Palace of Spies (13 page)

Ah! How fate laughs at us. Here I was discovering Francesca had a secret gallant, and he had already seen me smiling at another man. Fortunately, at this moment Robert seemed more concerned with my guardian than any potential rivals. “He doesn’t know anything, does he? About us, and about . . . our other business? You didn’t . . . you didn’t give anything away, did you?”

“Of course not.”
Other business?
I let myself hesitate while those words echoed in my thoughts. “At least, I said nothing while I was myself. I was feverish for a very long time. I don’t know all I may have said then.”

The footman rubbed his mouth hard and bit on the tip of one gloved finger. “This could be very bad. But we mustn’t worry too much. Anything you said then will be put down to simple delirium.”

It was a slender opening, but I jumped at it. “I’m sure you’re right. Still, we should perhaps be careful for a while. Just until we—”

The doorknob turned. Robert, with impressive agility, jumped backwards so he was hidden when the door opened and Mrs. Abbott entered. For my part, I staggered back, tripped once again on my train, bumped against the sofa, and sat down abruptly. Robert lit out the door behind the now staring Abbott’s back.

But not fast enough. She heard his step, whirled around, and caught sight of the flapping skirts of his scarlet coat vanishing into the gallery shadows. The door slammed, and she turned on me, swollen to twice her normal size with righteous triumph.

“Well, well.” She smiled, and it was a sharp, bright, vicious smile. “You could not wait one night to sample the delights of court, could you? Not one hour. This will be of great interest to your guardian.”

Which was more than enough. I had been manhandled, abused, and badly frightened, and I was not going sit in my unbearably tight bodice and endure her defamations. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t any of you tell me?”

That at least wiped the smile from her face. “Keep your voice down! Tell you what?”

I was in no mood to take orders either. “She had a lover!”

“What? Impossible!”

“
That
”—I pointed my fan at the door—“was your lady’s paramour come to find her! It was none of my doing! He just . . . he was . . .” Shaking with fury and fear, I plunged blindly ahead. “I’ll tell Tinderflint! You deliberately kept this from me!”

The words were out of my mouth, and there was no retrieving them. For a moment, I thought the Abbott was going to strike me. Instead, she ran to the door and peered out into the gallery. From there, she checked all the other doors in the apartment. Only when she was satisfied we were alone did she return, speaking low and rapidly, and in English.

“Tell me again of this man. Leave out nothing. Describe him. Tall or short? Thin? Everything you can remember.”

I’m not certain how I managed it, but I swallowed my outrage and did as I was bidden.

“A
footman!
She would never,” murmured Abbott. “It’s a lie. You’re lying. You must be.”

The breaths I took then were far closer to sobs than I would have wished. I had to think. I had to be clear. “Mrs. Abbott, I am risking my neck by standing here. Do you honestly believe I am so very stupid that I’d spend my first night intriguing with a
servant?
”

Slowly, Mrs. Abbott backed away. Her lip quivered. Her cheeks quivered. For a moment, it seemed as if her hand groped behind her for support. “But . . . she can’t have . . . she would never. She would have
told
me.” Mrs. Abbott spoke this last with a terrible ferocity, willing herself to believe it was true. “How is it you come to this before me?”

“Molly Lepell let slip about it when she was here, and young Robert was very upset at not having heard from Francesca in so long, so he took a risk to come see her.”
And got you out of his way very neatly
. I might have pointed that out, but for once in my life, I obeyed my finer instincts and kept my mouth shut.

Mrs. Abbott had one hand on the mantelpiece. She passed the other over her perspiring brow, her reddened eyes, and her mouth. For the first time since I’d seen her, she seemed to diminish in size, as if the weight of this discovery pressed her whole self slowly down. I thought of the miniature she wore beneath her dress and how it was her dead daughter we spoke of now.

“You could have trusted me,” Mrs. Abbott murmured behind her hand. “Why did you not trust me?”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with regret and the tiniest bit of wondering whether Francesca knew this woman was her mother. If she’d been illegitimate, Mrs. Abbott might not ever have told her. She might have posed as nothing more than the faithful servant, even to Francesca herself.

How sad that was, that Francesca should have a devoted, if frightening, mother and not ever know it. How very sad and very strange.

“I shouldn’t have said it. I was afraid . . . I . . .” I stumbled about amidst these thoughts searching for a way to apologize, but Mrs. Abbott turned toward me with a look of such sorrow and rage, I would have drawn away, if I’d had anyplace to go.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked her. “What is any of this to you?” Because it couldn’t be about the money, not to this iron-souled woman. I would never believe that.

For a moment, Mrs. Abbott seemed about to speak. Her fingers knotted in her collar and the hidden chain underneath. But she shook her head. “No more. The maid will be here any moment.”

“But, Mrs. Abbott—”

I got no further. She clamped her slit of a mouth shut and quivered at me, fully in control of herself again. That brief moment when we might have shared some communion or confidence had vanished. There was nothing left for me to do but stand still for Mrs. Abbott and her assistant so I could be stripped of my maid of honor disguise and put into bed while the lights were snuffed and the fire banked. Fortunately, while they were both turned away fetching boxes or towels, I was able to retrieve my stolen scrap of Matthew Reade’s demon paper from where I’d stuffed it into my bosom and stuff it instead underneath my pillow.

When I was finally left alone, I stared into the darkness for a very long time. My scalp felt tight, as if my skull had swollen from being crammed too full by all I had learned that day. It wasn’t enough that I had finally begun my masquerade; I had learned that others had been wearing their masks for much longer. Did Tinderflint and Peele even know Mrs. Abbott was Francesca’s mother? And to whom was Mr. Tinderflint lying about his name? I had assumed it was me, but why could it not be the princess? He was bold enough to fob off a counterfeit maid on royalty; why would he stick at claiming a counterfeit title for himself? Much less at offering counterfeit praise to an anxious daughter about her departed mother?

Biting my lip, I slipped out of bed and, after some little difficulty, lit a candle from the fireplace embers. By its flickering glow, I retrieved the crumpled paper from beneath my pillow.

It was a pastel drawing, a detailed study of geometric patterns. Each panel was a tiny world of flowers and birds. I ran my finger across it, just to be sure it was still a flat piece of paper. In that dim light, the illusion that I was looking at raised panels was truly amazing. I’d known from the paint and the smock that Matthew Reade must be an artist, but this was a work of extreme skill. Why was he destroying it?

Another puzzle I didn’t want. I liked Mr. Reade. I didn’t want him to be complex and mysterious too. After a moment’s hesitation, I retrieved the workbasket from its place by the chair. I emptied it of its silks and threads, and lifted up the padded bottom I’d installed during my last days at the Tinderflint house, and the layer of tissue I’d put underneath that, finally revealing Francesca’s sketches. I pulled them out and laid them on the table.

First there was the tableau of robed figures and cherubs with its portraits in their medallions. It had a partner, which I had found stitched into the bed curtain. This one showed an old woman lying in a huge bed, a white staff in her withered right hand. Clearly, she was dying. A crowd of well-dressed men surrounded her, and they all seemed to be arguing with one another. It reminded me of engravings I’d seen in the papers depicting the death of Queen Anne. But this drawing had a major difference from those. In Francesca’s sketch, there was a pathetic-looking little monkey in a braided coat crouched on the corner of the mantelpiece. A man patted the creature with one hand, while he pocketed a letter with the other. There was a rectangular hole in the fireplace. Was that some sort of little priest’s hole? Perhaps the man was not, after all, pocketing the letter. Perhaps he was hiding it.

If I hadn’t spent so much time staring at the plan of Hampton Court Palace with Mr. Tinderflint, I might not have known the third sketch was a floor plan. Here, Francesca’s drawing skills had all but failed her. All I could tell was that this was the plan of a large house with large grounds, but it wasn’t Hampton Court. Indeed, the lines were so faint and crooked that I could barely make out which marks were meant to indicate a staircase and which showed a doorway.

I replaced the drawings, with Matthew Reade’s pastel rendering on top, and set the basket back beside the chair.

I stayed up for a long time after that, watching my candle burn. I thought of the question I’d asked Mr. Tinderflint about my mother, although I believed him to be a liar. I thought about my mother herself. I remembered how many nights I’d climbed out of my bed, which was strictly forbidden. I’d creep to the nursery door and open it just a crack, hoping against hope that I might see her climb the stairs, so shining and beautiful in her velvets and lace. After she died, I woke every night I remained in that house. I stood at the door and stared into the dark, silent hallway. I was sure if I waited long enough, I’d see her climbing the stairs once more.

My nurse had had to pick me up bodily when it was time to move out of our house. She held me down while I kicked and screamed in the coach. I knew once I left our home, I’d lose all possibility of seeing Mama again. That was the day when, for me, my mother truly died.

Was that what brought me here? Was I still that trembling little girl, alone in the dark, willing to dare the worst her child’s mind could conceive on the chance of receiving a glimpse of her mother’s ghost? Did I think that by taking up her calling as a spy of sorts, I’d somehow be close to her again?

But it wasn’t any ghost I’d found here. Robert said Francesca and he had other business, beyond their affair. What could that business be? His manner indicated it was serious indeed. Did the sketches have anything to do with it?

If Francesca had been hiding her sketches from Robert, why also take such care to hide them from her guardian and attendant? Surely if she was in trouble, they were the ones she’d turn to. This led my thoughts right back to the Messrs. Peele and Tinderflint and how I could no longer be certain they had told me the truth about anything regarding Lady Francesca.

And what about Mr. Peele’s insistence that I report to him regarding the card games and their players? How did that figure into the firm’s many lies and intrigues, political and otherwise?

This brought another idea from the dark and the cold. I’d been lied to about so much by my three overseers, it was surprising I hadn’t considered it before. What if they’d lied to me about Lady Francesca’s death? There was no reason for it to have really been a fever, when it just as easily could have been another sort of misadventure that took her life. It could have been an accident, for example.

Or it could have been murder.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

That initial fortnight at Hampton Court Palace passed without much additional trouble, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful. I remain convinced that any further sudden revelations would have struck me dead on the spot. I had more than enough to do settling into my life as Lady Francesca, maid of honor.

Among the readers of these annals there may be those who believe life at court is all pampered luxury. I beg you should disabuse yourselves of this notion as quickly as may be, and spare some pity for a maid of honor.

The poet Milton tells us, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Well, that was the vast portion of my business in the train of Her Royal Highness; to wait and to stand while doing it. Whole afternoons were spent in the private apartments where the princess received formal visits from assorted gentlemen. There were ladies too, but fewer of these. Most gentlemen ushered into the royal presence were either learned or political, although from what I could determine, they were seldom both. During this time, due to our rank and station relative to Her Highness, we maids of honor were not permitted to sit down. The gentlemen, being invited guests, could sit, and I began to hate them all for this privilege. Like Molly Lepell, pert Mary Bellenden, and Sophy Howe, I stood in my pretty dress, with my face perfectly painted and my hair perfectly arranged, becoming more of an ornament in the literal sense than I ever would have imagined. On occasion, our mistress would address a remark to one of us or make a request. In such an eventuality, that one might answer or move. But otherwise, I waited.

The experience was agonizing in more ways than producing aching feet and a sore back. Preachers and wits might rail about the shallowness of women, but Princess Caroline brought to her side the likes of Sir Isaac Newton and Dean Jonathan Swift. She kept Frideric Handel as music master for her daughters and consulted with him frequently about concerts and entertainments for the court. She cheerfully, and at length, argued with both laymen and divines on all subjects, and spent so much time in deep conversation with Robert Walpole, I was beginning to wonder if it was not the two of them who guided the ship of state, rather than the king. These conversations were diverting, fascinating, and raised many questions on many subjects. And I could not join in, because I did not have permission to speak. Agony!