Prisoners in the Palace (5 page)

Simon lifted Liza’s trunk off his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. He dropped it on the wooden floor with a thud that echoed up and down the empty hallway outside her door. Liza winced, thinking of her fragile treasures.

“It’s lonely up here,” Simon said, glancing around the bare room. “Are you sure you won’t be nervous?” In his fine livery, designed to show off his trim footman’s figure, Simon looked like a tropical bird. His bulk pushed all the air out of the tiny room; there wasn’t enough left for Liza.

“I’m quite used to being alone, now,” she said.

“I can check on you, if you like,” Simon offered.

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” She wished he would go; his attentions made her uncomfortable.

“It’s not what you are used to, I suppose?” Simon asked.

Thinking of the luxurious suite at Claridge’s, Liza almost laughed out loud. “It’s very…quaint.” She ran a gloved finger down the small bureau and frowned at the accumulation of dust.

“You must have a tale to tell, coming from Mayfair to here.” He ran his hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, smoothing his thick hair down.

“My parents died, that’s all.” Liza licked her lips nervously, then instantly regretted it when Simon’s eyes stayed locked on her mouth. “Thank you for bringing up my trunk, but I’m very tired. Good night.”

With more refinement than she would have credited him, Simon took his leave. Liza closed the door after him, listening to his footsteps moving down the hall. Once certain he was gone, she shot the bolt home with unsteady hands. Finally, she was alone.

She pushed herself away from the door and began to explore her new living quarters. It didn’t take long. The wind rattled the tiny window and threatened the flame of her cheap tallow candle. Her bed lay wedged under a slanted roof of bare wood and on the wall hung a tiny mirror with a crack that ran all the way through it. A battered chest of drawers and a tiny table and chair completed the furnishings. In the corner, as Mrs. Strode had promised, sat a battered chamber pot.

Resting in the center of the narrow room, Liza’s single trunk reminded her of all she had lost. She braced herself and lifted the lid. On top lay a soft rose shawl, the last gift her father had given her mother. She lifted it as though it were a precious treasure and wrapped it around herself, inhaling her mother’s jasmine perfume.

Exhausted and fighting panic, she flung herself down on the scratchy blanket that barely covered the bed and let herself cry. For the first time since her parents died, she didn’t worry about anyone overhearing her sobs. The thin pillow became damp with her tears.

A long while later, she sat up, her eyes sore and her throat aching.

That is quite enough, Liza. Mama always said self-pity wastes energy and spoils the complexion.

She took a deep breath, held it, then tried to exhale all her troubles in one long sigh. If she were to have any sort of new life, she would have to build it herself. To begin, she must make this dreadful room her own. Placing the shawl on the bed, she went back to unpacking. She arranged delicate sea shells from a trip to the Ostend shore, a sketch of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, and a long feather from her mother’s finest hat on the battered bureau. She tacked her favorite fashion drawings from the Paris papers on the wall. The miniature portrait of her mother, encased in pearls, she propped on the rickety table next to her bed. She hung her father’s watch carefully on the bedpost. She draped her two mourning dresses over the chair.

At the bottom of the trunk, Liza found what she didn’t even know she was searching for: a leather book wrapped in muslin. Her chest hollowed out as she relived the moment Mama had placed the journal in her hands. She opened the cover to the inscription in her mother’s elegant handwriting, “Dearest Liza, the first year in society is a year like no other. I hope you use this journal to remember every detail of your adventures. Love, Mama.”

So far, Liza had used it only once; the day she buried her parents. By the light of the sputtering candle, Liza found her pen and ink. She opened the journal, averting her eyes from the first entry, and began to write.

1 April 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Miss Elizabeth Hastings

Who am I? A fortnight ago, I knew. Liza, beloved daughter of Matthew and Mathilde, ready for her first season. We looked forward to introducing me to society and finding me a suitable husband. But now? I am a boat whose mooring has been cut. I could come ashore anywhere. This next year will indeed be a year like no other.

My first(?) port of call is Kensington Palace. I came for one position, but was offered another. And then another. Am I still a lady? A maid? Or a spy?

Papa always said a businessman looks for opportunities to profit. The Princess Victoria’s problem is my chance. The Duchess and Sir John are scheming against her; they want the throne for themselves. If I can help the Princess, who knows where her generosity might lead? Money, a title, a good marriage? All the things Mama and Papa wanted for me. The Princess already likes me. Next, she must need me. Who else will gather the information she needs to protect herself?

Rereading these words, I seem a cold and calculating stranger. What choice do I have? I must make my own way. But were our stations equal, Victoria is someone I could like. Perhaps I can serve her without losing myself. The first step will be to win her trust. To do this, I must separate her from the Baroness Lehzen. Surely the Princess must be alone sometime!

Liza closed the journal and carefully slid it between her mattress and the wooden pallet. She glanced at her father’s watch. It was late. She wondered how to call a maid to help her undress. Then, like a wave of cold water drenching her body, she remembered there was no one to call.

I am the maid.

With a sigh, she began disassembling her outfit. Separating the sleeves from the arm holes proved relatively easy. Her skirt slipped off with minor difficulty. But the bodice closed with hooks and eyes in the back. Only after a struggle that would have done a contortionist credit, did Liza manage to unfasten them. The rest of the ensemble came off quickly, but she was at a loss when it came to putting the pieces away in her trunk. It was a sobering fact: she had never tidied up after herself.

Liza eyed the thin blanket and rubbed the scratchy sheets between her thumb and forefinger. Wrapping herself in her mother’s shawl, she ducked into bed, careful not to hit her head on the sloped ceiling. She shifted her weight half a dozen times before she concluded there was no section of the mattress that was not lumpy.

She blew out her candle: Nell had given her only two for the entire week; she must learn to conserve. A tiny tear escaped her resolve to cry no more and in the dark Liza let it fall.

Too soon after Liza placed her head on her pillow, there was a tap at the door.

“Not now,” Liza said, half asleep.

“Miss, unlock the door.” It was Nell’s voice.

Sitting up, Liza slammed her forehead on the slanted ceiling. She touched the sore spot as she got up and made her way through
the dark, freezing room to slide back the bolt. The coconut matting on the floor felt damp to her bare feet.

Nell carried in a heavy tray with a pot of tea and a tiny piece of rock-hard sugar and a pitcher of milk. A lit candle stood on the tray. “Good morning, Miss. It’s six o’clock.” Her friendly face was a welcome sight in the cold room.

“Heavens, I’ve never been awake this early.” Liza rubbed her eyes and looked at the tray. “Do I bring this to the Baroness?”

Nell snickered. “Lordy, Miss, you don’t know anything. This tray is for you.” She stepped back into the hall and brought in a basin of cold water for Liza to bathe herself.

“Oh, thank you.” Liza yawned and accepted a cup of lukewarm tea. “Nell, you’ve been very kind. Can I impose on you further? I don’t know what to wear.”

“May I?” Nell carried the candle to look through the small pile of Liza’s dresses. “Most of these would do, but they are too dark.”

Although she knew how little that mattered here, Liza said once again, “I’m in mourning.”

“Not for anyone in the royal family,” Nell said flatly. “And that’s the only mourning a servant in this ‘ouse wears. Lady’s maids should be pretty to look at.” She held up a light gray dress. “P’raps this one, if we add one of these white collars,” she said.

Liza pulled off her nightdress, and Nell helped her into her gown. Liza was particularly grateful to have someone to help fasten the row of tiny seed pearl buttons from the small of her back to the top of her neck.

“Miss, ‘ow did you get yerself out of yer clothes last night?” Nell asked. “I’d ‘ave ‘elped if I’d thought of it.”

“I managed,” Liza said, grimly recalling her battle with her bodice. “When do I wake the Baroness?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Not until eight o’clock. The servants eat their breakfast at seven.” Nell stepped back. “All finished.” She yawned, and Liza suddenly noticed the wearied lines creasing her face.

“Nell, you look exhausted,” Liza said. “When do you get up?”

“At four o’clock, Miss. I’ve ever so much to do. I sweep and dust the Duchess’s drawing room, clean the grates, light the fires and wait on the lady’s maids.”

“I’ve added to your work. I’m sorry.” Liza was ashamed to think her whole life, she had lazed in bed until ten o’clock in the morning, or even later.

“It’s my job, Miss,” Nell said simply. “And I don’t mind ‘elping you. Yer a real lady. But Miss Frenchy’s a different story. She’s a proper terror. ‘er tea is always too ‘ot or too cold or too bitter. As if Mrs. Strode would give me extra sugar for the asking!”

The door banged open. Liza whirled around to face a fully dressed, and furious, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle’s artificially dark hair was gathered at the top and fell down in tight curls on either side of her face. Liza wondered if it might be a wig. Her heart sank. After the scene at dinner, Liza had hoped Mademoiselle could be avoided for a while.

“I have waited for my tea for twenty minutes,” Mademoiselle cried. “And now I find you gossiping in here. I’ll have to report you to Mrs. Strode.”

“Again?” asked Nell.

Ignoring her, Mademoiselle’s gunmetal eyes swept Liza’s tiny room. “You have Annie Mason’s old room. C’est absurd!”

“It’s small and damp, but I am the newest…“ Liza stopped because Mademoiselle looked like a pot ready to boil over. Nell smothered a giggle with her hand.

“What is it?” Liza asked.

Nell whispered between her fingers. “She has to share a room.”

Liza’s lips formed an O but no sound came out.

“C’etait insupportable. I am certain that you are no better than Annie Mason,” Mademoiselle hissed like an angry snake. “She lowered the tone of the entire household.”

“Mademoiselle, you need not worry about my morals,” Liza said. “Since you only aspire to the gentry, whereas I have actually fallen from it, you may trust I know precisely how to behave.”

Mademoiselle was sputtering in French, but Liza didn’t cede an inch.

“Why are you here, Mademoiselle?” she asked. “I assure you I am perfectly capable of waking up without you.”

“Madame Strode told me to show you the Dutch classic braid the Baroness prefers. But I will not stand here to be abused,” said Mademoiselle, glaring at both Nell and Liza. “You and the vulgar Baroness are perfectly matched.” She stormed out the door, her jet black curls bobbing down her neck.

“Well, I never,” Nell stared at Liza with undisguised admiration. “That was a treat, Miss. Wait ‘til I tell the others.”

A belated twinge of caution gnawed at Liza. “Perhaps it should stay between us.”

“She can be a bad enemy,” Nell agreed. “But you won’t have much to do with the Duchess’s lady’s maid. Especially since the Duchess and Sir John have fallen out lately with the Baroness.”

“What do you mean?” Liza asked.

“The closer the Princess gets to bein’ Queen, the more the Duchess pushes away the Princess’s friends. She’d fire the Baroness if she could, but the King likes ‘er. So you see, Miss Frenchy wouldn’t be your friend for all the coal in Newcastle.”

Liza worked it out. “Do you mean, if her mistress dislikes my mistress, then we are enemies?”

“Below stairs is the same as above.” Nell grinned. “Not to mention what you said yesterday at table.”

“Well, she can go to the devil for all I care,” Liza said with a lot more bravery than she felt. “I have my own job to do. First, would you show me how to do this special braid?” She handed her tortoiseshell comb to Nell.

Nell showed Liza the hairstyle, a simple braided rope of hair wound around the top of the head.

“Trust Mademoiselle to make it sound difficult,” Liza said. “Dutch classic braid indeed! I’ll have no trouble doing the Baroness’s hair now.”

Nell caught a glimpse of Liza’s father’s watch. “Oh Lord, I must go or Mrs. Strode’ll take my ‘ead off.” Turning to leave, she gave Liza an encouraging smile. “You’ll do fine, Miss.” Then she skittered out of the room.

Liza brushed her long hair quickly and with deft fingers twisted it into a demure chignon. Reluctantly, she left her locket on the bureau. It would not do for a maid. Examining her reflection in a hand mirror, she hoped she looked the part she was about to play.