A Matter Of Delicacy

The Questions

     'Five questions, you say?' Princess Caroline sipped at her tea and looked mischievously at me over the rim of her cup.
     Sighing, I leaned back in the chair and smiled benignly at her, 'that's what we agreed, Princess. That was the deal.'
     She giggled to herself, enjoying this new game, 'very well, Miss Wentworth. You must let me think for a moment.'
     I looked away, back towards the perimeter of the garden where the usual guards were patrolling, more regularly than they used to, on my demands. Perhaps she would ask about my past missions, would that be allowed? Would Father say it was honest or shameful and dangerous to divulge all my occupational secrets to this woman who was the biggest gossip in the country by her own proclamation? Or perhaps she'd ask about the rest of her training. That would be good, I could lay out the law for her and test her immediate reaction.
     Don't be stupid, I thought to myself. This is the Princess we're talking about. Is she really going to ask about practical things she could ask any time when she could use this deal to get hold of some emotional secrets?
     I steeled myself for the dreaded topic.
     'What are you avoiding?'
     Dammit. 'I wouldn't say I'm avoiding anything, Your Highness.'
     'Bollocks,' she waved away my shocked laugh. 'You came back from that private mission looking like you'd sucked lemons and you've been driving yourself, and me for that matter, up the wall. You're avoiding something, or someone, and I want to know what.'
     I sighed, 'is this really a topic of interest for you?'
     'Intensely.'
     I looked back down at my tea, trying to figure out a way to get out of the situation. Another guard walked past, a blackbird landed a few metres away and hopped around, pecking at nothing. A young Lady, one I'd seen a few times with Sarah, saw us from behind a rose bush and dropped a small curtsy.
     'I'm avoiding someone I met by mistake on the mission I went on.'
     'Was it Mr Willoughby?'
     I hesitated for a moment. She just looked at me with benign expectation. 'Yes.'
     'Why?'
     'Because I showed him more of myself, of my personality, than was appropriate considering my position in your service.'
     'What does...' she stopped herself, thinking, then changed her tune. 'You have to explain that more, it's part of the deal.'
     'Why is that part of the deal?! That wasn't mentioned! You asked me a question and I answered it.'
     'Not in enough detail. That means that, while the question technically was answered, it was not done so that I would know the answer. Bad sportsmanship, Miss Wentworth.'
     I huffed. She just giggled and took a small cake from the dainty plates laid out for us.
     'He caught me watching two men who may be involved in the plots against you. I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings, that is a basic lesson that I was taught long ago and it was shameful that I let it slip this time because it meant that he recognised me and came over to start a conversation. I was, at the time, disguised as a beggar woman so he found me dressed in practically indecent clothes and with no story as to why I was dressed the way I was, or watching two strange men in the middle of London with no escort. Then on the way back, he saw from my face that there was something wrong, something that I was hiding that automatically piqued his interest, although he did well not to pry. And I know the danger is light, but the point is that it shouldn't have happened. Had I been more careful in both my surveillance and in masking my emotions, both elementary skills that I am practised in, then there would not be a gentleman of popularity and standing within the Prince Regent's court who is curious in me and my actions.'
     I breathed in and out slowly and looked at her again. She had put the teacup down in its saucer and was watching me carefully. After a moment she gave a smooth hand tilt, carry on...
     'And that could lead to people finding out who I am, which would perhaps trigger a faster manoeuvre by the people who are targeting you, one that we are not prepared for.'
     The Princess was quiet for a good few moments, sipping at her tea again. I started fiddling with the seams of my jodhpurs, avoiding her eye. That was the most I'd spoken at once in a long while, and it felt good to finally unburden myself of the guilt that had been brewing for days.
     'How do you feel about Mr Willoughby?'
     I glanced over at her and she held my gaze with a steady surety.
     I sighed, the question was a good one, and not one I had explored much myself or particularly wanted to. How did I feel about him? I could not deny that my heart flipped when I saw him, and my stomach surged and my face flushed. But that I would put simply down to nerves at his presence, not love. I knew it was not love. Love took more exposure, more time to nurture and feed and reward with attention and praise from its object. And I had met Mr Willoughby only a few times, though both had been tinged with emotion. I was sure that most would put it down to merely a schoolgirl crush and yet I knew myself better than that. I knew my own feelings better than that.
     'I...' faltering, I inhaled deeply and spread my hands flat on my thighs. 'I will admit to being intrigued by the prospect of him.'
     The Princess was still.
     'I am not in love with him, that I can say with clear conscience, but I enjoy his company, or what little of it I have had, and am interested in him. I think he is a man with more potential than he lets on, more intelligence than he shows, more grace than most men I've met. I would say.... he is a true gentleman.'
     My interrogator stirred her tea with a delicate silver spoon, letting it tinkle against the porcelain, 'interesting. I believe you, Miss Wentworth, though I so rarely leave matters of the heart at such a frustratingly mild stage. You are not nearly as fun as my Ladies; they normally go from a glance and a bow to true love and wedding bells in the amount of time it takes to dance a reel. I know you are not one of those, but it has been an interesting discussion, this. I believe I have one last question left?'
     I inclined my head.
The Princess placed her teacup back on the table and took a small cake, 'how do you plan to act from now on in relation to him? How do you intend to advance? That was one question put in two ways, not two separate ones.'
     'Naturally, I suppose. I left him at a slightly confusing end the last time, but I cannot see him making anything of it. For your sake I will try to avoid any close acquaintance – he sees too much, you understand? I don't want him learning too much and putting my mission at risk. So, should I run into him occasionally that would not be a disaster, I could be just as polite as I have been so far, but I will not seek him out. He and I can be passing friends, nothing more. That is the best course of action I think.'
     'How incredibly dull,' The Princess sighed and bit into a small white cake, scattering sugar over her dress in puffs. 'But I suppose understandable considering your unique circumstances. Well, Miss Wentworth, you surprise me, and I do not like being surprised. I expected you to either be a complete stick in the mud or to throw caution to the wind as soon as you came out of your hole in - where was it? - never mind, it's not important, as soon as a pretty society man smiled at you. At least then I would have had some entertainment.' She stood abruptly and I hurried to my feet, still chewing on a mouthful of cake. 'This has been an interesting morning, Miss Wentworth, I will remember it well.'
     She turned on her heel and walked away, whistling for one of her small dogs and a couple of her ladies. Slowly sitting back down in my seat, I rubbed the palms of my hands up and down my thighs, thinking our conversation over. Should I have been so open? Should I have lied? Should I have said that Mr Willoughby was nothing more than a passing crush or that I felt completely nothing?
     My mind flitted back to a few summers before when, in a warm and sunny garden, my father and I had sat around a basket of ham and bread rolls and apples and a bottle of light wine that the maid had packed for us, discussing the flaws of the French government system, in particular, the Revolution.
     'The trouble with the King, Louis his name was,' my father said, 'was that he didn't know what he was doing. He had no plan, no idea of what was right or wrong, appropriate for a man of his position and responsibility. Nothing. All he knew was pleasure. And you can't run a country, can't do anything of worth properly at all for that matter if you don't truly understand the core reason and outcomes of it. If you've got a clear head, and you do Kate, and you reason your choices out to yourself, you'll be just fine.'
     Today, looking out into just as warm and sunny a garden, though with silver sugar tong rather than steel bread knives, it made more sense to me. I had no doubt I would see Mr Willoughby again, but it would be a passing pleasure, not the reason for being here. And that deserved more attention than I was giving it currently.
     It was time to get down to business.