“Constantijn.” I look up. Augustus is standing in front of me, his cassock already pulled on over his tunic, satchel looped around his neck. Beneath his cap, his hair is twisted back and stuck through with a paintbrush. A few feathery pieces have slipped free and flutter around his face. When I meet his eyes, he looks down, twisting the hem of his coat like he’s ringing out wet washing. “Are you walking home?”
I crush the paper in my fist.
He looks up at the noise. “Is that your sketch from today?”
“They’re terrible.”
“Mine too. It was...not my best day.”
“Mine neither.”
“We deserve a drink.”
“Yes. Many drinks. Every drink.”
He laughs, then stops suddenly and it turns into more of an awkward throat-clearing cough. “I mean... Do you want to? Really?”
My eyes stray over his shoulder to his board, the parchment still stretched in place. There are a few half-hearted attempts at shoulders, a jawline, the silhouette of Joost’s back curled on the couch. But the most complete drawing is not of Joost at all—it’s his boots, bunched in a pile on the ground.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Augustus and I walk side by side, mostly in silence. Slate clouds, their undersides pearled like the inside of a seashell, have fallen into place since the morning, and the last dregs of another snowstorm are tipping down from the sky, so soft I hardly feel it until a single flake lands upon the back of my neck, melts and drips between my shoulder blades. I shiver. Augustus looks over at me, and when his eyes catch the gray light, I think of burnt umber pigments made from rust-stained clay mined, ground and washed before the fire is lit beneath to stain it, a heat that could melt snow turning mud brown to the syrupy, warm gold. The color of lantern light through the darkness, bubbles of sap risen from tree bark, the veins of gold in the papery bulbs that tulips burst from. I wonder what his eyes would look like with our noses pressed together.
Augustus glances away from me as fast as our eyes met, a faint smile toying with his lips.
Just as the snow stops falling, I take his hand.
* * * * *
THE DRESSER &
THE CHAMBERMAID
BY
ROBIN TALLEY
Kensington Palace, September 1726
6:30 a.m.
Susanna was accustomed to creeping about the palace in the dark.
All the chambermaids were experts at slinking along the back corridors in complete silence this early in the morning. Each was well aware of the price she’d pay if she disturbed one of the sleeping courtiers while going about her morning duties.
But on this particular morning, it was all Susanna could do not to gasp aloud when she cracked open the door to the princess’s chamber, her water ewer and parcel of wood balanced carefully on her hip.
A girl she’d never seen before was seated by the hearth.
Susanna bit her lip.
The girl had to be the new dresser. The one who’d arrived the day before from the country. But she oughtn’t to have been in the princess’s chamber yet.
The chambermaids had been up since five, fetching the water, heating it over the fires and hauling the full ewers up the stairs, their feet already aching in their boots before it was properly light out. Dressers, though, rose late. Nearly as late as the ladies themselves. Susanna had glided soundlessly into Her Royal Highness’s chamber every morning since she had entered the court’s service, and never in those many years had she encountered anyone but the princess herself, snoring softly behind her canopy.
But there the new girl was, seated just as you please on the princess’s very own dressing stool, her eyes cast down and her fingers flying over a bit of needlework. She hadn’t noticed Susanna yet.
The girl wore a fine gown, one that had probably been passed down to her from some previous mistress, as it was no longer quite in fashion. The ornamentation had been carefully removed, of course, and an apron affixed about the waist, so there could be no mistaking the dresser for a lady.
When Susanna silently pushed the door wide, the new girl clutched at her sewing and leaped to her feet. As well she should do. Servants didn’t sit in the presence of their mistresses, regardless of whether those mistresses slept. Yet Susanna had often suspected that dressers didn’t consider themselves to be servants at all.
The girl—she was some acquaintance of Lady Portland, Susanna had heard—had a crop of thick dark curls poking out from under her cap, and she was awfully tall. She’d had to let out her hem. It had been mended by a skilled hand, but even so, Susanna could see where the last few inches of fabric were less faded than the rest.
Perhaps girls grew taller in the country. The air was meant to be sweeter there. Susanna had never been outside London, so she couldn’t imagine what sweet air might entail.
But when Susanna lifted her eyes, she nearly dropped her ewer full of hot water right onto the princess’s thick brown carpet.
The girl—the dresser—was looking at her.
Princess Amelia’s last dresser, the one who’d run off to marry some yeoman the week before, had never so much as glanced at Susanna. If they happened into the same room, the dresser’s eyes would skip right past her. As if she thought herself as grand as Her Royal Highness herself.
The other dressers were no different, whether in service to one of the princesses or to any lady of the court. Dressers thought chambermaids no more worthy of notice than the fires they lit or the floors they swept. Less, in truth. Everyone at court, dressers included, cared a great deal that their fires went on burning bright, even if they didn’t give a whit how they came to do so.
Susanna went to the fire now, setting her ewer carefully at the edge of the hearth. She wouldn’t allow any country girl to see her flustered, not even a girl who rose before it was properly dawn and looked lesser servants in the eye. Susanna took her parcel of wood from under her arm and reached out to lay it in the hearth.
Her arm froze when she saw it.
Neat planks of fresh, clean wood had already been laid out, waiting to be lit.
Susanna turned, sharply, back to the dresser. The girl was still watching her, needlework quite forgotten. The dresser shrugged and gestured to the bag of coal Susanna carried, as if to say she hadn’t been able to find any coal herself.
Had this country dresser truly ventured into the dark winding back stairs, found the pile of extra logs the footmen kept there and carried wood into the princess’s bedchamber before dawn, all in her finest passed-down dress?
Well, the court ladies always did giggle behind their fans at the odd ways of country folk.
The new girl had laid the wood out in just the right way, too. There was nothing more for Susanna to do but lay the coal atop it and draw out her tinder pistol. Soon the fire rose in the hearth, ready to warm the princess when she began to stir.
Susanna must be gone by then, lest she risk a striking later from Mistress Keen, so she rose quickly to fetch Her Royal Highness’s chamber pot and be on her way.
The girl, though. The strange new girl. She was still standing. Still watching Susanna, and blocking her path, too.
Well, there was nothing to be done for it. The pot had to be emptied, rinsed and returned to the bedchamber before the princess awoke, no matter what some dresser from the country thought about it.
Susanna strode forward with quick, silent steps, readying herself to knock the girl out of her way if she must. The pot was in its usual spot beside the princess’s bed. Susanna could just glimpse it beyond the new girl’s wide skirt.
At the moment Susanna reached for it, though, the dresser spun on her high heels and turned to face the bed. Susanna covered her gasp. The dresser now stood only a foot from the sleeping princess.
Tendrils of Her Royal Highness’s pale hair peeked out from behind the canopy
. If the new girl kept whirling about, she would wake her, and the dresser and Susanna would suffer for it just the same.
Susanna laid a finger to her lips, praying the girl would grasp the need for absolute silence. The dresser stared at her for a moment, then nodded solemnly. Thinking it safe to advance, Susanna moved again toward the pot.
The new girl reached for it at the same time.
No! It was all Susanna could do, once again, not to cry out loud. How dare this strange girl try to touch Princess Amelia’s chamber pot! It was Susanna’s place, her duty. True, she had longed to be named dresser to the princess herself when the last girl had run off, and true, her skill at fixing ladies’ hair should have been enough to place her in the post, had not that awful Lady Portland swooped in—but all the same, Susanna was still the princess’s own chambermaid, and that meant it was for no one but her to handle Her Royal Highness’s night water.
But Susanna was faster than the new girl, and she was the first to lay a hand on the rim of the pot. She pulled it out of the dresser’s reach as swiftly as she could without risking a spill. The girl’s brow wrinkled, but Susanna turned away, thrusting the pot out to her side where the smell would be less of a bother.
Strange country girls and their strange country ways. Susanna would think no more on it.
She rushed in silent steps through the door to the servants’ corridor, dumped the pot into the bucket for her to haul back down the stairs later, splashed it with fresh water for a rinse and returned with it to the princess’s chamber. To Susanna’s great relief, Her Royal Highness slept on, her snores as even and undisturbed as they had been all morning.
The dresser had retreated to stand before the fire, thrusting a staff into the wood and disturbing the fire Susanna had built, instead of laying out the princess’s morning costume as any dresser ought rightly to do just before her mistress woke. Susanna spared a last, despairing glance at the new girl before she swept back out of the room, shutting the door behind her without a sound.
She hurried down the stairs with her bucket to prepare for the chamber’s proper cleaning. She had lost precious time already that morning, and Susanna had not a moment to spare for thoughts of the new dresser and her odd, troublesome ways.
Even if the girl was as lovely as the king’s very best tapestry in his privy room below.
8:30 a.m.
Mary was lost. Again.
These dark, wretched back corridors went on for miles, twisting and turning and ending in inexplicable staircases that were always filled with servants running to and fro. All of them carried candles and seemed to know precisely where they were going, and none of them spared an eye for Mary as her panic grew and her empty stomach groaned.
She had thought she knew the proper way to dress a distinguished lady. She had never dressed any so high as a princess, of course—but then, who had? She had gotten the stockings mended in time, despite the interruptions from that pretty little glaring chambermaid. Yet the princess had still found fault with Mary even before she had entirely awoken.
Mary oughtn’t to have been waiting in the chamber, didn’t she know, but in the dressing room, until after Her Royal Highness had risen from her bed and knelt to pray. Only then should Mary have entered, to draw the canopy and help the princess out of her nightgown and into her fine linen shift. How Mary was to have known this, the princess did not indicate, but she did voice, often and shrilly, that Mary was not to stoke the fire, even when its flames seemed to wane.
“Honestly,” the princess had intoned as she thrust her arms overhead for Mary to lay the shift upon her skin, “Mistress Susanna has the charge of it. She knows how I like my fire. I don’t know how they do things at Portly’s house out in the country, but here you’re to not to interfere with the work of the capable servants.”
Susanna, then. The pretty chambermaid’s name was Susanna.
But Mary had no time to dwell on anyone but the princess as she set about arranging Her Royal Highness’s hair for her morning lessons. For days back home, ever since the note had arrived with Lady Portland’s summons to come to court, Mary had done nothing but practice hair. Yet it seemed to have been of no use. Mary was skilled with a needle but had only scant experience with a young lady’s toilette, and when Princess Amelia saw her reflection in the glass that morning, Her Royal Highness seemed struck speechless.
Only for the briefest of moments, of course. Princess Amelia was not known for silence.
“Tell me your name once more,” the princess demanded.
Mary curtsyed. “It is Arnold, Your Royal Highness, Mary Arnold.”
“Mistress Arnold.” The princess turned from her. “I will now go for my morning walk. I shall pray, as should you, that the sentinels in the gardens do not mistake me for the palace laundress, despite this mess upon my head. As for you, before you attend to any other duties, you will find Mistress Susanna and have her show you how a princess wears her hair. I dare say she can teach you before this evening’s ball. She must, in fact, unless you wish to be back in the country by sundown.”
Mary dipped deep into a new curtsy, hoping her face fell far enough to hide her shame. “Of course, Ma’am.”
The princess did not look on her again as she strode toward the door. Mary hurried forward to open it for her, but Her Royal Highness took the knob in her own hand and vanished in a whirl of silk and lace.
Mary allowed herself a silent sob, but just the one, before she hurried to gather up and put away the princess’s nightgown and hair powder. She started to remove the bed linens, but then remembered how angry Susanna had grown when she’d merely tried to pass her the princess’s chamber pot. Perhaps she had best leave it. Besides, Her Royal Highness had made it very clear that Mary’s first task must be to find Susanna for instruction on hairdressing.
Some girls, Mary imagined, would consider it an insult for a dresser to take direction from a chambermaid. But Mary had no doubt, as she searched blindly among the dark corridors, that there was not a person in all of Kensington Palace, down to the lowest scullery girl, who knew less than she about the proper way to serve a princess.
Besides, she wouldn’t much mind taking in the sight of Susanna’s face once more. Even with her lips’ permanent downward turn.
“Are you lost, mistress?” a male voice called. Mary turned toward the sight of a candle flame bobbing toward her in the darkness. It could be anyone, of course. All the men here, and the women, too, were strangers to her. But Mary could not afford to be cautious.
“I am, sir,” she called. “I seek the princess’s chambermaid.”
“Which princess?” The flame grew closer. Mary could make out the shape of the royal livery. A footman, then.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia.”
“Ah, you’ll want Susanna.” The footman was now close enough that Mary could see his face. His smile was warm and his eyes friendly, though he was a good deal taller than she, and wider, too. The long tassels on his shoulders spread from one side of the corridor nearly to the other. “She’ll be at the servants’ breakfast, just down the stairs. I’m headed that way myself, if you’d allow me to escort you.”
“I’d be quite grateful, sir.”
“It’s no trouble.” The footman made no effort to conceal his curiosity as he regarded Mary’s cap, her dress, her empty hands. “They’ve not allotted you your candles yet, I see? Mistress Arnold, is it?”
“It is.” Mary tried to hide her surprise. Was there nothing the servants in this strange place didn’t know? “Are you in the princess’s service, as well?”
“The king’s, I’d wager. Not that His Majesty knows any one of his footmen from any other. My name is Halford, by the by, Barnaby Halford.”
Mary curtsyed as well as she could while they hurried down the stairs. “Mr. Halford. Has the princess her own footman?”
“No, though I’m sure she’d
happily take one. Their Royal Highnesses each have their own gentleman usher, though, and a page of honor and a page of the back stairs. And a dresser and chambermaid, of course.”
“Of course,” Mary echoed, marveling that her former mistress had thought it proper to go through life with naught but a single maid to handle her dressing, her fires and her chamber pots alike.
“Ah, here we are, then.” Barnaby held a door open for her, the delicious scent of porridge wafting out. “The servants’ breakfast. Though not for dressers such as yourself, of course—the upper servants’ breakfast would be one floor above—but you did say you sought Susanna.”
“Thank you, Mr. Halford.” Mary curtsyed again and cursed her stomach as it rumbled.
She entered a room filled with chattering girls in aprons and men in livery. Three dozen servants, at least, were all sitting around a long wooden table covered in clanking bowls and spoons. The chatter faded, then halted altogether before Mary had taken three steps inside. She swallowed and tried not to show her fear as every set of eyes in the room locked on her.
Susanna was sitting between two girls whose laughter had just died off. Her face was drawn, her eyes locked on Mary’s.
“Mistress Susanna, is it?” Mary stepped toward the table, doing her very best to ignore the eyes on her, even as her cheeks turned crimson. “Her Royal Highness asked that I find you.”
At once, Susanna was on her feet and halfway to the door, knocking the crumbs off her apron and tugging her cap forward. “What is it? Has her fire died already?”
“No, no, there’s nothing amiss with the princess’s chamber.” Mary caught Susanna by the wrist before she could leave the room. It was a thoughtless gesture, no less so than her attempt to pass the chamber pot, but this touch of Mary’s skin to Susanna’s seemed more significant somehow. As Susanna raised her eyes to meet her own, Mary released her hand, though she was surprised at how deeply she felt the loss of their shared touch.
All Out--The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens throughout the Ages Page 7
