“Mr. Fulton, is it? You called him Will before,” said Victoria shrewdly.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Liza stared down at her quill, feeling the heat creep up her neck and face.
“Liza, you’re blushing! Is he handsome?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Liza said in a nonchalant tone. “Besides, he has no position. He works for his living.”
“At the moment,” the Princess pointed out, “so do you. For now, pretend he’s not so unsuitable. How good-looking is he?”
“Oh, very well.” Liza put down her pen and flounced onto the bed with Victoria. “He’s rather attractive. Tall, but not too tall.”
Both girls detested being towered over, even by handsome young men.
“Is he dark or light in complexion?” asked Victoria, clutching Liza’s pillow to her chest.
“His hair is the color of sand and his eyes are beautiful. They are like the green sea.”
“Green eyes would match yours.” Victoria leaned back against the wall and sighed. “What about his hands?”
“They are covered with ink, but they are well shaped, with elegant fingers. In a different life, he might play the piano.”
“I hate it when a boy has beefy hands,” Victoria said. “Last month I had to dance with the Princes of Orange, and both of them have thick fingers and they bite their nails down to the nubs.” She shuddered.
“Will you marry one of them?” Liza asked.
“Not if I have anything to say about it—they were terrible bores. Uncle King favors one of them because he doesn’t want me to marry a German.”
“But he married a German princess himself,” Liza exclaimed.
“I know.” Victoria grimaced. “But Adelaide was his last choice. Everyone else turned him down. He is a little difficult, and he always makes such scenes at parties. Poor Adelaide never knows what he’ll do!”
“You have so much more to offer!” Liza said. “You will have your pick of suitors.”
The Princess’s eyes sparkled. “I am a Princess, so why shouldn’t I dream of finding my own Prince Charming?”
“From Saxe-Coburg perhaps?” Liza was thinking of the Duchess’s nephews who were arriving soon, in time for the Princess’s seventeenth birthday at the end of the month.
“That would be nice,” said Victoria, smiling. “And perhaps Will Fulton is the man for you!”
Liza imagined herself as the Queen’s lady in waiting, dressed in a fine silk dress. She would lead Will into the royal presence. Maybe Victoria would reward him for his services to the Crown.
“You’re not writing!” Victoria interrupted.
Liza shook her head to sweep away the remnants of her impossible daydream.
5 May 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Miss Elizabeth Hastings
Signor Lablache finally arrived. He seemed so much larger on stage. In person, he is a fussy, little man. But Victoria was enchanted and draws his likeness again and again in her sketchbook. She talks of nothing but the maestro.
The Princes from Saxe-Coburg are coming in two weeks. If anything can tear Victoria away from the opera singer—it’s a potential suitor!
Unfortunately, she has lost interest in our scheme to use the press. She was so eager before; sweeping aside any doubts I had. But she is so easily distracted. Should I see this as a warning?
Will Fulton is waiting to hear from me, but until the Princess finishes the article, I have no excuse to meet him. Not that I want to see him again, but I did promise him an answer.
6 May 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Her Royal Highness Victoria
I like Lablache very much, he is such a nice, good-natured, good humored man and a very patient and excellent master; he is so merry too. En profile he has a very fine countenance I think, an aquiline nose, dark arched eye-brows and fine long eyelashes and a very clever expression. He has a profusion of hair, which is very gray, and strangely mixed with some few black locks here and there. I liked my lesson extremely; I only wish I had one every day instead of one every week.
10 May 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Miss Elizabeth Hastings
The Princess has been in bed for three days. Nell tells me Victoria is always unbearable during her monthly courses. The only thing that cheers her up is the fashion papers. Today, I showed her my favorite clippings from the Les Modes Parisiennes. Mama and I collected sketches of dozens of dresses—none of which I’ll ever wear now. The Duchess does not permit the paper at Kensington Palace, which makes sharing them with the Princess even more enjoyable. The Princess loves that she has a secret from her mother.
IB continues my linguistic lessons in flash patter. I wish I had someone to practice with. I’ve taken to murmuring to the walls, hoping he will answer. He still has not told me how he overhears conversations in both the Duchess’s sitting room and the Princess’s schoolroom. It seems impossible.
12
In Which Liza Is Fitted for a Suitable Ball Gown
Victoria sighed in contentment. “This is my favorite part of the week.”
Dash barked happily. The spaniel was in a wash tub filled with soapy water.
Liza cupped a handful of water and dribbled it on the dog’s head. “Dash likes it too. I don’t blame him, I miss my baths.”
“The baths at the Palace don’t compare to those at Claridge’s?” the Princess teased as she wrung out a cloth.
“Yours do, Your Highness,” Liza said, staring down at Dash. “But the servants don’t even get a bathtub.”
“Heavens. Is that really true?” The Princess asked, sniffing delicately at Liza’s shoulder, as though she were a scientist examining a specimen. “But you must wash sometime—you smell better than most of the lords I’ve met.”
Liza smothered a giggle. “Mrs. Strode has a wooden wash tub filled every Friday and she uses it first. Then Mademoiselle and I take our bath. Mademoiselle thinks she should go before me, but I prefer to bathe before she gets in with all that black dye in her hair. Then the housemaids, then the scullery girls.”
A grimace crossed Victoria’s face. “Liza, that’s not amusing at all. It’s positively unwholesome.”
“It’s practical, Your Highness. All the water must be pumped in the kitchen and heated on the stove. It takes hours to prepare. We can’t waste it on just one person.”
“What about my bath?”
“Yours is fresh, of course.”
“That’s not what I meant, silly goose.” Victoria giggled. “Use my water after I go to bed—it should still be warm.”
Liza considered the idea hopefully. Even a lukewarm, once-used bath would be preferable to undressing in the dank kitchen and stepping into the tub in front of all those hostile women. “Perhaps I shall, Your Highness. Thank you.”
“We should start with your bath immediately. Don’t you agree, Dashy?” The Princess reached into the tub and scooped a handful of water and showered it over Liza, who froze, wanting to splash her back. But the Princess’s rank, as always, stood between them.
Victoria put her damp hands on her hips. “Liza—just this once, can’t you just let me be a person instead of a Princess?”
Only if I want to lose my job.
“Heavens, it’s impossible to find anyone amusing in this house. I order you to splash me back!”
Liza tilted her head to listen; it wouldn’t do to have Mrs. Strode walk in on this. All was quiet. “In that case, Your Highness, prepare to wage a naval war!” She slammed her flat hand on the surface of the bathwater, drenching the Princess. Dash barked wildly.
“The British navy never loses!” The Princess cried, doubled over with laughter. She put Dash’s towel into the wash tub and pulled it out and snapped it hard in Liza’s direction. The wall behind her was splattered with water. Liza giggled as she wiped water from her eyes.
A slow clapping silenced both girls. “How charming to see such youthful spirits in this old Palace.”
Sir John stood behind them. He leaned against the doorjamb, a h
alf smile playing across his mouth.
Liza glanced down at her damp bodice; anyone could see the outline of her chemise through it.
Victoria struggled to regain her dignity. “Sir John,” she said, nodding her head almost regally.
“Princess,” he said equally formally. But his eyes were not on the Princess; they were fixed on Liza’s revealing blouse.
The white doors on the far side of the room banged open, revealing the tall figure of the Duchess. She stared, aghast, at her daughter, arms up to her elbows in soapy water.
“There is too much noise!” exclaimed the Duchess in German. “I could hear you all the way from my sitting room!” She noticed Sir John. “Sir John, what are you doing here?”
With all the grace of a courtier, Sir John turned his attention to her. “Madam, like yourself, I just arrived. I too, am horrified to see the Princess’s undignified behavior.”
Ignoring Sir John as best she could, Victoria said in English, “I’m washing Dash, Mama.” Victoria held out her hand. “Liza, hand me the brush. Not that one, the one with the boar’s hair bristles.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Liza murmured.
“Victoria, what are you thinking? What if the nation saw you like this? This is a job for your servant.” She turned an accusing glare to Liza.
“Mama, stop fussing,” Victoria said wearily. “Dash is my responsibility. You always tell me I shouldn’t shirk my duty.”
As though she hadn’t heard a word, the Duchess muttered, “It is absurd for the Princess to be washing the dog. You, girl.” The Duchess looked at Liza, who kept her face blank. In her badly accented English, the Duchess said, “Why do you let the Princess dirty her hands?”
Liza clenched her teeth, just managing to hold back a sharp retort.
“Mama,” Victoria interjected, “I do this every week. It is a special time for Dash and me. And I do love it so.”
“Victoria, the way you spoil that dog! Sometimes I think you care more for him than your own flesh and blood.”
Victoria’s back snapped straight as a rod as she continued to lather Dash’s silky fur. Liza understood only too well that a lonely girl, even a Princess, would take companionship wherever she could find it. Liza touched her shoulder.
“Take your wet doggy hands off the Princess!” ordered the Duchess.
Liza snatched her hand away, but not before she saw Victoria’s grateful look.
“We’ll discuss this later,” the Duchess said. “Victoria come at once, the modiste is here to design your birthday gown.”
The Princess immediately brightened. She handed the brush to Liza. “In that case Mama, Dash will have to let Liza finish his bath.” Victoria stood up, stripped off her wet apron, and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing one of her oldest blue day dresses, with the simplest of silhouettes and easy sleeves which she had pushed back to her elbows. The light pouring in from the window behind her revealed she wasn’t wearing a corset. “I know exactly what I want,” Victoria said.
“Victoria, the modiste will make what I tell her to make.”
“Mama, you don’t even know what I want yet. Here, look.” Dabbing her damp hands on Liza’s towel, the Princess reached into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a folded page from Les Modes Parisiennes, the illustrated magazine from Paris. The Princess offered it to her mother, like a cat might offer a dead mouse to her mistress. “See how pretty it is. The lace bodice, the full sleeves—and ribbons everywhere! We could design the trim together.”
Holding the dripping spaniel at arm’s length, Liza couldn’t stifle an irritated exclamation. Victoria had taken the drawing from Liza’s wall without so much as a by your leave!
That’s my dress! Mama cut that page out for me!
“Girl, do you have something to say?” Sir John asked, examining Liza intently.
“No sir,” Liza said, swallowing hard.
The Duchess snatched the page from the Princess’s hand. “Where did you get this? I don’t have such magazines in the Palace.” She eyed the drawing carefully. “The gown is totally unsuitable.”
“But Mama!”
“Victoria, not in front of the servants. We’ll discuss it later.”
A pout contorting her pretty face, the Princess followed her mother out of the room.
With a playful bark, Dash tried to twist out of Liza’s grasp to follow his mistress. She dropped him in the tub and soapy water splashed all over Liza’s dress and face. She groped for the towel to mop up the soap in her eyes.
“Miss Hastings, perhaps I may be of service?” Sir John’s charming brogue startled her. She had assumed he would follow the Duchess. His cologne overwhelmed her nose.
“Thank you, Sir John, but I can manage,” she said, dashing the suds away.
He knelt beside her. “No, let me.” He dabbed the towel against her lace bodice.
Liza didn’t have to look down to know her wet blouse clung to her body in a most immodest fashion. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “But I wouldn’t want you to spoil your fine clothes.”
Fine clothes indeed. Sir John had dressed like a young dandy ready for a stroll down Rotten Row: he wore skintight trousers, a jacket tailor-made to emphasize his wide shoulders, and an impeccably knotted turquoise cravat about his throat that set off his bright lemon vest. Not for the first time, Liza thought he and the Duchess had much in common: both wore the current fashions despite their advanced age.
He must be at least forty-five!
“Your concern for my wardrobe is admirable, but let my valet worry about that. After all, what are a few drops of water between friends?” His eyes were locked on the vein she could feel throbbing at the base of her throat. His hands dabbed away at her bodice. Liza leaned away, hardly daring to breath, searching her mind for a way to get out of this predicament without alienating Sir John. She had met Annie; she knew where his “attentions” could lead.
“I have fond memories of muslin dresses at the French court. The more daring ladies imitated Empress Josephine by sponging their gowns so they clung to their bodies. It was most attractive.”
“It sounds very chilly, Sir John,” Liza said, edging away.
“But you have achieved a similar effect, my dear.” He fingered the damp fabric of her collar between his thumb and forefinger.
“Miss Hastings,” a voice lisped from the doorway. “You are required—Oh Milord, I did not see you there.”
Liza exhaled in relief.
A bitter pill to swallow; to be grateful to Mademoiselle!
Swearing under his breath, Sir John got to his feet quickly. Mademoiselle leaned against the doorjamb watching them suspiciously. Her black curls stood out in sharp relief against her pale powdered face.
“What do you want, Mademoiselle?” Sir John asked.
“Miss Hastings is required in my lady’s dressing room.”
“I’ll go at once.” Liza scooped up Dash and hurried out of the room.
Liza paused at the doorway and peeked into the Duchess’s dressing room. The Princess stood on a stool with a length of fine mauve silk draped around her neck.
“Lower, Mrs. Cavendish!” the Princess entreated, as she tugged the material off the shoulder.
The Duchess tweaked the fabric higher. “Absolutely not. It is too mature. The neckline must be higher.”
Mrs. Cavendish, a tiny lady in black, retreated to the far side of the Princess. “For Her Highness’s seventeenth birthday, surely a little décolletage is permissible,” murmured the long-suffering dressmaker. Under her clever fingers, the skirt of the dress had already taken shape about Victoria’s waist.
Baroness Lehzen sat in the corner, sneaking caraway seeds into her mouth. “Victoria, your mother is right. I don’t care what the fashion says; to my mind a gown that is off the shoulder is encouraging boys to think about your breasts.” She blushed as she said the word “breasts” and belched to cover her embarrassment.
“Oh, Lehzen! Not you too!” Victoria groaned. “Ma
ma, look at the picture again.” The Princess clasped her hands together. “The silhouette would be completely ruined by bringing the neckline up.”
“Then ruined it must be,” declared the Duchess. “This dress is for a much older girl.”
“Mama, it’s for debutantes!” the Princess wailed. “Most girls have already had their first season at sixteen. I’m a year older.”
“I know precisely how old you are, Victoria.”
“I would look foolish wearing a child’s dress. You don’t want me to be humiliated, do you, Mama?” Victoria asked. “It would reflect so poorly on you.”
Liza hid a smile. The Princess was learning to manipulate her domineering mother.
The Duchess stopped fingering the fine fabric and stepped back. Even though the Princess stood on a stool, the Duchess had enough height to look her daughter in the eye. “Victoria, you are not like other girls. What is appropriate for them is unthinkable for you. You must always be a symbol of purity and innocence.” She turned to the dressmaker and pointed toward the ceiling, “The bodice goes up, up, up.”
The Princess suddenly pulled off the skirt. Pins showered down to the floor. Dressed only in a chemise, she unwound the length of silk from around her neck. She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. “Since my wishes are of no account, then perhaps Your Grace would prefer to arrange my dress without my presence.”
With a violent gesture, she threw the fabric at her mother’s feet. Liza rushed forward to help the Princess down from the stool. The Princess, her chin high, and blinking back tears, held out her hand in the Baroness’s direction. Startled, the Baroness Lehzen pushed herself out of her chair and rushed to help the Princess into a dressing gown. The Princess, still ignoring her mother, stomped out of the room, Baroness Lehzen following, clucking like a mother hen.
The Duchess, her face frozen, stared at the mound of fabric.
What can she say to that?
“Make the dress as I directed,” the Duchess ordered and click-clacked out of the room without another word.
Prisoners in the Palace Page 12
