Prisoners in the Palace (4 page)

“She sits below me,” Mademoiselle Blanche answered in a French accent, with a shake of her jet black curls. “I outrank her.”

Mr. Jenkins cleared his nose with a honk. “Mrs. Strode, I don’t want to presume, but Mademoiselle Blanche’s mistress is a Duchess while Miss Hastings will only serve a Baroness.”

“Exactement,” said Mademoiselle Blanche with a nod. “I serve the Duchess not une baronne fausse.” Everyone looked blank. “A fake Baroness.”

Liza frowned, trying to place Mademoiselle’s accent.

“You forget, Mr. Jenkins, Miss Hastings will also serve the Princess, the future Queen.” Mrs. Strode’s nostrils flared and splotches of bright pink appeared on her round cheeks. “She sits higher than Mademoiselle Blanche.”

“Non! Je refuse.” Mademoiselle Blanche did not budge. She stared defiantly at the housekeeper, her nostrils flaring.

“I don’t care where I sit,” Liza said. She pulled out the chair below Mademoiselle Blanche’s and sat down decisively. “What does it matter?”

The hostile expressions on everyone’s face told Liza she had blundered.

“Miss Hastings, in the future, do not presume to substitute your judgment for mine,” said Mrs. Strode. “Since Miss Hastings is already seated, we will discuss it another time.”

Mademoiselle Blanche smiled triumphantly.

Eating alone might not be such a burden.

The door swung open and a scruffy kitchen boy strode in carrying a roast on an enormous platter. He placed it in front of Mrs. Strode, and handed her a carving knife and fork. Everyone watched reverently as she reduced the roast to thick slices, then the kitchen boy served everyone as though they were royalty.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Strode, is there any chicken?” Liza said. “Beef tends to give me indigestion.”

Everyone at the table burst out laughing and the now familiar, forbidding look on Mrs. Strode’s face gave Liza her answer. Mutely, she held out her plate and accepted a slice of roast beef.

Liza let the conversation flow over her head as she avoided bits of congealed fat floating in the meat’s juices and wolfed down the overcooked cauliflower and stewed spinach. She looked up, startled, when she heard her name.

“Miss Hastings’s belongings need to be collected, Mr. Jenkins,” said Mrs. Strode.

Mr. Jenkins nodded. “I’ll send Simon.”

Simon turned out to be the handsome footman in green livery. He nodded to her, his mouth stuffed full of beef.

“I’ve only one trunk,” Liza gritted her teeth to keep her jaw from trembling. “My other things are in storage.” She prayed Mr. Arbuthnot would honor their agreement. “Should I accompany him?”

More tittering, instantly quelled by Mrs. Strode’s glare. “Of course not! That would be unsuitable, Miss Hastings. Simon is perfectly capable of picking up another servant’s trunk without your assistance.”

Liza stared down at her plate, fingering her locket. Mama and Papa would be mortified to see her so humbled.

“What is the direction, Miss?” Simon asked, flashing her a glimpse of bright white teeth in a reassuring smile.

“Claridge’s Hotel in Mayfair,” Liza said.

There was a murmur at the name of the prestigious hotel.

With an avidity that Liza found distasteful, Mr. Jenkins asked, “With whom were you in service?”

“Pardon me?” Liza asked.

Mrs. Strode answered for Liza, “Miss Hastings was a guest at the hotel.”

Each diner’s fork stopped in midair as everyone stared at Liza.

Mademoiselle Blanche said to the table at large, “That explains her wardrobe.” She leaned toward Liza and shamelessly inspected
her jewelry. “Unless she learns to dress like what she is, she’ll be on the street more quickly than the last one.”

Liza’s hand went protectively to her necklace.

Mr. Jenkins started to laugh, which turned into a fit of coughing when Mrs. Strode raised her eyebrows. “The Duchess will not countenance a maid dressing more fashionably than she,” Mr. Jenkins said when he recovered.

“I’m in mourning,” Liza protested. “I don’t have many other clothes.”

Mrs. Strode shrugged. “Make do. In time the Baroness will give you her old dresses. Once you’ve removed any frills which mark the dress as a lady’s, you may wear them.” She stared disapprovingly at the lace of Liza’s dress.

“But I can’t wear her clothes, she’s much too tall,” Liza blurted out.

Mademoiselle Blanche sniffed. “You alter them for yourself or sell them. It is a perquisite of the position. You will also get the Princess’s clothes. Her clothes are beautifully made, even if they are not à la mode.” She sounded envious.

Her curiosity about the Princess’s oddly immature dress getting the better of her, Liza asked, “Why doesn’t the Princess dress more suitably for her age?” The servants exchanged knowing looks.

“The Duchess feels the Princess is too young to follow fashion,” Mrs. Strode said.

“She’s sixteen!” Liza said.

“If the Duchess has her way,” said Mr. Jenkins, “the Princess will always be treated like a little girl.”

“Pas du tout!” Mademoiselle Blanche shook her head vigorously. “The Duchess is protecting Victoria, who is immature. She will
protect her even when she becomes Queen, as her regent.” She made a face in the housekeeper’s direction. “Then she will be more important than the Princess. Which is why I sit higher at table.”

Simon joined in, “But if Sir John Conroy lived in the Palace, his valet would sit higher than all of us.”

“That man aims to be King in all but name,” said Mr. Jenkins.

“King John,” Mademoiselle said. “Or, as I hear the King calls him, ‘Con-royal.’”

There was laughter all around the table.

Bewildered, Liza asked, “I’ve never heard of a Sir John. Who is he?”

“The Duchess’s personal secretary and comptroller,” Mr. Jenkins said. “He manages her accounts.”

“More than just her accounts,” Simon said with a leer.

“He’s insufferable!” said the butler. “Yesterday, he suggested we were drinking too much port wine. I told him the household was drinking just as much as it always had.” He hiccoughed.

“He accused me of eating the Duchess’s bonbons,” Mademoiselle Blanche added. “As if I could keep my figure if I stole candies. It must be the Princess. She is always sneaking food when she can get away with it.”

Liza glanced around the table nervously. How was it a maid could speak so familiarly about the Princess? To her surprise, many of the servants, even Mrs. Strode, were nodding.

“Sir John thinks we’ve a thief in our midst,” Mr. Jenkins pronounced.

“Aren’t there guards at the Palace?” Liza asked.

“Who would pay for ‘em?” Simon asked with a laugh.

“But the Princess is the heir to the throne!” Liza said. “Doesn’t she need protecting?”

They all burst out laughing again. “The Princess barely has friends, much less enemies,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Sir John and the Duchess keep her sequestered as much as they dare. They want her to rely on them for everything.”

Liza felt a twinge of worry for the Princess.

Mrs. Strode gave a sharp glance around the table as though the conversation had gone too far. “It is not for us to question our betters.” She took a sip of ale and then spoke to Mademoiselle Blanche. “Mademoiselle, as you are familiar with Miss Hasting’s duties, I will look to you to help her settle in.”

The maid scowled and began muttering under her breath in French. Liza listened carefully, not to the words, but to how she pronounced them. After a moment or two, she put down her fork and turned to Mademoiselle Blanche.

“Where are you from, Mademoiselle?” she asked sweetly.

Simon said in a smooth voice full of malice, “Mademoiselle is from Paris, where all the most superior maids come from. As she tells us. Frequently.”

“I spent a summer in Paris once with my family,” Liza said. “It’s curious, but you don’t speak like a Parisian at all.”

Nell gasped, then giggled.

“You are mistaken, Miss Hastings.” Spots of color appeared under the French girl’s face powder. “I was born and trained in Paris.”

Liza deliberately made her voice artless. “I heard your exact accent when we visited a pig farm in Normandy.”

Simon chortled. “Miss Hastings has exposed you, Mademoiselle Pig-Keeper. What else have you lied about?”

“C’est insupportable! I’ll not stand to be interrogated like this.” Pushing back her chair, Mademoiselle Blanche leaned down and whispered in Liza’s ear, “As the highest servants in the house, we
might have been friends. But it will never be! Jamais!” She flounced out of the room, her nose in the air, like an insulted poodle.

“That will teach her to tangle with a real ‘lady.’ Silly cuckoo,” Simon said, holding up his glass to toast Liza.

Liza cast her eyes to her plate to hide her flushed cheeks. Her first meal, and she had already won an admirer…and an enemy.

A Broadsheet, Published Anonymously

Sources close to the little Princess living at Kensington Palace have alerted this writer to a worrisome situation. Princess Victoria, the heir presumptive to the throne, is woefully unprepared for her awesome destiny as Queen of the British Isles.

Our sources report she is mentally backward for her age, frivolous, and self-centered. Easily irritated by her tutors, she has been known to throw her schoolbooks at them in a fit of temper. Despite the devoted attention of her mother, the Princess is incapable of comprehending novels or poetry. She studies several languages, but speaks none of them well. English, which should be her native tongue, is pronounced with a noticeable lisp and, worse, a German accent.

Princess Victoria’s weakness of mind leads this writer to question the Princess’s readiness to rule. If the King, whose health worsens daily, should pass away before she achieves her eighteenth year, her Mother is designated to be regent. There could be no wiser choice. However, the nation might be even better served if the Duchess can be prevailed upon to remain regent until Victoria is at least twenty-one or perhaps even indefinitely.

Liza watched the hands on the fussy ormolu clock on the mantle tick the minutes away. The royals took their time over dinner. Liza willed them to hurry so she could complete her final interview with the Princess’s mother, the Duchess of Kent.

“You will wait here until the Duchess comes,” the Baroness had said an hour earlier.

“Here” was a grand drawing room in better repair than any room Liza had yet seen.

“How long will she be?” Liza asked.

The Baroness went on as though Liza hadn’t spoken. “As far as the Duchess is concerned, you are English through and through. She will speak freely
in German in front of a servant who she believes doesn’t understand.”

Liza realized her increased salary was not because Victoria liked her. The Baroness had her own reasons.

“You want me to be a spy?” Liza dared not be mistaken about the Baroness’s intent.

“Ja, eine Spionin.” It was an ugly word in German or English.

“But why?”

“If you do your job properly, you will overhear the answer. If not, then you are too stupid and your linguistic skills are worthless to me.”

Slowly, Liza said, “The Princess was very kind—I won’t do anything against her.”

The Baroness drew herself up. “And you think I would? Trust me, Miss Hastings, the Princess’s interests and mine are exactly the same. Your information will serve us both.”

“If it is to serve the Princess,” Liza swallowed hard, “then I will do it.”

The Baroness nodded, satisfied. “Keep your ears open. Do not speak unless spoken to. Your expression must be as blank as a sheet of paper.”

Liza blinked. She had lost so much already. Was she to lose herself too? She looked up to see the Baroness’s skirt disappearing out the door with a swish.

She examined the room more closely. At first glance it was all crimson, velvet, and luxury, but a second look revealed the walls had cracks as fine and wide as spiderwebs. The ceiling was stained from old leaks. Two marble fireplaces flanked the doorway, but only one had a meager coal fire burning. Near the windows, sunlight had faded the blood red carpet.

This Sir John must be a poor manager to let the house fall into such disrepair.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

A woman—it must be the Duchess, Liza decided—tottered in on high heels. She wore a scarlet velvet gown, with matching satin ribbons. It was chic, but designed for a debutante, not a mature Duchess. Liza’s father would have noted, in his driest voice, that the Duchess was mutton dressed as lamb.

“Outrageous!” the Duchess cried in German. “It’s disrespectful to me!”

Her hands gripped a broadsheet newspaper. Liza recognized the style. Hawked on the street for a few pennies, broadsheets were full of delicious gossip and innuendo. Since coming to London, Liza and her mama had bought several of them behind Papa’s back. The Duchess paced furiously, her heels catching the threadbare patches of carpet. Peering nearsightedly at the newsprint, she collided with Liza and her pointy shoe nearly crushed Liza’s toe. Liza cried out and the startled Duchess rocked backward.

So much for the unobtrusive servant.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Liza was careful to follow the Baroness’s instructions to speak English.

The Duchess stared at her, her quick glance taking in every detail of Liza’s fine mourning gown. A crease appeared between her eyes as she began speaking English. “Who are you? We aren’t expecting visitors today.”

“I’m the Princess’s new maid,” Liza said, remembering to curtsy. Her toes stung from the Duchess’s pointed shoes.

“A maid? In such a dress? When were you hired?” the Duchess asked, her expression puzzled, as if she were trying to remember a detail that had escaped her.

“Today, Your Grace.”

“Oh. Very good.” Turning her back on Liza, the Duchess returned to the broadsheet.

Liza rested her head against the wall. She had prayed Kensington Palace would be a refuge, but now she wondered if it were an asylum.

The door slammed open and a gentleman paused in the doorway. He was middle-aged, but extraordinarily good-looking. His dark trousers and tailored coat accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist perfectly. His gray silk cravat was impeccable and fastened with a diamond tiepin. Liza stared admiringly at the effect he made.

“My lady, what is this upset?” He also spoke in German as he made a beeline for the Duchess. He placed both hands on her shoulders.

“Sir John,” said the Duchess, leaning into his embrace. “Thank goodness you are here.” Her voice was breathy and pleased.

So this is what the servants mean about Sir John managing the Duchess.

The Duchess’s coils of hair quivered with a life of their own. “Sir John, they’re saying I’m a terrible mother!” She shoved the broadsheet at him. He harrumphed as he read.

“Do you see where they criticize Victoria’s accent?” The Duchess interrupted. “How unfair, when I’ve been so careful to limit her German!”

Still scanning the article, Sir John said absently, “We can do something about that.”

“I already have, Sir John,” the Duchess simpered. “There’s a new maid to wait on her. Her accent seems ladylike.” She pointed to
Liza, who held herself motionless in the corner. Sir John started; he had not noticed Liza until that instant.

“I was not consulted,” he said coldly. Disengaging himself from the Duchess, he strode across the room to Liza. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked in English.

“Liza Hastings, sir,” Liza replied in a low voice.

“No maid in this house ever wore a dress as nice as yours,” he said.

“My parents died recently and I have to earn my living,” Liza answered.

“As a maid?” He eyed her carefully.

“I prefer to make my own way, sir.”

“Very commendable.” He smiled, his dark blue eyes glittering with admiration. “But a word of caution: you must be careful not to outshine the Princess. She is not amused unless she is the prettiest girl in the room.”

Liza felt a blush creeping up her neck.

Sir John might have paid her another compliment, but the Duchess interrupted. “Sir John, what is taking so long?” she cried in German. “Come away from the girl.” She extended her hand to him, her wrist weighed down by a many stranded bracelet of precious pearls.

Sir John hurried back to the Duchess’s side and led her to a settee. He stroked her palm with his thumb. His hands looked smooth. Liza’s Papa had told her never to trust a man with a manicure.

“My lady,” he said. “The girl seems quite suitable. Much more refined than the last maid.”

The Duchess’s kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “But you always seemed to like Annie…until the day you dismissed her.”

Liza edged closer, hoping to hear something useful.

“She pried into my private business so she had to go.” His dark eyebrows came together in a scowl and his fingers pressed the Duchess’s hand harder as he rubbed.

“Sir John, you are hurting me!” the Duchess cried. She pulled back her hand. His cufflink snagged her pearl bracelet and the clasp came apart. Pearls spilled everywhere.

“Girl! Don’t just stand there!” Sir John barked at Liza.

Liza scurried to chase the pearls rolling into every corner. Under a settee, she found a dusty embroidery hoop and gathered the pieces of the bracelet in the bamboo circle.

The Duchess, apparently forgetting Liza, turned back to Sir John. “What are we to do about this terrible newspaper?” she asked in German.

“My lady, this story can only help us.”

“How can you say so?”

He glanced over at Liza. She was careful to appear uncomprehending, as she reached for a pearl in an unswept corner.

“Did you read to the end?” he asked.

“I was too upset to read that far,” confessed the Duchess.

“The writer feels you are an excellent choice to be her regent.”

“So I am.” The Duchess almost purred with anticipation. “Victoria will be happy for me to assume her terrible burden, I’m sure of it,” she said. “She is anxious about her future. You know what tempers she’s had lately.”

“Let her have her tantrums. In the end, she’ll do as she’s told,” said Sir John. “We have a year to bring her to heel.”

I never expected to feel sorry for a Princess.

“Unless the King dies before she’s eighteen, we are left with nothing,” the Duchess said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Liza breathed as shallowly as she could.

Sir John smiled. “This reporter goes so far as to suggest your regency be extended.”

The Duchess sat up straight. “Until Victoria is twenty-one?”

“Or longer!” he said, watching her intently. “We’d have years to ensure we…you get what you deserve.”

The Duchess caught his thought and went further. “We could pay my debts, reward you properly for your service, commission a decent wardrobe…” She couldn’t list the advantages quickly enough. “If only William would die, as he’s been threatening to do these past six years!”

“Even if he lives past Victoria’s eighteenth birthday, I have a plan,” Sir John reassured her. “Parliament reads the papers. The Lords are worried they will have to deal with a featherbrained girl. They much prefer to work with us. Who knows, Your Grace?” He lifted her hand to his full lips. “Parliament may let you rule indefinitely. Victoria need never bother her head about the crown.”

They want the throne for themselves! Worn out by her fretting, the Duchess’s body sagged against the padded arm of the settee. “I’m exhausted. I need to lie down.”

“You must rest, before your responsibilities overwhelm you,” Sir John said to the Duchess.

Envy coursed through Liza; she wouldn’t mind a respite herself.

The Duchess leaned against his chest for a moment and her fingertips touched his sideburns, then she click-clacked out of the room.

Even before the sound of the Duchess’s shoes faded, Sir John turned to Liza, where she still knelt on the carpet, chasing the Duchess’s forgotten pearls.

“Let me be of assistance,” he said in English. His voice was silky. Without warning, he placed his hands on her waist and effortlessly
lifted her up. His hands lingered too long and Liza felt a blush creeping from her shoulder blades up to her cheeks. She wished she had heeded Mama’s advice and worn a corset.

“Thank you, sir. I can stand on my own.”

Sir John reached out and ran his finger through the long blonde curl hanging next to her cheek. “So charming. You’re certain to win Victoria’s heart.”

Liza trembled from the effort it took not to pull away. She would do herself no favors by offending him for he had the Duchess’ affection, and her ear. No doubt he could dismiss her as easily as he had the last maid.

“Perhaps you can do a small service for me,” Sir John said.

Wary, Liza asked, “What?”

“I would like to get Victoria a special gift for her birthday. Find out for me what she particularly wants.”

There’s no harm in that. Victoria will probably thank me.

“Yes, sir.”

Sir John reached into his pocket and pulled out a sovereign. He tossed it into her hoop full of pearls.

Liza stared down at the coin.

“I am generous to my friends.”

“Thank you, sir,” she mumbled. Though she was in no position to sneeze at the money, Liza was mortified at the casual way he assumed her loyalty was for sale.

His eyes looked her up and down. “Excellent,” he murmured and turned on his heel.

Liza sank into a chair in the corner of the empty room. Finally, a moment to reflect on her changed circumstances. Her first day and she already had too many parts to play at Kensington Palace. And
too many employers. To whom should she be loyal? Sir John, the Duchess, the Baroness, Princess Victoria?

Who will do the most for me?

It was almost six o’clock and the room was growing darker by the minute. Her breathing became quieter, almost imperceptible even in the silent room. Liza heard a slight sound coming from the cabinet built into the wall behind her. Kensington Palace was filled with black beetles, spiders, traitors; why not mice? She gathered her skirt tightly to protect her ankles and pounded on the cabinet door. The sounds stopped so abruptly, she wondered if she had imagined them.

Nell arrived with a lit candelabrum. “Why are you sittin’ alone in the dark? Come ‘ave a cuppa tea. Simon’s fetchin’ your trunk right now.”

Liza was tempted to ask Nell about Sir John and his plans to steal the throne of England, but she thought better of it. In Kensington Palace, she might need a secret or two of her own.