Prisoners in the Palace (7 page)

“It’s for my own safety,” the Princess said, as if it were a lesson learned by rote. “Sir John tells my mother there are assassins behind every tree in Hyde Park.”

“The danger may be much closer to home,” Liza said, with a deliberate air of mystery.

The Princess looked alert. “Whatever do you mean?”

“There are secrets in this house that even Sir John doesn’t know.” Liza dropped her voice to a whisper. “But I could find out for you.”

“Really? That would be marvelous because no one tells me anything. And it would be quite a feather in my cap to know something Sir John does not.”

“We must meet in private and I’ll tell you everything I have discovered.” Liza went to the door. She could hear footsteps, the Baroness was returning. “Not here. Come to my room tonight at midnight, Your Highness.”

“Liza, haven’t you been listening?” The Princess’s face was full of frustration. “I can’t!”

Baroness Lehzen was almost at the door. Liza whispered, “Wait until they fall asleep. Do you know where my room is?”

Princess Victoria nodded.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I’ll come tonight if I can.”

Liza smiled. Her plan was working.

10 April 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Her Royal Highness Victoria

I would give millions to behold but for a day, Brussels, Paris, Germany, Italy & Spain and envy all those who do. Perhaps another who was compelled to travel would long to be bound as I am to my native soil! But enough of these reflections & let me think of what I have and how grateful I ought to be for all God has given me.

Liza had risen at six o’clock in the morning and now it was half past ten at night. Repeatedly during the Princess’s evening toilette and another one hundred strokes of her hairbrush, Princess Victoria had shot Liza meaningful glances. I will be there, her face seemed to say. Liza wasn’t convinced the Princess could escape her adult guards, but if she did, Liza needed to be prepared. It was time to find the broadsheet.

I’m ready for my first spying mission.

Liza opened her door and listened for anyone stirring. Claridge’s Hotel had gas lights in the corridors, but Kensington Palace’s halls were pitch dark. Holding her candle in front of her, she tiptoed to the narrow servants’ stairs. The light of the candle threw monsterlike
shadows on the walls. She reached out to the rough plaster to guide her down the uneven steps. She stumbled and only saved herself by wrenching her body upright on the step.

Why don’t the servants get banisters?

At the green baize door, Liza hesitated before opening it. Now she was truly committed.

She hurried to the Duchess’s sitting room. The room seemed much larger at night. Apart from her flickering candle, the only light came from the remnants of a coal fire behind the iron grate and the moonlight shining in through the windows. She went to one of the windows to savor Kensington Gardens bathed in moonshine. A draught from the ill-fitting windowpane extinguished her candle. Irritated, Liza riffled in her pocket for a lucifer to relight it.

She froze when she heard a rustling inside the wall behind her. The slight noise came from a wood box built into the wall, a vestige of the old days when wood fires, not coal, heated the Palace. The sound was too loud to be a mouse. She backed away until she felt the corner walls against her back. The lid of the wood box lifted slowly and soundlessly. Liza caught her breath.

Ghosts!

Then, in the dim light, she made out a head of wild black hair atop a pale white face. The boy, for now she saw it was young boy, climbed out of the box. Liza watched him reach under the settee and begin feeling about. With a small exclamation, he found a pearl Liza had missed the day before. His smile gleamed in the light as he rubbed the pearl against his front tooth.

Liza held still in her corner. Should she call for a guard? But wait, there weren’t any guards at Kensington Palace. She heard a growl. Liza recognized the sound. The boy’s stomach was demanding to be fed. Bold as brass, he walked out of the room.

Her hand shaking, Liza relit her candle. With her other hand, she grabbed an iron poker from the fireplace. Listening for his return, she approached his lair and silently opened the lid. Her candle held high to better illuminate the box, she peered inside. Amazing. The wood box was deeper than it seemed. It extended three feet into the wall and made a snug and comfortable home for the strange boy. He had lined the inside with velvet pillows. In a corner, stood a half-full bottle of port, and scattered everywhere were candy wrappers. A silver candlestick and pewter tinderbox provided light for reading. Aha! A stash of newspapers. Liza would wager Sir John’s golden guinea she would find the broadsheet. She rummaged through the papers and found it at the very bottom. Straightening up in triumph, she reclaimed her poker and turned to go.

The small boy, grimy and disheveled, stood at her back. Liza stepped back, gripping her poker tightly. He was small, but who knew how desperate he might be?

“‘Oo the ‘ell do you think you are, goin’ through my things?” he demanded fiercely.

“Who am I? Who are you?” Liza’s voice squeaked. “Help!”

Almost quicker than her eye could register, he stepped in close and put his grubby hand over her mouth. His other hand locked like a vise around her wrist, forcing her to drop the poker.

“Not a word, Miss. You don’t want to get a lad in trouble, do you?” he whispered.

Liza struggled not to panic, breathing hard through her nostrils.

“I’m just making my way in the world, like you.” He went on in the same urgent whisper, “Do you promise not to scream?”

She nodded and he lifted his sticky hand. She pushed it away from her mouth and exclaimed, “We are nothing alike.”

Puffing himself up like a bantam rooster, the boy said, “And I s’pose yer not up to mischief sneakin’ around in the night?”

“I’m neither a thief nor a housebreaker,” Liza said. She stopped to consider, “Although, I suppose strictly speaking, you are a house-thief.” She rubbed her dirty cheek with a handkerchief, glaring at him all the while.

Sheepishly, he pulled a crushed half-eaten bonbon from his shirt pocket. Liza recognized it as one from the Duchess’s dressing table. Her eyes widened.

“Want one?” he asked, offering the nasty sweet.

As though her outrage was a balloon pierced by a pin, Liza burst out laughing, then smothered the noise with her own hand.

The boy gave her a tentative smile. “Did you call me a thief? That’s just ‘urtful, Miss. I’m just preventin’ some perfectly serviceable food and goods from goin’ t’waste.” Before she could remonstrate, he said, “And what are you doing ‘ere at this ‘our?”

“I’m on an errand for the Princess,” Liza said. “Not stealing valuable knickknacks.” Her fear of the amusing boy vanished like a candle flame being snuffed out.

He spread his hands out wide. “I’m just borrowin’ some things that ain’t needed at the moment.”

“Like a fine bottle of port?” Liza asked with a small smile, “Or the Duchess’s pearl?” His eyes shifted away and he put his hand deep in his pockets, as though to safeguard his treasure. “The Duchess won’t miss one little jewel. And I’ll put it to much better use.”

“What if she thinks I took it?” Liza asked thoughtfully, although she suspected the Duchess was none too careful with her belongings. Except for the Princess, of course.

“She’d never. Sometimes Sourpuss Strode asks questions, but I wouldn’t do it if anyone else got blamed. But—”

“No one cares,” Liza finished. Two days ago, she would have been the first to tell the authorities about a theft. But now—let the royals look after their own goods; Liza had more important worries.

“You don’t look like the sort of girl to shop a lad to the body snatchers,” he said with a winsome smile.

A body snatcher? I’ve never heard anyone speak like him.

“Just promise me you won’t steal from the Princess,” Liza said. “It’s thanks to her I have a job and a place to stay.”

“I swear.” The boy crossed his heart with a filthy hand, then stuck it out toward Liza. “Inside Boy Jones, at your service.”

She shook his hand with the tips of her fingers. “Liza Hastings. What an unusual name, Inside Boy. Does it have anything to do with why you live in the Duchess’s wood box?”

“Being Inside Boy is me claim to fame,” he said, thumping his chest. He reclined on the Duchess’s velvet settee, looking for all the world like a gentleman taking his repose.

“But why?”

He shivered dramatically. “The Duchess may keep lousy fires, but it’s better than livin’ rough.”

“How old are you?” she asked. He was so unkempt it was difficult to say.

“I ain’t celebrated a birthday since me ma kicked the bucket,” he said. “Fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“Four months.”

“Impossible!” Liza sat down on a hard sofa.

“Miss Liza, it’s easy. No one’s lookin’ for me.” His bright grin lit up his dirty face. “I’ve put a special lock on the lid from the inside so no one can find me by accident like. And at night, there’s no one around. You were lucky to catch me.”

She had a dozen questions, but if no one suspected him, she could guess the answers. The food at Kensington Palace would stretch easily to feed this skinny boy. The cabinet gave him a place to hide during daylight. As for bathing, he wasn’t worrying, so Liza wouldn’t either. She did wonder, though: “What about, when you need to…“ She couldn’t think of a delicate way to ask.

“A chamber pot ain’t choosy. My piss or Their ‘ighnesses—it’s all the same.”

Liza didn’t know if she should blush or laugh.

“And no one suspects?”

“Miss, let me tell you ‘ow Palace life works.” He stroked his chin like an old wise man. “Kensington Palace is poorly run indeed. So many people are in charge, no one is responsible. An Inside Boy falls through the cracks.”

Liza nodded, remembering her wait at the front door that first day. She also recalled Mrs. Strode disclaiming any responsibility for the Palace’s exterior. “You’ve never been caught?”

“If anybody stopped me, which ain’t never ‘appened yet, I’d say I’m the chimney sweep’s boy.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “You’ve taken Annie Mason’s place, right?”

Liza stared at him, eyes widening. “How do you know that?”

“I ‘ear everything,” he said with an impish grin. “I’ll prove it. You speak the same funny spitting language they do. The Princess likes you. The Baroness wants you to be ‘er very own personal spy. The Duchess barely knows you’re alive. Sir John Conroy admires your looks.”

The darkness hid the blush Liza could feel flooding her cheeks. “But how…those conversations were in different rooms. How did you hear all that?”

“Never you mind,” he said. “But you watch out for Sir John. I tried to warn Annie, but she was stubborn, thinkin’ she could ‘andle ‘im on her own.”

“You knew Annie?”

“Knows ‘er,” he corrected indignantly. “She didn’t die when she was booted outta the Palace. She’s me friend.”

Liza touched his arm in apology. “I’m sorry, but no one here will tell me about her. Do you know why she left?”

Inside Boy began moving about the dark room. Staring out the window, with his back to Liza, he said in a low voice, “Annie’s well out of this.”

So Inside Boy wouldn’t talk about Annie either.

“So what could you be doing for the Princess down ‘ere at this hour?” he asked, turning back to her.

“I needed this broadsheet.” Liza held it up.

Inside Boy tugged at his collar as if to loosen it. “Funny sort of errand to do in the middle of the night. It’s what I’d call risky for a maid.”

“I wasn’t always a maid,” Liza said. “I’m going to help the Princess hold her own against Sir John. When she’s Queen, she can make me a lady again. I could use your help.”

“You’ll need more than me to go up against Sir John.” Inside Boy polished his fingernails against his pants. “What’s in it for me?”

“Would you settle for knowing I owed you a favor?”

“You can do one for me right now,” he said. “Get a note to Princess Victoria. From Annie.”

“The Baroness would not approve.”

“But the Princess would. You said you were workin’ for ‘er.”

“Why can’t Annie send it herself?”

“The Princess ain’t allowed to open ‘er own mail.”

Liza thought that sounded quite likely. “What does it say?”

He drew himself up, the very portrait of injured pride. “I don’t read other people’s private letters.”

Liza giggled. “You just eavesdrop on their private conversations, eat their sweetmeats, and steal space in their wood boxes?”

“I’ve got standards!” Inside Boy said, his voice raw and indignant.

Liza smiled to herself, remembering how Mrs. Strode had said the same thing.

“What can you tell me about the broadsheet?” she asked.

He grinned and they both knew they’d reached a deal. He stuck out a filthy hand and with barely a moment’s pause, Liza shook it.

Inside Boy said, “I can bring you to the cove who publishes it. You can ask ‘im yerself.”

“Excellent. Where is he?”

“Fleet Street, of course, where all the newspapers are,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“I’ll have to find a way to leave the Palace. In the meantime, I’ll try to deliver your letter.”

He pulled out a folded square letter from a deep pocket, the edges smooth from handling. In the dim light, she could make out the letters P V penciled in with a blunt lead point.

“Annie asked me to get it to the Princess quick, but ‘er ‘ighness is never alone. I’d about given up.”

“If there’s a reply, how do I find you?”

He gestured grandly to his wood box. “You can always find me at ‘ome. Now Miss, you should get back to your room. And mind your step around Sir John.”

She pocketed the letter. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Inside Boy.”

“Likewise.”

Liza turned back at the doorway to see the lid closing down over Inside Boy’s impudent head.

Liza congratulated herself as she stole back through the silent house. In one evening, she had established her own source of information in the Palace, retrieved the broadsheet, and brought back something certain to interest the Princess. Hurrying down the deserted hallway, she slipped through her door. A figure in white was standing in the center of her room. Liza stifled a scream.

“Liza, for heaven’s sakes, it’s I.” Despite her small stature, the Princess, in a billowing nightdress, seemed to fill the room.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Where have you been, I’ve been waiting,” the Princess complained, a shiver racked her body. “It’s terribly cold in here.”

Liza glanced around her tiny room: it wasn’t much of a haven, but it was hers.