by Sarah Zettel
“Here, sit down.” Molly guided us both over to the sofa and, being Molly, returned at once to essentials. “You look a mess, Fran. Have you had anything to eat this morning?” I shook my head, and she got up at once in a great flouncing of muslin and lace and left the room. She returned a moment later. “I’ve sent my woman down for a breakfast. In the meantime, I will play lady’s maid for you. The weather’s cleared, and Her Royal Highness will be walking this morning, so we have to be ready.”
“I don’t think I can, Molly,” I made myself whisper. “I shall have to have a headache.” A headache is among the most versatile tools available to a delicate lady, nearly as useful on a moment’s notice as “feeling faint.”
“You can’t have a headache,” she told me. “You would be leaving Sophy alone with the other ladies. Within five minutes, everyone will believe you’re looking for a way out of your wager, or that you’ve worked out a way to cheat.”
“Everyone?” I looked at her pleadingly.
“Sophy Howe talks enough to qualify as everyone, and you know it. Come, now.” Molly threaded her arm through mine. “I can have you decent in a trice.” She towed me toward the dressing room with that strength of purpose and arm she was capable of displaying. “Let’s just see what you have.”
I sat in front of my mirrored table with hands clasped while Molly sorted dresses with an efficiency that would have done credit to Mrs. Abbott. “Here. You shall wear the light green damask.” She held up the mantua for my approval. “It will do nicely with the petticoat you already have on. Then we’ll sort out that hair of yours.”
Molly tutted and exclaimed but asked no awkward questions as she unlaced my simple dress, pulled my stays tighter, and generally forced me into a gown much more suited to being seen in the train of Her Royal Highness. I admit I was scarce listening to Molly’s words. The questions drumming in my thoughts quite drowned out her chatter. Where was Mr. Peele, and what was he doing with the sketches? Would they mean anything to him? If he did understand them, what then? What would he do when he found out Mrs. Abbott was with Sophy Howe? She had to know he would do so. Whatever she had planned, he surely wouldn’t leave her much time to finish it. But what was she planning, and why, and why did she need Sophy Howe?
And what was I going to do about it? Or indeed, about anything at all, now that I had Mr. Peele waiting for me to take my abrupt and felonious leave?
“. . . and honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you’ve been back, Fran,” Molly was saying overhead. “Sneaking about, staying up until all hours, deliberately pulling Sophy’s nose. You never behaved so before. Keep still,” she ordered as she took up my hair brush.
“I barely remember what I was like before,” I said to our reflections as Molly brushed my hair back and dipped her rosy fingers into the pomade jar so she could form and arrange the curls.
“Well, you laughed much more, for one thing. You and Mary were quite impossible once you started into a fit of giggles. You weren’t at all interested in the princess’s philosophical gentlemen, either.” Molly paused, as if on the brink of some great revelation. “Mother always did warn me that overmuch reading was bad for a girl, and I think you’re the proof.” She looked at the two of us there in the glass. “What are you doing to yourself, Fran?” she asked with sudden, soft solemnity.
I couldn’t possibly answer that. So I asked an entirely different question, and one to which Molly might just know the answer.
“Why does Sophy hate me so? What have I done to her? It can’t be because of Robert. It simply can’t.”
“No, I rather expect it’s because of the money.”
Money? My jaw dropped open until I was executing a fine imitation of a codfish. Molly rolled her bright eyes again.
“Honestly, did you think no one would find out? Especially as this is Sophy we’re talking about.” She sighed deeply. “Oh, Fran. You’re so good, and so kind. That’s why I tried to warn you against Sophy. She’s no one’s friend. She’s only out for what she can get.”
“Aren’t we all?” I murmured, forgetting my role for a bitter moment.
“Yes, of course, dear. But the problem with the Howe is she enjoys it too much. The rest of us . . . well, we just do as we must.” Molly busied herself with the brush for another few moments. “Sophy is one of those contrary sorts who is convinced people only do her favors so they can humiliate her later. She expects you to make some demand on her and is going to try to ruin you before you can. I can’t think what you were about.”
Neither could I, of course, so I settled for the obvious response. “I thought she’d just pay me back.”
“Well, that was your mistake, wasn’t it? Sophy hasn’t got a bean, and for some reason, she can’t seem to find herself a protector, which surely has nothing to do with her amiable and forthright temperament.”
We both paused long enough to provide a silent acknowledgment of this twist of irony. But inside, I thought how this might be what drew Mrs. Abbott to take service with Sophy Howe. If the Abbott had found out Francesca had lent Sophy money, she might easily believe Sophy Howe had some hand in her daughter’s death. She might even have discovered Sophy had some hold over Francesca, perhaps through Robert, or beyond Robert, all the way to those friends in the North.
A shiver ran through me, and I realized I had let the silence linger far too long.
“I can’t believe Sophy told anyone about the loans,” I said. “She’s so proud.”
“What makes you think she told me?” exclaimed Molly. “I can put two and two together, Fran, and so can plenty of others. In fact, a number of us were surprised that it was you who left court, and not Sophy.”
Indeed, it was lucky for Francesca that there was this business of the money and Sophy Howe, I thought wearily. It was so obviously the cause of her troubles that no one would look far for another reason behind her flight from court, such as dealings with the Jacobites who were then on the march. It really couldn’t have worked out better if the sweet creature had arranged it.
“There. Much better.” Molly gave the thick curls lying against my shoulder a final twist. “But really, your eyes are like burned holes in your head. At least your maid’s left you your cosmetics. Now, where . . .” She rooted among the forest of jars and bottles that Mrs. Abbott kept on the table. “Oh, don’t tell me . . .” she muttered. “Never mind it, I’ll get mine.”
Molly bustled away, and I stayed where I was. I found myself rather jealous of Molly Lepell. She knew her place, and if she played a game, it was for herself alone.
When Molly came back, she carried with her a small brown bottle.
“Tip your head back,” she commanded.
The bottle had a glass dropper, and as I put my head back, she dripped something cold into my eyes that stung abominably. Tears formed instantly. Molly dabbed at my face with a kerchief and told me I could sit up. I did, but I could no longer see clearly. The whole room was very much blurred, and a glowing halo surrounded each candle.
“What is this stuff?” I blinked hard, trying to clear my sight.
“Belladonna, of course.”
Of course. It was a favorite tincture for brightening eyes. It also stung like the devil.
“If you’re going to continue staying up to all hours and following that up with crying fits, you’ll want your new maid to lay in a supply.”
But I wasn’t listening. I was on my feet without entirely realizing I had moved. “My maid . . . I must go . . . I . . .”
I ran from the room, almost upsetting the table the maids and footmen were laying out for breakfast. I scurried through the gallery, blinking in the dim light, trying to count doors. Finally, praying I had found the right one, I yanked it open and threw myself inside.
There was Sophy Howe standing in the middle of a stuffy, overfurnished chamber, letting Mrs. Abbott fix a pair of sparkling jewels to her ears.
“Why, Fran!” said Sophy in a tone that clearly meant What took you so l
ong? “What an unexpected surprise!”
I didn’t bother to answer. I seized Mrs. Abbott’s hand and dragged her from the room. I strongly suspect it was only the fact I had caught her completely unawares that enabled me to do so.
“Have you gone mad!” Mrs. Abbott reasserted her strength and yanked her arm back so I was forced to spin and face her.
“I know what you’re doing, Mrs. Abbott! I—”
She smacked me straight across the cheek with the back of her work-hardened hand. Before I could recover from this outrage, she yanked me farther away from Sophy’s door. Off the gallery there was a blue chamber hung with a broad tapestry of great antiquity portraying a hunting scene. Mrs. Abbott shoved me inside, hard enough to set me stumbling. She shut the door and looked for a bolt to shoot home. Finding none, she strode so close that our noses almost touched as she loomed over me.
“What are you talking about?” she whispered hoarsely.
“You think Sophy Howe’s responsible for Francesca’s death,” I whispered back. “You mean to poison her for it, with belladonna.”
I don’t know what sort of reaction I expected, but it was certainly something more than Mrs. Abbott pulling her nose back a bare half inch from mine. “Belladonna? What’s given you such an idiotic idea?”
“There’s none on the dressing table.” I spoke the words slowly. They were, after all, my coup de grace. “Of all the cosmetics, that’s the one you’ve taken with you.”
Mrs. Abbott reeled backward. Her head bowed, jerkily, until her brow rested against her palm. For a moment I knew a cold and bitter triumph. She meant to do murder. She always had, to revenge her lost Francesca, and I had prevented her.
Then, slowly, rustily, Mrs. Abbott began to laugh.
I looked to the door, wondering what I would do if, in her hysteria at being discovered, she attacked me. Once again, I had failed to position myself near the fireplace irons at a critical moment.
I was just about to begin sidling toward them when Mrs. Abbott lifted her streaming eyes. “There is none on the dressing table because I don’t use it, you little fool! The stuff discolors the white of the eye.”
My throat made a strange little hiccoughing noise.
“Peste!” Mrs. Abbott hurried to the door and listened there for a minute before returning to me. “Why are you even still here? Mr. Peele has been and gone.”
I did not even bother to ask how she knew that. “You thought he’d take me away,” I croaked.
“Why else would I notify Tinderflint of your foolishness? You are only a danger to yourself and should be gotten away from here.”
Of all the things she’d said yet, this was the one that awoke the full depths of my confusion. “Why would you care what happens to me?”
Mrs. Abbott stared, her eyebrows drawing tightly together to form one wrinkled, dark line across her forehead. “You truly believe me to be such a monster? I would endanger one girl, I would murder another, for my vengeance? Good God, I would not have your heart for all the world. Go away.” She pushed me backwards. “I am done with you.”
“But . . .” I could manage nothing more. I had been wrong about Mrs. Abbott. Entirely, completely, fatally wrong. It had never once occurred to me that the reason she so opposed my every move might be to try to protect me. But now I could see it plainly. If she could derail the schemes of Messrs. Tinderflint and Peele, no other girl would be in jeopardy, as her daughter had been. When that had failed, she thought if I stumbled early in my impersonation, I might just be sent away before I did something truly dangerous. Like gamble too deeply. Like lie through my teeth to the Princess of Wales. And when that failed, she took service with Sophy Howe so she could stay to unravel her mystery while I was taken safely out of here.
“Abbott? I trust there is no problem?”
Sophy stood framed in the doorway and spoke in her most composed voice. I could not see her clearly, thanks to the belladonna in my eyes, but I could picture the lift of her brow and her pert nose that would come with the question.
“But no, Miss Howe,” replied Mrs. Abbott. “There is no problem here. I thank you for your offer, my lady.” This she said to me, not bothering with the curtsy. “I am most contented with my new place.”
Sophy stepped aside so Abbott could leave and moved to follow.
“And what do you want, Sophy?” I said to her back. I wasn’t even aware I had spoken aloud, until Sophy turned her head to look over her shoulder at me. I could more than picture the smile of victory on her face—I could hear it in her voice.
“What on earth are you talking about, Fran?”
I should have remained cool and coy. I should have wrapped my meaning in layers of innuendo and obscurity. But standing there amid the ashes of my own failed perception, I found I could not stomach such evasions. “You’ve stolen my maid, and you’re trying to steal Robert. Why? Do you think I’ll forgive your debt in order to buy them back?”
Sophy laughed. It was a brittle sound, gliding like glass shards against my skin. “That fever truly did addle your brain, didn’t it? Pretty little Francesca.” She grew darkly serious all in a moment. “One of the Sparkling Three. Did you hope I’d just let you go on as if nothing had happened? Frankly, I’m astounded you had the courage to come back.” She reached out one hand to pat my cheek. Her hand smelled of rosewater, and her breath smelled of almonds and wine as she leaned in close to whisper. “Let me speak plainly, Fran. Nothing has changed. Cozy up to a thousand princesses, if you will. Flirt with a thousand apprentices to try to make Robert jealous. I still know all about you and your lover, and so, my dear little Fran, I own you forever.”
“Fran? Sophy?” said another voice from the doorway. “What’s going on here?”
Molly had found us, and she was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Sophy, what are you doing to poor Fran?”
“Oh, yes, poor Fran,” sneered Sophy. “Did you fix her hair this morning, Molly? With your usual skill, I see.” She adjusted the curl on my shoulder. “I’ll just leave you two to finish up. I know it takes Fran such a long time to get anything right—everything right, I mean, of course.”
Sophy sailed past Molly. I stood there, numb, wondering how I’d ever find the courage to move again. Those ashes of perception had reformed themselves, and the new picture that filled me now was as disturbing as the last. It was also one I should have seen before. Indeed, I should have uncovered the possibility the moment Mr. Peele started talking blackmail. Because while Mr. Peele might or might not be blackmailing Mr. Tinderflint, Sophy Howe was most definitely blackmailing Francesca.
Somehow, Sophy had discovered Robert Ballantyne was a Jacobite. She had extorted money from Francesca in return for her silence on the subject of Robert’s loyalties. Francesca had paid Sophy whatever she asked. Possibly because she was good and sweet, and loved Robert. Possibly because she understood that if Robert was exposed as a traitor to the Crown, she risked being brought down with him. She had his promise they would be fleeing to join their friends. She had gone home in order to make ready, but the rebellion had been put down, and no flight was possible.
I had been afraid all this time that Francesca had been murdered. But as Molly took my arm to steer me back to my room and the breakfast she had arranged, it began to occur to me that, faced with debt, exposure, the failure of her plans, and a faithless man for whom she had sacrificed so much, Lady Francesca Wallingham might not have needed assistance to end her life. She might have done it all herself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IN WHICH THERE ARE UNWELCOME CONVERSATIONS, BUT WELCOME ARRIVALS.
The remainder of that day passed in relative quiet. I walked with the princess. I stood with my sister maids and waited as she argued with Dean Swift and some other gentlemen whose names escaped me. For once I was relieved that custom did not permit conversation on the part of us maids. For one thing, it kept the amount of playacting I had to do to a minimum. For another, it kept Sophy’s mouth shut. No
t that she didn’t try her best to be communicative. It was truly astounding to see how many variations on the theme of “smug” one young woman could settle on her features.
Molly kept her eyes rigidly ahead, attempting to ignore us both. Mary glanced from me to Sophy and back again. I had the feeling she was laying wagers within herself as to which of us would be the first to explode from so much suppressed feeling.
At nuncheon, His Royal Highness joined his wife and her maids and ladies for venison pasties, potatoes, and greens, as well as a huge trifle with blueberries and a rich custard redolent with vanilla and cinnamon. Afterward, there came more standing and waiting as the princess met with several lords of parliament to hear the status of some dense bill being put forth involving, I think, corn, or possibly the colony of Virginia. Or possibly both.
To say that my mind was not fully diverted by these important and improving matters would be to state the case mildly indeed. Even as I seethed under variation number 683 of Sophy’s smug gaze, my heart was wrung out imagining a thousand dramatic scenes involving Lady Francesca. I saw Mr. Tinderflint sobbing that Francesca had ruined them all. I saw her fond and secret mother trying in vain to suppress her anger that Francesca had bankrupted them trying to keep Sophy Howe silent. I saw Francesca with a brown bottle in her hand such as Molly resorted to for the brightening of my eyes. Any apothecary could have supplied the poison, and none would have questioned a young lady’s desire for it. Did she put it into some wine, or did she drink it straight from the bottle? Did it hurt?
I alternated these scenes with firm reminders that I had no business conjuring any of them. I listed my own proven inadequacies as a reasoner, and that list was depressingly long. For example, I had been patently mistaken about Mrs. Abbott. I had been almost as entirely mistaken about Mr. Peele. I could not even begin to decide what to believe about Mr. Tinderflint.
How long did I have before Mr. Peele played his next card and exposed me? There was no way of knowing. Could I write to Mr. Tinderflint and warn him what had happened? But that would do no good. I already knew Mr. Peele was intercepting his partner’s letters. Even if a letter did reach Mr. Tinderflint, I had little expectation that he would raise a hand against Peele. I had already seen how Mr. Tinderflint responded to threats against my person by that estimable gentleman.
