The Girl behind the Throne (Editing)

Chapter 8

Despite me having been ready for hours before my five o'clock start, I was somehow late. I had been toiling over my dress; I couldn't get the silk to drape properly, to match my sketches, and had to restart the process four times. I had stabbed myself with countless needles, ran my fingers through my hair until my plait looked like a yard of frizzy wool, and had a ladder in my tights. I had time to change my tights, but I had done nothing about my hair, and Maggie clocked it the minute I stepped into the kitchen, tutting loudly.

'Tess, darling, your hair looks like it belongs on a neglected Pomeranian.' Maggie's clucking voice was disapproving, and her chins wobbled when she took in the full extent of my terrible hair.

Jesus, Maggie doesn't mess around. I nodded once in apology, eyes wide and pulled my hair down, so that it tumbled over my shoulder in a cloud of thick nearly black waves, pulling it back into a low bun and showing it to Maggie for confirmation that it was good enough.

She looked at it, and me, with shady side eye for a few seconds, before nodding in agreement. I was thankful for once, that the state of my hair had distracted her to the fact that I had arrived six minutes late, and had missed the dressing of the dinner table, completely.

The cook, Marty, a full figured man, aged between fifty and sixty was dishing out plates faster than Mercy, the other maid could take them and I stepped up, once my white apron was fastened around my waist, to take my share. I knew this dance, we were currently on a small intimate family dinner, with the royal family sitting in the small rose dining room, which was about as intimate as a royal dinner got. Usually, there would be three eating, Jamie, his mother Queen Sophie and his father, King Harold, most recently Andrew had been staying with the family. Apparently he had pissed off his mother by wearing her antique pink Chanel suit to a fancy dress party to dress like Jackie O, and had spilled port down the front. Having met Andrew's mother, Princess Brigit, I understood why he was hiding.

I had bowls of two bowls of exquisite roasted pepper soup, Mercy also had two, and Maggie had one. Suddenly my blood cooled as I counted the bowls, and hoped that the family had an extra guest stay for dinner, but I sincerely doubted it. Queen Sophie was such a stickler for decorum and correct manners, if they had a guest, then the family would have been eating in the larger yellow dining room, and there would be more courses.

I felt my heart begin to beat with a kind of fearful anticipation, as I followed Mercy down the long back corridor which connected the dining rooms to the kitchens. I focused on Mercy's small red blonde bun on the back of her head and I counted down the minutes before this would be over. I would of course have to wait until they finished the course, serving them more food, which would traditionally be a footman's job, but as they were serving light portions, all the local small family staff would do. In the main London Palace, the maids stick to bedrooms and helping the queen dress and stuff, but as this is the main estate, things were more intimate, with half the local village employed to work here.

I pushed through the dining room doorway, and started to place down the plates in the correct order, first King Harold, who shot me a lovely warm smile, then Queen Sophie, who's smile was less wide and warm, but matching with her reserved nature. Mercy laid out the bowls for Jamie, and then for Richard, and I refused to look in his direction, feeling his cold gaze track my face like it was Braille and he was trying to read it.

'It is nice to see you again Therese.' The King said, and I inclined my head and dipped my knees, in a shallow curtsy. I ignored the snorted laughter coming from Andrew and Jamie, at the King's usage of my hated first name.

'Thank you, your Majesty; it's nice to see you too.' I replied, keeping my smile smaller and more decorous, but I had always liked the King; he was a fun, joyful man. He had taught me how to ride a horse properly, allowing me to tag along with him and the boys, on their cross country steeple chases. He looked much like Jamie in the face, with a square solid chin, with the hint of cleft, much the same as his son. The King had the same infamous silvery glint as Jamie, Andrew and Richard, but his hair was a rich dark red, a colour likened to fox fur, a lifetime of laughter had fanned lines around his eyes, and beside his nose, but he was still an extraordinarily handsome man.