Love by the Morning Star (27 page)

Anna's brain was rarely swift and clever, and then only when it immediately concerned herself. Now she knew exactly what they intended her to do—kill the king.

Were they mad?

She'd rarely listened to her father's rants. They all sounded the same to her, and she had other, much more important things to think about. But she did recall one common thread that popped up again and again—Edward, who had briefly held the throne before abdicating for that crass American Simpson woman (whom Anna pretended to despise but envied with every fiber of her being), would make a much better king than his brother, the second son, King George. (Who wasn't Georgie, the fourth son, whom she'd met before, but Bertie . . . so perplexing, these royal names.)

Edward was known for his Nazi sympathies. He had shaken hands with Hitler, and was openly in favor of appeasement. The papers said that was only because he'd seen the horrors of the last war and for the sake of humanity couldn't bear to have them repeated. But her father assured his followers that Edward and Hitler were like
that
—here he crossed his fingers in intimate digital embrace—and in a perfect world they would work jointly for the betterment of the people who mattered. There were a great many people who wanted Edward to rule Britannia again.

King George had an heir, of course—young Elizabeth. But if there was a strong enough movement behind Edward, it was just possible that he could retake the throne. There was no precedent for it, but it could happen. His marriage to Wallis Simpson could be annulled, and he could be king again. At the very least it would create such controversy and uproar that the nation would be in turmoil. Competing factions, a pubescent queen in the hands of her ministers. At the worst . . . civil war.

And they would have
me
be the murderer who brings it all about
.

Anna didn't feel a surge of heroism, not a trace of solidarity with her father's cause. She didn't want to kill anyone. She
liked
the new king. He looked like a gentleman, and she had cut out pictures of his daughters. Edward, on the other hand, was a funny-looking milksop of a man with bad taste in women. And he liked Hitler. Anna used to not know who Hitler was, vaguely assuming him to be a friend of her father's, perhaps a like-minded grocer from back home. Now she knew better—from Teddy, from Hannah, and from the papers she occasionally read so she'd have some slight idea what each of them was talking about.

She had come to the conclusion that Hitler was no gentleman. Not very attractive, either, and that was important too.

I don't want to kill the nobility
, she thought wildly.
I want to
be
the nobility!

If they caught her—succeed or fail—she'd be shot. Or hung. Either of which would leave her a disgustingly mutilated corpse. Death is only attractive in a fashionable dress, with lilies and an open coffin.

But she remembered the peculiar, feral intensity of the Von's eyes . . . the way her father had struck her so savagely at the first sign of dissent . . . the alarming bulk of that night's messenger.
What will they do to me if I do not make the attempt?

“What on earth was that all about, I wonder?” Hannah asked when the man was gone.

Again, Anna's brain worked with unaccustomed speed.
Maybe I don't have to do anything myself at all
, she thought. Anything—
anything
—rather than that!

“You are not familiar with English traditions,” Anna said carefully. “When the king visits he is given special ceremonial food. Things just for him that other people aren't allowed to eat.”

“Ah, like the nectar and ambrosia of the gods,” Hannah said. “And that Norse goat who gave mead from her udder. But why tell me about it? And why at midnight, with such secrecy?”

“It is the English way,” Anna said, praying she could pass it off as one of the national eccentricities, like Morris dancing. “Commoners aren't supposed to know, but as a kitchen maid of course you have to. You are the newest, so you had to be told in this private ceremony.” She gave an unnatural laugh. “And here we thought you had a secret admirer! What a disappointment, only more work for you. But what an honor to serve the king.”

“Bitter herbs,” Hannah said musingly. She thought of the
maror
of the Seder plate, the herbs symbolizing the bitterness of enslavement endured in Egypt. Her family did not celebrate Passover, but they were part of the community and were often invited to other people's houses for the ceremonial Seder dinner. Hannah remembered her first stage fright as a little girl, asking, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” before hearing the story of the Exodus. She recalled the strange way the
afikomen
—just a piece of matzo—tasted unaccountably delicious just because it was treasured, and hidden, and called dessert.

“Why does the king eat bitter herbs?” she asked. “Is it in sympathy for the sufferings of the world? So that although he is king, he can try to understand the bitterness of the rest of us? Or is it to show us that although he is king, he has bitterness of his own? Really, you English are surprising. I never dreamed you had such depths of tradition. Well, I will tell Sally, and together we will prepare the grandest bitter salad for His Majesty. With the yew. I must not forget the yew. I have such a soft spot for yew trees now.” She indulged in a secret little smile. “But I did not know you could eat the leaves. Sally will have to tell me how to dress it.”

“No!” Anna cried. “It . . . it's just meant for you. You were told in secret, so you must prepare it in secret. These are very old customs. They go back to . . . oh, I don't know, but a very long way. That man who came was probably an equerry. It is royal protocol. You don't question it, you just do it.”

No one would buy that, Anna thought, on the verge of panic. Not if it was on sale.

But she had not counted on Hannah's lively imagination, her sense of the absurd, and her operatic acceptance of strange plot contrivances. She was also from a culture deeply steeped in ritual. To secretly serve a king bitter herbs with yew made as much sense as dipping parsley in salt-water. She never mocked other people's beliefs.

“Then I will make his salad alone, and sneak it on the board for Corcoran to serve. Sally need never know.” Hannah looked pleased to be involved in the royal plot.

I could tell her
, Anna thought.
I could confess all. I could tell her what every English child knows, that yews are deadly poisonous
. Children would dare one another to eat the sweet red berries, which alone among the tree's parts were innocuous, and in fact delicious. But the seed within was deadly—just one could kill. Schoolyard lore had it that the seeds would pass whole through the body, but if they didn't, one was fatal. All other parts were almost as toxic. Don't make your dog play fetch with a yew stick. Don't toss clippings in the sheep meadow.

Don't feed your sovereign yew leaves in his salad.

It won't be my fault
, Anna told herself resolutely.
That man told Hannah
—
she's the one who will do it. No one will punish me, not the NAFF, not the hangman. I will marry Teddy and be able to forget the whole thing. It won't matter to me who rules, who goes to war, who is jailed or enslaved or oppressed. The world will muddle on one way or another. As long as I marry Teddy, I won't have to be a part of it
.

But she looked at Hannah's face, so lively, so amused at the idea of the innocent conspiracy, and felt as if someone had just spit on her—debased.
Anything to achieve my proper place in life
had always been her motto.

Anything . . . but that?

 

T
HE KING CAME WITH A
small party two weeks later, at the end of April, to stay one night. In the afternoon, Hannah wandered through the lettuce beds, plucking and tasting. Umbel, the head gardener, who guarded his produce like his children, stopped her with a gruff command, then softened when he saw who it was. He'd had many a pleasant chat with the little German maid about
Wurzelpetersilie
, the root parsley popular in Germany, and the beauties of mashed celeriac.

“I am making a bitter salad,” she said, omitting whom it was for. “Romaine, frisee, sorrel . . . what else?”

“Escarole, maybe,” he said, pulling on his beard. “Herbs would round out the flavor. A bit of rue, a bit of yarrow. Not too much, mind, just a pinch. They can do a mischief if you have too much. Hmm . . . you need color. Marigolds, mayhap?”

“You can eat them?”

“Aye. Take a few of those at the edge of yon bed. Lemony, a little sour to counter the bitter. What will you use for the dressing? Vinegar, oil, and a bit of sweet? I have some clover honey I save special for my cough. It would do nice.”

“Thank you,” she said, following him to his cottage, her basket swinging over her arm. “And I need yew leaves, too. I'm told they will go nicely.”

“Yew? Who's been feeding you that daft story? Yew's a death-herb. Why do you think they grow it in all the churchyards? Rue and yarrow are poison if you have too much, but tonic if you have a little. They freshen up the blood. But yew? You'll kill someone if you feed him yew.”

Hannah frowned and gulped. She was so sure the man had said yew. He'd made her repeat it to be certain.

“Though I have heard,” Umbel went on, “of using yew as a decoration. Some ladies find them real stylish. Why, the Bowles had a yew centerpiece in the table setting they featured in
Country Life
. Yes, miss, real fashionable. I'll make you up a cluster if you like, tied with a red bow.”

That must have been it
, Hannah thought. What a disaster it would have been if she'd killed the king! She laughed at the absurdity of it, and at the funny way life has of skirting disaster.
How often have we come near to death or tragedy without knowing it?
she wondered. The world seemed to run on accidents.

“I can do it,” Hannah insisted. “I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“Nay, miss, I'd rather do it myself. A few stray leaves in the feed and we have a lake full of dead ducks. Best not to risk a mistake. I'll bring them up to the kitchen in a bit. Keep them well away from the food, now.”

 

T
HE KING TASTED HIS SALAD
, with its contrasting flavors and jaunty marigold petals like droplets of sunshine, and pronounced it delicious. He went so far as to call out Sally to offer her his compliments . . . and was impressed at her humble, diffident manner, pretending she had nothing whatsoever to do with creating that interesting salad. It was not good form to steal another man's cook—wars had been fought over less, before the Magna Carta—but he might put out the word that there was a place for her elsewhere, if Starkers ever began to pall.

Dear Anna
,

I will pay a flying visit to Starkers on the seventeenth of May, arriving early in the morning and departing again, alas, the next morning. And they say that the British aristocracy idles its life away in unrelenting leisure! For reasons of which you are perhaps aware, I would love to spend months and months lolling at home, amusing myself and those around me. But for other reasons, of which you are equally aware, I cannot. I must trade my innocent schoolboy life for . . . But I preempt the censors
.

Yours
,

Teddy

P.S. You remember Hardy, the gardener the Duke of Kent took a fancy to? I'll be picking him up when I stop at Windsor. I'm sure there are many among the below stairs female population who will be delighted to have him back, if only for one night. He will visit his old friends before resuming his training. He has some very interesting ideas about eating weeds
.

 

One day! Only one day! Anna clasped the letter to her breast and determined to make the most of it.

For the week between the receipt of the letter and the seventeenth of May, Anna engaged in a flurry of beautification, slapping cream on her face and lanolin on her elbows, looking into the mirror at every conceivable angle to pluck unsightly hairs. She pumiced her feet and anointed her hair with beer to make it shine. (That last she'd learned about serendipitously when her father, who became emotional in drink, once flung a full pitcher of ale at her head.)

The night of the sixteenth, she called Hannah into her room.

“Hannah, I need to look absolutely splendid tomorrow. I need to look better than I ever have before. I need to dazzle!”

“Whatever for?” Hannah asked.

Anna could control herself no longer. It had to happen tomorrow night, and then he would tell his parents and they'd print the notice in the papers and the whole world would know! Right now, she had to share it with someone.

“Look,” she said, thrusting the letter into Hannah's hands. “Do you see? He's coming tomorrow. Oh, I'm so happy—so very happy! He's everything I've ever dreamed of.” She watched Hannah's expression eagerly as she read the missive. It wasn't much of a love note, Anna had to admit—he'd written infrequently and his letters got progressively more formal, addressed to
dear Anna
, not
my dearest Anna
, and signed
yours
, not
your very own
, which made considerable difference. But still, enough for her to gloat over.

“We are so madly in love,” she went on as Hannah read. “He's as good as proposed.”

“And you've accepted?” Hannah asked carefully. It was hard enough to believe that posh Anna stooped to consort with the under-gardener, but to marry him?

“Well, I'll just say that we understand each other, and leave it at that. He's said such things already that it only has to be formalized this time when he comes. I just wish he didn't have to leave so soon.”