Thirty-One
Thirty-One
I sent a letter to Bertie writing only that I wished to placate the Queen about our relationship and clear up any confusion
that Bertie himself may hold. We were to meet at Marlborough House, near St. James’s Palace. It would soon be his main residence
with Alexandra of Denmark, but for now, he was free to use it as he pleased. And he did. He’d thrown many parties in his home
away from home. Brought many an actress and dancing girl. Now I was to be next.
I’d been in this drawing room before, the night I met and danced with Dalton Sass, though I had no clue what horrors he would
bring into my life. I had not, however, been on this love seat. Usually this was reserved for Bertie’s girls. And because
that was the role I was to play, I sat down and waited for him to arrive.
The moment he blew through the door, he plunked himself onto the velvet seat and kissed me. I let him. No, I matched his hunger.
It was everything he wanted.
“I knew you liked me better than him,” Bertie said, coming up for air from kissing my neck, his shirt discarded on the carpeted
floor.
“Who?” I lay back on the red love seat, my dress remaining steadfastly on because I wasn’t nearly as interested in this romantic
rendezvous as he was.
“Captain Davies.”
The moment he tried to climb upon me, I pushed him away from me and sat up on the couch. Everything in me told me I should
be feeling guilty. That I should be ashamed of myself, betraying a good man who was to be my husband. That was the Institution’s
instruction, no doubt. The lies they told girls to accept their terrible fates, at the core of which was the lie that they
had no control over their fate. I knew I was programmed to feel this guilt. That I chose nothing about this marriage, but
I felt it anyway.
“Captain Davies is not a bad man. He’s intelligent and wise.”
And perhaps still heartbroken over the loss of his first love. He was my kin. But sometimes that wasn’t enough. He needed
to know: he wasn’t owed my love or trust because of kinship alone.
“He’s too old for you.” Bertie stood up, annoyed, snatching his shirt off the floor.
He wasn’t wrong. Still, I didn’t want to hear that from an ignorant, foolish, childish, self-absorbed...
I sucked in my breath. Stick to the plan. “Forget about all that.” I gave him a smile. “I have a proposition for you. How
about we take a little romantic trip? Secret, away from everyone. Mulgrave Castle. Singh gave me the go-ahead.”
Bertie mulled it over. My wedding was fast approaching. I only had a few days to expose Queen Victoria for the monster she
truly was. I didn’t have time for him to “mull it over.”
But soon, he broke into a lecherous grin. “All right.” He leaned over and lifted my chin. “I’d be delighted to. If it would
make my mother furious, I’d be down for anything.”
That’s what it came down to. He had his reasons. But I had mine.
We were off to Mulgrave Castle the very next morning. It was a long journey by carriage. And when we finally arrived, I looked upon the great estate with awe. This Mulgrave Castle, the one Duleep had leased, was a country house constructed on the same grounds by the order of James II’s illegitimate daughter. A duchess, apparently. I couldn’t keep track of these entangled, circular royal family trees.
The fog hanging over the white three-story mansion was more unforgiving than it was the day of the hunt. A shame for Bertie,
because with the green slopes and thick woods it was the perfect place for shooting.
“We’ll have to find other ways to occupy our time,” Bertie said, giving me a kiss on the cheek before helping me out of the
carriage.
The mansion did feel reminiscent of the days of the Normans with its white watchtowers straight out of the medieval era. It
made the rest of the house—a normal, bricked country estate with stretched, tiered windows—feel somehow out of time. What
mattered was not style but pedigree. And pedigree was exactly why Harriet had decided to join Bertie and me on our “romantic”
excursion. Her carriage stopped just behind ours on the three-forked cobbled road leading up to the front staircase. She stepped
out with her shawl in the cold, her head lifted high.
“I’m still not sure why she had to come with us,” Bertie said without an inch of self-restraint as he patted our carriage
horse. The driver had run to bring our bags.
“This is my ancestral family home,” Harriet shot back because she’d heard Bertie. Of course she’d heard. Bertie wasn’t trying
to be discreet and couldn’t be if he tried. “Your friend Duleep is only leasing it. This mansion has been in my family since the beginning of the eighteenth century. That’s over
a hundred and fifty—”
“Yes, yes, your family lineage is quite impressive; I’m sure you’re very proud. Your mother certainly is.” Bertie waved her
off and ascended the steps to the front door.
Harriet was glaring at me when Gowramma stepped out of her carriage. By the time the latter had paid the drivers, Harriet was already striding past me through the arched wooden entrance. The door slammed shut.
Gowramma and I stared through the windows.
“She seems angry at you, you know,” Gowramma whispered to me as we tried to peer through the same window.
I sighed. “She does indeed.”
“She was supposed to go to Balmoral. It’s like she came here as a challenge—to you.”
“Very obviously.”
“Do you know why?”
I thought back to her mother humiliating her during the séance. Her frustration ran deep. It was more multifaceted than that
of a daughter being crippled under the weight of her lineage and her overbearing parents. But that, perhaps, was the seed
from which everything else sprouted. At any rate, I would get to the bottom of her malice later. Now it was time to investigate.
“Bertie will probably try to keep me occupied, so do as much searching as you can on your own when you have time by yourself,”
I told her.
“How exciting!” Gowramma scrunched up her nose before entering the castle.
The castle was unlocked without Duleep’s permission. Nobody knew that but me and the men awkwardly stuffed into servant tuxedos
in the foyer. Six in all, the three stood waiting for us under the bright, twinkling chandeliers, their black heels clicking
on the wooden floors as they got to work taking our belongings up the winding stairs to our rooms.
They didn’t move like servants. They certainly didn’t look like them, with their clothes, gloves, and top hats covering their scars. They didn’t speak like servants either.
“Take your bag, ma’am,” whispered one in a heavy Cockney accent. He lifted his head and tipped up his hat just enough for
me to see the scar engraved over his left eye: the crossing, curved lines of Rui’s “chi” symbol. I smirked. So thorough, that
boy.
“I’d love to search the mansion,” Gowramma said, spinning around where she stood, her eyes up at the stone ceiling as if she
were in a fairy tale. “The place looks marvelous.”
“As long as you don’t go near the kitchen, ma’am,” the “servant” said. “There’s a bit of a rat problem, but we’re taking care
of it, though.”
Gowramma’s spinning came to a stop. She scrunched her nose in disgust. “How crude. Well, as long as I don’t taste rat in the
food, I suppose I’ll be all right.”
“Will you be staying long, then?” the scarred man asked.
“No,” I told him. “I’ll get what I came for soon enough. Until then, I trust you’ll make sure nobody disturbs us here.”
“No unwanted visitors. We guarantee it.” Rui’s man winked and disappeared with our bags. How Rui had snuck his men inside
Mulgrave Castle—how he even knew about my trip to Mulgrave Castle—I had no idea. But it somehow comforted me to know I had
their backup.
“And what is it that you came for?” Harriet placed her hands on her hips at the open entrance of the parlor room opposite
the mahogany stairs. “And why would you choose my family’s home to do it?”
Harriet let out a little frightened gasp as Bertie hooked his arm around her neck playfully.
“You’re not going to be like this the whole trip, are you? Because then otherwise, you’re welcome to... how shall I say this... piss off to Balmoral, where our mothers are surely waiting. I’m sure my mother in particular would appreciate you waiting on her hand and foot when Mr. Brown isn’t around.”
Harriet’s cheeks flushed as Bertie clapped her on the shoulder and began exploring the mansion. With downturned eyes, she
pressed her lips together.
“This is my family home,” she whispered before running up the stairs.
I watched her go. I hated that I felt disappointed. I’d only ever considered Harriet as an ally. How foolish of me to believe
she’d remain that way.
Her mother was a terrible wretch and she was under enormous pressure. Perhaps that’s all this little tantrum was. I hoped
so. There were so few people I could count on in this war.
Whatever the case was, I had to reach out to her fast.
Before she ruined everything—including our friendship—to the point of no return.
The chance came at dinner. I wasn’t aware that Rui’s men could cook. That was them, I gathered, inside the kitchen. I could
see no ordinary servants around. But if Rui had the time and resources to spare a few of his men and send them here, he should
have sent the ones with talent in cuisine. They brought out into the grand dining room an interesting assortment of overcooked
chicken, soup with chunks of something in it, and slightly stale bread.
“I thought Duleep would have paid for better chefs than this,” Bertie muttered as the plates came down underneath his nose
upon the white tablecloth.
“We do have profiteroles for dessert, sir,” said one man with a burn mark on his cheek, hastily but not perfectly covered
with women’s makeup. “And plenty of wine.”
“Then we’re set!” Gowramma clapped her hands together and immediately ordered a bottle to be brought with a plate of treats.
All the while, Harriet poked at her chicken. We ate mostly in silence, listening to Bertie prattle on about his mother. He
and Gowramma were enough entertainment for the evening.
Bertie set down his wineglass and stretched his arms. “I’d better drink all I can get here. I’m sure my mother will expect
me in Balmoral soon enough. The sight of her with that Scot makes me want to—” And he gave a very gentlemanly reenactment
of tossing one’s guts all over the floor. Gowramma giggled at the sight of my eyes rolling to the back of my head.
Bertie then turned to me and caressed my cheek with the back of his finger. “We need to make the best of this moment, Sally.
It won’t be long before the two of us are tied to our ‘significant others.’ Might as well have a little fun before then.”
“Adultery and affairs.” Harriet folded her arms over her white blouse, one of the nicest she had. Usually Harriet didn’t much
care about her clothes. Her mother dressed her for events, though she would never admit it to anyone. “You seem quite blatant
about it.”
Bertie rested his arm across the back of my chair. “And what do you mean by that?”
Harriet struggled with her words. “You’re just so... strange. Adultery is nothing to flaunt, especially with—” She paused
and quickly looked at me before downing more of her wine.
“Especially with what?” I leaned over, my elbows on the table. Terrible manners, which I made a point to throw away in front
of her. On the other side of the table, Harriet trembled a little when I closed the distance between us. “What exactly has
been bothering you, Harriet?”
I knew Harriet would crumble when put on the spot. Gowramma watched too as the girl’s fingers twitched upon her wineglass.
“Mother always talks so highly of you, Sally. But it’s not what you think. It’s not because she likes you, you know.”
I tilted my head. “I’m quite aware of that.”
My serenity bothered Harriet even more. She straightened up. “It’s because everyone always talks about how ladylike and genius
you are.”
“And for some time you’ve been among them.” I shrugged and sat back in my seat. “In fact, you’ve been one of my biggest flatterers
over the years.”
“Yes, but!—” Harriet’s face flushed. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but only unfinished sounds managed to
slip out. “How can you be here cheating on your husband with the Prince of Wales?”
Bertie shrugged too. “They’re not married yet.”
“It’s all so!—” Harriet shook her head. “It’s all so...”
Harriet fell silent.
“I’ve got it!” Gowramma raised her glass and pointed it accusatorily at Harriet. “I’ve figured it out. You’re in love with
Sally, aren’t you? Admit it!”
“What?” Harriet’s expression contorted into fury.
“Gowramma,” I said with a stern note of finality, and immediately the woman backed down. She’d caught the sight of my unimpressed
frown. If it was true that Harriet had any kind of romantic interest in me, to expose her in front of a crowd was cruel. But
I knew that wasn’t the case. It was hard to admit, because Harriet had been such a helpful part of my journey of revenge,
my journey toward some kind of solace. But deep down, I’d long known what the problem was.... I’d known this would happen.
“Sarah Forbes Bonetta is so brilliant, so formidable, so genius and beautiful that even I can’t resist her charms. Is that what you’re saying?” Harriet stood out of her chair, gripping her blue silk skirt. “But of course,” she smirked, “why wouldn’t I fall for her? Even the prince has.”
I never saw jealousy as an immoral trait, not the way they taught me in the Institution. According to Miss Sass, the missionaries
and their teaching, women especially were made less desirable the moment they displayed anything other than piety and innocence.
Jealousy was seen as an aberration. To me, it wasn’t. It was a normal emotion like all else. But there were some issues that
complicated the matter, turning it into something truly ugly.
“So you’re in love with... Bertie?” Gowramma frowned, perplexed and a bit disgusted.
Bertie glared at her. “It’s not that unbelievable.”
“I’m not!” Harriet slammed her hands against the table. “Of course not. Ugh.”
Bertie seethed in his chair. “It really is not that unbelievable,” he muttered, taking a gulp of wine.
“I’m not,” Harriet repeated again, “but good God, Bertie, how can you fall in love with a Negro girl?”
And there it was. In her confession I heard Harriet’s mother telling Harriet she was a blight on the family name—a fact made
more shameful because of how she seemed outmatched in every way by the Queen’s adopted African goddaughter, someone who by
her account was more beast than woman. Harriet admired me to a point. But that admiration, that awe was always haunted by
disbelief and confusion. At some point, between her society’s teachings and her mother’s hatred, that admiration was always
going to tip into envy and bitterness.
“Okay, this has gotten very awkward, very quickly.” Bertie stood from his chair. “Sally, come join me in my bedchambers when you’re done with... this.” He waved his hand dismissively, patted me on the back, and walked out of the room, taking a bottle of wine and a half-eaten profiterole with him.
It was only the three of us left in the dining hall. I said nothing. I only looked at her. Not hurt. Not disappointed. Well,
perhaps a little. Not surprised. At all.
But golden-framed portraits of the Phipps family were staring down at Harriet. Her parents. Her ancestors. Each stern face
hung on the mahogany walls. Lady Catherine Sedley, Countess of Dorchester, with her plain face and curly brown hair, seemed
the most ashamed of her descendant. “Even someone as unremarkable as I was able to attract a King of England. Yet you’re left
in the shadow of a former slave writing letters of her brilliance,” she seemed to say. Harriet dropped down into her chair,
defeated.
“I told you.” Gowramma pointed at Harriet with her wineglass before taking a sip. “They really can’t stand us unless we’re
at their feet. When the pressure’s on, the truth comes out.”
“And what will you do now?” I asked Harriet, my tone neutral, my body relaxed as I lay back in my chair. “Where does this
leave us?”
Harriet stared at the white tablecloth—its brilliant gold embroidery around the edges. “I don’t know,” she answered finally.
“Will you betray me?”
Harriet’s head snapped up. “No, I—!” She swallowed her words, looking between Gowramma and me, then at the portraits on the
walls. She lowered her head. “I’ve always been such a failure. To everyone. None of this should surprise you.”
“But I am surprised, Harriet,” I whispered. “For I thought we were, at least, friends.”
Tears prickled Harriet’s eyes. “I’ll take my leave,” she whispered, and left the table. “Have a carriage prepared for me immediately,” she shouted at the doorman as she marched out of the dining hall. Off to Balmoral, then. Would she betray me to the Queen? Or would she keep her mouth shut?
Either way, I had to be prepared.
“Sorry about all that,” said Gowramma, taking another sip of wine.
“Me too.”
And I meant it.