Skerrett

She asked for a black frock.

"One of yours," she said. "I don't care which one but the plainer, the better."

Before I was out of her bed chamber, she called me back, her teeth dragging along her bottom lip slightly, hesitating for a moment before adding, "And a basket."

"A basket?" I repeated, worried that the rumors were all true after all. Was the Queen losing her mind? She'd met with the appropriate politicians and dignitaries tonight, for the first time since the German princes' departure. We were all glad to see her take up the old routine, as her uncle Leopold was returning the next day and it surely wouldn't suit to have the Queen of England receive her uncle through her locked bedroom door.

"Yes, Skerrett," my lady replied, in a flat tone that seemed weary and worn out. "A large one, big enough for Dash to be carried around in it."

I suppose I should have put it all together right then and there but well, there was a lot to be distracted by.

The rumors that I mentioned were swirling around the palace as fast as a rushing bend in the Thames. And it spilled out into the streets as well. All London rang out with it. They were saying that the Duchess of Kent and the Duke of Cumberland had been right all along and that the Queen would be declared incompetent before the month was out.

I didn't believe it. Yes, my lady was distressed. Any half-witted idiot could see that. Even Francatelli mentioned something about it this morning, winking at me inappropriately, while forcing me to take a bite of something ridiculously delicious that he whipped up in the pre-dawn hours. Oh, but I wish he wouldn't discuss these things with me. His attention is another distraction I could do without.

We had all hoped that Lord Melbourne would put her back in a good humor, as only he can. It had worked so well that first time. With one simple note from that man, my lady was up and dressed in no time. So why not try the same old tonic again? Lady Portman and I shared a knowing glance as she donned her cloak and gloves, on her way to Dover House to fetch the prime minister.

But his visit the morning after the dance had been terribly short and he left the palace almost as soon as he entered it, in as dark a mood as my lady. And what's worse, Mr. Brodie has heard from one of the stable boys who heard from a cousin who works at Dover House, that Lord Melbourne has left town for some unknown destination. Brocket Hall would be the most likely place but Mrs. Jenkins said she heard from the florist that a coachman she knows was commissioned by Lord Melbourne to take him north, away from the city altogether.

It's a shocking turn of events. And now there's a lingering tenseness up and down the halls of Buckingham Palace, like that moment before a champagne glass hits the floor and shatters into a million pieces. Everyone feels it.

I visited her room after Lord Melbourne's visit and found Her Majesty dreadfully calm, though her puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks were telling a far different story. She allowed me to dress her and accepted a tray from the kitchens but she didn't ask me to arrange her hair and she stayed locked up in her bedroom for another day and a half.

I don't claim to know the names written on other people's hearts but I'd bet my year's wages that Lord Melbourne's name is scrolled round and round my lady's very soul. It's an inconvenient fact but Queen or not, she's as much a woman as any of us. And the heart wants what it wants, no matter the level of suitability.

I feel sorry for her, I do. She's always on display and there's them that's always waiting for her to fail. You can see them, whispering in narrow corridors or on the stairs. That awful John Conroy is visiting the Duchess again and he hovers around the palace, uninvited, unwanted. I wish he'd go away and leave my lady in peace. She's grieving over something lost to her forever. Don't they see that?

I've always been too romantic for my own good. It gets me into such trouble. And I fall for it every time. A certain dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian sprung to mind without my permission. You will not fall for Francatelli, Nancy Skerrett, I reminded myself for perhaps the tenth time today.

But my lady and Lord Melbourne—perhaps everyone was right to scoff at the notion. Mrs. Melbourne, they had called her as a joke. I remember Flora Hastings relating that piece of news to the Queen with such vicious pleasure, as if Her Majesty would be infuriated by the term and immediately set out to contradict it. My lady was furious, but the object of her fury was Lady Hastings, not the piece of gossip itself.

Which is not to say that she didn't mind the rubbish newspapers and their vulgar insinuations. Her skin was not as thick as all that. But she set them aside with a sigh or a set frown and shook it off, as only my brave lady could do. She refused to let her behavior be changed or influenced by men who made money off the mere scent of scandal.

She was strong. She would have to be strong again soon. This morning's newspapers had already run a couple of questionable pieces and there was an unflattering caricature of the events of the ball that every cotton-brained servant from here to Belfast would be snickering over for a day or two.

The storm would blow over but another would follow. And my lady grew weary of it. I could see it in the mirror as she stared at her reflection, her expression unreadable but her thoughts certainly far away.

As I arranged her hair, she reached for a small box on the vanity. She opened it and I saw the Brocket Hall gardenias spill out into her hands. The petals were not as white and fresh as on the night of the dance, but they were stubbornly refusing to wilt. Her Majesty caressed the petals with gentle fingers, as she continued to stare at her reflection for a long time, not saying a word to me.

Until I was finished, that is. Then, my lady asked me to bring her a plain, black frock…and that basket. Oh, I should have known. But her tone was so fixed and determined that I could never have dreamed of refusing her.