The Last Duchess

by Laura Powell

  Pattern did not know how to respond to this, but the Prince seemed content to enjoy his own joke. He was small and plump, with round, rosy cheeks like those of a child. His gold curls were thinning, and the skin around his merry blue eyes was lined, giving him the appearance of an ageing yet sprightly cherub.

  There was something a little whimsical, too, about the furnishing of his study. Every available surface was cluttered with china ornaments. Miniature teapots and decorative jugs rubbed against flocks of shepherdesses and harlequins, cupids and gypsies, and ballerinas with billowing skirts.

  ‘Charming, aren’t they?’ the Prince said, though Pattern had not remarked on them. ‘Porcelain has always been a passion of mine. Indeed, I flatter myself that I am something of a connoisseur.’

  ‘It is a very handsome collection, Your Highness,’ said Pattern, whose first thought was pity for whoever was tasked with the dusting.

  ‘I am glad you think so. Very glad! One is never too young to cultivate an artistic sensibility.’

  Her eye was drawn to a particularly large and ornate urn, which had fearsome dragons as the handles, and was painted with a forest of exotic blooms.

  The Prince saw her looking and positively preened. ‘A gift from a Chinese dignitary, and close associate of mine. China was the birthplace of porcelain, you know. But I truly believe that our Elffish potters have surpassed theirs and are now the finest in the world.’ He picked up a simpering flower-girl, inspected its base, then set it back in place with a tender pat to its head. ‘Now then! I did not call you here to chatter about ceramics, agreeable as that would be. I wished to enquire as to how you are settling in.’

  A prince of the realm, enquiring as to the well-being of a lady’s maid? Pattern resisted the impulse to raise an eyebrow.

  ‘I am quite comfortable, thank you, Your Highness.’

  ‘Truly? My niece has a reputation for being somewhat contrary, to say the least. Still, I trust you will look after her well. The Grand Duchess Arianwen’s welfare is my first concern. First and best!’ He looked at her keenly. ‘But perhaps she has told you otherwise?’

  ‘The Grand Duchess does not confide in me, Your Highness.’

  ‘She does not trust you, then.’

  ‘She is very . . . cautious, Your Highness.’

  ‘Paranoid, you mean. Oh, there’s no use denying it.’ The Prince sighed heavily, and shook his head. ‘Perhaps she is having a quiet spell. Perhaps! But you need to prepare yourself. Yes, I’m afraid there will be all manner of rantings and ravings. All kinds of wild talk.’ He drew nearer. ‘You will tell me, won’t you? If she mistreats you, if she gives way to these violent passions? I can be a useful friend to you, child. An attentive and liberal patron. You have only to keep me informed of your mistress’s state of mind. If you were able to gain her trust, that would be even better. I am only concerned for her health.’

  He was pressing a heavy coin into her hand.

  ‘There now! A little something to welcome you to court. It’s only right for young people to treat themselves from time to time.’ The Prince moved back, smiling widely. ‘Ours is a glorious country, Pattern. A land of opportunity. Yes, there are many opportunities for good girls who mind their tongues, and know which side their bread is buttered on.’

  He tapped the side of his nose and winked at her. ‘Ha! Ha, ha!’

  The Grand Duchess’s headache continued until very late. She soon tired of being left on her own, and so Pattern spent the rest of the day running back and forth fetching smelling salts, fruit cordials and fashion papers, in between fanning the Royal Cheeks and holding ice to the Royal Forehead. By midnight, she was ready to drop with exhaustion, whereas the Grand Duchess declared herself much recovered, and far too restless for bed. Instead, she wished to browse the library. ‘And you must come with me, Pattern, to hold the lamp and carry the books, and in case there is anything I think I might want.’

  Pattern liked the library. To wander through it was like being in a pleasant maze, whose walls and towers were formed of gilt-edged books. However, it was over a mile-long walk to get there, and her legs were already very weary. They had just turned into the hallway leading to its doors when they saw Madoc emerge from the library with a pile of books and glide away in the opposite direction.

  ‘Ugh! That horrid man!’ whispered the Grand Duchess with a shudder. ‘Always lurking and smirking! I think I should hate him even if he did not serve my uncle.’

  ‘Mr Madoc took me to meet with Prince Leopold this morning, Your Highness.’

  Pattern was not quite sure how she had come to make the confession. It certainly had a dramatic effect upon the Grand Duchess, who came to an immediate halt. Although the hallway was dark and deserted, she drew Pattern into an alcove and glanced about her before she spoke.

  ‘M-my uncle?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  She breathed in sharply. ‘What did you make of him?’

  It was a good question, and one that led to another: whose confidence should she keep? Looking at her mistress, Pattern was not entirely sure of the truth of the headache, but she was certain that the girl was not well. There were always dark circles under her eyes, and her hands often trembled. Pattern doubted she slept more than a couple of hours each night.

  Perhaps Prince Leopold was right, and the balance of the Grand Duchess’s mind was disturbed. Yet Pattern had promised the Baroness von Bliven that she would serve her mistress faithfully, and a promise to a dying woman is even more binding than the ordinary kind.

  She had not forgotten the Baroness’s advice to trust no one. However, trust was a risk Pattern had to take. So would the Grand Duchess.

  ‘The Prince was entirely affable, Your Highness,’ Pattern answered, after only a short pause. ‘And he promised that his kindness to me would only increase. For he gave me money and asked me to gain your confidence, so that I could keep him informed as to the state of your health.’ She reached into her pocket, pulled out the Prince’s coin, and gave it to the Grand Duchess. ‘I would rather not have money I didn’t earn by honest means.’

  ‘So your loyalty is not for sale?’ the Grand Duchess replied. Her tone was doubtful. ‘Why? I have shown you no particular favour.’

  ‘Favoured or not, your health is your own business, just the same as your dreams or fears or any other private thing. It is not the Prince’s place to pry into such matters. Nor mine.’

  ‘Ah, you would not wish to know my dreams, Pattern. They are full of terrors. As for my fears, I have so many that the weight of them quite exhausts me. But whatever my uncle would like you to think, I am not mad.’ She looked at her searchingly. ‘I hope you believe me. Because . . . because I would like very much to believe you. Even if I’m not able to just yet.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fidelity, indeed, is that which is more respected in a servant than any other quality, and sooner or later you will meet with your reward, if you approve yourself faithful and worthy to be trusted.

  J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  Over the next week, Pattern felt increasingly able to disregard Prince Leopold’s warnings about his niece’s mental health. She had yet to witness any rantings and ravings. In fact, the Grand Duchess made new efforts to say please and thank you, and even ordered the kitchens to make up crumpets and anchovy paste, two delicacies that she believed people from England had a particular passion for. ‘I should not like you to get homesick, Pattern,’ she said, before rather spoiling the effect by adding, ‘I can’t abide people who mope about the place. Low spirits in others is a frightful bore.’

  The Grand Duchess’s own spirits had somewhat improved, and there was less talk of the mysterious threats that beset her. Her only demonstrably peculiar behaviour was a habit of talking in her sleep. The first time Pattern witnessed this, she had come to wake her mistress for breakfast, and heard murmurs and laughter from within the chamber. Once through the door, Pattern looked around the otherwise empty room in surpri
se.

  ‘What are you gawking at?’ the Grand Duchess asked through her yawns.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I thought you had a visitor.’

  ‘That is not very likely. I am not in the habit of entertaining guests in my nightgown.’

  ‘I am sorry, Your Highness, but I heard voices. That is, I heard your voice.’

  The Grand Duchess looked momentarily confused, though she recovered quickly. ‘I was saying my morning prayers, Pattern. As I hope you do too – for my continued good health, and the safety of the land.’

  Pattern was not entirely convinced of this, but let it pass. Then, the following night, as she was making ready for bed, she realized she had left a shawl in need of mending in the Grand Duchess’s room. Her mistress had asked her to take particular care of it, since it had belonged to her mama, and so Pattern resolved to retrieve it before the morning.

  Pausing outside the door, she heard murmurs from within, but concluded it must be her mistress talking in her sleep. She crept in quietly, expecting to be in and out in less than a minute, and was quite taken aback to find the Grand Duchess sitting bolt upright in bed. However, the girl appeared to still be asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her hair was tumbling undone about her shoulders, as she swayed back and forth, as if in a trance.

  ‘I am free of you,’ she was muttering, in a pleading kind of sing-song. ‘You cannot reach me. Your time is over, done. I am free of you. You cannot reach me. Your time is over . . .’

  Suddenly the Grand Duchess gave a hoarse chuckle. Her eyes opened and through some trick of light in the shadowy room, they appeared all black, with no whites showing at all. Her voice became a rasp.

  ‘I see you, Princess. I know your scent. I can hear the throb of your heart, the tick of fear through your veins. My time is not over. It draws closer by the day.’

  Dreams are mysterious things, and talking in one’s sleep is common enough. Jane at Mrs Minchin’s Academy had often woken the girls at night by babbling all kinds of nonsense about pots and pans and jam for tea. All the same, Pattern felt an icy breath on her neck. Then the Grand Duchess turned her head and fixed Pattern in her strange blank gaze.

  ‘Little girl. Stranger from a strange land. I see you too. You are watching and waiting, and so am I. You are not afraid yet, but you will be. You will be.’

  This last was a low, lingering hiss.

  Suddenly, the room’s shadows seemed alive with malice. It brushed against Pattern’s skin and whispered in her skull, and for a moment she felt this was her nightmare, not the Grand Duchess’s. She had to give herself a good hard pinch to get over it. Then she went to the bed and shook her mistress into wakefulness.

  The Grand Duchess came to with a jolt, and peered at Pattern with bleary annoyance. ‘Whatever are you doing here? It is surely not time for breakfast.’

  ‘No, Your Highness.’ Pattern did her best to hide her disquiet, and explained about the shawl and the sleep-talking as matter-of-factly as she was able. ‘You seemed somewhat . . . agitated. I thought you might be unwell.’ Her eye was caught by the Grand Duchess’s bedroom slippers, which lay torn and muddied on the floor. They would have to be thrown out – the second pair this week. ‘Forgive me: is it possible you walk in your sleep too?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd! Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, and am bored of counting sheep, I take a turn about the grounds, that’s all. I find the fresh night air settles me. As for the sleep-talking – didn’t you tell me my dreams were my own affair?

  ‘I did, Your Highness.’

  ‘Then kindly speak no more of it.’

  But the next occurrence proved more troublesome, since it took place in public. It was not unknown for the Grand Duchess to drift off during lengthy social engagements, partly due to the tedium of such gatherings and partly because she slept so poorly at night. On this occasion – a ladies’ tea party in aid of the Society for the Beautification of Historic Monuments – she had contrived to position her chair partway behind a folding screen so that she could doze in peace. Pattern, sitting close by, was charged with nudging her awake if her participation was required.

  Tea had been served and the strudel was mostly in crumbs when a low chuckle came from behind the Grand Duchess’s screen. She mumbled something urgent yet indistinguishable that nonetheless caused those nearby to turn and stop their chatter. Then, even as Pattern shook her arm, her voice began to huskily declaim:

  ‘I thirst for blue air, and freedom, and the hot tang of blood . . .’

  The whole room was listening now. Pattern poked her mistress in the ribs, but to no avail.

  ‘When I am called,’ she continued, still so low and deep, ‘I will answer. And then I will rise. I may be summoned, but I am never ruled. I shall not be mastered, I cannot be tamed—’

  Pattern poked her again, harder. The Grand Duchess’s eyes opened but there seemed little life in them. Something must be done.

  ‘Remarkable, Your Highness,’ said Pattern, clapping her hands with all the enthusiasm she could muster, though in truth she was most disturbed. ‘What an accomplished performance!’ She turned to face the assembled guests. ‘There is a new play in London that is all the rage, and so I have been teaching Her Highness the most admired speeches. She has just favoured us with an extract.’

  ‘And what is the name of this fashionable drama?’ enquired a double-chinned dowager.

  ‘It is The . . . um . . . Butler’s Revenge, my lady,’ Pattern improvised. ‘The previously untold story of . . . er . . . Cleopatra’s manservant.’ She was glad to see the Grand Duchess looking more like her usual self, and hoped she had the wit to follow Pattern’s lead. ‘So you see it is a historical piece, and thus very educational.’

  ‘Educational,’ the Grand Duchess repeated blearily, but in her normal voice. ‘Exactly so.’

  The assembled ladies followed Pattern’s example and gave dutiful applause.

  When they were alone again, the Grand Duchess was full of thanks. ‘That was very quick thinking, Pattern. Very quick! Even so, I hope wild tales of the incident do not find their way to my uncle.’

  Pattern feared it was already too late. Several of the ladies had clapped most doubtfully, and there had been much shaking of heads and sucking of teeth on their departure. Furthermore, on her next visit to the servants’ hall, Madoc had glided past, observing, ‘You are full of surprises, Miss Pattern. Not only a lady’s maid, but a theatrical agent! I hope you do not intend to turn our Duchess into a pantomime dame.’ Pattern did not want to make her mistress more agitated than she already was, however.

  Rather than fretting about the peculiar nature of her outburst, the Grand Duchess’s energies were fixated on what Prince Leopold would make of it.

  ‘He warned you, a mere servant girl, that I was a lunatic. Imagine what he must say to people who actually matter,’ she complained. ‘The villain wants to spread lies that I am unfit to rule, so he can lock me up in a madhouse and throw away the key. Yes, I can see every crooked twist of his mind . . .’ She frowned. ‘But Pattern, I never know what you are thinking. Your face is as blank as a bowl of milk.’

  Observations such as this surprised Pattern. It seemed a miracle that the clamorous whirl inside her head was undetectable to others. However, she was always glad to find this was the case. ‘That is because my thoughts are my own, Your Highness, and I need to keep them that way. I have little else, after all.’

  ‘Yet you don’t sound the least bit pitiful about it. Lord! You must think me prodigiously spoilt.’

  ‘I think you are unhappy, Your Highness.’

  ‘Are you unhappy, Pattern?’

  ‘Often, Your Highness.’

  As soon as she said it, she wished the impudent words back in her mouth. It was not a question she had ever imagined having to answer – she had not even consciously asked it of herself. Yet the Grand Duchess did not seem offended by her frankness. She merely nodded.

  ‘It is because you are alone. It is a cruel thi
ng, I know. Perhaps you have always been alone, but I have not, so I understand the difference. My mama died when I was born, and then my darling papa died ten years later. His closest friends, who would also have been mine, and served my interests, have all been exiled or imprisoned. Now even my godmama the Baroness is gone.’ She sighed. ‘You see, it is my former happiness that makes my current situation so hard to bear.’

  ‘I am sorry, Your Highness. Truly.’

  ‘Then . . .’ The Grand Duchess twisted her hands, suddenly shy. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps I shall try and trust you, after all? As you are so clever, and we are both unhappy and alone? What do you think?’

  At that, Pattern looked her in the eye, more boldly than she had looked at anyone in her life. Her heart trembled.

  ‘I think that I would like that very much.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The books you ought to read, next to those which are calculated to inspire you with pious reflections, are such as may give you instruction in the practical duties of your situation.

  J. Bulcock, The Duties of a Lady’s Maid

  In spite of their newfound intimacy, Pattern saw little of the Grand Duchess over the next two days. It was close to the anniversary of her coronation, and a state banquet was to mark the occasion. One hundred and fifty guests were expected, many of whom came to the court early to pay their respects, and the Grand Duchess’s time was almost entirely taken up by these visitors.

  Pattern was glad not to be directly involved with the preparations. It had taken three days just to lay the banqueting table. Under the supervision of the Warden of the Silver Vault and the Curator of the Glass and China Pantry, two thousand pieces of cutlery had to be properly distributed, and six glasses laid out for each guest. A senior steward was responsible for personally folding one hundred and fifty napkins into the shape of daffodils.