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Authors: Julia Stuart
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and turned in to Fountain Court. As she raised her eyes to the windows, she noticed a number of pale faces at the curtains, which quickly disappeared.
Eventually she arrived in Clock Court, a large empty courtyard flanked on one side by the tall windows and gilded weather vanes of Henry VIII’s Great Hall. Following a group of excursionists through a doorway, she found herself at the foot of the celebrated staircase that led to William III’s State Apartments. Visitors stood gazing up in awe at the triumphant King and banquet of gods painted on the walls and ceiling by Antonio Verrio. Standing amongst them was Mrs. Boots, who had the perpetual air of someone who was late for her steamer. As soon as she saw Mink, she made much of looking at her pocket watch. Next to her was General Bagshot, a thin, large-nosed gentleman with flamboyant side-whiskers the colour of ash. The buttons of his darkblue morning coat were engraved with his initials, and a heavy gold watch chain with numerous charms hung from his floral-patterned waistcoat. Born at the palace, he had been christened in a bowl on top of a table in the Chapel Royal when it still lacked a font. For a reason the Princess was soon to understand, she took an instant dislike to him.
Once the housekeeper had introduced them, Mink apologised for being late. “There seems to be an awful lot of people here,” she said, as the excursionists pushed past them.
“Sundays are the worst,” muttered Mrs. Boots. “You’re not still thinking of coming tomorrow, are you?” The assurance of the Princess’s presence at divine service provoked from the housekeeper a sudden bout of coughing. Her mouth muffled by a blue handkerchief, she explained that she was still waiting for a reply from the Lord Chamberlain as to whether foreign royalty was permitted to use the Royal Pew. If she didn’t hear back from him before the service, she continued, she would be obliged to sit with the congregation. “In which case you’ll have to take your chance with the seating like everyone else. The ladies insist the soldiers have an odour of the stables about them, and sit as far away from them as possible.” Suddenly the housekeeper looked through the doors to the sky. Mumbling that a north-easterly wind was blowing, she made her excuses, and then took off through the crowds.
The General’s eyes slipped up and down Mink. As he leant towards her, she noticed flakes of dandruff caught in his sprouting eyebrows. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Mrs. Boots quite undersold you. I read so much about your father in the papers last year, though I know next to nothing about you. We must get to know one another,” he said, his breath rancid from pipe tobacco and port.
“That’s the last thing I want,” thought the Princess, as her stomach curdled. She was just about to reply when General Bagshot turned away and stared through the doorway. She followed his gaze and saw two urchins standing under the colonnade builtby Sir Christopher Wren as a stately approach to the magnificent staircase. Bootless and irrefutably mud-streaked, each was holding an enormous basket of whelks. Pushing past the pleasure-seekers towards them, General Bagshot demanded to know what they were doing. “This isn’t Billingsgate Market,” he roared. “How the devil did you get past the sentry?”
The boys put down their baskets, dragged their caps off their unwashed heads, and clutched them to their chests. They had a delivery for Lady Montfort Bebb, they explained, but had been unable to find her apartments. He gave them directions, then returned to the Princess.
“Quite what Lady Montfort Bebb wants with so many whelks is beyond me,” he said. “Have you met her yet? My wife and I have the great misfortune of living next to her. She’s learning to play the pianoforte and slowly murders the same tune every day. A deaf elephant wearing mittens would sound more melodious. She was taken prisoner during
Eventually she arrived in Clock Court, a large empty courtyard flanked on one side by the tall windows and gilded weather vanes of Henry VIII’s Great Hall. Following a group of excursionists through a doorway, she found herself at the foot of the celebrated staircase that led to William III’s State Apartments. Visitors stood gazing up in awe at the triumphant King and banquet of gods painted on the walls and ceiling by Antonio Verrio. Standing amongst them was Mrs. Boots, who had the perpetual air of someone who was late for her steamer. As soon as she saw Mink, she made much of looking at her pocket watch. Next to her was General Bagshot, a thin, large-nosed gentleman with flamboyant side-whiskers the colour of ash. The buttons of his darkblue morning coat were engraved with his initials, and a heavy gold watch chain with numerous charms hung from his floral-patterned waistcoat. Born at the palace, he had been christened in a bowl on top of a table in the Chapel Royal when it still lacked a font. For a reason the Princess was soon to understand, she took an instant dislike to him.
Once the housekeeper had introduced them, Mink apologised for being late. “There seems to be an awful lot of people here,” she said, as the excursionists pushed past them.
“Sundays are the worst,” muttered Mrs. Boots. “You’re not still thinking of coming tomorrow, are you?” The assurance of the Princess’s presence at divine service provoked from the housekeeper a sudden bout of coughing. Her mouth muffled by a blue handkerchief, she explained that she was still waiting for a reply from the Lord Chamberlain as to whether foreign royalty was permitted to use the Royal Pew. If she didn’t hear back from him before the service, she continued, she would be obliged to sit with the congregation. “In which case you’ll have to take your chance with the seating like everyone else. The ladies insist the soldiers have an odour of the stables about them, and sit as far away from them as possible.” Suddenly the housekeeper looked through the doors to the sky. Mumbling that a north-easterly wind was blowing, she made her excuses, and then took off through the crowds.
The General’s eyes slipped up and down Mink. As he leant towards her, she noticed flakes of dandruff caught in his sprouting eyebrows. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Mrs. Boots quite undersold you. I read so much about your father in the papers last year, though I know next to nothing about you. We must get to know one another,” he said, his breath rancid from pipe tobacco and port.
“That’s the last thing I want,” thought the Princess, as her stomach curdled. She was just about to reply when General Bagshot turned away and stared through the doorway. She followed his gaze and saw two urchins standing under the colonnade builtby Sir Christopher Wren as a stately approach to the magnificent staircase. Bootless and irrefutably mud-streaked, each was holding an enormous basket of whelks. Pushing past the pleasure-seekers towards them, General Bagshot demanded to know what they were doing. “This isn’t Billingsgate Market,” he roared. “How the devil did you get past the sentry?”
The boys put down their baskets, dragged their caps off their unwashed heads, and clutched them to their chests. They had a delivery for Lady Montfort Bebb, they explained, but had been unable to find her apartments. He gave them directions, then returned to the Princess.
“Quite what Lady Montfort Bebb wants with so many whelks is beyond me,” he said. “Have you met her yet? My wife and I have the great misfortune of living next to her. She’s learning to play the pianoforte and slowly murders the same tune every day. A deaf elephant wearing mittens would sound more melodious. She was taken prisoner during
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