Authors: Marissa Doyle
superannuated royals. Many of the king’s brothers and sisters have or had apartments there. The Duke
of Sussex and his mistr—”
Mama coughed delicately.
“—er, the Duke of Sussex lives there, and the Princess Sophia as well. It’s become rather run-
down over the years, and was never as magnificent as most of the other royal residences. But it’s a
pleasant place—peaceful and countryish. The gardens are charming, I hear, though I haven’t seen
them in years.”
“Might we visit them? Are they open to the public?”
“Well, I suppose we might if you wish. But you’re not very likely to bump into the princess if we
do. Her mother, the Duchess of Kent, is quite protective of her, and seems to see plots to harm her
behind every shrub. And that comptroller of hers—Sir John Conrad …” Papa paused, brow
furrowed. “No, it’s Conroy. The duchess has relied on him since the duke died when Victoria was
just a baby—perhaps more than one usually relies on an employee. He’s been feeding the duchess’s
suspicions for years. According to Lord Melbourne, who’s in a position to know, he’s determined to
get some advantage from his position as head of the princess’s household staff. He’s connived to keep
the princess and the king and queen apart in order to preserve his own influence. There’s very little
communication between the court and Kensington Palace, so they say.”
“That seems odd,” Persy said. “Shouldn’t the princess spend a great deal of time with the king,
since she’s heiress to the throne?”
“According to Lord M., the king thinks so. Both he and the queen are quite fond of the girl since
they have no children of their own. But there’s no love lost between the king and the duchess. There
never has been. The things one hears about Sir John Conroy—”
“James! Are you repeating gossip?” admonished Mama.
“Oh, let him, just this once! We need to know,” pleaded Pen. Persy echoed her. This wasn’t quite
what they wanted to learn about, but still …
“
Need
to know?” said her mother, eyebrows raised.
“Well, want to know. The poor princess!”
Papa relented. “So long as it stays within these walls, girls. You must learn discretion if you’re to
be in society, and this will be good practice for you. From what I hear, the Duchess of Kent and Sir
John are eager to maintain as much control as possible over the princess now that she’s nearly
eighteen and of age to inherit the throne when the king dies. The duchess’s reasons are not to be
wondered at. Her daughter is all she has in the world now that her children from her first marriage
are grown and living back in Germany. But Sir John is ambitious. The Duke of Wellington thinks he
stayed with the duchess after the duke died and ingratiated himself to her, gambling that no other heirs
to the throne would be born and that Victoria would inherit. Then he’d have a position of power in
her household that he could turn to profit once she became queen. I hear he’s been angling for years to
have her make him her private secretary or even to declare herself unable to rule and request a
regency under the duchess—and him, behind the scenes—until her twenty-first birthday, or even
longer.”
“Goodness! You never told me that,” Mama exclaimed, wide-eyed.
“You don’t listen to gossip. Remember?” Papa smiled wickedly at her.
“How does the princess feel about this?” Pen asked.
“I’ll leave that to your imagination. She’s never liked Sir John, so it’s said, but has been forced to
spend little or no time with anyone else but his family. Sir John has convinced the duchess that the
court is a wicked place and that the princess will be contaminated by contact with it. Of course,
having the king’s illegitimate children all over it doesn’t help that perception—”
“James,” warned Mama.
“—but Queen Adelaide is a model of Christian charity and forgives the king his past sins. It
happened before they were married, after all. The queen is quite kind to them for the king’s sake, but
she does not permit any moral laxity around her. Nevertheless the duchess is quite sure that the court
is a den of iniquity and uses it as her excuse to keep the princess away from it. It’s very sad. The
queen has always doted on the girl.”
“So the princess must do as the duchess and Sir John say, even though she will be queen
someday?” Pen looked indignant.
“I don’t say that I approve of the duchess’s actions,” Papa said mildly. “But she is the princess’s
mother, and until Princess Victoria is of age then yes, she must do as her mother says. She is no
different from you or any other girl in that respect.”
“Our mama would never be like the duchess,” Pen objected.
“The duchess is doing what she considers right under the circumstances,” Mama chided her. “Don’t
presume to question your elders’ judgment.”
“But going against the king’s wishes when Princess Victoria’s going to inherit his crown someday,
and keeping her prisoner in Kensington Palace—”
“Nonsense,” said Mama. “She’s not a prisoner. She’s traveled extensively over England visiting a
great many people and places. Your grandmama Leland met her two years ago at the Duke of
Rutland’s house, if you recall.”
“But—”
“It is an unfortunate situation and has made a great many people unhappy,” Papa said with finality.
“I blame Conroy for the lion’s share of it, and for coming between mother and child the way he has.
But the princess has time on her side. All she has to do is be patient and steadfast. Sir John hasn’t
been able to force the girl into anything yet.” He sipped from his wineglass and chuckled. “After all,
he’s not a sorcerer who can bewitch her into doing his bidding. He’s merely an ambitious Irishman
with a bent for self-promotion.”
“Speaking of ambition, my dears,” Mama said, looking happy at a chance to change the subject.
“We’ve been invited to a musicale tomorrow evening by my friend Lady Gilley. I told her you
weren’t yet out, but she said it would be a private party, it being a Sunday. I thought it might be good
practice for you, and Signora Albertazzi is to sing, which was quite a coup for the Gilleys. Thank
goodness I had Madame Gendreau make up a few simple dresses, just in case something like this
came up. It was perfect timing to have them arrive today.”
Persy put down her fork. Somehow she wasn’t hungry anymore.
“Oh, how exciting,” Pen exclaimed. “Will it rain, do you think? I so wanted to wear the silk shawl
we bought last week. And maybe the new black slippers—or should I save those for balls? How shall
we do our hair?” She rattled on at great length until Charles ostentatiously gagged, blaming a fishbone
when Mama scolded him.
Only after they had gone up to get ready for bed did Persy speak.
“We didn’t learn much about Kensington, did we?” she said, helping Pen out of her stays.
“Don’t sound so gloomy. We learned
something
. Poor Princess Victoria! I had no idea. Wouldn’t it
be wonderful if we could just march down to Kensington Palace to bring back Ally and set the
princess’s matters to rights, too?” she said, inspecting her face in the mirror. “Drat, is that a spot
coming on my forehead? Why now? It had better be gone by Tuesday. I don’t want to curtsy to Queen
Adelaide with spots on my face.”
“If we survive tomorrow evening, that is,” Persy couldn’t keep from saying.
Pen turned and threw her arms around Persy. “Shh. You make it sound like we’re going to be
executed. Mama’s right, you know. A musicale evening is the best way for us to start, because most of
the time we can just sit and listen and not have to make conversation. At least not much. And we get to
wear our new dresses. Besides, Mama won’t let us stay late because she says we must get plenty of
rest before Tuesday. It won’t be that bad, really. Just smile a lot.” She snatched a handkerchief off the
dressing table and dabbed at Persy’s eyes. “You’ll be fine. I know it.” Her face brightened. “Maybe
that disreputable duke we saw in the park the other day will be there. Wouldn’t that be exciting?
Except that I don’t want to see him if I’ve got a spotty forehead.”
Persy leaned her head on Pen’s shoulder. “I’m sure the Gilleys’ drawing room will be crawling
with dark and brooding Duke of Brunswicks, and spots or no spots, you’re the one who’ll be fine. Oh,
why can’t I just stay home?”
Persy was still wondering that in the carriage on the way to Lady Gilley’s house in Grosvenor Square
the next evening. Her hands, cased in one of the new pairs of delicate kid gloves, felt icy and sweaty
at the same time.
Were Pen’s hands feeling the same? Probably not. Pen’s eyes sparkled with excitement though her
expression was demure enough. She had chatted away as Mama’s maid, Andrews, had helped them
with their hair, and danced round the room in glee when Persy charmed away the offending pimple on
her forehead. Now she sat in her white muslin dress with lilac ribbons and a wreath of ivy and
violets over the soft bouncing ringlets Andrews had so carefully curled, looking like Spring. Persy
knew that her own costume, with deep rose-colored ribbons and pink rosebuds, was just as attractive.
But her face in the mirror had been pale and anxious, not smiling and eager like Pen’s.
Mama too was anxious, but for a different reason. “I had assumed Miss Allardyce would be able to
help the girls get ready for parties and such. Poor Andrews was run off her feet helping all of us with
our hair and dressing. The only thing for it is to hire a maid for the girls,” she said to Papa.
“As you wish, my dear. Unless, of course, you think Miss Allardyce will be back soon—”
“I don’t care to speculate on when that will happen. Ingratitude seems to be rampant in this
degenerate age we live in. Persy, why do you have that peculiar expression on your face?”
“No reason, Mama.”
“Do try to appear a little more cheerful when we arrive at the Gilleys’, dear. You look like you’re
on your way to a funeral.”
Persy stifled a sigh. Oh, but she was—she was about to witness the simultaneous birth and death of
her social career. Well, at least she could enjoy watching Pen be popular and admired.
As they drove up to the front door of Lord and Lady Gilley’s house, brightly lit with the new
hissing gas lamps, Mama gave them a last-minute going-over. She adjusted Persy’s wreath and patted
her cheek. “You’ll be fine, dear. Don’t worry. Won’t they, dear?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course they will.” Papa peered past Persy to the carriage window beyond. “I
wonder if Gilley could spare a minute to tell me about installing the gas in the house. I hear King
William pulled all the gas lighting that King George had put in from the royal palaces. But wouldn’t it
be pleasant to have brighter light to read by in the evenings?”
“As we’ll be spending the next few months away from the house in the evenings, I can’t say it’s
high on my list of priorities just now,” Mama replied crisply. “Heavens, dear, it’s the season.”
Pen took Persy’s arm and squeezed it as they ascended the steps of the house behind their parents.
“Start smiling now, so it’s on your face when we go in,” she whispered.
“I can’t. My face won’t move,” Persy whispered back.
“Yes it will. Now.”
The door was thrown open by a bewigged and powdered footman who bowed as they entered. The
front hall was small but beautiful, with elaborate plaster moldings and tiled in alternating squares of
black and cream marble. Through a tall set of doors she saw that the dining room beyond had been
laid out for a post-concert cold supper buffet. The thought of food, even lemon ice or the daintiest
meringue, made Persy’s stomach contract in protest.
Guests chatted in small groups or promenaded up the staircase. Charles would have loved its
curving balustrade and already been halfway up to test its sliding properties.
Beyond the footman who had opened the door for them was a small woman dressed in purple
taffeta, with red cheeks and tall plumes in her gray-streaked dark hair. She greeted them with a broad
smile. An equally compact, chubby man stood beside her, beaming.
“Parthenope! Lord Atherston!” Lady Gilley shook hands. “And heavens, these must be the twins.
Such pretty girls. Wait till my Freddy sees ’em. You’ll have a merry time on your hands this season.
Now, which is which?”
Mama introduced them, and Persy felt her watch their curtsies with an anxious eye that relaxed
after they didn’t fall or otherwise disgrace themselves. Lady Gilley scrutinized them.
“Hmm. My, you are alike, aren’t you? Better stick to memorizing ribbon color tonight till I’ve had a
better look at you two. You can leave your mantles and tidy up in my boudoir, then go on into the
drawing room. Signora Albertazzi is eager to begin on time tonight, as she’s resting for opening night
of a new opera later in the week. She’s promised to sing one or two arias from it, which is a bit of a