Traitor and the Tunnel (13 page)

He slouched deeper in his wing chair. “What are al the staff saying?” He saw her hesitation and forced a playful smile. “I’l not tel anybody what you say. Promise.”

Mary knew better than to believe that; one wel -

chosen word from Queen Victoria and the Prince would spil the lot. Nevertheless… “They’re al a bit confused. They know something serious has occurred, but nobody knows what, exactly.”

“Come on … there must be more gossip, even in a household as strict as this.” His smile was more authentic, now that he was on familiar ground: pleading, pestering, teasing. “Don’t you girls talk about us?”

“I couldn’t possibly say, sir, gossip being strictly forbidden.” Her smal smile undercut the severity of her words. “But one or two people have mentioned how you’re not general y here during term-time.”

“Have they said why?”

She made her eyes wide and round. “They’d never have made so bold about the Prince of Wales, sir.”

He winced. “Ah. Yes. Me and people’s expectations.”

“You don’t sound happy, sir.”

“Would you be, if you were me?” he demanded, voice rising. At her shrinking back, he softened his tone. “Though, of course, you don’t know the truth.”

He sighed heavily. “I can’t possibly burden you with that…”

It was such a transparent invitation. “And is it such a heavy burden, sir?”

He snorted. “Oh, aye. Heavier than you could imagine, my dear.”

She remained perfectly stil , eyes modestly lowered. If she didn’t break the spel … if nobody interrupted them…

“What would you say, Mary, if I told you I witnessed something truly terrible on Saturday night?

Something so nightmarish I can’t think of anything else, can’t sleep, can’t eat…”

She met his gaze with wide, compassionate eyes.

“I’d feel right sorry for you, sir, for I can’t think of a person who deserves such a thing less.”

“Real y?” His eagerness was difficult to take –

she’d never met anyone quite this powerful yet fragile. Or maybe that was the difficulty – he wasn’t actual y very powerful at al , but was assumed to be so because of his mother. “Because – I probably oughtn’t say – it’s not your concern, and you’re a nice girl…”

Time to clinch the confession. But she couldn’t repress a stab of guilt as she said, “You mustn’t say or do anything that troubles your conscience, sir. But I’d count it a privilege to help you, as far as I can.”

It was that easy. Through the simple, almost entirely selfish il usion of kindness, the Prince of Wales began pouring out his troubles: his sneaking down to London, the il -advised abandonment of his equerries, the excursion to Limehouse. He was, however, much hazier on the facts and timing of events inside the opium den.

Through the course of his rambling monologue, two things became clear to Mary. The first was that, despite her delicate attempts to sift for facts, the Prince’s recol ection of events was too muddled to be of use. He’d not been simply evading Queen Victoria’s questions yesterday. The second was his assumption that Lang Jin Hai had to be a murderer, simply because he was a foreigner and an Asiatic.

Such prejudiced il ogic was familiar to Mary, of course. English racial superiority was a common assumption, and she general y encountered it with superficial calm. It was also the reason she never acknowledged her parentage, lest her status as a

“dirty half-caste” become the sum of her identity in others’ eyes. This time, however, Prince Bertie’s heedless slurs stung. And even worse, Mary knew why: she already felt protective of Lang Jin Hai, without even being sure of who he was.

Eventual y, the Prince’s ramblings wound down like a clockwork toy. He stared into the middle distance, limp. His features were puffy and his pal id skin marked by painful-looking red pimples – signs of strain that stirred in Mary equal amounts of distaste and compassion. “You must be half-mad with grief, sir,” she said at last.

He seemed not to hear her.

She poured him a cup of coffee, now only lukewarm, and proffered it gently. “Sir?”

He blinked, as though remembering her presence.

He drained the cup, expressionless, then held it out for more.

“Would you care for some breakfast, sir? Mrs Shaw sent devil ed kidneys.”

He shook his head, as though sickened. “Take it away.” He was unable to look at her and Mary thought she understood that, too. In breaking down before her, he’d humiliated himself and betrayed his station. It was no wonder he couldn’t eat before her.

“As you wish, sir.” She packed up the tray and retreated to the kitchens, wondering how Mrs Shaw would interpret her return. She’d been gone nearly an hour, and here she was with a tray ful of uneaten delicacies. Not to mention a Prince of Wales who’d dodged breakfast with his mother. For the first time, Mary thought of the Queen with a distinct twinge of pity. Monarch, head of state, empress of the globe –

and mother to a weak, tearaway heir with a scandalous murder and a question of justice to address.

Real y, a few missing ornaments were the least of Her Majesty’s concerns.

Thirteen

Mrs Shaw’s estimation of Mary’s moral condition sank even lower before the mid-afternoon meal.

Each day, after the royal family had finished their luncheon, the servants gathered below stairs for their dinner – a hot, cooked meal that was ample even by Palace standards and undreamt of by the urban poor outside its wal s. Today, Mary lowered herself into her place at table to find half a dozen others staring at her. She nodded awkwardly at these near-strangers. “Hel o.”

“Go on, open it!” said another parlour-maid, a rosy-cheeked woman cal ed Sadie with masses of russet hair barely contained by her cap.

At Mary’s place lay a square envelope, larger than her plate and addressed in a flashy, unfamiliar hand.

“Didn’t know you had a sweetheart,” said Amy, from across the table and a few places along. There was a sul en edge to her tone. Mary noticed that Amy had a much smal er envelope on her own plate.

It had already been opened.

“I don’t,” replied Mary. She eyed the packet with suspicion.

“Go on, I’m dying!” squeaked Sadie. “I never seen one that big!”

“Sadie, my sweet,” drawled one of the footmen.

“That’s what you said to me last night.”

Sadie sniffed. “Only in your dreams, you nasty little toad.” At this, the other footmen roared with laughter which was quickly quel ed by the head butler.

Mary picked up the Valentine, holding it as though it might burst into flames at any moment. She could feel Mrs Shaw’s dour gaze trained on her face. Was there anything she could do to make herself less conspicuous?

“Go on!” squealed another maid. “It ain’t like to bite you.”

Mary tore open the vast white envelope and, to the squeals of several maids, pul ed out the gaudiest Valentine she’d ever seen: a garish confection of lace, feathers, ribbon and paint which unfolded into an elaborate heart shape. At its centre was scrawled

“From your secret admirer”.

“Oh, lordy, it’s a stunner,” gasped Sadie, half-covering her mouth in reverence.

Amy sniffed. “It must have cost a pretty penny.”

“Penny, my eye!” snorted another. “That’s four bob worth of paper and lace, if ever I seen it.”

Glancing down, Mary noticed a second letter on her dinner plate: a smal , very ordinary one which she instantly pocketed. Final y, word from the Agency. Fortunately, the maids’ attention seemed fixed on the Valentine.

“But who’s your beau?” sighed another. “And how’d you trap a rich one?”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t have one.” Her denial sounded stiff and implausible, even in her own ears. It certainly wasn’t good news, this ostentatious Valentine. Angry as he was, James wouldn’t taunt her in this way – drawing unwanted attention to her, encouraging others to ask questions of her. Besides, his interests were already engaged.

He’d not wasted much time, going straight from kissing her blind in the study to flirting with that young lady in his drawing room. Mary swal owed hard and met Sadie’s eye. “I don’t know who it’s from.”

From across the table, Sadie snatched at the Valentine and read the message for herself, her eyes growing rounder as she puzzled through the handwriting. “My stars! That’s a flash Valentine from someone who’s too shy to sign his name!”

“He must be madly in love with you,” said a thin little maid Mary only saw at mealtimes. “Oh, fancy. It must be lovely.”

“Or maybe four bob’s nought to him.”

This was a juicy subject for the whole table and while speculation bloomed, Mary caught Mrs Shaw’s eye on her. This much was certain: the housekeeper had definitely, unofficial y, put her on probation. Amy, too, had a dangerous look in her eye – an intimation that her Valentine’s Day was not going to plan.

“Here, you coy thing.” The woman beside Mary passed her a vast earthenware dish of boiled potatoes. “You real y got no idea who sent that card?”

“Not the faintest.” Mary took a potato and looked hopeful y up the table. There was a vast, meaty hash of some sort, and cold poached fowl left over from last night’s dinner above stairs. A couple of tureens of vegetables. Something that looked like salmon patties. A boiled ham. Slices of bread-and-butter.

Even a quivering aspic which Sadie seemed to like vastly, judging from the portion she served herself.

There was more food than they’d ever consume at this meal. It seemed wrong, at a time of such privation. With last year’s poor harvest and this long, cruel winter, the Cockneys on the streets looked thinner and more haggard than ever.

Sadie turned and subjected her to a cool, ful -

length appraisal. “You’re bonny enough. Got spindle-shanks, though. Men like a bit of meat on a girl’s bones.” She shimmied her own ample curves suggestively. “Something to hold on to. Though it don’t seem to have hurt you, any.”

Mary spooned some boiled turnips onto her plate and thought about the envelope in her pocket. “I don’t think it means much. The Valentine, I mean.”

It was a long lunch, dominated by conversation about who got what and what it might mean – not unlike a schoolroom ful of twelve-year-old girls, thought Mary. It was rather more difficult to interpret the significance of her own unwanted Valentine.

When it had travel ed the length of the table and back, Mary stuffed it back into its envelope and laid it on the chair behind her. She tried to catch Amy’s gaze but her eyes were fixed on the tablecloth, her mouth a grim line: clearly, Octavius Jones’s Valentine hadn’t met her expectations. And then, suddenly, it was so patently obvious that she jumped slightly.

Sadie glanced at her, only half-interested. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” Mary took a deep drink of Mrs Shaw’s excel ent cider – another Palace luxury. Then she joined in with the cheerful, idle conversation al around her. One of her difficulties, at least, was within her power to address.

After dinner, there was an hour’s respite before her afternoon duties began and Mary slipped up to her bedroom. She wanted a little privacy to read this second letter – the one the others hadn’t noticed in their excitement over the splendid Valentine. But when she arrived, Amy was already sprawled bel y-down on her bed, face turned towards the wal . Mary stifled a sigh as she saw Amy’s crumpled Valentine on the blanket. As she stood there, wondering how on earth to begin a conversation, Amy turned a wet, tear-stained face towards her.

“You didn’t even look pleased to get that blooming great Valentine.”

“I’m not. I don’t even know who it’s from, and that makes me nervous.”

Amy lifted her head at that. “Nervous? You should be bloody over the moon!”

Mary shrugged. “What if it’s a prank of some sort?”

“A pretty expensive prank! No, I reckon whoever sent that real y meant it.”

Privately, Mary agreed – but not the way Amy thought. “Are you al right, though? You seem disappointed.”

Amy sniffed, scrambled to a sitting position and flicked her crumpled Valentine onto the floor. “You’d be too, if that’s al you got from your stupid gentleman admirer.”

Mary looked at it. “May I…?”

“Course. It ain’t special.”

Mary picked up the card and smoothed it. “It’s pretty.” It was, too – fine paper with a picture of red roses and real lace glued round the edges. But it lacked the showstopping garishness of Mary’s.

“It ain’t the card what bothers me – just read it!”

Mary obeyed. “To my darling Amy – Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet girl. Very affectionately yours, Tavvy.”

“‘Very affectionately!’” howled Amy, suddenly furious. “It ain’t much, is it?”

“Wel , it’s nice…”

“I don’t want nice! I don’t want pretty! I want a bloody wedding ring on my finger!” Amy yel ed this last sentence so loudly that the window rattled.

Mary considered her irate roommate. Pity was certainly out of the question. “Wel … What wil you do, then? D’you stil want my help?”

Amy stared at her for several long moments in outright astonishment. Then, to Mary’s relief, she snorted. And flashed her a determined grin. “Yeah.

He ain’t getting away that easy.”

“Did you send him a note this morning?”

“Of course!”