by Sarah Zettel
I held my breath and drew the paper out. It had been folded flat like a letter but had no seal or ribbon, let alone any direction written on it. I opened the folds as quickly as I dared and angled it toward the thin strip of sunlight that showed between the curtains.
It was not a letter, but a drawing: a lively pencil sketch. There were men in loose cloth draperies and a winged woman in a classical Grecian gown standing amid a landscape of fluffy clouds. Below them, a similarly dressed couple lay on a rocky outcropping with ocean waves crashing into it. Some cherubs had been thrown in among the clouds for good measure. A frame of flowers and curlicues surrounded the entire picture, graced by two oval medallions. One medallion held a woman’s face, the other a man’s.
The door stayed shut. I squinted at the sketch, trying to make the faces out clearly, but they were strangers to me. What I did see was two tiny letters written in the bottom corner of the sketch—FW.
Francesca Wallingham. My predecessor and double had drawn this, and someone—Francesca herself, probably—had hidden it. Who was she afraid would find it? The threatening Mr. Peele? Or the false Mr. Tinderflint? I squinted harder, trying to make out more details, but those details stubbornly refused to add to my understanding. It remained a classical grouping of old gods and a goddess, pointing and declaiming, with a mortal couple down on the rocky earth. The portraits in their medallions smiled enigmatically.
I did not want more mystery. I had trouble and to spare. The urge to throw the paper into the fire took strong hold, but I resisted. This sketch, whatever its meaning, seemed to be the only artifact Francesca had left in this so-very-tidy room. It just might assist me in finding out who the firm of Tinderflint, Peele, and Abbott were, and what they were truly doing.
In fact, as I turned back toward my room, I was already wondering if there might be others.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GRAND MASQUERADE BEGINS.
It was decided I should arrive at Hampton Court by water. Mr. Tinderflint hired a river taxi to take me and himself up the colorful and crowded highway that is the Thames. The day was beautiful, with the summer sun so bright it struck sparks even from the Thames’s dull and fragrant waters. I had to remain shaded by the small black and silver boat’s greasy canopy to avoid the possibility of browning my features. As our two oarsmen steered us deftly around the wide river bend, the sunset lit Hampton Court’s square towers, white crenellations, and infinite number of windows with scarlet and gold fire.
And I was so terrified, I could not enjoy any of it. There was no way on earth I could do this. No matter what reassurances Mr. Tinderflint offered, I knew all was doomed to failure. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Abbott was already at the palace, unpacking my truly astounding array of boxes and trunks. Neither did it matter that I’d been able to fashion a hiding place for the three mysterious sketches I had unearthed in my previous room. No one could succeed in such a deception. I would be found out the moment I set foot onshore.
I reminded myself of my resolve and my daring plans for the future a hundred times over. With each repetition, I added to my determination to discover the truth of these circumstances in which I had placed myself. These private recitations, however, always ended with me looking over the taxi’s low gunwale and wondering how far I could swim before the weight of my clothes dragged me under.
“What could be worth all this?” I murmured.
“You mustn’t talk to yourself so, really you mustn’t,” said Mr. Tinderflint from his seat beside me. “You never know who might be listening.”
“I meant . . . I was just—”
“I know, my dear.” My pretended guardian patted my hand. “I do know.”
I wished the knot in my throat had not eased at this small gesture. I did not want to like this fussy, spherical man. Since his display of subordination to Mr. Peele, I strove to marshal as much ire toward him as toward Peele and the Abbott. But of them all, Mr. Tinderflint was the only one who remained kind to me, and I could not help but take comfort in that kindness.
“Now, there are a few details to take care of before we arrive. Just a few, I assure you.” Mr. Tinderflint pulled a leather purse from an inner pocket of his heavily embroidered coat and handed it to me. “Some pin money for you. Also, you should know, when we are in company, you may hear people referring to me as Lord Tierney.”
“Lord Tierney? You’re . . . you’re . . . a m’lord?”
He shrugged and fluttered at my outburst and entirely failed to address it. “One day I’ll tell you the full tale that brought us here. But today . . . today we brazen it out.”
“We?” I asked with a feigned casual air as I looped the purse strings around my wrist. The contents were heavy and clinked. Whatever else he might be, this man was not a mean soul.
“Oh, yes, we. Very much we. For if you are caught in your masquerade, how long do you think I will remain at liberty, hmm?” Mr. Tinderflint’s head wagged heavily. “No, no, no, we are in this together, you and I, my dear. We must be bold. Timidity will yield us nothing.”
“And what of Mrs. Abbott? Is she in this with us?” Mr. Tinderflint nodded. “And Mr. Peele?”
“Never underestimate Mr. Peele,” Mr. Tinderflint murmured. “He is as committed to his ends as the rest of us.” This last he spoke to the passing riverbank, and I could not help but notice the choice of words: Mr. Tinderflint said “his ends.” Not “our ends.” I wished I had not noticed, because in doing so, I threw away any comfort I might have otherwise derived from those words.
Mr. Kersey’s New English Dictionary assures us that the word palace means “a king’s court or prince’s mansion.” I would at this time like to say his definition does nothing to adequately prepare one for the first sight of such a place. Hampton Court was not a mere mansion. It was a city’s worth of red-brick buildings crammed together around three great courtyards and sequestered behind a county’s worth of park, meadow, forest, and garden.
The yard we entered was as lively and bustling as any London street at midday. Richly dressed persons in silk and velvet and every other appurtenance of wealth milled about the cobbles. Some got out of chairs, and others from coaches. They rubbed shoulders with servants in livery and workmen out of it. Grooms led horses about; boys with bare feet cleaned up after them. Women and girls in starched caps with their strings fluttering huffed and puffed in every direction from dozens of doorways. Some carried wood and water; others, bundles and baskets, or even babies. Guards in scarlet and blue uniforms leaned on their pole arms and looked on this great crowd with mild interest. Distant music underscored the babble of voices, human and animal, and the air was filled with an incredible odor distilled from smoke, hot kitchen, perfumed parlor, and horse.
“Steady, steady now, my dear,” murmured Mr. Tinderflint as if I had turned into a horse myself. “Almost there. You’ll be allowed a rest as soon as—”
“Fran!”
The voice cut across the echoing noise of the cobbled yard. The next thing I knew, a dainty girl running at top speed plowed into me, knocking me back against the nearest passing footman, who muttered several rude words and pushed us both away.
“Oh, Fran!” cried the girl again. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Let me look at you!” She stood at arm’s length, the better to suit deed to word. “So thin! So pale! Everyone will quite envy the change! Oh, dear. I probably shouldn’t say such a thing, as you’ve been so ill, but it only goes to show it’s truly an ill wind that blows no one any good. Goodness, is that a pun? I must remember it for the drawing room. I am so glad you’re back! It’s been unendingly dull since you’ve been gone. Even Mary’s said so. But now we’re the Sparkling Three again!” Another embrace punctuated this realization. For the first time in my life, I felt glad of my stays. Without them, my ribs surely would have given way. “But how you stare, Fran! You’ve forgotten poor little Molly, quite, I’m sure.”
“No, no, of course not, Molly. How could I ever?” I felt Mr. Tinderflint fluttering b
eside me, and I managed a smile. This dainty, exuberant person must be Molly Lepell, one of Lady Francesca’s—one of my—sister maids of honor. The scandal sheets considered Molly to be the prettiest of the maids and reported that the court had given her the pet name “the Schatz,” meaning “the treasure” in German. “It’s just, it’s been a long journey . . .” I went on feebly.
“And you’re tired, of course.” Molly tucked her arm into mine and dragged me close. It was fortunate she had such a small stature. If she’d been of a more sturdy build, she’d have done someone an injury years ago. “I’m taking you straight up to your room. You should know I took charge of the whole situation personally as soon as your maid arrived.” Her voice dropped—“Merciful heavens, Fran, where did you acquire that dragon?”—and rose again before I could improvise any answer. “Everything has been laid out just as you like it. You’ll excuse us, won’t you, sir?”
I expected Mr. Tinderflint to protest at my abrupt removal. In fact, I hoped he would. But instead, he sketched as grand a bow as his round form could support, which earned him a giggle and a toss of the head from the sparkling Molly “Treasure” Lepell.
Molly dragged me effortlessly up the nearest staircase and through a bewildering array of gilt and painted galleries and chambers. Fewer than half of them were lit, so we were constantly plunging from light to shadow to light again, and none seemed to be heated at all, which was just as well, because between my fear and Molly’s speed, I had already begun perspiring in a most unladylike manner.
The brief flashes of light, however, did give me a chance to gain a clearer impression of my fellow maid. She certainly was a beauty. It was difficult to tell whether that beauty was natural or cultivated, which I suppose is part of the point. As we weren’t in the sort of company where women must don their wigs, I could see she had rich, dark hair. She also had a white neck that many swans, or at least Lady Clarenda Newbank, would envy. Her heart-shaped face was ornamented with a tiny pointed nose, tiny pointed chin, and a cupid’s bow of a mouth, which was emphasized with a single heart-shaped patch on the left side. Her brows had been plucked down to narrow lines, and her eyes were exceptionally large and lustrous in that tiny, pointed face. So much so, in fact, that it was actually difficult to discern their true color. Probably most of her figure was provided by her corset and hoops, but as such, it was very much the fashionable form and size.
After an indeterminate number of rooms had flashed past, Molly finally broke stride and threw open a door.
“There!” she announced as she propelled me inside. “Have I not done a fine job?”
Living in a palace was clearly not going to be an altogether unpleasant experience. The chamber Molly ushered me into was narrow and, I suppose, by the standards of a palace, small. Yet it still held a canopied bed hung with sky blue velvet. The walls were painted a midnight blue to contrast with the bed curtains, and the ceiling had been painted to represent a perfect summer’s day, provided that day had a flock of pudgy pink and peach cherubs in the middle of it. In addition to the fire in the fireplace and the armchair beside it, there was a sofa and several tables and a footstool. A silver carriage clock took pride of place on the mantel among the porcelain ornaments. One side door led to what I assumed must be the maid’s chamber. Another opened onto the closet with its chests and dressers and vanity table, and all the dresses already hung out for airing and brushing.
I was looking for something quite different, and to my immense relief, I soon saw it. My wicker workbasket sat serenely next to the armchair. I’d concealed the sketches I’d discovered in Francesca’s other room inside. I itched to have a moment to myself, so I could make sure they’d arrived safely. But it was not just Molly Lepell who was a bar to this activity. Mrs. Abbott stood beside the fireplace, not a full yard from my precious basket, her eyes modestly and most uncharacteristically downcast. As Molly dragged me farther inside, the Abbott dipped a minute curtsy. Which was terribly thoughtless of her, because this additional shock came close to sending me into a dead faint.
“Thank you, Abbott,” said Molly in an offhand manner that sent a bolt of fear through me. “Are the refreshments ready?”
“I was just going to see to them, miss,” Mrs. Abbott murmured in a soft, humble tone I would never have suspected her capable of. But as she turned to leave, from beneath her lowered lashes, I caught the deadly glitter that I knew all too well. The world righted itself, and I could breathe again.
Molly shut the door firmly behind Mrs. Abbott and dragged me to sit next to her on the sofa.
“Now, quickly,” she said in a voice more serious than the breathless, girlish one she’d used in the courtyard, “tell me how you left things with Sophy.”
“Sophy?” I repeated, mostly to give myself time to remember that Sophy must be Sophy Howe, one of the two remaining maids of honor, along with Mary Bellenden. “I . . . really, Molly, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Fran, this is no joking matter. When it was announced you were returning to court, she almost fainted. I overheard her later . . .” I would not have believed that heart-shaped face could take such a serious cast as Molly shook her pretty head at me.
“She’s . . . still very angry, then?” I ventured.
“Angry? Sophy’s fortunate it was I who overheard her, and not Her Royal Highness, because I don’t think either one of them would have survived the scorching from her language. So tell me, what happened? Was it over Robert?”
Robert? Robert? I ran my mind down the long list of names I had been forced to memorize over the past weeks, searching for the most likely Robert.
Fortunately for me, Molly misinterpreted my hesitation and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Fran, did you think I didn’t know? Don’t worry. I’ve said nothing . . .”
Surely, I have at some time done good with my life, for it pleased Heaven at that moment to open the door and send in an angel in the unexpected form of Mrs. Abbott. Behind her trailed a new procession, this one of footmen in an array of sizes bearing an array of covered dishes.
“Hush. Not now,” I said urgently to Molly.
Molly looked mulish but gave a small nod as Mrs. Abbott directed her followers to spread the cloth and lay a table. The dishes proved to contain a lovely dinner of boiled fowl, pease pudding, and two tarts (one of onion and one of plum), as well as a gooseberry fool and a fine golden cheese.
“Well, you’d best eat that, and I’ll tell you all the news.” With these words, Molly launched into a speech that was a marvel of endurance. The girl seemed to have no need for breath as long as she had words to fill her. Names I recognized from Mr. Tinderflint’s lectures galloped past at such breakneck speed that I soon gave up trying to keep pace. Instead, I concentrated on nodding at reasonable intervals and taking enough small bites of whatever was set in front of me to keep Molly from saying “reallyyoumusteatsomethingFran” every few minutes.
Mrs. Abbott had apparently attempted to wait for Molly to take a breath, but after a full hour, gave it up as a bad job and simply interposed herself into the flood of words.
“If you please, miss. My lady must be got ready to attend Her Royal Highness.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m such a ninny. I’ll see you there, Fran. It’s so wonderful to have you back again!”
I readied myself for another alarming hug, but this time received nothing more than a bracing kiss on the cheek before Molly dashed from the room.
When the latch snapped firmly shut, I let myself fall back on the sofa. “I survived,” I whispered.
“One foolish girl,” replied Mrs. Abbott in her usual encouraging manner. “On your feet.”
“Yes, but we . . . they . . . were good friends,” I said weakly as I stood and followed her into the dressing room. “Surely if she’s convinced, then others will be.”
“Pah!” This was followed by a string of French deprecations and a great deal of pulling and tugging at my person while I was stripped of my traveling clothes. “It is plain that
Mademoiselle the Treasure cannot see an inch beyond her own so-adorable nose.”
I contemplated these words as I assumed my dressing position; stock-still, with arms out to the sides. Was it possible Mrs. Abbott missed the intelligence that remained steady in Molly’s eye, despite the rapid shifts of her manner? It was clear from the way Molly spoke that the Abbott was not a well-known figure here. Could she be as new to the palace as I was, and gaining her first impressions alongside mine? Or was she trying to make me doubt myself? I came back again to the idea that Mrs. Abbott did not merely believe that I would fail—she might actually be hoping for that event and doing what she could to urge it along.
What, I wondered, as she yanked back my hair to ready it for my wig, would the Messrs. T and P think of that?
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MEETS SEVERAL PERSONS OF AN AUGUST OR MYSTERIOUS NATURE.
It took an hour to complete the process, but eventually I was successfully stuffed into the full plumage of Lady Francesca’s best mantua: a pink watered-silk overdress with the ruffled petticoat of cream Brussels lace and Prussian blue trimmings. A split train of pink figured damask trailed behind me. If I had been laced any more tightly, I would have dropped dead of asphyxiation. As it was, I believe the only thing that kept me standing was a desire to rob Mrs. Abbott of the satisfaction of watching me expire.
My fan was more creamy Belgian lace with gilded staves, and my silk gloves had been embroidered over with lilies of the valley, which probably signaled something important or provocative. I couldn’t think what, my mind being fully occupied with preventing my hands from clawing at my itching face. Mrs. Abbott had painted my visage into a pure white mask livened only by pink paint to indicate where my cheeks ought to be and adorned with no fewer than three stiff black patches: a diamond at the corner of my eye, a heart on my right cheek, and a circle by the left corner of my mouth. I suppose I should have been thankful that Mrs. Abbott preferred white talc rather than the mix of white lead and rice powder Olivia’s mother considered the most estimable cosmetic for young ladies, because in the quantities my attendant lavished on me, I think it would have pulled the skin clean off my face.
