When she was not being treated like a hull carrying precious cargo or being fawned over like some pretty doll in the window of a shop, Victoria found that the life of a pregnant Queen was a very dull one which could only be filled with excess of thinking which – for a woman to whom heartache had become a friend – was not a pleasurable pursuit. She was bundled up indoors for fear of her damaging the cargo her womb held, and stopped from doing all the things she loved best. When she wished to go horse-riding, she was told it was most unwise to do so. When she expressed a desire to take an open carriage through the park, she was told that she could not. When she asked to simply take a walk around the gardens, she was advised to stay indoors.

In her days caged inside the palace stuffing marron glacés into her mouth, Victoria's mind often wandered back to the one subject she could never escape, and yet never face. Her dear Lord Melbourne. Her mind had been busy working through what they had shared that day when her pregnancy became a fact to her. She had met with the Prime Minister since, but the meetings had been brief and impersonal as they both knew they should always be. The meetings had not been nearly as insightful, or nearly as agonising, as that one had been.

She reviewed the incidents in her head time and time again, replaying the information, and analysing what she already knew of her Prime Minister, and what he was yet to tell her.

She knew that his mother was a woman of great social standing: Lady Melbourne. She had a reputation about her that Victoria was already aware of. She had heard a story, once, over dinner, spoken by a person who clearly hadn't tapered their speech for the presence of a young princess, of Lady Melbourne presenting herself, entirely naked, on a great silver platter for the first Viscount Melbourne. Whilst her mother had practically cried out, nearly choking on her food, laying great awkward hands all over her daughter as if that would stop her from remembering what she had just heard, the little Victoria smiled at the folly of such a thing. She wondered what sort of side dishes would accompany her.

The first Viscount Melbourne, she knew little of, probably because he was not a man of such flamboyancy or charm as his wife. He was a politician, and a Whig, the same as his son came to be, and she could vaguely remember being shown a cameo of him once and noticing that he had a very, very small mouth.

Lord Melbourne's mouth was not as small as his father's must have been. She thought that strange.

Perhaps his father was not his father. The thought almost made her gasp and spit her marron glacé on to her bulging lap. He did say how his mother was Uncle George's mistress! Oh, surely not! If that were so, then Lord Melbourne may be of royal blood. And, if Lord Melbourne was of royal blood then he would be her cousin.

I do not think marriage between first cousins is wise, Ma'am.

She felt quite sick, and took the platter of marrons glacés and put them on the table far away from where she sat. The sickly saccharine smell of them was making her feel queasier. She had already ruined a vase in her pregnancy, she did not wish to ruin another, or a carpet, for that matter. She took a few long and steady breaths with her eyes closed until the world stop spinning and her stomach ceased heaving.

She opened her eyes with a clearer head.

Victoria then came to a decision that was more becoming of her naïve, foolish eighteen-year-old self than the married woman she thought she was becoming. She decided, with a fair helping of strong-headed resolve, that she would visit Brocket Hall. She did not see any problem with a weekend visit. Indeed, she was a married woman, but she also knew that there was a room at Brocket Hall that was always prepared for her, and she knew that her Prime Minister would enjoy the company, and she knew she could take a carriage down and ensure that it would hardly cause a stir, and she also knew that her mind would never be at rest unless she could gather more information from Lord Melbourne. She had unanswered questions and hoped, in the privacy of his own home, he would divulge her in some answers.

It would not be a visit of a woman to her lover, she told herself, ensuring herself that her decision was a wise one. This would simply be a Queen visiting her Prime Minister on matters of friendship.

And, besides, it did not say anywhere in the English constitution that the Queen must take her husband with her everywhere. It would be understandable, surely, for her to request a quiet weekend in the country to discuss matters of politics with her Prime Minister. The library at Brocket Hall was quite extensive, she would tell anyone who questioned her, and she believed she might find some answers to her questions about… about… the law, or something like that.

When she expressed these wishes to Lehzen, she was met with the usual expressions of concern, and wishes for her to change her mind, but she replied simply that she was the Queen, and she wished to go to Brocket Hall and see her Prime Minister. It was a statement that could not be refuted. Anyone who did so, feared trial for treason. And, so, the carriage was prepared and the next morning, Victoria rode down to Brocket Hall. She was asked if she wished a message to be sent to Lord Melbourne, preparing him for her arrival, but she declined. It would give him a little excitement, she thought, in these lonely days.

The carriage ride along the country roads leading to Brocket Hall was excessively romantic. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't, simply to make herself feel less guilty, but the little sunlight that brushed the top of the hill that stretched seemingly endlessly back into a throng of woodland fell onto her face, and the faces of daffodils beside the road, and she felt a twine tugging at her heart, tethering her to what she denied herself.

What the world denied her.

And, pushing itself to the forefront of her mind were the words that now lay in ash: I love you, I love you, I love you. She tried to erase these words, knowing the danger they held, but they refused to burn away.

The carriage stopped outside Brocket Hall, and Victoria began to wonder whether he may have already noticed her arrival, and what he was thinking. Or, perhaps, he was reading a book in his library, or writing one, and her announcement would shock him. It would not be the first time such a thing had happened, she thought, recalling fondly a time when she caught him, unravelled, in his office. How he had leapt from his seat! It was quite comical, and still made her laugh to this day.

Lord Melbourne clearly had not noticed her arrival, as she was met at the door by a butler, whose eyes doubled in size to see the Queen. He exclaimed,

"Your Ma-!"

"Shh!" Victoria hushed, leaning into the butler and whispering, "I want my arrival to be a surprise!" She stifled a giggle and the butler tittered awkwardly, not knowing the appropriate response to the Queen's fun and games. The Queen, herself, had not participated in fun and games for quite a while, and it felt a little strange, but exciting. She felt eighteen once more.

The butler accommodated for her, opening the door for her, taking her bonnet, and showing her to the library where he assured her the Prime Minister was working. He asked her, still trying to keep his voice low, if she wished to be announced to him. She replied, a little cunning smirk on her face, that she did not, and told the butler that he could leave. She and Lord Melbourne were forced into such seriousness in the confines of the palace. The same rules did not apply here. When she pushed gently on the door, it creaked. She sucked her breath in, not wanting him to turn around and see her just yet. She poked her head around the door, scanning across bookcase after bookcase until her eyes fell on the greying curls of her dear Lord M, facing away from the door in his armchair. She edged into the room, desperately forcing her giggles back down her throat, clamping her lips tightly together, focusing on her breathing.

"What is it, Jakes?" he asked. His voice sounded so harsh. It was never so harsh when he spoke to her. In fact, Victoria always noted how soft his voice was. She rather liked him talking to her harshly. It made her skin tingle.

"There is a visitor for you, sir," Victoria replied in very best gruff man voice. She based the voice on Lord Conyngham, who she always thought sounded humorously masculine – as if he was afraid people would doubt his masculinity, so had to perform it the way a cheap actor would. There was a certain hitch in Lord Melbourne's position, but he did not turn around, but instead coughed and asked,

"Are you ill, Jakes?"

"A tad, sir."

"Who's the visitor?"

"An old friend, sir." The gruff voice was wavering in favour of giggling.

"For God's sake-" Melbourne began, losing his temper and rising from his armchair with gusto, turning around with an expression as hard as stone before he saw the Queen and released an audible gasp, staggering back. "Y-your Majesty!" he cried, fumbling into something resembling a bow, his eyes blown up into a size bigger than Jakes' were: a feat the Queen found most surprising. "Forgive me, Ma'am, for speaking to you in such a way." She allowed herself to laugh, quite brazenly, and she approached the Prime Minister, her hand outstretched. Remembering himself, he approached her and took her hand, kissing it. Quite different to the exchanges in the palace, he held her hand for longer, and savoured the contact. And he was smiling at her more often. And their manners were easier.

He mentioned her swelling tummy and how radiant she was looking. She told him that she was not enjoying pregnancy. She told him that everyone was treating her like a vessel carrying precious cargo. He laughed at the metaphor, and she laughed too although she did not find it funny.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Ma'am?" he asked, offering a chair to the Queen which she took, before seating himself opposite her. Victoria liked how real he seemed here. She had not seen him so comfortable since Albert had arrived for the first time, what seemed like years ago.

"I had things I wished to talk to you about, Lord M. It couldn't wait. I hoped to stay the weekend, if that is possible. There is much we need to discuss and I know there is a room prepared for my visits."

"Yes, of course, Ma'am. You are welcome at Brocket Hall whenever you wish," Lord Melbourne replied, hiding the unease he felt at the prospect of sharing his house for a weekend with a married woman. Not just any married woman but the married Queen. Not just any married Queen but the married Queen who he was ardently in love with and who, although she did not say it, he knew to be in love with him. If anyone found out, it would be scandalous – even if the conversations were political, not criminal. "What did you wish to discuss?"

"Oh, political matters. The usual, really. We'll have plenty of time for that! Isn't it better to settle in first?"

"You understand, Ma'am, that any political questions you have can be put to Sir Robert Peel. He is at your disposal. There is no need to trouble yourself to visit me here."

"Oh! Lord Melbourne! Of course I do not wish to discuss politics!" Victoria cried, throwing her hands in the air like a mother with her irritable child. Melbourne fell silent, scorned. "And, besides, you know that I do not like Sir Robert half so well as I like you." He lightened again in the wake of her flattery.

"If it is not politics you wish to discuss, Ma'am," Melbourne asked, leaning forward on his seat, "then, may I ask, why have you taken the trouble to ride down to Brocket Hall?" Victoria sighed. Could he stop asking questions and being hesitant for one second, and just allow himself to live?

"Frankly, Lord M, I wished for a weekend spent with a friend. I do not have so many friends anymore. And, whenever I see you, there are always eyes on us, and we never get to say what we wish to say. Don't you agree?"

Lord Melbourne's mouth became dry as he recalled the letter that she had written him.

"I do not know what you mean, Ma'am."

"A few months ago: you were telling me about your mother, and we were interrupted. It has been troubling me that, although we both call each other friends, I hardly know anything about you besides that which I can find in books and through gossip! I have told you everything about me, Lord M! And you never return the favour."

"I'm afraid, Ma'am, that you would not be interested in my life."

"Oh, nonsense!" she laughed. "Why don't we test that theory out, Lord M?" She flashed him a smile, bewitching as she could muster, and he laughed, sinking back into the chair with his hands placed firmly on his knees. He fell into a pool of light, and the resulting effect on his eyes made Victoria's laugh dwindle away, and knocked the breath from her lungs, clouding in the air. He raised his arms at her as if to say 'go ahead' and Victoria raised her eyebrows. It was strange. At the palace, she could think of a million different questions she wished to ask him and, now, faced with the awaiting ears, she could not think of a single one. She did not think he would allow her to ask anything. He never had done before.

To be frank, she had never tried before.

"You told me you spent your childhood here." Lord Melbourne nodded, looking fondly around him at the library: the pale blue walls dotted with squares of sunlight, the red carpet that was once plush beneath his small bare feet, the vases, and the portraits of people he had never met but were as familiar as friends to him, the white and gold of the bookcases on all four sides and the Chippendale bookcase as the jewel in the crown. "What was that like?"

"Idyllic," he said, quite simply, as if the praise were easily given. Victoria half-smiled, feeling the weight of a thousand memories pressing down on her, locked within every wall and cabinet in Brocket Hall. She could hear the laughter of the late Elizabeth Lamb, as she watched her sons bounding through the house without a single care or a single thought for their futures, what the world had prepared for them, and how they would find it. She could feel the dewy spring breeze passing through the fresh blossom trees brushing the windows. She could feel the light being caught. Felt it scatter. "My mother had a knack for the theatrical. Only out there she-"

"Show me," Victoria prompted, biting her lip, almost shaking with her anticipation. She could feel him opening up – like a peony, slowly. He stood up and led her into the hall, and through to the ballroom. Oh, it was a breath-taking sight! A great chandelier rained crystals, shattering the light into a thousand glimmers, across the ceiling which had been painted with figures of handsome ladies cloaked in silk, brandishing brazen torches, summoning the sunrise, and bearded men who seemed to fly against a pale sky, reaching out for a wisp of cloud. Victoria could hardly turn her gaze from it.

"The ceiling is half of the expense of the entire house."

"Who would spend so much on a ceiling?" Victoria cried.

"Is it not worth the expense, Ma'am?" Melbourne asked, chuckling, casting his gaze up to the Caro's favourite image: the red-skirted woman lying on the ground.

"No. No, it is quite beautiful, Lord M. Quite beautiful."

Melbourne smiled inwardly, glowing a little, glad that the Queen was fond of it. He brought her to the end of the ballroom to a small alcove that Victoria acknowledged would have held an orchestra when balls were held here. She wondered how long it had been since music had graced these walls, and humoured the people living on the ceiling.

"Just here, my mother insisted we perform. I can hardly remember the play now, something of more art and less matter, I believe! I was never made to be an actor. Neither were my siblings. My mother would sit at the very front, right there, and she'd whisper our cues and the lines we forgot, and cheer us endlessly. She was very fond of our little theatre." Melbourne walked into the alcove and stood, facing out, just as he had done. Though, he was a good deal taller now, and the house was a good deal quieter. Victoria loved how he spoke of his youth. He sounded so happy, his voice fringed with humour, laced with the light that bore him into the world and housed those youthful summers. He smiled and the smile was real.

Victoria and Melbourne proceeded through the house, talking all the while of the particulars of Lord Melbourne's life. He answered everything, without question, and fully.

"When I went to Eton, I missed it, unimaginably. I became very homesick. My mother visited me often, though. She always told me she was 'harbouring my greatness'. I do not think I was ever able to reach what she expected of me."

"What a silly thing to say, Lord Melbourne. You are the Prime Minister of the greatest Empire on Earth! You are the dearest friend of the greatest Queen that this country will ever see." Melbourne laughed,

"How modest of you, Ma'am." Victoria stopped walking, beside one of the upstairs windows looking out on to the gardens and the pretty flowers they harboured. Melbourne continued for a second, before realising that the Queen had stopped and, fearing that he had spoken out of turn, he turned, and approached her, standing beside the window, facing her. After a brief moment's sternness, her face gleamed with a smile brighter than the sun which gave light to it.

"It is true, though, isn't it? And I would not be nearly as successful if it were not for you, Lord M." The words brought a rose to his cheeks, and forced his gaze downwards, into the folds of her skirt rather than the blue of her eyes. "You are the making of me." And the undoing, she thought, finding her heart protesting against her lack of action. He was so lovely. So lovely to her. She could hardly keep her affection inside her head. It threatened to spill like a swelling tide from her mouth: a torrent of adoration all for him. He made her feel like the most beautiful thing, and he was exactly that to her. She felt like she could say anything with him. His eyes cast the world cascading open to her, and she wished to delve into it.

"If you do not mind me asking, Lord M, you said your mother was Uncle George's mistress. But she was a married woman, was she not?" A flash of something grave passed his face.

"That is right, Ma'am. My mother was a good woman, but faithful she was not. There were affairs. My father did the same. It was acceptable," he said. He thought about telling her of his affairs, but knew that some aspects of his life were better left unspoken. He could not bear to damage the Queen's opinion of him.

"You are not his?" she asked. Her forwardness was impolite, but he found it charming. She may have grown into a woman, but she had not yet learnt the skill of tact.

"No, Ma'am. They did not meet until after I was born. If you are afraid of us being cousins, I can assure you, we are not," he explained. A heaviness formed between their two souls. Melbourne was glad, although he knew he could not marry the Queen, that it was possible. Victoria sensed his gladness, and knew exactly why it was.

Her bosom ached to be unclasped, releasing her enveloped heart, and letting the flood pour from it. The heat of her ardour gave fuel to her next question,

"You confessed that you have had a mistress. Was that whilst you were married?" Victoria asked with not a jot of condemnation in her voice, just light-hearted curiosity. Melbourne, for the first time that day, hesitated before answering. His mouth opened but no noise passed. Victoria began to fear that she had pressed too hard. He forced air through his lungs and out of his mouth,

"Yes, yes, it was."

"Ah."

"You understand, Ma'am, that-"

"I do not think any less of you, Lord M. Do not worry."

"Oh."

A pause ensued.

"A married man can indulge himself in romantic liaisons, yes?" she asked, eyes fluttering between Lord Melbourne's eyes and his lips. Her skin shivered on her chest, rising in unsteady breaths over her neckline. Melbourne nodded, swallowing hard. "As can a married woman?"

Her hand caught his, as if reaching for a wisp of cloud, which dissipated as soon as her fingers caught it.

"Ma'am," he uttered, without breath enough to make his plea forceful.

"Lord M," she whispered, the words becoming hisses in his ears as they ignited a fire that he had forced into dormancy for a long time. He closed his eyes, whistling a breath through his nostrils, chest collapsing, ribcage shrinking, pulse throbbing through the paper-thin skin on his wrist. He felt a finger there. Not his own. He shrank back, throwing himself into a garbled speech,

"I believe you are tired, Ma'am, you have travelled quite a way. Your room is always ready for you, perhaps it would be best for you to rest. I will have something prepared for dinner though, due to the circumstances, I cannot promise anything exceptional. We will talk more then."

"Nonsense, I am quite well enough to talk to you."

She said that word 'talk' as if it was the simplest thing in the world. As if they were just talking, like two people always talk, just like it was harmless and innocent and good. She said it as if she wasn't bringing him the most agonising pain. She said it as if they weren't bleeding for each other. Melbourne stepped back from her again and, half in anger, he cried,

"Why do you wish to torture yourself? Why do you wish to torture me? You have a husband, of your years, who loves you. Can we not both be satisfied in that?"

"I do not know, Lord Melbourne, can you?" she asked, rage sitting beneath the skin, dormant whilst the sadness raged above. Melbourne's face, which had been churning like the tides between confusion, regret, desperation, suddenly fell soft and still and his eyes grew sad, just like hers. They told her the answer: of course he could not. "Don't you see? We may be able to act the part of Queen and Prime Minister well but we will never be satisfied."

He said nothing.

Crying out in frustration, advancing violently on Lord Melbourne, grasping his hands, and bringing them to her face, she forced his stubborn fingers to hold her cheeks, his reluctant thumbs to brush her lips, and his smallest finger to stroke against the downy hair behind her ears. She spoke lightly and quietly, but the words meant more than anything she had uttered before that moment.

"Do you not want this, Lord M?"

He looked down at her, the head of the most beautiful flower between his hands, blossoming, velvety to the touch, scouring him for love that he could not give her.

"Of course, I do, Ma'am. It is all I want."

"Then allow it," she begged, "Allow it." He looked more warmly at her, held her face without her guidance for a moment, ghosted his breath along her neck. She thought he would kiss her, and she fell softly into him, crumpling in his touch, awaiting it: the moment his kiss would come to meet her. His hands moved to her shoulders, straightening her weakened frame, before he said,

"You are tired, Ma'am." Her frame became tense.

"You think that just because I am allowing myself, ourselves, a little bit of happiness, I must be tired? Not thinking straight?"

"Do you really believe that us conducting an illicit affair will bring us happiness?" he cried, relinquishing her from his grip, staggering back as if she had burnt his hands. "You said it yourself: we will never be satisfied. Not in this life. Not under these circumstances."

"Doesn't it drive you mad?" she cried at him. "The past. Don't you feel it seeking you out, in the dead of night, when you have convinced yourself that you are safe? When you have told yourself that you are ready to move on? When you think you have almost forgotten? Don't you feel it creeping? Why can't we give in?" He knew exactly what it felt like: the past creeping to him. Not a single second passed between Victoria's last syllable and what was thrown into the stillness next by a man in anguish.

"I love you!" he cried. He looked straight at her. No glances away. No mincing his words. No fidgeting. No 'Ma'am'. No pretence or kingdom or government. Simply those three words that had never passed the air between them. And now they had. In a moment that went far too quickly. And there was no fanfare. No choir of angels. No running into his arms. No heavenly sunlight. No marriage. No children. No life together. She could not respond. "But you were right when you said that we cannot act on what we feel. Not whilst you are married. We must be brave."

"I love you, too," she wept, finally finding strength to speak.

"I know," he sighed. "I know."

The Queen and her Prime Minister decided mutually that a weekend at Brocket Hall would not be advisable, or possible, for their busy schedules must not be neglected. It was late, so the Queen spent the night at Brocket Hall, alone and quiet, before taking the carriage back to Buckingham Palace the next morning.

They did not meet again until the Queen delivered a child. A girl. Victoria Adelaide Mary Louise. And, then, they did not have time to talk.