Palace of Spies (14 page)

Of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, I saw little in those first days. Usually, he stopped at his wife’s room briefly on his way to or from riding through the park with a parcel of gentlemen in waiting. The heir to the British throne was a man of middling height, and his fair Germanic complexion had gone ruddy from all the time he spent out of doors. I suspected he would become stout as he aged, but he carried himself with a martial bearing that sorted well with his public nickname of Young Hanover Brave. I can report his English was very good, although he would lapse into French or German if the conversation carried on for more than a moment or two.

The prince seldom stayed long among the learned men, preferring the company of bluff and hearty sportsmen. To these, from what I saw, he was very amiable. But there was in his Prussian blue eyes a restlessness. Sometimes I thought I glimpsed an anger being suppressed, especially when he looked on his wife and the political men.

On the day the king left for Hanover, I learned I glimpsed correctly.

The preparation for this royal departure had been a current running just below the rest of the palace activity since my arrival. After all, a king does not travel like a private person. There are a thousand details to be arranged, a thousand persons to be prepared, and a thousand trunks and boxes to be packed for each of them. Who was chosen to go (such as Frau Melusine von der Schulenburg, the royal mistress), who was left behind (such as the three illegitimate daughters of La Schulenburg, and the three legitimate daughters of Their Royal Highnesses) was the subject of much gossip. My ability to speak German was suddenly much in demand as courtiers whispered half-overheard and badly remembered bits of argument between the Prince and Princess of Wales and asked me for translations. I fear I put some highly improbable words into the royal mouths.

The morning of the departure dawned fair and clear, which was a blessing, as the entire population of Hampton Court was required to assemble in front of the great gatehouse to bid our sovereign farewell. The king preferred to travel by road rather than by river, so there was a train of massive coaches filling the lane, pulled by teams of Belgian horses so huge, I felt sure they had at some point been bred with elephants. They were flanked by red-coated soldiers and royal marines on somewhat smaller horses. The royal carriage was brightly polished and heavily gilded, with the coat of arms on the door and a whole cavalcade of footmen, postilions, and outriders standing at strict attention around it.

As an attendant to Her Royal Highness, I had a good place standing at her right hand, just behind the two royal children old enough to be allowed to bid their grandfather farewell. I would have been able to see everything, except, as soon as the horns blasted and the shouts declaring “The king! The king!” began, I had to bend into my deepest curtsy and lower my gaze.

Feet trod loudly on gravel. A pair of polished black shoes with elaborate golden buckles appeared at the upper edge of my vision. The shoes paused.

The king was standing directly in front of me. A trickle of sweat ran from under my wig and traced a line down my temple.

“This is the girl who was so long sick?” he asked, in German. He had a soft, hesitant voice, not at all imposing or kingly. I held my pose, knees bent and gaze lowered. I hadn’t been given permission to stand, and anyway, he wasn’t talking to me. He addressed the Princess of Wales.

“Lady Francesca Wallingham, Your Majesty,” murmured Her Royal Highness, also in German.

“Ach, yes. She is well now?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“It is good. It is good.”

“A damned girl he remembers,” muttered the prince in low, furious English. “His son he forgets.”

The world went suddenly and completely silent, except for the rush of dozens of breaths being sucked in perfect unison. The king had created a council of regency to manage affairs of state while he was away. Everyone knew the Prince of Wales was not one of those named to it. He might be our future king, but the prince was not to have any authority while his father was out of the country. It seemed His Royal Highness was not taking this well.

It also seemed that, despite rumors to the contrary, our German-born king did indeed speak English. The polished black shoes walked slowly to the left, to where the Prince of Wales was standing. “What do you say, sir? You will speak up like a gentleman.”

“What can I say but may God bless my king and father?” replied the prince. I wished I could see their faces. I didn’t dare look up. I strained my eyes sideways as far as they would go, but couldn’t see past my own hemlines. “And may He hear my fervent prayers to return him safe to his throne, and soon.”

“You may be very sure I will return, and soon.” The acid in the king’s voice could have corroded iron. “And I trust I will find the ministers I have left in charge have governed well and properly and not in any way been interfered with by any man—or woman.” His Majesty spoke the last two words with great deliberation. I thought again about the princess’s time with the political men, and my jesting consideration as to who really held the tiller of the state. It seemed I was not the only one who’d meditated on that subject.

“Of c—” began His Royal Highness, but the heels of the royal shoes ground on the gravel as the king turned his back and moved on, without waiting for his son or daughter-in-law to kiss his hand or say a formal farewell. He climbed into the carriage, and the door was closed.

Well
, I thought with an odd resignation.
I know what I’ll be repeating a dozen times every evening for the next month of Sundays
. Because the whole court was going to want to know what had just passed between father and son, and why the king had cut the prince dead in front of the entire court. Molly Lepell had already elbowed me in a highly significant fashion. I wondered what Mr. Tinderflint would have made of this scene, had he been here. Then I wondered why he wasn’t.

Evenings at court brought some measure of relief, even the ones during which I was in special demand for multiple gossips after the leave-taking of the king. Although we were required to change into our most elaborate and confining mantuas, complete with trains and layers of paint that would put a fresco to shame, the gatherings were often of a less formal nature. We were, in short, finally allowed to sit.

Mr. Peele had been correct when he informed me that the most frequent entertainment during the evening was cards. What he had neglected to mention was that we maids were expected to partner with the gentlemen of the court or the guests of the prince. We were to smile and laugh and play in an entertaining fashion. Once the bottles of port and claret had made their rounds and been emptied several times over, these gentlemen made jesting wagers for kisses and little tokens such as handkerchiefs and ribbons.

When I wrote my letters to Mr. Peele describing the card games, I reported with accuracy and vehemence that those gentlemen cheated. They cheated badly, and they cheated worse when their partners were pretty, so they could win their little “love tokens,” as they called them.

What I did not report was that these games were the time when I began to take the true measure of my sister maids. Molly Lepell was a particularly fine player. She knew what she was doing with both cards and gentlemen, and could gauge her wins and losses to an astounding nicety. From watching her, I learned which of the court gentlemen might be judged relatively harmless, because those she would consent to lose to, and then would flirt with them shamelessly. The ones who were turned away with a cheerful laugh and a smile or a witty quip were the men of whom a maid should be wary.

Mary Bellenden, the third member of our Splendid Three, did not play the silly maid. She
was
a silly maid. She did not care whether she won or lost and laughed equally at all the men who claimed their little wagers from her. If she noticed her playmates were cheating to get closer, she did not care.

Sophy Howe, on the other hand, not only cared, but cared a great deal. Whenever cards were proposed, she moved swiftly to engage the wealthiest or most highly titled man in the room as her partner. She had the impressive ability to watch each hand closely and yet miss nothing that happened in the room around her. I had observed my uncle at his accounts enough to be able to tell when someone was keeping a mental running tally, and Sophy Howe did so constantly. Hers, however, was not of income and expenditure. Sophy tallied the court, and I was sure the ledgers of her mind were scrupulously kept, down to the smallest detail. This worried me, because Sophy might just make use of those mental ledgers to compare the Francesca she knew with the Francesca in front of her now. What would she do if those columns did not add up?

Nothing got easier on those rare nights when visitors were scarce and we maids sat down to a game with the more senior ladies of the bedchamber. These ladies were a sharp-eyed crew, and to play with them was to be scrupulously honest, because they were not playing for flirtation, but for honor and for hard coin. When I was partnered with Molly at a table across from Lady Cowper or Lady Montague, I needed all my wits about me, or I might easily have lost my entire stock of pin money in a single hand. As it was, I managed to increase my stores by a comfortable margin and became a sought-after partner. Even Her Royal Highness requested that I join her more than once.

I began to live for these moments. During those informal evenings, I could distract myself from my constant worries about my position as an impostor and the fate of my predecessor. I could talk of books and music and ask the questions I had stored up over the day while overhearing the learned gentlemen. Her Royal Highness watched me over the edges of the cards and seemed pleased, which made my spirits soar. I also found I lost rather more frequently to my royal mistress than to any of the other ladies, and not because either one of us was cheating. But I didn’t care. Here was I, the poor relation whom Sir Oliver Trowbridge Preston Pierpont took in out of Christian charity, and yet I could make the Princess of Wales laugh or consider a question I posed.

My pleasure in these moments was not at all diminished by the fact that the more animated my conversation with Her Royal Highness, the more tightly Sophy Howe screwed on her spiteful smile. I swear, if I could have carried all her sharp-edged glances about in my pocket, it would have burst at the seams.

Neither was it only Sophy who noted my mistress’s preferences. After the first few evenings, the drunken and flirtatious gentlemen sought me out. With them came titled and calculating statesmen paying me compliments, seeking my better acquaintance, and even soliciting my opinions on small things they had read, a new piece of music, or a play. I was no longer at the edges of the party, searching for a way not to look like a fool. How I wished Lady Clarenda could see me now.

The first gift arrived just two weeks after my presentation to Her Royal Highness. It was a garnet and pearl pin shaped like a heart pierced by an arrow. It was swiftly followed by a gold and amethyst bracelet, and another of pearl. I did not wear any of these. To do so would have been to suggest I favored the givers above other gentlemen, and I was already juggling enough without adding another heartsick man to my cascade.

The gentleman I did not see at these triumphant gatherings was Mr. Tinderflint, Lord Tierney. Given my uncertainties about my predecessor’s fate, this left me distinctly uneasy. If there were wasps in the room I inhabited, I preferred to keep them in view. But, contradictory soul that I was, his absence also left me a little bereft. Trustworthy or not, apart from Mrs. Abbott, he was the one person who knew who I truly was.

It seemed Mrs. Abbott was not much interested in keeping me company either. Since my discovery of Robert and Francesca’s amour, I saw her for only the briefest of moments, and always in the company of other working maids. Consequently, I had no opportunity to ask her about my guardian’s whereabouts.

Robert also seemed to be keeping his distance, but for this my gratitude was unalloyed with other emotion. I admit it: I was afraid, not just of this mysterious business he’d mentioned, but of finding out exactly what sort of favors he had enjoyed from Francesca. As with Mrs. Abbott, I did continue to see him frequently. Robert stood in attendance on the princess’s door and watched me as I was bowed through with the others. Sometimes we passed in the galleries or the grounds as he was on some errand and I was on my way to stand in one place or the other. Those were odd, strained moments when we would glance at each other and I would remember his hands holding my face as he drank in the sight of me.

Thus did the routine of court continue smoothly and without hint of undue intrigue or duplicity, until the morning the Princess of Wales took us all out to see her husband hunt.

The king had been gone for two weeks. Their Royal Highnesses, denied official political power, seemed determined to hold open house in Hampton Court, inviting huge parties of noble ladies and gentlemen to all manner of social activities, such as a hunt through the palace woodlands.

“Well, this should be a rare treat indeed,” muttered Molly as she looked up at the clouds that had lowered themselves to make a gray lid for the courtyard. She’d come to fetch me so we could walk out together, with Mary Bellenden at her other side. Mary, as usual, just smiled.

While the gentlemen were all on horseback, a string of white carriages waited for the ladies, or most of us anyway. Lady Montague perched in her sidesaddle among the hunters, dark skirts fluttering in the freshening wind. She laughed and chatted with the gentlemen, one of whom might even have been her husband. Less adventurous, the princess and Lady Cowper occupied a gold-trimmed carriage. Sophy Howe had already been installed in the somewhat plainer vehicle directly behind.

“Think how the gentlemen will gape when we’re all soaked, with our dresses clinging,” Mary Bellenden giggled.

“Think how they’ll gape when our eyes are streaming and our noses are swelled because we’ve all caught cold,” I muttered back, adjusting my blond straw country bonnet and wishing I could change it for one of the newfangled umbrella sticks some city gentlemen were beginning to carry.