The Queen is Dead
Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey.
This story exists in the same universe as my other DA fanfictions, particularly "Not Exactly a Year" and "Love's Return." But you should be able to understand this one without reading the others.
February 2, 1901
Violet watched from a distance as Queen Victoria's casket slowly came forward at St. George's chapel. The queen's very large extended family were closer to the procession, but Violet managed to see dimly past all the black clothing. The very air felt somber, as everyone had thought highly of the queen.
Still, it was rather odd, that the queen had requested a military funeral, instead of a royal. Most of the peers weren't even invited, nor the traditional judiciary or councilors. Even the pallbearers were equerries when that honor had always been given to dukes. It was unsettling. Too much was changing.
Yet, Violet stood proudly next to her husband, feeling his steady presence without even looking. They were here because Lord Grantham had been a part of Prince Alfred's court before he left for Saxe – Coburg in 1893. The crown rewarded them for loyal service.
The casket inched closer to their view, and Violet decided it was better that most of the peers were not at the funeral. What if she had been obligated to bring her son's wife, Lady Downton with them? That American still didn't understand proper behavior at all. What might Cora do at the funeral of Queen Victoria? The woman didn't even comprehend the importance of a monarchy.
OOOOOOOOOOO
Violet spent the rest of the day in a dreary fog. Queen Victoria, the monarch that ruled England since before Violet was born, was dead. She had no idea how much time past, or how many other mourners she may have spoken. Dimly, she noticed Patrick's voice as he finally led her back to their carriage.
The carriage slowly trotted back to Grantham House, and Violet stared silently out the window at the sea of grey skies and black clothing. Patrick sat across from her, just as silent. He knew better than to try to chatter at time such as this.
"I cannot believe how different the funeral was than her son, the Duke of Albany's." Patrick voice eventually broke the silence, proving that he didn't know to stay quiet after all.
Staring into his brown eyes, Violet gave her husband her scariest look. It had been known to frighten even soldiers, which was good, as Patrick had fought in the Crimean War. "Naturally, it was different. I know you can be a fool, but surely you noticed it was the queen of England's funeral."
"Yes," Patrick sighed. "I just meant that Queen Victoria's funeral was so different than a normal royal service. It was… difficult, especially with the duke's death only fifteen years ago. The poor boy died so young, barely thirty years old. Such a loss." His face turned toward the carriage window.
"And now his mother is dead as well," Violet said, not allowing the carriage to remain quiet now that he had begun speaking. "And she's a loss to all of Britain."
The air of the carriage felt thick, disturbing their normal companionship. She hated it.
OOOOOOOOOOOO
Violet hated everything about this day, even the way her maid, Thomas, brushed her hair that night. She could feel each yank as if the maid were pricking her head with a thousand needles. It was as if she were hypersensitive to everything, and it was unacceptable. "Thomas, I ask that you brush my hair gently. Not attack me with the brush."
"Yes, milady," the maid replied, moving the brush through her hair much slower. Unfortunately, Violet could still feel every yank, when she wished to disappear into her own private fog.
Patrick had spent the rest of the day interrupting her private fog, even when they returned to Grantham House. Violet tried reading or sipping tea, and he would make another foolish comment about the funeral or about Queen Victoria herself.
And yet, even when Patrick had been quiet, it hadn't felt comfortable. His simple presence felt like another sharp needle in her side. Violet had never been more relieved to retire to bed.
Her bedroom was her sanctuary, even in Grantham House. Everything in here from the bed made of fine rosewood, to the cream – colored walls, to the vanity complete with the large mirror, belonged to Violet. No one entered here without her permission. And Patrick hadn't been interested in visiting her room in more than thirty years. Currently he saw the Countess of Glamorgan for his physical needs, although probably not tonight.
Several more needles attacked Violet's head, and she fought back a grimace. Why did everything hurt so much today?
"All finished, milady," said Thomas at last in her calm voice.
"Thank you," Violet said automatically. The maid finally left the room.
She was alone in her grief. It was safer this way, especially as stray tears fell from her eyes.
She still didn't understand her son Robert's close relationship with his wife. They'd been married over ten years, and they still preferred to share a bed whenever possible. Their physical affection, especially in public, was unseemly, and their love was dangerous. At any time one of them could break the other's heart, and then where would they be?
Violet waited for the ax to fall everyday with Robert and Cora, but it seemed they ignored everything she said. She learned to expect that with Rosamund, but Robert's continued dismal of all Violet's warnings worried her. She wished she could explain to Robert how well she understood heartbreak, but she would never tell her son about her affair with Prince Kuragin, or how her heart ached for months after she'd left Russia.
What would happen when Robert finally returned from the African war? Would his marriage survive, or would that American finally break her son's heart? Violet refused to think of what might happen if her son did not return alive. She'd already lost a beloved queen today, she couldn't lose her only living son, too.
More tears fell from Violet's eyes at that thought, even as she wiped them away. It had been years since she'd thought of her infant son's death.* Edward. He'd been such a handsome baby. And now Robert's life could be gone as well. After all, Rosamund's husband, Marmaduke had already lost his life in the same war.
No. Robert will return alive, as a proud soldier, handsome in his uniform. Nothing else was acceptable. Still, the tears continued to fall as she climbed into bed. Her vision blurred, and she wiped the tears again. This was exactly why no one could see her grieve. Edward's grave was hidden for that very reason.
The relationship she had with Patrick was safe. They were good companions but didn't understand each other intimately, because neither of them had ever touched the other's heart. Today was proof of that. Victoria's death changed Britain, and Violet didn't know how she would handle that. But it hadn't changed the relationship with her husband at all.
*My headcanon is that Violet and Patrick lost a son before Robert was born.