Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria.
Note 1: I have no idea if Lord M could hold a tune but I believe Rufus Sewell has a decent voice so I've chosen to give Lord M one too. I also do not know how much, if any, German Lord M spoke – for the purposes of this story he knows a little but only some basics, not enough to follow a song in German (which is the scenario this point is relevant to in this fic).
Note 2: I tried to only mention Christmas songs / decorations / food etc. that were around in 1839 but if I've made any errors then please forgive me and suspend your disbelief.
Victoria has always loved Christmas and her ascension has not changed that.
But it has changed the way she celebrates. Everything is far grander now she is Queen, and more public too. Her days are busy as Christmas approaches with parties and events and celebrations that require her attendance. She enjoys the social aspect and likes having the opportunity to dance often … but sometimes everything really important seems to become lost in the blur.
Lord M has not been here and she misses him. They have not seen one another for four days – not a large amount of time in the grand scheme of things, but much longer than they are usually apart and she feels it more strongly than she would another's absence because of his importance to her.
Things always seem a bit duller and more stressful when Lord M is not around.
"Where is Lord M?" asks the Queen the next evening, "he has not been here in five days."
She says it in the same way as one might refer to an absence of five years rather than days.
"He went to Brocket Hall to deal with some business matters," Emma tells carefully.
Harriet, not fully paying attention, adds more information, "my husband says he caught a cold when he went to Brocket Hall on business so he is staying there until he's a bit better."
Emma tries not to wince. Harriet is delightful and friendly and only trying to help because she knows the Queen is always concerned about William. But she is not privy, as Emma is, to the extent of the feelings between their Queen and Prime Minister. Harriet does not realise that it will not matter to the Queen that William is suffering only a trifling cold and that the reason for his extended stay at Brocket is probably more to do with having a break from his ministers than any illness – all the Queen will care about is that William is ill and she will insist on immediate action.
It is a good thing, Emma thinks, that tomorrow is a rare free day. The Queen will be insisting on a visit to Brocket Hall and Emma is glad not to have to create an excuse for her absence from any important events.
There is, after all, more than enough gossip about the Queen and her Prime Minister as it is.
Most people would probably say that what Emma is now aiding the Queen with is both ridiculous and scandalous.
But she does not see another option. The Queen has a stubborn streak that means she will attempt her plan, whether or not her ladies help her, and that will surely mean a higher likelihood that she will be exposed to the public's criticism.
Emma has the Queen's trust. She can admit that she likes this because she enjoys having a place at court and being at the centre of the social whirl.
But she does have some more selfless motives – she genuinely likes the young Queen and she is also pleased with how she has brought William back to life, resurrected the spark that helps make him such a fascinating, brilliant man.
So Emma arranges with one of the Queen's dressers – Skerrett, she thinks the girl's name is – for the Queen to borrow a dress and bonnet with no questions asked.
(not that Skerrett says anything at all, just smiles softly as if she knows exactly what the Queen plans to do and approves wholeheartedly).
She lets the Queen borrow her carriage and agrees to go with her as chaperone because Baroness Lehzen will disapprove entirely of this plan.
And she prays that it goes well and neither William nor the Queen get their heart broken.
William is not very ill.
A trifling cold, really, but enough to make him extend what was to be only a short visit to Brocket Hall for a couple of days. He doesn't want to risk a journey in the cold weather, not when he can instead sleep even later than usual and sit by the fire with Plato and Aristotle instead of having to play mediator with the group of unruly men who form his government.
Sometimes he wonders why he stays on as Prime Minister. It is something he almost fell into, an unusual combination of circumstances that left him, a more than unlikely candidate, as leader. And it won't last, this delicate balance he's kept for years longer than anyone expected – it's starting to fall apart now and he's sure it will only get worse.
But he stays. Stays because of her.
Queen Victoria. Strong and beautiful and bright and charming.
She is the one thing he really regrets in his absence from London.
He tells himself he stays away because of his cold, and when that fails he pretends it is because he does not wish to pass that cold onto the Queen just before Christmas.
The truth is that he needs a short break. From King Leopold's glaring and the Duchess of Kent's haughty insults (they blame him for the Queen's refusal to propose to Prince Albert). From Baroness Lehzen's protective suspicion and Emma's knowing looks and Peel's attempts to use his friendship with the Queen against him.
Perhaps he even needs a break from Victoria herself. To try and find some perspective, to attempt to get used to living without her … because she is sure to marry in the end and she will not need him then. It does not work of course – the Queen is not someone to be easily driven from the forefront of his mind, especially as she is constantly in his thoughts.
The Queen gets out of the carriage and for a moment Emma thinks she looks just like an ordinary woman.
Her dress is clean and neat, but plain and worn. Her bonnet is a little drab and her veil is made of cheap black lace. She holds two large wicker baskets (filled, Emma knows, with items to decorate and a large batch of the gingerbread the Queen favours).
But William is right. There is something about her – a dignity, a poise, a regal posture that can never quite be hidden no matter how much the Queen tries to go incognito.
William, Emma knows, would probably recognise the Queen in a crowd of a hundred women identically dressed.
And that, of course, is part of the problem. Because if you put the two of them in a room together they will see only each other, will look to the other for reassurance or conversation or even just a smile.
It is inappropriate and unwise and exactly what Emma is now encouraging.
But she defies anyone who knows William and the Queen to do anything less, to break this friendship (and more, though it is best not to think on that) that has helped both parties so immensely.
Emma knows she will not be the one to destroy what is between the two of them.
Emma greets the housekeeper with a familiarity that begins to make Victoria jealous, before she remembers both Lord M and Emma's stories about their long friendship and the way they always speak of each other in strictly familial terms.
She blushes at the flash of anger she feels before sense returns and prays that Emma has not noticed the flush on her cheeks. But Emma is speaking with the housekeeper and if she has noticed anything she says nothing and Victoria is grateful.
She knows the feeling of jealousy and knows it well in relation to Lord M – she is often put out when she feels his attention is being monopolised, especially by those women who give him coy smiles and flirtatious looks. She knows she cannot expect his attention constantly but she yearns for his presence, delights in his attention.
Victoria is not sure exactly what her feelings indicate – she has so many when it comes to Lord M and sometimes they jumble around, a mess and confusion of happiness and yearning and something she cannot quite describe that spreads warmth within her – but she knows she feels better in his presence, especially when it is a cosy meeting or delightful ride with just the two of them.
She should not be here, in his house with no chaperone save Emma and an excuse that is flimsy at best. But she cannot help herself, not with him.
When the housekeeper comes to find him in the library with the news that the Queen and Emma Portman have arrived he spends a frantic ten minutes attempting to make himself look presentable and less like he has fallen asleep in the library and slept badly in his armchair after a night of too much brandy (which is in fact the case).
"Your Majesty," William says as he hurries into the room to greet his unexpected guests, "my sincere apologies for keeping you waiting. I did not know you were planning to honour Brocket Hall with a visit."
"I heard you were ill, Lord M," the Queen replies, "and I was concerned."
He looks to Emma, who only shrugs, "what did you expect?" she whispers to him when the Queen is out of earshot.
He sighs. He is not upset by the Queen's visit, could never be sorry to see her. He does worry for her though – people can be cruel and rumours so easily get out of hand.
But of course she is here now and he knows she will not leave until she is quite ready.
"Emma said you have no decorations for Christmas," says the Queen once he has bowed, kissed her hand and seated himself in front of her, "I did not believe her but now I see she is quite right."
He looks at Emma – the traitor – out of the corner of his eye but she only smiles unrepentantly.
"I am quite guilty as Emma says," William admits, "I have some decorations in my home in London but it seems excessive at Brocket when my visits here are so short."
The Queen shakes her head like he has committed a cardinal sin and her expression is so adorable that he has to work very hard to ensure he does not burst out laughing. As it is he supresses his feelings into the quirking of a corner of his mouth and hopes she does not notice.
Thankfully she moves onto a new topic – a detailed description of the magnificent decorations she has at the palace, which he has not yet had the chance to see in their full glory.
They chat companionably for the next ten minutes on the subject of decorations and he starts to believe that nothing will go wrong. The Queen will chat for a while, ascertain that he is quite well and then be whisked back to the palace before anyone can miss her.
But of course he underestimates both the Queen's determination to visit him properly and the lengths Emma will go to in order to ensure that the Queen gets her wish.
Emma stands abruptly, "I have just remembered I have a friend who lives not above five miles from here that I should very much like to visit."
She turns to the Queen with a twinkle in her eye that William recognises as a sign of mischief, "perhaps, Ma'am, I might take my carriage to see my dear friend and return to collect you later on today so we can return to the palace. Then you can spend the whole day making sure William is recovering from his cold."
The Queen's eyes light up in delight and William knows that no talk of propriety or chaperones will sway her now.
He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. Emma is one of his best friends, but an entire day to spend happily with the Queen, just the two of them, is a delight he cannot refuse, not even when his head tells him it is a dangerous thing.
The Queen looks to him with a hopeful expression and he nods, determinedly not thinking about the disasters that could result from knowledge of the Queen's visit coming to certain people's attention, "it would be a pleasure, Ma'am."
"I'll just have them bring the tree in before I go," says Emma as she moves towards the door, "I'm sure the entrance hall will be an appropriate place."
"Tree?" he asks with a little trepidation.
"Oh it is rather small," the Queen assures him with an excited look, "we had to find one that would fit onto the carriage. I used to have one in my room every Christmas when I was a child and now of course I have them all over the palace."
He remembers seeing them there over the Christmas periods during the two Christmases past, huge trees lit up with candles. They had looked most magnificent, he must admit, but he does not think such a large tree in his own entrance hall will be a wise idea and he is thankful that the Queen had to settle for a smaller specimen.
"The Christmas tree always made me feel so happy," she says, "I wanted you to feel the same.
He grins broadly then, far wider than his usual small, quick smiles. His joy is always so genuine with her. He takes her hands almost without thinking and thanks her.
Her responding smile makes his whole day brighter.
Emma leaves once the tree has been set up and the Queen brings out one of her baskets, full to the brim with candles and sugar ornaments and ribbons, so that they can make his hall's new acquisition a little more festive.
As they decorate the tree Victoria listens closely as Lord M describes a ball her uncle George had held during a Christmas season during his reign. She likes to hear him talk, and to hear something of the relatives that are more unknown to her than they should be because of her mama's insistence in isolating her at Kensington.
Lord M has a flair for stories and in his clever way he manages to show the good in all her (really quite shocking) relatives without allowing himself to be unrealistic by forgetting their flaws.
She laughs and smiles and responds with stories of her own that he listens closely to with real interest.
It is comfortable and fun between them, the sort of amusing diversion she rarely gets to indulge in.
And if she makes sure that their fingers brush a little more than is perhaps quite necessary as they decorate, if she enjoys the slight flush on his face that is surely mirrored on her own, then that is her own little secret.
When they have finished with the tree and he has admitted to the Queen that it was a far more enjoyable task than he had expected, she brings out her second basket to reveal a large supply of gingerbread.
Like the Queen, William enjoys good food and he is touched to see that she has brought the softer form of gingerbread he favours, Lebkuchen as it is called in Germany.
"You are too kind, Ma'am," he says as he eats a piece with great relish.
She takes a bit of her own and crumbs drop onto the lap of her dress. He has already begun to lean over to wipe them away before his brain catches up and he realises the impropriety. He pulls back and she blushes, wiping away the crumbs herself almost self-consciously. When he looks at her he sees her face is downcast but she is peering at him under her lashes.
He tries not to think about how beautiful she looks.
William has a piano at Brocket, one Caro used to play back when she was alive and their marriage was not the absolute disaster it quickly turned into.
She had been so full of life then and her music had been joyful. Still, though, there had always been a slight edge to Caro's playing, a hysteria of sorts. A sign of things to come, he thinks in hindsight.
The piano has sat untouched for many years. He has never played and his poor son could not have managed it. Perhaps his daughter might have made some use of it, had she lived.
Now the Queen spots it as they wander around the rooms and he tells her tales of his ancestors and the history of the building.
She says she enjoys learning more about him and shows an especial interest in his mother, the woman he freely admits as being the foremost influence in his young life. He finds himself very pleased by that.
"May I play?" she asks.
Normally he would not hesitate – the Queen's playing is the only music apart from Mozart that he takes real pleasure in – but for a moment he is unsure.
Will it be like seeing a ghost? The Queen is very different from Caro and certainly not as wild despite her temper … but the Queen plays the piano with great feeling, as Caro did, and he does not want his enjoyment of her playing to be ruined by the shade of his wife.
He cannot refuse her, though, does not want to mar their happy day with allusions to Caro.
"Of course, Ma'am. It would be a pleasure to hear you."
She goes to look at the pile of music books while he tries to wipe away some of the dust on the instrument and hopes she will not notice the fact that it is a little out of tune due to lack of use.
She comes back with a book full of Christmas songs and immediately sits down to begin playing Deck the Halls.
All thoughts of Caro vanish. The Queen is only herself, only Victoria, and he sees no shadows of Caro's madness in her charming blue eyes.
"You must sing along with me, Lord M, you always sing so well."
He obliges her, for he likes to see her cheerful and in high spirits, and he has no desire to do anything that might make her radiant smile vanish.
She plays another few tunes and he sings along with her until she begins one he is not familiar with.
"O Tannenbaum," she explains to him, "it means O Christmas Tree in English."
She sings it through, first in German and then in English. He smiles wryly at her courtesy, the same sort he uses when he quotes in Latin or Greek and follows up with a translation before she becomes embarrassed because she cannot understand him.
It is a nice song, he thinks, quite charming. He tells the Queen so and enjoys seeing her pleasure at his approval of the song she so likes.
They do not ride, for he would not wish the Queen to be injured riding a horse she is not used to. But they do walk around the grounds.
He deftly avoids the clearing they spoke in on her first visit to him, as well as any allusion to rooks. This is not, he thinks, the day for bittersweet memories like her confession to him.
They take a detour to his greenhouses and he enjoys seeing her marvel at the array of flowers there. He makes up a bouquet for her and her heartfelt thanks warm his heart.
They return to the house then, for the chilly weather does not do his cold any good and he does not wish to the Queen to become ill.
"I brought you a Christmas present," Victoria tells Lord M once they are ensconced in the library, her with hot chocolate and he with his favourite coffee.
She is gladdened to see the surprised pleasure on his face. Dear Lord M, he gives so much and never expects anything in return.
She pulls out a few sheets from the bottom of one of her baskets and hands them over with a self-conscious smile.
Then she buries her face in the flowers he so carefully picked for her and hopes he will like her gift.
Sketches.
Of Brocket Hall and the room in which they have so many of their audiences and one of the routes they regularly ride down near Buckingham Palace.
And one of himself looking as dynamic as she often makes him feel.
Is this how she sees him?
He does not quite know what to say.
"You do not like them?" she whispers when he has remained silent for a few minutes.
He looks up sharply, "I love them," he tells her.
I love you, he thinks to himself.
"These are exquisite, Ma'am," he says softly, "I have never received such a thoughtful gift."
William looks up and sees that there are tears in her eyes.
He is alarmed for a moment but then she laughs and he realises … tears of happiness.
He stands. So does she.
"You do so much for me, Lord M. This is just a token."
His hand reaches out to brush away the damp from her cheeks and it lingers there to caress her skin briefly.
"It is far more than a token, Ma'am."
She takes a step closer to him as his hand drops away from her cheek.
He wants to tell her what she means to him, wants to pour out words on how lovely she is, how special and charming. How she makes his life so much more by being his friend.
But everything is so uncertain right now. She has refused Prince Albert but if her mother and uncle have anything to say then he will return. And there are other princes, other men far more suitable to marry the Queen of England.
But despite all that it feels right for him to duck his head and press his lips against her own, to feel her arms encircling him and holding on like she never wants to let go. It feels right and proper to let his own hands clasp her close to him as he pours all his feelings into that kiss and feels her doing the same.
And then it is right for him to let go, to part from her. For them to sit at an appropriate distance apart no matter how much their minds (and bodies) scream for them to move closer. For them to say no more on the matter during the hour that passes before Emma returns to escort the Queen back to Buckingham Palace.
They know their feelings. They know that now is not the time to address them, that there may never be a time to address them.
As Queen she is state property. Every birthday and celebration of hers belongs to the country. But this day, this early Christmas, this has been just for the two of them.
And they will treasure it.
When Victoria takes her leave of Melbourne in the early evening the two of them are still the same as they were that morning.
She is the Queen and he is her Prime Minister. She is the most eligible royal in Europe and he is a minor peer. She is young and he is, if not old (for she insists that he is not), then certainly older. He is worldly and she is rather naïve.
Their friendship, their feelings, their closeness is still something that will be scrutinised and criticised and watched.
But there is something new now, something they have not felt in months.
A sense of peace.
And a spark of hope.