Prisoners in the Palace by Michaela MacColl Page A

Frenchy’s a different story. She’s a proper terror. ‘er tea is always too ‘ot or too cold or too bitter. As if Mrs. Strode would give me extra sugar for the asking!”
    The door banged open. Liza whirled around to face a fully dressed, and furious, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle’s artificially dark hair was gathered at the top and fell down in tight curls on either side of her face. Liza wondered if it might be a wig. Her heart sank. After the scene at dinner, Liza had hoped Mademoiselle could be avoided for a while.
    “I have waited for my tea for twenty minutes,” Mademoiselle cried. “And now I find you gossiping in here. I’ll have to report you to Mrs. Strode.”
    “Again?” asked Nell.
    Ignoring her, Mademoiselle’s gunmetal eyes swept Liza’s tiny room. “You have Annie Mason’s old room. C’est absurd!”
    “It’s small and damp, but I am the newest…“ Liza stopped because Mademoiselle looked like a pot ready to boil over. Nell smothered a giggle with her hand.
    “What is it?” Liza asked.
    Nell whispered between her fingers. “She has to share a room.”
    Liza’s lips formed an O but no sound came out.
    “C’etait insupportable. I am certain that you are no better than Annie Mason,” Mademoiselle hissed like an angry snake. “She lowered the tone of the entire household.”
    “Mademoiselle, you need not worry about my morals,” Liza said. “Since you only aspire to the gentry, whereas I have actually fallen from it, you may trust I know precisely how to behave.”
    Mademoiselle was sputtering in French, but Liza didn’t cede an inch.
    “Why are you here, Mademoiselle?” she asked. “I assure you I am perfectly capable of waking up without you.”
    “Madame Strode told me to show you the Dutch classic braid the Baroness prefers. But I will not stand here to be abused,” said Mademoiselle, glaring at both Nell and Liza. “You and the vulgar Baroness are perfectly matched.” She stormed out the door, her jet black curls bobbing down her neck.
    “Well, I never,” Nell stared at Liza with undisguised admiration. “That was a treat, Miss. Wait ‘til I tell the others.”
    A belated twinge of caution gnawed at Liza. “Perhaps it should stay between us.”
    “She can be a bad enemy,” Nell agreed. “But you won’t have much to do with the Duchess’s lady’s maid. Especially since the Duchess and Sir John have fallen out lately with the Baroness.”
    “What do you mean?” Liza asked.
    “The closer the Princess gets to bein’ Queen, the more the Duchess pushes away the Princess’s friends. She’d fire the Baroness if she could, but the King likes ‘er. So you see, Miss Frenchy wouldn’t be your friend for all the coal in Newcastle.”
    Liza worked it out. “Do you mean, if her mistress dislikes my mistress, then we are enemies?”
    “Below stairs is the same as above.” Nell grinned. “Not to mention what you said yesterday at table.”
    “Well, she can go to the devil for all I care,” Liza said with a lot more bravery than she felt. “I have my own job to do. First, would you show me how to do this special braid?” She handed her tortoiseshell comb to Nell.
    Nell showed Liza the hairstyle, a simple braided rope of hair wound around the top of the head.
    “Trust Mademoiselle to make it sound difficult,” Liza said. “Dutch classic braid indeed! I’ll have no trouble doing the Baroness’s hair now.”
    Nell caught a glimpse of Liza’s father’s watch. “Oh Lord, I must go or Mrs. Strode’ll take my ‘ead off.” Turning to leave, she gave Liza an encouraging smile. “You’ll do fine, Miss.” Then she skittered out of the room.
    Liza brushed her long hair quickly and with deft fingers twisted it into a demure chignon. Reluctantly, she left her locket on the bureau. It would not do for a maid. Examining her reflection in a hand mirror, she hoped she looked the part she was about to play.
    After a meager breakfast of watery porridge, Liza met Nell at