Isabella Rockwell's War (16 page)

They brushed
past a thick tapestry of red and gold.

“We are the
same then, for I cannot imagine living anywhere else,” said
Isabella, as Mrs Jolyon opened the door to the schoolroom.

Mrs Jolyon
smiled down into Isabella’s eyes.

“It would
appear we are.”

The temptation
to tell Mrs Jolyon about the Star Burr was overwhelming, but her
father’s words came back to her rolling through time and space.
“Don’t show your hand too early… ever.” Of course, there was
probably an explanation for the presence of the Star Burr. There
was no need to go jumping to conclusions, but her stomach felt
unsettled and she was on her guard.

That evening
after a trying time watching Alix try on most of her wardrobe
before deciding on a cherry velvet dress, Isabella scratched at her
own neckline of unyielding lace. True to her word, Alix had raided
her cousin’s wardrobe and Isabella was dressed in midnight blue
with soft kid slippers and cream stockings. To her eyes she was
unrecognizable.

“Shall I go
down and wait for you?’

Alix was
sitting in front of a gilt mirror having her hair threaded with
pearls.

“Yes of
course… sorry is this very boring?”

“No Alix, I
just hadn’t been aware that there are so many different hairstyles,
and that you’re trying them all out in one evening.”

Alix
laughed.

“Go on then.
Go and wait for the carriages. You can talk to Uncle Ernest and
Aunt Fredericka, then you’ll be sorry.”

Isabella
smiled and left the room, moving swiftly down the corridor to the
stairs to the hallway below. She was in luck. There was no one
there. Her feet made no sound as she crossed beneath the sparkling
chandelier to another corridor, at the end of which, by her
calculations, lay the Blue Salon. Not that she was going to take
the painting, but it couldn’t hurt to just have a look? If Alix was
still dressing, the duchess certainly would be – now would be a
good time.

Two footmen in
blue satin stood outside the Blue Salon’s door. Isabella’s heart
sank. How was she going to get in? There was nothing for it.
Throwing her head and shoulders back and walking with intent, as
she’d seen the Maharajah’s daughters do, she approached them. To
her great surprise one of the footmen leant across and threw open
the door for her. She nodded her head, remembering not to say thank
you – royalty didn’t ever seem to say thank you, she had observed –
and walked in. The door was closed behind her.

The room was
feminine with ruffled curtains and deep sofas. A large escritoire
stood casually littered with papers, a small comfortable chair
stood just behind it. A fire burnt in the grate, and lanterns were
lit around the room, giving off a soft glow. Careful not to touch
anything, she looked at the walls. There it was, surely that was
it. Much smaller than she had thought it would be, the Caravaggio,
hung in one corner of the room, just next to the fireplace.

Hardly aware
of what she was doing, she reached up and took it down from its
position. It was barely larger than her hand span, but it was heavy
and beautiful, the Madonna’s face gentle as she looked at her new
baby. She replaced the picture not a moment too soon as the door
flew open and in came Prince Ernest and a stern looking dark haired
woman, beautifully dressed.

“My dear, this
is the little heroine.” He said gesturing towards Isabella. The
woman walked over to her and held out a limp hand. “Isabella, this
is my wife, Princess Fredericka.”

“The pleasure
is all mine,” the princess said. Isabella curtsied, trying, and
failing, to take her eyes from the diamond necklace at the
princess’s throat. The Prince caught her eye.

“Indian
diamonds, Isabella. A gift to me from a grateful Maharani for
saving her husband.”

He lifted them
from his wife’s neck.

“I don’t think
I’ve ever seen diamonds as fine as these.”

“No sir.”
Isabella’s voice was small, and she felt hypnotized by the light,
which flashed and danced across the diamonds’ facets.

Ernest’s wife
smiled.

“Even the
Duchess hasn’t jewels which can touch these.”

Isabella
smiled at how much this must annoy the Duchess. The door opened
again and a footman announced the carriages were ready. Isabella
and Alix headed towards the same one as Prince Ernest.

“It’s better
than travelling with Mama and Mr Conroy, I suppose.”

“Much,”
muttered Isabella under her breath observing how the Duchess’s
mouth was set in a petulant line as John Conroy greeted Princess
Fredericka.

“I don’t know
what his majesty is going to make of our turning up with a
commoner.” Said the Duchess in a loud voice to no one in
particular.

Isabella made
a move to walk back inside. “I don’t think this is a good idea
Alix, I don’t want to aggravate your mother anymore than she is
already. It’ll be you who pays for it.”

Alix was
firm.

“King William
wants to meet you. Don’t worry about my mother. I’m used to
her.”

Mrs Jolyon,
pretty in a black velvet dress nodded.

“The king will
be furious if you do not attend and the Duchess knows it,” she
whispered. “Just you get in. I’ll sit with you.” So Prince Ernest
and his wife and Alix, Isabella and Mrs Jolyon sat in the first
coach and Isabella resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at
the Duchess, as the Duchess’s carriage passed hers.

The carriage
jiggled as it pulled out of the palace gates and picked up speed
along Kensington Gore and then entered Hyde Park to cut across to
St James’s Palace, which though, small, Isabella thought it to be
beautiful, with ornate towers and sparkling windows. Uniformed
guards standing in man-sized wooden shelters lifted their sabers as
the two royal coaches passed, and footmen sprang to open their
doors. Isabella got out onto a red carpet, which ran the length of
the arch and then into the hallway, so the ladies would never get
their satin slippers wet. It was very hard not to be overawed by it
all.

Alix, sensed
this.

“Don’t worry,”
she said, taking Isabella’s arm. “The king is so very nice, and the
Queen. They will put you at your ease. Just try to relax.” So
Isabella tried to, and stuck close to Alix, and watched and copied
how Alix conducted herself – handing her cloak to a servant, saying
no to a drink and curtseying politely to any adult to whom she was
introduced. As a group they moved up a staircase and entered a
pillared reception hall the size of the parade ground at home. Huge
fires burned in grates at either end of the hall, and gilded tables
and chairs were scattered at intervals throughout the room.
Magnificent portraits of past monarchs lined the walls, along with
polished suits of armour. It was like the reception hall at
Kensington Palace, but on a far grander scale.

“There are so
many guards.” She whispered to Alix as they waited at the top of
the steps to be announced.

Alix
nodded.

“Being king is
a serious business. There’s always someone who thinks they can do
the job much better…” her words tapered off as a large man with a
huge white wig banged his staff on the ground next to them, making
Isabella jump.

“Her Majesty
Princess Alixandrina Hanover! Miss Isabella Rockwell!” Fifty pairs
of eyes turned to the staircase. Isabella smiled as she watched
Alix descend the staircase with more grace than it would take
Isabella a lifetime to produce. Just for a moment, as she felt the
heavy weight of the room’s attention, Isabella could see the queen
Alix would one day become as she smiled from side to side, her step
never faltering as she threaded her way toward the elderly man on
the large red chair near the centre of the room. Isabella crept
along behind her and gradually the room resumed its bubble and hum,
the elegant crowd turning to back to their gossip and
champagne.

“Uncle
William, I would like you to meet Isabella Rockwell.” Isabella
curtsied deeply. How she wished someone she knew could see her
meeting the King of England. They’d never believe it – she didn’t
believe it! Isabella staring at the ground felt a rough warm hand
lift her chin and she looked into a kind, round face framed with
wayward white curls. King William looked just like what he was,
Prince Ernest’s kinder, older brother.

“Bravo young
lady, for saving our girl.”

Isabella was
completely overawed, so she curtseyed again and tried hard not to
mumble, but her words came out in a rush.

“Oh it’s all
right sir, anyone would have done the same if they had wanted to… I
mean if they could ride… I mean…”

The king
smiled and nodded.

“I’m sure they
would, but it was you who did do it, and I am most grateful. I
would be most upset to lose my niece.” He placed a large hand on
Alix’s; “she means the world to me… to both of us.” He gestured to
the rounded bejeweled woman who sat next to him. “Isn’t that right,
my dear?”

Queen
Adelaide’s chins wobbled and her blue eyes filled with tears.

“I can’t even
bear to hear you speak of such things, Villiam. Please don’t.”

Alix threw her
arms around her aunt. “Aunt Adelaide, stop this minute! I am here
and I am fine. It was just an accident.”

“I know, I
know, but zis does not make the thought of your loss more
bearable.” Isabella smiled, liking this round queen who so plainly
adored Alix and wore her heart on her sleeve.

She summoned
up her courage.

“Might I get
your majesty a drink to make you feel better,” she asked,
curtseying.

There was a
great honking as the queen blew her nose, still clasping Alix in
her satin embrace.

“Kind girl.
Yah that would be fine.” Alix smiled at her and gestured with her
head to the far side of the room where a long table with a heavy
red cloth was laid with sumptuous hors d’oevres and glass goblets
containing red wine or champagne. She had just picked up a goblet
of red wine when Mrs Jolyon appeared at her side.

“So how did
you find King William and Queen Adelaide?”

Isabella was
relieved to see her.

“I like them
very much. I’m just getting the queen a drink. She was a little
upset at talk of Alix’s accident.”

Mrs Jolyon
nodded.

“I can
imagine. It warms my heart to know that she gets the love from them
that she sees so little of at home.” Isabella looked over to where
the duchess, exquisite in cream lace, showing a great amount of
bosom was surrounded by men.

“Why is the
duchess so unpleasant? And why does John Conroy put up with it?

Mrs Jolyon
opened her fan.

“She comes
from an extremely rich family and has been spoilt all her life. The
Duke of Kent only married her so they could have a chance at having
a baby, which, at least, she did. Except now they’ve got their
heir, no one really wants to have anything to do with the duchess.
John Conroy puts up with her because he’s paid to. The king put him
in charge of her household because her spending had got so out of
control. I don’t think the king expected the duchess to fall in
love with John Conroy, but she did, and now they conspire for more
money by using Alix as bait.”

“So she’s not
allowed to see the king, unless the king gives her mother and John
Conroy more money?”

Mrs Jolyon
fanned herself casually.

“Something
like that, though you didn’t hear it from me.” She smiled. “Now,
shall we go and extract Princess Alix before she is loved to
death?” Isabella laughed and picked up the goblet of juice, but as
she did so, the glass slipped from her fingers and, shattered on
the floor in a million tiny pieces. The crimson juice quickly sank
into the porous stone floor, a bloody, jagged trail pointing across
the floor to where Alix sat with her aunt and uncle. And Isabella,
despite her shame at having dropped the drink, felt a little shiver
run through her. If Mrs Jolyon had asked her why this was however,
she would not have been able to say.

At dinner she
sat with Mrs Jolyon and copied the way she used her cutlery,
resisting the impulse to pocket it. The food was delicious and she
chomped happily watching those at the long table. The king and
queen didn’t sit at the head of the table, they sat in the middle
with Alix next to them and Prince Ernest and his wife nearby. The
duchess and John Conroy were sat far at the other end of the table.
To the left of the queen was a tall elegant man, wearing a long
Nehru jacket. His beard was long and sat on his chest and was smoky
grey, unlike the hair on his head which was black. His face was
narrow with prominent cheekbones and though he was handsome, when
he smiled, his eyes remained cold. Behind him hidden, somewhat, in
the shadows of the pillars, was a manservant.

“Mrs Jolyon?
Who is that man, next to the queen?”

Mrs Jolyon
peered down the table. She fumbled in her bag for her
spectacles.

“Oh dear, I
can’t quite see that far,” she placed some pince-nez on her nose.
“Oh yes, with the beard? That’s the Russian Ambassador.”

“Is that his
manservant behind him?”

“Why yes, I
can hardly see, but it does seem as if he has a bodyguard there.”
She raised her brows. “I’m not sure he really needed to bring one
to dinner, but there you are. It’s probably more about status than
safety.”

“I think he’s
a Pathan,” said Isabella, excitedly, just able to make out the
bodyguard’s distinctive tribal hat and the white djellaba thrown
around his shoulders. Mrs Jolyon adjusted her glasses again.

“Why I think
you are right. Well, how exciting. I am not surprised though. If I
were a Russian feeling insecure, there’s nothing I’d like more than
an Afghan at my back.”

“Do you think
I’d be allowed to talk to him?” Isabella’s longing was so strong
she could taste it through the raspberry mousse, but Mrs Jolyon
gave a little frown.