by Sarah Zettel
“What! No! Stop! Are you mad?” This was the final blow. I was resolved. I was going to make it the fashion for women to wear an iron poker at their side to fend off all overenthusiastic suitors. It would become the mission of my life.
In answer to this singularly disjointed protest, the man did stop, but it was only to pull away so he could stare down at me, while his hands splayed across my cheeks and temples to hold my face tipped up toward his.
“God in Heaven, Fran, I was so afraid—oh, never mind, just let me look at you.”
I had no intention of standing still for that. “I . . . but . . . where’s Mrs. Abbott?” I shoved his hands off my cheeks, backed away, tripped hard over my train, and backed away some more.
My intruder was a young man, perhaps a few years older than I. He wore a footman’s scarlet coat with gold braid on his shoulders, white lace on his cuffs, and a tightly curled, short-queue white wig. This was as much as I was able to take in. My head was spinning. This was bad, as bad as it could possibly be. I had no idea who stood in front of me. Was this the mysterious Robert whom Molly had talked about? Or another paramour entirely?
Oh, Francesca, why, why, WHY didn’t you hide a diary instead of those useless sketches!
Not that it mattered. I was sunk. Especially as he wanted to have such an intimate look at me. I was not a twin to Francesca. Even in wig and face paint, someone on kissing terms with her was going to notice the differences.
“I sent your maid on an errand . . .” The footman gestured vaguely toward the door. “Fran, why didn’t you write? I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Did you . . . are you angry with me, Fran? No, no, don’t answer. I’m sorry.” He took both my hands in his, contemplating them as his thumbs rubbed my gloved fingertips. “I’m just being a fool. Of course I couldn’t expect you to write when you were ill and being watched so closely. But . . . Fran . . . was it so very bad? They said . . . they said you . . . died almost. Is that true? Please, tell me.”
His concern seemed genuine, as did the fear that lent a tremor to his voice. I took a deep breath, attempting to gather my wits from all the corners to which they had been so rudely scattered.
“It was very bad,” I said in what I hoped was the tone of someone admitting a confidence. I also took the opportunity to step away again, this time putting a table between me and him, in order to deter further sudden lunges. “I believe the doctors were quite concerned.”
The footman swallowed hard, and his face took on a most unhealthy pallor. So shaken was he, he turned to face the fireplace, clearly trying to collect himself.
“Robert?” I murmured. He turned his head, and I had to struggle not to melt with relief. I mustered a smile for Robert. His distress was real. He had felt something genuine for Lady Francesca, and now I felt a genuine guilt at deceiving him. This was not anything I had been led to expect. To hear Mrs. Abbott talk, Francesca had been next to a nun during her time at court. “It is all right,” I said to Robert. “I am quite well.”
Now that I had a little distance, I could take him in more fully. He had a long face with a strong nose and eyes the color of dark amber. Despite his current pallor, his face and cheeks had the ruddy bronze of someone who spent time out of doors. There was breadth to the shoulders under his coat, a good shape to the legs under his breeches, as well as some gentleness to his gloved hands. The relief in his expression was so great that my guilt twisted hard within me, but it had to contend with my uneasiness for space. Despite my efforts, Robert still seemed too close. He was looking at me much too hard. My wig and now smeared cosmetics were not anything like concealment enough. He was raising his hand again, as if he meant to reach across and wipe away my concealing powder.
“Fran.” He hesitated, his fingertips less than an inch from my cheeks. “Fran,” he said again. Then he backed away, slowly. Footmen do not apply cosmetics, and I could see his face flushing with deep emotion.
Get him away, get him away, gibbered a voice in the depths of my mind. He’ll notice any minute. He’ll see your face isn’t right, your eyes, your shape. How can he not see?
At the same time, the small part of me that remained calm remembered Molly Lepell’s remark about Fran having a falling out with Sophy Howe over this Robert. I wondered at it. I couldn’t see the haughty Sophy Howe being put out with Francesca over a footman. A viscount possibly or a poet, perhaps, but a servant? Surely not.
“What is the matter, Robert?” I asked, and hoped he would think it was any emotion other than fear that set my voice wobbling.
“I just . . . for a moment thought . . .” He shook himself. “No. I truly am being a fool. Seeing a ghost in your eyes like a frightened child. But as you say, you are well, and you are here, and I thank God for it.” He grasped my hands again, kissing them both. “Oh, Fran . . .” Robert moved forward, and I was quite sure he meant to resume his attentions to my face and person. I pulled my hands away hastily and slid sideways to avoid both him and my treacherous train.
“What’s the matter, Fran?” Robert frowned. “We don’t have much time. That dragon of a maid will be back any minute. Where in Heaven’s name did you find her?”
“She was put in place by my guardian,” I said, honestly enough.
Robert turned an entirely fresh shade of white at this. Now I recognized him. He had been the right-hand footman guarding Her Royal Highness’s door, the one who had stared at me when I came down the stairs with Matthew Reade.
Ah! How fate laughs at us. Here I was discovering Francesca had a secret gallant, and he had already seen me smiling at another man. Fortunately, at this moment Robert seemed more concerned with my guardian than any potential rivals. “He doesn’t know anything, does he? About us, and about . . . our other business? You didn’t . . . you didn’t give anything away, did you?”
“Of course not.” Other business? I let myself hesitate while those words echoed in my thoughts. “At least, I said nothing while I was myself. I was feverish for a very long time. I don’t know all I may have said then.”
The footman rubbed his mouth hard and bit on the tip of one gloved finger. “This could be very bad. But we mustn’t worry too much. Anything you said then will be put down to simple delirium.”
It was a slender opening, but I jumped at it. “I’m sure you’re right. Still, we should perhaps be careful for a while. Just until we—”
The doorknob turned. Robert, with impressive agility, jumped backwards so he was hidden when the door opened and Mrs. Abbott entered. For my part, I staggered back, tripped once again on my train, bumped against the sofa, and sat down abruptly. Robert lit out the door behind the now staring Abbott’s back.
But not fast enough. She heard his step, whirled around, and caught sight of the flapping skirts of his scarlet coat vanishing into the gallery shadows. The door slammed, and she turned on me, swollen to twice her normal size with righteous triumph.
“Well, well.” She smiled, and it was a sharp, bright, vicious smile. “You could not wait one night to sample the delights of court, could you? Not one hour. This will be of great interest to your guardian.”
Which was more than enough. I had been manhandled, abused, and badly frightened, and I was not going sit in my unbearably tight bodice and endure her defamations. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t any of you tell me?”
That at least wiped the smile from her face. “Keep your voice down! Tell you what?”
I was in no mood to take orders either. “She had a lover!”
“What? Impossible!”
“That”—I pointed my fan at the door—“was your lady’s paramour come to find her! It was none of my doing! He just . . . he was . . .” Shaking with fury and fear, I plunged blindly ahead. “I’ll tell Tinderflint! You deliberately kept this from me!”
The words were out of my mouth, and there was no retrieving them. For a moment, I thought the Abbott was going to strike me. Instead, she ran to the door and peered out into the gallery. From there, she checked all the other doors in t
he apartment. Only when she was satisfied we were alone did she return, speaking low and rapidly, and in English.
“Tell me again of this man. Leave out nothing. Describe him. Tall or short? Thin? Everything you can remember.”
I’m not certain how I managed it, but I swallowed my outrage and did as I was bidden.
“A footman! She would never,” murmured Abbott. “It’s a lie. You’re lying. You must be.”
The breaths I took then were far closer to sobs than I would have wished. I had to think. I had to be clear. “Mrs. Abbott, I am risking my neck by standing here. Do you honestly believe I am so very stupid that I’d spend my first night intriguing with a servant?”
Slowly, Mrs. Abbott backed away. Her lip quivered. Her cheeks quivered. For a moment, it seemed as if her hand groped behind her for support. “But . . . she can’t have . . . she would never. She would have told me.” Mrs. Abbott spoke this last with a terrible ferocity, willing herself to believe it was true. “How is it you come to this before me?”
“Molly Lepell let slip about it when she was here, and young Robert was very upset at not having heard from Francesca in so long, so he took a risk to come see her.” And got you out of his way very neatly. I might have pointed that out, but for once in my life, I obeyed my finer instincts and kept my mouth shut.
Mrs. Abbott had one hand on the mantelpiece. She passed the other over her perspiring brow, her reddened eyes, and her mouth. For the first time since I’d seen her, she seemed to diminish in size, as if the weight of this discovery pressed her whole self slowly down. I thought of the miniature she wore beneath her dress and how it was her dead daughter we spoke of now.
“You could have trusted me,” Mrs. Abbott murmured behind her hand. “Why did you not trust me?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with regret and the tiniest bit of wondering whether Francesca knew this woman was her mother. If she’d been illegitimate, Mrs. Abbott might not ever have told her. She might have posed as nothing more than the faithful servant, even to Francesca herself.
How sad that was, that Francesca should have a devoted, if frightening, mother and not ever know it. How very sad and very strange.
“I shouldn’t have said it. I was afraid . . . I . . .” I stumbled about amidst these thoughts searching for a way to apologize, but Mrs. Abbott turned toward me with a look of such sorrow and rage, I would have drawn away, if I’d had anyplace to go.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked her. “What is any of this to you?” Because it couldn’t be about the money, not to this iron-souled woman. I would never believe that.
For a moment, Mrs. Abbott seemed about to speak. Her fingers knotted in her collar and the hidden chain underneath. But she shook her head. “No more. The maid will be here any moment.”
“But, Mrs. Abbott—”
I got no further. She clamped her slit of a mouth shut and quivered at me, fully in control of herself again. That brief moment when we might have shared some communion or confidence had vanished. There was nothing left for me to do but stand still for Mrs. Abbott and her assistant so I could be stripped of my maid of honor disguise and put into bed while the lights were snuffed and the fire banked. Fortunately, while they were both turned away fetching boxes or towels, I was able to retrieve my stolen scrap of Matthew Reade’s demon paper from where I’d stuffed it into my bosom and stuff it instead underneath my pillow.
When I was finally left alone, I stared into the darkness for a very long time. My scalp felt tight, as if my skull had swollen from being crammed too full by all I had learned that day. It wasn’t enough that I had finally begun my masquerade; I had learned that others had been wearing their masks for much longer. Did Tinderflint and Peele even know Mrs. Abbott was Francesca’s mother? And to whom was Mr. Tinderflint lying about his name? I had assumed it was me, but why could it not be the princess? He was bold enough to fob off a counterfeit maid on royalty; why would he stick at claiming a counterfeit title for himself? Much less at offering counterfeit praise to an anxious daughter about her departed mother?
Biting my lip, I slipped out of bed and, after some little difficulty, lit a candle from the fireplace embers. By its flickering glow, I retrieved the crumpled paper from beneath my pillow.
It was a pastel drawing, a detailed study of geometric patterns. Each panel was a tiny world of flowers and birds. I ran my finger across it, just to be sure it was still a flat piece of paper. In that dim light, the illusion that I was looking at raised panels was truly amazing. I’d known from the paint and the smock that Matthew Reade must be an artist, but this was a work of extreme skill. Why was he destroying it?
Another puzzle I didn’t want. I liked Mr. Reade. I didn’t want him to be complex and mysterious too. After a moment’s hesitation, I retrieved the workbasket from its place by the chair. I emptied it of its silks and threads, and lifted up the padded bottom I’d installed during my last days at the Tinderflint house, and the layer of tissue I’d put underneath that, finally revealing Francesca’s sketches. I pulled them out and laid them on the table.
First there was the tableau of robed figures and cherubs with its portraits in their medallions. It had a partner, which I had found stitched into the bed curtain. This one showed an old woman lying in a huge bed, a white staff in her withered right hand. Clearly, she was dying. A crowd of well-dressed men surrounded her, and they all seemed to be arguing with one another. It reminded me of engravings I’d seen in the papers depicting the death of Queen Anne. But this drawing had a major difference from those. In Francesca’s sketch, there was a pathetic-looking little monkey in a braided coat crouched on the corner of the mantelpiece. A man patted the creature with one hand, while he pocketed a letter with the other. There was a rectangular hole in the fireplace. Was that some sort of little priest’s hole? Perhaps the man was not, after all, pocketing the letter. Perhaps he was hiding it.
If I hadn’t spent so much time staring at the plan of Hampton Court Palace with Mr. Tinderflint, I might not have known the third sketch was a floor plan. Here, Francesca’s drawing skills had all but failed her. All I could tell was that this was the plan of a large house with large grounds, but it wasn’t Hampton Court. Indeed, the lines were so faint and crooked that I could barely make out which marks were meant to indicate a staircase and which showed a doorway.
I replaced the drawings, with Matthew Reade’s pastel rendering on top, and set the basket back beside the chair.
I stayed up for a long time after that, watching my candle burn. I thought of the question I’d asked Mr. Tinderflint about my mother, although I believed him to be a liar. I thought about my mother herself. I remembered how many nights I’d climbed out of my bed, which was strictly forbidden. I’d creep to the nursery door and open it just a crack, hoping against hope that I might see her climb the stairs, so shining and beautiful in her velvets and lace. After she died, I woke every night I remained in that house. I stood at the door and stared into the dark, silent hallway. I was sure if I waited long enough, I’d see her climbing the stairs once more.
My nurse had had to pick me up bodily when it was time to move out of our house. She held me down while I kicked and screamed in the coach. I knew once I left our home, I’d lose all possibility of seeing Mama again. That was the day when, for me, my mother truly died.
Was that what brought me here? Was I still that trembling little girl, alone in the dark, willing to dare the worst her child’s mind could conceive on the chance of receiving a glimpse of her mother’s ghost? Did I think that by taking up her calling as a spy of sorts, I’d somehow be close to her again?
But it wasn’t any ghost I’d found here. Robert said Francesca and he had other business, beyond their affair. What could that business be? His manner indicated it was serious indeed. Did the sketches have anything to do with it?
If Francesca had been hiding her sketches from Robert, why also take such care to hide them from her guardian and attendant? Surely if she w
as in trouble, they were the ones she’d turn to. This led my thoughts right back to the Messrs. Peele and Tinderflint and how I could no longer be certain they had told me the truth about anything regarding Lady Francesca.
And what about Mr. Peele’s insistence that I report to him regarding the card games and their players? How did that figure into the firm’s many lies and intrigues, political and otherwise?
This brought another idea from the dark and the cold. I’d been lied to about so much by my three overseers, it was surprising I hadn’t considered it before. What if they’d lied to me about Lady Francesca’s death? There was no reason for it to have really been a fever, when it just as easily could have been another sort of misadventure that took her life. It could have been an accident, for example.
Or it could have been murder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE PERFECTS HER ROLE, RENEWS ACQUAINTANCES, AND UNFOLDS FRESH MYSTERIES.
That initial fortnight at Hampton Court Palace passed without much additional trouble, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful. I remain convinced that any further sudden revelations would have struck me dead on the spot. I had more than enough to do settling into my life as Lady Francesca, maid of honor.
Among the readers of these annals there may be those who believe life at court is all pampered luxury. I beg you should disabuse yourselves of this notion as quickly as may be, and spare some pity for a maid of honor.
The poet Milton tells us, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Well, that was the vast portion of my business in the train of Her Royal Highness; to wait and to stand while doing it. Whole afternoons were spent in the private apartments where the princess received formal visits from assorted gentlemen. There were ladies too, but fewer of these. Most gentlemen ushered into the royal presence were either learned or political, although from what I could determine, they were seldom both. During this time, due to our rank and station relative to Her Highness, we maids of honor were not permitted to sit down. The gentlemen, being invited guests, could sit, and I began to hate them all for this privilege. Like Molly Lepell, pert Mary Bellenden, and Sophy Howe, I stood in my pretty dress, with my face perfectly painted and my hair perfectly arranged, becoming more of an ornament in the literal sense than I ever would have imagined. On occasion, our mistress would address a remark to one of us or make a request. In such an eventuality, that one might answer or move. But otherwise, I waited.
