Prisoners in the Palace (2 page)

“Half a year. And that’s my final offer.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.” She stood up and waited for him to remember to hold the door open for her. She was about to sweep through when she remembered another problem. “One more thing,” she said.

“What?” he said sourly.

“I have a meeting at Kensington Palace, but I’ve no money to pay for a hansom cab.”

“You could walk.”

“I could,” she mused. “But how would it reflect on Claridge’s? A young lady, walking unescorted through Hyde Park?”

He snorted. “Miss Hastings, I think if you had been in charge of your father’s business interests, there would be an estate worth inheriting.”

Liza waited, her face impassive.

“Very well, I’ll pay the fare,” he said at last. “But first you pack your things. I have an Italian nobleman arriving this evening. He can afford to pay for your suite.”

When Liza came back downstairs, Mr. Arbuthnot was waiting for her. He rushed forward to take her arm and shepherd her through the crowded hall, and Liza rewarded him with a genuine smile. To her surprise, she felt grateful to Mr. Arbuthnot for forcing her to pack so quickly. She would have mourned every item; cried over every glove, cufflink, and book had she more time. Instead, her single trunk was bursting with her favorite things and clothes appropriate for a grieving daughter.

Mr. Arbuthnot accompanied her to the door and instructed the doorkeeper to pay for a hansom cab to Kensington Palace. Then he turned on his heel and retreated to the comfort of London’s finest hotel.

Liza was left standing with the doorkeeper, her eyes blinking against the cold sunlight. He blew a shrill whistle and was answered with the clip-clop of hooves and the rattle of a cabriolet driven by a tiny man in an oversize greatcoat and a battered top hat.

“Miss, it’s nice to see you taking the air again,” the doorman said loudly. He lowered his booming voice. “I’ll ask the driver to take the long way around, avoid the river.”

Liza swallowed. She had not considered that she might have to cross the bridge where the horse had bolted, plunging Mama
and Papa to their deaths in the muddy waters of the Serpentine. Liza smiled at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness. With a practiced hand, he helped her into the carriage.

As she sank down to the cushioned seat, Liza forced herself to breathe deeply. Her exhalation hung suspended in the chilly air, like a promise or a threat. Whatever the future held for her, it was about to begin.

The carriage wound its way through Hyde Park. Liza averted her eyes from the cold grayness of the river in the distance. They traveled along Rotten Row, where even in these frigid temperatures, society’s finest showed off their clothes, horses, and social connections.

The carriage wheels crunched up a long gravel drive studded with weeds and stopped at an imposing iron gate. Streaks of rust marked the gate and the ornate pineapples topping the gateposts had long ago lost their gold leaf. The red brick building beyond the gate looked like an ordinary country house. Large enough certainly, but Liza spied a broken window- pane and brickwork in need of repair.

“This is Kensington Palace?” Liza asked the cabbie doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“‘Tis cert, Miss,” he said, his bright blue eyes twinkling. “It don’t look like much, I know, but thems that live ‘ere can’t afford better. The King dumps all ‘is poor relations at Kensington.”

Liza got out of the carriage and rooted around her reticule, looking for some loose coins, but before she could find a tip, the cabbie touched his white hat in a salute and clicked to his horse. The cabriolet lurched forward and she watched him go, feeling very alone.

The tall, black gate was locked. Liza spotted the porter’s box just inside the gate, but no porter to ask what her business at the Palace might be. Glancing around the empty courtyard, she spied a smaller pedestrian’s gate. It swung open at her touch, the metal’s coldness seeping through her fashionable gloves. She shivered, although not from the cold.

Cowardice is a luxury you cannot afford.

Climbing the wide, stone steps to the tall, oak door, Liza touched her mother’s locket for luck and struck the brass knocker to a reverberating thud. No response.

Shouldn’t Kensington Palace have a footman or a butler to open the door?

Growing bolder, Liza knocked again. Still no answer.

“Hello?” she called out. “Is there anyone here?”

She shifted from one foot to the other and tapped her fingers against her wrist.

She knocked a third time. No sooner had the knocker hit the strike plate than a tall footman jerked open the thick door. Clad in dark green livery with a powdered wig atop his head, he looked flustered, no doubt due to the furious old woman standing behind
him. She was short and stout and dressed in gray muslin; a chatelaine with keys jangled at her waist.

The housekeeper, Liza concluded.

“Miss Elizabeth Hastings to see the Baroness Lehzen.” Liza’s voice squeaked like a door that hadn’t been opened for months.

The housekeeper squinted at her, her shrewd eyes taking in every detail of Liza’s fashionable ensemble. “Are you certain?” she asked.

“Of my name or that I am here to see the Baroness?” Liza responded sharply.

Pursing her lips, the housekeeper said, “You have come to the wrong entrance.” She pointed. “Go along the length of the Palace to the small, red door there.”

“My apologies. Had there been a proper porter, I would have inquired.” Liza gestured around the empty courtyard.

“I am responsible for the inside of the house, not the exterior,” the housekeeper snapped. “I’ll admit you at the proper door.” She gestured to the footman. He closed the heavy door in Liza’s face.

Liza’s jaw dropped.

The standards for royal help must be very low.

As she trudged around the house, Liza could not help but take note of the gardens surrounding the Palace. Even with the trees bare of leaves in late winter, its beauty encouraged her to take heart with the early crocuses, pale yellow and blue, forcing their way through the soil. She reached a nondescript, red door, its paint peeling. Just as her knuckles came down to knock, the door swung open.

The housekeeper must have run the length of the Palace to meet her so quickly. “So slow, Miss Hastings? We do not tarry here at Kensington Palace.” Her words came between puffs for air.

“I’m sorry, Miss…”

The housekeeper’s eyebrows lifted halfway up her forehead. “Mrs. Strode. Housekeepers are always referred to as Missus.” A plump index finger beckoned for Liza to follow her.

Before the door could swing closed, Liza jumped inside. She bit back a sharp comment. Once she impressed the Baroness, then she could chastise the help.

The door led into a round room with a cold flagstone floor and doors leading off in every direction. The only light came from narrow windows and a few cheap, tallow candles hanging from the walls. Mrs. Strode opened the third door on the right curve of the room and led Liza up a damp stairwell with spots of mold on the plaster walls.

Despite her warm woolen cloak, Liza shivered. “The Palace is very chilly,” she said.

Mrs. Strode stopped short and turned, glaring down at Liza from the step above. “I am sorry Kensington does not meet your expectations, Miss Hastings,” she said, her syllables soaked with sarcasm. “The Duchess’s means may be slender, but let me assure you, we know how to respect our betters in this house.”

Abashed, Liza dropped her eyes and mumbled, “I beg your pardon.” Perhaps she’d do better to guard her tongue. Who knew how much influence this odious housekeeper had with the royal family?

With a sniff, Mrs. Strode continued her ponderous progress up the stairs and down a shabby hall. She stopped without warning and Liza trod upon her skirts. “You’ll have to be more graceful if you are to serve the Princess,” the housekeeper said sharply.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Mrs. Strode seemed to expect something more, so after a moment, Liza said, “I’ll bear it in mind.”

Mrs. Strode opened the tall, white double doors. “Baroness Lehzen, Elizabeth Hastings.”

This room was another disappointment. It did not fit Liza’s idea of a royal parlor at all. With a long table in the center facing a desk, it resembled a faded schoolroom. Cracks ran up and down the walls. Though the sun streamed in—through windows marred by fingerprints and streaks of weather—the room still felt chilly. Liza thought she saw a black beetle skittering into the cold fireplace. The carpets were threadbare and the curtains frayed at their hems.

At least they match.

A tall figure was sitting stiffly on a faded blue velvet armchair. Her dark hair, shot through with gray, was piled high in a braided crown. Liza had not expected an older woman; the Baroness looked at least fifty. In all the novels she read, the governesses were young and pretty.

“Mrs. Strode, you may go.” Baroness Lehzen flicked her bony hand in dismissal. Liza stepped forward and after a moment’s hesitation, curtsied prettily.

“So you are Miss Hastings.” The Baroness made the statement sound like a question. Her hand disappeared into a pocket in her navy skirt and emerged with a handful of caraway seeds. She crammed them into her mouth.

“Yes, my lady,” Liza answered.

“That’s wrong.” She shook her head irritably, chewing the seeds all the while. “You must call me Baroness.” Her English was thickly accented. “Mr. Ratisbon tells me you are an orphan?”

The familiar wave of dark pain hit Liza and threatened to sweep her feet out from under her. “Yes, Baroness.”

“How did you lose your family?” she asked, making it sound as if Liza had misplaced them.

“A carriage accident in Hyde Park.”

The Baroness gave a little nod, dismissing the parents. “Elizabeth is too grand a name,” she said. “What were you called at home?”

Liza forced the words past the lump in her throat. “My family called me Liza.”

“Liza.” The Baroness rolled it on her tongue. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, Baroness.”

“Victoria will be seventeen next month.” A tender smile flitted over her lips, then passed. “Have you had any education?”

More than you.

“Yes, of course. I’m very good at parlor games and anagrams. I can also play the pianoforte.” Liza’s mother had ensured she was well versed in all the tools a lady of leisure required to combat boredom.

“None of that is of use here,” the Baroness frowned.

Liza had never heard the Princess was so serious-minded. It might be very grim at Kensington Palace.

“Can you sew?”

“Sew? Of course I can.” For a moment, the memory of her mother’s golden head leaning over her embroidery, patiently showing Liza a new stitch, was more real than the Baroness.

The Baroness coughed, bringing Liza back to the moment. Liza managed to say, “I am quite handy with an embroidering needle.”

“If you can embroider, you can mend,” the Baroness said. “Let me look at you.” The top of her body ramrod straight, she levered herself out of the upholstered chair. Circling Liza, as though she were a horse on sale at the fair, Baroness Lehzen muttered, “Not too tall. Pretty enough, although the complexion is pasty.”

“Black is not my best color,” Liza felt compelled to say.

The Baroness scowled. “Did I ask you a question?” she said.

“No, Baroness.”

Control your tongue!

“Too much jewelry. And the dress is too fashionable,” the Baroness continued. “The Princess prefers bright colors.”

“I’m in mourning for my parents,” Liza said. Her nervous fingers plucked at her mourning locket.

“That is irrelevant here, Miss Hastings. Nor am I accustomed to being contradicted,” the Baroness said, as she lowered herself back into her seat.

Liza willed her tone to be respectful. “I apologize, Baroness, but my nerves have been strained by my tragedy.”

“A maid is not permitted to have nerves.”

There was a long silence while Liza’s heart sank.

“M…maid?” Perhaps she had misheard.

“What else?” the Baroness said, her eyebrows nearly touching her ornate crown of hair.

“I’m here to apply to be a lady in waiting!” Liza winced, hearing her own shrillness.

“A commoner?” The Baroness laughed. “Even if the Princess was permitted a lady in waiting, she would have to be, at the very least, a countess.”

“I can’t be a maid,” Liza protested. “I’m a lady.”

The Baroness frowned. “Mr. Ratisbon told me your father was in trade.”

“He was,” Liza admitted. “But his products were such a favorite with the late king, he was knighted.” Papa had been so pleased. It was then that he and Mama began to speak of an auspicious match for Liza.

“Knighted!” Baroness Lehzen made an impatient noise. “This interview is over. I have no wish for you to demean yourself. Mrs. Strode will show you out.”

Liza’s last bits of pride disintegrated into dust as she imagined begging Mr. Arbuthnot for another night at Claridge’s Hotel. She couldn’t do it. “Wait!” she cried. “What kind of maid?”

“The Princess’s maid. And as needed, mine also.” The Baroness’s face tightened. “But it’s impossible now. You are a lady. And one with too much pride.” She reached for the bell on the table. “You can go.”

Liza’s chest contracted, squeezing her heart of every drop of blood. Her thoughts raced: what could she do to change the Baroness’s mind?

The double doors slammed open, banging against the wall. A King Charles spaniel, dressed in a red tartan vest and blue velvet trousers, scampered in, yipping loudly. Following on his heels, a girl in a white muslin day dress with pink trim walked in. Her long, fair hair was tied back, like a little girl’s might be, with a matching ribbon. Behind them both, a parlor maid followed, panting for breath.

The Princess!

The newspapers sometimes published drawings caricaturing her prominent blue eyes and her lips, pursed together like a cupid’s bow. And here she was—in the flesh. Liza liked the look of her immediately.

“Oh darling Lehzen, look at Dash!” cried the girl, with a hint of a German accent. She held up her hand and the dog jumped on its hind legs and turned in a circle. “Isn’t he mignon?”

“He may be adorable, but your manners are not, Princess.” With a gesture, the Baroness directed the dog to sit. The spaniel whimpered and obeyed, as intimidated by the Baroness as Liza was.

Victoria pulled herself up tall and held her weak chin unnaturally high. “Lehzen, please forgive the intrusion,” she apologized. Then she turned to Liza with manners just as exquisite. “And do pardon me for interrupting.”

With a pang Liza realized the Princess assumed she was a proper visitor.

The Baroness hastened to correct her mistake. “Victoria, this is no one.”

“Lehzen, she’s clearly someone!” Victoria giggled. “Look at her dress.” She held out her hand. “I am the Princess Victoria.”

Liza curtsied as her mother had taught her. “Your Highness,” she said. “My name is Liza Hastings.”

The Baroness bustled in front of Victoria, as if to protect her from riffraff. “Victoria, go to your room, Liza is here to apply for Annie Mason’s job, but as you can see, she is clearly unsuitable.”

Victoria’s eyes went from Liza’s fashionable slippers to her jet and enamel earrings. “I think she is suitable in every way, Lehzen.”

“It is not for you to say.”

“No one consulted with me about Annie’s dismissal.” The Princess put her hands on her hips. “At the very least, I should choose my new maid.”

“I will find someone better. One who is not so well born,” said the Baroness.

“Can anyone be too well born to serve me?” Victoria asked, frowning.