Prisoners in the Palace by Michaela MacColl Read Free Book Online Page B

bare wood and on the wall hung a tiny mirror with a crack that ran all the way through it. A battered chest of drawers and a tiny table and chair completed the furnishings. In the corner, as Mrs. Strode had promised, sat a battered chamber pot.
    Resting in the center of the narrow room, Liza’s single trunk reminded her of all she had lost. She braced herself and lifted the lid. On top lay a soft rose shawl, the last gift her father had given her mother. She lifted it as though it were a precious treasure and wrapped it around herself, inhaling her mother’s jasmine perfume.
    Exhausted and fighting panic, she flung herself down on the scratchy blanket that barely covered the bed and let herself cry. For the first time since her parents died, she didn’t worry about anyone overhearing her sobs. The thin pillow became damp with her tears.
    A long while later, she sat up, her eyes sore and her throat aching.
    That is quite enough, Liza. Mama always said self-pity wastes energy and spoils the complexion.
    She took a deep breath, held it, then tried to exhale all her troubles in one long sigh. If she were to have any sort of new life, she would have to build it herself. To begin, she must make this dreadful room her own. Placing the shawl on the bed, she went back to unpacking. She arranged delicate sea shells from a trip to the Ostend shore, a sketch of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, and a long feather from her mother’s finest hat on the battered bureau. She tacked her favorite fashion drawings from the Paris papers on the wall. The miniature portrait of her mother, encased in pearls, she propped on the rickety table next to her bed. She hung her father’s watch carefully on the bedpost. She draped her two mourning dresses over the chair.
    At the bottom of the trunk, Liza found what she didn’t even know she was searching for: a leather book wrapped in muslin. Her chest hollowed out as she relived the moment Mama had placed the journal in her hands. She opened the cover to the inscription in her mother’s elegant handwriting, “Dearest Liza, the first year in society is a year like no other. I hope you use this journal to remember every detail of your adventures. Love, Mama.”
    So far, Liza had used it only once; the day she buried her parents. By the light of the sputtering candle, Liza found her pen and ink. She opened the journal, averting her eyes from the first entry, and began to write.
    1 April 1836 Excerpt from the Journal of Miss Elizabeth Hastings

    Who am I? A fortnight ago, I knew. Liza, beloved daughter of Matthew and Mathilde, ready for her first season. We looked forward to introducing me to society and finding me a suitable husband. But now? I am a boat whose mooring has been cut. I could come ashore anywhere. This next year will indeed be a year like no other.
    My first(?) port of call is Kensington Palace. I came for one position, but was offered another. And then another. Am I still a lady? A maid? Or a spy?
    Papa always said a businessman looks for opportunities to profit. The Princess Victoria’s problem is my chance. The Duchess and Sir John are scheming against her; they want the throne for themselves. If I can help the Princess, who knows where her generosity might lead? Money, a title, a good marriage? All the things Mama and Papa wanted for me. The Princess already likes me. Next, she must need me. Who else will gather the information she needs to protect herself?
    Rereading these words, I seem a cold and calculating stranger. What choice do I have? I must make my own way. But were our stations equal, Victoria is someone I could like. Perhaps I can serve her without losing myself. The first step will be to win her trust. To do this, I must separate her from the Baroness Lehzen. Surely the Princess must be alone sometime!
    Liza closed the journal and carefully slid it between her mattress and the wooden pallet. She glanced at her father’s watch. It was late. She wondered how to call a