Prisoners in the Palace

by Michaela MacColl

  I’ve been here almost two months now, but I am still not reconciled to my change in circumstances. I cannot help but think if Mama had lived, we would be planning my coming out ball. But instead I will dress Victoria (in the dress that should have been mine!) and wait on her convenience. The difference between what is and what might have been…

  14

  In Which Liza and Victoria Wish for the Same Thing

  It was already midnight, but the party looked to go on for hours. Liza had watched the notables arrive since ten o’clock. The ball was held in the rarely used state apartments on the first floor. Laughter and music wafted up to Liza waiting in the Princess’s bedroom.

  Liza paced the room, her patience frayed. She fingered the Duchess’s tortoiseshell combs. She tweaked the corner of Victoria’s blanket. She studied the portrait of the Duchess holding the infant Victoria.

  Why can’t I go to a ball?

  Then the orchestra below struck up a waltz, and Liza’s heart constricted. She closed her eyes to listen. How often had her mother played this tune while Papa had taught Liza the dance?

  One, two, three. One, two, three.

  Twirling her around in his strong arms, he warned Liza she wouldn’t be permitted to perform it in public until she married. They had had to stop dancing, she was laughing so hard. Then he had turned to Mama, his voice full of love, “Mathilde, may I have the honor of this dance?” Mama, not taking her eyes from his, rose from the piano and moved into his embrace. Liza had taken her place at the piano and begun to play. They swirled about the room, exquisitely matched. Perfect partners.

  That was only six months ago.

  Tears streaked her cheeks, but Liza didn’t open her eyes until the orchestra played the last note. Dabbing her face with a handkerchief, she saw her mother’s eyes reflected in the mirror and all her good sense flew out the window.

  “Mama,” she whispered to her reflection. “We came to England so I could go to balls. So I will.” Without pausing to consider her folly, she went to Victoria’s closet. The Princess had stolen Liza’s gown; Liza would not hesitate to borrow one of the Princess’s.

  A bust of Victoria’s long dead father presided over the ball. Slipping past his marble gaze, Liza kept a watchful eye all around her, nervous of meeting the Baroness—or anyone who knew her. She felt certain she had chosen her dress wisely. It was elegant but not distinctive. The Princess had worn the mauve dress gathered just below the bodice with silk flowers trimming the skirt when she met the Queen of Portugal a few months earlier. The dress had also had a belt of gold brocade, which marked it as a Princess’s gown, so Liza had simply torn the belt off and replaced it with a length of twisted silk. A few pins at the waist tightened the dress sufficiently. She would have preferred to avoid notice, but already, several gentlemen in the crowd cast admiring glances in her direction.

  The Duchess had ordered the dark-paneled rooms decorated with elaborate arrangements of pineapples and orchids. Liza glided through the cupola room with its clever ceiling that made the room seem impossibly tall. A clock standing on a pedestal in the center of the room chimed the hour: it was one o’clock. Liza arrived in the drawing room overlooking Round Pond, where the most important guests danced. She darted behind a pillar near an open window to watch.

  Victoria sparkled as she danced the quadrille. Even with the Duchess’s fussy alterations, the dress looked well on her. Liza had helped Victoria adjust the bodice to show her bosom to best advantage, despite the higher neckline. Victoria had also preferred Liza’s choice of more flattering sleeves. Liza smiled now, watching Victoria’s arms move freely as she danced. The Princess’s partners were mostly old men, indistinguishable from one another. They spoke too loudly and wiped their red, perspiring foreheads as they stepped on Victoria’s beleaguered toes. Fortunately for her, the quadrille demanded a frequent change of partners, so she escaped the worst bores for part of the dance at least.

  For the next dance, the orchestra struck up another waltz. The Duchess had been very particular: Victoria could not dance the intimate dance with anyone of lesser rank, unless the boy was family. Victoria scanned the crowd, but Albert was nowhere to be seen. A pout crinkled her face, until Prince Ernst swept her onto the dance floor. He must have paid her very pretty compliments, because Victoria blushed a most becoming shade of pink that matched the border on her gown. But still the Princess’s eyes fluttered about the room, searching for Albert.

  Liza caught a glimpse of the Baroness Lehzen, her back ramrod straight, with eyes for no one but Victoria. Then Liza spied Albert studying a painting on the opposite side of the room, as far from the musicians as possible. Not once, that Liza noticed, did his eyes go to Victoria. A serving man, hired for the evening, offered him a glass of champagne from a silver tray. Scowling, Albert refused. The server turned away, bumping into a portly general. Several glasses crashed to the floor, and Albert laughed. Liza sighed for Victoria’s hopes.

  As the waltz ended, the Duchess, resplendent in feathers and satin, signaled the musicians. They played a flourish of notes, spreading silence among the guests. She introduced her brother, Ernst, Duke of Saxe-Coburg, Albert’s father. He raised his glass and saluted the Princess’s health. Outside, Liza heard cheers from Victoria’s future subjects as the fireworks began. Liza remained inside while the guests began to move to the terrace to watch. From the window, Liza marveled at the beauty of the colorful explosions reflected in the water of Round Pond.

  Large hands suddenly encircled Liza’s tiny waist. The pins pricked her skin. Liza opened her mouth to protest, when Simon, in full formal livery, spun her around to face him.

  “You look lovely tonight, Liza,” he said. “Isn’t that one of the Princess’s gowns?”

  “Take your hands off me,” Liza said, but she half-smiled. “I’m not supposed to be here.” Simon’s easy confidence unnerved her, but it was a night for acting out of character.

  “I won’t tell.” Grinning, he snagged two flutes of champagne from a server who was gaping at the fireworks. He handed her one.

  “I shouldn’t.” But Liza’s fingers gripped the stem of the tall glass.

  “The Princess’s maid should drink to her mistress’s health.”

  Quelling her guilty conscience, she sipped. Her father had taught her to appreciate a good vintage. The Duchess had not stinted this evening. She turned back to watch the fireworks.

  Simon stepped in close behind her, his breath warm on her bare shoulder. “The Princess won’t leave until the musicians’ fingers fall off and her last partner passes out from exhaustion. Why don’t we go for a walk in the garden?”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “I have to go. Mrs. Strode will have a fit if she sees me here.”

  “She’s blind as a bat. Annie Mason and I walked out once or twice and Mrs. Strode never cottoned to it,” Simon said.

  “Annie Mason lost her position!” Liza snapped. “I’ll not make the same mistakes.”

  “So, you’re better than Annie, are you?” Simon’s whispers turned sharp. “Are you too good for me then?”

  “Of course not,” Liza lied.

  “Not all of us lived at Claridge’s, your ladyship,” he sneered.

  Liza felt heat flare up her face. “That’s not fair. I had to leave the hotel because I lost everything.”

  Simon looked down on her, the muscles in his face tight across his cheekbones. “You had more than any of us—but you don’t need to rub our faces in it.”

  “I’ve never done that!”

  “You’re just a maid when all’s said and done. Don’t you forget it.” Simon drained his glass in one gulp, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Liza lifted her glass and saw that her hand shook. The truth was Elizabeth Hastings was impossibly above a footman, even if Liza, the maid, was not. She finished her champagne and left the glass on a table, staring at the last remnants of the fireworks. Thick smoke from the explosions billowed in the wind, streaking soot across
the full moon.

  The band started to play a waltz. A hand touched her elbow, she whirled around.

  “Simon, I said no!” Her eyes widened. It was the prince from Saxe-Coburg—not Albert, but his handsome brother.

  “I don’t know who Simon is, but perhaps his loss is my gain?” he asked with a roguish wink.

  Liza sank into a curtsy, her face burning with embarrassment. “Excuse me, Your Highness.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, you know who I am, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Elizabeth Hasti…Hastinger, Your Highness.”

  How could I be so stupid as to think of telling him my real name?

  “Miss Hastinger, may I have this dance?”

  Liza glanced around the room. All the guests were tipsy from champagne and fireworks. There was no one to notice her.

  Who could resist a dance with a charming prince?

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded. He swept her onto the floor. One, two, three. One, two, three. Prince Ernst’s arms were strong about her waist; he was a superb dancer. For a few fleeting moments, Liza forgot who she was. Just for this little while, she was a girl dancing her very first dance at a ball, with a prince at that.

  The music rose to a graceful crescendo and reluctantly, the dancers stopped. The Prince bowed.

  “Thank you, Miss Hastinger, that was delightful.”

  Liza curtsied, not daring to look the prince in the eye.

  What on earth do I say to him?

  “Ernst, Ernst—there you are!” The Duchess’s shrill voice broke the spell. “Where is Albert? Victoria wants to dance.”

  The Prince turned toward his aunt. Liza took advantage of his distraction to slip behind a pillar.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Ernst said. He chuckled, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

  The Duchess didn’t smile. “Who were you dancing with? I don’t know her.”

  Ernst turned to where Liza had been. “Where did she go?” he asked, puzzled. “Her name was Elizabeth Hastinger. A charming partner.”

  “Hastinger? The name is familiar, but not from my guest list.”

  Liza shook her head. She was the constant companion to the Duchess’s daughter, and the Duchess hadn’t recognized her.

  Liza spied Victoria and Albert on the other side of the pillar.

  “Albert, you can’t leave now!” beseeched the Princess.

  “It’s late, Victoria.”

  “It’s only two o’clock. The ball has just started. We only danced the cotillion. I was hoping we could waltz!”

  Liza circled the column and peeked round to see Victoria clutching Albert’s sleeve. He looked flushed.

  “I’ve been here for two hours,” he complained.

  “You aren’t supposed to leave until I do,” pouted Victoria. “I’m the guest of honor.”

  “It’s hot. I want to go to bed.”

  Victoria scrunched up her face. “You’re being tiresome. And dull too. You have no appreciation for sophisticated society.”

  “And you,” he retorted, “are a frivolous child.”

  “I’m older than you!” Stamping her pretty satin-slippered foot, Victoria said, “You should return to the provincial backwater you came from!”

  “Very well.” Albert drew himself up. “Good evening, Your Highness.” He made a short, crisp bow and stalked away.

  Victoria stared at his retreating back. She clenched her fists and blinked her eyes to keep from crying.

  Liza lifted a glass of champagne from a passing tray and approached the Princess. She murmured, “Your Highness, is there anything I can do?”

  “I’ll have some champagne, thank you very much.” Victoria took the glass from Liza’s hand. Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that my dress?”

  “Yes,” Liza answered. “I’m sorry that I borrowed it without your permission, but I wanted to see your ball.”

  “It’s very naughty of you, Liza.” A look of alarm clouded her flushed face. “Have Mama or Lehzen seen you?”

  “Not to know me,” Liza said wryly. She eyed the Princess carefully, relaxing when Victoria’s face cleared—she was going to be generous. More likely, she wanted someone to commiserate with her about Prince Albert.

  Gulping the champagne, the Princess said, “Prince Albert is a disappointment. He complained all night. Too warm, too crowded.” She scowled. “He doesn’t even like champagne.”

  Liza hesitated—she knew Victoria well enough not to criticize Albert. Tonight’s pique would disappear if tomorrow Albert so much as smiled at her. “Perhaps he’s not feeling well,” she offered.

  “He’s been bilious since he set foot in England. What a boor!” Victoria shook her head in irritation. “I wouldn’t marry Albert if he were the last prince on earth.”

  31 May 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Her Royal Highness Victoria

  Poor dear Albert, who had not been well the day before, looked very pale and felt very poorly. After being but a short while in the ballroom and having only danced twice, he turned pale as ashes; and we all feared he might faint; he therefore went to bed. The rest of us kept it up for some time…we all stayed up until ½ past 3 and it was broad daylight when we left the room. All this dissipation does me a great deal of good.

  10 June 1837 Excerpt from the Journal of Her Royal Highness Victoria

  At 9 we all breakfasted for the last time together! It was our last happy happy breakfast with these dearest cousins, whom I do love so very, very dearly. Dearest Albert is so grown up in his manners…and is very clever, naturally clever. Albert is the more reflecting of the two, and he likes very much talking about serious and instructive things and yet is so very very merry and gay and happy, like young people ought to be; Albert used always to have some fun and clever witty answer at breakfast. I feel this separation deeply.

  12 June 1836 Excerpt from the Private Journal of Miss Elizabeth Hastings

  The Princes have finally left. I was right not to criticize Albert. He paid Victoria a compliment (no doubt at his brother’s urging) and she was enamored all over again. She is disconsolate now they are gone. But I have hopes her interest in our newspaper project will be restored. Mr. Fulton has waited too long for my answer.

  From Miss Elizabeth Hastings

  to Mr. I. B. Jones

  (Left inside the wood box in the Duchess’s private drawing room)

  20 June 1836

  IB,

  Please inform your publishing friend that I need to speak with him.

  My next day out is two Sundays from today.

  L.

  From Mr. William Fulton

  to Miss Elizabeth Hasting

  (Slipped under Miss Hasting’s door after midnight)

  27 June 1836

  Dear Miss Hastings,

  I was delighted to make your acquaintance last month when we were introduced by our mutual friend, Mr. Jones. I hope you will permit me the honor of escorting you on a promenade in Kensington Gardens Sunday next. If I do not hear from you, I will call at the servants’ entrance to Kensington Palace at two o’clock.

  Sincerely,

  William Fulton

  15

  In Which Liza Puts Away Her Blacks

  “You can’t wear that drab old thing!”

  Liza jumped. Deep in contemplation of her dreary ensemble, she hadn’t heard Victoria’s arrival.

  “Your Highness, I don’t have any other clothes,” Liza said. “I’m still in mourning.”

  “Yet you came to my ball,” Victoria said shrewdly.

  Liza bit her tongue; after all what could she say?

  “I’ve brought you one of my old gowns.” The Princess held up a concoction of pale yellows and pinks, reminding Liza of a field of silken wildflowers. “It should fit you perfectly.”

  Liza couldn’t take her eyes off the dress. “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Don’t you want to wear something pretty for Mr. Fulton?” Victoria asked.

  Liza’s back stiffened. “I�
��m only meeting him on your behalf.”

  “Of course.” Victoria’s blue eyes sparkled. “And since you are on a mission for me and it’s summer, I command you to be lovely and gay.” She thrust the dress into Liza’s hands. “I must fly. Lehzen thinks I am with Mama and Mama thinks I’m with Lehzen.” She flitted out, her lavender eau de cologne lingering behind her.

  Liza held the gown to her shoulders and twisted to see herself in the tiny mirror. Her fingers caressed the soft silk. If she removed the childish bow at the back and pinned back the shoulders, it would suit her perfectly.

  Mama would approve, I think.

  “It’s a royal command. What can I do?” whispered Liza. She eagerly undid the buttons of her dark gown, ignoring the pricks of guilt.

  She was finishing her toilette when Nell knocked at the door.

  “Miss Hastings, you’ve a gentleman caller.” Nell sniggered. “Mrs. Strode is fit to be tied!”

  “He’s early!” Checking her curls were in place, she grabbed her mother’s rose Kashmiri shawl. Liza took the back stairs at a run. Even before she arrived at the servants’ entrance, she could hear Mrs. Strode scolding Will Fulton.

  “Young man, maids at Kensington Palace are not permitted suitors.”

  Liza winced.

  “I have official business with Miss Hastings.” It was meaningless, but Will made it sound respectable.

  Mrs. Strode hesitated, and Liza silently prayed that was the end of it. “Very well, she can meet you in one of the drawing rooms.”

  Liza made a face. She had had enough of those drawing rooms, filled with the same conversations every day.