Isabella Rockwell's War (12 page)

Isabella
puffed out her cheeks and blew out.

“I suppose I
should, but what about my arm.”

Alix looked at
her.

“Your arm will
be fine. You have to have luncheon with everyone so you’d better be
clean for that. There’s already been a huge fuss about you being
here. Let’s not give them any more ammunition than we need.”

Isabella
perked up. She liked a good fight.

“Who are
they?”

Alix stood up,
brushing down her dress.

“You’ll see,”
she said darkly.

Isabella lay
in the scented hot water for as long as the little maid, Bea, would
allow her. She liked Bea, who didn’t flinch even when the water
turned dark as they washed her hair, which took three shampoos
before it would lather.

“Shall we get
out now miss? Here step into this towel. Mind yourself now though,
don’t bang that arm.” Isabella wobbled as she stepped from the
giant marble tub into a thick towel. She hadn’t realised how weak
she was, and she was glad there was going to be lunch. She’d feel
better afterwards.

Back in the
blue bedroom, Bea sat her down at the dressing table. Isabella
pulled a face. This really wasn’t her cup of tea and she imagined
her father’s face if her could see her now. He’d be laughing fit to
burst.

She eyed the
lacy petticoats on the bed.

“Bea, do you
know what’s happened to my old clothes?”

“Yes Miss,
they’ve gone to be laundered, though whether they’ll survive the
process remains to be seen. I think it was dirt keeping them
together.”

Isabella
sniffed.

“They weren’t
that bad.”

Bea’s face was
serious as she took a brush to Isabella’s hair.

“Yes Miss,
they were.”

“I’ll get them
back though will I?” Isabella fretted. She couldn’t see these silks
and satins keeping her very warm, back out in the market places of
London.

“Yes, Miss you
will.” Bea smiled. “Now sit still, so I can attend to this. You’ll
be glad you look nice when you meet the Duchess.”

“Why, is she
an ogre?”

Bea looked
taken aback.

“No, miss, but
she is royalty. `Ave you had lunch with royalty before?”

Isabella
thought of the times she’d delivered horses to the Maharajah of
Rajasthan with her father. They would be welcomed with every
courtesy and then given a leisurely lunch taken in the Indian way,
cross-legged on a luxurious carpet, around low golden tables. The
talk would be mostly of horses, but also of crops and the
Maharajah’s irrigation projects. His palace was open and cool, with
marble pillars and sparkling fountains in open courtyards. This
palace was all sumptuous fabrics and ticking hush, like a room of
people who stopped talking when one entered.

Isabella was
in a clear mind of which she preferred

“I suppose it
will be very formal.”

Bea
nodded.

“Well, just
mind your manners and you’ll be fine.”

Bea’s hands
were soothing as she pushed and pulled at Isabella’s tangle of hair
for what seemed like forever. After petticoats and stockings, Bea
slid a dress over her head with a whisper of expensive fabric, and
put some shoes on her feet. A few moments later Alix came back
through the door dressed in a pretty blue dress. She clasped her
hands to her face.

“Oh Isabella,
you look beautiful!”

No need for
her to sound quite so amazed, thought Isabella, but she was pleased
at Alix’s reactions.

“Can I see
myself now?” She asked.

“Of
course.”

Bea turned the
full-length mirror around and Isabella started in surprise. She
looked so grown-up! The red velvet dress gave warmth to her pale
skin and dark hair and made her look even taller. She had on
beautiful red velvet shoes with a golden buckle and Bea had done
her hair in a thick, smooth plait wound around with red silk
ribbon. Around her, now spotless neck hung a little necklace of
garnets. She opened the drawer containing her money belt, and then
struggled to tie it around her waist with one hand.

“Miss, don’t
do that. You’ll crease your dress, just leave it here… it’ll be
fine.” But Alix knelt down and fastened up the buckle Isabella
couldn’t reach and then pulled Isabella’s skirts down around
it.

“Isabella’s
worked hard for that. I can understand why she doesn’t want to let
it out of her sight.” Isabella nearly hugged her. “Come on, let’s
go and see if Mama can see you now. I’m sure she wants very much to
meet you.”

“I’m sure she
doesn’t, Alix. She’s probably just being polite.”

Alix looked at
her, her face hardening into lines Isabella hadn’t noticed
before.

“My mother
rarely does anything to just be polite.”

Maybe she
should change the subject.

“How am I
going to manage all that cutlery with one hand?”

Alix threw her
a wicked smile.

“It’s all
right, I’ve spoken to Jack, my footman. He’s going to cut up your
meat for you.” Isabella’s shoulders slumped. This was going to be
just as bad as she had imagined.

Tagging along
behind Alix, Isabella decided the palace was very grand, but the
air felt oppressive. Thick fabrics lined the walls, holding sound
prisoner in its fibres. Tapestries of dying men and sundered horses
overwhelmed the corridors along which they passed. Suits of armour,
their eyes a black, blank slit seemed to stare after them.

“It’s darker
than Indira’s cave in here,” said Isabella.

Alix took her
hand.

“I know. I
wouldn’t come here when I was little. Or if I did, I used to run
all the way. I was worried a hand would shoot out from behind the
tapestry and grab my leg.”

Isabella
shivered.

“I’m not
surprised.”

The light
brightened and the corridor widened out into a chamber with a black
and white marble floor. A vast arrangement of lilies sat on a
polished mahogany table. Pollen lay on the floor, staining a white
tile. Looking up, Isabella could see numerous coats’ of arms on the
wood-panelled walls, painted with gold leaf and daubed with deep
red and royal blue. Spears hung at intervals and a fire roared in
the stone fireplace, in which Isabella would have been able to
stand. A portrait of King William III dressed in his naval uniform
hung over the fireplace. The overall impression was of history and
might and she could see how it would be very useful in intimidating
visiting dignitaries.

They
approached the door.

“Don’t worry,”
said Alix, “just be yourself.”

“I’m not
worried.” Isabella replied, surprised to find she spoke the truth.
This would be interesting. Even if it were awful, at least she’d
have some stories to tell the children tomorrow, not to mention a
full stomach.

The doors
swung open onto a pretty blue and yellow salon. A small rounded
woman came towards Isabella. Isabella blinked and then blinked
again, but the bright smile and dark shining hair were
unmistakable.

It was Mrs
Jolyon.

“My dearest
Isabella,” said Mrs Jolyon taking her hands, “how extraordinarily
wonderful to see you here. Please,” she gestured towards a low silk
sofa. “Come and meet the Duchess of Kent.” The woman sitting on the
sofa was beautiful with thick chestnut hair lifted in a very formal
style and threaded with gold thread. Her dress was of bronze
taffeta which emphasised her golden eyes with brows, which lifted
at the tip like Alix’s. She was slight with a large bosom, and a
tightly laced waist. Her bronze slippers were of the same fabric as
her dress. She turned her face from Isabella to Mrs Jolyon.

“Am I right in
thinking you are previously acquainted with this child, Mrs
Jolyon?” Mrs Jolyon put her hand on Isabella’s shoulder.

“I am Ma’am.
This is Isabella Rockwell. She and I shared our passage home
together.”

The Duchess
looked at Isabella closely.

“What a
coincidence.” Isabella looked back at the Duchess just as closely.
The Duchess’s voice was light and insubstantial, like the bubble on
top of milk just arrived in the pail. The hand she offered
Isabella, and over which Isabella supposed she should curtsey, was
cold.

“Yes, Ma’am,”
she said in a small voice, unsure of what to do.

The Duchess
removed her hand.

“How then do
you come to be on the streets?”

Alix moved
closer to her.

“She is not on
the streets, mother. She has a home. I was mistaken.” The
Duchesses’ eyes slid over to her daughter.

“I don’t like
that blue on you Alix, it doesn’t become you.”

Alix’s face
fell.

“But you chose
the fabric, Mother.”

But the
Duchess was looking back at Isabella.

“Did I? I must
have been having an off day.” Fastening Isabella with her golden
eyes she asked, “So how is it you come to be back in England,
Isabella?”

Here then, the
question she’d been dreading. How was she to reply? If she told the
truth they would surely send her back to the care of India House
and then escape might prove very difficult indeed.

“I am a
kitchen maid in the city Ma’am,” she bluffed. There was a
fraction’s pause then Mrs Jolyon stepped forward.

“Yes, that’s
right. Her father’s regiment arranged a position for her.”

“I see.” Then
the Duchess seemed to lose interest. “Well, that was most fortunate
for us all, wouldn’t you say Alix?”

Alix seemed
subdued, her pretty eyes dull.

“Yes, Mother.
She saved my life. Of course it was fortunate she was there.”

“You will be
much more careful in future?”

“I was being
careful mother, but…”

The Duchess
held up her hand.

“I don’t want
to hear excuses. You do not take your position seriously enough
sometimes, Alixandrina.

Alix was going
pink with anger and Isabella felt for her.

“It wasn’t her
fault Ma’am. I think something had upset her horse.”

Isabella
stopped, feeling a hand on her arm. It was Mrs Jolyon.

“It all turned
out very well in the end, didn’t it?” She gave Isabella’s arm a
squeeze. Isabella opened her mouth and then, seeing Mrs Jolyon’s
warning glace closed it again. The Duchess glanced up sharply, but
Mrs Jolyon’s face had reverted to its usual pleasant expression.
“Shall I ring for lunch, Ma’am?”

The Duchess
nodded.

“Yes, but
where is Mr Conroy, Jolyon? We can’t start without him.”

“I am here my
dear,” came a booming voice from the doorway, “I am so sorry to be
late.” The man bent over the Duchess’s hand. He was tall and dark,
with shiny well-kept skin and a small ponytail caught with a ribbon
at the back of his neck. His hair was receding slightly from his
hairline and any errant strands were plastered into place with a
strong smelling hair tonic. The overall impression Isabella had of
Mr Conroy was that all his clothes were one critical size too
small. The Duchess had gone pink.

“Where have
you been Mr Conroy? We haven’t seen you since at least eleven.” The
man pressed his lips to the Duchess’s hand.

“I am so
sorry, Ma’am. The pressures of office, you know.”

The Duchess
looked at him with sympathy.

“Mr Conroy,
you work too hard.”

“But Ma’am
things must be attended to. Large households won’t run themselves
you know.” He ran a hand distractedly over his hair.

“I am aware of
that Mr Conroy,” she replied.

He smiled at
her fondly.

“I know you
are Ma’am.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go through?”

“Before we do,
John, I want you to meet Isabella Rockwell.” She gestured to
Isabella to step forward from the place she’d taken behind the
sofa, where she’d been trying to blend in with the curtain.
Isabella hesitated, but Alix pushed her forward.

John Conroy
turned to her with a wide smile. “But of course, our heroine! I am
so sorry not to have appreciated your presence sooner. Here,” he
leant over and gently took her left hand. “Let me thank you most
sincerely for your bravery in helping to rescue the Princess Alix.
God only knows what could have happened had you not been
there.”

Isabella was
taken aback at the warmth of his tone.

“Um, err, you
are welcome… pleased to meet you.” She bobbed a curtsey again.

“Do you work
nearby, for it was nearly dark when the Princess’s accident took
place, am I right? Were you on your way home?”

“Yes sir,
though I had not been at work. I was strolling on Horseguard’s
Parade, after looking at the new palace. I had turned for home
across the gallops when the Princess’s horse bolted.” It wouldn’t
do at all to tell the truth at this point. She stumbled on. “It’s
very beautiful the new palace.”