Page 17 of Of Fate and Phantoms
It would take a lifetime to fill a house this size with so many things. The queen may be old, but not old enough to decorate every inch. This place had evolved over many years, and she was merely its current occupant. Each resident had stamped their presence here in some measure and left behind tangible memories. I had always been somewhat resentful that the royal family lived in such luxury when people starved on the streets, but now I understood why they couldn't simply sell a painting and feed the homeless. In a way, they were not theirs to sell.
"So much to take in," I said quietly, staring at the painting of a man wearing a tricorn hat. "Look at all the gold."
"Seen any spirits?" Lincoln asked, his voice low.
"Not yet."
The footmen led us through to a series of more sedate rooms, not so richly decorated. A small woman of middle age wearing an elegant charcoal colored gown waited in front of a closed door. "Good afternoon, Miss Holloway, Mr. Fitzroy. I am the Honorable Mrs. Charles Grey, lady in waiting to Her Majesty. I apologize for the double escort, but we had a break-in recently and security has increased."
"A break-in?" Lincoln asked.
"A minor nuisance. Nothing was taken." The Honorable Mrs. Charles Grey didn't meet either his gaze or mine. "Now, before you meet Her Majesty, there are some things of which you ought to be aware. When you first greet her, you must address her as Her Majesty, and thereafter as ma'am. A small curtsy is required of you, Miss Holloway, and a bow is sufficient from a gentleman. Do not present your back to her, offer to shake her hand, or touch her in any way. If she stands, you must both stand too. Ready?"
She opened the door before either of us could respond and announced us. Compared to the public rooms we'd just traversed through, this room was positively cozy in size and decoration. The fireplace was modest, flanked by two vases taller than me, and in the room's center stood a round table that looked too solid to move. A figure swamped in black silk and lace sat on the sofa, her heavy features lifting a little in curiosity before settling into regal aloofness.
I sank into a curtsy and rose without losing my balance. Lady Vickers would be pleased. Lincoln's bow was more of a nod and I wasn't sure it would pass protocol.
"Good afternoon, Miss Holloway, Mr. Fitzroy." The queen's voice was as robust as her person. "Take a seat. My son will be here shortly."
We sat on the chairs at the table. Who else had sat here? The prime minister? Princesses? Best not to think about it. It wouldn't do to giggle nervously in the presence of the queen while discussing the matter of her dead husband.
The silence stretched as we waited. I felt compelled to fill it, and couldn't rely on Lincoln. "You have a lovely home, ma'am."Ugh. Perhaps I should have stayed quiet.
"Thank you," the queen said. "You live with Mr. Fitzroy at Lichfield Towers, I believe."
"I do."
"As his ward?"
"Yes." Not really, but our living arrangements would only expose us to speculation and innuendo and I couldn't abide that from a woman whose moral streak was wider than her person, according to Lady V.
"And what is it you do, Mr. Fitzroy? Or are you a man of leisure?"
"I am not," he said.
"He's the least leisurely person I've ever met," I said.
She pinned me with her deep-set eyes, as shrewd as they were grim. No, not grim, sad. This woman still mourned her husband, so the newspapers claimed. How that must dampen the air here and infect it with her misery. No wonder her eldest son did the exact opposite of his mother and enjoyed himself.
The Prince of Wales entered at that moment. We rose, and I curtseyed while Lincoln nodded again. The prince stood by the crackling fire, his hands at his back. If he stood and the queen sat what were Lincoln and I supposed to do? The Honorable Mrs. Charles Grey hadn't given us a clue. Lincoln sat again, so I did too. As if it were a signal, the also prince sat. He had not taken his gaze off Lincoln.
He knew.
"My son imparted the events of last evening to me," the queen said. "All of them. Apparently you claim to have knowledge of spiritual matters."
Lincoln hesitated barely a moment before saying, "Some, ma'am, yes."
"And you are the son of that gypsy woman."
"Leisl. I believe so, although I cannot be certain. I'd never met her until last night."
"Who raised you? Your father?"
"A man known as General Eastbrooke, a commander in Your Majesty's army, now deceased."
"He was not your father?"
"No."
