Victoria should have been glad that she was becoming more and more like her heroine. But she noticed that being her heroine brought with it unimaginable pain. She studied the portrait well, daily, when her daughter was with the nanny and Albert was out riding and she resigned herself to her normal melancholy. She had grown very sad since the birth of her daughter, and that day spent at Brocket Hall in the summer. She had hardly seen Lord Melbourne as the responsibilities of family and monarchy pressed hard on her shoulders, but she felt his presence there constantly. A weight on her shoulders. A twisting in her stomach. A creeping desire. An unkempt love. A voice whispering in her ear, telling her that she would never be happy. A calling of his heart.

She looked for a very long time at the painted face of Queen Elizabeth. She noticed things which she had never seen before. In the throng of orange hair and jewels that Victoria had always noticed about the portrait before, sat the face of a woman, heartbroken. She, perhaps, could only see it now because she shared in it. That hard line where her mouth should be. The faint circles beneath her eyes through lack of sleep. The grey in her cheeks. The sadness glinting in her eye, threatening to spill. The strength hiding all that is weak.

Victoria wondered what she would look like in portraits to come – wondering whether she, too, would look so sad. Elizabeth pined after a lost love, much like Victoria: that same pain would soon be cast on her face. Oh, she was so tired.

Victoria was reminded of a poem, written by Elizabeth for the departure of the Duke of Anjou or, it had been rumoured, an ode to her dearest Leicester.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
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.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

The words beat a drum in her heart, pulsing through the sinews of her, drawing on the love which had grown tired. Elizabeth felt just what she was feeling now. How did she live? Victoria was sure she could not. Oh, she was so tired.

Whenever she tried to tell people, to make at least one other person understand, they reminded her about her daughter.

She looked at her young daughter, and felt nothing. Where she was told to find joy and pride and motherly love, she found emptiness. Her mother cooed and fussed over the little thing but she found herself repulsed. She did not wish to coo at it. She did not wish to fuss over it. She did not wish to have it. She wanted it far away from her, and felt guilty that she wished for such a thing. Albert was besotted with the little thing, but she could not be so endeared. Albert was alone whenever he was with the child. Only one Victoria in his life. Every woman, her mother, her ladies, Emma Portman, and Harriet Sutherland, all told her how lucky she was. She did not feel lucky to be burdened with such a thing after twelve hours of the most agonising pain, nearing death. It was like a shadow, following her, running sticky in her bloodstream. Oh, she was so tired.

Albert knew, of course. He felt his wife's despair, but struggled in his pursuits to comfort her. There were certainly glimmers appearing through the cloud: sweet moments of something like marital bliss. Their marriage was not entirely loveless. Albert wished to make Victoria happy, and succeeded on occasion. They went out for rides together, and talked amiably when the sun was meshing the land. He kissed her sometimes and she reciprocated. They played the piano together when they had the time, and their tempos were perfectly matched. He told her she was beautiful, and it made her smile. But all these moments clouded over, yet again, when Victoria was ever faced with a mention, or a glimpse, of her Prime Minister.

He could feel her sometimes, slipping away.

He would hold her hand and it would feel warm and supple, and he would consider the happiness in marriage that may be waxing. She would turn to him and her blue eyes would be soulful, deeper than the ocean to which they garnered their colour, and be creased with contentedness. And, then, as if a cloud had drawn over her or ink had bled across her, that light would fade, and her hand would turn rigid. She'd become very cold. And she would act harshly towards him. Heart as cold as skin.

Albert was not a fool. He was just quiet. And Victoria took this as his ignorance. Whenever he saw her eyes fill with tears at a mention of Lord Melbourne's name, he would feel his throat clench, but not say a thing.

He thought long and hard, on those nights when they lay together in bed, separated by what seemed like an endless spread of bedsheet, about confronting her. Telling her that he knew. He knew that she was hopelessly in love with William Lamb. He knew how she blushed when his letters arrived. He knew how she would spent hours in his company, when the box of papers was only shallow. He knew what they talked of. He knew how they talked. He knew how Victoria was agonised with missing him now that her child had come. He knew that she wished to marry him. He knew that she thought about him, sometimes, in the noiseless night-time, when she thought he was asleep.

He also knew of Lord Melbourne's feelings. Melbourne was less outward with his longings. Victoria, he could read like a book but Melbourne was a more difficult puzzle. But Albert had become quite accustomed to the tides that changed upon his expression. He knew how his eyebrow raised when Victoria entered his field of vision. He knew how the corner of his mouth would twitch. He knew how his left hand would clench itself into a fist. He knew how his eyes would glaze when she turned away from him. He knew the grey of his complexion and the hollow of his cheek. The most potent lovesickness. The harshest sadness.

Neither paid attention to him, Albert, who was just as sick and just as sad. Unloved, just as they were.

Albert knew how she stiffened in the bedchamber. And Albert knew how her body convulsed at learning of her second pregnancy.

This time, instead of playing along with the riotous joy and parties and congratulations and hugs and kisses and touches all cloying and hot and tight, Victoria stood like a beacon in the throng of them all. Blank. Unwavering. She felt the buffeting of pregnancy beating against her, but did not surrender to it.

She received a letter from Lord M. The first she had received from him in a length of time that had seemed to stretch for years. She had hoped for some sort of apology, although she knew, deep down, that he had no reason to apologise to her. It had been her in the wrong. But she would never apologise for what she had done. She had hoped for a declaration of love, or a letter of consent, allowing what they both wished, but she knew that was impossible. Such an eventuality would only occur at night, in her fervent mind, against the echo of mill wheels. The letter was, in fact, a simple congratulation for a pregnancy that she knew he was not happy about. The letter was written in the early hours of a morning, beside an empty bottle of port and a glass that had only just been downed and rid of its intoxicating liquor. The letter had been pieced together by a mind in tatters.

But Victoria was not to know that.

Following his advice, obediently dismissing her own longings, the Queen requested consistent help from Sir Robert Peel. Sir Robert Peel was not a bad man, but he was a boring one. A couple of years ago, that would have been much worse to the young Queen, and she would have preferred a very, very bad gentleman to one who bores her. But Sir Robert's sheer dullness brought the Queen immense comfort. Of course, she would have preferred the amiable company of her dear Lord M but, if she could not, his company was preferable to the cooing and swooning of every other companion she had. He did not treat her like a chest carrying treasure, for a start. He treated her like a woman. Like he would treat any other woman: with dull stories, embarrassing clichés, and political droning. It consoled her. It made her feel like a Queen again, rather than a vessel for an heir.

Sir Robert, too, found the Queen's company to be a great comfort. He finally felt like she was placing trust in him. After a very long time. And, in truth, she was. She felt that Sir Robert was more of a Prime Minister to her than the Prime Minister himself, who lay dormant at Brocket Hall, as far off as the stars.

It was not until August that Lord Melbourne wrote to the Queen again. And, when the letter arrived, she wished that she had never heard from him for as long as she lived.

Your Majesty,

I am afraid this letter may distress you, your Majesty, and for that I first and foremost do apologise. However, I hope you will understand that this is necessary. You must know how this news brings me pain. As much as it will you. Perhaps, though it is daring for me to assume this, more so.

I am resigning as your Prime Minister.

I am sure this news is not a shock to you: what with two votes of no confidence and the loss of 70 Whig seats in the last election. In June, our grip was faltering but, with only a single vote expressing the distrust in my government, I had hope I may continue as your Prime Minister yet. However, with recent developments, my government does not have the support of Parliament required to continue governing this fine country. You understand how I value the British constitution. Now, more than ever, as it is your constitution, your Majesty, and I wish for it to be in the healthiest possible state for your reign. This is the only way I can protect this constitution, as I hope you agree. The decision has been a difficult one but I can hold on no longer. I am too old for politics, your Majesty. I have served long enough, and with little radical thought and little to say for my name (save your Majesty, who I hope beyond measure will be my legacy). The country needs a fresh face. The country needs Sir Robert Peel.

I understand your objection to Sir Robert, and I know you will not take kindly to my propositions of his role. But, I implore you to consider what is best for the country. I know how much you care for the country. I also know how you have served it beautifully. I trust you will make the right decision, now, allowing me to step down, and allowing Sir Robert Peel to form a Tory government. Sir Robert is a kind man. I have known him for a long time and, although we have been political enemies, I respect him more than anyone else in Parliament. He will serve you excellently, your Majesty, if you will allow him to. I beg of you, give him a worthy chance, as you would do me. He will probably ask for you to make changes to your bedchamber, as he did three years ago. You must obey him. Understand that, simply because you are dismissing ladies, does not mean they are lost to you forever. Be obliging, although it is hard, and Sir Robert's proficiency will reward you. He will make a great Prime Minister, I promise you, and a worthy and reliable friend.

We have both understood for a long time that I would not be your Prime Minister forever: this is a natural conclusion.

I do not need to tell you what an honour it has been, your Majesty. You understand that. I am endlessly thankful for the time I have acted as your Prime Minister, your guidance and, most importantly, your friend. I hope we can call each other that, now. I do not hesitate in calling you my friend. I hope you can do the same. I will recollect my service to you as the happiest and most prosperous years of this long life. I cannot confess to having the most joyful life but, I feel, thanks to these past few years, I can look back at it with fondness. I can only hope that you, too, think back on me with fondness. I have done my very best in your service. I only wished to serve you. It is still all I wish.

I await the news of your new child, a warm addition to what I am sure is a happy family. Please, your Majesty, allow yourself that happiness. Do not dwell on what might have been. Your husband loves you. I said once that you needed a husband: to cherish you, honour you. Prince Albert can give you that. I wish you all the happiness this world can offer you.

I hope to continue a correspondence with you, if your Majesty feels it is apt. Of course, I understand your family comes first. I am aware that a correspondence may be improper. I am at your disposal. Do with me how you feel appropriate.

I cannot help but remember the letter you sent me, after your marriage. I remember you told me that we will meet again, in a place without boundaries. I hope to find it. Soon, I fear. There I will wait for you. Do not rush. I am patient.

Your servant, always,

William Lamb.

Victoria cried over the letter, which she allowed the flames to devour, until she could cry no more and she was sure her heart would shatter. Albert heard. He did not react. He stared at the wall that he knew separated them. He did not go to her.

Victoria was not seen in public for a month. She was hardly seen in the palace for a month. Even Lehzen, who was always so close to the Queen, was forbidden from meeting with her. Her mother was not allowed to see her. Sir Robert Peel was called for, but his powers of persuasion were too weak to tempt her from her room. A message was sent to Lord Melbourne, but he did not come, for he was no longer the Prime Minister, and knew he had to cut the ties he had with the palace. Albert had tried, but had not succeeded. There were rumours beginning to flame that the Queen had died in childbirth in her bedroom.

It was the beginning of October when Victoria began to play the piano again. Her songs were very sad. The Queen had always liked happy tunes: the sort of melodies one can dance to at a good pace. She played melodies that swung on the air, tipping out of every window and spilling over the land and making all who heard it happy. She played songs that danced on the staircases and chimed on the chandeliers, making the people in the portraits smile and the servants tap their toes. Not a single tune like that was played in the darkened October days. All the songs were solemn and played to the beat of the rain hitting windows that were once open and light. And she played them for hours, Albert sitting with a book on the other side of the room, glancing over at her every time the melody faded to a finish and hoping she would close the piano, sweep from the stool, and lay herself beside him, in his arms. But, every time, she took a breath, turned the page, and began again.

It was tiresome, but tireless.

Finally, after hearing her begin another yearning piano melody, Albert said,

"How can I make you happy?"

The music stopped. And Victoria turned to her husband, confused as to why he interrupted her. She was silent and, for a moment, Albert was afraid that she had not heard him. He was about to repeat himself, or pretend he had said something else, or pretend he had sneezed, or change the subject entirely, or pretend he had said nothing and that she was imagining things. But, then, she spoke, sure of herself, as if nothing at all was wrong with her,

"You do make me happy, Albert. You are my husband, and you have been nothing but kind to me."

The reply spurred an anger in Albert that had long lay latent. How could she pretend that everything was fine? How could she, for one second, pretend that they were not both miserable? Swallowing his pride, he said,

"But you do not love me."

She laughed and opened her mouth to protest, but she did not. Her mouth hung open, slack. Albert's gaze was boring into her with force she had not felt from him before. So intense. So angry. She felt her heart flutter: fear? Excitement? Freedom?

"You are in love with Lord Melbourne."

The words sounded ugly. A lump rose in Victoria's throat.

"How can you say that?" she cried.

"It is true."

"Albert, you are my husband. I said my vows. I gave my life to you."

"Deny it."

"Albert-"

"Deny it." Albert's voice was too severe for Victoria, the monarch, and his sovereign, to argue with him again. She feared what he would do, though she knew he could do nothing to her.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes."

"You are?"

"Yes, I am in love with Lord Melbourne."

Albert bit his cheek so hard he tasted metal.

"I try so hard, Victoria, I really do."

"I cannot help it, Albert. Trust me, I have tried!"

"What have I done wrong?"

"Albert!"

"What have I done wrong?"

Victoria slammed the keys of the piano, crying out,

"I just want you to smile at me, Albert!" Like he does.

Dash began to bark at the noises and Victoria rose from the piano violently and fled. Albert threw his book across the room which slammed against the wall with a large thud – which thundered in Victoria's ears - and he left the palace, for the gardens, and was not seen again until early the next morning, when the Queen was still asleep, by the servants. He was rushed quickly to bed. Not in their bedchamber, however, but on the other side of the palace. As to keep the Queen safe.

Victoria awoke feeling guilty. That horrid throbbing of guilt, clawing at her mind and tugging at the chambers of her heart. Making her want to say things that she promised she would never say. Making her want to give in. It was the most terrible thing to feel. Guilt. Victoria thought it was a worthless sort of feeling and, yet, she could not prevent herself from feeling it. And feeling it very strongly.

She did not dress before she made her way down to the sitting room. She wanted to talk to Albert soon, before her guilt became too sickening. Before she built herself up into a frenzy of guilt that would lead to her being overly apologetic and saying some silly things she would later regret. She waddled down the stairs, and noticed the stillness. There were no servants loitering – as they sometimes did. There was the smell of something distinctive. She recognised the stench, and the effect it had on the air, and the loneliness and quietness it caused; but she did not know what the smell was, or why it was in the air on this morning. Lehzen, who was normally so attentive, was not present. Victoria felt a creeping sense of unease come about her.

When entered the chill of the sitting room, Albert was not to be seen. Emma Portman was sat in the room, sewing, and she stood when she heard the door swing open. She was a little taken aback to see her in the nightclothes but had been informed of the events of the night before and, so, was not too shocked. Did the Queen already know? Emma could not be certain, so pursed her lips shut.

The Queen asked,

"Where is Albert?"

Emma Portman's heart throbbed.

"Prince Albert has fallen ill with a fever, Ma'am."

"Oh," Victoria said, casting her eyes down, "Well. I am sure he will be fine."

"Of course, Ma'am." She smiled. "He is getting stronger by the minute."