by Y. S. Lee
Mary had her own opinions about heart-shaped lockets crammed with hair, but she smiled anyway. “Very sentimental. It looks as though things are serious with your Mr. Jones.”
“D’you think so?” asked Amy with eager pride. “I do, but sometimes I can hardly believe it’s all real. And listen, tomorrow’s Saint Valentine’s Day. I want one of them big, beautiful valentines — you know, with real lace and feathers — and that’s just the start.”
“Are you going to see Mr. Jones tomorrow evening?”
Amy made a face. “I asked Mrs. Shaw for an hour’s leave — to see my mam, I said it was — but she wouldn’t say until tomorrow. I think she suspects.”
Mary smiled very slightly. “I suppose everybody wants to go visit their mother on Saint Valentine’s Day.”
“But we’ll see. All’s not lost, even if she don’t give me leave.” Amy nodded and gave a sly wink.
“How d’you mean? You’ve worked out a way to slip out at night?”
But Amy only smiled and winked again.
“Well,” said Mary, for this was the time to turn the conversation in the direction she needed, “if you want a bit of time in the day, you’ve only to say. I could dust the drawing rooms for you, and the like.” Amy was responsible for cleaning the Blue Room — the one from which the original figurines had gone missing. So far, Mary had managed passing glances in the daytime and a careful nighttime inspection, but it was possible that a leisurely cleaning session by gaslight would yield useful information.
Amy’s eyes sparkled. “You’re a dear. I don’t mind telling you I’ve high hopes for tomorrow. . . .”
“And so have I, my darling,” purred a new voice. Male. Smooth. Educated. And naggingly familiar.
Both Mary and Amy jumped at the interruption, although their reactions were entirely different. Amy squealed and grabbed at her bonnet, whisking off the frumpy dust covers as fast as her shaking hands would allow. Mary, however, went very still. Then, with a grim feeling of certainty, she turned slowly toward the voice. There, smirking at her, was Amy’s Mr. Jones: a green-eyed man of middle height, neither fat nor thin, neither handsome nor ugly. He wore a badly pressed suit. Nothing about him seemed likely to inspire squeals of delight or stunned silence, and yet he had done just that.
Mary had first met Octavius Jones, gutter-press journalist and incorrigible busybody, while she was working at St. Stephen’s Tower. Admittedly, he’d been a small help to her toward the end of the case. But he’d also been the only person to see through her disguise as twelve-year-old Mark Quinn, and unless she was much mistaken, he’d not let that drop now. Jones was a shameless liar who’d not hesitate to sell his mother for tuppence profit, and boast about it afterward. Needless to say, he was also the last complication she needed on a case such as this.
At the sight of Mary, his face twisted with surprise — but only for an instant.
“Tavvy!” Amy leaped across the narrow space and planted a row of enthusiastic kisses on his face. “I ain’t expected you for ages!”
He flinched at the nickname but soon recovered. “I couldn’t wait to see you, my dear.” “Tavvy” accepted Amy’s attentions rather in the manner of a man tolerating the ecstatic licking of a puppy, and his eyes were fixed upon Mary the whole time.
“You say the sweetest things!” cooed Amy.
“Darling, aren’t you going to introduce me to your little friend?”
Amy’s voice quivered with pride as she made the introductions. “Mary, this is Mr. Octavius Jones; Mr. Jones, this is Mary Quinn, who started as a housemaid in the new year.”
Mary dropped a very slight curtsy. “A pleasure, sir.”
Jones’s eyes were now alight with mischief. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Quinn. Amy did tell me there had been some changes to the staff in recent months. And if it’s not too forward of me, I must say that you look terribly familiar. Where could I have met you previously?”
Beside him — under his arm, rather — Amy stiffened. “I’m sure you can’t have met before.”
Mary sighed inwardly. It was no more than she expected of him; he was constitutionally incapable of leaving well enough alone. But it was infuriating nonetheless. “I can’t imagine. Might you be mistaken, sir?”
“I doubt it; I’ve an excellent memory for faces — especially features as intriguing as yours. So exotic . . .” He all but smacked his lips. “Have you, by any chance, foreign blood?”
“Quinn is an Irish name, Mr. Jones.” She swung her broom in a larger arc than necessary, nearly grazing his knees. His wide grin at this far-from-subtle gesture only annoyed her more.
“Anyway, it’s lovely to see you now,” said Amy with brisk determination. “I’m sure Miss Quinn won’t object to our taking a brief stroll.”
“Of course not, Amy. Take as long as you like.”
Jones hesitated. “It does feel unkind, though, Miss Quinn, to leave you slaving here all on your own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tavvy,” said Amy, trying to keep her good temper. “Miss Quinn doesn’t want to play gooseberry.”
“Certainly not,” agreed Mary. “I wish you good morning, Mr. Jones.”
Amy tugged on his arm, trying to draw him away, but Jones held his ground. “You do look so very familiar. . . . Are you quite sure we’ve not met before? Or perhaps you’ve a sister, or even a brother, who looks like you.”
“London’s a large town, Mr. Jones. There must be dozens of women who look just like me.”
“That I refuse to believe. Never mind — it’ll come to me in time,” he promised with a cheerful wink. “You just see if it doesn’t.”
Mary found it very difficult not to bring her broom down on his head. “Good day, Mr. Jones,” she said in her frostiest tones.
He finally permitted Amy to drag him away. But as they reached the service gate that led into the park, he glanced back at her just for a moment. He mouthed a sentence: “See you soon.”
She didn’t doubt it for an instant.
That afternoon, as Mary approached Her Majesty’s private drawing room carrying a tea tray, the first thing she heard beyond the improperly closed door was the Prince of Wales’s voice, raised high in a querulous whine. “I tell you again: I cannot remember exactly what happened, Mother!”
The queen’s voice was cold and precise and quiet. “You were there. The dead man was your friend. You were surely concerned for his safety. Why can’t you remember, Edward?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Prince Bertie, as he was known to the servants, heaved a sigh. “Because I was blind drunk, Mother, and — and — hysterical. I was screaming like a woman because I was so afraid. There. Are you happy now?”
“I am far from happy, Albert Edward Wettin.”
“It was a figure of speech, Mother.”
“I am aware of that. I am appalled to discover that my son and heir is not only a sot but a hysterical coward.”
Sullen silence.
“You must try harder to remember. It is all there, in your brain.” She paused. “Even such a mind as yours.”
The prince made an explosive sound. “For the love of God, Mother!”
“I do love my God, Edward. Your behavior, however, suggests that you do not love yours as much as you ought.”
“Oh, what is the use in trying to talk to you?” The prince’s words were so anguished that Mary felt a moment’s pity. Spoiled and selfish as he was, he was in an impossible position.
“How dare you speak to me like that? I am doing my best to shelter you from the consequences of your own actions! I desire only to protect your good name, spare you the shame of public exposure, eliminate the anxiety of your testifying publicly — and you would speak so to me!”
A long silence. Mary dared not set down the tray, dared not move or even draw a deep breath. “Not before the servants” was an ideal, of course, impossible to uphold in a busy and heavily serviced household such as this. But she very much doubted that this particular conversation would have c
ontinued had either mother or son realized she was on the threshold.
Finally, Prince Bertie spoke. His voice was weary and contrite. “I beg your pardon, Mother. I shall try to remember what happened.”
“Do your best, my son. It is vitally important.”
Another brief pause. Then the prince asked, “Mother, this sailor killed Beaulieu-Buckworth. He’ll die regardless of what I remember. What does it matter whether it’s a traitor’s death or a murderer’s?”
The queen’s tone sharpened slightly. “Does it matter to you, Edward?”
“Er — well . . . not really!” An awkward pause. “I mean, yes, I suppose it could. Does, I mean. The truth will out, and all that. . . . That’s in the Bible, isn’t it?”
There was a long, taut silence. Then the queen’s voice came again, distant and precise and cold. “‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free’: the book of John, eighth chapter, thirty-second verse. I believe that is the quotation you sought.”
No response.
“You are correct in supposing that whichever is the case, this man will die. He is a bad man, of course: a violent opium smoker. But if he is also a traitor, we must make an example of him. An attack on you is, in effect, an attack on this nation. To permit a foreigner to threaten the crown is unthinkable — especially a Chinese, in the current state of affairs.” She paused. “Sift your memories, Albert Edward Wettin. It is no small thing to be the future king, to have a hand in laying the path for justice.”
“I . . . I do not know what to say, Mother.”
“Do you understand what I’ve told you?”
Prince Bertie’s tone was resentful. “Yes!”
“Then there is nothing more to be said.” Her skirts rustled, and Mary heard the prince scramble to his feet. “I have a headache, Edward. I shall not take tea this afternoon.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I expect to see you at both supper and at evening prayers.”
“Yes, Mother.”
At the first swish of Queen Victoria’s skirts, Mary retreated round the corner, heart pounding furiously. This was a significant reversal of her earlier position: the queen was interested not only in the truth of what had happened that night, but in the general ideal of truth! What if the prince succeeded in remembering something that might clear Lang Jin Hai of the gravest charge, high treason? Would Her Majesty find a way to make that known to the police? Or what if Lang had acted in self-defense and Beaulieu-Buckworth’s death had been a terrible accident? Mary’s hopes rose despite her attempts to squash them down. With sufficient evidence, Prince Bertie’s memories could even lift Lang’s death sentence.
A delicate rattling of china reminded her of the tray in her hands, and it took a long moment to calm herself sufficiently to enter the room and set the tray before Prince Bertie. “Your Highness.” She curtsied.
His head swiveled. He looked at her with sightless eyes.
“Do you require anything else, sir?”
“N-no. You may go.”
“Very good, sir.” She curtsied again and began her retreat.
She was halfway across the vast rug when he cleared his throat. “Er — Her Majesty will not be taking tea this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir.” She hesitated. “Do you expect Mrs. Dalrymple?”
A morose shrug was his only answer.
In that case . . . “Shall I pour you a cup of tea, sir?”
“Yes, do.”
“Would you like a butterfly bun, sir?” It was the nursery choice: the Prince of Wales didn’t seem in the mood to appreciate the pungency of a fruitcake.
“Yes.”
She chose the fattest, creamiest cake, so thickly dredged with icing sugar that it gave off a puff of white powder as she set it gently on a plate. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”
“N-no. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know!” The prince let the plate clatter onto a side table and buried his face in his hands. He made a curious, treble sound — a kind of animal shriek — and Mary realized, with wonder, that he was sobbing. His shoulders quaked. He shook and heaved and gasped for breath. But when Mary caught a glimpse of his scarlet face, his eyes were dry.
“There, there,” said Mary with caution. She suspected he’d not take kindly to a sympathetic hand on his shoulder or the offer of a handkerchief. Yet she didn’t yet want to summon help. He might tell her something meaningful.
She watched the prince a few minutes longer. His was a hysterical sort of sobbing — theatrical, even. Finally, when it began to subside, Mary knelt beside his chair. “It’s not an easy life, yours,” she said quietly.
“Nooooo,” he agreed with a sort of wail.
In other circumstances, it would have been difficult not to laugh. Yet there was so much at stake just now. Every word of Bertie’s was precious. “Nobody really understands what it’s like.”
His eyes welled up with tears in earnest now, and he began to blub again. “I — I’m so miserable . . . and so alone.”
“Because there’s nobody in your family like you,” said Mary. “Nobody with your duties and people’s expectations of you.” She hated the words even as they left her mouth. The last thing she needed to encourage was the prince’s sense of injured entitlement. Yet it was, she felt certain, the swiftest way into his confidence.
He looked at her for a moment, amazed. “How did you know that? How can a servant girl like you understand so much?”
Because self-absorbed man-children are common as weeds, thought Mary. But she said, “I don’t know, sir. I only guessed.”
“I’m entirely alone, for all I’ve equerries and friends and my parents; I’m more alone than the poorest orphan ever born.” It was fortunate that the Prince of Wales couldn’t see the twist of Mary’s mouth as he uttered this. “And I’m even more alone now, because of what happened on Saturday night, and I can’t even cry for my friend who’s dead. I can cry for myself, all right; that’s easy. But before, when I was thinking of him, I tried to make myself cry and I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. What’s wrong with me?”
She poured a fresh cup of tea.
He gulped it down. “Eh? You haven’t answered me that one.”
“I’d not presume to know, sir.”
He stared at her through swollen, bloodshot eyes. “What’s your name?”
Mary bit her lip, sudden misgivings making her stomach roll over queasily. What was she thinking, addressing the Prince of Wales directly? Servants were sacked for less every day. “Quinn, sir,” she said very quietly.
“I meant your other name.”
“It’s Mary, sir.”
“Mary.” He considered her, really looking at her now. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I began in January, sir.”
“Clever.” He looked her up and down. “Nice looking, too.”
“Th-thank you, sir.” She edged very slightly backward. This was not going as she’d hoped. She’d been mad, trying to gain the prince’s confidence.
Just as he leaned forward to speak again, the door flew open to admit Honoria Dalrymple. Prince Bertie snapped back in his chair, as though on a puppeteer’s string.
“Your Highness,” said Mrs. Dalrymple, making a light, graceful curtsy. “Her Majesty has told me all about your terrifying ordeal, of course. I am so very relieved to see you unharmed.”
“Thank you,” he said in a slightly strangled voice. He flicked a reluctant glance at Mary, which Mrs. Dalrymple promptly interpreted.
“Enough dillydallying, Quinn,” she said, making a shooing gesture with her fingers. “I’ll pour for His Highness. You must have a great deal of work awaiting you.” Her tone made it clear that she thought Mary the laziest of malingerers.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary retreated with a sense of relief. She’d never expected to be glad to see Mrs. Dalrymple, but the lady-in-waiting’s entrance couldn’t have been better timed. Mary closed the door behind her with an audible click, then retreated round t
he corner. She hadn’t long to wait: in a few seconds’ time, the door opened again and she heard Honoria Dalrymple sniff. This might have expressed either disappointment (that she’d not caught Mary eavesdropping) or satisfaction (that she was alone with the prince). Whichever the case, the door banged shut again. Mary waited three minutes, then very quietly edged toward it.
“Such a nightmare!” trilled Mrs. Dalrymple. “You must be more careful of your safety; you don’t know how your nation loves you, my dear sir.”
“I — I shall try,” said His Highness. He sounded rather bewildered.
“Why, whenever I hear your name mentioned, it’s with respect and eager anticipation. Your subjects — your future subjects, I mean — bear you such uncommon goodwill and affection.”
Mary listened with bemusement. What did the lady-in-waiting hope to accomplish with such flattery?
“You are too kind.” But the prince’s tone was guarded rather than gratified.
“Another cup of tea?” persisted Mrs. Dalrymple. “Or perhaps a cream cake?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I don’t doubt that trauma has quite dampened your appetite. But you must keep up your strength, dear prince. Your country needs you.”
“I’ve had sufficient,” said Prince Bertie, sounding a trifle sulky now. Apparently, even spoiled young princelings could tire of gushing concern.
There came a brief pause. When Mrs. Dalrymple spoke again, her pitch was considerably less shrill. “Will not Her Majesty the Queen be joining us today? I thought she —”
Her sentence was interrupted by the sound of a teacup smashing — and more: “That’s it! I’ve had enough! Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?!”
Mary whirled back round the corner. Half a moment later, the door banged open and the tearful prince charged down the hall. Within the drawing room, there was only silence.
Mary retreated belowstairs, there to await her summons. The queen’s position was transparent enough. So was the prince’s. But what was Honoria Dalrymple playing at?
Evening prayers were always brief — belowstairs, at least. The domestic staff, weary from the day’s labor, generally wanted nothing more than to retire for the night once the late-night supper had been served abovestairs, the royal family settled quietly for the evening, and the kitchens swept and scoured. Amy looped her arm through Mary’s as they climbed the narrow service stairs to their attic quarters, her giddy chatter a high note amid the sighing and grumbling of the throng.
