Authors: Sarah Zettel
And as the doors opened, every wigged and powdered head of that rainbow gathering turned toward me.
Mr. Tinderflint stood at the edge of the silken mob, near the vast fireplace. He was a splendid orb of emerald green and sapphire blue all done up with chartreuse and silver stitchery. He excused himself from his companions and began to edge his way through the crowd. Before he could reach me, however, one of the young women at the nearest card table turned her head, slowly and ostentatiously late, to stare at me. As if to make up for lost time, she now made a great show of looking long and hard, from my wig down to my ruffled hemline and back up again.
“Well. Look what the wind blew in,” she said. “Roughly, and from a distant country.”
That great room full of people began to laugh. Mr. Tinderflint froze in place, startled and trapped. Nor was he the only one. It would not be too much to say that if there’d been a parapet to hand, I would have gladly hurled myself off it. But absent any convenient cliff, I found my sustaining strength. It came not from Mr. Tinderflint’s advice, but from surviving Lady Clarenda’s parties. This time I was not simple Peggy Fitzroy, poor relation. I was Lady Francesca, if you please. I had rank and money, and I could sweep into that room with the finest of them, having been severely drilled in the art of the sweep, and look that card-playing wit in her bright green eyes.
“And I can’t tell you how very dull it was in the country,” I said, fluttering my fan and pitching my voice to be overheard. “Not one word of pleasant conversation to be had, either. How very kind of you to make me feel at home once again.” I smiled and bent to kiss her cheek and took a risk. “Hello, Sophy.” I saw by her tight little smile I’d guessed correctly. As I straightened, I also glanced down at her cards, which I could see perfectly from this angle. Then I shook my head and murmured to her partner, “Oh, dear. Are you sure you should wager
that
much?”
A trail of soft chuckles followed me as I walked on, and I felt the painted cherubs overhead sing choruses of triumph. Mr. Tinderflint finally edged himself free of the crowd to offer me his arm.
“Well played, well played,” he breathed as he laid his gloved hand on mine. “Now for it. The princess is waving you over.”
My mouth, which had been dry before, was now positively desertlike. But Mr. Tinderflint’s grip on my hand did not allow for retreat. We crossed through the crowd. It took a long time, and I gained an appreciation for the grand scale on which Her Royal Highness lived and entertained. We passed thresholds that led to at least three other chambers, each of which opened onto side chambers of its own. This main room that we now crossed had its own recesses and alcoves, increasing the size while giving the illusion of including some snug comfort. The people of the splintered rainbow smiled and nodded, or murmured behind their fans, but I saw no suspicion in their eyes.
“Is this really happening?” I whispered to him. “Do they actually believe—”
Mr. Tinderflint’s grip grew hard. “People see what they expect, my dear. You wear the clothes, you bear the name. Who on earth would dream of substitution?”
I hadn’t stopped to consider that. The audaciousness of the plan bolstered its chance of success. Because, really, who would envision such a scheme? But I had no time to think on that now, because I faced the woman who would one day be my queen.
My first thought upon seeing Her Royal Highness Caroline, Princess of Wales, was that the tattling papers had gotten their facts more than usually correct. She was a large, plump woman. She had the famed fair Germanic complexion, and her blue eyes popped out slightly on either side of her straight, narrow nose. On another person, this might have made her look foolish, but those eyes were quick and clear. They combined with an expressive mouth and an alert bearing. The impression produced by all these features was quite at odds with the studied languor I had been told ladies were supposed to cultivate. I decided I could like this woman, which was as well, because she was my mistress now. But those clear, clever eyes worried me.
I lowered myself into the deepest curtsy my mantua allowed, my own eyes carefully directed at the floor and my heart rattling against my ribs.
“Oh, do stand up and come here, Francesca,” said Her Highness, in perfect French without any trace of Prussia flavoring her words. “Let me look at you.”
I did not want to get any closer to this alert, intelligent woman, but I had no choice. I couldn’t even put up my fan to hide any part of my face, because this was the princess and that would have been unforgivably rude. Her Royal Highness leveled her calm, clever eyes at me, drinking in every detail. I was lost. She turned in her chair, ready to summon the footmen from their duties carrying in fresh bottles or decorating the doors to throw me in the Tower. Mrs. Abbott was somewhere pulling out her knives, getting ready to feast on my failure.
“But, Lord Tierney, she’s so thin!” said Her Royal Highness to Mr. Tinderflint. “Did no one feed her during her convalescence?”
Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney, bowed to the princess, perfectly calm and apparently very much at home. “If I had had my way, ma’am, she would have rested another month, but she was so eager to return to her place . . .” He waved his hand, indicating a general helplessness.
“As tractable and obedient as ever, I see.” Her Highness smiled at me. “Surely a sign she has made a full recovery. Well, we are glad to have you back among us, Francesca. You are well enough to come walk with me tomorrow, yes?”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I murmured to the gold-embroidered tips of the royal slippers. “I would be honored.”
The Princess of Wales nodded. Mr. Tinderflint bowed. I curtsied. Mindful of my train, I let him help me back away into the rainbow, while another pair of courtiers came up to speak with the princess.
“Don’t let go,” I whispered. “I’m going to faint.”
“Of course you’re not,” replied Mr. Tinderflint. “You’re perfection itself. Ah, there’s Sir Everett!” He hailed a tall, saturnine man. “Now, Francesca, what was it that you were saying I must remind Sir Everett of, now, what? Ah, yes, I have it.”
And so it went. Far from letting go of me, my guardian steered me deftly through the hot and crowded rooms, subtly introducing me to an array of people I was already supposed to know. All the while, I was conscious of Sophy Howe shooting me sharp little glances over her gilt-edged cards, and despite the crushing heat of the room, I shivered.
A full five hours of hot air, chilled punch, bright gossip, and lingering introductions later, Mr. Tinderflint informed the room at large that I must be excused on account of my still delicate health, and Her Royal Highness gave us permission to back into the blessed, blessed dark and cool of the galleries.
“You were splendid, my dear!” My guardian all but bounced on his toes as we climbed the stairs. It was strange to see this ebullient manner matched with sotto voce praise. “Splendid! All I could have hoped for and more.”
I reminded myself sternly that this man was a liar and perhaps the reason Francesca had been forced to conceal those mysterious sketches. But it didn’t matter. I flushed at his praise and felt the ring of my success in every nerve. When we reached my door, Mr. Tinderflint took my hand and bowed deeply over it. That strange gravity I had glimpsed on the riverboat came over him. “I am aware this is a difficult circumstance, my dear. Truly. And I am grateful to you.”
“Do you . . . do you think my mother would have approved?” I asked him.
When Mr. Tinderflint lifted his head, his eyes were shining brightly in the gallery’s dim light. “I think she would have been enormously proud. Yes, enormously. And I tell you, she could have done no better on such a day than her brave and clever daughter.” With that, he opened my door and bowed me through.
I glided into my beautiful new chamber, carried by a creditable amount of deportment and effervescent relief. I had done it. I was accepted by the court, the maids, Her Royal Highness, and one paint-stained mystery man. Mr. Tinderflint had said my mother would be proud. I could do this after all. I could do anything.
So full of this pleasant contemplation was I, that I completely failed to see the man standing behind the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Fran! It is you! I can’t believe it!”
Wiry arms wrapped tight around me, and a rough cheek scraped mine as I was enthusiastically and repeatedly kissed on every portion of my face. How he could endure the taste of the talc was beyond me.
“What! No! Stop! Are you mad?” This was the final blow. I was resolved. I was going to make it the fashion for women to wear an iron poker at their side to fend off all overenthusiastic suitors. It would become the mission of my life.
In answer to this singularly disjointed protest, the man did stop, but it was only to pull away so he could stare down at me, while his hands splayed across my cheeks and temples to hold my face tipped up toward his.
“God in Heaven, Fran, I was so afraid—oh, never mind, just let me look at you.”
I had no intention of standing still for that. “I . . . but . . . where’s Mrs. Abbott?” I shoved his hands off my cheeks, backed away, tripped hard over my train, and backed away some more.
My intruder was a young man, perhaps a few years older than I. He wore a footman’s scarlet coat with gold braid on his shoulders, white lace on his cuffs, and a tightly curled, short-queue white wig. This was as much as I was able to take in. My head was spinning. This was bad, as bad as it could possibly be. I had no idea who stood in front of me. Was this the mysterious Robert whom Molly had talked about? Or another paramour entirely?
Oh, Francesca, why, why, WHY didn’t you hide a diary instead of those useless sketches!
Not that it mattered. I was sunk. Especially as he wanted to have such an intimate look at me. I was not a twin to Francesca. Even in wig and face paint, someone on kissing terms with her was going to notice the differences.
“I sent your maid on an errand . . .” The footman gestured vaguely toward the door. “Fran, why didn’t you write? I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Did you . . . are you angry with me, Fran? No, no, don’t answer. I’m sorry.” He took both my hands in his, contemplating them as his thumbs rubbed my gloved fingertips. “I’m just being a fool. Of course I couldn’t expect you to write when you were ill and being watched so closely. But . . . Fran . . . was it so very bad? They said . . . they said you . . . died almost. Is that true? Please, tell me.”
His concern seemed genuine, as did the fear that lent a tremor to his voice. I took a deep breath, attempting to gather my wits from all the corners to which they had been so rudely scattered.
“It was very bad,” I said in what I hoped was the tone of someone admitting a confidence. I also took the opportunity to step away again, this time putting a table between me and him, in order to deter further sudden lunges. “I believe the doctors were quite concerned.”
The footman swallowed hard, and his face took on a most unhealthy pallor. So shaken was he, he turned to face the fireplace, clearly trying to collect himself.
“Robert?” I murmured. He turned his head, and I had to struggle not to melt with relief. I mustered a smile for Robert. His distress was real. He had felt something genuine for Lady Francesca, and now I felt a genuine guilt at deceiving him. This was not anything I had been led to expect. To hear Mrs. Abbott talk, Francesca had been next to a nun during her time at court. “It is all right,” I said to Robert. “I am quite well.”
Now that I had a little distance, I could take him in more fully. He had a long face with a strong nose and eyes the color of dark amber. Despite his current pallor, his face and cheeks had the ruddy bronze of someone who spent time out of doors. There was breadth to the shoulders under his coat, a good shape to the legs under his breeches, as well as some gentleness to his gloved hands. The relief in his expression was so great that my guilt twisted hard within me, but it had to contend with my uneasiness for space. Despite my efforts, Robert still seemed too close. He was looking at me much too hard. My wig and now smeared cosmetics were not anything like concealment enough. He was raising his hand again, as if he meant to reach across and wipe away my concealing powder.
“Fran.” He hesitated, his fingertips less than an inch from my cheeks. “Fran,” he said again. Then he backed away, slowly. Footmen do not apply cosmetics, and I could see his face flushing with deep emotion.
Get him away, get him away
, gibbered a voice in the depths of my mind.
He’ll notice any minute. He’ll see your face isn’t right, your eyes, your shape. How can he not
see
?
At the same time, the small part of me that remained calm remembered Molly Lepell’s remark about Fran having a falling out with Sophy Howe over this Robert. I wondered at it. I couldn’t see the haughty Sophy Howe being put out with Francesca over a
footman
. A viscount possibly or a poet, perhaps, but a servant? Surely not.
“What is the matter, Robert?” I asked, and hoped he would think it was any emotion other than fear that set my voice wobbling.
“I just . . . for a moment thought . . .” He shook himself. “No. I truly am being a fool. Seeing a ghost in your eyes like a frightened child. But as you say, you
are
well, and you
are
here, and I thank God for it.” He grasped my hands again, kissing them both. “Oh, Fran . . .” Robert moved forward, and I was quite sure he meant to resume his attentions to my face and person. I pulled my hands away hastily and slid sideways to avoid both him and my treacherous train.
“What’s the matter, Fran?” Robert frowned. “We don’t have much time. That dragon of a maid will be back any minute. Where in Heaven’s name did you find her?”
“She was put in place by my guardian,” I said, honestly enough.
Robert turned an entirely fresh shade of white at this. Now I recognized him. He had been the right-hand footman guarding Her Royal Highness’s door, the one who had stared at me when I came down the stairs with Matthew Reade.