Thirteen
Thirteen
A troop of waiters plonked food down in front of us: consommé à la Doria, topped with white truffles from Piedmont and garnished
with game quenelles. No matter the announcement, when the Queen was ready to eat, it was time to eat.
And so the event began in earnest. Chatter erupted. Casual conversation, of the type I was supposed to be having with my soon-to-be
husband.
Mrs. Schoen certainly tried. “So, Captain Davies, you were educated in Freetown, just like our Sally.”
I was an expert in studying faces. His gave nothing away. “Yes—Mrs. Elizabeth Schoen, is it? The Queen tells me you’ve been
taking care of Miss Bonetta since she returned home to England.”
Home. Home? The word made my stomach churn. I stared at him, stone-faced.
“Yes, what was it, Sally? The Institution of Good Christian Girls or something of the like?” With a mouth full of soup, Bertie
elbowed Davies in the arm. “Though I doubt anyone would call Sally here a ‘good’ girl. She’s rather chilly, this one.”
A part of me wanted to see him give the Prince of Wales a withering glower, as the stupid prince deserved, but Davies nodded
with a pleasant smile.
“The Church Missionary Society’s Female Institution,” he corrected the prince, his tone even-keeled. It was as if he were determined not to show an ounce of personality. “And I don’t think being ‘chilly’ is such a bad thing. I much preferred Odile to Odette in my youth.”
Bertie swallowed his consommé and subtly looked him up and down. “A fan of ballet, then,” he muttered.
Davies gave me another pleasant smile. Dull, so dull . My sigh was a little too loud. Mama kicked my shin underneath the table. Not very ladylike.
Mrs. Phipps and McCoskry were carrying on chatting like old friends—like conspirators. Enjoying their soup, were they? I couldn’t
do anything to them now. The plan I’d already sketched out for their demise would take time—time, I now realized, I didn’t
have. All because of this arranged marriage, I’d have to rethink and rework everything . I gritted my teeth. It took every ounce of willpower not to run over and push their faces in it.
“I recall I might have seen you once at the Institution, Miss Bonetta,” Davies continued, interrupting my train of thought.
“Many years ago.” Irked, I swirled the spoon around in the soup, far too thick to see my own reflection in it. I didn’t like
soup. It was a good thing I wouldn’t have time to eat it.
“Oh, no, please, do call her Sally. It’s what we all—Oh my!”
The waiters charged forward as if in a military raid and snatched Mama’s soup from her hands. Mama wasn’t used to it, but
there were rules when one dined with the Queen. When she was finished with a course, we were all finished. Didn’t help that
she ate particularly quickly.
Mama’s shoulders slumped. “I was still eating... ,” she muttered, confused.
“As were we all, madam.” Davies’s affable shrug certainly won her over, though that wasn’t difficult. She was already fully aboard the Davies train, and why wouldn’t she be with his calm, gentlemanly manners and an elite-level handsomeness that would make any frustrated old lady swoon. Mama did. A few of the patrons were staring at him with a mixture of awe and excitement. Including Mrs. Phipps, who leaned over and whispered something to her daughter. She looked at the two of us and began giggling behind her hand. Wondering if his buttocks were similar to the Hottentot Venus, was she? The witch.
“C?telettes d’Agneau a la Rossini: lamb cutlets topped with sautéed medallions of foie gras and truffles,” announced the waiter.
“Tuck in while you can,” laughed Bertie as the waiter clicked his heels and made himself scarce.
“Ah, my favorite! Lamb cutlets.” The boy who’d spoken—it was the brown-haired boy from Freetown, sitting just a couple of
seats down from the prince. He’d been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten he was there, sitting in his seat with that increasingly
snakelike grin. He was the only person here whose name I didn’t know. A classic disadvantage. I hated those.
“Did you really meet Sally once at school?” Bertie interrupted my train of thought, pulling my gaze away from the Freetown
boy. By now, the Prince of Wales, used to his mother’s eating habits, wasn’t shy about shoving as much food into his mouth
as he could, as quickly as he could. He eyed Davies with a strange sort of suspicion uncharacteristic of him.
“Why, yes, Your Majesty. It was during one of my travels through West Africa. I stopped over at Freetown on the superintendent’s
urging.” He tilted his head, his eyes glazed over with nostalgia. “I’d just turned twenty-six. I’d already made my name in
the navy. But I was making my name known in a different way.”
“Who didn’t go to the military?” Bertie muttered, bitterly chugging his goblet of wine.
“You and Sally have so much in common—even similar ancestry, or so I hear!” Mrs. Schoen urged me with that gratingly stiff smile. I poked my truffles.
“So much in common?” Bertie swallowed his wine and looked between the two of them. “Why? Are you a rescued African princess
too?”
Once again, nobody laughed at his joke. At the very least, watching the fool deflate gave me some kind of pleasure in this
otherwise dreadful luncheon.
“Not a princess, no. Not royalty, but...” The warmth in his features was unmistakable as he gazed at me. “I imagine we
have more in common than perhaps Miss Bonetta even realizes.”
“I wonder how? When we first met, you were twenty-six and on the cusp of greatness. I was eleven, punished for not tying my
bonnet correctly,” I answered without thinking. But it was satisfying, letting my disdain show just a little. One couldn’t
wear a mask every second of the day and today, in particular, I didn’t quite feel the need to.
Bertie didn’t seem to mind. He slithered into the opening I left him. “That’s quite a gap in age,” he said, and for once I
was glad he’d spoken.
I snapped my head up. “And what’s the age gap between you and Princess Alexandra, still cooped up in her castle in Denmark?”
I was losing patience with his grating voice.
He was still the Prince of Wales. Mrs. Schoen looked as if she were about to faint from my tone. It took Bertie a while to
answer.
“About... three years... I suppose...”
“Sounds nice,” I answered. “Lucky you.”
And he shut up.
We ate our next course in silence. Davies looked incredibly uncomfortable. Good. He should. Who did he think he was, thinking
he could swoop in, demand me, and take me without a word of struggle?
“Oh, these roasted potatoes are just lovely! Perfectly spiced, wouldn’t you say?”
That boy again. He didn’t speak to us, but to the rather taken young woman sitting next to him. A conversationalist and a
charmer. Her husband didn’t seem to notice. Well, the potatoes were quite good.
Who was he?
“Well, if you ask me, something as silly as ‘age’ has never stood in the way of a good marriage, I’d say.” Mrs. Schoen suddenly
spoke up on Davies’s behalf, her voice more loud and shrewd than she must have anticipated. She glanced quickly at the Queen.
“Don’t worry, Mama, she hasn’t heard you. You see how she’s attacking that lamb.”
“ Sally! ” Mrs. Schoen had almost yelled it. And then the thing she feared most happened—a few people, a very small handful amongst
the sea of guests, began watching us. She calmed down almost immediately. “I’m sorry, Captain Davies, our Sally hasn’t been
feeling well for some time.”
Yes, she’s come down with a case of the “don’t give a—”
“But I assure you, she’s not usually so thorny ,” Mrs. Schoen continued. Bertie snorted.
“No, no, I understand.” Even Davies’s laughter was kind, jingling like Christmas bells. I held my fork so tightly, it could
have cut off my palm’s circulation. “It’ll take some adjusting for all of us. For both of us, I mean, Sally.”
Both of us? And which one would have more adjusting to do in this situation? The adult man well into this thirties, established
with money, wealth, and the benefits and privileges his groin gave him? Or the teenage girl for whom “freedom of choice” might
as well have been a poorly written joke in Punch magazine, gaudy cartoon included.
“‘Sally’?” I drank my wine. “Have we become so close so quickly?”
Though Davies pursed his lips together, his expression felt almost teasing—the kind of teasing an adult gave an unruly child. It made me furious.
“Cailles r?ties: roast quails stuffed with foie gras.”
I sat back in my chair as the plate came crashing down in front of me. “How much foie gras are we supposed to eat?”
“You know, Sally, don’t underestimate the importance of being of the same race and region when it comes to a marriage match.”
Mrs. Schoen had gathered herself enough to give me a friendly pat on the shoulder instead of the slap I’m sure she wanted
to give me. “Queen Victoria conceived of this match herself. I’m sure she had your benefit in mind through it all. It’s what
she tried to do with the princess Gowramma. Her Majesty had hoped that she would marry that handsome Duleep Singh of the Sikh
Empire, and she went and married Campbell instead. Well, you can see the result.”
Duleep, another of the Queen’s favored godchildren. I sometimes wondered how many of us there were. I peered down the table
to find Gowramma glaring at Mama in response to her jab before patting the saliva off of her husband’s lips with a napkin.
He looked worn. The old man must have stayed up all night gambling again. Or perhaps age made one tired at noonday. If Gowramma
really was miserable, she didn’t show it. Then again, it was never an easy task, discerning her true feelings about sensitive
matters.
“About that.” I was talking more than I thought I would during this luncheon, but the words flew from my lips nonetheless.
“Gowramma and Duleep felt no love and preferred each other as friends. I suppose they care that one must ‘stick to their own
race’ or that one should do as Her Majesty orders. I wonder, then, why the expectations for me are so different.”
“Isn’t that clear?” Davies set down his utensils. Something had shifted in his expression. It wasn’t stern or hateful. No, he’d put up with my temper well enough. But for the first time, it was almost as if he’d let me see through the cracks in his own mask— let me. The furrow in his brow. The concern in his expression. It was almost fatherly....
“The Queen feels differently about you, Miss Bonetta. Given our correspondences, that much is clear.”
“Yes, she’s Her Majesty’s favorite.” Mrs. Schoen looked around the hall. “Just look at this luncheon! She loves you so much,
Sally. Like one of her own!”
But in the world of the elite, lunches and balls could easily become weapons of war. As I watched the Queen slurp down her
food at a maddening pace, I couldn’t help but suspect this was nothing more than strategy.
Like one of her own. Something told me Captain Davies wasn’t implying what Mama thought he was. “There is something about
you , Sarah. About you and no one else,” he said.
You should be careful. That was what his expression told me. Not of him. Of her .
The rest of lunch passed by uneventfully. Davies told us all about his life in Lagos. The celery was baked and the quenelles
perfectly fried. The beef was far too rare for my tastes, though Bertie gobbled it down like his ravenous mother. I looked
at the halls and saw cages of a prison. I heard Mama’s laughter and felt the knife in my back. The only one who looked almost
as irritated as me was the prince, though it didn’t seem to affect his appetite. He perked right up when dessert appeared.
Three rounds of it: savarin cake topped with vanilla cream. Poached apples, creamed rice, and, of course, chocolate profiteroles.
“My favorite,” Bertie exclaimed at the same time as the Freetown boy. They caught each other’s eyes as the waiter placed down
their bowls.
“You too?” said Bertie.
“Well, who doesn’t love profiteroles?” The Freetown boy looked as if he’d been waiting for this chance—the chance to exchange words with the prince. Nobody else seemed to notice, because it took a particular kind of personality to enjoy seeing a plan come together.
The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end again. Something felt wrong.
Bertie frowned and tilted his head. “Have I seen you before?”
How like Bertie to not remember the guests at his own salacious event. Then again, with the amount of alcohol he’d consumed
that night...
“Nowhere that needs discussing in the palace, I should think.” The boy winked; Bertie nodded, cluing in and not so subtly
peering at his mother like a boy who didn’t want Mum to know he’d just broken the china. That should have been the end of
it. I didn’t want any more conversation with this boy.
“Your accent sounds rather different than anyone else’s here.” It was Davies who spoke. Politeness had its limits. I flexed
and unflexed my fingers against the tablecloth.
“Oh, I’m from Sierra Leone. Freetown.”
“Really?”
“Well, I was born in England, but truth be told, I have few memories of this place. My mother didn’t speak much to me about
our lives before Africa. She wasn’t one to speak much at all...”
There was an awkward pause as he trailed off, seemingly losing himself before pulling back into his character. Yes, lest we
forget: he was a young gentlemen, sociable and kind to all.
“And you’re a friend to the court?” Davies continued. I didn’t know if he was curious or suspicious.
“A friend to Lord Ponsonby,” said the boy. “He knows some people related to my mother. When I came to England, I went to see him and he was kind enough to allow me to come today. If only he knew what a scoundrel I was, I don’t think he would have been so kind!”
Oh please. With his perfectly coiffed hair, freshly shaven face, and harmless expression, he looked as if cherubs could escape
from his buttocks at any moment. But he knew that. I challenge you to think of me as a scoundrel was what he was really saying.
I cleared my throat. “Captain Davies, won’t you eat your dessert? It’s quite nice.”
Davies was shocked I’d spoken to him with such... docility. It was enough to distract him just for a moment.
“I’m not one for sweets.” He gave me a timid grin and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “But I am curious, lad—” The
boy again. I bristled. “Where were you educated?”
“I was schooled at home by tutors. Though I did not want for education. My mother worked with the Church Missionary Society
and was a teacher herself. I had all the books I needed, and even if my mother was always so dreadfully busy with her students,
my tutors, dare I say, were just as good in the art of instruction as she was.”
“I myself went to the Church Missionary Society Grammar School,” Davies said, giving him the appreciative nod of an alumnus-adjacent.
“I hope it didn’t burn down like Sally’s old school,” Bertie said before catching himself. I wished he’d choke on his profiterole.
“The Female Institution? God forbid!” said the Freetown boy. “I know all about that terrible tragedy. I couldn’t forget it,
even though I wish I could.”
And the look he gave me just then told me more powerfully than words ever could: he wouldn’t let me forget it either. His
stare was empty, bottomless as the deepest cavern.
“It took my mother from me,” he said without blinking. Not even once. His voice became low in that moment. “It’s where she
worked, after all.”
My body turned cold. It was starting to dawn on me why the boy looked so familiar. Why his presence, since the moment he forced me into a dance, sent my adrenaline pumping slightly faster than it should have. The boy looked straight at me as he spoke. He didn’t break contact, even when Mama cooed in sympathy.
“Oh my darling, I’m so sorry. She died in the fire, then?”
“No,” he replied. “She died afterwards. By suicide.”
So. The ghost of Superintendent Emma Sass had found me at last.
“She left me an incredible inheritance, of course,” the boy said. “But still. It was an unforgivable atrocity.”
I tried to stay perfectly still, but the sweat on my palms were starting to soak into the tablecloth. And a part of me wanted
to laugh at this turn of events because my plot for revenge should have been simpler than this.
In all my years of being in the Female Institution, Miss Sass had never once mentioned having a son. Now he was here, grinning
amicably in front of me, and I—
I...
“Oh!” Mama covered her mouth with both hands. “How absolutely horrific! I’m so sorry, young man.” She shook her head. “Only
the devil could allow something so evil to happen.”
The boy answered: “Then the devil should be made to pay, shouldn’t he?”
A crash. Mama gasped and turned to me. Captain Davies reached across the table in concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked, because I’d knocked over my glass. The little water that was inside now pooled on the tablecloth.
All eyes were on me, but his were the only ones I could feel searing into my very flesh.
“I’m okay,” I lied, withdrawing my hand so nobody could see it shaking. The waiters came and cleaned up the mess quickly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Queen Victoria watching me. It was just for a moment, before her gaze flickered away. But it was enough. My stomach churned, my throat dry.
I had enemies on all sides, didn’t I?
But wasn’t this what I asked for when I started on this path for revenge? I desired this chaos in the most silent regions
of my heart. This was what chaos looked like.
What it felt like.
My hands trembled on my knees as I thought of Sass. As I pictured her ending her life. I saw bodies piled up upon each other,
twisted and screaming.
Guilt. Ah, I felt guilt.
Guilt? Over her ?
“Sally...” Mama hesitated to touch me. “What’s so funny?”
Mine was the slightly off-kilter laughter of a girl raised to conduct herself in the most ladylike of ways. A quiet stream
that stopped as suddenly as it had begun. I couldn’t help it. My lips twisted into the littlest smirk as I considered the
sheer nonsense of it all. This was my revenge story. How ridiculous. How absolutely irritating .
“Forgive me, I should introduce myself.” The Freetown boy’s graceful bow couldn’t hide the secret hate in his eyes. “My name
is Dalton Sass: son of the late superintendent. And I’m curious—Miss Forbes Bonetta, did you know my mother?”
I wiped my mouth neatly with a napkin. “It was a long time ago. You must know how quickly memories from childhood fade. Though
some memories become seared into one’s flesh like the lash of a whip.”
“An interesting point. I quite agree.” Dalton matched the sharpness of my words with his sinister expression. “I intend to
make memories too while I’m here in England.” He ran his finger along the blunt edge of his knife. “I shall have to remember
to sear them properly so that they’ll never be forgotten.”