Revived Spirits (15 page)

A piece of rough slate nailed to the cash register held a message: “Ask about the special.” The proprietor, a thickset man with a surly expression and an apron streaked with green stains, folded his arms and glared at them.

Cal stepped forward. “May I ask about the special?”

“No, you can order or not order it—those are the choices.”

“Well, I guess I’ll order it then.”

The man turned and looked at a dusty clock on the stucco wall. “Can’t start the special until eleven thirty. It’s only eleven fifteen.”

“Um, okay.” He squinted at the menu painted on the wall behind the man. “How about Yorkshire pudding?”

“Couldn’t possibly. Just popped it into the oven. Won’t be ready yet for a good long while.”

“Uh, bangers and mash.”

“Nope. Not a chance. The missus isn’t here yet to help me with the cooking.”

Cal gritted his teeth. Liv couldn’t wait any longer. She said, “I’d like two orders of eel pie.”

“Who’s orderin’ here?” the proprietor barked, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands on his hips. He turned back to Cal and waited.

Cal’s shoulders dropped. “Well, all right then, let’s make that three orders of eel pie.”

“Not worth cutting into that lovely big pie for just three slices.” He leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “Now, here’s what I could do for you. I’ve got six Full English Breakfasts sitting in the back that I need to unload before the missus gets here for the lunch shift and sees ’em.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “They’ve gotten a bit cold, so I’ll let you have ’em for half price.”

“Is that our only choice?”

The man smiled. “It’s either that or jellied eel with parsley liquor.”

“Done!” Cal reached into a pocket with one hand and out to Liv with the other, surrendering the money from both sources.

They waited for their change and Cal scanned the walls. “What are you looking for?” whispered Liv.

“A health code rating.”

“Stop making yourself conspicuous.  Let’s find a booth.”

They sat on opposite sides of their table and scooted over to the window to leave room for the others. Anthony came back first, just as the owner appeared with a huge tray, laden with plates piled high with toast, beans, sausages and scrambled eggs. He emptied the tray and trotted back to the counter, whistling as he went.

“What—?”

“Don’t ask,” muttered Liv.

Costumes in their backpacks, they made their way through the streets of Greenwich, into the park and up the winding path toward the Royal Observatory, Flamsteed House.

Frederica began, “I say we go around the back of the house, away from the meridian strip and the main entrance, then duck behind some shrubs or something and put on our costumes.”

“I like the part about the shrubs,” said Cal. “Girls can take lookout duty while boys change, then we’ll do the same for you. You two need to go last because your outfits look weirder, at least in the present.” He and Anthony had bought secondhand khaki pants and long-sleeved white shirts at a charity shop, but had no luck finding used shoes that fit them. New ones were too expensive, and Liv hoped the long cuffs of the slacks would cover their running shoes.

“Over there,” puffed Anthony, as they made the last turn in the uphill path. He pointed to a white service van, parked behind an imposing statue labeled
Wolfe in Winter.
It was beyond the Meridian Building and at least fifty yards from where Maskelyne would be waiting for them at the old observatory. “The van’s empty. We can hide behind it, change and use the box.”

Frederica looked doubtful. “That’s a long distance to cover to get to Maskelyne. What if somebody stops us?”

Liv said, “Then I’ll just say Sir Nevil—Uncle Nevil—is expecting us.”  She began to walk faster, toward the van.

“Welcome to Flamsteed House.” Maskelyne greeted them in the courtyard crowded with servants carrying parcels unloaded from nearby wagons and led them to a door, where he waved them through. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Ah, Precious isn’t among you. Excellent.  Come this way.”

He turned down a narrow hall. “You may remain in my apartments until time for the party.” He checked his pocket-watch. “You did arrive at three o’clock, as we agreed. I value punctuality.”

Anthony pointed to the timepiece in the astronomer’s hand. “That looks like an H4! I’ve been reading all about it and about John Harrison, but I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be carrying around something made by a guy you hate.”

Maskelyne grinned sheepishly. “What am I to do? The miserable thing does keep the best of time.”

He turned to Liv. “Now, returning to the matter at hand. His Majesty has seen fit to inform us that he will arrive with the Queen at half past eight o’clock, and he is always precisely on time. Therefore, guests must arrive before then, starting at eight.” He gave a curt nod to both girls. “I shall return for the two of you shortly before eight o’clock.”

“What about us?” asked Anthony.

“Well, I—I’m sure I don’t know,” stammered Maskelyne. “You should stay apart from the young ladies, I suppose.” He pulled nervously at the cuffs of his shirt. “Don’t you have some sort of plan?”

“Of course we do, Sir Nevil,” said Liv, aware that it wasn’t much of a plan, but not wanting to alarm him further. He seemed to fear them a little. Liv took no pleasure seeing him squirm, but someone had to be in charge.

“Attend to your duties, Sir Nevil, and don’t worry about us. We’ll stay right here, out of sight. Come knock on the door when you’re ready, and escort us to the party.” She pointed to the boys. “They’ll stay in the background, ready to help if needed.”

It was eight forty-five. Anthony and Cal crept along the hallway, staying close to the wall. Servants in livery uniforms strode up and down the hall at a furious pace, carrying trays and receiving or barking out orders, depending on their rank.

Satisfied that no one was paying them the slightest attention, the boys inched closer to the Octagon Room entrance.

“Here! You two!” a man dressed in a scarlet coat with gold braid shouted. His white hose and polished black shoes were spotless. Only a slight soiling on his gloved fingertips and the sweat stains on his white neck scarf marred the perfection of his costume. He glanced at them, then looked away, as if they were so lowly he might contaminate himself by making eye contact. “Take these down to the kitchen.”

He thrust a tray full of dirty china and wineglasses at them, turned on his heel, and returned to the Octagon Room.

“We’d better do what he says,” whispered Cal. “He’ll notice us if we sneak in now. Which way to the kitchen?”

“Keep your mouth shut and your head down,” Anthony whispered back. Another liveried servant appeared at the end of the hall,coming toward them with a fresh tray. As they approached him, he raised his chin and made a point of ignoring them. More servants appeared, and the boys walked in the opposite direction of the procession.

A stout woman with wisps of gray hair escaping her cap and clinging to her broad face stood at the kitchen doorway. She motioned the boys past her, toward the back of the bustling room. “Well, don’t just hang about—dirties that way! Shoo!” Anthony and Cal moved as directed, then stood still while a flurry of arms attacked the tray, cleared it, and handed it to a runner.

“Wait.” The woman grabbed Cal by the shoulder and shoved him toward a food preparation area. “You might make yerself useful along the way.” She thrust a tray of prawns at each of them and shouted, “Hand that over to one of the footmen as you go.”

“We’re finally headed in the right direction, at least,” offered Cal.

“Yeah, but no way will any of these servers let us into the Octagon Room, and if we keep delivering trays, we could be stuck in the hallways all night.  Let’s hope something turns up.”

The sounds of laughter, conversation and music floated down the hall. A footstep from a side passage came a millisecond before a firm hand clamped Anthony’s shoulder, nearly causing him to drop the tray. A haughty voice intoned, “Hand it over and wait here.  I’ll return with an empty tray.”

The boys waited till the man’s back was turned, grinned at each other, and entered the grand Octagon Room.

His Royal Highness, George the Third of England, sat on an ornate chair by the wall, beneath the wonderful year-going clocks of Thomas Tompion and huge portraits of two ancestors. He looked dumpy and plain. His simple linen coat and tired expression produced an unflattering contrast to the finery and kingly poses of Charles the Second and James the First.

Liv turned her attention from him and scanned the room. The boys were somewhere in the crowd—she’d seen them sneak in. Frederica took her by the hand and said, “Let’s move about the room a bit.”

They strolled around the octagonal space,and Liv was amazed that it looked no different in this time than in the present, except for the absence of electric lights. Candelabra on tall iron stands ringed the room, and the glow of fading daylight passed through the tall windows, giving everything a quality of softness. The smell of candle wax was strong, but a gentle breeze from opened windows made it bearable.

On the opposite side of the room, a small orchestra had been set up. Liv counted twelve chairs, plus a keyboard instrument with a bench. Apparently, the musicians were on break. Violins rested on velvet seats and candles on the music stands were snuffed. Liv looked around for Cumpston and spotted Maskelyne instead, bowing stiffly as he greeted his guests. She caught the astronomer’s eye, and the slight shake of his head indicated that Cumpston wasn’t near yet.

Liv was drawn to the keyboard and she walked over to get a better look. Was it a harpsichord? How did it feel and sound? She became aware of Frederica beside her, and they both jumped at Maskelyne’s voice.

“And these are my nieces,Your Highness, the Misses Havard.” Liv winced as Maskelyne took her arm and turned her firmly around to face a plump, sweet-looking older lady.

“We don’t turn our backs on royalty,” he hissed quietly into Liv’s ear, never losing his smile or taking his eyes off the woman. Frederica immediately curtsied, and Liv followed suit. If they’d broken any rules of etiquette, the woman kindly pretended not to notice, and addressed Liv with a slight German accent that was as friendly as her smile.

“I saw you looking at the instrument with longing, my dear. It’s a new fortepiano. You should play it. Go ahead—no one will mind.  Enjoy yourself.”

Liv’s face flushed with pleasure. Permission to play a cool instrument, granted by Queen Charlotte, wife of George the Third!

She sat on the seat cushion of rich blue velvet and felt the ivory and ebony keys silently, wondering how they would respond to her touch. She plunged into her favorite Bach Invention, pleased with the delicate but beautiful tone.

Queen Charlotte beamed and nodded, making her way back to her friends and waving her hand back at Liv. Murmers of approval reached her ears before she lost herself in the joy of playing.

Polite applause followed the end of the piece, then everyone went back to partying and talking. The king had made no formal statement yet, and the guests were still abuzz with anticipation.

Liv was having fun. She began to play bits of the Mozart sonata that she had memorized. Frederica came and went, sometimes sitting beside her and talking, then drifting off to chat with Maskelyne. There was still no sign of Cumpston or Harrison.

Deciding that no one was really paying attention to her background music, she began to play the one other thing she could remember, a favorite Beethoven sonata. She smiled as she thought how Beethoven was probably just a little child right now, and didn’t notice the man making his way toward her, impatiently darting through the crowd.

“What the devil was that?” he demanded, pulling up a chair beside the harpsichord’s gilded bench. “The one before sounded like that little Austrian monkey, Mozart, and never mind how a young lady like you got hold of it.” He stabbed the air with his finger. “But that last one is extraordinary! I’ve never heard such. Whoever is the composer?”

“I’m, uh. . .visiting from America.” Could she talk her way out of this? “I, er, don’t have the music. A friend showed it to me. I’ll have to ask her about it when I get back—to America, that is.”

Frederica walked past and whispered in Liv’s ear, “Brilliant! You’re creating a diversion. Keep it up.” Liv watched her make her way back to Maskelyne, and stood to follow.

“Wait!” the man cried. He walked a few steps to an orchestra chair and picked up a violin. Back at the fortepiano, he played a snatch of the piece. “Isn’t that how it goes? What was the next part? Can you hum it for me?”

Liv was worried now. Would this man remember the tune for a long time? When Beethoven wrote it later, would there be a lawsuit? She reached for the keys and began to repeat one of her earlier selections, ignoring the man until he shrugged and walked away.

She became aware of a plain brown jacket, its elbows at her eye level. She’d gotten used to people wandering by, murmuring compliments or just listening for a moment before moving on. She wondered what this one would say. She glanced up at his face, then wished she hadn’t. It was the king.