I hastily ducked through a door, and somehow found myself in what appeared to be my very own personal paradise. The room was a large gallery, lined with paintings. I recognized the artists from their style and had seen some of the pictures in books, but to see the actual articles, there in front of me, works of art that so few people ever got to see…a lump rose in my throat and I suddenly felt like I might actually cry.
I had a job to do, duties to attend to, things to clean, but I couldn’t leave without taking a proper look—it just wasn’t within me. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, after all. I began to circle the room, moving slowly and yet far more quickly than I would have liked, for fear of being missed or caught. They were portraits for the most part: former Kings and Queens, ancestors of the Arlington family, nobles and notables from history. The British royal family insisted on nothing but the best, and in artistic terms they’d received exactly what they’d paid for.
A thin veil of dust laid across the frame of one studious-looking gentleman of the sixteenth century, and I used my duster to gently wipe the label clean, proclaiming the identity of the artist and sitter.
“Be careful. These things are irreplaceable.”
I jumped at the voice and then jumped still higher as I turned to see the Queen herself strolling across the gallery towards me, dressed in a tweed skirt and a somewhat frumpy jumper.
Oh, crap.
Panic seared through me—this was turning into a hell of a morning!
“I’m so sorry, your Majesty,” I said. “I didn’t hear you come in. I mean, not that you shouldn’t—your house and all. But I…I wouldn’t have...if I’d known. I’m probably not supposed to be in here.”
“I don’t know if you’re not supposed to,” the Queen said mildly. “But people seldom seem to come in here anyway.”
“Really?” I said, momentarily forgetting exactly who I was speaking to out of surprise. “You’ve got…I mean, look at…”
“I take it you like them,” the Queen said with an arched brow as my voice trailed off.
I nodded and pointed to a nearby painting. “I do. This is Velazquez, isn’t it?”
The Queen seemed intrigued. “It’s unsigned and there’s no label.”
“But the brush strokes…and the…”
Words failing me again, I tried to put what I was thinking into an expressive mime, describing the style of the Spanish master, Diego Velasquez. I wasn’t altogether sure it was successful.
The Queen observed in silence, a little smile on her thin lips. “Indeed. And yes, it is Velazquez. Very well spotted, young lady.”
“Oh, it’s probably quite obvious,” I mumbled, embarrassed at how excited I’d gotten.
“Only to some. You really do have quite an eye for art.”
“Thank you. I studied it in college.” Despite my trepidation at the situation, there were questions I felt I had to ask. “Did Velazquez paint any of the household staff for the British royal family? Like he did for the Hapsburgs?”
“He did,” the Queen affirmed, her small smile widening almost imperceptibly, like the movement of continental shelves. “But those are kept in the Long Gallery.”
“I’d love to see them.” I’d gasped out the words before I really had a chance to think them through. “When I’m off duty,” I added, my cheeks burning. “And if that’s all right with you, your Majesty.”
She nodded. “Of course. These paintings are meant to be seen. We lend some of them to galleries around the world on occasion, but transporting such precious things is so dangerous, and the insurance so ruinous. I fear there are many that have never left this house, and it’s such a shame.”
I choked backed a sob that I hadn’t even known was coming, and the Queen put a hand on my shoulder. “My dear, are you quite all right?”
God. My first proper day on the job and I was already cracking like an egg.
“I…yes. Just a bit overwhelmed,” I replied, trying my best to compose myself. “You’re very nice, and…well, it’s been a crazy morning.”
The Queen’s face stiffened into something sterner. “I see. Which one of my sons acted like a prick?”
It was an extraordinary phrase to hear in that posh upper class accent, but adding on the fact that it was spoken by the Queen almost robbed me of speech entirely.
“I…”
The Queen nodded. “I see. Both of them. Don’t.” She held up a hand, as I’d been about to speak. “You’re either about to defend them, which I won’t believe, or you’re about to tell me what they did, which I don’t want to know. I know I should probably find out, but it’s just depressing. These days I prefer to just know when they did something wrong, without specifics, give them a clip round the ear and be done with it. Honestly,” she sighed, “it feels like I was too lax on the first and overcorrected on the second.”