It was early in October when the Queen – heavily pregnant and utterly alone, as if far, far out at sea – realised that Albert was not getting stronger by the minute.

When waking in the middle of the night after a bad dream or a gust of wind rattling the window or a shuffling of the servants attending the sickened Prince, she always expected his foot to be nuzzling at the hem of her nightgown, kicking gently at her ankle, or to be able to feel his breath on her nose and her neck. She sometimes expected to feel his hand in hers, or hers wrapped tightly in his. The sheets atop her would sometimes emulate a clasping hand, and she would smile to think he was there next to her again, but her eyes would open and the illusion would shatter. He was never there but, instead, bound in the room that smelled of death ever since Lady Flora had passed her final moments there. She had locked it up after Lady Flora's funeral: wishing not to look at it or enter it. But, the stillness of the room and the rooms surrounding it made it the perfect place for the fevered Prince. It made Victoria feel very sick to think of the death that had already plagued those walls. She wished to move him to another room, a lighter room, with airy windows and thin, muslin curtains and pictures on the pale walls of trees and long-stretching forests that would make Albert smile. There were no paintings like that in the Palace: only portraits of stuffy old people draped in antiquities and locked inside doors and doors and doors in the dark and the warmth of a burning fire. Albert would hate to look at them, Victoria knew that. A brighter room may lift his spirits, she thought. But the doctors told her, very forcefully, that the Prince hadn't the strength to be moved and that it was far better to keep him where he was and allow him to rest and regain his health, although the room he now dwelt in was dusky and gloomy. She knew it was not good for him, no matter what the doctors said, but she hadn't the strength to argue with them.

Victoria would have visited him, but she knew she would come away with a terrible headache and thoughts more painful. It was not good for the child. The child was wriggling inside her, all the time. She wanted it out.

It had been so long since she had seen Lord Melbourne, and it was hurting more by the second.

Lord Melbourne was struggling with emotions that were lying dangerously close to the surface, and his skin – becoming very thin, almost translucent – would not be able to hide them any longer, he feared. He had found himself prone to bouts of heavy drinking. He could never have credited himself for his sobriety, not in all his years, but he had never drunk quite so recklessly as he began to in those lonely months at Brocket Hall. He downed a glass instead of eating breakfast. The sun and its honey glow had hardly stretched above the throng of trees nestling on the horizon, not nearly breached the top of the bridge spanning the River Lea in the grounds of the Hall, before he was a little numb, fuzzied, and drunk. It was an activity he would continue throughout the day, and those days would form into routine, and routine into tradition; and, in between gazes at the bottoms of empty glasses of port, he would read an article about the Queen in the newspaper and he would find the courage not to weep in another swig of port.

He had not been so sad in a very long time. Sadness is the pursuit of the young, he always told himself. As a young man, he had often found himself wallowing in sorrows over bottles of alcohol, all alone. He was a reckless man once. He would drink and then gamble away a good deal of money that he couldn't afford to gamble away, on a whim. He would say things that his mind had not sense enough to consider, and do things that a sober man would not think of doing. He liked to believe that he had outgrown that but, in truth, he was still the same man. Perhaps not quite so extreme, perhaps not quite so strong, but still all the same. He would drink and gamble and whore and cling on to his vices with a vice-like grip when the gloom came over him. And Victoria's absence was the darkest gloom which brought out the darkest vices. He was drinking to excess, falling asleep at his desk with the empty bottle beside him when he awoke, burning in the sunlight and near-deafened by the birdsong. He knew that if he had access to a cards table, he would do something very foolish. He knew that if he had access to Ma Fletcher's Nunnery, he would do something more foolish.

Caro had brought out the same vices, initially. He had fallen for Caro for the same reason he loved Victoria so ardently. His mother was a difficult woman and, he smiled a little in humour on the thinking of it, so were they. When courting Caro, he found himself victim to such agonising depressions that he was sure he would die of the grief. She was so quick-witted and headstrong and witty: all the things he found so attractive about her made her an inconvenient mistress to pursue. He found her first as a very young man at a ball. It was a ball that he did not want to go to, as he was in the pursuit of forming himself into a political mind that would make his mother proud. But he had been convinced that a ball would do him good and, being a socially-minded man with charm and a knack for flirtation, he conceded. He remembered vividly seeing her there. Clouded in the candlelight, gossamer billowing at her sleeve and at the ground, cinched below her bust. A sharp face with a little chin and a thin nose, unusual and by all reports not especially enrapturing. Too snippy, said some. Too small, said others. But, to the young William Lamb, she was exquisite. Fiendishly intelligent. Outspoken. She was intense company and he was immediately on his knees for her. Courting her was almost as agonising as keeping an amiable conversation with her.

Victoria, like Caro, was tactless and talkative and turbulent, but also intelligent beyond belief and humorous and lively and beautiful. It made her just as painful as Caro had been. Victoria was his last love, he understood that. But, he thought, mulling over her on that hazy drunken afternoon, thinking of Caro too, that Victoria was the greatest love of his life.

He had never expected to live so sadly again. With age came tranquillity, he had told himself, and with age came acceptance, and a happy medium. Youth is full of the most euphoric highs plummeting into the deepest and darkest of lows. A man of his years had no reason to expect such lows.

He had never felt lows like these. Not quite so bitter. Not quite so hollow.

A light had been extinguished. His only light. Snatched away, leaving him cold. He had experienced love, he knew it very well. He had experienced a love that he had resigned never to experience again. After Caro, after a marriage – unhappy though it was – he had convinced himself that those glances across a room, that throbbing of his heart, the coiling in his chest, the trembling of his breath, clenching of jaw and dryness of throat were all lost to him. But it found him again, against his will, against his better judgement, against all expectations, against all odds. It had sought him out in the night, creeping into his mind, seeping into his heart. He had never felt less safe: but danger had never felt so beautiful.

But the safety had returned, the beauty taken from him and a loveless end to his years became his reality. Day in day out. Although he knew that it was necessary, and it was always to be this way for him, he did not feel guilty about drinking his way through it. An anaesthetic. Some way to null the pain.

But, of course, the pain came hand in hand with the sacrifice and the sacrifice was made for the love he bore her. If it was truly love he felt – not simple, carnal desire stemming from the loins – he would do just as he had done. To set her free. Let her take wing. Marry Albert. An appropriate match, though the Queen may not have originally understood it. A sacrifice worth making. He knew, deep down, that she would grow to love Albert, and forget him. It was the way fate would spin its tale. And then he could perhaps find some contentment in knowing that, through his agony, he had done the highest deed of love to her. Not the most pleasurable, by a long shot, but the right one.

The last years of his life may be spent peacefully as he had expected old age to treat him: thinking of her, but knowing she is happy. That is what he told himself. In reality, it was far, far more difficult. Brocket Hall was a refuge for him once but, now, it only made him think of her. When she had visited him in these walls. What had passed between them and, more agonisingly, what hadn't and what couldn't. He could not escape her. Her voice. Her silvery laugh. The lightening of his heart when she was there. The pride he felt. The meaning behind her eyes. The torrent of passion that she so carefully hid. The trembling of her bosom. The way her hand danced delicately against his during a waltz. The tilt of her head when she looked up at him. The desire he felt towards her. His attraction. He had known attraction, but none quite so consuming. The call of 'Lord M'. The topics of which they spoke. Her intellect. Her name. Her. Always her.

He was wallowing over yet another glass of burning alcohol – which sort, he was unsure for he was so intoxicated that they all began to look and taste the same – when the newspaper caught his immediate attention.

The Prince was ill.

His mind began to fire. He knew it shouldn't.

Illnesses were not uncommon, he told himself. Illnesses were perfectly commonplace. But, surely, for it to be reported in the newspaper, it must be something more than a bad throat and a cough.

Of course, Melbourne had never wished any harm to come to the Prince. He was not the vengeful sort. Jealous, yes, a vice he sought to eradicate from himself long ago as a young man but hadn't the strength to do so and - in age - he came to realise that all men have their vices. He was no different. But he could not count malice as one of them; and, for that, he was thankful. So, although he found himself pining over the couple's happiness, longing over her, he did not wish any ill on her husband. However, although he would never confess such a thing to another living soul, there was something warm and distant in his mind which, with a shudder, he recognised as hope. Hopeful for what? For the wish of taking advantage of a grieving widow? Now, finally able to have what he has always wanted more than anything else? His own humanity frightened him. Besides, no, this would not guarantee him a chance of romance with the monarch: it would be no more likely than it was before Albert arrived. Unless, perhaps, the child she bore was a male heir. She would have fulfilled her duty, and then be living as a poor widow, alone in the world, husbandless. He knew, of course, that Victoria was perfectly capable without the guidance of a husband but it was something many men did not understand and, so, a remarriage would perhaps be advisable. Then, perhaps, the public would show sympathy. Then, perhaps, Parliament would overlook it. He was not the Prime Minister anymore. He would have no need to influence her politically either way and would simply wish to love her as a man loves a woman and nothing else. Then, perhaps, she would allow it - as father to her child and a lover to her most gracious person. Melbourne knew that Victoria was not in love with Albert and so surely it would not be difficult for her to recover and move on. A small respite of grieving, naturally, and then only happiness. And then they would be bound together for the rest of their lives in the bond they had always desired. He quickly silenced his imagination. He was being a fool. His sense knew it and deplored him for it. Such thoughts regarding a widow were unsavoury. His face coloured a little, and sweat collected on the back of his neck, and he felt very ashamed of himself.

He stunted his humanity to preserve the intelligent man.

He considered visiting the Queen, but knew he could not. Perhaps he would only make it worse. Of course he would only make it worse.

Surely, the Prince would recover. And then Victoria and Albert would grow old, in love, as he had planned.

"Surely the Prince will recover soon?" Victoria said, sewing furiously on to a piece of fabric which she lay across her bloated belly for support. She pricked her finger, cried out, and brought it to her mouth quickly, sucking the tasteless blood from her wound.

Emma Portman and Harriet Sutherland, who were also sewing, cast a hesitant view in each other's direction. They, unlike the Queen, had been to see the Prince. They had not entered the room for fear of disturbing him but they had peered through the doorway. Emma Portman recounted the experience to her husband, Edward Portman, later that day, and had described it as 'peering in on a marionette without the puppeteer'. Harriet Sutherland would have disputed this as, when recounting the experience to her husband – George Sutherland-Leveson-Gower – she talked of how he tossed and turned as if he were a small rowing boat on a tempestuous tide. His salt-water sweat made this analogy more potent. However, both ladies told their husbands of the terrible moans.

"May God forgive this treason, but those were the sounds of a man fearing his creator."

"I have never heard anything quite like it. So pained. I fear he is very sick."

Both women could still hear the moans but, knowing it was unwise to distress the pregnant Queen, they both smiled before Harriet said,

"Of course, Ma'am. The Prince is a strong young man."

They did not convince Victoria, but she chose to be comforted by them. Taking her finger from her lips, she inspected the wound and went back to her sewing. She could not concentrate on the sewing, however, because she could constantly feel the kicking feet of her unborn child, kicking against her skin, against her organs, wriggling to get free. She hoped Albert would be better by the time of the birth. She could feel it coming, a pushing in her abdomen, a draining of her spirit, and she knew it would not be long now. She felt, no matter how she thought of her husband, she would not be able to deliver the child without him by her side. Holding her hand. Wiping her brow. Willing her on. Looking down in utter delight at his child, so that she wouldn't have to. The same doctors who tended to the Prince informed the Queen that the child would soon be on its way. She wondered whether it would be a boy. She hoped very much that he would. An heir would serve the country better than a little girl. Albert would like a little boy.

But Albert's sickness made him distracted. And a distracted mind could not appreciate thoughts of a child. His mind could not appreciate anything.

One evening, on the 29th October, just when the orange of the sunset had retreated into the deep purple twilight and the clouds had blotted out the sun and the stars until the sky was a stretch of grey-purple murk, Victoria was called from the sitting room at the greatest urgency by Penge, who was white as a sheet, trembling despite his training and the effort to appear calm. He had rushed from the Prince's room, and was heaving from the exercise. A manservant never runs. Unless in emergencies. Victoria looked up from the hairstyles that Harriet Sutherland was showing her, saw the man's face, and felt suddenly very, very sick. It shot straight to her stomach. A dizzying thunderbolt. She sprung to her feet without thinking and almost collapsed in her haste. A great, terrible pain shifted into her abdomen. Her ears were fuzzy and her head airy and aching. She did not need to be told, she simply ran to her husband, Harriet Sutherland remaining behind, beginning to weep. Emma Portman, brave as ever in the face of the inevitable, went to Harriet and bound her in her arms, listening silently to the sound of the Queen's urgent footsteps echoing through the palace. Emma's body felt heavy. She feared for the Queen. She feared for the country.

The room smelt as it had done when Lady Flora Hastings had lain there. Victoria's blood ran cold when she caught a whiff of it. It brought her right back, to when she sought Lady Flora's forgiveness, only days before the woman's death. That same rotting smell which stung in the nostrils and made the eyes water. An unnatural smell. Not a smell for the living. The door heralded her entrance with a dull groan that screeched into her head. Or was that Albert? She could not be sure for, as soon as she saw him, his groans ate at her. Fevered. He was squirming in his blankets, kicking them away from him then tugging them closer, like the soul of one already in hell, yearning for their respite. He glowed, like an angel. But it was sweat that made him glow so. No light spilled through the thick curtains over the window. The moon had tipped from a cloud. Albert could not see it. She had never heard a noise quite like it. It struck her to the very core, calling out to something visceral and base within her, the primal instinct to stay alive, and the quickness of death's clasp. She knew, then, that he was dying.

She was told, by a doctor, that he did not have long left. Hollow, she moved like a ghost around the room to his bedside, where she hovered, looking over the tortured form of her husband, white and shining and crippled in agony. His mouth was open in a cry to God, but not a noise was heard.

She did not feel that she had the right to touch him, as she knew a wife should do. What had she done to deserve the touch of a husband she had killed?

"Albert." Her voice trembled. His eyes, nearly rolling back into his head, fixed on her. They were not her husband's eyes but the eyes of a madman. Steely blue. Ice. Set deep into a skull that ached to be seen, finally. Staring straight through her. Looking for light. Looking for God. No love. Pain. A gasp was forced, strained, from her lungs, to see her husband so transformed. What a thing it was, to be so close to your creator, and find no peace in it. One is taught of death, and one is taught of slumber and heaven. This was not those things. This was torture. "Oh, Albert!" Victoria cried, drawing her hands to her mouth, clasping her palms over her cries, muffling the sobs that racked her, nearly cracking her ribcage, and fracturing her heart. She was so afraid. The doctors watched from the corners of the room, silent and solemn. They had seen this scene unfold countless times before.

Albert could not speak. His mind spoke sonnets but his words hadn't fire enough to ignite them. But, if he could have formed words, he would have told her he loved her. No matter what. He loved her. He would have told her to take care of their child. He would have told her to be strong, to move on, to find happiness where she could, to be happy and smile a lot, to have balls and parties and go on long, fast horse rides. He would have told her to be in the trees and think of him. He would have told her to watch the stars. He would have told her a million things if he had strength to say them. And time enough which, he knew, he did not.

A shaking hand, soft and hesitant, lay across his breast, and Victoria cried,

"I am so sorry. You have been nothing but kind to me. I never realised it before. I was too cruel. Oh, I have been so cruel to you, Albert. I have been so cruel. Forgive me."

A flicker of something passed through his pain-stricken gaze. A moment's recollection, recognition. A fleeting warmth which told Victoria that she was forgiven. Told her that he loved her still. For a moment, a little moment which was whisked away so quickly that she could almost believe it had never occurred, she had seen her Albert again. Her cousin. Her husband. Her lover. The boy who would drive her mad. The man who made her heart skip when they played the piano together and their hands brushed. The man who took her riding on the sleigh, and sang with her into the snow. The man who fathered her child. The man who she thought she would grow old with. The man who she was so tired of and, yet, so safe with. She wished she could have heard him say something. Just a little something to put her frenzied mind at rest. But, with her hand resting on the heart that still strained enough in the effort of beating, she felt its warmth. A little life left in it still.

Then she felt a kick in her belly. And choked a sob. The hand on his heart curled into a grip on his shirt. Knuckles white. Her heart hammered out her speech. She collapsed into his bedside. Sobbing. Shaking her head. The child kicked harder.

"Don't leave me, Albert. I cannot do this without you. Please. Albert. I will be so alone. Our child will be so alone. Our children. I will not be able to bear it, Albert. Please. Stay with me. Albert? Albert? Albert!"

Her wails echoed in a hollow palace. A chill crept into every corner. The air was still. The Prince was cold.

Emma wrote to Lord Melbourne. She thought long and hard about whether she should prompt him to come to London or advise him to stay at Brocket Hall. She could not anticipate which would be preferable to the Queen, and feared an adverse reaction. She had not seen the Queen since she had been informed of the terrible news. Harriet had come over in a fit of sobs, and Emma had spent hours with her, pursuing the young woman's comfort. The Queen, she heard, had not left the Prince's side. She did not expect the Queen to move for some time. Emma could hear her screams. They shot into the silence. She decided to leave it to Lord Melbourne's inclination. His better judgement. She expressed no opinions. She simply told him the news. She hoped it did not grieve him too much.

William,

The Prince was taken in the night by a fever. The young Queen is a widow. The child will come soon. She is very vulnerable. I fear for her.

Yours,

Emma Portman.

The news brought him sorrow. Grief, perhaps. But not on the account of the Prince but because the poor widow. Too young to be a widow. Far too young, and far too much life in her. He thought of how she must be feeling, what she must be doing now, and his heart broke with the weight of it. He was sure he could feel her heart, calling out, not to him but to another, and – yet – his heart was aware of the cry and was answering it. The cry his heart gave was too painful to bear. He wanted nothing more than to see her, to bind her in his arms and kiss away the sorrows, but he, too, wondered whether it would be wiser to visit her and offer his comfort or stay away and let her be. The thoughts wound around his throat until he struggled to breathe. He slumped over his desk, head buried in two old hands, headache acute and heartache more potent. That calling became louder. Beating stronger in his chest. Filling the empty space in him.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

For the first time in a very long time, he conceded to his inclination, and told his butler that he would be going to London. The decision was decisive. The carriage was prepared. Lord Melbourne was unshaven, greyer than usual, and riddled with a tiredness that made his face gaunt and his eyes dark and sunken. When asked how long he would stay, he replied,

"However long she needs me."

The solemn bell tolled out over London town early in the morning. It sent shockwaves through the streets. A collective sigh clouded over the roofs and formed a fog which blocked out the sun. Victoria could hear the chatter from the people and from the Parliament, in the house, all about her. She wanted to shut it out. She tried to blot out the noise with her own cries. It chattered on.

"Who will keep her grounded? We know how flighty she can be!"

"The Queen must have a husband. She must be remarried."

"She cannot remarry! It is out of the question! She is the Queen, not some common woman!"

"The country needs a young man to the right of the throne!"

"But a husband?"

"A husband, a companion, anyone!"

"The country may be sympathetic to the young widow. Another marriage is not out of the question."

"Not so soon!"

"The Queen must be seen to mourn."

"Not excessively. There are more important things to do."

"What if she does not produce a male heir?"

"She must find another father. She must have a male heir."

"The country must."

"What if she is too weak to deliver the child? She must be grieving fiercely."

"She may go the same way as poor Charlotte."

"She is strong enough. I can only hope that the child is strong, too."

"A husband and a child passing away. Could she cope with that?"

"She might go mad."

"We've had a mad king already."

"Sir Robert will keep her in check."

"Sir Robert can hardly keep Lady Peel in check!"

"Where is Lord Melbourne?"

"Out of the picture. Retired to Brocket Hall. His infirmities are getting the better of him."

"There must be someone."

"We must find someone."

"The poor woman."

"A widowed Queen. What next?"