Page 3

Three

Chatham, England – June 30, 1862

Mama tugged at my bonnet. She wouldn’t stop fussing with my white shawl either, not until I finally pushed her wrinkled brown

hand away with a playful bat.

This far-too-spacious, luxurious carriage that seated a family of four had more than enough room to accommodate the blue billows

of my dress. It was sent by the Queen herself. A novel sight here on Canterbury Street. Of course, I was already a novel sight

to the white women of the genteel neighborhood, their children always turning to them and hungrily gripping at their aprons

whenever I walked out of the house. A carriage, though? Some of them stuck up their noses and burned with jealousy.

But why wouldn’t Queen Victoria send me such things? I was her most intriguing colonial jewel. From the time I was presented to her, I was the favorite story she loved to tell: the orphaned African princess saved by the honorable Captain Frederick Edwyn Forbes. The Crown reveled in recounting my narrow escape from death by human sacrifice at the hands of that barbarous tribal “brute,” King Ghezo. The people reveled in it too, at all levels of society it seemed, gossiping about their monarch’s mercy from their pubs to their country clubs. I would know. I’d been in both.

I was the Queen’s favorite card to play.

“I’m off!” I told Mama with a bright smile as the carriage came to a stop just in front of the gates. I fluttered my fingers

at the blonde young woman glaring at me by the streetlamp, her basket of bread trembling on the crook of her reddening arm.

Really, envy was so uncouth.

The East Cowes seafront on the Isle of Wight always sparkled seductively underneath the stars at night, but that still didn’t

make the long journey from Chatham worth it. Stopping by London on the way would only add more hours to an already-tiring

journey. I had to get a move on. A lady’s work is never done.

The chill, unusual for summer, nipped at my dark skin. Mama was dabbing her eyes with a blue silk handkerchief as if I were

the one getting married. But why wouldn’t she be in tears? The charge of Mrs. Elizabeth Schoen, the wife of a reverend—both

Africans —had been invited to a royal wedding : the wedding of Princess Alice, Queen Victoria’s third child and second daughter, to Prince Louis of Hesse. To Mama, it was

the greatest honor she’d ever been given. Well, aside from when the Queen herself had personally chosen Mama’s family to house

me in Palm Cottage upon my return from Sierra Leone. In merry old England, social climbing was the pastime of the white elite

as much as it was the dream of the “civilized” Black hopeful.

Mama waved at me as if seeing a sailor out to sea. “Goodbye, Sally! Have fun!”

She had no idea of what raged inside me. Three nights ago, she hadn’t noticed me leaving the house, nor climbing back up the

stairs and entering my room late at night. I suppose with Reverend Schoen away to the countryside for work, she was taking

advantage of the newfound extra time for sleep she had on her hands.

“But not too much fun, of course, Mama.” I winked, wondering with a sigh if Harriet had gotten the opium den ready for the after-party.

The door closed and I was off.

Their “love” for you is conditional, Ina.

Tugging my shawl over my knees, I leaned over in my seat. “Driver. Can we stop by St. Giles in London?” Could he hear me over

the squeaky wheels rumbling over stone?

Silence. My throat tightened, and I fixed my face into an amicable smile. “Driver! St. Giles? London!”

“London?” he repeated over the horses’ clomping. “Why there?”

I lay back against the leather passenger seat. “To see a friend,” I told him.

I had my own cards to play.

Sibyl Vale lived close to Covent Garden. Outside the rickety front doorsteps of her crumbling apartment, her doe eyes widened

at the sight of my carriage stopping and my little brown head peeking through the window.

“Come in, Sibyl! Quickly! Hurry now!” I added when she hesitated a little too long. I needed her tonight; my plan depended

on it.

Her long blonde hair had been washed and combed into submission. She’d truly prepared for this wedding. The lavender travel

dress I’d sent fit her impeccably and she’d done her best to scrub off the smell of the slums. The apricot perfume was the

pièce de résistance: a faint waft of it to dull anyone’s senses. It was Uncle George’s favorite, or so she’d told me.

“Sibyl, you look wonderful!” She looked modestly acceptable. I took in the sight of her and forced a smile. “How have you

been? I hope you haven’t been nervous these past few days. Did your brother help you prepare?”

“My brother?” She snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. If I told him I was trying to meet Captain Forbes again, he’d go positively rabid. He nearly murdered him the last time he stood me up.” She shuddered. “Believe me, Sally, you haven’t seen him when he’s angry.”

If only she knew. “Well, that’s why we won’t tell him.” I put a teasing finger to my lips.

“Oh, Sally, do you really think George will be happy to see me?” Sibyl’s green eyes were wet with desperation. “When we parted

ways over a month ago, I thought that was my last shot to... to...”

To marry him and play out her Cinderella fantasies. Uncle George wasn’t ready for commitment and the Forbes family wouldn’t

have him marry someone of “low birth,” especially after the untimely death of his brother Frederick, taken by malaria. Strange

how they were fine with being associated with me, a strange African girl. But then, that very association had given them access

to the royal palace and a kind of fame few Brits had.

“He loves you, Sibyl, trust me! You just have to convince him.” The very idea of romantic love playing any part in these marriage

matches from hell made me sick. I’d seen enough sad housewives to know love was bait to trick a woman into a lifelong prison.

And I’d seen enough of Uncle George to know that he’d cheat on any woman he married given the sliver of a chance. It was all

so ridiculously insulting to one’s intelligence. “He loves you,” I repeated anyway. “And this venue will be the perfect venue.

What’s more romantic than a wedding?”

I put my hand on hers. Even after everything I’d given her—the clothes, the shoes, the perfume, the wedding invitation—she

still hesitated to let me touch her, as if the long white glove wasn’t enough of a barrier between us. Insult upon insult.

She’d been like that the first time she met me in Uncle George’s London home too.

“She’s not only my niece—she’s Queen Victoria’s goddaughter,” Uncle George had told her with a hint of pride and a little

smile at the improbability of it all.

The slick of disdain turned into forced acceptance, like a young boy shoving vegetables down his throat lest his mother scold him.

“He’ll be traveling back to London immediately after the wedding. You must make sure he meets you tonight,” I told her as the carriage clattered through the busy streets toward the chapel. “It’s nonnegotiable.

You did receive the undergarments I sent you?”

I never could figure out why the British acted so scandalized by the very mention of sex when there had to have been tens

of thousands of prostitutes in London alone. The amount of pornography you’d find in one household.

I nudged her in the arm. “This is important, Sibyl. The way to a man’s heart is through his groin, you should be old enough

to know that by now. You want Uncle George, you must seduce him.”

I touched my gloved hands to my lips and sat back in my seat. Perhaps that was a little too much for her.

Sibyl shifted uncomfortably. “You seem a little too comfortable talking about your own uncle in such a manner.”

Uncle in name only, clearly, if our differing complexions didn’t give that away. “I’m just looking out for you,” I said with

a shrug. “If you don’t use what you have to bring him back to you, another woman will.”

That got her. Her jaw tightened for a moment. Then Sibyl hung her head. “You’re right. It’s now or never. It’s either George

and I meet after the wedding at Regent’s Park and all my dreams come true... or I spend the night with my brother at that

bloody pub he’s so fond of.”

The Lamb feeling

his pudgy arm reminded me of Ade, poor Ade. And remembering Ade dimmed my vision and made my teeth grit so hard they’d break

unless they could sink their points into the juicy vein in someone’s neck.

I greeted the other attendees. Princess Alice had been instructed to trade in her white wedding dress for black mourning clothes.

On her wedding day. Whether she wanted to or not didn’t matter. When the Queen orders, you follow.

Speak of the devil.

“Oh, there you are, Sally.” Queen Victoria herself, dressed in funeral black, though in a dress still fit for a monarch, waved

me over like she would her child. She looked around and made sure everyone saw her do it too. “You intelligent little thing.

Come and greet us properly.”

Look overjoyed, Ina. Look grateful.

Or they might get rid of you before you can get rid of them.

“Oi, Sally!” Prince Albert, named after his father, was next to his mother with his gold-brown hair slicked back. The Queen started calling me “Sally” for short. Then everyone else did too. He always insisted that we called him “Bertie”—his inner circle, as well as his prostitutes. The ones he held dear to his heart. He gave me a slight bow; his buffoonish grin ruined his otherwise handsome face. “Good of you to come. None of my mates at Cambridge believed me when I told them I was close with a pretty little African princess.”

“Oh? You’ve managed to keep from getting kicked out of school, then?” I muttered under my breath.

His grin widened, but in confusion this time. He tilted his head. “What was that?”

I covered my lips with a gloved hand and coughed daintily before turning away.

What a joke. He’d been crying throughout the wedding, shielding his mother from view along with his little brother Alfred,

who by now had escaped the gloomy scene. I could still see the tint of red in his eyes. Perhaps this was his way of trying

to shift the mood, but it was clumsy at best. And if he was going to lighten up the atmosphere, he could do it without using

me , but what else could I expect from him?

He winked at me, but I paid him no mind. As his smile drooped, I smirked behind my gloved hand. It satisfied me to no end

seeing his childish pout every time I ignored him.

But then Queen Victoria herself stretched out her hand to me. “Come, Sally!”

Now, this was a command I couldn’t ignore.

At the Queen’s beckoning, I gathered with the other ladies, many of them shifting uncomfortably at the sight of me but nodding

their heads nonetheless because I was, of course, Queen Victoria’s famous goddaughter. Her favorite story to tell. Proof of

her endless charity, wisdom, and compassion. And because to them I seemed to be grateful for it all, there was no reason for

them to turn on me. Yet.

“Captain George,” she greeted him, and Uncle George looked as if he’d ascended to heaven.

“My Queen.” His bow was deep. He’d have never shown my parents the same respect had they lived. “I’m so very sorry. I mean,

congratulations—well...” He paused. He wasn’t sure which was appropriate.

The Queen had loved her husband. She hadn’t been the same since he’d died. To others, it was a tragedy. But to me, it spelled

opportunity. With her defenses down, it was now or never.

“My Sally, you are so very beautiful.” She clasped my chin with both hands. “Poor thing. I know this weather isn’t very well-suited

to your kind.”

Like Bertie, she was using me to lift the mood. To make herself feel better.

Play your role, Ina. I curtsied. “I’m quite moldable to any weather, Your Majesty.” I kept my eyes low because if I raised them and saw that exaggerated piteous gaze, I’d want

to strike at her immediately. She was the one with the dead husband. How dare she look at me with pity as if my existence itself was enough reason?

She rubbed the side of my cheek. The lace of my bonnet rubbed against my skin. “I’ve heard so many strange things have been

happening lately. People dying of strange accidents. People I used to know quite well. Like Mr. Bellamy from the London News .”

I froze.

“Bellamy was a dirty old man and a drunkard.” Bertie laughed. “They found him with his pants down surrounded by bottles of

alcohol. You should see what they’re saying about him in the press. The pictures alone. How shameful.”

Bertie was one to talk. Booze and women weren’t the vices of old men only. As he shook his head, I stared at the floor, my heart giving a painful thud against my chest. And when I slowly lifted my gaze, Queen Victoria’s shocking blue eyes arrested me.

“It reminds me of the odd circumstances of our dear Captain Frederick Forbes’s death.”

My mouth ran dry. And because I’d trained myself not to remember, I shoved his dead eyes out of my mind. “Yes, it was an awful

shame. Some kind of sickness, I believe. Malaria.”

“So the letter said. But we never found his body.” Something darker crept up into her warm expression, a flicker of her eyelashes

that told me she was studying me. “It’s strange, Sally. I think it’s strange, at least.”

She narrowed her eyes curiously because I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t, not with these wild thoughts suddenly racing

through my mind. Did she know? But how could she? How could such a thing be possible... unless she was having me followed?

Was she spying on me?

A battle of wills between two queens. Except only one of us thought of it that way.

“Maybe it was the Mannings!” Prince Bertie’s oafish yell broke through the silence that stretched between the two of us royals.

“Maybe they buried him under the kitchen floor and stole his money like that other bloke.”

Another ill-timed joke. Smatterings of skittish laughter peppered the room because the prince had told a joke, so laughing

was in order, but the Queen was in mourning, so was laughing really okay? The crowd was split and nervous.

The Queen gave Bertie a look that could have withered the garden plants outside. That was his cue to shut his mouth. Bertie

obliged, his cheeks flushing red, his bottom lip curled. Before his father’s untimely death, I didn’t think their relationship

could get any worse. Oh well. He’d surely find solace tonight between the legs of one of the chambermaids, as usual.

As if her face had never so much as crinkled, Queen Victoria gave me a warm, motherly smile. “I’m sorry, Sally. Perhaps, I’m just a little sensitive these days. It’s good to see you’re well despite all these things. Don’t pay attention to the gossip and focus on your studies.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

If, for one second, I let my smile slip. If I made the white men feel attacked or threatened or, goodness forbid, uncomfortable.

If I became any less than the grateful, “good” child whose existence proved their superiority? In that one second, it would

be over for Sarah Forbes Bonetta.

Queen Victoria dismissed me. Then I gave my congratulations to Alice in black and her uncomfortable German husband.

At all times, I was standing underneath the point of a knife.

I pushed myself through the crowd of sycophants anxious to greet and console the new royal couple as Harriet, who’d changed

quickly into a black dress, slipped up to my side, her bonnet obscuring her rigid chestnut hair, parted down the center like

her frumpy mother’s. As expected of a future confidential attendant to the Queen.

“Everything’s ready back in London,” she whispered, and I could smell apricot fumes curling off her words. Standing by the

billowing red curtains draped along the ancient chapel walls, the one or two reporters allowed into the room were busy writing.

They’d come to me for a comment soon enough.

The thought of Mr. Bellamy dead in his London home gave me a quick chill. But it was short-lived.

I already knew this would be messy when I started.

“Where?” I asked over my shoulder while keeping my affable grin steady for the reporters I graciously waved to. Certain places

were a no-go. Ah Sing’s, for example. It was too famous among the elite. Most of the men at this wedding would find their

way there after nightfall. And certain dens were on the docks. Too many sailors.

“Rui’s den over on the East End,” she answered dutifully. “He’s made his preparations.”

I grinned. It was newly established, one where the lower classes languished. Royals and noblemen wouldn’t frequent it and

it was nowhere near the ships at sea. Uncle George would feel safe there. Anonymous. Good. I knew Rui was ready. “And the

card?”

“Slipped into his jacket without him ever noticing me, as you instructed.”

Harriet sounded proud of herself. Strangled by her parents’ royal expectations and with no resources to act out alone, she

was the perfect choice for my accomplice. And, I knew, their relationship was so strained that Harriet wouldn’t have even

cared if I decided to one day tell her that her mother was on my list. I knew why Queen Victoria had chosen her as an attendant-in-training.

Leaders preferred the loyalty of the broken and weak. But by giving her power, she was forever loyal to me.

“Good. Just make sure you get to the Lamb & Flag in time.”

His greatest love or his greatest vice. I already knew which one Uncle George would choose.

I nudged Harriet in the ribs and, for just one second, let my real smile show. This was not the gracious grin of English upper-class

society beaten into me by the missionary schooling they’d forced on me in Freetown. This was my, Ina’s , true grin. The one I gained after Ade died and I realized that false masks were perfect veils for those who dreamed of revenge.

Who said I was anyone’s good child?

“Get my carriage ready. I have to get back to London by nightfall.”