Discussion Groups / English Usage / January 2009

Not to take advantage, but there were some questions these three
chapters might clear up.

GANNIBAL!

January  1760– Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Germany

Frau Mueller was trembling…

Although the most skilled hair dresser in the duchy, never before had
she been summoned to the Duke's castle. Yet at this moment she and
Heidi, her sixteen-year old assistant, were sitting in the grand banquet
hall of their liege lord, Duke Frederick of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.

Heidi's plain face was dazed as she marveled at the richness of the
magnificent room. Indeed, such was her stupefaction that when Frau
Mueller asked whether she remembered to pack the beeswax, Heidi hadn't
answered. Hopefully, she would snap out of it once the work began;
meanwhile, Frau Mueller searched for the beeswax herself.

Frau Mueller talked to herself as she searched because talking to
herself was her way of putting her mental notes in order. Intelligence
had been scant. Every knew the issues with the Princess's hair. No one
knew exactly what the Duke wanted done about it. Some said he wanted his
younger sister's hair dyed blond and if that was so, Frau Mueller had
exactly the thing for it. Others said the Duke wanted it cut Joan of Arc
style; this too, Frau Mueller could accomplish with flourish.

But the gossip that excited her the most held the Duke wanted her hair
straightened. Straightening even the coarsest hair was possible using
today's modern remedies with the added bonus the customer then required
regular maintenance. A long-term maintenance contract with someone of
the Duke's stature could serve as collateral for a loan on the small
hair shop Frau Mueller had long dreamed of owning.

The Duke's footsteps sounded from the hall; poor Heidi looked as if she
was ready to run out of the room. She grabbed Frau Mueller's arm and
said in a hushed voice, "He's coming!" Seconds later Duke Frederick of
Mecklenburg entered the room.

"Ah, Frau Mueller!" he said. And he gave the most splendid bow.

Frau Mueller and Heidi were already standing, and as they had practiced
all morning, executed perfect German curtsies.

"My Lord Duke," the women said in unison.

Duke Frederick waved his hand. "Ladies be seated … please.” He looked
from Frau Mueller to Heidi then said,  “Your daughter?"

"My apprentice, Your Grace."

"Most excellent."

Other footsteps came from the hall then the Princess entered. She was
wearing a white skirt of chambery gauze and her hair was covered in a
big headscarf made from cambric. She seemed younger than her 16 years.
Frau Mueller and Heidi jumped up and immediately curtsied.

"Hello," said the Princess in a voice as pure as a child's.

"And this as you know,  is Princess Charlotte," said the Duke motioning
to his sister.

"An honor, Your Grace," said Frau Mueller and Heidi in unison.

A serving girl appeared with a silver tray of apricots and bread, but
Frau Mueller declined knowing it would be impossible to eat under such
pressure.

"And how is your father, Frau Mueller?" asked the Duke.

"As well as can be expected, Your Grace. He sends his best wishes to you
and the rest of the Royal family."

The Duke turned to his sister the Princess. "Did you know, Charlotte,
Frau Mueller's father is the oldest man in the duchy?"

Princess Charlotte smiled. "I have heard of this, Frederick, and think
it remarkable." The Princess then turned to Frau Mueller: "Give your
father our wishes for many more years of health, Frau Mueller."

Frau Mueller curtsied again then said, "My Lady … My Lord Duke. It's
been an honor to be your humble servants these many years and we look
forward to many years to come."

This went over splendidly so much so Frau Mueller made a mental note to
give Mildred, the lawyer's wife, something extra for coaching her on the
proper things to say to people of such high birth. This give and take
went on for a few moments then the Duke said, "See here, Frau Mueller,
I've summoned you for a matter I’m told your skills  alone hold the key."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"The Princess's hair – Charlotte, remove your scarf."

Charlotte removed her scarf to reveal a thick mane of what can only be
described as Negro hair.

"As I was saying," the Duke continued, "my sister's hair is of a texture
we would like to change–permanently, if possible."

"Permanently, My Grace?"

"Can it be done?"

Frau Mueller stood up and pointed toward the princess. "May I?"

"Yes, of course," said Duke Frederick.

Frau Mueller walked around the princess her eyes locked on the young
woman's hair.

"Heidi–my looking glass!"

Heidi snapped out of her wonderment and began rummaging one of the
baskets. Finding the looking glass, she handed it to her mistress. Frau
Mueller continued her circular inspection, this time the looking-glass
before her eyes. She stopped and said, "Lady Charlotte, if it pleases,
may I touch your hair?"

"Yes, you must," said Charlotte.

Carefully, as if she were about to touch a precious jewel, Frau Mueller
let her fingers touch the girl's hair. She frowned. It not only looked
coarse, it felt coarse.

"Has it always been this, eh …  texture, dear?"

"I believe so, Frau Mueller."

Frau Mueller turned to the Duke. "I ask the question, My Lord Duke,
because children sometimes grow out of it … but let me see…” She turned
back to Charlotte. “If I remember correctly, Lady Charlotte, you’re 16
summers, no?"

"Yes, I am, Frau Mueller.”

Frau Mueller gave a warm laugh. "I remember, my dear, because you were
born the same year as my youngest."

"Yes, I know–and her name is Aarika, is it not?"

"Yes, My Grace!" said Frau Mueller stunned. And in an instant she was
beaming as proudly as she ever had. "You do me a great honor in
remembering the name of such a worthless child, Lady Charlotte. When I
tell her she will be very pleased–very pleased, indeed!"

Everyone laughed approvingly at this. Frau Mueller, it seemed, knew how
to turn a phrase.

Thrilled with the princess's unexpected kindness, Frau Mueller smiled at
the Duke, curtsied the princess yet again, then cut a look at Heidi that
said, mark that well, girl– the Princess of Mecklenburg knows my
daughter's name!

Heidi smiled. Then Frau Mueller continued her inspection. Then she
stopped and said, "My Lord Duke, is it possible–and if it isn't I will
surely understand–that I could snip a lock of hair from the princess for
closer analysis?

"Yes, of course."

Frau Mueller, snapped her fingers. Heidi dug into the baskets, retrieved
a pair of scissors and handed them over. Frau Mueller grabbed it without
letting her eyes off the princess's hair. She considered where to cut,
lifted a tuft, and snipped.

"Ah!"

In a moment Frau Mueller was back at her baskets. She rifled through
one, not finding what she wanted, motioned for Heidi to push a second
forward; rejected this, motioned for a third. From this one she
retrieved a small jar and a large one. She motioned Heidi to push a
fourth basket forward. From this she retrieved a pair of gloves, thin
flat stone, more jars. She then assembled all the pomades, powders,
emollients and tools around the flat stone. She placed the lock of hair
on the center of the stone, inspected it once more with the looking
glass then put on her working gloves.

"I believe this procedure might be of some help, Your Grace," she said
waving her hand over the assemblage. "I've been corresponding with the
guild in Berlin and was given a good account of it. It comes from Paris."

"Paris?" said Charlotte, unable to resist. For although she had been
long tutored in French, she had yet conversed with a native speaker of
the language.

"Yes, Lady Charlotte," said Frau Mueller. "All the latest beauty
techniques come from France–and of course in Paris there are many
foreigners with your grade of hair. "

"There are?" said Charlotte, her curiosity piqued. It was the first time
hearing this.  She thought about it for a second then said, "And where
do these foreigners come from … originally?

"Africa, mainly, although–"

"Enough!" the Duke exploded.

Frau Mueller was stunned–what had she said wrong?

"Yes, of course, Your Grace."

More frightened than she could ever remember being, Heidi stared at Frau
Mueller then the Duke–what had she said wrong?

The Duke's voice came like a whip: "And what's said here today is a
private matter, Frau Mueller–is that understood?"

"Yes, but of course, Your Grace."

Another rebuke–but why? Frau Mueller hadn't a clue.

And even now the storm wasn't over for the Duke was out of his chair his
eyes glaring, the muscles in his face quivering.

"Do your work, Frau–you are not here to gossip!" he said, breathing
deeply, noisily.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Have the Princess fetch me when you're done."

"As you wish, sir."

And then he was gone, storming out of the room like a man challenged to
a duel.

March 1760 --  A Trip to Mecklenburg

It was hay-harvest and across the valley rows of stacked hay waited. In
these fields heavy-bodied men and women were digging like brown
burrowing animals, digging while the summer sun peaked through the
fleecy clouds and baked their skins hard and brown, digging deep into
the dusty earth for what, the Englishman in the passing coach could not
imagine.
The coachman slowed the four exhausted horses then called out, "The
Castle of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, sir–straight ahead!"

Pressing an perfumed handkerchief over his nose to protect from the
dust, John Shackleton, principal painter-in-ordinary to King George II,
looked out of the coach past the rows of  hay to a rectangular boxlike
building that looked more a barn than castle.

"What … is that?” he asked.

"The castle of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, sir!” said the coachman, chest out,
chin lifted.

"…Castle?"

“Isn't it beautiful, sir?”

“Very Corinthian.”

“Huh?…”

Shackleton was fifty-five. He had a  round belly, rosy cheeks, balding
head–in sum, he was the image of a parish vicar or Oxford don, vocations
he now wished he had pursued. The coachman whistled, cracked his whip
and the carriage was rolling down the road again. Jolted by the quick
start Shackleton grabbed his easel to prevent it from toppling. Not long
after the carriage pulled in front of the castle. Duke Frederick was
standing on the porch in a red vest and green Châlons jacket. He was a
smallish man with a beard shaped like a wedge. He looked more a French
customs inspector than German aristocratic. He was grinning.

"Welcome, Mr. Shackleton," he called out in heavily accented English.
Shackleton forced a smile as he stepped out of the coach. "You speak,
English, Duke Frederick–we weren't sure."

The Duke laughed. "Much better French."

"Well, good for you … Good for you!" said Shackleton, reaching for the
Duke's hand. "I only wish I had some ability with languages, but paint
is the only thing that sticks to this Anglo-Saxon head."

A servant came out and doffed his alpine cap. The Duke pointed to
Shackleton's gear and the long-limbed man went for it.

"Franz will get your things for you, Herr Shackleton."

The German and the Englishman walked into the castle. Two young women
were standing in the foyer: one, quite the German beauty and exactly
what Shackleton had hoped for … the other … not beautiful in the least
... some kind of ethnic mix ... all wrong.  Shackleton immediately hoped
she wasn't Princess Charlotte.

"And these are my sisters," said the Duke. "This is Princess Albertina …
and this one, Princess Charlotte."

Shackleton groaned inside as the women curtsied. Princess Charlotte was
the queer one.

“And a very lovely princess she is,” lied Shackleton somehow managing to
smile at the waif-like girl.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied in a sweet maiden’s voice.

Well, at least she's sweet, thought Shackleton. And with a little luck
perhaps her brother – if he's wealthy… which by all appearances he's not
  – will be able to give her a large enough dowry to hook some
impoverished prince into marrying her. It was her bone structure
mainly–where on earth did she get it? As an artist Shackleton understood
bone structure, most especially that of German princesses, for it was
German princesses all the royal European houses demanded. This demand
was echoed in royal houses as far away as Russia, the Ottoman Empire and
beyond. Shackleton had painted German princesses all of his professional
life and never seen bone structure like hers. Simply put, German
princesses did not look like her … in fact, neither did German commoners
or for that matter, English commoners–or any white female he'd ever seen!

What was going on? Who the devil was behind this farce? This Princess
Charlotte was no German princess, at least ethnically speaking. The
hair, nose, lips, hatchet jaw were all wrong.

Her brother, the Duke – but how could this thoroughly German-looking
chap be her brother? – was leading them into the banquet room now.
Shackleton was still smiling but could feel his smile weaken.  How long
would he be able to continue this farce, he didn't know. He scanned her
waif-like body again. No, the rest of her person didn't measure up
either—too small and woefully bereft of any feminine endowments that
might help a man overlook her strange face.  She had nothing ...
nothing. What's the point? Why even waste oils and pigment on such a
hopeless creature?

“The light is best here in our dining hall,” the Duke was saying. “And
we have prepared lunch for you, sir.” The Duke waved his hand over the
feast on the table. The aroma hit Shackleton's nostril's like a blast
oven. He hadn't eaten since somewhere in the dark early morning and then
only a cup of tea and buttered bread. Instantly his foreboding about the
girl evaporated to be replaced by a ravenous hunger. Is that a whole
sturgeon? And that there—is  it actually brisket of beef? And
that—Heavens! Kidney pie! You can see the meat, peas, and potatoes
peeking up from the little hole in its center—Good Lord!

“I hope you're hungry,” said the Duke.

“Hungry? Do we have time for that, Lord Duke–well, if you insist …”

“You drink German ale, Mr. Shackleton?”

“Ale? On occasion–got to keep my wits about me, you know, Haw Haw.”

Drink it? I was baptized in it! thought Shackleton. He stuck a napkin in
his collar and motioned the serving girl to bring on the sturgeon. At
least they hadn’t forgotten the eats … or drinks. And who knows, maybe
if I drink enough I might actually be able to paint a portrait of the
girl the King won't flog me within an inch of my life for. What? … Maybe
that’s their plan– to bribe me! Well, If that’s what they’re up to, I’ve
got news for them–not for all the tea in China!

But after four tankards of beer, Shackleton didn't care if the girl
looked like Medusa. In fact he was now seeing things in her face –
wonderful things! – he had somehow missed. Princess Charlotte was as
fetching a Teutonic princess if ever there was. Just a matter of
perspective, that’s all. In a little while his brush was flying over the
canvas. Only thing, he wasn't looking at Charlotte as he painted. He had
stopped looking at her minutes after starting the portrait. No, he
wasn't painting her, he was painting the princess in his mind's eye. It
was the beer of course; it had kicked in.  And so what had seemed an
improbable task only moments earlier was now an exercise in pleasure.
This pleasure continued until he paused, looked once at  Charlotte's
hair and was about to apply the first stroke of hairline when suddenly
his beer-reddened face lost all color. “Heavenly God!”  he gasped.

Seeing the sudden change in the Englishman the Duke jumped out of  his
chair. “Herr Shackleton – are you all right?”

“All right? Yes! Perfectly all right, friend. Just noticed I'm out of
beer again– Haw-Haw!”

But it certainly wasn't all right because just as he had started on the
girl's hairline it suddenly dawned on him where he had seen hair like
hers before – the Negro girl who sold ginger cakes in front of Newgate Jail!

“I will be called  Queen Mother because I command this, and that’s all
the reason you or anyone else needs.”
–  Dowager Princess of Wales (Augusta)

April 1760 London: John Shackleton's Studio

After arranging the four portraits on easels, Shackleton stepped back
and surveyed the lineup. He had  placed Princess Charlotte's portrait
last in the lineup so the other–prettier!–princesses would be seen
before her. King George II and the wife of his deceased son, the Dowager
Princess Augusta, would arrive soon for this purpose.  Still, with the
exception of  how fraudulently he had covered up Princess Charlotte's
ethnic features, Shackleton was pleased with himself. He had done as
well as could be expected. The project cost two months of his life
traveling to German principalities so remote they weren't even on the
map. As to the princesses, their futures were now out of his hands. One
would become the queen of the greatest empire on the planet, the others
would never be heard from again. Life is hard and then you die.

Shackleton sighed, walked down the line of portraits once more, then
signaled the page.

"You may summon the Dowager Princess Augusta, boy."

The page bowed. "Yes, sir.

The portraits were commissioned by King George II, grandfather of
heir-apparent Prince George. But Shackleton knew it was really the
Prince’s mother, the Dowager Princess Augusta, who was behind the
commission.  When her husband Frederic Prince of Wales died, she made it
clear anyone who fouled-up her plans to have her cousin marry her son,
would know her wrath once her son became king.

Directly, the Dowager Princess Augusta arrived with Lord Bute. The
Dowager, who would soon insist everyone call her “Queen Mother,” was a
tall, 40-year old German beauty who wore great gowns and petticoats made
with massive amounts of cloth. Atop her head she wore a type of hat no
other women wore–an admiral's hat worn sideways. The effect was
wonderfully Iberian. And when she was whipping her skirts and petticoats
about her, it gave her the appearance of a matador lashing his cape over
a charging bull. Younger men found her irresistible then found
themselves in the Tower for their impudence. It was said she encouraged
their impudence.

"Ah! John Shackleton, you've finally returned," said Queen Mother.

"Parts of me, Your Highness."

"So, how was your trip?" asked Lord Bute, the future prime minister.

"Educational, sir," said Shackleton.

Bute snickered. Queen Mother stepped forward. "And are you confident
you've captured the likeness of each princess?"

"Every blade of hair," Shackleton lied.

Queen Mother gave him a hard smile. "I should hate to think otherwise."

"Now, now,” said Lord Bute. “Don't let her frighten you, Shackleton. Her
bite is worse than her bark.”

“And stop being so clever, Bute,” said Queen Mother. “I’m tired of
cleverness.  Everybody is clever nowadays and I wish to heavens we had a
few fools left.”

“We do,” said Bute.

“And what do they talk about?”

“Clever people.”

“Fools!”

The Earl of Bute was one of those chaps with an eternal smile, except
when you angered him at which point he'd bore his gray eyes into you
with such  imperious disdain, it made you want to grab your hat and run
from the room. He dressed in more ermine than the King and didn't wear a
wig but powered his gray hair with starch so it was whiter still. A
highly-educated man, he had two law degrees, was a past  member of the
House of Lords, and besides being Queen Mother's not-so-secret lover,
had been Prince George's surrogate father since the boy's biological
father died nine years earlier. All of which rendered him in the
parlance of the time set for life, or at least set until he did
something exceedingly stupid, which as fortune would have it, he was
soon to do.  He was 50, but exceedingly well-preserved because he drank
in moderation and exercised excessively (riding and fencing).

Bute gave the painter a diplomat's grin then said, “You may not know
this, Shackleton, but we were very near making arrangements for all the
princesses to come to London until their families got wind and  became
unionized!  They sent a letter to our Ladyship – in Latin! – refusing to
have their precious daughters stand on auction, as they put it, even for
the future king of England.”

Queen Mother gave a mirthless laugh. "Those old German families are so
stuck in their ways, no modern sensibility to speak of. Would you
believe, Mr. Shackleton, one of them actually asked if my son–  the
heir-apparent! – could travel to Germany to be interviewed  by her
daughter! Can you imagine that? What will they ask for next—references?"

Lord Bute was looking at the first portrait.

"Your Highness, here's a comely lass if ever there was one.”

Queen Mother walked to the portrait, stared at it, turned to Shackleton
and said, "And she is? ..."

Shackleton smiled for this princess was his favorite (which is why he
had put her portrait first). "Princess Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel,
your Highness."

Queen  Mother and Lord Bute exchanged frowns. And it was at this very
instant a page in the hallway announced loudly, "HERE YEE!  HERE YEE!
The King and Prince enter!" and King George II and his grandson Prince
George entered the room. Lord Bute and Shackleton bowed. Queen Mother
curtsied.

"What's going on here, Shackleton?” bellowed the King. “Why wasn't I
informed of your return?"

"We wanted it to be a surprise, father-in-law," said Queen Mother.

"I don't like surprises, you know that. I commissioned Shackleton for
this job–not you, young lady–so I should have been informed of his
return immediately!"

Shackleton prayed a silent prayer the King had made it clear to Queen
Mother he was answerable only to him. Shackleton hoped for this because
before leaving to paint the princesses the King told him his favorite
was Princess Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel and that he wanted her
portrait to shine above the others.

Queen Mother gave a carefree laugh and took her son the Prince by the
elbow. "Look here, darling, Mr. Shackleton has four lovely princesses
for you to review."

The King threw his hands up for silence then turned to Shackleton.
"Which one is Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel?"

"Don't tell him yet," said Queen Mother.

"He will or rue the day he didn't!"

"For what–disobeying my order?”

"For disobeying mine!"

"Not when I countermand yours, then he's disobeying mine–isn't that so,
Lord Bute?"

"Not a word from you, Bute!"

Queen Mother tugged the Prince to the line of portraits. "You'll listen
to me on this, my son. I know German girls–don't forget I'm one myself."

"And what am I?" said the King.

Queen Mother laughed. "A German girl? …"

“Watch your tongue, daughter-in-law!”

“Ah, hush.”

Reaching for her elbow the King separated Queen Mother from the Prince
and said, "Grandson, listen to me … I was married to the best Queen
consort England ever had – Caroline of Brandenburg-Ansbach. So I ask
you, who could possibly know German girls better than I? But more to the
point, I'm the king of England and if I tell you to marry Sophia of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, you shall—and I do!  So that settles it … that
is, providing she has no defects uncovered by our most worthy royal
painter? …"

Shackleton was ready. He had four white cards in his hand. He shuffled
one to the top then said, "No defects at all, Your Highness. Sophia of
Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel would be a most excellent choice. Besides her
obvious beauty–which you can plainly see–she is sixteen years of age and–"

"Sixteen is too young," said Queen Mother.

"But you were sixteen when my son married you!" roared the King.

"Times were different."

The King snorted then looked from his daughter-in-law to Shackleton:
"Continue, Royal Painter.”

"Yes, Your highness. She does excellent needlework, plays the
harpsichord–and exceedingly well, I might add."

"Did she play for you?" snapped Queen Mother.

"Yes, in fact, she did play for me, Your Highness. I followed the King's
instructions to the letter."

"Languages?" said the King. "How many languages does she speak?"

"Well, on that … there may be a  minor deficit, Sire. "She speaks  only
German."

"Only German!" said Queen Mother, covering her mouth as if someone had
yelled plague!

"Don't be ridiculous," snorted the King. She's only sixteen. She'll be
speaking more English than all of us in a fortnight."

Queen Mother was now standing in front of the second portrait. "Mr.
Shackleton, pray, who is this?"

"That would be Princess Maria of Saxe-Gotha."

Queen Mother smiled. "Oh, yes, my cousin–"

"No!" said the King.

"Your Highness, dear, at least let Mr. Shackleton tell us about her–"

"No! There’ll be no cousin-marrying on my watch. That's why half the
monarchs across Europe can't produce healthy heirs. No, madam–no
inbreeding!"

Sensing the timing was not right to press her case, Queen Mother
shrugged and said, "As you wish, Your Highness."

"Tell us about the next princess, Shackleton," said the King pointing to
the third portrait.

"Yes, Your Highness, that would be Magdalena of Saxe-Weissenfels and–"

"No!" said Queen Mother.

The King  jumped back. The vitriol in his daughter-in-law’s voice
stunned even he, a battlefield hardened King. "At least let him finish,
Princess Augusta–"

"No!" said Queen Mother twice as forcefully. “I’d rather see my son
marry a blackamoor before a Saxe-Weissenfels princess.”

The King sighed and said, "We'll come back to her later. Now this last
one, Shackleton. Who is she?"

Shackleton groaned inside. In his plan they never should have gotten
this far down the line-up. He swallowed hard then said, "Princess
Charlotte of  Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Your Highness.”

"Who?" said Queen Mother.

"Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz."

"Where on earth is Mecklenburg-Strelitz?” asked the King.

"Near the Pomeranian border opposite Ratzeburg.”

"Rats-burg?" said the King and Queen Mother.

Shackleton corrected them: "That would be Ratzeburg, Your Highness, a
tiny principality in Northern Germany. Nothing to do with rats at all, I
should think."

The King was staring at the portrait.  He pursed his lips then said,
"Speaking of rats, she looks as fertile as one . . .  hmmm . . .” He
turned  to his grandson. "That's the important thing, George, and don't
ever forget it–a  queen must produce heirs!"

"What are her refinements?" Queen Mother wanted to know.

Shackleton shrugged as if there wasn't much to say: "Sixteen years of
age, expert needlework, superb botanist, dances very skillfully … rides
a horse well too –"

And it was at this point that Prince George–the man who would be
marrying her if she passed muster asked, "Does she have musical talents,
Mr. Shackleton, sir?"

Shackleton beat back a ferocious frown. Why were they still talking
about this damnable  girl? Get back to Sophia of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel,
for God's sake!

"Yes,  she has some slight musical ability, if I remember correctly …
let me see, where did I put that card–oh, here it is. Ah, yes. Hmmm ...
Well … She plays the violin, harpsichord, fife—both wood and
metal—cello, mandolin—Oh!" And here, forgetting all his promises to
himself to not mention it, his face broke into a beery grin and he began
bloviating: "She plays marching drums, sir! And so very good! It was
really something to see, I must tell you—a-rat-ta-tat-tat …
rat-ta-tat-tat, she'd play, so wonderfully, her hands flying through the
air so. I tell you, I've never seen anything quite like it, and—”

They were staring at him in profound silence. Shackleton felt his face
redden. He cursed himself: Fool! Look what you’ve done now! They want to
hear more about her …!

Prince George  stepped forward again and asked, "Another question, if
you, please, Mr. Shackleton, sir. How many languages does Princess
Charlotte speak?"

Shackleton turned the card over in his hand and read it. He scowled
horribly and this time made no effort to hide it. He was livid—livid at
himself for the nightmare that was now unfolding, livid at how all his
plans to steer interest away from the damnable girl had come to naught.
He stared at the card again as if by doing so he could make the words on
it disappear, but of course he could not.  Finally, in a voice as
hopeless as ever left his throat he said, "Five languages, sir."

"Five languages?!" all three Royals exclaimed at once.

"Six, if you count Portuguese.”