Victoria, simply Victoria, sat in the starlight.

If she were at the palace, she would have been ushered inside by now, cloistered by maids and manservants as if the stars would burn her skin or the night would freeze her blood. She would be confined to her room, and forced to watch the stars through the window. There light would be mottled away. They gleam dimmed. But this was Brocket Hall. At Brocket Hall, she was free. And here, only here, she could be a woman.

And so, she sat out in the night, having watched the sun fall from grace and go down blazing, making fire where the yellow sky met the black horizon, and she counted the stars. One, two, three. All individual, all blinking and twinkling at different times, in slightly different hues: some white and clear, some blue and cold, some warmer, almost yellow. Some were great distances from the others, others were so close that they almost brushed. But every one of them was observed, and noted, and smiled upon by the Queen of England, now smaller and more real than she had ever been. The stars would not recognise her. Gone was her throne, to make her taller. She did not wear a crown, nor try to mimic their gleams with her own diamonds and pearls. She was not dressed in fripperies, not in mourning black either, but in simple white. She had not even taken a shawl with her, for the springtime evenings were balmy and pleasant (but she knew that Mama would have insisted she take a shawl no matter the weather).

Her little rebellion.

And, in the backdrop of her solitude, were the sounds of her ladies, her children, and her dearest Lord M.

She could hear Lady Emma make a joke (about a dreary Whig or a horrendous Tory or some mutual friend they all hated or some other unimportant quibble that Victoria had always believed she was too young to understand and someday would, but never had done) and then her laugh – clear and loud – dissolving like the tolling of some great bell into the air. She had a laugh like a finely crafted instrument, played boldly, making proud music. Some Viennese orchestra. A castrato's herald. It was an attractive sound, a handsome sound, a sound that had brought Victoria joy many times and brought it to her again now in the form of a warmth in the pit of her stomach and a voice in her head telling her she belonged. She had not felt belonging like this in years. She could hear Harriet Sutherland's laugh too, a skittish laugh, pretty and airy, tapered for modesty, but the façade was failing. She could hear Lord Melbourne's laugh too, very, very, clearly. A sound as familiar as her own; as dear to her as her own breath.

She felt, in that moment, that she could be living in a time when Albert was still with her. The grief, her pain, was soothed over with a balm of peace. She felt the same peace that she had occasionally felt with him, in one of the times that she wished to remember him by. When they were friends, not lovers. When they were companions, and they would laugh and play and live harmoniously without the pressure of husband and wife pushing upon them. Simple and clean and preferable. She could hear his laugh among them. A rare sound, but a good one. It sounded like Germany, the palaces and the streets of Austria, the clink of glasses and chandeliers, all the things she had never lived, but missed. And he was amongst the missed.

"Do you miss him?"

A voice brought her cascading into the present, falling back to earth, looking back up at the stars. She turned, briefly, and saw the owner of such a voice – Lord M – approaching her carefully, gently, his form scattered in starlight. How did he know? She wondered. But she answered her own question, inwardly: of course, he knew. He knows.

Lord Melbourne moved to sit beside his Queen, out in the gardens of Brocket Hall, looking at the silver water where the moon's reflection lay, rippling and breaking. Victoria did not look at him as she replied. She could not bring herself to.

"Yes."

It did not upset him. It did not hurt him in the slightest. For he missed Caroline too. It was perfectly natural and, in fact, he was glad of it. It meant she felt. She had blood running through her and a heart in her breast. It was strange, but perhaps not, that you can miss someone so dearly once they have gone, but never appreciate them in life. He loved Caroline, initially, of course. He had fallen in love with her, rapturously, captured by that spirit of hers, that quick wit, those fast eyes, but fell out of that love. Strain pulled him out of it, the pressure of her, the pressure of his position. He was torn away. Part of him was left behind. A million things had dragged them apart until he convinced himself that he did not care for her. But now she breaks his heart. Even though his heart belongs to Victoria, Caroline still holds a little bit of it. The bit that didn't tear away. And he knew it would be the same for Victoria. She could give him her heart, but Albert would still hold a little bit of it. Melbourne did not believe in heaven, but the thought humoured him that, perhaps, they were both looking down on them, in shock, maybe, or maybe not. Maybe they were happy for them. Maybe angry. Maybe upset. It was lucky that William did not believe in heaven.

"Do you miss Caroline?" Victoria asked, as if reading his mind. William fought back his gasp, a visceral reaction to having her mind so closely tuned into his own. His gasp became a laugh, a laugh hardly more than breath, with puffed into a cloud before his face, dissipating into the night and shrouding the stars. Victoria turned to him, her eyes glossy and her mouth a soft line, wanting to reach out and hold his hand. She did not, however. She waited for his reply.

"Yes."

Victoria smiled meekly before finally reaching her hand out and closing it over his. No Mozart this time. But his touch. He is a man of great feeling.William's hand felt tense when her fingers first lay over it, but the muscles softened almost instantly. Peace, my love,Victoria thought, peace. William released a sigh, hearing the call of her heart, calling him to be at peace, and his eyes closed. He felt the moonlight. Different to the sunlight. Consuming him. In the blackness of his eyelids, he still felt the silver light. And then he felt a kiss on his cheekbone, where his skull was closest to the surface, and it sent tingles across his cheek, a warmth into his face. He did not open his eyes, but let his mouth curl into a smile, to let her know that she was loved. She saw it, and knew, and leant into his chest, closing her own eyes, and breathing him in.

Emma and Harriet noticed, of course, and, in hushed voices, careful not to be overheard, they spoke of what they saw.

"The Queen is quite smitten. And not long ago she was mourning over the late Prince," Harriet whispered.

"He is helping her to heal. I am glad," Emma replied, tilting her head too one side, and watching the two lovers like cupid whose arrows had sparked the match in the first place.

"Do you think she will marry him?" Harriet asked, almost scandalised, but with not a negative feeling in her body.

"I hope so. They deserve it. A happy epilogue."

Young Vicky had grown bored of the adult conversation, not understanding it at all, and was tugging gently at Lady Emma's skirt, protesting that she was tired, and letting out profuse yawns, rubbing her little blue eyes. Emma smiled at the young girl, and led her to her bedroom, whilst Harriet brought Edward to the cot. Brocket Hall was getting quiet and still. The night was becoming darker.

When William finally felt Victoria's breath become soft and slow, he roused, waking her a little from a state of half-dream, and they stood up together, neither aware of how much time had passed or what the time was, but they walked back inside together, William leading her on his arm. He led her upstairs and to the hall, down which stood the door to her room. He wished her a good night and, emboldened by being in his own residence, and by the darkness of the Hall, and by the silence, he leant across to the woman holding his arm and kissed her forehead. She was sleepy, but his kissed blazed through her mind. And with that, he left her, giddy with tiredness and love, and he went to his own room. She was on his mind.

And she walked down the hall and into her room. It was perfumed. It smelled sweet and clean. A gentle scent that smelled so definitely of home. Not the oils of Buckingham Palace or Kensington's violets – the stench of death – but some resemblance of a home she had never lived in but her humanity was rooted to interpret the subtle notes as the epitome of home. The smell of belonging: of knowing where you are and being fixed within it, like a gem in the foil. The room was a pretty one, she had stayed there before and had insisted upon it. The view from the window was an exquisite one; nothing but green. Not the London roofs she could see from Buckingham, but endless stretches of green meeting the water and the forest beyond. The room was perfect, with red walls and a bed that yielded to her body, cocooning her. But it seemed more delightful now than it ever had done before. Had he prepared it differently? Prepared it with such care, such gentility, so it would be utterly perfect for her? Was it just the lowlight? Was it the meaning, now, that she had seen the innermost part of him, and shared herself with him? Now that she had loved him?

She dressed herself into her nightgown, without a maid to take out her hair or a maid to press her nightclothes or rub oils into her hair. She climbed into the sheets and allowed them to smother her, near suffocating her, rubbing at her cheeks – still red – and clamouring at her toes. She sighed. It was dark and almost silent, save the tapping of a branch on the window and the rustling of nocturnal animals, stirring under the moonlight to seek out their partners. She could feel his heartbeat in the floorboards. His life, lived in full in this house, playing out in her imagination. All the years. Every moment, every beat that formed him, made him the Lord M she knew and adored. She could feel his breath in the draft. He sought her out, and lingered with her through the night.

The sun broke, the nocturnal animals returned to their dreams, the birds called out in full and harmonious song. It was spring. Brocket was alive.

Victoria came downstairs in red. A bright colour. Not black, as would be expected of her. But red. Red like a militiaman. Like the Duke of Wellington himself. Red like a carnation. Incarnadine, she brazened. The multitudinous seas behind her. She turned her back on them. With gold trim, glinting and unashamed, she glistered. She stood happily in the dining room, as if presenting herself to her ladies and her Lord, awaiting their reaction.

"You are wearing your riding habit, Ma'am," Lord Melbourne said rather dimly, looking up at her from over his breakfast. Lady Emma almost guffawed. The term 'Ma'am' seemed so alien on the man's lips now, but he insisted upon using it, thinking that people were fooled. No one was fooled. Victoria deflated a little at the response, but replied in as perky a tune she could muster, puffing her chest out and lifting her chin.

"You said we would go out riding together, Lord M," Victoria replied, refraining from calling him by his Christian name. His private name. William. "I would like to take you up on your offer. This morning, if that would suit you." Lady Emma and Lady Harriet saw the man's blush, creeping unwanted on to his face, amused by her lack of tact. He hoped she would never learn to be tactful. He'd had enough of tact. He'd lived his life in the company of tactful people. Tact be damned.

"Of course, Ma'am. I shall have the horses prepared."

Before the strike of twelve, they crossed the bridge over the Broadwater on horseback. Two brown horses, strong and healthy, muscular, and obedient. As good a horse as Victoria could wish for. She trotted alongside Lord Melbourne, who never rode quite as fast as Victoria would wish to, but she supposed that was consequence of their difference in years. And, so, she slowed herself, and talked to him of the grounds. She did not lead the conversation, unusually, as she was perfectly content in listening to him. He was positively emphatic. His expression was bright, and he seemed to be able to talk endlessly of the history in the grounds, his family history. He had opened up, prompted by the springtime, and she watched him bloom.

They reached the edge of the forest, where the springtime sunlight at first became mottled and then the throng of trees became so dense that the light was nearly blotted out altogether. They stopped their horses at the edge of it, listening on the cusp of the forest's whisperings, and Victoria peered in between the willowy trunks, some thinner and some girthy, some silver and some deep and dark and rough. Patches of moss. Rocks. Stones that had laid there for generations. Patches of grass and carpets of bluebells. The leaves, some catching the light, some almost translucent in the light's vision, making the wall of foliage impenetrable. Such uncertainty exciting the young Queen.

"How far does the forest go?" she asked, turning to her Lord M, who was beginning to turn his horse round, to creep back to the Hall. He laughed, at himself,

"I used to ask myself that. I used to ride out into the forest as a young man, to try and find what was on the other side. I never quite found it," he explained, reminiscing on a younger self that still lay somewhere within him. The same part of him that had fallen so hopelessly and infuriatingly in love.

Victoria's mouth curled into a smirk and, taking a tighter hold of her horse's reins, she jeered,

"Why don't we try again?"

And off she shot. Like a bullet from a barrel. A cork from a bottle. She turned to wind in Lord Melbourne's face, then the thundering of hooves into the trees. It kicked up leaves which made whirlwinds. Melbourne watched her go, half-laughing, a bit shell-shocked, before taking his own reins, kicking the flank of his horse, and following her, at a roaring pace. Victoria felt the wind beat her face until it went numb, pulling her hair free from its style, cracking her lips and drying out her beaming smile. She wanted to scream into the wind, and let her voice be carried away by the air, whipped from her and taken to some far, far off place. She wanted to let go of the reins, lean back, and be carried to infinity on the back of this horse. She could hear hooves behind her, and she whipped her head back momentarily to spot him, following her, galloping between the trees. They were getting lost in the forest. Together. The sound of the hooves made them deaf, and their own breath heaved with the chase.

Victoria stopped in a clearing, almost falling from her horse in the sudden halt, and William came to a stop beside her. There was an ever-changing light falling in the clearing, morphing like the crests of waves rippling on the top of a lake, sparking in pearlescent light before falling into shadow with the light forming beside it, then a few metres away, then there, again. It was still, and they did not know where they were. They knew they were far away, that was what mattered. No one would find them here.

William climbed from his horse, tethered it, then helped Victoria from her horse, and she tethered it. Then, they walked, careful not to walk too far, but they were distracted and therefore the possibility of getting lost was likely.

She could hear their footsteps on the ground: a real sound. Her foot and then his; her foot then his; hers then his. On the ground, not hollow and echoing like the marble floors of the palace, but the earth and the ground and the soil and leaves, and the soft trudge of their footfall, as real as her heartbeat, and beating in tandem.

"You look beautiful," William said, as a fractal of light, warm and soft like honey, fell onto her face, illuminating her. Her hair was unkempt and her face clear. Happy. She looked radiant. He meant what he said. He meant more than he said. Victoria blushed, unsure of how to respond to a statement so frank. A Queen was not taught to respond to frankness, for frankness was never a technique applied to the Queen's conversations. Should she thank him? Return the favour? Simply turn and kiss him, so he could never be so frank again? Before she could respond, he spoke again, though – this time – to no one in particular, "I do not know what you see in me."

William noticed that Victoria's footsteps had stopped suddenly. He turned, and saw an expression as cold as stone and stormy as thunder.

"Your humility would be charming if it were not so ridiculous!" she cried, crossing her arms over her chest. Her expression sweetened, her eyes growing wider, a smile creeping up on her. Oh, how beautiful he looked. Ruffled feathers. Green eyes. "You are the kindest man I have ever known, William! Why shouldn't I love you?" Her hand fell on to his chest. His breath shuddered without his bidding. A hitch. A gasp. Her touch still melted him. It was pathetic. Schoolboy. Virgin. Oh, the effect she had on him. She surprised him, still. "You are quite handsome too, if you don't mind me saying, Lord M." Flirty. Enrapturing. Engaging. Her eyes. Exposing him. Pupils. Teasing. And, then, her kiss. Perfection. Falling on his lips like the sunlight on the ground. Ever-changing. Light, barely brushing, hesitant. Warm, spreading a warmth through him, illuminating him. A gift. Something precious. Something only they would share. Something he would wrap up and keep sacred forever. Her laughter broke their kiss. A fit of giggles. Embarrassed. What folly it was! To steal kisses in the middle of the woods. After a dangerously fast ride. To confess desire and love in the company of the trees. To hope they wouldn't overhear. To hope their whispers wouldn't repeat their secrets.

And then her lips again, back again like the tide, stronger this time. A passionate wave. A moan on her lips which he took from her. A hand in his hair. On the back of his neck. Her waist. Her breath. Her back. Pushing closer to him, leaning into his kiss as if it could support her. Life blood. Leaning further. A fervent touch. Shaking hands. A sigh rising through him. Her hands pushing away his jacket, led by something she could not understand. Her fingers ghosting on his shirt. The air closer to him. Cold. The breaking of the wave. The sigh. The gasp. Pulling back. Stumbling backwards.

"Victoria!" he cried, pulling his jacket back on to his shoulder. Now parted from her, he realised quite how weak his legs had become. How unstable he had become at the knee. He was sure he was swaying.

"What is the matter? Do I not… do I not please you?" she panted, her voice shaking, disrupted by the rumbling of her heart, beating so hard and so fast that she feared her ribcage would break.

"No! No, that is not it at all. You… you please me… greatly, Victoria. You really do. But, I fear this is not the time or the place."

Victoria suddenly remembered herself, coming down from the high, and she was seized by a horrible dread, mortified, but afraid to show it. She simply nodded, pursing her lips, and replying,

"Oh, yes. Of course, of course. You are quite right."

William smiled at her, and eased her grief, immediately, immaculately. Victoria smiled back, the breath of a laugh passing through her, before she sighed, turning her head on one side, tears brimming in her eyes. Lord Melbourne could not have known for sure what passed through Victoria's head in that moment – though he knew it was a thought of love. For her face showed every pang of it.

What the Queen thought was pure and simple.

She wanted to marry him.

Nothing more.

She wanted to be his wife.

A few days later, in London town, Thomas Spring Rice, the Baron Monteagle of Brandon, harbouring a new shade of ruddy red in his cheeks from alcohol drinking since the date of his second marriage to Marianne Marshall – who everyone thought was quite lovely and, importantly for Thomas, quite rich – was sat in his armchair as always in the gentlemen's club that the Whigs had claimed. It was a fine establishment – less pristine and airy and crystalline than the Tory equivalent (which a few Whigs could tell the tale of having visited) – but full of darkened corners where books would be fluttered through and the acidic smell of old tobacco and alcohol. To Monteagle, this was home. And, on this day, home was getting a visitor who had not been seen there in a good while. Once a frequent visitor of those dark corners, a frequent flitterer of books, licker of thumbs and turner of pages, downer of port and more port and more until he was quite intoxicated and quite unlike the man that everyone expected to one day be Prime Minister, and quite unlike the man that was the Prime Minister eventually, as the stress made him drink to greater excess. He was not a drunkard, that was important to note. He was a charming fellow. A good man. But one with the vice of drinking away troubling emotions. Pain. Everyone knew he felt it. Worse than most.

A painful existence.

It was hard not to pity him and, yet, impossible not to respect him. His wit was sharp and his charisma beguiling. He had been Prime Minister for a reason.

And there he was. Frequenting the gentlemen's clubs like the young William Lamb used to, like the Prime Minister Lord Melbourne used to. Hardly changed, Thomas thought, those same hawkish eyes – radiantly green, enigmatic and handsome – roving the room. That same allure exuding from him, urbane. And his jacket was well made, his necktie well pressed, his hair well-kept and his shoes well-polished. He was keeping himself well, Thomas thought. I wonder why, Monteagle thought, knowing the answer.

William saw his long-time political associate sat in a little patch of hazy light, in that same armchair, and felt his spirits quite lifted at the presence of a friend who he had not seen in a while. He sat down in front of the gentleman, and greeted him with warmth. He told him how delighted he was to see an old friend, asked after his new wife, asked him about politics and half-listened to the answers. Thomas, however, seemed distracted by his own thoughts and, the moment William's formalities had turned to silence, the Baron spoke,

"I have noticed that the Queen has not been in residence for the past… what, four days? And you, Melbourne, haven't been seen at your London residence in… it must be four days? What a coincidence. And all sources have told me that you've been at Brocket," Monteagle picked up a newspaper and languidly began to flick through it, tutting before sighing and exclaiming, "How interesting!" William would have been angry if it were anyone else but Thomas' intrusion was quite humorous. Old friends can get away with murder, sometimes.

"Are you spying on me, Thomas? Keeping tabs on me like some naughty schoolboy!" Melbourne chuckled, drawing his glass from the table and taking a sip.

"You and I both know, William, that you are the naughtiest schoolboy in the Whig party. Or at least you were."

"I do not know what you mean, Baron!"

"And you clearly haven't changed! Receiving the widowed Queen at Brocket Hall! I mean, honestly!" William quickly shushed him, leaning in rapidly, almost spilling his port. "Calm down, Melbourne. It's almost common knowledge in the Whig party now. And we're not against you. In fact, we're in support of it. It gives our party a little boost. I'm talking cynically. People also quite like you, William, for some reason, despite your political failings. And personal ones. It's the Tories who you'll have to convince!"

"Convince for what? The Queen and I are close friends!"

The Baron Monteagle of Brandon nodded a multitude of chins and professed,

"Oh, of course, of course."

There was a dense silence between the pair. The clock ticked. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Melbourne gulped down his port. It shook in his glass in his hand. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The silence coagulated. Tick. He was almost sweating. Tock. He let out an exasperated cry,

"Good God! Am I that obvious?"

"You haven't exactly been subtle about it, Melbourne! One moment you were cursing the day you'd ever entered politics and the next, out of the blue, you are quite happy to attend to the young and pretty Queen, and to help her most readily with the dispatches!"

"Lord, I am such a fool!" he sighed, bringing a hand to his forehead and shutting his eyes, closing the world off, feeling the dizzying effects of the port getting to his head.

"No!"

"I am! A damned fool. To act like a boy at my age!"

"I have known you for a long time, William. And I can truthfully say that I have never seen you as happy as you are in the Queen's company." William's heart swelled, though his head still remained buried. "It is a companionship that most men can only dream of. You know I am a cynical man and even I find it quite… touching. Look, if the possibility comes around, William… William, listen to me! If the opportunity comes around, please, don't let it go."

Don't let it go. Don't let it pass by. Victoria repeated it to herself like a mantra. Don't let it go.

"Sir Robert," Victoria choked, for her mouth was dry and her lips were drier. The Prime Minister was sat in one of Buckingham's fine chairs, bolt upright, a bit pale, and listening attentively, anxiously. "I have an important question I must ask you."

It will not come to that. It must not come to that.