by Sarah Zettel
The handwriting in this next letter definitely belonged to the same person, but it was less clear and much more blotched, as if the words had been laid down by a trembling hand.
Mrs. R:
I cannot tell you what a relief it is to hear from you that this “suitor” of yours has been removed elsewhere by our good and loyal friends. I am breathing so much easier now. I have, I confess, been very concerned on your behalf since you told me he had found you out, not in the least because he might learn of our particular connection. But now I may continue forward with a . . . [here I had to stop because the next few words had been so badly smeared I could not make them out] . . . calm mind. Little Mischief is growing every day. You have talked of her future, and the futures of J & S. Yes, of course, it is a wonderful idea that our families should be united in law as we are in our cause, but my daughter is such an infant yet, I cannot think that far ahead . . .
There was more, but I couldn’t make myself read it. This could not possibly be genuine. And yet, I’d been told by someone—Father? Mr. Tinderflint? I couldn’t remember—that not all my mother’s letters had been found.
Which meant someone had searched for them. Which meant someone had a reason to want to know what they contained and to keep others from seeing them.
But this letter was not real. It could not be real.
. . . You have talked of her future, and the futures of J & S. Yes, of course, it is a wonderful idea that our families should be united in law as we are in our cause . . .
I raised my eyes. Mrs. Oglethorpe stood as tall and triumphant as any queen.
“Yes, Margaret. It was your mother and I together who realized that the best thing for you would be to marry into the Sandford family. Initially, you were intended for Julius, but he balked, despite everything.” She sighed with every appearance of deep and heartfelt regret. “We all of us so sadly underestimated you. I promise you, that also is finished.”
“What . . . how . . . why,” I sputtered in a most shameful fashion. “Why on earth would my mother want me married to any Sandford!”
“Is it not yet clear to you, Margaret?” Mrs. Oglethorpe moved closer. I could smell the damp London air on her, and that perfume of old roses. “Elizabeth’s cause and mine are the same.”
“That’s impossible. My mother was for Queen Anne.” And Hanover.
Mrs. Oglethorpe shook her head slowly, sadly. “That is the lie told to you by her enemies. I am sorry to cause you yet more pain and confusion, Margaret. But I cannot stand by and let Elizabeth’s daughter remain so deluded.”
“You mean you cannot risk me interfering with your plans.” The words were out before I could remember I was supposed to be fluttering.
“You are being forced to interfere with the return of England’s rightful king,” she corrected me firmly. “You are being deceived by the clever lies told by his enemies, and yours.”
“Including my father?”
“Yes, Margaret. I’m afraid so. Jonathan Fitzroy was the suitor in that letter.” She touched the paper I still held. “I was only partly instrumental in his arrest. It was your mother who furnished me with the necessary information to complete his conviction in King Louis’s courts.”
No. No. I stiffened every sinew in my body against the extremes of anger coursing through me. This woman was a liar. The worst of all possible liars. She was making use of a dead woman for her vicious, scheming slanders. These letters meant nothing. They proved nothing. Mother was a spy. There could be a thousand double meanings hidden in these pages.
“Why do you think Sir Oliver, Elizabeth’s brother, wanted you to marry into the Sandford family?” Mrs. Oglethorpe asked. “It was because in Lynnfield you would at last be safe and able to follow your mother’s path. But we were too slow, and her enemies reached you first.”
I turned my gaze away, my cheeks burning. I had to act as if I accepted this blatant untruth. But it would be only pretense, because I knew she was telling me falsehoods. My mother had not helped this woman condemn my father, her husband, to the Bastille, because to have done so would mean my mother—my beautiful, loving, laughing mother, whom I still missed with all my heart—had been an unfeeling monster.
When I could speak again, I said, “It was not Mother’s enemies who made me refuse my betrothal.”
“I cannot tell you what a disappointment Sebastian has proved to be. I have shed many tears over him. Yes, I, who have not cried since the exile. I tried repeatedly to correct him. We all did, to no avail. Now I can only promise you he will not cause you any further trouble.”
Slowly, I felt my thoughts resurface from the current of anger that threatened to drown them.
“What have you done?” This was madness. I could not be standing here actually worried about Sebastian’s fate at the hands of this callous and vicious traitor.
“Only what was necessary, nothing more, I promise.” But as she spoke these words, that softness she had attempted to assume vanished entirely. “In fact, his position will be much improved once the king is restored to his throne.”
“That might not be for a very long time.”
“No.” Mrs. Oglethorpe’s smile blazed with the light of pure triumph. “The time is almost upon us, and you, Margaret, though you did not realize it, have helped us greatly. Your discoveries urged some of our more cautious friends to action. That is why I am here. I must get you to the safety of my house before the storm breaks.”
The room had grown intensely cold. I watched this woman with her long, delicate hands as if I thought she meant to strike some blow against me. I almost wished that she would. Then I could strike back. The little knife I had concealed burned against my skin. I could wipe the sorrow and righteousness from her face. I already knew what she would say next. I knew it as I knew my name. She had been leading me along this path, carefully constructing a maze of falsehoods so heinous, I was amazed she was not struck dead for it.
“You are going to tell me Lord Tierney murdered my mother,” I said.
For once I had proved myself an apt pupil. My regal teacher bowed her head. “You have seen him kill, Margaret,” she reminded me. “You saw him murder your Mr. Peele in cold blood not so long ago. Oh, yes, we know about that,” she said before I could make any reply. “We have our loyal people in place even in the heart of the Hanoverians’ court.”
I closed my eyes. I did not wish to look at this creature anymore.
“It was poison, of course,” she went on. “Just as he used on Lady Francesca.”
I said nothing.
“Who else but Lord Tierney has been holding the reins of all your troubles and steering your footsteps as he wishes them to go? He planted your father in the Sandfords’ house. He sent you among the usurpers under false colors. He has used you as his pet and his pawn. He even enlisted your cousin and your lover to ensure your loyalty.”
Why Peggy? Matthew had once asked, when none of us expected it to be Mrs. Oglethorpe providing an answer.
“I don’t believe you,” I said, and I said it firmly, even fiercely. “I don’t believe you.”
“Your father does.”
“What?”
“He has been combing the streets for two days solid, even to the point of calling upon former servants and taking them out drinking to encourage them to talk. Why would he be doing so if he did not wish to learn the truth behind his wife’s actions those long years ago?”
“My father was—is—in Oxford.” I felt distantly pleased with the way my voice quavered around these words. I could not have done better had I tried.
“That may be what he told you, but my friends have been keeping watch on him since his return, and I promise you that is not where he is now.”
No. Where he is now is under the floorboards listening to every word you are speaking. Tell your friends they need to be more careful.
This evidence of her fallibility restored me to my right senses. I took a deep breath and held it. I took another. This lying, schemin
g woman had dealt me a blow, but I did not fall.
“You should go,” I said to her. “I am expected back.”
“You don’t have to return to the palace, Margaret,” she said urgently. “You can leave now, with me. I will take you to my house and to safety.”
“Are you planning to kidnap me as well?” I retorted. My patience and my invention were too sorely strained. “The Sandfords tried that recently and in the end decided murder would suit better.”
“No, Margaret, no! Never that. My orders were specific and direct. They were only to spirit you away. Your life is in no danger from us. If anyone told you otherwise, it was a lie!”
It seemed no one had told her how old Augustus Sandford had shot at me. This was not surprising. Save for Father and myself, all the witnesses to that particular act were dead.
“I can’t . . . I . . .” What excuse would this woman accept for my refusal to accompany her? “My cousin.” The words came out in a rush. “Olivia is at the palace. If what you say is true, I must warn her.”
For a moment I thought she would argue, but from all she had said so far, I knew Mrs. Oglethorpe believed in the bonds of family loyalty. She took my hand and held it. I wanted so badly to strike, to break and to cut. But I only smiled weakly.
“Things may be very unpleasant upon your return,” she told me earnestly. “You must prepare yourself. The instant you have made arrangements for your cousin, send word to me here.” She pulled another paper from her reticule and handed it to me. I noted the address and then, almost as a reflex, I tucked it up my sleeve. “Direct the message to Mrs. Righthandwall. I will know from whom it was sent. I will fetch you myself and we will go at once to Godalming.”
“I . . . I cannot promise anything.”
“You will.” She spoke with confidence. That same confidence showed in her wide blue eyes. Those eyes stirred memories, but I could not understand why. “After today, you will understand that your path and place lie with us.”
She sailed from the room and I stayed where I was. My mind remained an absolute blank. After all I’d heard, it seemed I could summon no new thought.
I don’t know how long it was before I heard the soft scrape beneath the floorboards and saw the trapdoor swing open.
My father climbed up to stand beside me. His breathing was harsh, as if he’d run miles to reach this place.
“I promise you, Peg . . .”
“Not one word.” I held up my hand. “Not one. I am under orders to fetch you back to the palace, and you are coming with me this minute.”
“You’re angry . . .”
I rounded on him. “Of course I’m angry! Do you know why? Because you’re lying to me. All of you are lying! You, this Oglethorpe woman, Mr. Tinderflint, my aunt, my mother, all of you! And I don’t know why, or whom to believe, because every time I think I’ve found the bottom of this disaster, it only turns out to be another great pile of lies!” I was shaking, but I could not help it. “To make matters worse, that woman thinks I’m a complete idiot!”
Father closed his mouth abruptly.
“Good Lord!” I threw up my hands. “You as well! Do you think after all those nights at court I don’t know when I’m being toyed with? Of course Mr. Tinderflint didn’t murder Mother! The Oglethorpe just wants me frightened and friendless.”
Father had the decency to look ashamed. He also seemed to recognize that now was not the moment to attempt an explanation, even if there had been one adequate to the situation.
“I can’t go in my everyday clothes,” he said. “Those friends of the Old Fury’s may be still watching the house. I’ll borrow the coachman’s coat and hat and drive you.”
“Whatever you choose,” I said. “So long as we leave now.”
Father proved to be a skilled and efficient driver, but by the time we neared the palace, I was as exhausted as if I’d sprinted the entire way in my court clothes. My encounter with Mrs. Oglethorpe had left me badly disturbed. I knew that the vast majority of what she had said to me was lies. She meant to confuse me and plant suspicions. But some of what she said might be true. It was this that dug into my heart and would not be ignored.
London traffic is a fearsome thing, but we were lucky in our timing and able to drive relatively unimpeded through the streets. As we turned the corner onto Cleveland Row, however, we came upon a massive crowd of persons, coaches, and horses, all crammed together in a solid barricade.
“What’s happening there?” cried Father to the yeomen clustered by the palace wall.
“It’s an arrest,” answered one. “They’ve caught a spy, right in the middle of the palace. You can’t go through this way—you’ll have to go ’round.”
What? I reacted more from instinct than thought. “No! You must let me through.” I pushed open the carriage door and leapt down into the street. “I’m Margaret Fitzroy, maid of honor to Her Royal Highness. If there’s danger, my place is with her!” I am ashamed at what I did next. I can only plead extremities of circumstance. I held my breath, thrust out my chest, and bit the inside of my cheek, hard, so that tears of pain glittered in my eyes. “Please! Please! You must let me through!”
The yeoman looked at my eyes, and my bosom. “All right,” he muttered, glancing at his compatriot in a warning to keep quiet. “But just you—your man waits here with the coach.”
“Thank you, oh, thank you!” I cried, which, if laying it on a bit thick, was at least heartfelt. I hiked up my hems and hurried, in the tiny steps that would allow me to move at some semblance of speed without losing my balance. Even then, I wobbled dangerously on my pattens.
Was it Sophy being arrested? Sebastian?
Olivia?
The Color Court’s gates were closed. The yeomen stood with their pikes lowered to bar the way. I recognized one of the men, although I did not know his name.
I pulled on my desperate and persuasive airs again as I rushed up to him. “Please, sir, I must get to Her Royal Highness!”
The guard whose face I knew looked down at me and sneered. “Oh, no, not you. You can just wait out here with the rest of ’em.”
But his comrade waved and shrugged. “Ah, let her through. They’ll know what to do with her in there.”
My blood was ice. I was shaking. I watched the yeoman unlock the smaller postern gate and step back. What did it mean? What could it mean?
Could it really be Olivia?
No. It can’t be. It is not Olivia. I hurried through the gate and into the courtyard. Despite my pattens, mud splashed my hems and my stockings. The courtyard was crammed with bodies. I could see no one I knew, just a crush of backs and shoulders and heads and hats.
“Please!” I cried. “Please, I must get through!” I shoved and elbowed and stepped on not a few toes. I broke through the crowd in time to hear the fresh murmurs and see a square of yeomen marching toward a closed black coach with their prisoner in the center.
I stood, and I stared. The prisoner turned and looked at me, and nodded once. His hands were shackled, his wig was gone from his head. He was very bald.
He was Mr. Tinderflint.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN WHICH FAR MORE QUESTIONS ARE ASKED THAN ANSWERED AND AN IMPROBABLE OFFER IS GRATEFULLY RECEIVED.
As I stared with the rest of the crowd, the yeomen prodded and pushed Mr. Tinderflint into the coach. It was, I noted absently, almost as large as his own gaudy conveyance. But that one had no lock to turn and no bars on its window, nor any contingent of men with swords and pole arms. And Mr. Tinderflint’s coach took only six horses to pull it, not eight.
A hand closed about my shoulder. I didn’t even flinch. I knew who it was.
“Is this your doing?” I asked my father.
“No. Whatever’s happened to Tierney, it’s no work of mine.”
“Then what have you been about all this time?”
“Trying to find out what happened to your aunt!” he cried. “D’you remember her, Peg? That lady who never left London in her
life but who suddenly packed off with her mother-in-law, and who since seems to have fallen off the face of the earth? I’ve been trawling through Pierpont’s old business and his old friends and even our old household to try to find out what she really did know and if that might have gotten her into trouble!”
Oddly, it was his exasperation that made me believe him. It also seemed to break my paralysis. As explanations would only add unnecessary delays, I simply seized Father’s hand and dragged him to the nearest cluster of yeomen.
“This man is summoned by Her Royal Highness to speak with her immediately.” I pushed him into their arms. I did not wait for their sputtering questions but instead waded as quickly as I could through the crowded yard and into the palace. I had to make sure Olivia was all right. Then I had to find Molly and hear the whole story of what had happened to Mr. Tinderflint. Then . . .
I made it no farther before the yeomen blocked my path. “Seems you’re summoned for questioning as well, Miss Fitzroy,” one said. “You’re to come with us now.”
And so I did.
It was not either of Their Royal Highnesses who questioned me in the broad, empty salon to which I was taken. Rather, it was a parade of different men—high clerks and royal confidants and assorted Lords of This and That. Some of them I knew because I’d played cards or danced with them. Some I knew only by name and reputation. Several pretended kindness. Others shouted or tried to browbeat me. As large as it was, the salon they used for this exercise had no chair. I think that was meant to cause discomfort. Apparently they neglected to consider that as a maid of honor, I was quite accustomed to standing for six or eight hours at a time.
I took care to adopt a uniform attitude of humility, complete with downcast eyes and folded hands. These men might be mere servants of the Crown as I was, but they also had the power to have me held in close confinement. At the same time, I was angry to the point of petulance. I needed answers, and they gave me nothing more than false sympathy, condescension, and a headache.
