slip down her spine. “I also wish Frank could have come. I hope he gets better soon. He handles these types of events so expertly. I usually let him do all the talking.”

  “You’ll have to make do with me, tonight.” Emma patted her blond coif adorned with pearls and crystals. The pale blue of her gown brought out the intense green of her eyes and the pink luster in her cheeks. Emma had an elegance that Annie would never possess, but her rock solid loyalty to Annie eclipsed her porcelain beauty.

  “I’m sorry, Emma. You know I love your company,” Annie said, grimacing as she tried to adjust her corset.

  Boisterous laughing pulled their attention across the room toward Lillie, who was unabashedly flirting with a group of well-dressed gentlemen. Her short, plump figure, all the more bulky in a white lace gown with a wide black ribbon at her ample waist, drew the eye. She wore heavy paste jewels that somehow overpowered the pomp and circumstance of her dress. Annie knew nothing about fashion, but knew that what Lillie was attempting did not suit her at all.

  “Poor girl. She really does herself no favors,” Emma said with a sigh. “I might have to make a new project of her. What do you think?”

  Annie swallowed down her distaste of the idea. Lillie was already threatening to steal Annie’s thunder in the show arena with her improving marksmanship and her naturally social nature.

  “I don’t think she would listen. Stubborn as a donkey, that one,” Annie said.

  “You might be right,” Emma agreed. “Actually, her garishness lends her a sort of charm, don’t you think?”

  “Charm? Yes.” As Annie choked out the words, she noticed a couple staring at Emma and her, talking behind their gloved hands. The man, striking in appearance with a puffy white bejeweled ascot, wool suit, and fur-lined crimson cape, oozed a mischievous sort of charm. His light, narrow-set eyes sparkled beneath his broad forehead and his mane of thick, sandy-brown hair. The woman had a regal, commanding presence, as if she herself had been born of royalty, with her plunging neckline, silks, and sparkling jewels. But something in her eyes told a different story. A hit of the survivalist—an existence Annie knew all too well—brewed in the woman’s gaze.

  “Do you know who they are, Emma?” Annie tilted her head in the couple’s direction.

  “I would say from everything I’ve heard about the peacock, that he might be the poet Oscar Wilde. Who else would wear such a cape?”

  As if the couple could hear the conversation, or read their minds, they turned toward Annie and Emma.

  “Well, I suppose we will find out,” Emma said, plastering on a glittering smile.

  The man approached Annie with an outstretched hand. “You must be the charming Annie Oakley. I would have known you anywhere. My name is Oscar Wilde.”

  Annie took his hand. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw in them a passionate soul. “Pleased to meet you. This is my friend Emma Wilson,” Annie nodded toward Emma.

  Mr. Wilde took Emma’s hand and then turned to his companion. “This is my friend, Mrs. Lily Langtry, or as I call her, J. L., which stands for the Jersey Lily that she is.”

  The woman’s bright eyes settled on Annie’s, and she offered a hand ensconced in an ivory silk glove. The fabric felt warm and soft against Annie’s palm.

  “Excuse Mr. Wilde’s eccentricities,” Mrs. Langtry said. “You will grow to love him as I have. I’m from one of the Channel Islands, south of England, called Jersey.”

  “And she is beautiful as a lily, don’t you think?” Mr. Wilde leaned into Mrs. Langtry’s hair and breathed deeply, as if he’d been transported to heaven. “And she smells divine.”

  “You two make a lovely pair,” Annie said. She didn’t know what to make of this odd play of affection.

  “Oh, we aren’t together.” Oscar’s eyes grew wide. “The prince would have my head. Only he can enjoy the purest beauty of the J. L. She is his mistress, after all.”

  “Oscar, you’ve had too much wine,” Mrs. Langtry said with a charming smile, grabbing him by the arm. “We must get you some air. Please excuse us, ladies. It was such a pleasure to meet both of you. I hope to see you again, soon.”

  “Bang, bang! Right, Miss Oakley?” Mr. Wilde said, putting his thumb and finger into the air like a gun. “We’ve tickets to your performance. I’m simply on pins and needles to see you shoot a cigarette out of someone’s mouth,” Mr. Wilde said as he let himself be led away by Mrs. Langtry.

  “What an peculiar man.” Annie turned to Emma. “Do you think it is true? Is Mrs. Langtry really mistress of the prince?”

  “So the scandal goes,” Emma said, eyebrows raised. “She’s married, too.”

  “I don’t care for that.” Annie couldn’t imagine such a thing. “Why would someone want to interfere in another’s marriage, or cause harm to their own?”

  “Look, there’s the colonel, the chief, and Mr. Salisbury,” Emma said, changing the subject. “Let’s go talk to them.” Emma strode off before Annie could protest. She’d just noticed Hulda speaking with a group of gentlemen. They all looked completely enchanted with her, and Hulda was basking in the attention. Annie could tell by the high color of her cheeks and the way she twisted her body to make her skirt swing.

  Hulda had chosen a modest yellow gown, but the cut and fabric made her appear much older than her thirteen years. Although she looked like a grownup, her mannerisms and speech remained childlike, and Annie hoped her sister wasn’t getting herself into trouble.

  She marched over to the group, took Hulda by the elbow, made her apologies to the gentlemen, and walked her sister over to a corner near one of the potted palms.

  Hulda wrenched her arm out of Annie’s grasp. “I was having a conversation.”

  “You were making a fool of yourself, Hulda. This is a fast crowd. I don’t want you getting in over your head. Where’s Bobby?” Annie asked scanning the room. Right now, she’d even take the dashing Mr. Everett as her sister’s escort. Hulda milling around alone looked unseemly, improper.

  “He didn’t want to come. Said he felt like an imposter in such fancy company,” Hulda said.

  Annie knew exactly the feeling. “You stay with me this evening. I don’t want you leaving my side.”

  “Oh, Annie. You are such a bore.”

  Annie turned to Hulda. “I am your sister and I love you, Hulda. I’m responsible for you. Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

  “So I’m a responsibility. A burden. Difficult. As usual.” Hulda’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “You act like you take care of us, Annie, but you’re too busy trying to find fame and fortune to care about me, or John Henry, or Mother. I don’t know why you even brought me along.”

  Annie wanted to slap Hulda for her insolence and disrespect, but refrained when a tall, elegant gentleman and a woman bejeweled in pearls down to her waist walked past them, their expression questioning why she and her sister were hiding behind a plant. Annie forced a smile and nodded as the couple glided past.

  “Hulda, we’re making money to support our family. Don’t you see the importance in that?”

  “Why is it our responsibility, Annie? What if I want to be on my own?”

  “You are thirteen.”

  “You were fifteen when you joined the Wild West Show, left home, and traveled the United States. Why can’t I do that? You are mother’s strength and John Henry is the favorite. No one understands me.”
Hulda’s face had turned an unpleasant shade of crimson and she looked as if she were about to have an outburst.

  “Hulda, you aren’t making any sense—”

  But before Annie could finish her sentence, Hulda ran to the white-paned, glass doors and out into the night.

  Annie had started after Hulda when Lillie caught her by the elbow. Lillie’s cheeks, bright pink from the whiskey, puffed up as she stifled a belch. She smelled of alcohol and tobacco, and her smile tilted across her face as if someone had smeared her lip pomade.

  “Hey, doll. You’re needed at the party. We’re going to be presented to the Prince and Princess of Wales. Can you imagine?” Lillie let out a bull horn of a laugh, her hands on her hips, her body swaying in an imaginary breeze.

  “I can’t right now, Lillie. I have to find Hulda. She just ran off.” Annie started for the doors but Lillie pulled her back.

  “She’ll be fine. Just needed some air, I’m sure. You have no idea how hard it is to measure up to ‘Sure Shot Annie.’ Believe me, I know.”

  Annie’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen things from that perspective. She never thought Hulda would think she needed to live up to her big sister’s fame, or that somehow, she couldn’t live up to it. She’d never meant to make her sister feel inferior.

  It all made sense. The extravagant, sometimes bold clothing Hulda wore, her rebellious attitude, her friendship with Lillie—whose recklessness unnerved Annie—and Hulda’s sometimes sullen mood were all indicative of a young girl with a famous sister, desperately seeking to find herself. Find a way to make her mark on the world.

  “You coming?” Lillie blew her nose in a lace hanky she’d pulled from her sleeve.

  “But, what about Hulda?”

  “I’ll go find her after we meet the royal anuses—I mean highnesses.” Lillie doubled over laughing at her own crude joke. “You are the last cowgirl Hulda wants to see right now.”