by Julia Watts
Liv liked her immediately. “That’s very good,” she said, as Frederica blushed and remained silent.
Mrs. Davison led the way through a spacious foyer and up a curved staircase. “I’m a widow,” she said, as if someone had asked her a question.“I married a man who made a lot of money with his business, but it seemed no one wanted to let me forget that I was from humble roots, so I never did. Instead of brooding about it, I’ve had great fun inviting girls from the poorest neighborhoods over for teas and dinners and dress-up parties, especially since my Harold died.”
She stopped on the landing, a huge space tiled with black and white marble squares, and inspected two giant banana plants in lead tubs, sticking her forefinger into the dirt of each one and nodding.
“And of course there are the charity balls. We’ve raised money for several worthy causes.” She pointed to Frederica and said, “You should come help me, dear. Get you out from under your Mum’s and Dad’s shadow.”
She turned again and continued up the staircase, missing Frederica’s frown. She led them down the main upstairs hallway, past door after door, all closed, all carved identically and painted white. Liv wondered how she remembered what led where.
“Now, I have lots and lots of dresses, but I think I know the perfect ones for you two,” she said, stopping at a door and turning its brass knob. She looked at Liv. “Tatiana told me you two are interested in the late seventeen hundreds, especially the seventeen-seventies. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mrs. Davison,” replied Liv.
“Oh, you must call me Philomena,” she protested, leading them through an enormous bedroom furnished with antiques. She marched on to a tiny hallway at the far side of the room and opened another door, and turned on a light.
Frederica gasped, and Liv gave a low whistle. They were in a closet, as large as the bedroom and lined with wardrobe doors and built-in chests of drawers. In the center of the room, padded benches, chairs and garment racks formed an outward-facing oval, with a small sofa at each end. The fronts of the wardrobe doors were mirrored, and full-length mirrors mounted on stands were placed every few feet. Several ladies at once could admire themselves as they dressed. Makeup and hair-dressing tables completed the fitted furniture.
Philomena walked straight to a dress form, stood beside it and beamed. “I think the perfect style for two young ladies is the polonaise gown,” she said, running a hand lovingly down the sleeve of a golden yellow dress printed with pink carnations and lacy greenery. Except for the long sleeves, it looked like something Cinderella might have worn to the ball.
“It used to fit me. Can you believe it?” Philomena chuckled and placed her hands on her ample waistline, then pointed to a silver-framed picture on a dressing table. In the photo, a thinner and younger version of herself wore the gown, arms linked with another young woman in a similar dress with multicolored flowers on a white background.
“Let’s get to it, girls.”
Philomena began to fluff out the skirt of the dress. Liv was intrigued by its design. The front was gathered at the waist and draped gracefully to the floor, while the back trailed at least a yard. “Watch this,” said Philomena. She pulled two cords at the hem, and three large poufs appeared, making the skirt stand out at the hips and rear.
She pointed to Liv. “With your dark hair, I think the yellow one’s for you. Frederica’s fair coloring will be a perfect match for the pink-and-green-on-white.” She busied herself pulling the dress out of a wardrobe and then handed it to Frederica. “Call me when you’re ready for buttoning up,” she said and left them alone to change.
“How do I look?” asked Liv, twirling around and holding out her long skirt, trying to catch a glimpse of the twin bustles behind.
“Perfect. Like the valance of a giant curtain escaped and attached itself to your backside.”
Liv giggled. “Yeah well, you look like you could upholster a sofa just by sitting on it.”
Philomena reentered without knocking and continued talking as if she’d never left. “Authentic dress gowns would have been silk de chine, of course, with hand-painted flowers. But cotton chintz yard goods for curtains work just fine.” She began to fasten a long row of buttons at the back of Liv’s canary-yellow and blue dress.
“And the real gowns would have had very tiny cinched waists and required serious corsets. Be grateful I put comfort before fashion.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Liv and Frederica thanked Philomena and waved goodbye from their cab as it pulled away. All that effort spent pretending to be friends seemed to have taken a toll on Frederica. Her scowl thwarted the driver’s attempts at pleasant conversation, and they rode most of the way back to South Kensington in silence.
Fine, thought Liv, stiffening her shoulders and exhaling loudly. Who wants to talk to her anyway?
As the cab drove past Kensington Park, Liv was reminded of Sir Nevil and the slippery Cumpston. Exactly how would they carry out their mission to stop Cumpston?
She stole a look at Frederica, who ran her hands through her hair and lifted her chin toward Liv. “I’ve thought it over,” she said, “trying to decide how close we want to be to Flamsteed House when we, er, travel.” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact.
“Who put you in charge?” asked Liv.
“I did,” she replied with exaggerated patience. “Do you want to pick a fight, or will you listen to my plan?”
Liv stifled the urge to strangle her and shrugged. “I’m listening.”
“Here’s my thinking. The party should get underway by half-past eight and may keep going strong until well after ten.” She counted off her statements on her fingers.
“We can’t travel to or from Greenwich at night—we’d want to be back here no later than about five in the afternoon. I think we can make the switch around noon, hide out, and sneak up to Flamsteed early. It’s bound to be crawling with extra servants. If we’re lucky, no one will notice us.”
The cab came to a stop in front of the Havard house, and Frederica paid the driver. They made their way up the front steps, the borrowed dresses draped across their arms.
Frederica continued, “We’ll hide out, do what must be done, and return with time to spare. Or do you have a better idea?”
“No,” admitted Liv.
“Good. Now, let’s put on our cheerful act for the parents. You only have to do it while they’re watching.”
“Fine by me.”
The evening spent in Frederica’s company was bearable. Liv ignored her moody silences punctuated with barbed comments. To her surprise, Frederica loosened up a little and even smiled a few times. It wasn’t much of a performance, but it seemed to convince the Wescott and Havard parents, who had gathered for dinner, that all four young people might enjoy a day of hanging out together.
Frederica’s parents were satisfied with a vague, “Oh, we’ll just go here and there, probably over to Greenwich. Should be back by six.” But Liv’s parents wanted an itinerary, and she didn’t know where to begin.
Frederica came to the rescue, rattling off descriptions of the Royal Naval College, the Maritime Museum, Greenwich Park and the Observatory like a travel brochure. “We’ll visit the Queen’s House and check on the rebuilding of the Cutty Sark,” Frederica explained to Mrs. Wescott.
“Well, I’m delighted that you four have hit it off, and your day sounds wonderful.” Mrs. Wescott rose quickly from her seat at the Havards’ kitchen table to pull Anna’s hands from Baxter’s water dish.
“Anna and I will have Girls’ Day tomorrow. We’ll go to a playground, eat lunch out, then sneak home early to catch up on our napping.” She rose and hoisted the diaper bag to her shoulder.
“And you big kids think you have all the adventures.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’m hungry,” said Anthony. I don’t want to face the next several hours without food.” They were in Greenwich. It was eleven o’clock—a little early for lunch—but Anthony was always ready to eat.
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Liv offered, “How about that eel and pie shop? It’s just up the street.”
Cal made gagging sounds and pointed a finger to his open mouth.
Frederica laughed. “You can get other food there, Cal. This is a tourist town, and they know eel isn’t to everyone’s taste.”
Liv led the group through the open door of the eatery, right up to the counter. Frederica whispered, “I’m off to the loo. Order anything for me but eel pie.”
Anthony said, “I think I’ll go, too. But the pie sounds okay.” He punched Cal gently on the arm. “Order a piece for me?” Cal grimaced and nodded.
A piece of rough slate nailed to the cash register held a message: “Ask about the special.” The proprietor, a thickset man with a surly expression and an apron streaked with green stains, folded his arms and glared at them.
Cal stepped forward. “May I ask about the special?”
“No, you can order or not order it—those are the choices.”
“Well, I guess I’ll order it then.”
The man turned and looked at a dusty clock on the stucco wall. “Can’t start the special until eleven thirty. It’s only eleven fifteen.”
“Um, okay.” He squinted at the menu painted on the wall behind the man. “How about Yorkshire pudding?”
“Couldn’t possibly. Just popped it into the oven. Won’t be ready yet for a good long while.”
“Uh, bangers and mash.”
“Nope. Not a chance. The missus isn’t here yet to help me with the cooking.”
Cal gritted his teeth. Liv couldn’t wait any longer. She said, “I’d like two orders of eel pie.”
“Who’s orderin’ here?” the proprietor barked, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands on his hips. He turned back to Cal and waited.
Cal’s shoulders dropped. “Well, all right then, let’s make that three orders of eel pie.”
“Not worth cutting into that lovely big pie for just three slices.” He leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “Now, here’s what I could do for you. I’ve got six Full English Breakfasts sitting in the back that I need to unload before the missus gets here for the lunch shift and sees ’em.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “They’ve gotten a bit cold, so I’ll let you have ’em for half price.”
“Is that our only choice?”
The man smiled. “It’s either that or jellied eel with parsley liquor.”
“Done!” Cal reached into a pocket with one hand and out to Liv with the other, surrendering the money from both sources.
They waited for their change and Cal scanned the walls. “What are you looking for?” whispered Liv.
“A health code rating.”
“Stop making yourself conspicuous. Let’s find a booth.”
They sat on opposite sides of their table and scooted over to the window to leave room for the others. Anthony came back first, just as the owner appeared with a huge tray, laden with plates piled high with toast, beans, sausages and scrambled eggs. He emptied the tray and trotted back to the counter, whistling as he went.
“What—?”
“Don’t ask,” muttered Liv.
Costumes in their backpacks, they made their way through the streets of Greenwich, into the park and up the winding path toward the Royal Observatory, Flamsteed House.
Frederica began, “I say we go around the back of the house, away from the meridian strip and the main entrance, then duck behind some shrubs or something and put on our costumes.”
“I like the part about the shrubs,” said Cal. “Girls can take lookout duty while boys change, then we’ll do the same for you. You two need to go last because your outfits look weirder, at least in the present.” He and Anthony had bought secondhand khaki pants and long-sleeved white shirts at a charity shop, but had no luck finding used shoes that fit them. New ones were too expensive, and Liv hoped the long cuffs of the slacks would cover their running shoes.
“Over there,” puffed Anthony, as they made the last turn in the uphill path. He pointed to a white service van, parked behind an imposing statue labeled Wolfe in Winter. It was beyond the Meridian Building and at least fifty yards from where Maskelyne would be waiting for them at the old observatory. “The van’s empty. We can hide behind it, change and use the box.”
Frederica looked doubtful. “That’s a long distance to cover to get to Maskelyne. What if somebody stops us?”
Liv said, “Then I’ll just say Sir Nevil—Uncle Nevil—is expecting us.” She began to walk faster, toward the van.
“Welcome to Flamsteed House.” Maskelyne greeted them in the courtyard crowded with servants carrying parcels unloaded from nearby wagons and led them to a door, where he waved them through. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Ah, Precious isn’t among you. Excellent. Come this way.”
He turned down a narrow hall. “You may remain in my apartments until time for the party.” He checked his pocket-watch. “You did arrive at three o’clock, as we agreed. I value punctuality.”
Anthony pointed to the timepiece in the astronomer’s hand. “That looks like an H4! I’ve been reading all about it and about John Harrison, but I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be carrying around something made by a guy you hate.”
Maskelyne grinned sheepishly. “What am I to do? The miserable thing does keep the best of time.”
He turned to Liv. “Now, returning to the matter at hand. His Majesty has seen fit to inform us that he will arrive with the Queen at half past eight o’clock, and he is always precisely on time. Therefore, guests must arrive before then, starting at eight.” He gave a curt nod to both girls. “I shall return for the two of you shortly before eight o’clock.”
“What about us?” asked Anthony.
“Well, I—I’m sure I don’t know,” stammered Maskelyne. “You should stay apart from the young ladies, I suppose.” He pulled nervously at the cuffs of his shirt. “Don’t you have some sort of plan?”
“Of course we do, Sir Nevil,” said Liv, aware that it wasn’t much of a plan, but not wanting to alarm him further. He seemed to fear them a little. Liv took no pleasure seeing him squirm, but someone had to be in charge.
“Attend to your duties, Sir Nevil, and don’t worry about us. We’ll stay right here, out of sight. Come knock on the door when you’re ready, and escort us to the party.” She pointed to the boys. “They’ll stay in the background, ready to help if needed.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was eight forty-five. Anthony and Cal crept along the hallway, staying close to the wall. Servants in livery uniforms strode up and down the hall at a furious pace, carrying trays and receiving or barking out orders, depending on their rank.
Satisfied that no one was paying them the slightest attention, the boys inched closer to the Octagon Room entrance.
“Here! You two!” a man dressed in a scarlet coat with gold braid shouted. His white hose and polished black shoes were spotless. Only a slight soiling on his gloved fingertips and the sweat stains on his white neck scarf marred the perfection of his costume. He glanced at them, then looked away, as if they were so lowly he might contaminate himself by making eye contact. “Take these down to the kitchen.”
He thrust a tray full of dirty china and wineglasses at them, turned on his heel, and returned to the Octagon Room.
“We’d better do what he says,” whispered Cal. “He’ll notice us if we sneak in now. Which way to the kitchen?”
“Keep your mouth shut and your head down,” Anthony whispered back. Another liveried servant appeared at the end of the hall,coming toward them with a fresh tray. As they approached him, he raised his chin and made a point of ignoring them. More servants appeared, and the boys walked in the opposite direction of the procession.
A stout woman with wisps of gray hair escaping her cap and clinging to her broad face stood at the kitchen doorway. She motioned the boys past her, toward the back of the bustling room. “Well, don’t just hang about—dirties that way! Shoo!” Anthony and Cal moved
as directed, then stood still while a flurry of arms attacked the tray, cleared it, and handed it to a runner.
“Wait.” The woman grabbed Cal by the shoulder and shoved him toward a food preparation area. “You might make yerself useful along the way.” She thrust a tray of prawns at each of them and shouted, “Hand that over to one of the footmen as you go.”
“We’re finally headed in the right direction, at least,” offered Cal.
“Yeah, but no way will any of these servers let us into the Octagon Room, and if we keep delivering trays, we could be stuck in the hallways all night. Let’s hope something turns up.”
The sounds of laughter, conversation and music floated down the hall. A footstep from a side passage came a millisecond before a firm hand clamped Anthony’s shoulder, nearly causing him to drop the tray. A haughty voice intoned, “Hand it over and wait here. I’ll return with an empty tray.”
The boys waited till the man’s back was turned, grinned at each other, and entered the grand Octagon Room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
His Royal Highness, George the Third of England, sat on an ornate chair by the wall, beneath the wonderful year-going clocks of Thomas Tompion and huge portraits of two ancestors. He looked dumpy and plain. His simple linen coat and tired expression produced an unflattering contrast to the finery and kingly poses of Charles the Second and James the First.
Liv turned her attention from him and scanned the room. The boys were somewhere in the crowd—she’d seen them sneak in. Frederica took her by the hand and said, “Let’s move about the room a bit.”
They strolled around the octagonal space,and Liv was amazed that it looked no different in this time than in the present, except for the absence of electric lights. Candelabra on tall iron stands ringed the room, and the glow of fading daylight passed through the tall windows, giving everything a quality of softness. The smell of candle wax was strong, but a gentle breeze from opened windows made it bearable.
