by M C Beaton
Mr. Palfrey had had a quite dreadful night. He had dreamed of Felicity, and on waking, the dream face and the face of Princess Felicity merged in his mind and became one. He had to see her again, just to make sure. By diligently questioning the hotel staff, he obtained the princess’s address in Chesterfield Gardens and set out there at eleven in the morning while the streets of the West End were still quiet. But after half an hour of surveying the house from the opposite side of the street, he had an uneasy feeling there was no one at home.
At last, summoning up his courage, he crossed over and hammered on the knocker. He could hear the sound of his knocking echoing away into emptiness inside. A butler came out of the house next door and stood on the step and looked up and down the street.
“Tell me, my good man,” called Mr. Palfrey, “is the princess in residence?”
“Her Royal Highness and all her staff left early this morning,” said the butler.
Mr. Palfrey stood, baffled. He had been all set to take some sort of action to ease his mind. There must be something he could do.
“Do you know where they have gone?” he asked.
The butler shook his powdered wig.
Mr. Palfrey paced restlessly up and down. Then his face cleared. She had been with Lord Arthur Bessamy. If he could find Lord Arthur, then that gentleman might lead him to the whereabouts of the mysterious princess. “Do you know where a certain Lord Arthur Bessamy resides?” he asked.
The butler turned his head away in disdain. Mr. Palfrey took two gold sovereigns out of his pocket and clinked them in his hands. The butler’s head jerked round. “Just around the corner, sir,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “Number 137.”
“Thank you, fellow,” said Mr. Palfrey cockily and, returning the sovereigns to his pocket, strolled off down the street and then flinched as a lump of dried horse manure flew past his ear and the outraged butler’s screech of “Skinflint!” followed him around the corner into Curzon Street.
Then he stopped. Lord Arthur was emerging from his house. He was too formidable a man to be approached. Mr. Palfrey set out to follow.
He had to scurry to keep up with Lord Arthur’s long legs. Soon he saw his quarry walking into the Crillon Hotel. He followed at a discreet distance, saw the hotel manager bowing and scraping, and then saw Lord Arthur mounting the stairs.
He waited a few moments and then strolled into the hotel and approached the manager. “I am desirous to know who it is Lord Arthur is meeting,” he said, holding out the two sovereigns he had failed to give to the butler. The manager took the money, put it in the pocket of his tails, dabbed his mouth fastidiously with a handkerchief, and said, “Get out. We do not discuss anything to do with our guests or noble visitors.”
“Then, give me my money back this instant.”
“What money?” said the manager. “Here! Jeremy, Peter, throw this fellow out.”
Mr. Palfrey cast a scared look at the approaching waiters and ran out into the street. He stood for a moment and then crossed the road and skulked in a doorway.
When Lord Arthur entered the Barchesters’ hotel drawing room, he was relieved to see only Mr. Barchester. He did not yet feel ready to face his soon-to-be disengaged fiancée.
“Martha’s putting on her pretties,” said Mr. Barchester. “Sit down, sit down, Bessamy. Help yourself to wine.”
Lord Arthur poured himself a glass of burgundy and sat down opposite Mr. Barchester. “I fear you will not be pleased to see me when you learn the reason for my visit.”
Mr. Barchester’s shrewd little eyes twinkled in the pads of fat that were his cheeks. “I’ll try to bear up,” he said. “What’s to do?”
“What would you say, sir, were I to tell you that I have fallen in love for the first time in my life, and, alas, not with your daughter?”
There was a long silence. Then Mr. Barchester tilted his glass of port to his mouth and took a gulp. “That’s better,” he said. “Oh, well, as to your question, I would say I have been planning new stables this past age.”
Lord Arthur looked in amazement at Mr. Barchester. One of Mr. Barchester’s fat eyelids drooped in a wink. “Come on, Bessamy,” he said. “You always struck me as being a knowing cove.”
“So,” said Lord Arthur slowly, “am I to take it that if I build new stables for you, the Barchester family will not sue me for breach of promise?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Barchester cheerfully.
“You do not seem in the least surprised. I feel a cad and a charlatan for treating your daughter so.”
“She’s used to it,” said Mr. Barchester heartlessly. “See that new wing at Hapsmere Manor? That was when Sir Henry Carruthers cried off. And the fine tiled roof? That was… let me see… ah, that was Mr. Tommy Bradshaw. The staircase was the Honorable Peter Chambers, but then he didn’t have too much of the ready…”
“How many times has Miss Barchester been engaged?”
“’Bout four or five. M’wife’ll put you straight.”
“But don’t you see,” said Lord Arthur, appalled, “I cannot possibly bring myself to break the engagement now! After all these disappointments… I would feel like a monster.”
“Take Martha out for a little walk and have a talk to her,” said Mr. Barchester. “Martha’s little talks always do the trick. You’ll be back here like a rat up a spout, begging to give me those new stables.”
Lord Arthur was not able to say any more, for at that moment the door opened and Miss Barchester walked in, accompanied by her mother. She was wearing a severe walking dress of old-fashioned cut and a poke bonnet. She treated Lord Arthur to a cool smile.
“Off you go, Martha,” said her father heartily. “Bessamy here’s come to take you for a little walk.”
As they made their way to Hyde Park, Lord Arthur had an odd feeling he was being followed. He turned around sharply several times, but the streets were very busy and no one appeared to be paying him any particular interest.
Martha was talking steadily in a level voice and at last he was able to take in what she was saying.
“When we are married, I should like to spend most of the year in town,” said Miss Barchester. “The ladies’ fashions are sadly skimpy, and fashion would have a new leader.”
“In yourself?” asked Lord Arthur, glancing down at her walking dress and wondering how she had managed to find material that was so drab, so mud-colored.
“Of course! And I am sure you will agree with me that marriages in which men spend all their time at their clubs end in disaster.”
“On the contrary, it might be the saving of many.”
“You are funning, of course. I have not told you before, Lord Arthur, but there is a certain levity about you which must be curbed.”
Lord Arthur stopped listening to her, saving all his energies for the scene he knew must surely break about his head when he told her he no longer wished to marry her.
How could he have ever for a moment thought she might make a suitable wife? Well, she had seemed so calm, so docile, so biddable.
He led her to an iron bench by the Serpentine and dusted it before they sat down. There was a crackling and a rustling in the bushes behind him, and Miss Barchester looked around nervously.
“Probably a dog,” said Lord Arthur.
Mr. Palfrey scrunched down in the bushes and strained his ears.
In a flat voice, Lord Arthur proceeded to tell Miss Barchester that he wished to terminate their engagement.
She heard him in silence and then said, “You will soon come to your senses. In any case, I refuse to release you.”
“Even when you know this marriage would now make me unhappy?”
“Although you are not a young man,” said Miss Barchester coyly, “I fear the company of a certain princess has turned your head. Now, do be sensible. I am sure you do not want a scandal. Gentlemen are like little boys. They never seem to know their own minds—which is why we ladies must make the decisions for them. Don’t be silly, Lor
d Arthur. We are going to be married, and you have nothing to say in the matter.”
“Madam! You have just persuaded me to go to any lengths to be free of you. Come, I shall escort you back to your parents.”
“I prefer to stay here. It is pleasant.”
“Then, stay by yourself,” said Lord Arthur wrathfully, and, getting to his feet, he strode off.
He went straight back to the Crillon, up the stairs, and into the drawing room.
Mr. Barchester rubbed his chubby hands when he saw his face. “Have some more wine, dear boy!” he cried. “And let us discuss the new stables.”
Miss Barchester screamed as a dandified, middle-aged man crashed out of the bushes behind her.
“Hush, dear lady,” he said. “I am here to help you. Lord Arthur Bessamy was at the opera t’other night with a young lady calling herself Princess Felicity of Brasnia.”
The scream for help died stillborn on Miss Barchester’s thin lips.
“Who are you?” she demanded sharply.
Mr. Palfrey came around and sat down beside her. “Let me explain…” he began.
Chapter Nine
“Do you know,” said Dolph, as he and Lord Arthur bowled along the Brighton Road, “I met an old tutor of mine from Oxford. Asked him about Brasnia and he said he had never heard of it.”
“Odd, the ignorance of some of those Oxford dons,” said Lord Arthur. “Come to think of it, it’s quite disgraceful.”
“But he’s a clever chap. Everybody says so. Now, you tell me. Where’s Brasnia?”
“It is up near the Arctic Circle,” said Lord Arthur. “Quite a small country, very savage, full of polar bears and…”
“What kind of bears?”
“White. All over. So that they can hide themselves in the snow. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the inhabitants live in mansions carved out of ice in the winter, and, in the summer they live in tents made out of reindeer skin.”
“But don’t they have cities… towns? I mean doesn’t the princess have a castle?”
“Of course she does. A white castle with long, glittering icicles hanging from the towers. It was built in the thirteenth century by Georgi the Horrible. He kept four maidens locked up at one time, which is why the castle has four tall towers. When he had… er… had his way with them, he fed them to his pet bears.”
“The white ones?” said Dolph suspiciously.
“Except when they fed on the maidens. Then they turned a delicate, rosy pink.”
“They must be very well-educated people. I mean, Miss Chubiski speaks English very well.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she. Alas, it is only the aristocracy who can enjoy the benefits of education. There is no middle class—only aristocracy and peasants. The peasants are illiterate to a man.”
“Look here, don’t tell me the shopkeepers are all aristocrats. How do they keep the books?”
“They don’t. The price of each article is indicated by so many stamps of the foot, rather like that educated pig at Bartholomew Fair.”
“What if something cost a hundred guineas? The shopkeeper would have a sore foot before he got the price out. And what about pounds, shillings, and pence?”
“My dear, dear Dolph, Nothing so complicated. It is a very poor country, so they don’t have anything at all that costs over the equivalent of one pound. They have only a small coin called a secrudo, made of tin.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking rubbish?” said Dolph. “Go on. Tell me about the ruler.”
“The king is…”
“Now, wait a minute, you told Prinny that Brasnia was a principality.”
“So I did, and I made the whole thing up then. Now you are hearing the real truth. King Georgi the Fourth, is Princess Felicity’s uncle. He poisoned his queen because he wanted to keep up the family tradition of incarcerating maidens in the four towers and subsequently feeding them to the bears. He… Dolph, this is all very interesting, and you keep twisting your head about.”
“Well, it’s a funny thing, but I was getting a nasty, prickling feeling in the back of my neck. I thought it was because you were prosing on about maidens being fed to bears. But I turned about and took a glance down the road behind. There’s a traveling carriage, and as I looked, a head popped out the window and the passenger yelled something to the driver. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked horribly like that Mr. Palfrey.”
“More than likely. I was unfortunate enough to meet him at the opera last night. We’ll shake him loose. Long roundabout journey to Brighton, I am afraid.”
Lord Arthur turned off the Brighton road and drove some ten miles to where Lord Achesham, a friend of his father’s, had a mansion. His lordship was not at home, but his butler was delighted to receive a hefty tip to show them the back way out of the estate, and then to tell anyone asking for them that they were guests of Lord Achesham and would be staying for some time. And if an impertinent fellow should inquire after a certain Princess Felicity, the butler was to say that she, too, was in residence. If he insisted on seeing the princess, he was to be shown out.
Felicity had told John Tremayne not to use her fake title when he rented a house. She had no wish to be brought to the attention of the worthies of Brighton. It had proved remarkably easy for John to find a suitable residence large enough for Felicity and her staff. Until the end of the Season, Brighton was a quiet place. In June, when the Prince arrived with his court and followers, it would spring into life.
It was wonderful to settle down into relative anonymity. She often thought of Lord Arthur, but distance from him had given her courage. A man who was engaged to one lady, and yet could kiss another, was not a gentleman.
A few callers had tried to leave cards with Miss Chubb—Felicity having made the governess take the house in her name—as a certain interest had been provoked in the lady who had taken one of the largest houses in Brighton. But gloomy Spinks had told them all that Miss Chubb did not wish to see anyone. The advantage of renting a house complete with furniture and arriving with a highly trained staff meant Felicity had been able to settle in almost immediately.
No callers to Spinks also included Lord Arthur Bessamy and Mr. Charles Godolphin, who arrived on the doorstep three days after Felicity’s arrival, it having taken them the whole of the previous day to track her down.
Lord Arthur, however, insisted on leaving his card, and that was to cause ructions. Felicity, determined to be good, might not have decided to see him had not both Miss Chubb and Mr. Silver cried out against the very idea. Now Mr. Silver, that assiduous reader of newspapers, could have told his young mistress that an announcement of the termination of Lord Arthur’s engagement had just appeared in the Times. But it was not Lord Arthur he distrusted so much as Dolph, and so he deliberately did not tell her. Felicity herself rarely read the newspapers, finding the long tales of war in the Spanish peninsula frightening and depressing, and the social gossip a mixture of malice and trivia. But Miss Chubb and Mr. Silver’s orders that she must not have anything more to do with Lord Arthur set up a spirit of perversity in Felicity. The memory of that kiss was achingly sweet. She was frightened at the idea of the approaching visit to the Queen’s drawing room and craved the reassurance of Lord Arthur’s presence.
Accordingly, when Lord Arthur and Dolph called the following day, Felicity had been watching for them and commanded Spinks to allow them to enter.
Lord Arthur promptly suggested that Felicity should accompany him on a drive, and Dolph, taking his cue, said he would be happy to stay and keep Miss Chubb company. Mr. Silver muttered something rude under his breath, and went out for a long walk.
The day was sparkling and brisk as Lord Arthur drove Felicity up over the downs. He laughed at her fears over her forthcoming presentation to the Queen. “It is not a terrifying occasion,” he said. “People push and shove to get into the drawing room. They bow or curtsey, as the case may be. Her Majesty takes snuff and looks bored. And then they shove and fi
ght back downstairs, usually to find that their disposables, such as shawls, hats, tippets, and cloaks, have been stolen.”
“But surely there are some people who fall ill, who are unable to attend,” said Felicity. “I could be one of them.”
“It would be considered very odd in a… visiting royalty?”
His voice ended on a question, and Felicity blushed. “Why are you in Brighton, my lord?” she asked, as he stopped his team on a grassy hill above the sea.
“Now, I should have thought that was obvious. I came in pursuit of you, my princess.”
Felicity turned her head away and fiddled with the long blue satin ribbons of her gown. “My lord, I must remind you that you are engaged to Miss Barchester.”
“No longer. I disengaged myself.”
Felicity suddenly felt ridiculously happy. But his next words took all that happiness away. “Now, Princess Felicity,” he said, “do you not think it is time you told me all about Brasnia?”
She hung her head. She longed to tell him the truth, but would he believe her? I took the jewels and ran. But what proof had she that the jewels were really hers? And how could their relationship deepen unless she did tell him the truth?
“Don’t look so miserable,” he said gently. “We will have all our married life before us to talk about the wretched place.”
Felicity’s wide eyes flew to meet his. “You wish to marry me?”
“Of course. I do not kiss gently bred ladies unless my intentions are serious, and they have never before been as serious as this.”
“I cannot marry you,” said Felicity miserably. He jumped lightly down from the carriage and led his team of horses to a stunted tree and tethered them. Then he helped Felicity to alight.
“Now, why can’t you marry me?” he said.
“My family would forbid it.”
“Ah, back to Brasnia again. Perhaps I should go there and ask whoever I need to ask.”
“That would not answer. I am already betrothed.”
“To whom?”
“Prince Ivan, my first cousin.”
“Here. You cannot go around marrying first cousins. You’ll have a nursery full of imbeciles. My dearest, is it not time you told me the truth?”
