Ghost of a Chance

by Susan Maupin Schmid

  Then I noticed that the mound of pillows was missing from the bed. The coverlet had been pulled aside, and the blanket had been tossed in a mangled pile. I’d never seen such careless housekeeping! If I really were Pepperwhistle, I’d be furious. Those Princess’s Girls would all be fired.

  I couldn’t linger. I needed to hurry. The carved headboard panels huddled in the dark. I touched them. They felt normal, solid. Safe. No chill, no evidence of the ghost’s presence.

  Then I heard it—a muffled mumbling, as if someone was whispering over and over, Six and seven, six and seven. It was an eerie, breathless whisper, as though it flowed from airless lungs. Gooseflesh covered my arms. The back of my neck prickled.

  The ghost mumbled on, unaware that I was listening. It was there somewhere. I didn’t see it. But it was there.

  Clutching Thirty-Six close, I headed back toward the door. My foot crunched something on the floor. I lifted my skirt and peered down. The remains of a pearl lay beneath my shoe. Pieces of the Princess’s jewelry glinted at me from under the feathers. My mouth dried up.

  I’d crushed the clasp of one of her bracelets. I felt faint. Looking around, I saw what I should have noticed right away—open drawers and cabinet doors.

  The ghost had ransacked the Princess’s bedroom! I gasped in horror.

  And any moment now, someone could walk in and discover it. And me, disguised as Mrs. Pepperwhistle. What would I say then?

  My heart pounded. I had to get out of there. Kicking feathers aside, I fled.

  The news shook the castle like a violent storm. Captain Bryce set Guards at the Princess’s suite and the entrance to the wardrobe hall. Mrs. Pepperwhistle ordered those under her to work in pairs. No one was to go anywhere alone. Under-servants were told to stay below. Marsdon, the Head Steward, took to patrolling the halls.

  Upper-servants and Under-servants watched each other with squinty-eyed stares. The atmosphere between them iced over with a frosty distrust. Since I was industriously sorting buttons when the real Mrs. Pepperwhistle discovered the disaster in the Princess’s room, and Gillian was bent over her ironing in the pressing room, neither of us was under any particular suspicion. At least, not any more than I’d been under to begin with. The Head Cook announced to anyone who’d listen that while Darling had her faults (fortunately, she neglected to list them), she was not a wanton destroyer of beautiful things.

  It was a good thing she didn’t know about the pearl bracelet, or she might have thought differently. As it was, Marci kept an even closer eye on me than before. Only now it seemed as though she was standing guard over me, not so much to keep me out of trouble as to be able to vouch for my whereabouts. There was a certain comfort in knowing Marci stood between me and any pointing fingers.

  Selma made a show of overseeing deliveries to the wardrobe hall. When the Laundresses marched in, hefting their heavy baskets of linens, Selma was there with a piercing gaze and a freshly cleaned gown in her red-knuckled grip. She made a ceremony of handing clothes over to Lindy, who took them with an equal air of solemnity. The two reminded me of a pair of Guardsmen changing posts.

  I was surprised that Selma didn’t lug her paddle around with her. As it was, she made a point of taking a quick tour around the wardrobe hall, as if the intruder was concealed there unbeknownst to the rest of us. Marci expressed her irritation by banging the closet doors as she fetched Her Highness’s things.

  Tempers were frayed on every level. Even Lady Kaye, armed with her silver-topped cane, took it upon herself to stand by the Princess at all times. You had to pity anyone foolish enough to mess with Princess Mariposa while the Baroness was at hand.

  I was just picturing the Baroness dispatching the thief when a shadow fell over my sewing.

  “What are you doing?” Lady Kaye inquired.

  “Setting a sleeve,” I said.

  The lustrous pile of violet silk jacquard before me almost melted at the touch. It took care and patience to sew the tiny stitches reattaching the sleeve to the bodice. Marci had done the tricky stuff; she’d altered the shape of the sleeve before handing it to me to reset. She’d rounded up several dresses she thought needed restyling—they probably didn’t, but the work kept me busy.

  “That is very expensive fabric,” Lady Kaye remarked.

  “Darling does excellent work,” Marci told her, snipping a thread on a hem. “Otherwise I wouldn’t allow her to handle the Princess’s clothes.”

  “I thought she was Lindy’s assistant,” Lady Kaye said, tapping her cane on the carpet.

  “She was, once upon a time,” Marci answered, and selected a new spool of thread from one of the desk drawers.

  Lady Kaye frowned, glancing around the wardrobe hall.

  “Are those closets kept locked?” she asked.

  “They are,” Marci replied, “except for the old Queen’s closet. The key’s been misplaced.”

  “Since when?” Lady Kaye demanded.

  “Since before I was Wardrobe Mistress,” Marci said.

  Lady Kaye glowered at the door to Queen Candace’s closet as if it had deliberately left itself unlocked.

  “We’ll have to see about that,” she said.

  The stool rocked beneath me as I swayed in my seat.

  “I’ll have the Royal Locksmith cast a new key,” Lady Kaye said.

  She wouldn’t! Would she?

  I caught Marci’s eye. Don’t let her lock it up, I pleaded silently.

  “Not to worry,” Marci said. “That key is likely around here somewhere.”

  Guards opened the wardrobe hall door as Footmen carried in three bolts of cloth.

  “Right here by the desk, please,” Marci said, rising. “You can lay them on the carpet.”

  The Footmen laid the three bolts down and left. A Guard winked at me as he shut the door. Marci walked over to the dressing room and cracked open the door.

  “The fabric is here, Your Highness,” she said.

  Princess Mariposa appeared, wearing a severe charcoal-colored dress. She had taken to wearing darker dresses since her room had been torn apart, as if her clothes reflected the seriousness of the crimes committed against her. I hadn’t seen her in days; she walked past me without a glance.

  “Oh dear, however will I decide?” she said.

  She unrolled each of the bolts—royal-blue velvet, sapphire brocade glistening with gold threads, and a sky-blue satin woven all over with silver.

  “Simple, my dear,” Lady Kaye exclaimed. “Keep them all. The velvet for afternoons, the brocade for court, and the satin for a ball.” She pointed her cane at each one as she spoke.

  “Ball!” The Princess’s voice rang through the room. “I’m not hosting any ball.”

  “You should,” Lady Kaye said. “There’s enough gloom in winter without adding to it.”

  Princess Mariposa sighed. Behind her, the pressing room door opened. Lindy and Gillian sidled in. No doubt they’d been listening at the door, and the mention of a ball was too irresistible to ignore.

  “Oh, but you’d look a picture in that satin, Your Highness,” Lindy said.

  “Think how it would cheer up the court to see you dancing again,” Marci offered.

  “I’ve heard the Prince is partial to blue,” Gillian added.

  “This sounds like a conspiracy.” Princess Mariposa favored them with a wry smile.

  “Oh no, ma’am, we haven’t been conspiring!” Gillian said, face flushed.

  Lady Kaye took in Gillian’s brown dress and canvas apron and shook her head.

  “Shouldn’t that girl wear the proper attire of her station?” she asked.

  “She should,” the Princess said. “It’s not like Francesca to be so lax.” She colored as she realized what she’d said. “Lindy, tell—Ann—isn’t it? Tell Ann to find her some clothes.”

  Gillian beamed at the notion of wearing the gray dresses and crisp white aprons. I’d never seen her so pleased. Her expression made me smile too.

  “Thank you, Your Highness
!” she said.

  The Princess nodded absently and said, “Marci, order all three dresses. Tell the seamstress I’d like the velvet finished first. The ball gown can be last.” She eyed the Baroness. “Not that I’ll need it.”

  “You might surprise yourself, dear,” Lady Kaye said.

  “I already have,” Princess Mariposa said. She caught my smile and held my eye with a measuring gaze.

  I thought she would finally speak to me again, but disappointment etched her brow and she turned away. Gripping my needle in despair, I watched her leave. I wanted to shout after her, I didn’t steal anything! But I went back to work with a sigh.

  “In my day, we threw a proper number of balls,” Lady Kaye said.

  “Oh,” Gillian said, dimples deepening. “Were they very fancy?”

  “I should say so,” Lady Kaye replied.

  “You’d probably like to hear all about ’em,” Lindy said, poking Gillian in the shoulder. “This one likes stories.”

  “I know any number of stories,” Lady Kaye said, caressing the knob of her cane. “If you’re finished with your work, you can rub my feet while I tell them to you.”

  I winced at the thought of the Baroness’s feet.

  “I’m done, aren’t I?” Gillian asked Lindy.

  “Get off with you,” Lindy said, shooing her. “I have a pack of things to do.”

  “And Captains to meet,” Marci said under her breath.

  Needle drooping, I watched as they left. Gillian was a real Princess’s Girl, and I was…I wasn’t sure what I was anymore.

  “Those Guards are a problem,” Roger said, sprinkling his soup with salt. “You can forget going into the Princess’s rooms with them around.”

  We’d met early for supper so that we could plot our next ghosting without being overheard—and without Gillian. She’d stuck to my heels since getting her new clothes, walking with a bounce in her step. Patting the embroidered butterfly on her apron pocket as if she needed to reassure herself it was still there. She’d even been given a bright blue ribbon she threaded through her curls and tied in a bow. One of the Guards had started calling her little lady.

  Not that she was any better than the rest of us.

  And worst of all, the Baroness had taken to sending for Gillian in the late afternoon. According to her, the Baroness knew more stories than everyone else who’d ever lived. I doubted that, but I was smart enough not to say so.

  “But we need a dress. How’re we going to search the castle without one?” I asked.

  “The Guards are there all the time. Say you walk into the wardrobe hall and then get a dress—someone different would walk back out,” Roger replied, dipping a piece of bread into his soup. “That’s bound to raise questions.”

  “I could go back out through the Princess’s room.”

  “There’re Guards there too,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But they’re different guards.”

  “So you walk in and Lady—Redhead—walks out the other door, but then you never come back out. Pretty soon, someone’s going to wonder what became of Darling and go looking. When they realize you’re not there, they’ll ask the other Guards.”

  “But Lady Redhead will come back—”

  “Okay, say she does. How’re you going to explain where you were that whole time?”

  Exasperated, I stirred my bowl of soup so hard it sloshed over the rim.

  “Just forget it,” Roger said. “We’ll think of something else.”

  “You could cause a distraction,” I argued. “Then I could duck in, grab a dress, and go.”

  Roger considered that for a moment. “How am I going to distract both of them without getting in trouble? I don’t have any business bein’ up there.”

  “Um.” I stuck a spoonful of soup in my mouth to buy myself time to think.

  “Once again, you’d have to go back. And whoever you’d walked in as wouldn’t walk back out. Sooner or later, they’d notice.”

  “We’re never going to get this ghost.”

  “Sure we are. We’re just not going to use the dresses.”

  “How? Everybody is watching everybody.”

  “I’ll think of something,” Roger said.

  His smile flattened into a determined line, and his brow contracted. You could see his brain churning, one idea tumbling over another. He had the same look the Footmen got when they polished the silver. Then his face cleared.

  “Almost forgot to tell you,” he said, brightening. “I got put in charge of a horse.”

  “Does the horse know where the ghost is?” I tore off a piece of bread. Then it hit me. “Hey, I thought Second Stable Boys didn’t get horses!”

  He grinned so widely his freckles almost popped off his cheeks.

  “The Stable Master pulled me aside and said, Here, you’re in charge of Lady Marguerite’s horse. Let’s see how you do,” he said.

  “Lady Marguerite’s horse!” I leaned over my soup bowl. “What a coincidence.”

  “Seems that way,” he said, smirking. “But a First Stable Boy said he’d overheard Pepperwhistle talking to the Stable Master—Lady Marguerite thinks I’ve got talent.”

  “Huh.” I’d accidentally gotten Roger a chance at a promotion.

  “I’ll be a First Stable Boy before you know it.” Roger beamed, tweaking his forelock. Obviously, he was already picturing himself in the buff-colored leather cap the First Boys wore.

  “That’s great, Roger,” I said. Then I did a mock bow in my seat. “You’re welcome.”

  He laughed so hard that several heads turned our way.

  I tucked into my bread. I was happy for him. Really. But any day now he’d be a First Stable Boy and Gillian would be a Princess’s Girl and I’d be…Darling Unfortunate, Mending Nobody. It didn’t seem fair.

  The kitchens began to fill up with servants wandering in for their supper. The Head Cook roamed about, sampling sauces, testing a roast goose with a fork, and generally keeping an eye on her troops. Supper for the servants was already set out and waiting; now the real work began—dinner for Her Highness. The Head Cook prided herself on serving a perfect meal on time every evening. The staff chopped, stirred, roasted, and sautéed like mad; they would rather be cooked with the goose than serve Her Highness something less than excellent.

  I was ready to suggest that we finish up and go see the horse when Roger’s eyes brightened. He was about to speak when a pair of mittens landed on the table next to me.

  “I thought you might be needing these,” Jane said, standing over me.

  “Good evening, Jane,” I said, wondering what kind of mood she was in.

  I’d been avoiding her. Losing the Princess’s trust made me feel terrible, but disappointing Jane had been even worse. If not for Jane, I wouldn’t be in the castle at all. She’d been broken up over my losing my position. But this latest mess…if she thought I’d had anything to do with it, she’d be livid.

  “Try them on,” Jane said, sitting down beside me and giving me a blurry-eyed grin.

  The mittens were a soft silver color, knit from kitten-soft yarn, with pewter-buttoned velvet cuffs, edged with silver cord. I picked them up.

  “They’re beautiful.” I unbuttoned the cuffs to discover an inside layer of rose pink. I slid the mittens on. “They’re so soft!”

  Roger rolled his eyes. He wore heavy suede gloves to work outside. They were stained from cleaning up after horses, which were way too messy, in my opinion.

  “I worked a little swan’s down into the lining,” Jane explained. “That’ll make them warmer too.”

  “Thank you!” I threw my arms around her.

  She hugged me back, and then she whispered in my ear, “What’s this business about the Princess’s room?”

  I tensed up.

  “Darling?” she said, pulling away.

  “I had nothing to do with that!” I said. “I would never do such a thing.”

  She squinted, studying me as best she could. “I didn’t th
ink so. My Darling is not vicious; that’s what I told the Head Steward.”

  She let me go and sat back.

  The Head Steward had been asking about me? I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Marci swears you never went in there,” she continued. “I hear it was terrible, spiteful. The rat who done it even ground one of Her Highness’s pearls to powder!”

  The room swam. I’d scoured the bottom of my boot to remove any trace of pearl dust. But what if I’d left some along the way? What if there was a pearly trail leading right to me? No one would ever believe that I’d walked in the room after it had been ransacked. Not that I had any reason for being in there in the first place.

  “Well—” I said.

  “What have you got there?” the Head Cook asked.

  I jumped in my seat, startled, certain that incriminating pearl dust still clung to me.

  “I made her mittens,” Jane said. “Show her, Darling.”

  Smothering a sigh, I pulled them off and handed them to the Head Cook.

  “Oh my, my,” she said. “You made these, Jane? They are lovely.”

  “I knit them; Marci sewed the cuffs.”

  “Where did you get the materials—velvet and pewter, no less?”

  “Marci got the fabric and the buttons from the Head Seamstress. I had one of the Under-dusters get me the wool; her father has a shop in the city.”

  “Could you make me a pair? I’d be happy to pay for them.”

  Jane started. “Sure. What color?”

  “A nice brown with fur cuffs!”

  “Fur cuffs?” Jane squeaked.

  “I’ll supply the fur,” the Head Cook said, handing the mittens back to me. “And what about a hood to match, could you knit one of those?”

  “I can.”

  “I’ll get the fur and the yarn,” the Head Cook said, licking her lips as if she could already taste her new mittens. And she stalked off as though she meant to get the materials right then.

  “If Marci doesn’t want to sew on the cuffs, I could help,” I said.

  “Thank you, dear.” Jane patted my arm. Then she added in a whisper, “Stay in the kitchens, where everyone can see you. The Head Steward has his spies watching.”