by Sarah Zettel
We exited that room by the only door and found ourselves in a gallery that might as well have been the center of the earth, it was so dark. Beyond the tiny sphere of illumination our candle made, there was nothing.
Was Robert here? Had he been and gone already? There was no way at all to tell.
Matthew reached into his satchel again and brought out a thick and much-folded paper. He opened it and squinted at the ink and pencil lines. “This way. I think.”
In popular dramas, there occur frequent instances of players slipping through a darkened house. Thieves, mad monks, desperate heroes, and all such personages manage it with ease. I can now speak the truth and say it is in no way as simple as it sounds. My too big, too stiff boots thumped against the floor, no matter how softly I tried to move. Each breath, each rustle echoed off walls we could not see, until it seemed we traveled with an entire regiment shadowing us. Claws scrabbled about the wainscoting as the rats fled our light. The wind found its way inside at least as easily as we had and curled in damp drafts around our already frozen ankles. The darkness gave us no limits for our eyes, and our fingertips grazed the walls and the occasional piece of furniture that had been left behind. Once, in a racket fit to split the world in two, I banged against a set of fire irons. We both jumped and froze in place, but there was nothing to follow that horrible, ringing crash. Nothing, that is, except for an extra flutter from the dust cloths that hung over the paintings, making shadows across our pitiful puddle of light and setting my mind thinking far too much on ghosts.
Adding to these burdens was the fact that I kept stopping us in our prolonged slink through the empty chambers and galleries. Not once, but again, and again. My heart would not slow, neither would my breath, and I could not fight the growing certainty that we were being followed. There was another shadow here, another pair of footsteps. Something pattered against the wood, and it was not the rats. Somewhere, the wind brought a fresh scent, like mud and damp wool. I was certain of it. Robert was already here. Or a confederate.
“Peggy, stop it,” snapped Matthew finally. “You’ll ruin your own nerves.”
“It’s already done,” I muttered back. But I clenched my fists and my jaw and let him take us around another corner. We passed through yet another antechamber with its fireplace irons keeping a lonely watch beside the empty hearth. From there we came to an open room with curving walls. A grand staircase rose to one side. A chandelier encased in gauze netting hung from the high, vaulted ceiling. For one moment, it looked like a web spun by gargantuan spiders. In the next moment, I wished desperately I had never thought of that. The rats sneaking with us through the dark were quite bad enough. I did not need to go inventing other large vermin.
“I know this place.” Relief filled Matthew’s voice. “This is the cupola room, and that’s the king’s staircase. This is where Thornhill means to put the new ceiling tableau.” He squinted again at the floor plan he carried, turning it this way and that while turning himself in a tight circle to get his bearings.
Something cracked sharply, and I jumped, knocking against Matthew. The lantern guttered, and my heart stopped. The thought of losing the light now was nothing short of terrifying, even though we had a tinderbox—I had felt a dozen times in my satchel to make sure it was still there. I listened again, willing myself to hear only what was there. Just the sounds of an empty house, nothing more.
Rain rattled the shutters, adding their noise to that of my maddened heart and harsh breath. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. Fortunately, anger rose up to beat them back. I was no child lost in the dark. I would not give in to night terrors. I folded my arms and tucked my hands into my armpits to try to warm them. If I inched closer to Matthew in the process, it was purely by accident.
“I have it,” said Matthew, and I have never heard happier words in the whole of my life. “Up these stairs and at the end of the rightmost gallery.”
We hurried. I don’t know if my fear infected Matthew or if the dark and draft and rain had finally begun its work on him, but we could not seem to slow the pace as our echoes chased us through the empty galleries. It was only at the last minute that we pulled up short of the wall where the gallery ended and turned toward the closed door.
Neither of us asked what we would do if that carved door was locked. It was not to be thought of. I reached out to the brass handle. A draft brushed my shoulder and my bare hand. I prayed, and pulled.
Nothing happened.
I cursed, myself and the darkness. I took the handle again. This time I pushed.
The door came open, and I slumped against the wall, limp with relief. I thought Matthew would berate me again, but he just took my hand in his, and together we entered the chamber of a dead queen.
Matthew lifted the lantern high. There was nothing to mark this place as different from any other room we had passed through, and yet my eyes seemed to fit in the outlines of the figures Francesca had drawn. In that dreamlike space of dark and imagination, I saw the ghosts of quarreling men and the old queen in her bed, trying to signal her last orders to her ministers.
Matthew, being Matthew, did not waste time on such reflections. He took the lantern over to the great hearth. Looking on it, my heart sank. The fireplace was broader than I was tall, and framed with an amazing bulwark of carved plaster that had been worked with beasts and birds and flowers and even letters—mostly H’s and A’s knotted together.
The hairs on my neck prickled. I stared at the thousand, thousand decorations and crenellations. Somewhere in this vast stretch of ornamentation, there was a hidden panel. Matthew set the lantern on the mantel. Methodically, he began to run his dexterous artist’s fingers across the flowers and vines, seeking a latch, or hinge, or a join between panels. But I couldn’t see where to begin. We did not even know for certain any such panel existed.
I gathered all the strength I had left to me, and one slow inch at a time, I shoved the panic back. I forced myself to think only of what I had seen. I made my mind work over all the mysteries and all the intrigues that turned on whatever had been hidden in this room when Queen Anne died. In the dark of my mind’s eye, I saw Robert as I had seen the silhouettes from Francesca’s sketch. I placed him in the Queen’s Chapel as Mrs. Abbott described him—kneeling in front of the hidden crucifix, his head bowed in prayer.
I put my hand on the right corner of the fireplace. I bent as close as I could to the plaster, seeking with eyes and fingers. And I found it.
There, among all the other decorations, was a Catholic cross so twined in ivy and perched upon by birds as to be almost invisible. I pressed it. There was a click as latch and spring released, and a slender door opened beneath my hand, its joins hidden by the straight trunk of one carved tree. It was scarcely thick enough for me to get my fingers into so I could draw out the piece of parchment folded inside.
Matthew brought the lantern and himself close so we could both read. The missive was in Latin, and had been written large in a bold, flowing hand.
I stared at the elaborate lettering, fighting to translate the words. My heart was beating hard enough to shake my hands, but slowly the meaning settled itself into my mind.
“Know all men by these presents that I, Anne, by Grace of God Queen of Great Britain and Ireland,” I read, “after much prayer and reflection and in deepest desire to right the grievous wrong which by our hand and action we did set seal to . . .” I fumbled the next few words, but then picked up the thread. “Do hereby declare our sole and proper successor to be our brother James Edward Stuart, son of James II and VI of England and Scotland, and—”
“God in Heaven,” whispered Matthew. “It’s the succession letter. The Jacobites always said it existed, but it was supposed to have been burnt when she died, in order to make way for King George . . .” We stared at each other.
“If this is genuine, the Jacobites could use it to prove the Pretender is the rightful king,” I said. “They could start another civil war. Robert’s father was a footman here
, and he was here when Queen Anne died. I’ll bet he told Robert about the letter, and Robert told the Jacobites—”
“Yes,” said Robert behind us. “And you’re going to tell me who in the hell you are.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IN WHICH VIOLENCE, DECEPTION, AND MURDER HOLD SWAY IN DARKNESS.
It is odd what fear does to one’s powers of perception. As Robert Ballantyne came forward to the edge of our circle of light, the first thing I noted was that he had abandoned his footman’s livery for the dress of a plain gentleman—a dark coat and breeches, white stockings, muddy boots, simple gloves, and unpowdered hair. Truth be told, in the flickering lantern light, he looked a bit like Mr. Peele.
I’d been right. We had been followed, but I derived no satisfaction from this triumph of my perception. Especially as I could now see that as a plain gentleman, Robert had brought with him a light sword, which he pointed directly at me.
“I asked who the hell you are.” Robert’s words grated across my skin. “Because you’re not Francesca. Francesca is dead.” His eyes were bright with an emotion as far beyond anger as the sun was beyond our feeble lantern.
Matthew straightened and stepped in front of me in one smooth motion. “This is none of your business, Ballantyne.”
“You’re wrong, Master Paint Dauber. This is very much my business.” I could not tear my eyes away from Robert’s sword. Neither could I stop myself from remembering that the only armaments Matthew and I carried were the tiny knives securely stowed in Matthew’s satchel. “She is my business, as is what she’s got hold of. Give it here.” He held out his free hand. “Or I’ll slit your gullet open.”
“What have you done, Robert?” I asked slowly. Matthew was tensing, I could feel it. In his careful way, he was gauging distances and angles between himself and Robert, and between me and Robert and the glimmering tip of his sword. I had to play for time. “Who is your paymaster?”
“Of course such a one as you would think of money.” Robert sneered. “I should have known from the beginning that you were not my Fran, you conniving bitch. She was sweet, kind, open. She couldn’t have deceived anyone to save her life. That’s why they all used her. She—” He stopped. “You took her name and her station, and you’re not fit to kiss her shoe.”
I considered reminding him that he had mistaken me for his dear Fran for a number of weeks now, but decided antagonizing him so would not help us. Although what I did say was perhaps not much better.
“Who killed Francesca, Robert? Who poisoned her and left her to die?”
The only answer I received was strained silence. “She was going to betray you,” I said. “You found out. You thought she was going to tell someone.” I sincerely doubted this gallant romantic understood Francesca meant to leave him flat as soon as she got her greedy, pretty hands on Queen Anne’s letter. “Did you decide to kill her on your own, or did you have orders?”
“I never harmed her!” cried Robert. “I never would!”
“You poisoned her.” My anger boiled through each word. Robert Ballantyne was a fool, a traitor, and a murderer. He would confess. I would make him confess. “Or you know who did. You poisoned that box of bonbons you said came from Sophy. You tried to poison me when you realized I wasn’t Fran, but you missed. You almost killed an innocent girl, you—”
Matthew jumped. He tackled Robert, and the two men went down in a thunderous heap, tumbling from light into darkness. They hollered and swore and set up the sound of fists against flesh and bone. The sword skittered across the floor, and I raced after it. Matthew straddled Robert’s chest, raining blows on his head, while Robert cursed and struggled. I caught the sword up and swung around awkwardly. It was not so very heavy, but I was unused to it. My pathetic stab into Robert’s shoulder caught only the thick cloth of his coat, so he cursed and jerked away hard, which in turn loosened Matthew’s grip. Robert twisted and threw Matthew aside.
Faster than I would have believed possible, Robert was on his feet. I slashed at him, but he charged underneath my swing and grabbed my wrist, digging his fingers hard into my tendons. My fingers went numb, and the sword fell. Matthew hollered and lunged again, grabbing Robert about the knees. Robert toppled over, but kept tight hold on his sword. The lantern was on the floor, guttering badly. I ran for it and snatched it up. Without light, we were truly lost. Matthew seized hold of my arm, dragging me out the door and into a run. Blood dripped down the back of his hand and smeared his cheek. Robert, still cursing, raced behind us as we tore through the gallery. We had to lose him, but we never would, not as long as we carried the light.
I yanked Matthew around a corner, and another, pulling us both back so our shoulder blades pressed against the wall. I lifted the lantern and blew hard on the flame. Darkness was immediate, thick, and absolute. Matthew squeezed my hand. I heard him struggling to control his breathing, and his grunt of pain. I couldn’t ask where he was cut, or how deeply, because I did not dare make a sound. I tried to take comfort in the strength of his grip. If he could hold me this tightly, he could not be too badly hurt.
There came a soft shuffling from out in the gallery. It grew slowly closer, bringing with it the rustle of cloth and the scrape of heels against the floor. Robert was out there, moving cautiously forward in the dark, listening for us as we listened for him.
The footsteps stopped, but the rustling continued. Then there was the distinct sound of flint against steel. A spark flared, and blossomed into candlelight beyond the threshold. Naturally, Robert had also brought a lantern, and he lit it now. I shrank back, trying to melt into the wall, but Matthew squeezed my hand again, warning me to be still. From our awkward angle, we saw the barest edge of the light spreading along the wall of the farther antechamber. Robert’s elongated shadow spread with it as he lifted the lantern high and walked.
Walked away, taking the light and leaving us once more in darkness.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do anything except what I must, which was stay here and be silent. My head and ears ached from straining to hear each noise. I hated the palace and the blood I was sure still ran from Matthew’s wounds. I hated the dark. I hated my fool self and all the Jacobites in all the world for bringing us here. Tears wet my cheeks, wrung from me by fear and tension, and I was grateful Matthew could not see them.
After what was surely an eternity, the last of Robert’s footsteps blended with the drumming rain. I leaned toward Matthew, so close my lips brushed the warm edge of his ear.
“He won’t leave,” I whispered. “We have the letter. He’s still here.”
I felt Matthew nod. “Boots off,” he breathed, and I understood. In bare feet we would be able to move more quietly. I obeyed as best I could, freezing in fear at each small sound I made.
Matthew’s hand was on my shoulder, and it trailed down my arm to my hand. Gently, he unfolded my fingers and pressed something against my palm. It took me a minute to realize I held a knife’s handle.
“Follow,” he breathed. “Wait for signal of three. Eyes down so the light won’t blind.”
He kissed me, soft and warm and swift. It lasted just long enough for the ache of it to shoot through me and then his warmth was gone, although not far. Still, I understood. This moment, this acknowledgment of hope and feeling, was over. To find out what might come next between us, we needed to live through the night.
I tucked the knife into my coat pocket alongside the queen’s letter, stuffed my stockings into my boots, and took Matthew’s hand. The floor was cold and smooth under my bare feet as we slipped forward, one painful inch at a time. We crept through the first doorway and around the first corner. Around the outer chamber, following the wall, slowly, softly, hearts racing. To the second threshold.
My toe touched Matthew’s bare heel. He’d gone still. He squeezed my fingers. One, two, three. I dropped my gaze to the floor. Matthew let go of my hand.
And threw his boot against the far wall. There was a thunder of noise as it hit
. Light flared beyond the threshold. Matthew took off at a run in the opposite direction down the long gallery. Robert, with his sword and lantern, flashed past the doorway. I ran after both men. And instantly, tangling my feet in folds of cloth, fell in a loud and undignified heap.
Robert skidded to a halt. He turned and saw me wrestling myself away from what proved to be a man’s coat. He must have used it to cover his lantern. He growled an oath and lunged for me.
I scrabbled to my feet and threw the coat in Robert’s face. He swung the sword and batted the flying bundle away, but Matthew leaped at him from the side and drove his knife into Robert’s arm. Robert screamed, and the lantern fell. I snatched at it and screamed in pain as the heated tin burned my palms. Robert swung around, tearing the knife from Matthew’s hand, and I jumped out of his reach. The candle guttered but stayed lit, so I could set it down and still see. So I knew where to run and how I should leap on Robert’s back, loop my arm around his throat, and drag him backward.
But Robert stomped the heel of his shoe onto my bare toes. Pain exploded in my foot, and I screamed. He snatched the satchel off my shoulder and ran.
I screamed again and moved to stagger after Robert.
“Let him go!” gasped Matthew. “We have the letter, need to get out.”
He was right. We might have only a minute, just until Robert found out I hadn’t been so careless as to carry the letter in the satchel. I lifted the lantern, Matthew wrapped his arm around my shoulders for support, and we staggered awkwardly in the opposite direction from the way Robert had run. The pain in my foot redoubled with each step. It took my breath as effectively as a corset could have, but I grit teeth and fists against it and kept moving. We struggled down yards of empty gallery, trying to watch in front of us and behind at the same time. After an eternity, we reached the top of the king’s staircase.
