The Last Duchess

by Laura Powell

  ‘What do you think this is about?’

  ‘It could be a scene of old magic, to show how the Prince first tamed the dragon,’ Eleri replied. ‘Or the images are merely allegorical – to be symbols of his character and deeds, you know, rather than actual events.’ She ran a finger along the part of the wall that concealed the passage to the dragon’s lair. ‘But for so long as the dragon sleeps, it is my uncle who is the enemy. We cannot fight him with magic, much as I would like to turn him into a cross-eyed toad.’

  This was certainly true. Yet the Grand Duchess’s sleep-talking, and her own disturbed dreams, made Pattern question how deeply the dragon slumbered. Her candle flickered in the draught so that light danced on the fresco’s flaking colours and crude lines, giving them an eerie illusion of life. She was not sorry to shut the chapel door behind them.

  Their only real source of news was the Elffish Enquirer – which still preferred to trade in hints and allusions – and Dilys, who proved a somewhat reluctant informant. Dilys was much troubled by what Franz had reported of his trip to Llanotto, and it was clear the girl did not quite know what to make of the Grand Duchess’s position, or how Pattern had become so closely involved in her affairs.

  Ever since Pattern’s visit to Caer Grunwald, a crowd of protesters gathered daily outside the castle gates. Many of the missing children’s relatives kept vigil there, sombre faced and dressed in black. Another crowd was encamped outside the parliament building. The approaching ball roused both groups to new heights of indignation. Shame on the court for making merry at such a time! What was the Grand Duchess thinking?

  In fact, it was a matter of constant speculation among commoners and nobility alike as to how much the Grand Duchess knew about the threat to Elffinberg. Did she understand her duty? Was she ready to fulfil it? Surely her dear uncle would try to prepare her for all eventualities. Or would he shield her from the evil as best he could, right up to the last possible moment?

  In the midst of all this conjecture and confusion, Eleri and Pattern’s principal consolation was that Madoc had proved good as his word. Howell, the coachman, had already made his first visit to the castle, delivering a packet of documents hidden within a hatbox. A heavyset, unsmiling man, he promised a second delivery on the morning of the ball. They were particularly anxious to know the fate of the children trapped in the manufactory, and what new prison they might have been transferred to.

  As a distraction, Eleri poured her energies into crafting the speech she would make to denounce her uncle. Her eyes flashed and colour rose as she strode about her chamber, flinging out her arms one moment, beating her breast the next, as she worked her way through a crescendo of accusations.

  ‘I think,’ Pattern counselled, after a decent pause, ‘that perhaps it would be better to keep your natural emotions in check. You must not only make the case against your uncle, but demonstrate your own statesmanship. It’s right that you are angry, but you must be the voice of reason above all else.’

  Many more drafts were written, many more recitals given, until Eleri’s speech was dispassionate, logical and remorseless enough to satisfy both. Eleri called Pattern a tyrant and a slave-driver, but allowed the final version was much improved on her first attempt.

  When not engaged in speechifying, Eleri’s principal occupation was looking over the invitation list to identify potential allies and enemies in the guests. Prince Leopold had recruited people from all levels of society to his plot, from his personal guard to the foreman and manager of his pottery, to venerable nobles in the Council of State. They too would have to be flushed out, made to bear witness, and punished accordingly.

  ‘I see the Ap Erwin clan are attending. They are my nearest relations, and so the eldest daughter, Cousin Hilde, is next in line to be dragon-fodder. I’d feel sorry for her, if she were not a selfish brat who cut off the tail on my rocking-horse . . . Who knows where Lord and Lady Prosser’s loyalties lie, but they’re so stupid it hardly matters. I dined with them the other day, and Lady P thought the Danube was a city in France! . . . Ha! No surprise to find the Marquis of Neu-Harlech on the list. He goes hunting with Leopold, and is one of his biggest bootlickers on the Council . . . And here we have the Honourable Ludwig Jones. His parents have planned for us to wed since we were both in our cradles. They, at least, will not wish me dead . . .’

  Pattern watched Eleri pore over the list. The girl was full of restless energy, but her eyes were shadowed, and her fingernails bitten to the quick. She herself had not dreamed of the dragon again, but she feared it haunted Eleri’s sleep. On two occasions she had gone to check on the Grand Duchess after she had gone to bed, and heard the girl pleading in her sleep, then give voice to strange chuckles and rasping hisses that seemed to have no human source. It sickened Pattern to hear them, and for long afterwards dread moved through her like infected blood. Yet in the morning, the Grand Duchess had no memory of anything untoward.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It is in parties of pleasure, and at places of public amusement, that familiarity is most contagious, and may be to you most dangerous.

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

  The day of the ball was unusually hot. It had been a very dry summer, and though it was only October, the parched trees had already begun to drop their leaves, and the lawns were patched with brown. Returning from an errand in town, Pattern viewed the castle through a blurry haze of heat, and was put in mind of a vast sweating hulk of yellowish cheese. A fug of perspiration settled below stairs to join the steam and smells from the kitchen, and even the lords and ladies suffered from a creeping moisture about their person that no amount of iced refreshment or fan-wafting could dispel. There was not so much as the hint of a breeze. The whole country seemed to be holding its breath.

  For those attending the ball, preparations began mid-afternoon. After reclining in a warm bath, the Grand Duchess took a quick dip in a cold one to polish her skin. Her nails were trimmed, and her complexion anointed with every potion and powder at Pattern’s disposal. Her hair was braided, combed, coaxed and curled. Both girls were nervous, and Pattern, normally so deft and sure, stumbled more than once in her wielding of the pins.

  She was just readjusting a tendril of curl to her satisfaction when two maids shuffled into the chamber, bearing a large box done up in velvet ribbons. ‘A present from Prince Leopold, Your Highness.’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Eleri asked after they had gone. ‘Poisoned chocolates? A keg of gunpowder?’

  Pattern lifted out a sumptuous white ball gown, its bodice sewn all over with crystals and pearls. Eleri gingerly poked the sleeves. ‘Hmph. It still might be booby-trapped.’

  ‘Well, there are no spikes sewn into the hems that I can see. It is probably best you wear it. You don’t want to raise your uncle’s suspicions at so late an hour. And it is very fine.’

  Eleri had planned to wear a gown of deep rose satin, made up according to the latest Parisian style, but the fabric was heavier and would be much less comfortable in the heat of a crowded ballroom. Pattern could find no fault with the measurements of Prince Leopold’s gift, for it fitted Eleri like a glove. They had already selected the simplest tiara in the Crown Jewel collection: a delicate filigree of diamonds and white gold.

  Tiara in place, Eleri stood before the looking-glass. ‘I have to allow the man has better taste in frocks than he does in porcelain. What do you think, Pattern? Am I grown beautiful, like my mama? Am I a picture-book princess?’

  ‘I think . . . you look a real heroine, not a fairy-tale one.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Pattern considered. She had come to realize that a person did not have to be picturesque to be worthy of adventure. Everyone was the hero of their own story. But true heroism, surely, was the part you played in the story of others. ‘It means I think you look like a leader.’

  ‘Then I will try to act like one.’ Eleri straightened her shoulders. ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘I
t is.’

  Thanks to Madoc, they had assembled quite a collection of invoices and receipts, lists of names and materials, maps and diagrams. Some of the information was easy to decipher; other documents would need longer study for their import to be understood. Pattern had taken the most-incriminating papers, folded them up very small, and hidden them in the lining of her sewing basket. During their conference in the forest, Madoc had revealed the existence of several spy-holes cut in the walls between the servants’ rat-runs and the main castle. One of them overlooked the ballroom, and it was here Pattern would position herself, ready for Eleri to give the cue. Then she would step out and present the papers to her mistress.

  Traditionally, the Grand Duchess addressed her guests at midnight, just before the buffet. It was now eight. The fairy lights twinkled in the pine trees, the flaming cressets to either side of the portico spat sparks into the evening air. The candles were lit and champagne was chilled. The castle was ready, and so were they.

  Pattern went first. On her way out of the room, Eleri caught her by the hand. ‘You are my only friend, Pattern, but I couldn’t hope for a better one.’ She bit her lip. ‘I have decided that perhaps the reason my people are so afraid – so credulous and cowed – is because I, their Grand Duchess, am no better. I have allowed myself to be angry and frightened for too long. But you make me brave. I think if I can become worthy of your friendship, then maybe I will be worth something to my country too.’

  Tears prickled in Pattern’s eyes. She longed to make a reply as heartfelt as it was eloquent. But friendship was still a new language to her, and her stumbled tongue could not find the words. She took refuge in a curtsy and smile.

  Despite the momentous events that loomed ahead, Pattern was not entirely untouched by the excitement of the occasion. She paused a moment by the window of the upper gallery as the first carriages drew up outside and disgorged their plumed and puffed-up cargo.

  ‘And so the circus begins.’

  Madoc had performed his usual trick of appearing out of thin air. Pattern was relieved to see him. She had not laid eyes on the valet since leaving Llanotto Wells. He looked strained, however, and his complexion was an unhealthy grey. Life as a double agent was clearly taking its toll. Perhaps this accounted for his acid tone.

  ‘Look at them! So much wealth and privilege, so much education and refinement! Yet hardly an original thought or useful skill between them.’

  ‘Would we be any better if we had been born to their position?’

  ‘I believe you would, Miss Pattern. Some people will always want to make the best of themselves, and what they see around them. But a life of ease is an enemy to enterprise. There may come a time when our masters will discover for themselves just how hapless they are beneath their gilding.’ He shook his head, and his smile shimmered. ‘Birth is an accident. Luck, however, is something we can make for ourselves. And heaven knows, Miss Pattern, we are in need of it tonight.’

  The valet moved on before she could respond. Pattern was never quite sure of what to say to Madoc, in any case. Hugging her sewing basket to her chest, she prepared to take up her position. The back stairs reverberated to the sound of hurrying feet, laboured breath and muttered curses, as people elbowed their way past each other on an endless round of chores. History did not relate who had made the spy-holes, and Pattern did not know how many of the servantry knew their secret. The one she was using had been most cunningly concealed, and was in the back of a small store whose wall overlooked the ballroom. Madoc – via Howell, the coachman – had supplied her with a key to lock it from the inside, and although the space was cramped and cluttered, she had found time earlier in the day to furnish it with a stool.

  Her first squint through the spy-hole half blinded her. Thousands of beeswax candles were reflected in the ballroom’s mirrored walls. They swam in the floor’s polished glimmer, glittered in the drops of the chandeliers, and sparkled in the jewels of the guests. No doubt Madoc was right, and most of these people amounted to very little if stripped of their costly embellishments. All the same, it made for a very splendid sight.

  A trumpet fanfare sounded from the Musicians’ Gallery high up under the roof. The buzzing, rustling crowd fell silent as the doors were flung wide by pages and, preceded by the Chamberlain, Her Royal Highness Arianwen Eleri Charlotte Louise, Grand Duchess of Elffinberg, made her Grand Entrance to the Prince Elffin’s Day Ball.

  As one, the assembly swayed into curtsy and bow as Eleri walked towards the large gilded chair on the crimson dais. It was backed by crimson draperies and stood beneath a fringed canopy of the same colour. A number of other spindly gold chairs were arranged upon the wide platform, for the comfort of Prince Leopold and other courtiers, who processed behind their monarch.

  Among the richly glowing fabrics, the simplicity of Eleri’s white dress marked her out even more than the isolation of her rank. She looked very small and pale and upright as she made her way across the room. Once she had taken her seat, the musicians struck up, and almost immediately afterwards she was on her feet again – a buck-toothed youth wearing a yellow sash had come to ask for her hand. Now she must open the ball by leading the first dance. Guests took their places for the quadrille.

  Prince Leopold, usually a tireless dancer, did not participate. He slumped on the dais in near silence, frowning and picking his nails. After the rigours of the quadrille, a footman presented Eleri with a glass of lemonade but the Prince waved away all refreshment, and rebuffed all attempts at conversation.

  Pattern regretted bringing no refreshment for herself. Hours passed, and she grew weary in her cupboard. Her legs were stiff, her back sore from hunching to look through the spy-hole. After a while, she even tired of casting a professional eye over the cut and cloth of the ladies’ gowns, and the dressing of their hair. It must have been very warm, for the lily-white complexions got progressively redder, and a sheen of dampness was visible on even the finest brow. The dancing was as stiff as it was stately, and so was the talk. Nobody seemed truly at ease. This was more than the formality of the occasion or the closeness of the air. Everyone was thinking of the burnt fields, the lost children, the fires in the sky.

  Yet Pattern was still unprepared when the castle’s bell tolled midnight. It boomed over the song of the violins, the ripples of talk, and shuffle of slippered feet. As silence fell, Pattern felt her own body shiver like struck bronze.

  Her mouth was dry and palms clammy as she freed the precious documents from their hiding place. She pressed her eye to the spy-hole to watch as Eleri rose from her chair, pausing only to take a cooling sip of lemonade. The crowd waited expectantly. Most had fixed their faces into expressions of polite appreciation. A few were already smothering yawns.

  ‘Friends, countrymen. Honoured guests. On this our founding day, it is customary to speak of Elffinberg’s glories. Now, however, is not the time. A grave danger menaces our land.’

  A grave danger, but not the one you think, Pattern mouthed silently behind the panelling. She knew the speech as well as the Grand Duchess; both girls could have given it in their sleep. So why was Eleri slurring and stumbling over her words? And why had she paused? Had the heat of the room got too much for her?

  ‘A grave danger . . . that is . . . not . . . but not what . . . not . . .’

  The crowd shifted uneasily. Eleri’s face was curiously slack, her eyes glazed. She seemed to sway.

  ‘Not what I . . . you . . .’

  An anxious murmuring swelled through the room.

  Prince Leopold got to his feet and put a supportive arm around her shoulders.

  ‘My dear niece is overcome by the emotion of the hour. We both hoped and prayed it would not come to this. But I must tell you that earlier today, Her Royal Highness summoned me to her chamber and said she had received the Sign.’

  Gasps and sighs.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Prince, raising his voice, and lifting his chin in a tragical yet noble attitude. ‘The voices of her ancestors have sp
oken to her. Elffin’s Bane has demanded a blood ransom, and will not be denied. And so the Grand Duchess has decreed that tonight will be the night of her supreme sacrifice, for the continued peace and protection of our beloved land.’

  As the room exploded into sobs of pity and cries of acclaim, all the breath was choked out of Pattern’s body. Why didn’t Eleri shout him down? Rage and resist? She just stood there, drooped, and blinked dully.

  Pattern rose to her feet. She did not know what she was going to say or do once she got to the ballroom. She only knew she must act.

  But the storeroom door opened even before she could put the key in the lock. A dark shape loomed over her; she caught the scent of aniseed . . . and an iron hand pressed a foul-smelling rag against her nose and mouth.

  The world dissolved into blackness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A sense of benefits received naturally inspires a grateful disposition, with a desire of making suitable returns.

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

  ‘Miss, Miss! Wake up!’

  Pattern was assaulted by another odour, but this time she recognized the ammonia sharpness of sal volatile. Dilys had found the bottle of smelling salts in her pocket and was shoving it vigorously against Pattern’s nostrils.

  ‘Thank you . . . I am . . . I am recovered,’ she managed to say. She was slumped on a landing in the back stairs, and her head ached horribly. It took a moment for her to recollect what had brought her there. Her eyes widened in alarm as everything came rushing back, and she struggled to sit up. ‘The Grand Duchess!’

  ‘Hush now, and rest a while. You’ve had quite an ordeal.’ Dilys’s work-roughened hand patted hers. Franz the coachman regarded her anxiously from the corner. No one else could be seen in the dingy stairwell or passageway.