by Y. S. Lee
It may have been worth missing a night’s sleep just for the expression on Mrs. Shaw’s face when she came into the breakfast room to see the place settings already laid, the napkins folded into triangles (the housekeeper specified a different shape for each day of the week), the coffee cups arrayed like squat soldiers, their handles pointing to four o’clock.
She contented herself by sniffing and saying, “I hope those napkins have been sufficiently starched.”
Mary merely bobbed her head. Starch was not her department, and well Mrs. Shaw knew it. It was as close as she could come to acknowledging that nothing was amiss.
On her way up to Her Majesty’s private sitting room, Mary caught a glimpse of Amy at work in the Blue Room, and she stopped in the doorway for half a minute to watch the girl. Amy was steady and neat fingered, going about the task in an orderly fashion — quite unlike the impatient girl who gossiped with Mary or sneaked her lover into the servants’ quarters. Mary wondered what conflicting passions lay within others.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jones,” she said, slipping into the room.
Amy jumped and emitted a little shriek. “Lord, how you startled me!”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“It was good of you to stay out so long last night,” said Amy, resuming her work. “You’re a dear.”
“I hope everything went to plan.”
Amy made a face. “Close. He didn’t actually propose. Though he did give me a present.” She plunged one hand into her chemise and drew out something shiny for inspection.
Mary blinked. It was a large, gilt-edged brooch — a crudely cut cameo of a generic Greek goddess with a large chin. “My stars” was her honest response.
“Pretty, ain’t it? Tavvy says he chose this one because the lady looks a bit like me.”
Mary couldn’t help noticing that some of the “gold” border was starting to flake off, but there was nothing to be gained in slighting Jones’s gift, no matter how cynically chosen. “Well, that’s a step in the right direction.”
“A slow one, though.”
“Think he’ll propose by month’s end?”
Amy smiled at that — a broad, cheeky grin. “You want a wager, do you?”
Mary grinned back. “I’d put my money on you, anyway.”
“That’s only right and sensible, my dear. But see here, can I do aught to return the favor?”
Mary raised her eyebrows. “Well, I have got a little project of my own to see to. . . .”
“You never told me you had a sweetheart, you sly thing!”
“I’ve not. It’s something else. But d’you think if I slipped out after dinner for an hour or so, you could . . .”
Amy nodded. “’Course. It’s only right, after what you done for me last night. And I’d do it anyway, you’re such a love.”
A day that began with such promise, however, became complicated in late morning, when Mrs. Shaw appeared in the Yellow Room, a more than usually pinched expression on her face.
Mary stopped her dusting. “Yes, Mrs. Shaw?” She looked the housekeeper full in the face and saw, with real surprise, turmoil in those normally dull eyes.
“I have received another highly irregular request from the Prince of Wales. I am duty-bound to warn you, Quinn: this behavior is utterly inadvisable.”
Mary blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“This intrigue with the Prince of Wales. It doesn’t make you special. It doesn’t make you unique. And it’s certainly not a way of gaining promotion. Not in my household.”
Mary took a deep breath. “Mrs. Shaw, I don’t understand your accusations. I’m not carrying on an intrigue with the Prince of Wales.”
“Then why has he asked for you?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Is it possible that there’s been a misunderstanding?”
Mrs. Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Playing the innocent doesn’t become you, Quinn. I know what you’re about. I suppose you think yourself very clever, skirting round the rules like this. But you mark my words —” She shook a bony finger at Mary. “One misstep . . .”
Mary suppressed a sigh. Bit her tongue to keep from reminding her, You said this yesterday. There was nothing she could say to persuade Mrs. Shaw that, far from this being her ambition, she wanted none of the prince’s attentions. The housekeeper had already made up her mind, and she was a woman who prided herself on never changing it. Mary’s remaining time at the palace was to be even more closely monitored.
And she was further than ever from finding answers.
The kitchen staff was sour when Mary asked them to make up a last-minute breakfast tray for the Prince of Wales. Naturally, Mrs. Shaw was unwilling to intervene in this instance and so Lizzie, the most senior cook-maid, had her way with a curt “We’ve enough to do without that lazy young gent.”
Mary loitered, half impatient and half unwilling, until the tray was ready: nearly half an hour. She’d no desire to ingratiate herself with the prince and was rather afraid of what she might be forced to do if his interest in her continued as predictably as it promised to. Was it possible that he only wanted to talk some more, or were Mrs. Shaw’s suspicions correct? And if so, how did one refuse royalty?
Mary’s confidence sagged as she left the servants’ corridor — until she caught Mrs. Shaw’s vinegary look. At that, her spine straightened, her shoulders dropped, and she inclined her chin with frosty grace at the housekeeper, borrowing from the manner of touring royalty. One spoiled man-child was not going to upset her investigation. The person most likely to ruin that was Mary herself, through stubbornness and impetuous action — both traits she’d learned to temper over the past year and a half.
The prince’s equerries were, supposedly, wellborn companions of the wise and sober sort, a few years older than he. They were charged with giving the prince timely doses of advice. In practice, however, these were the same attendants who’d managed to lose the prince on that now-infamous night in Limehouse — rather a dubious testament to their good judgment and desirable influence on the prince.
As she arrived at the Prince of Wales’s apartments, Mary was unsurprised to see a pair of them lounging just outside the door. They leaned against the wall with a negligent air, staring rudely at Mary as she drew nearer. They neither spoke nor moved, although she nearly grazed one of them with the edge of the enormous tray. Naturally, they didn’t bestir themselves to open the door for her.
Mary kept her gaze low, unwilling to draw even more attention to herself. She didn’t like the expressions in their eyes. They were looking at her as they might a mildly interesting piece of horseflesh: not good for much, but perhaps worth having anyway. More than ever, she felt she was walking into a trap.
She shifted the tray, considering the pint or so of steaming coffee balanced thereon. That was certainly her best bet, if one of them made a grab at her. She didn’t know what the consequences of scalding a dishonorable honorable might be. Her tension was high enough that she didn’t much care. Yet they didn’t move as she turned the door handle and the heavy mahogany door slowly swung open.
Like yesterday, Prince Bertie was stationed at the far end of the room, half reclined in his favorite easy chair.
Like yesterday, he wore a silk dressing gown.
Unlike yesterday, however, there was a woman in the room. A tall woman dressed in the height of fashion, her billowing skirts trailing over the arm of Prince Bertie’s chair. She drooped over the prince’s form, one hand resting lightly on his chest, murmuring something intimate. She was graceful, intent, predatory. She was Honoria Dalrymple. And so focused was she that she failed to notice the door swing open or the entry of a third party.
“Such an arrangement could be to our mutual benefit, don’t you think, dear prince?” she murmured, her voice all honey and smoke.
“I — er. Hm. I — I’m afraid I don’t know what to say, er, Mrs. D-Dalrymple.”
A husky laugh. “You should say yes. I assur
e you, you shan’t be disappointed.”
“But — but Mrs. Dalrymple . . .” He was nearly panting — whether with excitement or anxiety, it was unclear. Probably both.
“But what, darling boy?”
“But you’re . . . you’re old!” The last word was wrenched from the princely throat, a half shriek of horror.
Behind Mary, the equerries burst into raucous laughter. Honoria’s and Prince Bertie’s heads swiveled round as they were alerted for the first time to their audience of three. Honoria blanched and toppled from her perch. He jumped up, uttering loud incoherencies and trying to help her up. She swatted away his fumbling grasp, pulled herself up with remarkable dignity (all things considered), and swept past Mary with her chin held high.
A pair of sharp slaps, flesh on flesh, echoed in the corridor, and Mary smiled. The louts had gotten a little of what they deserved, at least. Prince Bertie’s entire head was the color of beetroot, his mouth slack and open as he goggled at Mary, at the tray she carried, at his still-tittering attendants in the doorway. “My God. I — I — I don’t know what to say.” He collapsed into the easy chair, then sprang up again as though it had burned him. Reseated himself in a different, more upright chair. Cleared his throat. “Well. Thank God you’re not my mother.”
His Highness was too discomposed to do much apart from drink his coffee and wonder at Honoria Dalrymple’s behavior. This was a relief to Mary — today would not be the day she had to fight off the Prince of Wales — but also a source of additional anxiety. How might Honoria retaliate against those who had witnessed her humiliation? Her influence over the equerries was dubious — louts they may have been, but they were wellborn louts. But she could certainly exact her revenge on a hapless parlor maid, especially with Mrs. Shaw’s silent connivance. Mary’s prospects at the palace were shrinking fast. And there was nothing to be gained in enlisting the prince’s help. Even if she could make him understand her position, even if she paid his price, the young man was too weak to be of use. The only people who could help her, Anne and Felicity, were peculiarly, unusually silent.
It was with a different but equal mingling of dread and impatience that she cleared away the royal breakfast remains and hastened back to the kitchens. Prince Bertie was a late riser, and it was nearly time for the royal family’s luncheon. By this time, Mrs. Shaw would be squinting at the poached fish for stray scales, reviewing the particular garnishes for each serving dish, and inspecting the platters of fruit and walnuts for perfect symmetry. With luck, Mary would be able to finish the dusting that Prince Bertie’s breakfast had interrupted.
As she returned to the servants’ quarters, however, there was a different mood in the air. Instead of the customary buzz of activity produced by a staff of hundreds, each quietly at work, there was a sense of waiting. Of listening. Footmen strolled past, rolling their eyes expressively. Maids performed furtive dashes of work, falling still between times.
It was unnerving, and when Mary spotted Sadie, she didn’t bother with a sideways approach. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
The redheaded maid, normally so cheerful, was dusting an already spotless sideboard with quick, nervous strokes. “Mrs. S. is on a right tear. There’s trouble in the stillroom — some of the preserves ain’t right, and she’s like to go mad.” It was a genuine domestic crisis: jams, jellies, and pickles were laboriously made at summer’s end, sealed under wax or stored in crocks, and kept in the stillroom. If some were spoiled, that meant a flaw in the process — and a shortage as the season wore on. It was a terrible blow to any housekeeper’s pride, and especially to one as meticulous as Mrs. Shaw.
“Did she sack the stillroom maid?”
Sadie bit her lip. “Aye. But it’s worse. She were scolding the maid, calling her names, and our Amy, she were in the background, and Amy rolled her eyes, like, only like joking, y’know, and Mrs. S. went proper mad: foaming at the mouth, like. And she grabbed at Amy and was shaking her, and this little trinket fell out of Amy’s dress, and landed on the floor, and then —” Sadie paused to draw breath.
Mary closed her eyes. She already knew how this was going to end.
“Mrs. S. — she went dead quiet. And then she smiled, evil-like. And she said now she had the answer, and that Amy was sacked for thieving. Amy were spitting mad, at first, but when Mrs. S. said that bit about thieving, she went dead quiet — like she was really scared.”
“Where are they now?”
Sadie gestured with her chin. “Attic. Mrs. S. is watching Amy pack her things, and then I guess she’ll get the boot.”
Mary thought of Mrs. Shaw standing over Amy, enjoying herself, while Amy was losing her livelihood, lodging, and reputation. “Did Amy deny she was a thief?”
Sadie snorted. “She ain’t no thief, our Amy.”
“Yes, but did she say anything to Mrs. S.?”
“No . . . she didn’t say no more after that.”
“She was probably too frightened,” said Mary quickly. “She’s losing everything.”
“I suppose she’s got her gentleman friend.”
Mary didn’t think Octavius Jones represented much consolation, but said only, “Thanks,” and began to walk swiftly toward the staircase.
“Where are you going?” called Sadie, bewildered.
“To see Amy and Mrs. S.”
“You can’t do no good that way. Mrs. S. ain’t like to listen to you.”
Privately, Mary agreed. But she couldn’t keep herself from trying.
A terrible near silence prevailed in their attic bedroom. Mary paused in the open doorway and watched as Mrs. Shaw supervised Amy’s packing, arms folded and mouth curved in a smile of grim satisfaction. Amy moved quietly, folding and stacking her possessions with hands that trembled only slightly. She paused now and then to swipe away a stray tear, but her face was set like a mask.
“Mrs. Shaw,” said Mary, slightly breathless from her climb. “Amy didn’t steal that brooch.”
The housekeeper spun round to look at her, surprised that any minion should have the temerity to speak to her. “This is none of your affair, Quinn.”
Amy’s expression remained fixed.
“But I’ve seen the brooch. Amy showed it me this morning. It’s a present from her admirer.”
Mrs. Shaw’s face grew fierce. “I warn you, Quinn. No more of your insolence.”
“Has anybody even complained of missing a brooch?” persisted Mary. “And if not, how do you know it’s stolen?”
“I am not in the habit of justifying myself to ill-bred sluts,” snapped Mrs. Shaw in a tone that made Amy flinch. “But if you’d a fraction of the brains necessary to do your job well, you’d know that Amy could have stolen other items and sold them in order to buy herself such a trashy trinket.”
Now she was getting somewhere. “Other things have been stolen? From the palace?”
Mrs. Shaw’s cheeks flushed brick red. “That was merely an example. Now, will you return to your work, or are you asking to be dismissed along with Amy?”
“Because, again, if nothing’s been stolen, I don’t see why anybody should accuse Amy —”
It was Amy herself who halted the standoff. She pushed past Mrs. Shaw, who stared at her with furious surprise, and enveloped Mary in a hug. “You’re a darling,” she said quietly. “But this ain’t helping. Keep your job, my dear. Don’t argue no more.”
Mary stared at her. “But . . . where will you go?”
Amy mustered an approximation of her usual cheeky grin. “I’ll land on my feet, my dear — you see if I don’t.” And with a gentle but firm shove, she pushed Mary from the room and resumed her packing without even a glance at Mrs. Shaw.
The servants’ dinner was a grim feast that day. It was impossible not to look at the two vacant places at table — Amy’s and the stillroom maid’s — and Mrs. Shaw’s angry surveillance became a constant accusation aimed at the entire staff. Even the footmen, who were not subject to her discipline, seemed sobered by the morning
’s ugliness. Mary missed Amy already, for her giddy good humor and company, and also — selfishly — because her departure made it impossible for Mary to slip out after dinner.
Once the meal ended, instead of fulfilling the task that had haunted her for days, Mary collected a pot of brass polish, a pungent paste made up of vinegar, salt, and flour, and set off for the Blue Room. It was the largest of the reception rooms, formerly Amy’s responsibility. Now it was hers until another maid could be engaged — part punishment, Mary supposed, for her having questioned Mrs. Shaw’s actions.
It wasn’t entirely punishment, however. This was the room from which the ornaments had been stolen. That fact, combined with Amy’s uncharacteristic meekness when she’d been accused of theft, had Mary’s suspicions aflame. Much as she liked Amy, all that had happened today played into her theories about Octavius Jones. All that was missing, of course, was evidence. But she could send word to the Agency. They could have Jones tailed. They could even search his home. She assumed they were still able, even if they’d not yet replied to her queries about Honoria Dalrymple, about the tunnel, about Jones.
Mary applied a thin layer of brass polish to the doorknobs and window catches, mulling over new possibilities. While Jones was her primary suspect, she couldn’t yet declare the matter resolved. There was still the problem of Honoria Dalrymple, of course. Between creeping through secret tunnels and trying to seduce the Prince of Wales, the lady-in-waiting was clearly up to no good. And it was still unclear whether hers was an illegal, to-be-stopped malignancy or mere mischief making, in which case she was beneath the Agency’s notice. Mary wished she and James had agreed on a more precise plan the night before. They’d left things open, each seeking to glean what they could in the course of the day. But she’d feel better knowing what James was doing, and why.
