Secrets at Sea: Chapters 12–16

She wore something gauzy, softly draped: a gown for receiving a guest.

Her hand extended to a gentleman there in the chair. Immaculate black and white. Wing collar. A good head of hair, center-parted.

“Oh stop at once,” she murmured, deep in some unsuitable dream. “I implore you.”

“Thanks to me,” Louise endlessly recalled, “Camilla has snagged Lord Peter Henslowe, a major catch. Truly top-notch. His family—the Henslowes, you know—have two castles and a house in London. They ride to hounds. Hounds, my dears. Lord Peter will be an earl one day, and that will make Camilla a countess. A countess.”

I had a secret or two up my furry sleeve that would send them staggering, if I chose to share it. If and when. I—Helena, the oldest.
“You are looking very smug, Helena,” Louise remarked.

Now he sat back on his spindly shanks.

“On the other hand,” I observed, “Beatrice may be up on the open deck with Mouse Equerry Lord Peter this very minute. A rendezvous. They may be whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, and planning a future.”

With every account, Lord Peter’s family grew more ancient, their castles bigger. And Camilla grew richer and richer: an American heiress. The Heiress of the Year. It was a story that had everything because Lord Peter was thought to be hard to catch.

The room glowed with eyes upon us. Mice we had not met wanted to know us now. New York City mice. There were mice of the Vanderbilt family on this crossing, and even they glanced our way. We basked.

We have not blundered off to the ends of the earth to marry this girl off. She’s only sixteen years old!

“It will take Olive more than six months. It’s liable to take Olive SIX YEARS!”

“As it happens, I was in her cabin, possibly at the very moment of their betrothal. There was some kissing.”

“I’ll be pursuing a career as Assistant Cabin Steward, with prospects.”

The Duchess glanced down at the soup with disdain.

We inclined our heads with modest pride.

“They will be taking her down the gangplank on a stretcher tomorrow, trussed up like a parcel.”

Royals will flock to the Palace from abroad and naturally bring their mice. Germans—the Liederkranzes and the Limburgs. And the Havartis from Denmark. A real infestation. Meals! Beds! And everyone so touchy about where they are seated at table.

The Duchess seemed to shrink up and look quite frail and needy.

The Diamond Jubilee and the Queen riding out in the royal landau under a black lace parasol.

But where was the music to come from? Musical instruments small enough for mouse hands and lips would hardly serve. Their sound would be reedy and tinny.

But where was the music to come from? Musical instruments small enough for mouse hands and lips would hardly serve. Their sound would be reedy and tinny.

It seemed the entire chorus of The Nutcracker would hum a selection of Viennese waltzes and quadrilles and gallops.

Oh, those wonderfully trimmed whiskers, those peerless ears.

Lord Peter favored both Louise and me with courtly nods.

I suppose we simpered, but he only had eyes for Beatrice.

She did not gloat, though Lord Peter was on the hook, and our whole world knew it now.

Tails are a problem on a crowded ballroom floor, of course. But how nimble and deft everyone was, taking their cue from Lord Peter and Beatrice.

I saw Beatrice there in the center of this scene, Beatrice blushing in white. And myself and Louise, tastefully attired and holding small nosegays of seasonal flowers. Bridesmaids.

Those great white haunches. Those piercing ruby eyes. The commanding tail. Gorgeous whiskers.

The gilded gates of Buckingham Palace fell open that morning to the stately parade of the Queen and all her mighty court.

All the hundreds of palace staff were watching now, clustered at their windows: the Pages of the Presence and the Pages of the Backstairs. The Body Linen Laundresses and the Bedchamber Women. The Fire Lighters and Footmen, the Butlers and Under Butlers. The Chimney Sweeps. The Apothecary to the Household.

Oh, you should have seen that noble chamber in all its quiet grandeur.

The King of the Belgians alone was accompanied by a retinue of forty mice, and he was but one king among many.

Down the aisle between the crowds she hobbled on her matchstick, wearing her rusty tiara and a caterpillar boa.

She carried a burgeoning bouquet of four late violets, white ones, picked dew-fresh that very morning from a shady corner of the palace gardens.

From a small explosion of tulle between her ears, a train of point lace fully six inches long flowed down behind her. It was white lace, ivory with age—a snippet off Queen Victoria’s own train from her long-ago wedding day.

Her wedding gown, ivory like her veil, was simple and girlish, and hiked at the rear to accommodate her tail.

And seven petticoats beneath, so she seemed to skim just above the pile of the carpet, like a floating doily.

He wore a purple silk stole, embroidered, around his neck and held the tiniest prayer book you ever saw.

If I am remembering correctly, he wore a silk cravat overflowing a grosgrain waistcoat from his London tailor.