Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  I had him and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Emboldened, I leaned into his shoulder. “You will finish our dance, won’t you?”

  I was prepared for him to manufacture a reason to dash off, but instead he squared his shoulders to me and bowed deeply. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving your side.”

  I fanned myself, admiring his ruse. Such confidence in his villainy. You have met your match, however, Mr. Wyck. I assure you.

  We stood as the crowd parted, allowing the Queen and Prince Albert to take their seats of honor beside the musicians.

  “You do seem quite interested in Her Majesty,” he said in my ear. “Any particular reason?”

  I shot him a look. This was brash even for him. “I suppose I am interested. Yet no more than anyone else.”

  He smirked. “Is that so?”

  What he meant by that I could hardly guess, but it didn’t matter. My only concern was stopping him from getting anywhere near the Queen.

  Once the Royals were seated, the musicians struck up a new polonaise, and the dancers resumed their progress around the dance floor—Mr. Wyck and I among them.

  I quickly settled back into our familiar rhythm. To his credit, he seemed more focused on me than the Queen, which I found flattering despite myself. Through the boisterous turns of the next dance, I was so engrossed in our movements that I didn’t even realize he had maneuvered us almost directly in front of the Royals.

  We took a turn to the left, and when I looked back at the Queen, I saw the chair beside Prince Albert empty.

  Where had she gone? I scanned the room.

  Then a woman’s scream stopped everything. The music, the chatter, the movement.

  Wild glances darted to a commotion at the St. George’s Hall doorway.

  I rushed closer and found a woman in emerald satin clutching a footman’s lapel. Her mask of glittering green leaves hung loose at her neck, but her cries were lost beneath the growing volume of murmurs. She turned from the visibly shaken footman to scream at the crowd, “On the staircase! I saw her! She’s dead!”

  Gasps replaced the murmurs.

  And where was Mr. Wyck? I turned to find him behind me, looking as stunned and frantic as I. In the distance, I could see the Queen’s chair still empty. Beside it, Prince Albert stood flanked by a pair of footmen and two guards.

  A black feeling gripped me.

  Again, I searched the crowd, standing on tiptoe to see over the sea of heads. Still no sign.

  With heart racing and head swimming, I grabbed the sides of my skirt and ran to the door.

  Pushing through, my gloved fingers clawed at shoulders and elbows to allow me to pass. I ignored the angry looks. Who cared if I was making a spectacle of myself? I had to get to the staircase.

  Finally, in St. George’s Hall, I spied two footmen in heated discourse. As I neared, they pivoted on their black heels and stood at attention.

  “Where is she?” I demanded, ignoring the usual formalities. “Where is the Queen?”

  They frowned and exchanged confused glances.

  “For goodness sake, don’t just stand there.” But then I remembered: They didn’t see me—a servant like themselves—they saw a lady, a guest.

  I tried again in short, commanding syllables, “There’s been trouble. Where?”

  The young men remained silent, but their glances darted to the vestibule. I took up my skirt again and pressed on. Once I’d reached the entry room, I could see a cluster of attendants congregated on the staircase.

  Please, no. Please!

  I ran toward them, ignoring the pains shooting from my toes.

  The men were staring at the ground, at something I couldn’t yet see, but then there was a pair of lady’s boots.

  Not the dainty slippers of a Queen.

  Worn leather boots. A servant’s boots.

  Something deep within warned me to stay back. A blackness clawed through me.

  When I reached the stairs, two footmen pulled away from the huddle, and I saw the face of the figure draped across four steps. I froze.

  It wasn’t the Queen, as I had feared.

  The lifeless body upon the stairs was Mrs. Crossey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  How I reached Mrs. Crossey’s side I’ll never know, for it was impossible to think beyond the single question pounding at my skull: Was she dead?

  I squeezed past two footmen.

  “She’s still breathing,” one said.

  I nearly fainted with relief.

  “The physician is on his way,” said another.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder, but I didn’t look back. I wedged next to Mrs. Crossey. Her eyelids fluttered. Could she see me?

  But even if she did, what would she see? A stranger. How could she know me dressed and masked as I was?

  If I spoke to her, these men would know I was an impostor.

  But I had to risk it. I leaned in under the pretext of smoothing back a lock of her hair that had fallen across her cheek. Then I dropped to my knees and covered my face with my hands, pretending to be overcome with emotion.

  “It’s me, Mrs. Crossey,” I whispered next to her ear, hoping beyond hope she would hear. I peeked through my fingers at her face. No movement. Not even a twitch.

  I feared the worst.

  Her breath remained shallow and weak, though I could see no evidence of harm.

  A footman whispered, “Could it be the—”

  Another shut him down with a harsh shhh!

  “But the girl. On the Slopes,” another said.

  They were thinking the same thing I was.

  More voices encroached. Dr. Holland, the Queen’s physician, had arrived. My time was up.

  I would do no good if I were discovered. Not to Mrs. Crossey, not to myself, and certainly not to the Queen.

  An idea struck. It was a risk, but it was my only option.

  Slowly, I bent over Mrs. Crossey and whimpered, hoping to appear so distraught that the footmen didn’t notice my hand slip over Mrs. Crossey’s and my finger slip into her sleeve. I searched the space. Yes! The handkerchief was there.

  I clutched it in my palm and rose, still pretending tears. They weren’t difficult, for the emotion was real.

  I held that linen with all my might, wailed into my fists, and bolted up the rest of the stairs in what I hoped would appear to be an outpouring of despair.

  A footman called after me, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow until I had cleared their view. The last thing I heard was the physician demanding space around Mrs. Crossey so he could examine her.

  When I was out of view, I stopped. The anteroom serving as the gentlemen’s drawing room was ahead. Hope shot through me. Might Mrs. Crossey’s assailant have ducked in there, eager to blend into a crowd? I poked my head in, interrupting two men chatting near the doorway.

  “May we help you?” The question came from a stout fellow with a handlebar mustache, the pinch between his salt-and-pepper eyebrows a clear indication I had disrupted their leisure.

  “A woman has been attacked. On the staircase. Did anyone come this way?”

  The man eyed me with suspicion. “Attacked, you say? Are you sure?”

  I wanted to shout at him, Of course I’m sure, you imbecile! Instead, I swallowed that rage and answered as calmly as I could, “Yes, sir, I’m quite sure.”

  His companion, another portly and sour-looking individual, removed the cigar from his lips. “There was a drunk fellow a moment ago who stumbled by.”

  There had been someone!

  “Who was it? When?”

  The mustached one frowned. “A few moments ago. He couldn’t have gotten far, clumsy as he was.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The other man inhaled from his cigar and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “Hard to say. A bit round in the middle, and he was wearing a mask, you know. Gold or silver. Goodness, I don’t recall.”

  That was no hel
p at all. I backed away. “Thank you for your help.” Though it wasn’t much. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  The other man held out his hand to stop me. “Miss, if there’s danger at hand, you should stay here. Let us call a guard. Come now, we’ll get to the bottom—”

  I continued my retreat. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

  “Miss, please—”

  “Thank you for your concern, gentlemen.” I wheeled around and hurried along the corridor even as they continued to call after me.

  I took the first turn I came to and then the next, eager to dodge them in case they followed. When I realized where I was, I found myself in a dark and unfamiliar alcove. Nothing looked familiar. I tried a door and found a storage closet. I tried another, and it opened to an opulent—and thankfully vacant—chamber.

  But which one? I had no memory of it. I looked behind me. I couldn’t go back that way. The men may have summoned the guards, and guards would undoubtedly have questions.

  Where else could I go?

  What I needed was to collect my thoughts. A moment to focus on Mrs. Crossey’s handkerchief and—I hoped—discover the identity of her attacker.

  Because one thing was now painfully clear: it wasn’t Mr. Wyck.

  I stepped into the chamber, closed the door, and slumped against the nearest wall. The full weight of my failure pressing me down.

  I had been wrong all along.

  And what if Mrs. Crossey succumbed? I didn’t want to lose her because I’d been too stubborn to see the truth. I pulled off my mask and threw it to the ground, along with the fan. What good was a disguise if I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my face?

  The handkerchief was my only hope. I tugged the small square of white linen from the elbow of my left glove. If Mrs. Crossey had seen her attacker, perhaps I could see it in a vision.

  I tugged away both silky gloves and gripped the linen. Please, Mrs. Crossey. Please show me.

  Vertigo set in almost instantly. My thoughts swirled into a disorienting blur, and I searched for images to resolve.

  The blur continued. After a moment, the swirling increased to a dizzying pace.

  I tightened my grip and increased my concentration, focusing every thought on the fabric.

  Only spinning. Incessant spinning.

  I dropped the fabric and keeled over, grabbing a knee with one hand and my stomach with the other. Nausea threatened to overwhelm me.

  Finally, when the ground stopped shifting beneath me, I straightened and tried to compose myself. Nothing like that had ever happened. Despite the surge, I saw nothing.

  I’d failed again.

  ~ ~ ~

  With my mask firmly in place, I made good time getting back to St. George’s Hall, despite spending a good deal of it searching for a way back that avoided the Grand Staircase.

  Once there, I faced a relentless stream of exiting guests. I wove and ducked between people and nearly collided with a footman.

  “Where is everyone going?” I asked him.

  “Leaving, miss. They’re all leaving.” He bowed, swerved around me, and hurried on.

  Leaving? All of them? I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised considering the commotion. But what of the Queen?

  I hurried into the ballroom against the tide, and it seemed an eternity before I reached the window that overlooked the northern slopes. The musicians were still milling about, packing their instruments, dumbstruck by this abrupt end to the festivities. The royal seats, however, sat empty.

  Were they gone? Were they safe?

  I approached a sentry beside the closed Throne Room door. I didn’t recognize the man, but I lifted my fan over my lips to be sure he wouldn’t recognize me.

  “I do hope the Queen departed before the trouble.” I mimicked the condescending tone the Queen’s ladies took when they spoke to servants.

  “Yes, miss. All is well with the Queen.”

  Somewhat relieved but still wary, I turned back to the entrance and headed to the only place where I thought I might still do some good.

  ~ ~ ~

  I found the reception room overrun with guests clamoring for their belongings. Chester was taking tickets, and Marlie was pulling the garments. Two other maids who had been assigned to the ladies’ sitting room had been recruited to help as well.

  When Marlie spotted me, she pulled me into the empty sitting room.

  “What are you doing? You can’t walk around like that.” She shook her hands at my gown.

  Her complaint caught me off guard. “What else can I do? I have no choice.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I threw up my hands in confusion, but she was already marching to a side cabinet, where she grabbed a canvas sack and thrust it at me.

  “Change. I’ll watch the door.”

  I opened the sack to find my uniform and boots within. “How did you get these?”

  “I went back. I had a feeling you’d need them. Now turn around.”

  I followed her command and felt her tug the laces of the bodice free so I could extricate myself. The skirt I managed on my own as she stood watch at the door. After folding the silk garments as best I could, I bundled them into the bag. “How much trouble am I in?”

  “None that I know of.”

  I tucked the bag under my arm. “But I left.”

  She shrugged. “Female issues, remember? Chester hasn’t said a thing.”

  “Nothing?” I was relieved, I couldn’t deny it. “Isn’t that odd?”

  “To be honest, we’ve been dealing with this flood of people.” She craned her neck out the door. “The line is backing up again. We should get back or Chester really will have a fit.”

  I held the bag close and followed her back. Chester gave me a funny look when he saw me, but Marlie stepped in.

  “Look who’s back. And perfect timing, too.” She winked at me before approaching an impatient man who was thumping his walking stick beside his feet. “Yes, sir, how may I assist you?”

  The burly man thrust his number at her. “My coat, if you please. And my wife’s stole.”

  “Yes, sir. Coming right up.” Marlie took the white slip and disappeared to the racks, conveniently avoiding Chester’s suspicious glare.

  When he turned it on me, I tucked the sack out of the way and addressed the next frantic guest. “How may I help you, sir?”

  Over the next half hour, we worked our way through the requests, and when the last one had left the room, it was apparent we still weren’t done.

  The shelves and rack held dozens of remaining items—coats, shawls, hats, gloves.

  “What should we do with all of it?” I asked Marlie.

  “You’ll need these.”

  I turned to see Chester carrying an armload of empty canvas sacks.

  “Bag them and pin the number to identify them. Can you manage that, or will you be needing to run off again, Miss Shackle?” A single eyebrow hiked up his forehead.

  “I believe I can manage,” I muttered.

  “And I’ll help,” Marlie piped in.

  “Fine.” He looked at another two maids who had been recruited to help. “You two, back to the kitchen. There’s nothing left for you to do here.”

  I could hear their exaggerated sighs as they brushed past on the way to the door, with Chester close behind.

  Marlie gathered the sacks and spread them out on the table. “You collect, I’ll stuff and tag.”

  I stared at her in disbelief.

  “Would you prefer the bags?” she asked. “I’ll collect, I don’t mind.”

  “How can you do it?” I said. “How can you act like nothing happened?”

  Sudden anger rushed through me. Anger at her. At myself. At whoever had attacked Mrs. Crossey and left her for dead.

  Marlie’s cheerfulness fell away. What remained was raw and unsettled. “Because I have to,” she said. “It’s the only way to help her.”

  I knew she meant Mrs. Crossey.

  “
It’s going to be all right,” she added.

  But that was just it. It wasn’t all right. Perhaps the Queen was safe—at least for now—but Mrs. Crossey was fighting for her life because of my mistake. If I hadn’t been focused on Mr. Wyck, I might have seen the culprit. The real culprit.

  And now our chance—maybe our only chance—to catch the killer was gone.

  I shook my head. “It’s not all right. And it won’t be until I make it right.”

  To her credit, Marlie tried to help. She uttered sweet, encouraging words as we sorted and bagged the items left in the reception room. And then, she left me to the silence.

  I was grateful. It gave me time to think.

  Chester returned with a rolling cart and helped us load the bags onto it. I added the one with the costume and promised myself I’d find it later and get it back where it belonged.

  “The Queen,” I asked. “Is she safe?”

  He nodded. “I understand she’s quite well. She was taken to her rooms by the guards, where she remains in their safekeeping.”

  Some of the weight I’d been feeling lifted. But not all of it.

  “And Mrs. Crossey? Is there news of her?”

  A shadow clouded his expression. “Dr. Holland is tending to her.”

  “Is she awake?” I pressed.

  He glanced up and seemed to struggle with his next words.

  Every second of his hesitation dug the burning dagger in my heart deeper.

  “Will she live?” I blurted and gritted my teeth, willing myself to maintain my temper.

  “What she means is,” Marlie offered in a gentler tone, “we’re terribly worried. Is there any news?”

  Marlie’s sweetness worked. The footman softened. “She isn’t conscious, but her breath is good. Strong, the physician said. At least that’s how it was relayed to me. There is reason to be hopeful, but the extent of the injuries cannot be known unless… until she awakes.”

  It was not the news I had hoped to hear, but it was better than it might have been. I took what solace I could in that.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  He glanced away. “She isn’t to be disturbed.”

  “We understand that,” Marlie said, interceding again. “But when she wakes, which I’m sure will be soon.”