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Authors: Julia Stuart
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long!” called the short, round form. “I can detect the presence of a cat or a dog at a hundred paces.”
Leaping up the stairs two at a time, the maid overtook the labouring housekeeper and stood at the top, her fists by her side. “Ma’am!” she ordered. “You must go down!”
But Mrs. Boots swerved and darted into a bedroom with the speed of a ferret. Crouching down, she looked underneath the washstand as Pooki stood helpless in the doorway. She then shuffled to the bed on her knees and lowered her head to the floor. “Birds are easy to find, as they make a noise,” she said, straightening up. “The other week I heard my name being called, followed by such a wicked insult I couldn’t eat for three days. Stopped me dead in my tracks in the middle of Clock Court, it did. I went to find the culprit, expecting one of the delivery boys, but it turned out to be an African grey parrot in Lady Beatrice’s apartments. Needless to say, I escorted that bird off the premises. With any luck it’s already been stuffed.”
The housekeeper hauled herself to her feet, sailed out, and immediately barged into the next room. “Something tells me that we’re not alone,” she muttered to herself, hunting behind the curtains.
“Ma’am!” Pooki protested from the doorway. “This is Her Highness’s bedroom. You should not be in here!”
But Mrs. Boots sniffed the air, then flung open the wardrobe. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
The servant approached her and stood with her hands on her hips. “Ma’am!” she shouted. “You are on a wild goose chase!”
Mrs. Boots turned and looked the maid up and down. “I wouldn’t put a flock of geese past any of them,” she said, then sank down onto all fours and peered underneath the chaise longue.
Shooting past the maid, she headed out the door and scuttled down the landing towards the attic staircase. “I’m getting warmer,” she announced, her cheeks scarlet. But there was no beating the speed of Pooki, who overtook her and stood at the bottom of the steps, her scrawny arms outstretched. “Ma’am, I may be thin, but I am stronger than I look. And you have not seen the size of my feet,” she declared.
The housekeeper looked down and raised her eyebrows as she saw what she was up against. Reluctantly she made her way downstairs, and once she had inspected the rest of the house, finally entered the drawing room. Pooki followed, and stood in the doorway, her bun dishevelled. “Mrs. Boots, ma’am,” she announced, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
It wasn’t until she had hunted amongst the palms, under the grand piano, and behind the oriental screen that the housekeeper noticed the Princess standing next to a ladder watching her. After a double take at the family portraits, she asked whether there were any pets on the premises.
“No, Mrs. Boots,” Mink replied curtly. “I’ve already told you.”
The housekeeper folded her arms across her chest. “You’d besurprised what some residents tell me,” she replied. “Lies, most of the time.” She then announced that she was unable to give the Princess a tour of the palace “on account of my bronchitis that’s taken a turn for the worst.” If the Princess were agreeable, she continued, General Bagshot, a resident and Tudor expert who was writing his fourth history of the palace, would escort her. “You’ll be better off with him anyway,” she admitted. “I get my Georges muddled. Four shows a distinct lack of imagination, if you ask me. They should have called the last one Archibald and have done with it.”
DRESSED IN HELIOTROPE, WITH A matching toque and pearl earrings, Mink headed out to meet the General at the King’s Staircase. As she passed the royal tennis court, built in the reign of Charles I, she was stopped by a milliner’s assistant carrying numerous boxes, who asked her the way to Lady Montfort Bebb’s apartments. Apologising that she didn’t know, the Princess continued
Leaping up the stairs two at a time, the maid overtook the labouring housekeeper and stood at the top, her fists by her side. “Ma’am!” she ordered. “You must go down!”
But Mrs. Boots swerved and darted into a bedroom with the speed of a ferret. Crouching down, she looked underneath the washstand as Pooki stood helpless in the doorway. She then shuffled to the bed on her knees and lowered her head to the floor. “Birds are easy to find, as they make a noise,” she said, straightening up. “The other week I heard my name being called, followed by such a wicked insult I couldn’t eat for three days. Stopped me dead in my tracks in the middle of Clock Court, it did. I went to find the culprit, expecting one of the delivery boys, but it turned out to be an African grey parrot in Lady Beatrice’s apartments. Needless to say, I escorted that bird off the premises. With any luck it’s already been stuffed.”
The housekeeper hauled herself to her feet, sailed out, and immediately barged into the next room. “Something tells me that we’re not alone,” she muttered to herself, hunting behind the curtains.
“Ma’am!” Pooki protested from the doorway. “This is Her Highness’s bedroom. You should not be in here!”
But Mrs. Boots sniffed the air, then flung open the wardrobe. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
The servant approached her and stood with her hands on her hips. “Ma’am!” she shouted. “You are on a wild goose chase!”
Mrs. Boots turned and looked the maid up and down. “I wouldn’t put a flock of geese past any of them,” she said, then sank down onto all fours and peered underneath the chaise longue.
Shooting past the maid, she headed out the door and scuttled down the landing towards the attic staircase. “I’m getting warmer,” she announced, her cheeks scarlet. But there was no beating the speed of Pooki, who overtook her and stood at the bottom of the steps, her scrawny arms outstretched. “Ma’am, I may be thin, but I am stronger than I look. And you have not seen the size of my feet,” she declared.
The housekeeper looked down and raised her eyebrows as she saw what she was up against. Reluctantly she made her way downstairs, and once she had inspected the rest of the house, finally entered the drawing room. Pooki followed, and stood in the doorway, her bun dishevelled. “Mrs. Boots, ma’am,” she announced, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
It wasn’t until she had hunted amongst the palms, under the grand piano, and behind the oriental screen that the housekeeper noticed the Princess standing next to a ladder watching her. After a double take at the family portraits, she asked whether there were any pets on the premises.
“No, Mrs. Boots,” Mink replied curtly. “I’ve already told you.”
The housekeeper folded her arms across her chest. “You’d besurprised what some residents tell me,” she replied. “Lies, most of the time.” She then announced that she was unable to give the Princess a tour of the palace “on account of my bronchitis that’s taken a turn for the worst.” If the Princess were agreeable, she continued, General Bagshot, a resident and Tudor expert who was writing his fourth history of the palace, would escort her. “You’ll be better off with him anyway,” she admitted. “I get my Georges muddled. Four shows a distinct lack of imagination, if you ask me. They should have called the last one Archibald and have done with it.”
DRESSED IN HELIOTROPE, WITH A matching toque and pearl earrings, Mink headed out to meet the General at the King’s Staircase. As she passed the royal tennis court, built in the reign of Charles I, she was stopped by a milliner’s assistant carrying numerous boxes, who asked her the way to Lady Montfort Bebb’s apartments. Apologising that she didn’t know, the Princess continued
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