Sir Robert Peel was fumbling with the cloth of his necktie, crossing it over and dropping it, picking it up again and folding it in the wrong direction, his frustration exacerbating the dilemma until his face had become a particular shade of pink which humoured his wife, standing in the doorframe, looking to where her husband readied himself – unsuccessfully. Sighing, playfully, and finally moving to her husband, standing in between him and the mirror, she took the two ends of his necktie and tied it herself.

Lady Peel thought of how flustered her husband seemed today. He flitted. He wasn't a flitterer. His sleep last night was disturbed and he had taken quite quickly and quite suddenly to snuff-taking – a pursuit that Lady Peel found unsavoury and did not think at all suited her husband. Lady Peel concluded by consoling herself in the thought that this was due to her husband's first visit to the Queen since the Prince Consort's death. Understandably, his nerves were in tatters.

Robert Peel stood like a child, having his necktie tied for him, until his wife stood back, admiring her handiwork, and asked, quite out of the blue,

"Is it Lord Melbourne?"

Robert Peel hesitated.

"Is what Lord Melbourne?"

"Did he persuade the Queen to see you?"

Robert Peel scoffed.

"I do not know. I certainly hope not."

"Has he spoken to her?"

Robert Peel sighed.

"I have not heard anything, Julia."

"I hope he has," Lady Peel replied, a little wistfully. Only a little. But enough to pique her husband's interest.

"What makes you say that?"

"The Queen could use someone like him," Lady Peel said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world. Robert Peel obviously did not find the fact so simple, for he appeared baffled and coughed,

"You have always spoken very dimly of Lord Melbourne!"

"I am a loyal wife. It is my duty to be supportive of you in everything. And, in my support, I am forced to conform to your anti-Whig principles. But you know I am not interested in politics, Robert! I know people as people, and I know Lord Melbourne as a charming and kind man. Oh, don't look so jealous – I'm not going to run off with him! I just think that his return to London is not all doom and gloom. Particularly as the Queen was so fond of him!"

"It is worse if the Queen is fond of him!" Sir Robert cried, exasperated, almost dislodging his newly tied necktie. "We cannot have a widowed Queen being tempted by a Whig politician!" Lady Peel's cheeks coloured as she raised her voice slightly to her husband,

"Tempted? The Queen is not a little girl: she knows her own mind. She's feisty – you've experienced that first-hand, my love. The lady is not one to be 'tempted' as you put it. And, besides, she is heartbroken. If William Lamb can aid her healing, there is nothing wrong with that!"

"Try telling that to my ministry!" Sir Robert exclaimed, practically hearing the jeers and the ruffling of papers thrust into the air, waved back and forth, wafting gusts of air into his eyes.

"I might sound common, but I see nothing wrong with an intimacy between the Queen and Lord Melbourne. I'd rather have that than have the Queen of England mourn for the rest of her life! And I am sure most of her subjects would agree with me. Lord Melbourne's relationship with the Queen seems only to scare Tories." Lady Peel laughed. It could have offended Sir Robert, if she did not laugh so enchantingly.

"Is it any wonder? He'll be going back into politics before I know it."

"Why does that worry you, Robert? You have nothing to fear of William Lamb," she replied, moving back to the doorframe, a faint wisp of her perfume – honeysuckle – remaining in the air that she left behind. Robert Peel dispelled the scent with the force of his voice,

"I am the son of a mill owner! I've always had to argue my case. I hoped, when he left, that I wouldn't have to live up to the standards set by men like him. Lord Melbourne… he is an aristocrat, a charmer, a man of card games and ballrooms. He will be able to exert influence over the Queen yet again. He is a thoroughly Georgian man."

"A Georgian man? What good is a Georgian man? We are living in a new era, Robert. The country needs a Victorian man."

Robert Peel simply laughed into the mirror, turning a little pink again and, looking back at his wife, he thought of how lucky he was to have a woman like her. He should have taken a social butterfly, a hostess: a woman like Lady Lamb or the Duchess of Devonshire; thought of as charming and beautiful, women of character and exquisite taste, women who are hard work but excellent lovers, hysterical but wonderful dancers. But he had chosen the dark-eyed Julia Floyd, the cavalry officer's daughter. Thank God.

"We've never been social animals, have we, Julia?" Peel asked, smiling fondly at her. Lady Peel let out a small laugh and, moving back to him brightly, she lay an affectionate hand on her husband's lapel and cried,

"Do you wish to start now? I shall make a blancmange! Now all we need is a ballroom installed. Do you know anyone capable of the task?"

"Are you teasing me, Lady Peel?"

"Never, Sir Peel!" Her eyes flashed. "Now, the Queen is calling for you," she cried, stomping her foot, and throwing her chest out, speaking like a soldier: a skill she had learnt from meetings with Peel's political associate, the Duke of Wellington (and a skill she found quite humorous). "You have been complaining for weeks of how she has refused to see you and if you delay any longer I fear she will change her mind! Then perhaps Lord Melbourne will be forced to form a ministry, and you will complain even more! And I will be so aggrieved that I will be forced to run away with him! And then you will complain all by yourself whilst I am far, far away at Brocket Hall, wrapped in his arms, and crying 'Thank goodness I am rid of that troublesome Peel!'"

"I often forget how taxing you can be, Lady Peel," he smiled, opening the door, and leaving for Buckingham Palace.

As the carriage proceeded towards the looming expanse of wall, broken only by the brandishing crystal windows, Robert Peel, taking light relief from the little sunshine that was on this day poking its head through the clouds, pondered on what his wife had said. Lord Melbourne's return did frighten him: she was right. It frightened him because a renewal of the courtship, the – dare he say it – romance between the two, was not at all in Tory interests. His grasp on the Queen was unsafe. His influence, in addition to the influence of her Whig ladies, could prove disastrous for his party. Disastrous for England, even, having a politically partial Queen, and a Queen interested in a romantic liaison with someone entirely unsuitable. It would surely cause a constitutional crisis!

But Lady Peel did not think so.

Robert Peel knew his wife, the dark-eyed cavalry officer's daughter, to be very well tuned in to the mood of the general population. She had often provided invaluable advice to him as a politician, for she was impartial, empathetic and simple – though not unintelligent. Perhaps, if she believed that Lord Melbourne's relationship with the Queen was more of a help than a hindrance, others would agree.

Something uneasy found its way into Peel's consciousness: the thought that, perhaps, it would after all be in his interests to allow the Queen and Lord Melbourne to conduct themselves as they wished. Lord Melbourne was no longer the Prime Minister. And, if it would make the Queen happy, allow her to heal, give her a source of guidance. No. What was he thinking? He did not yet know whether the Queen had spoken to the man, let alone been charmed by him. The last Robert Peel had seen of the pair they had almost swooned in grief upon seeing each other. A situation in which he would need to give his approval to a romance between Queen Victoria of England and William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne? It would not come to that, Robert Peel told himself, trundling between the union flags lining the road past St James' Park and enjoying a strange winter warmth in his bones that he had not felt in a long time, it would not come to that.

The carriage came to a stop outside the palace, and Peel could already feel a change in attitude. The servants who met him at the door to take his coat and hat were solemn as one would expect, but hadn't the dark circles and creased foreheads he had seen them with at the birth of the prince. They greeted him, and seemed happy to have him there, and he was happy to be there, standing in the finery and the grandeur and finally feeling important again. Finally feeling like a Prime Minister again. The crystal windows, glinting; the crystal chandelier, glinting; and the glasses and bottles, glinting, all made Robert Peel feel contented. The room was a familiar one, lined all over in a fresh green, zesty and spring-like, like the softest green grass under footfall, running beside a dazzling lake in the sunshine. Painted details, fine and dark, were on the walls and the bookcases and the portraits: the curvature of a silvery willow branch, the flap of a waxwing and the dive of a wren, the fall of a sparrow, the outstretched hand of a woman, unfurling to be touched. The fresh, leafy green melded with golds, brandishing, and the result was almost pearlescent, the melting of colours into one another, gleaning all together into one description: royalty.

The door creaked, just a little, when the door was opened to herald the Queen's entrance into the sitting room.

She was still dressed in black, of course, but the garments were not nearly as cumbersome, as heavy, as dire and as swallowing as they had been when Sir Robert had last seen her. She still grieved, and the pangs of grief wrought her face with tiredness, but she no longer screamed so and cried so and Sir Robert could recognise a little light in her blue eyes.

He kissed her hand and, although it felt cold, it pulsed with life.

"How glad I am to be able to meet with you again, your Majesty!" Robert Peel said, feigning his best smile. It was not an easy smile, but it sufficed. Queen Victoria feigned a smile, too, a weak one, but it, too, sufficed. She knew she owed the man an explanation: Queen or not.

"I have been made aware of the importance of my duties, Sir Robert. I understand, now, that I must return to my country," she explained, clasping her hands in front of her, holding her chin up. "I mourn… but, I feel that with… help… I shall smile in the future." Her heart tugged. Sir Robert, showing an unusual glimmer of true feeling, a thing that Victoria was well-adjusted to noticing, creased his brows, pulled his lips into a sad smile, and looked warmly at the young Queen. Pity? No, not pity, something more: something like respect, care. Something she did not expect from Peel, but felt light upon seeing it.

"How is the young Prince?" Sir Robert asked, out of gentility, drawing the light out of the Queen, not knowing the potency of what he said. It struck Victoria to the core, and with a great effort, she replied that the Prince was well, healthy, and in the care of a nursemaid. Sir Robert felt that he had overstepped some invisible mark.

"I am glad to hear it, Ma'am. Shall we look through the dispatches?"

Victoria heard the words in another's voice. It made her gasp. Those green eyes caught her mind. She banished them. Not now, she thought.

"Yes. An excellent idea."

The pair, ancient – Queen and Prime Minister – the very lungs of the greatest Empire on Earth, gathered at the table beside the window, there the bare branches of a December tree trembled in the unexpected balm of the weather and tap-tapped against the window, setting a pitch and a time for their meeting, and making the meeting musical.

Sir Robert Peel did not want to ask the Queen the question which was bubbling in his brain since he had first crossed through Marble Arch but he knew he could not leave the palace without asking it. The time leading to the inevitable question moved slowly but, finally, finding the courage to ask something which could produce an unwanted reaction, he spoke slowly,

"Have you met with Lord Melbourne, your Majesty?"

The Queen started upon hearing his name, but collected herself like a monarch, and replied,

"Why should you think that, Sir Robert?" she spoke slowly, with a little too much intrigue to make the intrigue convincing. Sir Robert understood that he was treading on unsteady ground. He had been lucky to get this far; he knew he must be careful.

"I mean no disrespect to your Majesty: I just couldn't help but wonder if it was he who persuaded you to return to your duties. I know how he has been an invaluable source of guidance to you, Ma'am."

Victoria, holding one of the today's papers in a grip that was quickly becoming vice-like (almost tearing the paper, or creasing it badly), did not know how to reply. In truth, he had done. In truth, he had given her an affinity. The purest and most potent form of existence with another soul: a shared understanding, an energy, indeterminable and frightening, fastening two souls together as one. He had offered her the most powerful healing. He had helped her to understand her grief, that pain, unimaginably painful. He had helped her to confront the pain, feel it, swallow it, and continue. He taught her to do what he had done, after his own agony. He taught her before. He would teach her again. In truth, Lord Melbourne had saved her life. But Sir Robert Peel, Victoria feared, would not understand the depth of feeling they had shared, the affinity they now held, and would fear that Lord Melbourne was not being kind. She could not bear to think that anyone would believe his motives were anything less than just. He meant so much to her and she knew that he did not wish to influence her, or change her in any way. She treasured what they had, and she did not want Sir Robert to make it something dirty. Furthermore, after being so averse to Lord Melbourne a few months ago, Sir Robert would think her silly. It was not silliness that made her mind flitter. Something far more tender.

She gulped.

"I am well aware of my duties with or without Lord Melbourne. He is an old friend of mine and, at this difficult time, he is welcome at the palace if he should wish to see me. I can assure you, Sir Robert, that Lord Melbourne is not a parent to me, scolding me for not doing my duty, and setting me straight. I am perfectly capable of that myself."

"Of course, Ma'am. I apologise. I sincerely hope his… his friendship can offer you comfort at this time."

A silence ensued. It was thick.

Perhaps it was the musicality of the tap-tapping tree on the window panes, perhaps it was the mention of Lord Melbourne, perhaps it was simply necessity, or gentility, but Sir Robert Peel – as his next order of business – suggested that the Queen come to the opera tonight. An opera? Tonight? She had no idea. Why hadn't anyone told her? I suppose her ladies assumed she would not want to go. She was a little surprised that she had taken warmly to the idea at all. She was struck with the thought that, perhaps, it would not be decent of her to go, as a widow. However, why would Sir Robert have suggested it if it were not appropriate? There was no one more conscientious of propriety than her Peel. Who would be there? Sir Robert would be there. A few leading Tories were sure to attend. It was Mozart, after all, and there was an appreciation for Mozart among politicians, royalty and common men alike. Who could object to Mozart? Surely there was no greater composer in all history! The great high oboe in the third movement of Mozart's Serenade No.10 had burst out its note into Victoria's mind, and it brought a tear to her eye. Victoria's ladies would definitely like to come along with her. Leading Whigs would show their faces too. Lord Melbourne, surely, yes. Lord Melbourne appreciated Mozart very much.

Victoria did decide to go to the opera. Dressed in black, donning a brave face, she would grace her citizens, to tell them that she had not shirked them, and to tell them that she still in love with music.

The carriage ride was an uncomfortable one, and Victoria fidgeted, struck silent. It was unnerving for the Queen to be so silent; Lady Emma and Lady Harriet glanced at each other every few seconds, both wanting to break the silence but neither possessing the right words to do so. To see a woman who had previously been an incorrigible talker or an agonised screamer sat in such silence was disturbing. It chilled the blood. Emma was afraid that the Queen would not have the strength to go to the opera, to show her face. It was still so soon. However, Lady Emma also knew why it was that the Queen was showing her face. William had soothed her, of course. Lady Emma noticed all. This change had occurred that day when it rained, and he had met her at the palace. She noticed the change in William, too: he was sadder – as if he had remembered something of his past grief – but he glowed. He was feeling something strong and strange, and Emma could see it. An affinity.

Lady Emma knew that this was healthy, for both of them, to see each other at the opera.

There was a hushed stirring, like the ruffle of birds taking to wing at the slightest disturbance, when the Queen exited her carriage, inky but dignified, and was led by her ladies towards the royal box. There were a few mutters, but mostly a shocked silence, the bated breath that comes with expectations of a storm, waiting to breathe again. Later that night, when talking to their husbands or wives or mistresses, the people would say that the Queen looked majestic. For she did.

She took her seat, beside her ladies, feeling a twinge when the seat that would once have held her dear Albert was filled with another body. The red curtain was closed. The stage lights were beaming. The instruments were being tuned. Long, disjointed notes. Out of kilted. Out of tune. Slowly refined, distilled, until their notes were liquor to the ears. Doping the senses. The little faces of hundreds of little people were lit up by the light, and their eyes were glinting, all turned on her.

Lord Melbourne, once, would have had a place in the royal box, behind her, in front of the curtain, where he would have stood, harbouring a glass of port, and looking intensely handsome in the low light. But he was Prime Minister no longer and, so, could not have a place in the royal box. But he would be here, Victoria reminded herself, scanning, scattering, over the faces, trying to ignore the fact that every eye was looking at her. He would be here. He would be here. He would be here.

There.

In the box, nearly opposite her, sat in the front row, eyes turned down, though Victoria knew that – before she had caught his face – they were looking at her, was William Lamb. Oh, how handsome he looked in the low light. A gold in the green. Something pearlescent. Something dark, fine. Silver in his hair. A flickering across his face, catching the shadows. His eyes moved. Blinking. Turning up. Fixing on her. He did not turn them away again. She did not turn her's away. The distance between them melted. Victoria could feel his breath on her neck. She could feel his hand brushing over the back of hers. She could see him go to speak, the word catching in his throat.

The lights fell, and the opera began.

Victoria, frustrated that their moment of intimacy had been interrupted, could hardly concentrate on a single aria. Where she would normally have been absorbed, she was restless, her skin still feeling hot. Lord Melbourne felt just the same. Mozart be damned.

The interval was welcomed. The auditorium was lit once more, and Victoria's eyes immediately went back to Lord Melbourne, and his to her. They scoured each other once again, trying desperately to tell each other something, without words, only through glances. Something in the rise and fall of Victoria's chest spoke sonnets to Lord Melbourne. Something in the flickering gold in the green eyes of Lord Melbourne caught the heart of Victoria. Something in Melbourne's tears and Victoria's trembling told the other that they were loved.

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

"Lady Emma," Victoria breathed, her voice hoarse without use, not taking her eyes from Lord Melbourne, "do you see Lord M over there?" she asked. Emma stifled a smile at the name: Lord M, and looked as if she were looking around for him, though she knew by the intensity of the Queen's gaze exactly where he sat. Lady Emma said she thought she saw him. "Would it be advisable for me to invite him into the royal box?" Victoria asked in genuine innocence, with all the desperation of a young lover, never been in love before. Would it be advisable? Not at all. But Lady Emma was of the persuasion that one could get far too caught up in the avoidance of scandal and, in the forbearance of it, deny oneself all the pleasure and zeal of life that made it worth living. If everyone felt like Lady Emma, then there would be no problem in William sitting in the royal box. Emma hoped that either everyone felt like her, or everyone was so absorbed in the Mozart that they failed to notice. She told the Queen that she would go to him, and did so, promptly.

Victoria could see, from her seat in the royal box, Lord Melbourne's hesitancy. It filled her with dread. She bore her gaze more deeply into him: please, William, do not heed society. Allow us this. Please. His face carried waves, pulsing like the tide, eyes flickering from person to person, all of which he feared, his paranoia leading him to believe that every single person there would think their actions scandalous. He would not dream of bringing dishonour to the crown. To Victoria. He would sooner die. But Victoria wished it, more than anything. Her eyes said it. Emma reminded him of it. Melbourne knew it. And, heeding the call of the fire once again, he rose from his seat and followed his old friend towards the royal box. He knew he was being a fool.

But, upon seeing his sweet Victoria, the foolishness became meaningless.

How could it be foolish? To wish the company of such a woman? She looked radiant. Renewed. Alive. Her eyes dazzled. The inky black smothering her did nothing to extinguish her flame. She wanted him. He could see it. She invited him. She wished for him. He heeded it. He heeded it all. Submitting to it. The low light consuming him, he brought himself to the seat beside her, and said nothing. He did not need to speak to her. Anything he said would be nothing compared to what his eyes could give her. To what his soul could give her. The affinity.

No one could see, for it was hidden behind the railing of the box, but if anyone could see, it would cause scandal harsh enough to scorch the crown and melt it. If anyone could have seen their hands.

William's hand crept towards the Queen's – resting softly on the satin folds of her dress – and ghosted across it, brushing ever so softly across the skin, sensitive, before curling around and clasping. Mozart swelled. Victoria's cheeks burned. The music roared. Victoria and William. Widow and widower. Lovers, in secret.

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