"I hope we can part as friends, Albert," she said, holding his hands as gently as she would a flower, the way she had done once. His eyes were many things to her: a lover's gaze, the glance of a boy, the stare of an enemy. Albert drove Victoria to insanity – but she also found the challenge of him quite invigorating. Ever since they were children, they bickered – it was more fun that way. She did not want their feelings to be too harsh.

"I hope so too," Albert replied with the smallest and briefest of smiles. It warmed Victoria's heart a little, to see him smile. It was a handsome smile. Victoria wished he would use it more often.

She wished that he would use his smile as often as Ernest, who was waiting for Albert from inside their carriage, and waving to Victoria from the window. Over Albert's shoulder, she waved back to him, smiling a dimple into each cheek. It was not a Queen's wave that she gave her cousin. The Queen's wave was a sculpted hand, tilting to and fro like clockwork, held high so that all could view it. But this wave was a girl waving goodbye to her cousin. It was excited, with spread fingers and enthusiastic abandon. It was pure: a moment of clarity behind closed doors.

With a final kiss of the Queen's hands, Albert turned and climbed into the carriage. Ernest shouted a final farewell (in German) from the window as the carriage pulled away, wheels scrunching on stones and hooves trotting away, and the two princes were gone.

Victoria stood on the steps, watching the carriage until it was out of sight. The moment was brief and anticlimactic; the goodbye swelled within her for a second, before dissipating into the morning's air.

"He is waiting for you inside, your Majesty," the voice of a servant in her ear informed her. She thanked them, took a long breath of the cold air through her nose, and climbed the stairs.

Upon returning inside, Victoria noticed how quiet the palace was. It was such a marvellous dullness. Such a magnificent silence. Ernest's exclamations were gone. Albert's frowns were gone. Her Uncle's disapproving glares were gone. And, in their place, filling that void so exquisitely, stood her dear Lord Melbourne, smiling at her.

"Now that Albert is gone, I feel I can finally laugh again!" Victoria exclaimed, advancing on Lord M, demonstrating what she spoke by giggling. Dash was dozing on a pillow before he was disturbed by Victoria, who tickled his chin, lifting his little black nose to hers and crooning, "And you are much happier, aren't you, Dash? Now that stuffy old cousin Albert isn't around?" Lord Melbourne laughed, half-amused, half-exhausted, and responded,

"I fear you are too harsh on the Prince, Ma'am!"

"Oh, I believe I have been too kind!"

"But if his departure has made you happy, Ma'am, then I am only too glad of it." Victoria blushed. "But I fear the Duchess may not share your opinion."

Oh, it was so frustratingly typical of him, to make her feel guilty. He was so unbearably unselfish.

Victoria rolled her eyes, her voice unrecognisable through its scorn,

"Mama will recover."

It was this side of the Queen that upset Lord M. He knew that she had reason, of course, but she was so dismissive of her own mother. But, as soon as he began to consider her words, Victoria had changed the subject.

"How are affairs in New South Wales?" she asked, sitting down next to Dash, her eyes filled with the excitement of a schoolgirl, learning for the first time about the wide world around her. New South Wales, a source of stress for Melbourne, was probably one of the most exciting things in the world for the young Queen. "There is a settlement named after you, is there not?"

This question was met with a sharp intake of breath, a raising of eyebrows, a chuckle and a reddening of the cheeks. The idea of a settlement named after him had been an embarrassing one from the very beginning. But Sir Richard had been so insistent on the whole affair. He could think of no better name than 'Melbourne', he said so himself, and wrote many a letter to Melbourne himself insisting on the suitability of such a name.

Never has a British Prime Minister had a name that so excellently represents the ideals we strive for in New South Wales. Your name, Viscount Melbourne, is so excellently virtuous that all the citizens will see your example as the pinnacle of dignity. There is no more excellent a name for this settlement than Melbourne. I am sure you agree.

The sheer nonsense of the argument, and the excessive use of 'excellent', was not enough to convince Lord Melbourne that his name was a worthy name of a settlement in the new land, but he allowed it nonetheless. It made Sir Richard excellently happy.

He sighed, as he replied to the Queen,

"Yes, Ma'am, they flatter me. I do not think the name will last. Melbourne is not the name of a town or city. I feel it is too long."

The Queen stood up, crying out.

"Oh, nonsense! I think it is a perfectly good name. And if anyone proposes changing it, they will have to answer to me, Lord M." A mischievous smirk fluttered onto her lips and Lord M could swear that her eyes lit up with the idea of punishing someone who proposed changing that name.

"You flatter me too much, Ma'am."

Victoria's words charged behind his.

"I do not flatter you enough, Lord M!"

Their eyes met.

Lord M could swear that the Queen meant something by those words. She was smiling at him but that smile was flickering into something of a gasp. A gasp with no noise, a breathless gasp. It was as if she wanted to say something more. She was about to unclasp her heart to him, unfurling her desires, revealing all intentions. Words were forming in her lips, but there was no breath to fuel the noise. A suffocated fire at her mouth. Her bosom rose from her corset as the air between them seemed to thicken. Victoria's eyes were wide, and as affectionate as she could make them. If she could no longer speak of her feelings for her Prime Minister, she would do all she could to show him.

Lord M could see her eyes clearly, glistening a little like the water of the ponds at Brocket Hall, early in the morning when the sun was bright and cold. He could see her eyes, and the affection in them, and he could see the unsaid words in her throat, but he chose to see something else.

"I-I am sorry to leave you so soon, Ma'am, but I have been called to the house this morning. It is unavoidable, I'm afraid."

Victoria's heart beat faster, as if trying to break free of her ribcage. He made her hurt so much.

"You will join me for dinner tonight?" she asked.

"I cannot promise, Ma'am. I will do my very best."

She knew that he was burning out. But she did not know how to stop it. She watched him leave. She thought she saw his hand trembling. Perhaps she was imagining it. He seemed to pause for a second. Was he going to turn around? She wanted to say something to stop him. She didn't. He didn't stop.

Victoria watched his carriage pull away, her brow knotted in thought, her heart crying. She wondered whether he hurt as much as she did. Did it even hurt him at all?

Her ladies were sat in a small circle, a couple sewing, another in contented silence. Lady Emma was looking at the Queen. She knew that the Queen had developed a habit of standing at that particular window, looking out onto the courtyard, to watch Lord Melbourne come and go. For any other visitor, she would not wait for them to arrive, and she would not watch them go. It was a privilege exclusively reserved for her Prime Minister. Lady Emma knew why.

She was the observer of two souls so helplessly devoted to one another – but both unable to say a thing about it.

"Lady Emma, you are a good friend to Lord Melbourne, are you not?"

Lady Emma jumped upon hearing her name, but quickly composed herself, and replied,

"We have a close acquaintance, yes, Ma'am."

"What does he like?" Victoria asked, joining the circle of ladies. She spoke of folly, but in the most pragmatic way. Lady Emma was confused.

"Like, Ma'am?"

"I wish to make Lord Melbourne happy," the Queen said, defiantly. The other ladies passed each other knowing glances. Victoria thought that her affection was carefully concealed – but it was not. "Do you know of anything he may desire?"

You, Ma'am. Only you.

"Lord Melbourne would insist that you don't owe him anything, Ma'am, but any token from you would surely make him happy."

"What sort of token do you suggest?"

It was at this moment when the ladies began to contribute, in the best possible way they could.

"Lord Melbourne is fond of politics, isn't he?"

"Oh, no, I cannot gift him something political. What would that even be?"

"Perhaps he would like a drawing. You have a very excellent eye, Ma'am."

"I do not have the time. No, I want to give it to him soon."

"A perfume?"

"No, that is too impersonal!"

"He is fond of his garden, Ma'am," Lady Emma said.

"I do not-"

"Flowers, perhaps, Ma'am," Lady Emma added. Victoria's mouth stopped, and her lips clamped shut. She thought of the flowers he brought her, grown at Brocket Hall. It would be sweet, would it not, to return such a gift. There were so many flowers grown at Buckingham Palace, she could pick some, and wrap them. They would be sure to brighten his desk. Oh, yes, what a lovely idea.

Decided on what she would do, Victoria waited until the sun was higher in the sky, and the earth had warmed, and then she went out into the gardens alone. She found a little pair of scissors at her dressing table: Mrs Jenkins used them to cut threads.

It was growing into a warm afternoon and Victoria had no need for a shawl. She walked briskly down the paths, scissors in hand, picturing in her mind the exact flowers she would give to him. Gardenias were beautiful but she knew that she had to pick a different flower. It was only when she was sat, looking at her favourite portrait of Queen Elizabeth, that she thought of the perfect flower. She had learnt of the Tudor rose a long time ago. The joining of two families, by marriage, by love. One of those flowers was a white rose – a gardenia would do. The other, a red rose. Victoria knew where the red roses bloomed. She hoped he would understand the meaning.

The red rose bushes sat in a row along the bank of the water. The leaves were dark and glossy and the sun sparked off them. And, oh, the roses! They bloomed across the foliage, blossoming out, spilling their colour into the world, like a lover's blood after their heart is broken. They were sad but they were beautiful. They were stark in a world of muted colour. They said all the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

Victoria brought a hand to cup the face of one of them, turning its chin up to look at her. It made her chest swell. It was the only token of love worthy of him. It would make him smile - she knew it would. She pulled its face to the side, revealing the stem, and she took her scissors to its neck, opening the blades before clamping down. The stem did not cut. The scissors squealed. She tried again, pushing the blades harder into the stem. The scissors fell from her hand, into the bush. The Queen huffed, frustrated.

This was becoming such a mess.

The Queen could see the metal glinting, encased in leaves, and she reached out to grab them.

"Ah!"

The thorns jabbed and cut and pricked at her hand. Victoria drew it away, as quickly as one would from a flame. She stumbled back. Her hand was slashed. Her skin was broken in lines as thin as strands of hair, and a bead of her own blood was forming on her fingertip, which had fallen into a particularly large thorn. It was glossy and harsh and it made Victoria panic a little. She cursed, wiping the blood onto her other hand, smearing it across her pale skin, wont to stain her dress. Her blood was red like the roses. Her cuts were stinging.

She would not be dissuaded.

More carefully this time, the Queen delved her hand into the leaves, and took the scissors back into her hand, weaving around thorns to retrieve them again. The stem of the rose she had tried to cut was severed, but not broken. Taking a breath of courage, she pressed the blades against the stem and sawed the rose off. It did not come off cleanly, but she was able to pull the rose from the bush.

Her intention was to make a bouquet of roses. But, evidently, that was not going to happen.

One rose would have to do.

She returned inside, after washing the blood from her hands in the water. There were still a few evident cuts, but nothing particularly noticeable. She wrapped the rose in paper, privately that evening, kissing the paper as she did so. She had the thought that he might kiss the paper too. And that he would feel her lips still on the paper. The ghost of her perfume, the softness of her mouth.

The paper would be their kiss.

She wrote a note, too. It did not say much. She did not wish it to say much. The rose would say enough.

She hoped she could give it to him at dinner, but she was told that he was too busy. His apologies fell on ears that did not want to hear them. The rose was placed in a glass of water beside her bed that night. She wanted to cry into her pillow, but she could not bring herself to do so. She lay awake, listening to the solemn sounds of night, and willing them to just be quiet.

The next morning, Lord M arrived.

"Oh, Lord M how I missed you last night!" she cried upon seeing him in the hall. Lord M gave the same weak apologies that the servant had offered her the night before. Victoria would normally have insisted that Lord M need not worry himself. She would have understood that he was busy. She would have smiled at him, and laughed with him, and forgotten about the whole thing just with one look into his eyes. But, today, she was not so easily distracted. "You never seem to have the time to visit me at the moment, Lord Melbourne."

The use of his name, his full name, made Lord Melbourne's stomach churn. He wanted to change the subject, desperately. He noticed her hands.

"You are hurt, Ma'am. Let me see," he said, holding a hand out for her to take. He told himself that he wanted to inspect her injuries, but he was aware that he just wanted to hold her hand. It was pathetic.

"It is nothing, Lord Melbourne," she spluttered, embarrassed. She was pathetic. She wanted to change the subject, desperately. "You have not answered my question, why are you always busy?"

"Believe me, Ma'am, it is not my choice. If it were my choice to make, I would have come to dinner last night. Believe me, I-"

"You have given my excuse after excuse, Lord Melbourne!" Victoria cried. She was not in a state of thinking. She was beyond upset. She was never one to carefully select her words, but now she was much worse. Her mind was clouded and her passion was taking control. Her veins were hot. Her head began to throb. Melbourne recoiled, hurt, like some wounded animal. "What is it that distracts you so?" He was taking steps away from her. She hated that he did so. His mouth did not open. His breath was shaking from his nostrils. "Why do you not see me anymore?"

"Ma'am," he choked. He had to say something, just to stop her questioning. He felt that, if she said another word, he would crumble. His head was light and his heart heavy. He felt sick. "I-I cannot, Ma'am."

Speak to me, she thought, tell me why.

"The thought of… of losing the correspondence I have… had with your Majesty is… too hard to bear. But I feel we cannot continue the way we are," he said, slowly, thoughtfully, but with all the coldness of a rehearsed speech. Victoria, raw and warm and tender, filled the space between them, moving with great speed to where he stood, her hands clasped together to hide their shaking.

"Why? Why do we have to stop? Are you not my Prime Minister? Are you not my advisor?" she asked, eyes scouring his face like a lost thing looking for a path. She wanted to see something. A flicker of warmth, of love. She wanted to see a gap in his façade. She needed him to give her somethingor she would burn out with him. "Are you not my friend?"

"You know I am that!" the softness of his voice, the quiet of it, had vanished. He cried his words, unthinking. "You know. But I have no alternative."

"What do you mean? I do not understand, Lord Melbourne," her voice was weakening. Her throat tightened until she could hardly breathe.

"I am being asked to step down, Ma'am."

"Why? Who could ask such a thing?"

"There is a lack of confidence, Ma'am."

"They cannot make you. I will not allow it."

"You cannot stop them, Ma'am."

"But, why? Why do they-?"

"They feel," Lord Melbourne interrupted, his voice hard and low, "that I am prohibiting your marrying."

Victoria staggered back, as if his words were a blade, and that blade had delved into her stomach, puncturing her, tearing everything inside of her, making her blood blossom across her dress like the roses.

"But… that is not true. I did not want to marry Albert."

"But you wanted to marry me, Ma'am."

Wanted. Victoria wanted to scream: to tell him that it is what she still wants. More than anything in the world. Not wanted, but want. She tried to scoff. But she sobbed instead,

"They do not know that!"

"But I do." Victoria did not know how he could be so cruel. "I cannot, Ma'am, let myself stand in the way of your marriage."

Victoria's teeth clamped around her tongue. She would not cry. She would not cry. She would not cry.

"I will try to continue as your Prime Minister. But we cannot continue the," he tried to think of the right word, "companionship, between us. If we do, I will be forced to leave you." Victoria heard his voice crack. At least, she thought she heard it. Without breathing, she uttered,

"I could not bear it."

Neither could I, he thought. But he left the room with his words still concealed in the bud, only wishing the Queen a bland farewell. It meant nothing.

And the rose, wrapped in paper with tentative hands, tied with a ribbon that once adorned her hair, and labelled with a message written in her own hand, and rewritten, again and again until she was happy with what it said, sat in the water by her bedside, and died there. The petals, once sweet, now limp and dark and fallen. And the note fell into the water.

To my dear Lord M,

I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
Your dearest Elizabeth,

Victoria.