Page 12 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

T o call the royal household an organization was to grant it too much credit or, perhaps, too little.

It was a living, breathing entity comprised of nearly a thousand souls, each with their own very particular job.

Those jobs were grouped into departments and subdepartments that amounted to fiefdoms of varying sizes.

The powers, privileges, and duties of the office holders in these departments had been contorted and complicated by the ever-expanding requirements of the monarchs and their families, not to mention by centuries of intrigue, failed reform, and royal whim.

For example, Louise Lehzen, now Baroness Lehzen, was nursery governess for Her Royal Highness, Princess Alexandrina Victoria. This meant she attended to the princess inside her private apartments and accompanied her on all unofficial occasions, such as her walks about the grounds.

For all official and state occasions, however, Lehzen must give way to the state governess, Lady Charlotte Florentia Clive, Duchess of Northumberland.

In practical terms, this meant that Lehzen could not attend the dinner with the princess and her mother and was very much at her leisure until the evening’s concert.

On such evenings, Lehzen normally stayed in the princess’s apartments—mending, tidying, working at her account books and journal, or possibly stealing a moment to sit with some of the palace staff for a drink and a cozy bit of gossip.

After all, one never knew what one might hear if one simply took the time to listen.

Tonight, however, Lehzen had different business to attend to.

Once Lehzen had ceded the princess and her mother to Lady Charlotte’s care, she sat down to write a very particular letter to her private friend Mrs. Martha Wilson. This she entrusted to Peter, a footman to whom she paid a sweetener so regularly it could well be considered a salary.

That done, Lehzen wrapped herself in her oldest woolen shawl and set out for the stables.

Properly, she should have taken her questions directly to the master of the horse.

He had ultimate charge over the stables and all the persons who served there.

There were, however, two problems with this.

The first was that His Lordship was currently away in Ireland, seeing about some new breeding stock.

The second was that His Lordship was very deeply in Sir John’s pocket.

Even if he were here and knew anything, he would be off tattling the moment she poked her nose into the stable yard.

If Lehzen was to find answers rather than betrayals, she must seek them elsewhere.

The stables had a walled yard to themselves.

While it might appear to be only a short walk from the palace, this was an entirely separate neighborhood, if not a separate world.

These buildings housed not only the horses and carriages but also all the works required to maintain them.

Here were the barns and the grainery, the blacksmith, the farrier, the saddlery, the wheelwright’s shop, the upholsterer, and a great deal else.

The damp night air was thick with the smells of horses, iron, hay, dust, and ripening manure.

Like the rest of the palace buildings, the stables were made from red brick. They had been built as strong and as snug as any of the places meant for human habitation. They were also, Lehzen thought peevishly, better maintained.

This was one matter on which she and the duchess agreed.

Kensington Palace was sorely neglected. That the old king, George, had kept them there was no surprise.

His resentment of Princess Victoria had snapped and crackled like a halo of lightning whenever they’d been in his presence.

No amount of drink or laudanum could fully dull the energy of it.

But George IV was long dead. The current king, William IV, could easily have found them better quarters or, at the very least, arranged for the palace to be repaired.

But he did not. While this frustrated Lehzen, it enraged the duchess.

Which was most likely the point. The duchess did not like the king, and the sentiment was more than reciprocated.

As she made her way up the gravel path, Louise felt her gaze stray to the great iron gate. Torchlight glinted on its gilded decorations. The gate hung open, so that the guests might come and go easily, and Lehzen could see the pale band of the carriage road cutting through the darkness.

For an odd, strained moment, Lehzen remembered standing in her mother’s parlor a thousand miles and a thousand years ago.

The window was open to the fresh breeze and the rich green smells of spring.

It had been years since that same breeze carried the smell of gunpowder, but some part of Louise was still surprised by its absence.

This was the day the letter had arrived from the woman who would become the Duchess of Kent. At the time, she was still the princess of tiny, impoverished Leiningen and in need of a governess.

“Do you think I should go, Mama?” Louise had asked.

Mama was writing. Mama was always writing.

Even on the days when her knuckles were swollen and her shoulder ached, she would sit in this room, laboring over some page or the other—Papa’s accounts or the household’s, or letters to the parents of Papa’s students, reminding them of unpaid bills.

Once all that was done, it would be time for her to take up her correspondence to her friends and her family.

“One should write a letter every day,” she’d told Louise. “It helps organize the thoughts and reminds one of what is truly important in life. Otherwise, it all becomes nothing but a muddle.”

Even when the roads were blocked by soldiers or snow, Mama wrote her letters.

She would tie them into bundles with butcher’s twine until they could be sent.

Louise had once accompanied Mama to the postal office carrying a full year’s worth of letters that she had not been able to send because of Napoleon’s invasion.

“Should your mama ever decide to become a modern woman and run off from her husband, I will be informed by return of post,” Papa teased.

Mama took the princess’s letter and smoothed it out on her desk. She always ran her fingers down any page she read, as if it were their tips that absorbed the information rather than her eyes.

“It is a reasonable offer,” said Mama. “But being a governess is a hard business, no matter how grand the family. You know that.”

Louise did know. Friends had done it. Young women like her—of sound but not exceptional families, educated but not wealthy—packed their bags and climbed into carriages and coaches, heading to all points of the compass.

Eventually, they returned home, bitter, frightened and, if exceptionally unlucky, pregnant.

They unpacked their bags and their stories of mistreatment, overwork, and unwanted attentions.

But the bills did not care about contentment, and families still needed help. Years of war had taken the lives of so many sons, leaving only daughters to care for parents and siblings. So, the girls put out their advertisements, packed their bags, and left again.

Now it was Louise’s turn.

“I will not deny the money would be useful,” Mama told her.

Louise’s father was a schoolmaster. When times were lean or unsettled, the pupil’s fees were frequently delayed or simply never arrived.

Boarding pupils might have helped make up the difference, but those had been scarce of late.

Families were sending their boys to larger, more prestigious schools.

Papa’s reputation was excellent, but families wished their boys to make connections, not merely pass exams.

If Louise went to be a governess, not only would she be earning an income, her parents would no longer have to bear the cost of her keep.

“But is it what you want, Louise?” Mama was asking her.

“Our home is always yours, my heart, and we will always manage, as we always have, you know.” She touched the letter again.

Her hands were very bad today, the joints so swollen it looked as if there were marbles stuffed beneath her skin.

“These grand houses, they are sometimes easier to get into than they are to get out of.”

Oh, Mama , thought the woman who had once been Louise. You were right. And palaces are even worse.

And yet here she was.

And I will be damned if it is Sir John Conroy and his machinations that make me break my word. Especially now.

The princess might be subject to occasional flights of fancy, like any young lady. But not this kind. Something had happened out on the green.

The stable yard was bright with the lamplight that poured from open windows.

Warm laughter rolled out into the damp night, along with the loud, cheerful talk of those who lived and worked with the snugly kept horses.

This was no surprise. The barracks must be full of the drivers and outriders who had arrived with the duchess’s dinner guests.

Lehzen could not help but think how Princess Victoria would have much preferred to be down here rather than in the red salon with her mother’s guests.

Lehzen’s personal connection with the men who served in this department was tenuous.

She did not ride and, therefore, kept no horse of her own.

The idea of her having her own carriage was laughable.

But the groomsmen and pages had direct contact with the princess, and therefore, Lehzen took it on herself to at least know their names and something of their histories and, most importantly, to whom they answered.

The skinny page at the barracks door smelled as much of beer as he did of horses.

He lolled on a pile of empty sacks, his head back and his mouth open in a loud and steady snore.

Lehzen shook him by the shoulder, and when he blinked awake, she sent him scrambling to fetch the head groom, whose name was, incongruously, Arthur Saddler.

Saddler was a solid brick of a man who had worked with horses all his life. He had a keen sense of his own worth and did not stand on any ceremony, no matter who was in front of him. In fact, he was still pulling on his coat when he came out to meet her.

“Well, now, ma’am.” His bow held no more respect than his greeting. “What brings you here to my doorstep?”

“I was hoping to speak with you about the groom Clyde Hornsby.”

“Oh, yes? It wasn’t enough that Sir John sent him packing, then? You need to come down here and talk about him?”

So.

Lehzen had suspected she would find that Hornsby had been dismissed.

Sir John believed he played the game of politics deeply.

Perhaps he did out in the wider world. But inside the palace, his play was blunt and shatteringly obvious.

When somebody knew something or said something that might become inconvenient, Sir John’s first move was to bribe them.

If he could not bribe them, he sacked them.

“I am sent here by Her Highness personally,” Lehzen told Saddler.

“Princess Victoria wished it to be known she thanks Hornsby for his service. She has long said he was one of her favorite grooms, and she appreciated the care he took with her horses. If it happens that he should need a character reference, he should come to me, and I will arrange it. She also asked that Hornsby be given this.” She reached into the pocket at her waist and pulled out two sovereigns.

This amount was a significant portion of a groom’s quarterly wage.

“One of Her Highness’s favorite grooms?” Saddler gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Not what Hornsby said. Said she called him ‘Pinch-face’ when she thought he couldn’t hear. But as you like. I’ll see he gets the message. And the money.” He held out his hand.

Lehzen dropped the coins into Saddler’s leathery palm. Most likely, Hornsby never would see them, but that was beside the point. Saddler’s demeanor had shifted from open suspicion to burgeoning curiosity, and that was what she needed.

Saddler tucked the coins away in his waistcoat pocket. “Tell me, m’lady, why’s Her Highness taking such an interest in Clyde Hornsby?”

“She fears he has been done an injustice.”

“Now, that does surprise, since the great Sir John himself said Hornsby was being sacked for his insolence to her royal personage.”

So.

“Sir John does not speak for Her Highness,” she said.

“Somebody ought to tell Sir John that.”

“It is my hope—indeed, it is my expectation—that this information will eventually be communicated to him by the appropriate persons.”

Their gazes locked, and silence stretched out between them. Saddler’s mouth twitched.

“Well, we shall have to put our trust in our betters, then.” He bowed.

There was irony in both the tone and the gesture. Lehzen chose to ignore them.

“How did this matter unfold between Hornsby and Sir John?” she asked. “What did Sir John see when they went out to the green?”

Saddler’s expression twisted, as if he was trying, and failing, to work through some particularly difficult equation.

“What do you mean, when they went out to the green? They didn’t go nowhere.

Sir John just storms in here, bellowing for Hornsby.

Doesn’t even take him to one side. Gives him a dressing-down in front of God and all about his slovenly conduct and his gross insolence.

Says Hornsby insulted Her Highness, told her lies to frighten her, and endangered her life with his neglect of her.

” Saddler stopped. “Her Highness was right. Hornsby is a pinch-face, but he’s a good man with horses and knows his duty.

He looked after Her Highness like she was his own daughter. ”

“I know it,” said Lehzen.

“It ended in Sir John telling Hornsby to clear out. At once. With night coming on and all. Said that his things would be sent on.”

Lehzen bowed her head. “I am sorry. But please believe me, Sir John’s orders did not come from Her Highness or from anything Her Highness said about Hornsby’s conduct.”

“Then what was it?” demanded Saddler. “Because—and you’ll pardon me for speaking plain—Hornsby and the rest of my men need their jobs. Most of ’em, they ain’t got friends in the palace or anyplace else. They may be shoveling shit in a stable, but it’s better than starving in a ditch.”

“I do understand. And if it becomes possible to help return Hornsby to his post, I will see it done.”

Saddler did not entirely believe her but did not entirely doubt her, either, which was something. “Anything else you wanted? Ma’am?” he added as an afterthought.

“I have detained you long enough. Thank you.”

He bowed again. There was a shade more courtesy in the gesture this time. She returned that courtesy and began the long walk back to the palace, where, she felt sure, Sir John was already waiting for her.