Fifteen
Fifteen
“Sally, there’s something I’ve found out,” Harriet whispered underneath the sprightly key of Felix Mendelssohn’s Rondo Capriccioso,
Op. 14. I put a finger to my lips, silently telling her to wait. Queen Victoria sat in the front row, listening to the pianist
who played her favorite musician’s piece in the center of the Audience Chamber. A miserable Bertie sat next to her, and yet
mother and son seemed a world apart. The Queen wouldn’t look at him.
The sunset-colored room boasted some of the most beautiful paintings—portraits of royals from the past—all underneath a choir
of angels painted on the sky-blue ceiling. On both sides of a long red carpet were three rows of oak chairs, the carpet stopping
at the foot of the grand piano and the performer’s bench.
I was tired of having to come up with reasons to come to Windsor Castle. This time it was to thank her for my engagement luncheon.
The Queen had already given my gift—a brooch stolen for me courtesy of Rui’s men—to one of her ladies-in-waiting, who spirited
it away to parts of the castle unknown. The Queen would never wear it—she much preferred more “exotic” pieces—something like
the Koh-i-Noor, stolen by Britain from the Taj Mahal and given to her as a present by her late husband.
The piece had finished. After our modest applause, I leaned over to Harriet. “We’re going,” I said, and stood up to leave, terrifying the poor girl—nobody could leave before the Queen did. Those were the rules.
“Sally?” The Queen looked perplexed, but still eagle-eyed as she turned to face me. “Is there something wrong?”
I met the guests’ disapproving stares with a modest grin. Mrs. Phipps looked particularly venomous, sitting in front of us
with her friend and friend-to-the-court Mrs. Mallet. Though it irritated me to no end, I was always ready for their judgment.
It was uncomfortable for some just to see me here despite my years coming in and out of the royal circle. For them, the least
I could do was stay quiet and complacent so they could forget my presence.
Not this time.
Clutching my stomach, I bowed my head. “Your Majesty, please forgive me. I seem to be feeling unwell.”
“Perhaps some medicine will help,” said Harriet quickly, following my lead. She was clearly trying to avoid the cluck of her
mother’s tongue and her quiet but heavy disappointed sigh. “I know where to find some.”
The Queen hesitated.
“Oh, come on, Mummy, don’t torture the girl any longer,” said Bertie before adding under his breath, “like the rest of us.”
The Queen clearly pretended she hadn’t heard him. She didn’t respond, but with a wave of her hand, she let us go.
“We won’t disturb you any longer,” Harriet promised.
The Queen’s eyes followed me as Harriet led me out of the room.
The moment the guards had closed the giant wooden double doors behind us, I shook off Harriet and began striding down the
halls. To business.
“What information have you collected on Miss Welsh?”
At this, Harriet puffed out her chest with pride. “I’ve collected every bit of news I could on the woman—her list of associates, dead and alive. Just as you asked.”
I’d already been trained in domestic norms through brutal education, all to make me a future “angel of the house.” I didn’t
need “marriage preparations.” But the pointlessness of these wife lessons was exactly the point. They were a distraction that
would keep me in Brighton for far longer than I could afford. The Queen knew that. I needed Welsh out of the way.
Harriet led me to an empty servant’s quarters. Inside the tiny, musty room, the bed frame pushed against the brown wood walls
looked barely big enough to fit an adult. She reached into her blouse and pulled a folded piece of paper out from her chest.
And when I read it, I recognized a name on that very list.
“Inspector Charles Wilkes...” I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve heard this name before....”
I searched my memories. Yes, the name had come up... when I was learning everything there was to know about the Photographic
Society of London. The Photographic Society was of peak interest to me, not only because it was under the royal patronage
of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, who’d taken a keen interest in photographic technology, but also because the society
had many illustrious members—including one William Bambridge.
Charles Wilkes had no connection to Bambridge, though he’d worked with the society before to capture an art thief. Still,
as I stared at the name written in ink on Harriet’s parchment, the beginnings of an evil plot began to hatch in my mind.
Wilkes was not only my connection to Welsh. He could be my key to taking down Bambridge too.
My blood began to boil over in excitement.
Mr. Bellamy. Mr. Bambridge. Uncle George. McCoskry. Phipps...
Queen Victoria.
The gears in my head were turning, churning out frightful ideas that I could barely keep up with. But what with this talk
of photographers...
“Come with me.” I pulled Harriet out of the servants’ quarters before she could protest. The red-suited guards of the palace
didn’t flinch even as we flew past them in the winding halls. Harriet was tripping over her feet as I dragged her by the wrist,
but I was too delirious with opportunity to slow down.
“Photography was one of the Queen’s favorite pastimes, especially when Prince Albert was alive,” I told Harriet as we rounded
a corner.
“Of course.” Harriet tried to catch up with me. “Still is. What does that matter?”
“Haven’t you heard the rumors?” The click of my heels echoed from the high ceiling. “Apparently Queen Victoria’s interest
in photography goes beyond the confines of so-called civil society.”
Queen Victoria’s perpetual black attire wasn’t the only reason some ladies of the court had secretly taken to accusing her
of being deep in the occult.
We had just rounded another corner when I heard a shout from the end of the hall.
“You devil!” A man’s voice. Lord Ponsonby.
I pushed Harriet behind the corner, put my finger to my lips, and poked my head back around.
The sweat on Lord Ponsonby’s bald spot gleamed clearly from the glare of the lamps. The Queen’s secretary was shaking all
because of the man showing him a letter pinched between his two fingers.
My stomach felt like ice. It was Dalton Sass. And judging from his taunting expression, he clearly had the upper hand in whatever situation this was. My heart beat faster. I could feel my blood flooding my palms as I rested a hand against the cold marble wall. Leaning in, careful not to reveal myself, I listened intently.
“I don’t want too many things in life, my good lord Ponsonby. I haven’t had much in my life either. My mother wasn’t a particularly
kind one. But I’ve always loved piano. The Queen and her guests are listening to a wonderful pianist at this very moment,
aren’t they? I would love to be one of those guests.” He took a step closer to Ponsonby, who stumbled back on his shaking
legs. “That’s all. And then nobody would have to know.”
And then nobody would have to know what ? What weapon was Dalton holding to Ponsonby’s throat?
That letter. I frowned. It was smaller than your usual commercial notepaper. And from here, it almost looked dyed; its faint
yellow hue felt oddly familiar. Even without being able to see a single word, I knew its contents were as venomous as his
grin. I felt it in my bones.
“What’s going on?” Harriet asked, but I shushed her immediately. I had to hear everything.
“I’ll go to Her Majesty,” Ponsonby hissed. “Once she knows what you have in your possession—”
“She’ll blame you for so flippantly bringing me into her circle in the first place. You were the one who invited me to Miss
Bonetta’s engagement luncheon.” Dalton checked his nails. “You’re the Queen’s secretary. Aren’t you supposed to be more careful?
And yet you let something like this happen. How irresponsible of you.”
From the fear in Ponsonby’s eyes, it was clear one could kill with words as good as any other tool of destruction. Was it
blackmail? What else would scare the old man so?
“A-All right...” Lord Ponsonby visibly deflated as he acquiesced. “But—!” He squared his shoulders and tried very hard to look taller. Like a little boy standing up to a bully. “Don’t you go near the Queen with any of this.”
The Queen? I frowned, my left ear pressed against the corner of the marble wall I clutched. Just what were they talking about?
“Sally? Whatever are you doing?”
Harriet and I jumped and turned behind us. It was Mrs. Mallet with her arms crossed and a thick lock of her raven hair falling
down the side of her head in ringlets.
I pursed my lips. It was by either convenience or design that she found me here. Mrs. Mallet craved the Queen’s attention
as much as her other stooges. I had to be careful around her.
We straightened our backs and dusted off our dresses as if nothing at all had happened.
“I’ve given her the medicine,” Harriet said quickly, nudging me in the ribs with her rather sharp elbow.
“I’m well again. It’s a miracle.”
We scurried off past Mrs. Mallet, but I didn’t forget. Inspector Charles Wilkes. Miss Welsh. Bambridge. Victoria. Mallet.
Dalton. Pieces on the board. Too many to count, but not impossible to play.
I just needed my battle strategy.
First: “Harriet,” I said when we were out of earshot of Mrs. Mallet, “find out where Inspector Charles Wilkes lives, will
you?”
He was about to become a very useful piece on this chessboard. But he wouldn’t know until it was too late.