Alice-Miranda at the Palace 11 Page 5

  Alice-Miranda had only just met the twins, but something told her that those two would not be staying out of trouble for long.

  Once the adults were safely away, one of the twins looked accusingly at Alice-Miranda. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Do you know how long it took to work out how to attach that glove to the stick so it looked real?’ the other boy added.

  ‘I’m sorry to have ruined your game,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘It just didn’t seem like a very nice trick, especially when Lady Luttrell ended up covered in champagne.’

  ‘Who made you the fun police?’ the first boy huffed.

  The pair were the most identical twins Alice-Miranda had ever seen. They had thick heads of curly dark hair and blue-black eyes, were exactly the same height and wore completely matching outfits. She wondered how anyone could ever tell them apart.

  ‘I’m sure there are plenty of things you can do that won’t involve upsetting the guests,’ Alice-Miranda said.

  The first boy rolled his eyes. ‘How dull.’

  ‘Who are you lot, anyway, and how come you’re at the palace?’ his brother asked.

  ‘I think we were invited because your grandmother is godmother to my stepmother and step-aunt,’ Lucas said.

  One of the boys wrinkled his lip. ‘Why haven’t we ever seen you before, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Alice-Miranda answered, ‘but we’ve spent lots of time with your grandmother in the past year or so, just not here. She hosted Aunt Charlotte’s wedding onboard the Octavia and it was lovely to see her at the village fair. Her horse, Rockstar, and my pony, Bonaparte, have a bit of a bromance going on. I thi–’

  ‘So you’re the famous Alice-Miranda?’ the boy on the right said disdainfully.

  ‘I’m certainly not famous but, yes, I am Alice-Miranda,’ the girl replied. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. I presume one of you is Edgar and the other is Louis but I’m afraid I don’t –’

  ‘That explains a lot then,’ one of the lads said.

  His brother nodded. ‘It sure does.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Millie asked. She didn’t like their tone one bit.

  ‘Grandmama is always talking about her.’ The boy waved his hand dismissively. ‘Alice-Miranda this and Alice-Miranda that, and if only you were as well behaved as Alice-Miranda and her goody-goody, snot-nosed, brat-faced friends.’

  ‘I can imagine Aunty Gee saying that about Alice-Miranda,’ Sloane said, ‘but does she really say that about the rest of us?’

  ‘I think they’re joking, Sloane,’ Millie whispered.

  ‘Aunty Gee?’ one of the boys scoffed. ‘You know she’s not really your aunt. She’s the Queen and you should call her “Your Majesty”. Seriously, who do you think you are?’

  ‘A bunch of jumped-up little commoners, if you ask me,’ his brother said.

  ‘Who are you calling commoners?’ Millie demanded, outraged.

  ‘You!’ The boy glared at her.

  ‘Your grandmother asked us to call her Aunty Gee,’ Jacinta retorted. ‘And it would be impolite not to call Her Majesty by the name she requested.’

  ‘Listen to you, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes,’ one of the boys taunted.

  ‘Me? I think you’ve got that wrong,’ Jacinta replied. ‘I used to be known as our school’s second-best tantrum thrower.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ the boy sneered.

  Jacinta nodded. ‘It’s true. I had some of the biggest tantrums you’re ever likely to see and I was almost expelled from school too.’

  Lucas reached out and touched Jacinta on the arm. ‘But you’re not like that anymore.’

  ‘Come on, Jacinta. I’m hungry and I think I saw Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Lawrence arriving with the babies,’ Alice-Miranda said. The last thing they needed was a scene.

  One of the boys stepped out to block their path. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘You need to pay us back for ruining our game,’ his brother agreed.

  Alice-Miranda folded her arms. ‘Well, that’s just silly.’

  The two boys looked at each other. Then one of them turned and pointed at Jacinta. ‘She has to throw a tantrum,’ he said, ‘so that everyone sees.’

  ‘What?’ Jacinta frowned. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ the boys snapped at the same time.

  Lucas put an arm around Jacinta. ‘Just leave her alone.’

  ‘You can’t tell us what to do,’ Louis spat.

  ‘Edgar! Louis!’

  The group turned to see a rotund blonde woman rushing down the path towards them. She looked as if she’d raided a game reserve, with her zebra-print dress, leopard-print hat and a crocodile-skin handbag and shoes.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ she puffed.

  The two boys’ shoulders drooped and their faces fell. ‘Hello Mother,’ they said in unison.

  The woman peered past the twins at Alice-Miranda and the other children. ‘Oh, have you made some new friends?’

  The boys looked at each other and gave a half-nod.

  ‘As if,’ Jacinta muttered.

  Alice-Miranda stepped forward. ‘Hello, I’m Alice-Miranda Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones,’ she said, then proceeded to introduce the rest of the group.

  ‘I’m Edgar and Louis’ mother, Elsa. I’m so pleased the boys have met you all. They spend far too much time together, and I’m afraid that’s not always a good thing.’ She turned her attention back to her sons. ‘The look your grandmother gave me a few moments ago – I was almost certain you were in some sort of trouble. You should come and say hello to Aunt Valentina and the rest of Granny’s friends, or you’ll definitely be in the bad books.’

  ‘We should go and say hello to Granny too,’ Alice-Miranda piped up, seizing the opportunity to escape.

  ‘Oh, of course. Valentina’s your grandmother. She’s always had such a soft spot for my children. Anyway, it’s lovely to meet you all. Look, there’s Prunella Spencer. Prunella!’ Elsa hurried over to a woman in a red-and-white polka-dot ensemble.

  Alice-Miranda smiled. She couldn’t remember Granny ever having a soft spot for Aunty Gee’s grandchildren. In fact, she was sure it was quite the opposite. Her grandmother had often delighted in telling terrible stories about the older girls and the twins. Granny Valentina said that Aunty Gee avoided inviting her son Freddy and his wife Elsa and their brood of seven to anything as often as she could. Alice-Miranda had always wondered if Granny was exaggerating, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Just to be clear, we’re not your friends,’ Millie said.

  ‘Ditto,’ the twins chorused.

  Braxton Balfour looked at his watch. By his calculations he’d have just enough time to drive to the cottage and back before the afternoon games, provided the parcel was ready. He rushed down the path, through the woodland glade and across the lawns to the courtyard and then down to the kitchen, where he picked up the hamper that was waiting by the door.

  He dashed to the garages behind the stables and jumped into a tiny red hatchback, then tore off down the driveway. As the crow flew, the cottage was just up and over the ridge, nestled in the valley below and shielded by a dense thicket. But on the ground it was a forty-five-minute round trip that involved negotiating six locked farm gates. There were days when Braxton happily made the trek over the hill, but not today. Mr Langley was already in a foul mood and the man didn’t need any more excuses to bay for Braxton’s blood.

  It all began a month ago, when Vincent Langley had spent a short stint in hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Mrs Marmalade had taken Braxton with her to the cottage one afternoon and had given him explicit instructions to pick up a package from the gate every Saturday. He was to tell no one and, in return, Her Majesty would look favourably upon him. The trouble was that it had been a job previously assigned to Mr Langley, and it didn’t go down too well when the head butler returned to service and discovered that a former role of his had been usurped. Though Langley never said
as much, it was obvious he resented the younger man.

  He frequently made outrageous demands on Braxton’s time, often requiring that he complete jobs well after the rest of the household had gone to bed. But Braxton was determined not to let it get to him. He had wanted to be the Queen’s butler ever since a very special visitor had taken tea with his parents when he was a boy. Langley was getting on, and although he said he didn’t plan to retire anytime soon, Braxton was sure Her Majesty would insist upon it one of these days.

  Braxton drove as quickly as he dared, hopping out to open and close the gates. He hoped the parcel would be there. If it wasn’t, when he’d have time to go back later was anyone’s guess, given that Langley had him on games duties in addition to finalising preparations for the ball.

  He parked the car in the usual place next to the oak tree with a giant knotted branch and walked to the edge of an overgrown garden. To the naked eye the undergrowth was impenetrable, but Braxton knew where the vines gave up their stranglehold and pushed his way through. Once on the other side, the grounds opened up to a surprisingly pristine cottage that was bordered by a low stone wall.

  There was something odd about the whole picture but Braxton had long ago come to understand that it was not his place to ask questions. He didn’t even have an inkling about the contents of the packages he collected, nor of the inhabitants of the cottage. As a butler of the highest order, his job was to do as he was bid and ensure complete confidentiality.

  Braxton walked over to the gate and looked inside the rusted metal cabinet. Annoyed to find the parcel wasn’t inside, he paused to consider what to do next. Mrs Marmalade had been very clear that he was never to approach the house or try to talk to the inhabitants, but this was an emergency. If Braxton didn’t get back soon, Langley would string him up.

  ‘Is anyone home?’ he called from the gate. ‘I have to take the parcel to Her Majesty and I really don’t have time to come back later.’

  Braxton scanned the grounds then glanced up at the roof, where a beady-eyed raven was glaring at him. It was often there. He wondered if whoever lived inside had befriended the creature.

  ‘Hello?’ Braxton called out again.

  He thought he could hear coughing coming from inside the cottage. It wasn’t a small cough either, rather a desperate hacking that he didn’t like the sound of at all. He waited and listened, then did something he’d been instructed never to do. Braxton opened the garden gate. He hesitated, holding the basket in his hand. What if the person inside was choking? He’d never forgive himself. Braxton ran towards the porch.

  The raven dived at him, flapping and cawing, its beak snapping like castanets. Braxton fought it off, his arms flailing as he smacked it away. He dropped the basket on the path, its contents spilling everywhere. But the creature persisted. It came at him again and again, striking Braxton’s cheek.

  Braxton took one last swipe at the bird and pushed open the front door, slamming it hard behind him. A single shiny black feather fluttered down inside the hall.

  ‘Where are you?’ Braxton called urgently, his eyes scanning the hallway with its narrow staircase. The house was now eerily quiet. He turned to his right and saw a woman slumped on the floor of the sitting room, a bowl of nuts scattered beside her.

  Braxton rushed over and picked her up like a rag doll, her long brown curls spilling behind her. The woman’s dark eyes begged as she struggled for breath. He spun her around and laid her over his knee, bringing his hand down hard, striking her between the shoulderblades. All of a sudden a large walnut flew across the room, pinging against the glass-fronted bookcase on the wall.

  Braxton stopped and turned her around to face him. He held her in his arms as he watched the colour slowly return to her ashen face. Then he gently set her down on a sofa. He couldn’t help staring as a memory tugged at the corners of his mind.

  ‘Water?’ Braxton asked, giving a small sigh.

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘But you need something to drink,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you were going to die.’

  Braxton decided the kitchen would likely be down the end of the hall at the rear of the cottage. He began to walk towards the door but the woman quickly gathered herself together and ran to block his path.

  She held up her hand and motioned for him to stay where he was. Braxton did as he was bid, at the same time realising that just being inside the cottage could land him in desperate trouble.

  The woman scurried down the hall and disappeared through a doorway at the end. Braxton could hear a tap running. He glanced back into the front room. Two comfortable-looking sofas sat at right angles to one another, while two matching timber bookcases sat in perfect symmetry beside an open fireplace with beautiful ceramic tiles. Braxton hadn’t known what to expect when he entered the cottage, but this house could have been anywhere, on any street, in any village. Neat and well cared for, he couldn’t understand why it was so deliberately hidden. For some reason he’d always imagined it would be untidy and cluttered, and quite simply strange.

  Braxton spotted a small scrap of material on the floor and bent to pick it up. He studied its pretty peacock pattern, wondering what it was doing there. When the woman reappeared holding a brown paper package, he quickly stuffed the material into his pocket and took the parcel from her. It was the same size as every other one he’d ever collected, with almost no weight to it at all.

  She glanced up at Braxton, studying his face.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Braxton said, touching his bloodied cheek. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Wait,’ the woman whispered, her voice catching in her throat. She raced away again and this time returned with a cloth and a small basin of water that smelt powerfully of antiseptic. She reached up and gently dabbed at the scratches on Braxton’s face.

  The man flinched. ‘I know I’m not supposed to come past the gate. I promise not to tell anyone, but just so you know, I’m Braxton Balfour and I’m one of Her Majesty’s butlers.’ For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked and Braxton realised something. ‘Lydie?’ The name floated from his lips on the softest of breaths.

  She looked at him like a lost child.

  ‘Is your name Lydie?’ he asked again.

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’ Braxton frowned, his eyes searching her face for a glimmer of recognition.

  She shook her head.

  The way she stared at him, Braxton felt as if he were a ghost. There were so many questions. ‘What happened to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Please go,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Braxton said, backing away.

  The moment he opened the front door, the raven flew past him into the hallway, where it perched on the woman’s shoulder. Bewildered, Braxton stumbled down the path, past the basket and its spilled contents, and didn’t once look back.

  Lydie stood in the doorway, staring out. ‘Who is he, Lucien?’ she said, stroking the bird on her shoulder. ‘And why can’t I remember?’

  The children took turns wheeling the babies around the garden and soon enough they forgot about Louis and Edgar. They concentrated on exploring as much as they could and even revisited the grotto. It turned out to be an artificial cave decorated with the most beautiful mosaics they’d ever seen. Several little bridges led the way over a moat to a central island with an ornate wooden table and chairs. The children had found it charming and not scary at all, and Millie thought it would make the perfect picnic spot on a warm day.

  Later on, while Jacinta, Sloane, Sep and Lucas were being introduced around by Ambrosia, Millie and Alice-Miranda took the babies for a final lap of the secret garden. As the pair rounded the end of the path they noticed Marjorie Plunkett disappearing into the grotto.

  ‘What do you think she’s going in there for?’ Millie asked. ‘She seemed pretty worried about us taking a look earlier.’

  Alice-Miranda shrugged. ‘I imagine she�
�s just curious, like we were.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s having a romantic rendezvous with her fiancé.’ Millie giggled.

  As the girls drew closer to the grotto they could hear voices.

  Millie stopped on the path to listen. ‘That doesn’t sound very romantic.’

  ‘Come on, Millie,’ Alice-Miranda whispered. ‘It’s none of our business.’

  Millie knew that her friend was right but there was something about Marjorie Plunkett that intrigued her.

  ‘Is there anything more to report?’ she heard Marjorie say. Although the woman spoke in hushed tones, the grotto walls amplified her voice. She sounded anxious, not like someone who was having fun at a garden party.

  Millie lingered a moment longer while Alice-Miranda pushed the pram further down the path.

  ‘I’ve just received this,’ a voice replied. ‘Delivered with the palace post, same as last time.’

  ‘Is the perimeter secure?’ Marjorie asked.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, uh, Bunyan. You know we can’t be too careful. I’ve made some arrangements of my own to monitor their whereabouts.’

  Millie’s ears pricked up, but she couldn’t hear what Marjorie said next. She raced to catch up with Alice-Miranda, glancing back to see if anyone had emerged. ‘I just heard Miss Plunkett say the strangest thing,’ Millie said.

  Alice-Miranda looked at her friend.

  ‘I know, I know, I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,’ Millie conceded. ‘But I heard Miss Plunkett say something about being careful and that she had made arrangements to monitor someone’s whereabouts. What do you think that means?’

  Alice-Miranda turned to look back up the path and noticed a bald man in a dark suit walking out of the grotto.

  ‘Maybe she’s nervous about the paparazzi getting into her wedding,’ Alice-Miranda suggested. ‘You know how much Aunty Gee hates being stalked by them. A royal wedding is bound to create a lot of interest.’