Melbourne
I could not go to Brocket Hall to watch the rooks this time. I could not hide away in the glasshouses, coaxing African violets and white gardenias into bloom. There was no escaping her there. Despite years without a woman's presence, Victoria was somehow in every brick, stone and leaf at Brocket Hall. I could not sit in my usual spot, back against that cold, stone pillar, without seeing the same vision of her—both hands lifting a lace, black veil to reveal her lovely face, those blue eyes, that wide grin, returning to me through a whirlwind of autumn foliage.
She would come to me there and I didn't have the strength of will to turn her down a third time.
So I did not go to Brocket Hall when I left Dover House but ran, like a coward, north to Scotland, thinking a border between us would be enough. To those who asked, I blamed the sudden excursion on an extended, long overdue holiday.
If they believed me, they were fools. For it was a fool's errand and I found myself rooted to a high-backed chair in the cottage I stayed in, not so unlike my own chair at home. And there I stayed for two days, drinking cheap wine and brooding over any number of useless contemplations.
I was not a young man. How many times have I repeated this to myself and to her? And I was certainly not a naïve one. My mother's scandalous exploits left early stains that I've never been able to wash out. Caro had destroyed any lingering innocence, for both us, casting her as a scarlet woman and me as a cuckhold. We made peace, she and I, but that didn't erase the stinging bite of love's less rose-colored facets.
But somehow, with my age and experience to lean on, I still let myself be swept away by this…this…oh, it was a disaster, whatever it was. She was the Queen of the British Empire. She was twenty years my junior. She was…absolutely perfect.
I can't remember what my expectations were that morning I went to Kensington to meet the new queen. Perhaps I had none at all. I remember meeting Emma and Edward on the road and I remember saying something about wanting to retire and contemplate the rooks. There was a moment when I considered turning the horse around and doing just that, leaving the new queen to a new order.
But nonetheless, I arrived at Kensington.
John Conroy met me on the front steps, quickly conveying his desires so blatantly with so little humility that I had to suppress a smirk. His thirsty ambition amused me, as I've met many men like him over the course of my career and somehow, they're always convinced that they can manipulate the world at their pleasure. His confidence in being appointed Her Majesty's personal secretary was unassailable. I remember thinking that little Alexandrina Victoria would be revealed as John Conroy's homemade puppet, with all the strings showing.
I'm nearly ashamed to admit that. To think that she would ever be anyone's puppet…
That doll she had propped up on a chair—I remember picking it up and noting the little gold crown on its white head. A Queen that plays with dolls? I remember thinking. Well, we've had monarchs with worse habits. But then I asked her the doll's name. And she told me that it didn't have one, that it was Number 123. She said it flatly, with little indication to how she might feel about Number 123.
I think I loved her then, at that exact moment. Or perhaps it was the next, when she declared that John Conroy would not be her personal secretary, that he would never hold that post, or any other. The diminutive girl who stood in front of me sparked with so much life and so much feeling, even though she kept her voice level and her true emotions firmly in check, that I was stunned and found myself offering my assistance impulsively.
I hadn't done anything impulsive in twenty years.
And now it appears I can't stop. I shouldn't have kissed her. Dear God, forgive me, I shouldn't have kissed her.
I drained another glass of wine. The wine wasn't working as it should. I felt no pleasant haze of deadened emotion. If anything, it stirred up my darker thoughts and I felt compelled to act. To do something, anything. That's why I wouldn't leave this room, despite knowing that sitting here with ghosts and visions of the past was a dangerous occupation.
Still less dangerous than walking through that door and returning to her side. Which is what I would do, God help me, if I allowed myself to walk through that door.
I stared at the bedroom door of the Scottish cottage for an hour at least, considering, tempting myself.
Come to your senses, man, came a strong voice in my head. It was a prime minister's voice, resolute and firm, and my own voice until so recently.
Remember how love can carve us up, Caro's cautioning voice was next. I imagined her pale, mournful face looking up at me from her death bed.
She should never have left you. I would never do such a thing. Victoria's voice, imploring, pleading with those blue eyes, begging me to see that she was different, that the love she gave me was without reserve, without hesitation.
I know, Ma'am. I know. I would reassure her until the end of my days, as I had nothing else to give her. Nothing else I could give her.
I turned away from the door finally, my better judgment winning out, thankfully. But just as I had turned away, there was an insistent knock that begged my attention. With effort, I pushed myself out of the high-backed chair and answered it.
"Beggin' yer pardon, milord," said the young Scotsman at the doorway. The hallway was dark and the young man held a candle in his hand. Night must have fallen though I had no idea of the hour. Nor the day, if I was being honest. "The telegraph office in town brought a message for ye. They said it was urgent, or I'd not be disturbin' you at this hour."
He forced the small square of paper into my hand and dipped his head subserviently. Then he was gone, off to other errands or perhaps a good night's sleep. I watched him go, envious, as no such sleep would be coming to me tonight.
The message was from Emma and it was six words long, composed with the knowledge that it would be transmitted on a public line:
Come home now STOP She is missing STOP
She is missing… Victoria is missing…
"Dear God…," I heard the words leave my lips, as if someone else said them aloud. I was befuddled and clumsy, my wine-addled brain grasping at fragments, looking around the room for…?
But then I grabbed my coat and I was out the door.
