No one knew whether the Queen would attend the funeral of Prince Albert. There was no way of anyone knowing, as no one had seen her, and all they had heard of her for the past week was the screams. The screams that almost teared Buckingham Palace apart. The screams that aimed for heaven (or bellowed to hell) in the pursuit of summoning her lost husband, and drawing him back into the world of the living where she now continued on in desolation and fear. She could feel her unborn child scraping at the walls of the womb, trying to break free, to escape its mother's cries, to be born into a fatherless world with a mother who hated it. She felt no strength in her bones and her muscles. She could hardly bring herself to stand, let alone produce a child.

If she were to die, she thought, she would be following her husband.

She assented to attended the funeral the night before, in a hollow tone, no emotion visible in her translucent skin, as if her screams had thrown the soul of her away, cascading into the air and out of her.

Lord Melbourne arrived in London for the funeral, held on a dark day in early November. He felt that the funeral was his duty to attend, though he could not shake the feeling that his attendance was sin. God clasped him. He could feel the jurors' eyes on him as he entered the Chapel and took his place among the crowd. He was not the Prime Minister anymore, but his arrival caused more of a stir than it had done when he held the title. He had announced his retirement to Brocket Hall. What was he doing back in London? Their gossip like flames licked his ears and scolded him.

There was a general cloud, a courteous sense of mourning, that all had adopted but, among it, sticking out sorely and distastefully, but adopted again by all, was an excitement, a breath bated, a desire for something exciting to come of this. Something to gossip about. Something to tell a story about.

Lord Melbourne, who was stood within earshot of the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel – scheming as always, he thought – and with no other company to divert his attentions, listened to their conversation, his interest piqued when they turned to the subject of the Queen.

"The Queen is heavily pregnant. It won't be long now," the Duke said, taking a pinch of snuff, perhaps to calm the nerves that brimmed when he had to think about the Queen's situation. Strange for a man of war to be brought into snuff-taking by the affairs of royalty: but, Melbourne thought, he was not a man of war anymore, but a politician, and it is not unusual at all for a politician to be brought into hysterics by these circumstances. He almost was.

"Will she be in good enough health to deliver the child?" Sir Robert asked.

"We must damn well hope so."

Melbourne thought it highly improper for the two gentlemen to be having such a conversation at the funeral of the late Prince. He almost deplored them before realising that, in fact, he was glad of it. The doom and gloom of a funeral was enough to send him mad. A distraction was welcome.

Just then, the doors of the Chapel gave an almighty crack, as if the will of God was descending like a whip on the world, and the crack turned into a creak which split the air and send shudders down everyone's spines. An indefinite chill caught the air and held it static. There were no bells, no noise at all, but the vibrations of a great tolling rippled the ground, and was scattered by the slow footsteps which began to proceed through the Chapel, bearing the great ton weight of the coffin, and all the potential it held of a kind monarch and a good man. Snuffed out too fast. And now lying encased in black, along with everyone else, and the Queen, who shuffled through, veiled in inky black lace, her bulbous tummy swallowed in folds and folds of silk taffeta, so shadowy that it made the small Queen's body into a void, where no colour or light was permitted to permeate. Her mother, the Duchess, followed behind, her blonde ringlets looking limp and grey. King Leopold followed too, bravely. He, too, had turned grey.

Where a light, sweet and pale, may once have gleaned in the blue eyes of the Queen, there was now the absence of it. Not darkness: but some terrible midpoint, an awful grey, like a gauze had been drawn over the light and had mottled it out. Rid her of it. She walked like a ghost: only half a woman, the other half lost somewhere in the wind. No one had ever seen her so pale, such a dark purple shadow around her eyes, so bloodshot, freshly cried, mouth slack, following in the wake of her husband. Dead because of her, she repeated to herself. Dead because of Lord Melbourne. Dead because of her.

She still made Lord Melbourne breathless.

The casket was brought to the front of the Chapel, and the funeral proceeded like a dream, not quite there, passing quickly and without gravity. Women were crying, dabbing at their eyes with black-edged handkerchiefs and muffling their sobs within the satin folds. Men cast solemn gazes at the stony floor. The Queen was brave – braver than anyone knew possible. Having heard the stories of her screams, it was hard to believe that she would be so stoical. She stood like an immovable object, frail, yet firm, so delicate yet harbouring the great swell of an unborn child. Albert was laid to rest but Victoria found to rest in it.

Dead because of her.

The crowds left the Chapel, giving the Queen and the close family a moment alone with the casket. They gathered in a throng outside the doors, beginning to flame with talk of the Queen and the late Prince and the choice of mourning gown and the poor, poor woman and the poor, poor man and the poor, poor child and whether or not the Queen was strong enough to produce an heir, and whether or not a Regent had been appointed.

"The world of politics has somewhat lost its scandal now that you're gone, Melbourne." Melbourne, who was feeling a horrible rise of sobs rising in his lungs and throat which he tried to suppress, turned to see Sir Robert Peel, clearly saddened, but still well enough to bait the ex-Prime Minister and long-term political rival who had unexpectedly returned to London.

"For the best, I suppose," Melbourne replied in his usual amiable tone, though his teeth were threatening to grate. He wondered whether his sobs were evident in the croaks of his voice or the blinking of his eyes, the trembling of his hands. Careful to appear impartial, but needing the information he sought, he asked, "How is she?"

"She has been well, until very recently, of course."

Sir Robert wished to tell Lord Melbourne of the unhappiness that the Queen lived in whilst married to the late Prince Consort, but knew that it was not the time nor the place to speak ill of the marriage or the Prince. And how would Melbourne react? Sir Robert had his suspicions as to why the Queen was so discontented in a marriage which, to any other woman, would have been nothing but joyous. Of course, it was the wiles of Lord Melbourne. Sir Robert did not like the man, but could appreciate his appeal to the fairer sex. To deny that would be foolish. He was a charming man, attractive, virile at an age when men oughtn't to be. Lady Peel had spoken often enough of it – much to Sir Robert's exasperation. Victoria had been claimed, utterly, by him, and had never found the strength to forget.

To tell Lord Melbourne of the Queen's infatuation with him would be unwise, particularly now. What would Lord Melbourne do about it? He not only had suspicions of the Queen's infatuation with him, but also of his with her.

And, besides, Sir Robert was quite sure that – with the grief of widowhood – her obsession with William Lamb would die.

Then, as if suddenly seized by the gravity of the situation surrounding him and the monarch, Sir Robert Peel's face gained a few shadows and, pensively, he continued,

"These are dark times, Melbourne. Parliament has been brought to a standstill. We cannot get royal assent. She has abandoned all matters of state. She's refusing to see me, refusing to see anyone! We're on the brink of a constitutional crisis," he garbled, leaning in closer to Lord Melbourne, keeping his voice low, aware of the eyes and ears surrounding them.

"The Queen is mourning, Peel," Melbourne replied, not casting his gaze down to the man, remaining upright and utterly confident in his voice. Peel's words angered him, buzzed in his ears. How dare he insinuate that the Queen should feel guilty for a period of mourning? She was entitled to mourn. In fact, it would be more dangerous to the constitution for her not to mourn. Feelings, in Melbourne's experience, could never remain bottled. They would have to burst out sometime and when they did it would be more violent than ever. No. Peel was being insensitive. He would not pander to him.

"Of course, she is. I can understand that. But when will the period of mourning end? She's taken it very badly."

"The Queen is a sensitive woman, but she will recover," Melbourne replied, becoming impatient. Speculations just seemed tactless.

"Not just a woman, Melbourne. The Queen. She has a duty to uphold. You have suffered bereavement, but you still understood your duty to the country."

"When I was widowed, I was forty-nine years of age!" Melbourne spat, his anger getting the better of him. He did not know what incensed him more: Sir Robert having the gall to mention his own private grief, or his disrespect for the Queen. "The Queen is but twenty-two. It is far too young to be a widow." Melbourne's voice cracked. He swallowed and felt the salt slide down the back of his throat. He shuddered. Blinked away his tears. "She is well within her right to grieve. If you are so concerned, Sir Robert, let me put your mind at rest by assuring you that the Queen is a responsible and intelligent monarch and, if I can credit myself for having taught her anything, I believe she understands her duty. Give her time, she will return to her duties soon enough."

Sir Robert sighed.

"Perhaps. Or, perhaps, you just cannot hear her screams from your library at Brocket Hall."

Peel's words sliced into Melbourne's veins, setting them bleeding, letting the cold in.

The doors opened once again, and the Queen exited the Chapel, having made her last goodbye to Albert, meek and small as any other woman of her small frame, meeker and smaller now than ever. Like a doll. Hollow like a doll, too. The dirt of a wet ground collected at the bottom of her skirt. The groups formed outside the Chapel fell silent, and turned to look at her. She did not catch the eye of a single member of the crowd formed between the door and her carriage, until she looked up very briefly, and her eyes flew to the green-gold gaze that she recognised in an instant. Her arms and legs went numb. Her body pulsed. Her heart called out.

Lord Melbourne's mouth opened when the Queen's gaze settled on him, and he thought about saying something before remembering that any speech he gave to her would be overheard by a hundred others. He gawped, and she stopped, and looked. His mouth moved without sound and she recognised it as 'Victoria'. What was he doing here? It had been so long. She could hardly remember. Her heart screamed 'William' before her mind repeated: dead because of Lord Melbourne, dead because of her. The moment could not have lasted more than a second but, to them, it felt more like a lifetime. Her eyes sought his with confusion, and his with forgiveness, and pity, and love. It struck in the very core of her which was cold and aching. She remembered the echo she had written to him: I love you, I love you, I love you. She remembered promising to meet him in heaven. It throttled her. Then, as if a clumsy hand had taken the doll and shook it, a shudder passed through her frame which forced a gasp from her awaiting mouth and lifted her chin to the sky, eyes rolling back. Her mother caught her limp body for it seemed she would faint. Unsteady and half-asleep, she was led onward to the carriage, fresh tears being fought back all the way. Lord Melbourne turned crimson in shame.

He could hear the rumours skipping from mouth to mouth. He could feel the scorn clamouring like an unshakable pressure on every part of him, strangling him of breath, beating against his skull.

Lord Melbourne did not take his carriage back to his London residence. He walked, needing the air to smother the fire that was catching in his blood. It did not smother the fire, but fanned the flames. Emma, following him, could hear his breath coming thick and fast through his mouth and she could see his fists clenching. She called out for him but he did not turn around. He crossed into the house, the door held open by the butler, and Emma dipped in before the butler could close the door. He would have stopped her, but Lady Emma was not one for stopping.

When Emma caught up with him in his library, he was frenzied, pacing back and forth, gesticulating wildly, eyes roving like a madman, hands trembling. He did not react to her entrance. Emma was afraid that he was going to break something: seize a paperweight from the table and throw it against the wall, scatter it into a million glass fragments. She was afraid he would cry, or scream.

"Mindless arrogance! How I thought that poor widow would want to see me, of all people! Completely disrespectful of me, and everyone knew it! I should have stayed at Brocket Hall! She hated the very sight of me and who can blame her? I was tactless. One would have thought that, after all my experience, I may have learnt a thing or two about propriety! I cannot bear to think how I have hurt her! How could I have been such a damned fool?"

"William!"

Remembering himself somewhat, he stopped pacing and, hardly having time to take a breath, he panted,

"I apologise, Emma."

"It is not your language which offends me, William. It is your meaning. You may have been blind, but it was not arrogance that blinded you," she cried, advancing on the man with her head held just as high as his. Melbourne adored her strength and, for a second, considered arguing back at her again, just to provoke a reaction. But he did not. Instead, he pondered over her speech. If not his arrogance, then what? "And perhaps she was not upset to have seen you, simply-"

"When she saw me: she shuddered! Almost fainted! I could see the tears in her eyes! It made me feel wretched – to have been so short-sighted. And I knew every single person was looking at me, and thinking that I had returned for some suspicious motive, to take advantage of the poor widow, to seek my own interests in the wake of tragedy and do you know what scares me the most about that, Emma? I fear that all of them are right."

"How dare you say such a thing, William?" Emma shouted, "I do not believe for one second that your motive for returning to London was to take advantage of Victoria! And anyone who believes that cannot truly know you! Not as I do. You came back because you love her… Don't argue with me, I know how you feel about her. And I know how she feels about you. Your actions may not have been entirely wise, and may have caused her grief, but you were not to know how she would react and I believe, given time, she will be glad to have your company. Today must have been a shock for her, of course – she is distracted and mourning. But she would much rather have you here than at Brocket Hall! She will come to realise that. You are her oldest friend! Not a politician seeking his own gain. She understands that."

"I do not think you understand, Emma. When you are a widow, to see someone you-" He was about to say 'love' but could not bring himself to utter it. His heart was unwilling. His pride wary. He took a long breath before whispering, his voice trembling with the depth of his feeling, "I have hurt her."

Emma sighed and, casting her eyes to the ground, she replied,

"She will mend."

Lord Melbourne became suddenly more feverish, chest swelling and voice breaking into the air like a wave upon the rocks.

"And then what? You think she will just recover from the death of her husband? It is not a wound that heals!"

"Is that so, Lord Melbourne? Have you never healed? Have you never fallen in love again?" she tested, pleading with him to just stop over-thinking for once, to stop denying himself. You are not the Prime Minister anymore, William. Put it away.

"You must not say this to me, Emma."

"Everyone I have spoken to is sympathetic to the Queen. She is a young widow. A second marriage may be acceptable – popular, even. I see no reason why, given time-"

"We cannot, Emma."

"Why not? You know I am the last person to speak unfavourably of the late Prince, William, but I also understand how life cannot end when one is heartbroken. You, of all people, should understand that. The Queen will need time to mourn but, being her lady, I know – first-hand – that she never really loved him. Liked him, yes. Will miss him, yes. But what she feels is guilt, and that may make her cold and distant. But guilt shall reconcile itself. Be patient. An English marriage would always have been popular, and you are no longer a politician."

"But I was. They'll all think-"

"You have always told me not to care about what others think." Melbourne shivered. She saw straight through him and the hole her gaze made let the draft pass through. "Listen to me, William: through this tragedy is the opportunity for the happiness I know you both deserve, and have always wished for. A happy epilogue, William."

Her words soothed him, opening the clouds to reveal strands of a sunlight that had been shut off from him for so long. Her words were like the promises of a God from a religion he did not recognise, preaching an alternative that seemed so easy, so clean, so pure. And he only had to reach out and clasp it and go tumbling into it and find what he had been searching so long for. His heart warmed, and a lightness played on his senses, before it steeled over and grew cold as he remembered the great shudder that had racked her body, her empty eyes welling with the saltwater of her widowhood, and all the advances he had shunned, the moments he'd missed, and the promise of tranquillity in his age. Caro had been quite enough for him. He must let her go.

He shook his head at Emma. And that was enough for her to understand. There was no convincing William Lamb, and that infuriated Emma. And, yet, she understood the depth of his sorrow, and so could not be truly angry at him for his self-denial. Also, more importantly, Emma understood that, however William tried to suppress and forget his desires, they would always come creeping back to him. And, one day, he would have to give in.

The Queen's screams had turned into silence. A dull heavy silence. The dull heavy silence clasped the little air which had grown cold and foul-smelling and lingered in the corners of the palace rooms and slurried their way down the staircases, pooling at the bottom in vapid ink swells. The Queen retreated into the highest rooms, where the ink slurry could not reach her, above the crest of its tar waves, and dwelt in a land unreachable. The unfitting window was the gasp of air she allowed herself, the small sliver of light that cracked through it lighting but a portion of the room. She would sometimes sit in the sliver of light and let it fall upon her face. She'd close her eyes and feel a small smattering of its warmth, buttery, and let a peace come about her for one moment. Then the guilt returned and she retreated, fumbling with her increased weight and unwieldy belly, into the unlit corners. No one saw her. And no one heard her. But, in the night of the 8th November, the screams returned. Louder. More agonised. Breaching out into the palace and rupturing the stillness.

The Queen fell into labour. And the palace, and the city of London, and the country, leapt from their beds. Crowds of politicians, clergymen, royals, lord and ladies, ladies of the bedchamber, mistress of the robes, mistresses of politicians, mistresses of royals, masters of households and masters of gossip assembled in leagues, the most important were clambered up inside the palace, outside the room where the doctors clamoured with the Queen, the less important in the street, awaiting news, and the least important – as far as he was concerned – Lord Melbourne had received word of the labour and was sitting on the very edge of his seat, at war with himself. He called for his manservant, and asked him to send a message.

The message was held on the lips on a horseback, and that horseback travelled swiftly through the London air – which was clearer tonight than it had been – and moved like a bolt to Lady Emma, who was seated outside the bedchamber, fighting the urge to bite her nails.

"Lord Melbourne says he understands that this is a difficult time, but he wishes to speak with you urgently."

Lady Emma stood, intrigued, thinking, and, knowing exactly what it was that was troubling the man, and exactly what would remedy the trouble, replied,

"He can come and speak to me here."

"But, forgive me-"

"Lord Melbourne was the Prime Minister of this country, and a dear friend of the Queen. He will not be turned away at the gates of the Palace, not at this time. I will welcome him myself. Tell him to come, and quickly."

The manservant called upon Lord Melbourne to come to the palace and, not needing to be persuaded, he thundered down on horseback through Hyde Park and Marble Arch and gained on the palace with roaring in the hooves of his horse and breath spouting in urgent clouds into the air before being whipped backwards with the speed of his approach. The sky was dark, but his way was lit clearly, and he could hear her heart calling out to him once again.

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

He tethered his horse and tore into the palace, Emma Portman (intending to be the aid to his propriety) could hardly keep up with him and he bolted up the staircases towards the din outside the bedchamber. He could hear her cries, and followed them like a sailor to the pole star.

His entrance into the rubble was not unnoticed. In fact, far from it. The crowds, previously enraptured with the news from the bedchamber, turned rapidly to the source of all the noise and saw that it was the ex-Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, in tatters, cheeks red from his journey, chest heaving and straining against the shirt that had not been pressed and prepared for society, hair lolling in grey curls over his forehead. The ladies said he looked excessively romantic and handsome. The men said he looked like a damned fool. He did not heed the gossip, however, but took his place among the crowd and waited, impatiently, for news of the Queen. Her cries, each one, bore into him, and he wished nothing more than to be beside her at this time, holding her hand, telling her that she was strong enough and that she would be alright.

He wondered who was holding her hand. Her mother? Leopold? Lehzen?

He felt her agony, he felt her pain, he felt her loneliness and her grief, he felt her fear and her doubt. He felt it all, and wished that he could take it all from her and feel it all for himself. He felt the force of her creeping into him, doping him, and making him sick. She was everything to him. And he wanted her to know. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to see the child that she brought to this world. He wanted to hold the child, and comfort it, and care for it, as he had done long, long ago. He wanted to soothe the mother, gather her in his arms, breathe kisses into her hair, run thumbs along her back. He wanted to laugh with her again. He needed to talk to her again. He needed to love her.

The door opened briefly and a doctor slipped out. The Queen's screams had gone silent. The bodies collected outside convulsed. Everyone was thinking the same thing.

The Queen is dead.

"Queen Victoria has given birth to a Prince. The child is in full health."

"And what of the Queen?" A voice cried, voicing the thoughts of all others that were too afraid to ask it.

"The Queen is healthy."

A sigh broke out. Lord Melbourne turned to Emma, and thought he would weep.

The crowds dimmed, flickered out, as people filtered from the palace and returned to their own little worlds and their own little lives. Peel lingered, breathing an extended sigh of relief, and fervently thanking God for the gift of an heir. Even Wellington smiled. Emma Portman wanted to hold William in her arms, but stood at a distance and watched him, watched him calling out in silence for her. He remained for as long as he could, knowing he could not see the Queen and the new Prince, but driven by some strange hope that if he stayed for long enough they might let him in. Of course, it was a fanciful idea. The Queen was resting. She had not rested in a long time. No one could bear to wake her. The child was being seen to by the doctors. There were political matters to discuss and personal matters to maintain. Lord Melbourne knew it was his time to leave.

He stood up and, catching a glimpse of himself in the crystal mirror on the wall, he only just realised how dishevelled he looked. Tiredness riddled his face gaunt and he could see his own tears that he could no longer feel for they had been lying dormant there for so long. His necktie was crooked. He brought his unsteady hands around it and smoothed it down, lifting his unshaven chin, and adopting his urbane persona. The persona of a man who wasn't foolishly in love with the Queen. The persona of a man who hadn't been terrified of losing her. The persona of a man who wasn't anguished to be drawn away from her.

Just as he was turning to leave, passing a sad glance at Lady Emma, he was stopped by a doctor who had just crept from the bedchamber. The doctor was showing all the understandable signs of tiredness, the stress of delivering a child, but was oddly lively. Perhaps it was the effects of delivering a healthy heir, or keeping the Queen alive. The doctor moved with Melbourne to a place where they were unlikely to be overheard, as requested by the doctor himself. Melbourne was afraid. He hated being offered private information in the corner of a room by a man he was not completely familiar with. As a politician, it had happened to him on various occasions and the news, in his experience, was never welcome.

The doctor took on a more serious face and, declining his face so that it collected shadows and darknesses that would have been troubling to a man who wasn't so distracted as Melbourne, he began to explain something to him which, at first, Melbourne did not understand the relevance of,

"The Queen, in her agony, as in the case of many a woman suffering a difficult or long labour, became delirious."

Melbourne, not wishing to hear the details of a painful time for both her and him, hurried the doctor by replying,

"What is it you wish to tell me, sir?"

"I'm afraid I cannot give you an explanation as to why and forgive me if I am overstepping my mark but I feel I must tell you that, in her state of delirium, she called out for you, Lord Melbourne."

Lord Melbourne's emotions gushed into him, flooding him, overflowing within him and forcing a gasp from his throat just to catch air. He breathed,

"You must be mistaken. How could she have known I was there?" She could not have, Melbourne thought. There was no way of her knowing.