Geraldine was having fun.
Having put on Sophie’s wig, she’d gone straight to her old acquaintance, the Laundry Boy. He hadn’t noticed her yet: his back was to her, and he was scrubbing some clothes. Odd, thought Geraldine, that he should actually be doing some work. Odd that he knew how to do any work. He was probably doing it wrong, somehow.
As it happens, her instincts were right. The Laundry Boy had mixed the whites with the reds, and was now trying to wash the pink from His Majesty’s fifth-best tablecloth.
“Good morning, Laundry Boy,” she declared impressively. She stood on tiptoes, in a vague attempt to reach Sophie’s lofty heights.
The Laundry Boy turned around. “Wh… bl… Chief Wig Maker.” this was unusual, he’d never seen her in the laundry room before. “How-”
“Laundry Boy, what are you doing?” Geraldine had lowered her voice to disguise it, not that Sophie talked in a particularly low voice.
“Ma’am, I’m, I’m…” he desperately tried to hide His Majesty’s fifth-best tablecloth behind his back. “Nothing, mi’lady.”
Nothing?” she boomed.
“Nothin,” he confirmed, shaking slightly.
“What kind of low servant does nothing?”
He had no reply to this.
“Very well, Laundry Boy, I have a job for you.”
“A job?”
“A job, ma’am,” she insisted, correcting him. Being powerful was fun!
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
“You should be. I have a job for you. I would like you to put your head down the loo.”
He blanched.
“Now, Laundry Boy!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Taking care to stuff the tablecloth deep inside the laundry basket, he scuttled off to find the nearest loo. Once he was safely out of earshot, Geraldine rumbled with laughter, to no-one in particular.
Geraldine was only just discovering the mischief she could play around the palace. She wondered, idly, how many times she could make the Laundry Boy put his head down the lavatory in a single day, and she speculated that it was probably double figures. Even as normal Geraldine she could usually persuade him to do it once a day: it was amazing how many times he’d fall for the old ‘they’ve found gold in the toilet’ story. An eternal optimist, our Laundry Boy.
But Geraldine knew the mischief wouldn’t stop with the Laundry Boy. Sophie had power over far more important people than mere servants, and Geraldine wanted to exploit this to the full. Leaving the laundry room, she boldly flung open the door to the central hall, and strode out into the palace’s central corridor.
There were few people about, disappointingly. The last court session had ended much earlier that afternoon, and only a few courtiers stayed around once their daily duties were done. None of them had meaningful employment at the palace, but that was only part of the reason they didn’t hang around for the evening. The longer you stayed at the palace, common wisdom held, the more likely to interact with the King in some way, and the more likely you were to interact with the King, the more likely you were to find yourself up for execution.
So Geraldine only found a couple of people in the palace’s main corridor. An antiquarian Duchess was shuffling away from the dining room, but Geraldine decided she wasn’t worth it. A congregation of Counts circled a door a few paces down the corridor, mumbling amongst themselves, shutting out the world. These, thought Geraldine, were a much more interesting group to mess with.
“Good afternoon, sirs,” she declared.
They fell silent, respectfully.
“Is that last year’s wig, Count?” Geraldine asked, spearing her eyes at one specimen of Count. He shook awkwardly.
“And as for you, Count…”
Before she could continue, however, there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned round haughtily.
“And who are you?” she demanded. She suddenly realized that she had come down from her tiptoes to turn around, and hastily bobbed up again.
“Begging your pardon, Chief Wig Maker, but I’m the new Court Secretary.” The new Court Secretary gulped at having to say his title. It was a permanent post in the gravest sense.
“Ah, of course.”The previous post holder had been executed twenty minutes previously for pronouncing ‘café’ in the French way. “What do you want, Court Secretary?”
“The King requests your presence in the court room, Chief Wig Maker, where you will be joined by the other chief aides. His Majesty desires that you bring him the completed wig for tomorrow’s diplomatic proceedings. Half an hour before dinner, in the court room. Good day.”
“Very well, Court Secretary,” the fake Sophie replied, a little daunted, and the latest Court Secretary departed to his duties. Geraldine hadn’t been prepared for this. She’d assumed Sophie’s appearance to have some fun at other people’s expense, to exercise some power, not to have power exercised upon her. She left the group of Counts and pondered down the corridor.
It suddenly struck her that she was in a bit of trouble here. Impersonating someone else by wearing their wig was a serious offence, and being discovered could put Geraldine in a very difficult position. If the impersonation were found out, she would also be accused of stealing all the wigs from the wig workshop, almost certainly leading to immediate death. She’d have to see the impersonation through now: maybe she’d still get the chance to play a few tricks on people, but she’d also have to produce the King’s new court wig as required.
Where would the wig be? Geraldine couldn’t know the answer, but the wig workshop was clearly the first place to look. Turning her tiptoed sneak into a tiptoed trot, she walked as quickly as she could to the wig workshop stairs, and made her towards the top floor, inelegantly stomping over the velvet red carpet in her haste. A Viscount bowed slightly as she passed, but she ignored him. A Duchess curtseyed, but she too was ignored. All that mattered was getting to the workshop, getting that prize wig, and getting back down again in time for the meeting with the King.
Someone else, however, was ascending towards the wig workshop equally rapidly. The footsteps were behind her on the stair, accompanied by the puffing harmony of an out-of-breath courtier, unused to any physical effort so demanding as climbing a flight of stairs at pace. Geraldine didn’t turn, she didn’t have time, but the puffer was catching her, despite her own speed. She moved even more quickly, irritated at the wheezing she could hear behind her, almost tripping up the stairs. The wheezing grew louder and higher. The bannister behind her squeaked. The squeak was loud and close and near, and she knew she’d have to confront whoever was following her.
“What?” she barked, turning round to face the puffing man.
It was the Admiral.
England’s great naval hero was, indeed, on a voyage to the wig workshop. Whilst he really had meant to give Sophie enough time to reflect and ruminate on his proposal properly, he was a very impatient man. He’d never had much cause to be patient: he was so used to his own way in his own time that any departure from his desire seemed devilish and unnatural. Assuming that he would get his own way whenever he wanted, he’d decided to hear Sophie’s acceptance sooner rather than later.
The only obstacle was that dreaded flight of stairs. The world, succumbing to his will, had made it rather easy for him. He’d seen Sophie near the bottom of the staircase and smiled a little smile inside. She’d probably been waiting for him all this time, just to make it a little bit easier for him. How thoughtful of her. She would make an excellent wife.
He considered shouting to her, but even he decided that shouting would be improper and unromantic for a man of his stature. Instead, he followed her as she stepped up towards her workshop. Oh, what an elegant tread she had! Light and airy on each step, so light, in fact, that he was finding it very difficult to catch her. He breathed more heavily, but he’d run once in his youth, and was confident of ascending the stairs without losing too much steadiness. Maintaining composure, one hand on the balustrade, he soon found himself, after a few dozen steps, close behind her, ready to begin the conversation.
Her sudden yell surprised him. She had only been a couple of steps above him, and the noise startled him. It was fortunate that he’d already gripped the balustrade, for the shout nearly caused him to lose his balance and tumble down the steps he’d so determinedly climbed. He looked up at her, the woman he’d proposed to, and felt an odd combination of contentment and apprehension. She was bound to accept him, of course, but she hadn’t yet, and it was always best to have these things confirmed.
Geraldine looked at the Admiral, who was very red faced, and tried to hide her panic. He was bound to recognise her. Sophie and the Admiral had both been courtiers for some time, Geraldine knew. Plus the Admiral was always leering at Sophie, or staring in her general direction. The naval captain must know her features very well by now. Come to think of it, after the recent travails with French pastry, he was bound to recognise Geraldine too. This was it, the moment when she got caught. It had been fun, she reckoned, but probably not worth execution, not really.
Yet, somehow, he didn’t recognise her. Perhaps it was the fact that Geraldine was standing two steps above him, looking for all the world as tall as Sophie. Perhaps the wig alone was enough to fool him, being one of Sophie’s most distinctively Sophie-like wigs. Whatever the reason, the Admiral hadn’t learned his lesson from the coach encounter with Billy. He grinned at her.
“Good afternoon, Sophie.”
She could smell his pea-souper breath from a whole two steps away.
“Good afternoon, Admiral,” she replied, in her best Sophie-like manner. Even calling him ‘Admiral’ was a risk. Geraldine had no idea how Sophie addressed the Admiral, or what tone she took with him.
“I’ve just been informed we’re to meet the King before dinner,” he said pleasantly, as if he actually enjoyed meeting the King.
“Yes,” Geraldine replied. She wanted to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. She was stunned that he didn’t recognise her – it could only be a matter of time before he realised he was talking to someone wearing Sophie’s wig rather than Sophie.
“Do you have the new wig ready?” he asked, as if she’d forgotten something very trivial.
“Oh yes.”
“What is it made of?”
What a stupid question.
“Dragon hair.”
A stupid question deserves a stupid answer, thought Geraldine, who came quite close to sticking her tongue out at him in defiance.
“Dragon hair? That’s a new one! Did one of the servants fetch it? Where does it come from?”
“Dragons.”
The Admiral was at a loss to respond, so Geraldine replied to herself.
“Surely, Admiral, you must know precisely what countries dragons live in, from all your brave sea voyages?”
“Oh… oh yes, yes.” It had been a long time since the Admiral read the ‘D’ section in the dictionary, which described dragons as mythical beasts. Even if he had remembered, he would have also remembered not knowing the word ‘mythical’, which came far later in the book.
Geraldine decided enough was enough. She had a wig to fetch, and this conversation needed to move.
“So, Admiral, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked impatiently.
“Well, Chief Wig Maker, I was wondering… I just wanted to know… was wondering-”
“Yes?”
“As to our little conversation earlier, the little talk we had, you know-”
Geraldine had no idea, but she wasn’t interested in finding out.
“I do know. What about it?”
“So, so, your answer to my, my little question…”
Geraldine had no idea what the question was, but it couldn’t have been very important. She might as well just agree.
“Yes, yes, very well.”
His smile broadened. It was so nice to have these things confirmed.
“Good.”
“Yes. I’ve got wigs to make,” said Geraldine, trying to convey Sophie’s towering authority, “I’ve got wigs to make. Good day.”
She strode – or tiptoed hurriedly, like a bouncing marsupial – towards the wig workshop at the top of the stairs, careful not to turn around and look at the departing naval officer.
The Admiral, for his part, gazed after her, admiring her confident, easy manner. She did have a wonderful sense of humour. He would be the envy of the entire court. Things would have to be put in place over the next few days – notices in the papers, the buying of a ring, wedding arrangements – but these were administrative procedures to delight in. As his new fiancée disappeared at the top of the stairs, the Admiral turned and began to totter back down, seeing fair weather ahead at sea.
High above the Admiral, Geraldine soon reached the top of the stairs. The game was still fun. Exhausting, but fun. Yes, she now had to meet the King dressed as someone else, which was almost certainly an executable offence, but she’d already fooled several people, so it couldn’t be that hard. It was the best game of make-believe she’d played in ages. That exchange with the Admiral had been masterly. Fooling even him, the arch-strategist of court politics! All she had to do now was grab the wig, wherever it was in the workshop, chat with the King – something she’d already got a taste for, and looked forward to again with excitement – and return the wig before anybody noticed. Easy.
Geraldine strode up to the workshop door as if it belonged to her, which of course it did, in a way, and gave it a great big pull. The door creaked open, slowly, deliberately, and Geraldine was there, in the place England’s wigs are made.
But she got something she didn’t bargain for. Sophie. The real Chief Wig Maker was standing right there, in the middle of the workshop.
Since returning to the workshop, Sophie had been sitting and waiting. The King of France would arrive the next morning. The King of England would have no majestic wig to wear, depriving His Majesty of a major psychological advantage before the diplomatic negotiations. Sophie would undoubtedly get the blame, unless the King believed the wig to be stolen. There had, apparently, been a robbery of the workshop. So far, so good. However, many of the wigs were neatly wrapped up in a big box in the kitchen, close to the workshop’s secret back stairs, hinting, possibly, that it was an inside job. Someone had found that box. If they came forward, all could be lost. If they didn’t, or if the wigs turned up safely, Sophie might still live another week. Sophie, then, sat and waited.
She’d been surprised that the King hadn’t asked to see her yet. It was the day before the big event, and he wasn’t usually the most trusting of monarchs. He’d normally demand to see the wig several times before the day, just to check it and fondle it and coo at it. Not this time, apparently. Admittedly, Sophie had always provided the right wig on time. He might just have learnt to trust her. Nevertheless, it was fairly puzzling.
So, when the workshop door creaked and groaned, and the big old wooden doors shimmered open without so much as a knock, Sophie’s attention picked itself up and brushed itself down. Who on earth would storm in – well, creak in – without so much as a knock?
That was when the Chief Wig Maker met the Chief Wig Maker.
Sophie stood up and walked slowly from her stool, open-mouthed. The other Chief Wig Maker, wearing exactly the same wig, mimicking the exact same posture stood open-mouthed back. Sophie walked towards her double. Her double walked towards her. Sophie blinked in astonishment. Her double blinked in astonishment. Was this a dream? Some kind of great mirror? Sophie scratched her nose. Her double, unthinkingly, scratched her nose too.
Everything Sophie had done, the double had done. Sophie stopped and stood still. The double stopped and stood still. Yes, it must be some sort of reflection. Just to make sure, just to make absolutely sure, Sophie raised her right arm and started patting her head. With the other arm she rubbed her stomach in great big circles.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” asked Geraldine the double, forgetting her status for a moment. Sophie jumped several inches into the air, briefly losing all composure. Geraldine, again forgetting herself, giggled, then remembered who she was, where she was, what exactly she was doing, and fell utterly silent, more from self-preservation than respect.
The situation was, in the tiniest flash of a second, back to the usual hierarchies of 18th century society.
“Take that off.” Sophie hadn’t shouted, hadn’t barked, but this made her authority all the more potent. Geraldine, her gleefulness turning to fear, slowly removed Sophie’s wig, and Sophie was no longer looking at her double.
“Geraldine.” There was no longer any shock in her expression, just ruthlessness. “Geraldine.”
She’s deciding what to do with me, thought Geraldine. It was like being a spider in the sights of a snake, which was ready to devour the spider whole. That is, if snakes eat spiders. Do they? Geraldine reckoned they did.
“Geraldine, where did you get that?” Sophie’s voice was soft now, tuneful, almost pleasant. Geraldine wasn’t going to be fooled, however, not that easily.
“Oh, I found this in in a box.” There were times when the truth was best, because the other person knew it too.
“Where was this box?”
“In the kitchen cellar, at the back, in the corner.”
“In the corner?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
It was definitely Sophie who put it there, definitely, Geraldine thought. I know she put it there, she knows I know she put it there. But, all the same, who’s going to be believed?
Sophie had a decision to make, and made it very quickly. There was too much to risk by handing Geraldine in. The whole story could come out, or some doubt could be raised about her version of events, and the story wasn’t perfectly coherent anyway. Besides, Geraldine would be much more useful as an ally, however unwilling. Sophie looked at Geraldine’s rude, defiant expression for a moment longer, then spoke.
“Did you steal the box?”
“No.”
“Do you know who stole the box?”
“No.”
Sophie paused a moment again, and spoke more quietly.
“What have you done since putting on that wig?”
“I walked here from the kitchen, that’s all.” Geraldine timed it just right, with just the right level of detail. There really was no need to tell Sophie about all the conversations she’d been having. After all, the Chief Wig Maker might change her mind.
Sophie couldn’t tell whether Geraldine was telling the truth or not. Yes, she would be more useful as an ally. She continued to speak quietly.
“I expect to see that box outside the back door of this workshop.”
“I hope it gets returned there,” replied Geraldine, understanding.
“I hope it does too.”
Geraldine backed towards the door, taking her own wig out of her pocket and putting it back on her head, leaving Sophie’s wig behind.
“Oh, and Geraldine?” Sophie’s voice had become her usual tone, more formal and officious.
“Yes?”
“I’ll need a servant to do a task or two once the French visit is over.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“|Good. That will be all.”
The big door creaked open for Geraldine, who disappeared from sight. Sophie, left all on her own, breathed a sigh of relief. That box had better appear. At least there were no more of her own personal wigs in it.
Jezknee 