The Paper Princess (3 page)

The rain had fallen steadily since her visit to The Green Dolphin with Miss Chubb. Both ladies had been confined to the castle. But at the end of the second week since their “great adventure” as Miss Chubb called it, the wind shifted to the east and then died down. Frost glittered on the lawns on the other side of the frozen moat and icicles hung down in front of the nursery windows.

Felicity and Miss Chubb were just getting warmly dressed, preparatory to going for a walk, when a liveried footman appeared with a message from Mr. Palfrey. Miss Felicity was to present herself in the drawing room immediately.

“Marriage!” whispered Miss Chubb as soon as the footman had left.

“I do not think so,” said Felicity. “No one has come to call.” She giggled. “They might leave wet footprints on Mr. Palfrey's precious floors. I shall not be long. Meet me in the hall.”

Mr. Palfrey was seated in a wing chair in front of the small fire in the drawing room. Lying on the chaise longue drawn up in front of the window was Mrs. Palfrey, her eyes closed, a piece of half-finished embroidery lying on her lap.

“Come in, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey, “and sit opposite me. I have good news for you.”

Felicity sat down in a tapestried chair opposite. The pair surveyed each other cautiously.

Mr. Palfrey decided again that Felicity could hardly be classed as a beauty. There was something so ...

wayward
about her appearance, and always a hint of rebellion at the back of those wide, innocent eyes.

Felicity was always struck afresh each time she saw him by how petty, nasty, and ridiculous her stepfather looked.

His sparse, graying hair was teased and combed back on top of his head. His blue morning coat was padded on the shoulders, and his cravat was built up high to cover the lower part of his face. He had a long thin body and very short legs, legs that were encased in skintight, canary-yellow pantaloons. With his thin yellow legs and his crest of hair, he looked like Mr. Canary in a children's story book. He had a little beak of a nose and very pale blue eyes.

“What news, Mr. Palfrey?” asked Felicity. After his marriage to their mother, Mr. Palfrey had begged the little Channing girls to call him “Papa.” But not even the biddable elder girls had been able to call him that. He was so fussy, prissy, and spiteful that not one of them could view him in the light of father, so all had continued to call him Mr. Palfrey

The castle was very quiet. The servants were expected to remain unseen and unheard as they went about their duties. If Mr. Palfrey came across, say, a housemaid, who had not time to run and hide, she was expected to turn her face to the wall and try to look as invisible as possible until he had passed.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a rapid chattering tick-tock, and a flame spurted out of a log in the fire and died, while Mr. Palfrey considered his reply.

“I credit you with a natural modesty and humility, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey. “So it may have occurred to you that you are not
exactly
pretty.”

“Not in a fashionable way, no,” said Felicity mildly.

“Not in
any way at all,
” said Mr. Palfrey sharply. “I have therefore had some difficulty in finding you a suitable husband.”

Felicity went very still and tense. Who? Who? Who have you found for me? chattered an anxious voice in her brain along with the restless chatter of the clock.

Mr. Palfrey made a steeple of his fingers and looked at Felicity over them. “There is, moreover, a shortage of young men. You cannot expect a
young
husband such as your more fortunate sisters have found.”

“Maria married the Bishop of Exeter,” said Felicity tartly, “and he is in his forties.”

“Enough!” said Mr. Palfrey, holding up one hand. “But you will consider yourself fortunate when you hear that I have found a suitable gentleman for you. A titled gentleman.”

“Who is?”

“Lord St. Dawdy.”

A faint moan came from the direction of the window. Felicity looked anxiously at her mother, but that lady still lay with her eyes closed, apparently asleep.

“You are not going to marry me off to anyone,” said Felicity in an urgent whisper, her eyes blazing, “least of all to an ancient gentleman who has been married twice before. Besides, he is abroad.”

“You have no choice in the matter,” said Mr. Palfrey. “The baron has returned and has honored me by accepting my proposal. You will marry him or be thrown out of here.”

“You cannot throw me out of my own home! Mama would never allow it. You would be the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”

“I weary of trying to cultivate the goodwill of the peasantry. They may think me hard-hearted, if they wish. Once you are safely married, they will come about.”

Felicity looked at him, appalled. She had never really dreamed he would go this far.

“Let me tell you this, Mr. Palfrey,” she said, leaning forward, her eyes flashing, “you have not yet taken my measure. I am not meek and quiet like my sisters. I shall not let you force me into marriage.
I shall not
let you!
”

Her voice had risen. Mrs. Palfrey stirred and moaned again.

“Don't, Felicity,” she said weakly.

Felicity ran to the window and knelt down by her mother and took one of Mrs. Palfrey's thin, wasted hands in her own. “Mama,” she said, “he says I am to marry Lord St. Dawdy.”

Mrs. Palfrey's eyes glittered with tears. “Mr. Palfrey,” she started to say, “I do beg of you...” but the rest of what she had been going to say was lost in a bout of asthmatic wheezing.

“Now look what you have done!” exclaimed Mr. Palfrey, fussing forward. “Leave us immediately.”

Felicity rose and stood looking mutinously at her stepfather, prepared to do battle. But her mother's weak plea of “Yes, my dear, do leave us” went straight to her heart.

“I am going for a walk on the grounds with Miss Chubb,” said Felicity, “and when I return, Mr. Palfrey, and when Mama is not present, we shall discuss this matter further.”

She turned and ran from the room.

When she had gone, Mrs. Palfrey tried to struggle up. “Do not do this to Felicity,” she gasped. “You misjudge her. She has strength and spirit, very like her father.”

“That spirit is unbecoming in a young miss,” said Mr. Palfrey, extracting a Limoges snuffbox and taking a delicate pinch. “St. Dawdy will soon break her to harness. Now, do not distress yourself over the tiresome child. I am going to ride over to St. Dawdy's to discuss the marriage settlement.”

After he had left, Mrs. Palfrey fumbled in her sleeve for her handkerchief and dried the tears that had begun to flow over her white cheeks. Then she rang a bell placed on a little table beside her.

“Giles,” she said to the footman who answered it. “Has Mr. Palfrey left?”

“Yes, ma'am, just this second. Shall I call him back?”

“No, no. I want you to go out on the grounds or even beyond, to find Miss Felicity, who is out walking with Miss Chubb. Bring her back to my bedchamber. Send Benson to help me upstairs.” Benson was the lady's maid.

Meanwhile, Felicity and Miss Chubb had retreated to the one uncultivated corner of the garden by the south wall where a curtain of creeper drooped over a tangled mass of wildflowers, their winter leaves yellow and brown—mallow, foxglove, borage, and rosebay willow-herb. The rest of the garden about the castle was as manicured and ordered as the inside of the great building. Grass, cut into geometric patterns, surrounded the rosebeds; the roses were never allowed to grow to any height but were always ruthlessly pruned so that only a few regimented flowers were allowed to bloom each summer.

This one corner had, so far, escaped Mr. Palfrey's notice, and Felicity found it a soothing place to go, a place mercifully free of his fussy, nagging perfectionism.

She had told Miss Chubb about the marriage that had been arranged for her, stoutly maintaining that she would not be forced into it, and Miss Chubb listened, her heavy face drooping and her doglike eyes sad, for she really did not think Felicity, as her stepfather had pointed out, had any choice in the matter at all.

Felicity looked up after her defiant statement of independence and saw the footman, Giles, hurrying toward her.

“He wants me back for a further argument,” she said gloomily. But as soon as she heard it was her mother who wished to see her, she ran like the wind. Felicity had not seen her mother alone for some time, Mr. Palfrey having forestalled any efforts in that direction.

It had been many years since Mrs. Palfrey had shared a bedchamber with her husband. But her own bedchamber had not escaped her husband's reorganizing zeal. The floor was slippery with beeswax and ornamented with an Oriental rug placed with geometric precision exactly in the center of the floor. Her bed was of the newfangled kind that Felicity detested, having neither posts nor curtains, but shell-shaped and draped with a cover of chilly white lace.

“Come in, my dear,” said Mrs. Palfrey faintly. “I do not have much time.”

Mrs. Palfrey was now sure she was dying, but Felicity thought her mother meant that she had not much time before her husband came back.

“Now, don't interrupt me,” said Mrs. Palfrey feebly. “Sit down on the end of the bed and listen. I have not been a good mother. No! You must not interrupt. I allowed Mr. Palfrey to arrange marriages for my other girls. It seemed as if he had good sense, for Penelope and Emily appear to be content, and I can only pray that Maria will find the same happiness. But from what I have heard of the baron, he is not the man for you, or indeed for any woman. You must have your independence, Felicity. Mr. Palfrey does not, I believe, know of the Channing jewels. I did not tell him about them. I knew he loved beautiful things, and I had planned to dazzle him with a display of them after we were married. I did not then know how greedy he was—but I soon found out.

“Before I fell ill, I hid the box with the jewels. It may surprise you to know there is a priest's hole in this castle.”

“But I do know,” said Felicity, wondering. “I have been in it.”

“There is a ledge up at the top of it. You probably never looked up there. It is hard to see in the blackness. You will find an iron box there. That is your dowry. I shall leave them to you in my will, and you must point out to Mr. Palfrey that with such an enormous dowry, you may marry whom you please.

In the meantime, appear as if you have decided to accept the baron. I do not wish to die without having made some provision for you.”

“Mama! You will live a long time. Perhaps another physician should be called.”

“Perhaps I shall live longer than I expect,” said Mrs. Palfrey with a weak smile, “but we shall try for a stay of execution. I shall tell Mr. Palfrey I do not wish you to be married until I am well enough to attend the ceremony. The Channing money is still mine, and at least I have that hold over him, though I have never used it before.

“Now, I wish to add a codicil to my will, leaving you the jewels. I need two servants to be witnesses, but I must have two who are trustworthy and who will not talk to Mr. Palfrey or to anyone else.”

“There is John Tremayne, the head groom,” said Felicity slowly, “and he will know of another who is as loyal to the Channings.”

“Fetch him quickly. Now.”

“But, Mama. You are making me afraid with this talk of death.”

“I have no time at the moment to talk to you further, my child. Go!”

Felicity longed to take her mother into her arms, to try to beg her to leave the castle and perhaps go to London where a physician might be better qualified to diagnose her illness. But fright and agitation were making Mrs. Palfrey's breath come in ragged gasps. Felicity left to go in search of John Tremayne.

After a short time, John Tremayne appeared with a housemaid, Bessie Redhill. The head groom was half in love with Bessie, who was plump and motherly.

Mrs. Palfrey asked Bessie to help her over to her writing desk. She pulled forward a sheet of parchment and then hesitated. She was suddenly consumed with hatred for this husband of hers who had only pretended to love her and whose greed and spiteful bullying character had become evident right after the wedding. Up until this moment, she had kept such feelings at bay, thinking them sinful. She had sworn in church before God to love and obey her husband, and she had tried so very hard to abide by the promise. But the fear that time was running out for her sparked the first strong feeling of rebellion Mrs.

Palfrey had ever had. Why not leave everything she possessed to Felicity? It would only mean writing a very short will. Felicity could be trusted to share the money with her sisters and look after any servants who might have to be pensioned off.

She began to write quickly, while John and Bessie stood by, trying to mask their curiosity. At last she was finished, and she asked them both to sign. John Tremayne was illiterate and made his mark. Bessie had been educated at a dame school, and her bold, quick eyes traveled rapidly down the page before she signed.

Then she helped Mrs. Palfrey back to bed and left the room with John Tremayne.

When the servants had reached the stair landing, John asked, “What was that all about, Bessie? Was it her will?”

Bessie hesitated. It was a great secret, that will; a rare secret. She decided to hug the knowledge to herself. The housekeeper, Mrs. Jessop, was always sneering at her. It would be nice after Madam died to startle the servants hall by saying that she, Bessie, had been witness to the will that was driving Mr.

Palfrey mad with rage.

“Dunno,” she said laconically. “Warn't time. I just signed my name without reading it.”

“Well, I hope there's something in there for Miss Felicity,” said John. “Give us a kiss, Bessie. No one's around.”

Bessie giggled and kissed him on the lips, privately thinking that John Tremayne was a bit of an old goat.

Then the servants went downstairs together.

At the time the servants were signing the new will, Lord Arthur Bessamy was strolling into his club, Boodle's, in St. James's. Boodle's was not a club for the politically-minded, like White's, which favored the Tories, or Brooks's, which had a membership of Whigs. It was a more comfortable place with the convenience of a “dirty room” in which members who had failed to dress for dinner were segregated.