Victoria had always held the opinion that palaces were not the place for children. They were too large, too wide, with too many fragile objects and not enough clean air. London was not a place for children, either. Kensington had been grief. The memories of that childhood – so unhappy locked within the grand walls, grasping at air, at freedom, at wide open spaces and grass as far as the eye could see. Longing for deep and dark woodlands and hills to climb. She longed for a childhood like William's. So, as soon as they were publicly married, Victoria spent every possible moment with her husband and children at Brocket, and, when they she was compelled to business in the capital, William – who had taken up residence – entertained Victoria's children to the best of his capabilities.
The title 'Victoria's children' was only a formality, used by them on occasion, to reiterate that it was those children alone who could inherit. But, in truth, William had become a father to them now, and as close to them in spirit as a father should be. They were no longer shy of him, or hesitant, but they revelled in his company, enjoying the little games he would indulge them in, and his hand to hold when they were afraid or alone. Victoria enjoyed nothing more than to see her children and William together, in harmony, as happy as could be. She would watch them from her desk, casting her eyes beyond the dispatches and towards her family. A tight-knit circle of domestic bliss: something she had never imagined for herself. Something she had begun to think impossible.
What Sir Robert had done for them could not be taken for granted. He had given them their life.
The marriage – the public marriage, attended by the bright-faced and optimistic people of Great Britain who, on the whole, saw no harm in the match and took to it quite fondly, understanding the Queen's happiness to be paramount, more important than party politics which they did not care for – was a splendid one. There were great, merry bells tolling into the spring air, bright and new, swathed in the gentility of the new season, with all the cheerful daffodils and baby rabbits. Obviously, London town was not graced with the sunny daffodils and rabbit kits, but they were still felt with the coming of the springtime.
Sweet lovers love the springtime.
Victoria had been able to have a new dress made for the wedding, which pleased her tremendously. She kept the veil of Honiton lace she had worn when she married Albert, as a token to him, but the dress was made anew. This was William's dress. Bertha collared and silken, white just as she liked it, and embroidered in the most delicate gold thread, that caught ablaze in the light, glittering as if within the thread was encased embers of a dying fire, or the light of distant stars. The collar showed her neck and shoulders, highlighting the elegant line of her clavicle and the soft skin around her breast, and she was most pleased with the springtime look (Harriet had been most insistent that the wedding dress should complement the season). The train was long, as was the fashion with royal weddings, and extended in her wake. Angelic. Brocket's gardenias made a halo above her, and her hair was arranged in chignons at the back of her head, graceful coils of her dark hair, parted from the centre. Again, it was a style Harriet had recommended and, although afraid to shirk her trusted pendant brides, Victoria had trusted her. The result was most satisfactory. She felt like a woman. She felt like a wife, though she had been a wife for a year. It felt more real now than it ever had done before. The world was about to see.
Everyone attended: those who were happy with the match and those who weren't, and there was a warm cloak of festivities above the Chapel Royal that day. Sir Robert Peel, glowing with a happiness that he was careful not to let show, brought his beloved Julia Peel with him. Julia was almost at fever pitch; she had been excited for a good deal of weeks, and had planned her outfit meticulously. Sir Robert thought her quite charming, and held her on his arm as she peered over the heads of men to get a look at the Queen as she proceeded down the aisle, heralded by great bands of music and cheering, approaching her lover and (as Sir Robert knew) her husband.
All the men, politicians who had known Lord Melbourne for many years either intimately or competitively, were united by a common thought – that they had never seen the ex-Prime Minister look quite so happy and, strangely, quite so young. It was as if the years and the stresses contained within the time had been wiped clean from him, like tarnished metal polished to glean once again. He gleaned, practically glowing as he watched his young bride approach. He remarked inwardly how this was different to their private ceremony of marriage. Where she had once moved in an everchanging colour, she now moved through crystal white. A bright sunlight guiding her way, catching fire on the embroidery. Her skin was velvet, rising and falling above her silken neckline. A wife only to be dreamt of.
He took her hands at the end of the aisle and, although far away, Julia Peel could see his hands tremble. What a thing it was to be so in love, she thought, tightening her grip on her husband. Victoria did not tremble, however, but, instead, held firm to her husband's hands, willing them to steady, and looked at him with a strength beating beneath her skin that was utterly unique and uniquely beautiful. Wordless, she seemed to tell him: do not be afraid, my love, they understand now. And, with her strength guiding him, he stopped trembling, and breathed in courage.
Their vows were pronounced without shame. Fearlessly. Bravely. And not a single ear could doubt what they had heard, nor a single mouth dispute their ardour.
And so, as husband and wife, accepted by the world, they spent the summer in the gardens at Brocket. Such a peaceful summer. They tumbled outdoors every morning, allowing the sun to greet them and warm them, and Victoria wore white every day. She allowed her hair to fall free, as she sprinted barefoot on grass in her nightgown. If anyone had seen her, it would have caused a scandal hot enough to scorch her. But the only person to see was her beloved husband, who laughed and thought, as she ran along the waterside, her form silhouetted over the glinting film of the river, breaking and catching the sunrise, that she was the most exquisite creature in the world. Victoria ran to her children sitting on the riverbank, and took their hands, guiding them to the water's edge and allowing them to paddle, dipping her toes in with them. She held up the hem of her nightgown and wriggled her toes in the crystal waters, cold and clean. She would laugh at how the flow tickled, and turn over her bare shoulder to see the green and gold of her love's eyes. And then, she would turn her head up to the sun and watch how the light gets momentarily blotted out by the wings of rooks. Their caws would mix with the percussion of the running water and the buzzing of the bumblebees. The sound was happiness itself.
It was at Brocket on a summer's evening, on the bridge crossing the river where they had once ridden their horses, when Victoria, holding a thin shawl around her shoulders, and leaning over the stone wall, looking down into the water below, told her husband.
"What is it, my love?" William had asked, taking a hand to her arm, trying to make her out in the twilight. Victoria smiled at him, her heart bubbling with the anticipation of the reveal. The night was so warm, and his touch so sublime. She could have frozen that moment forever, and lived in it for eternity. But she did not. She opened her mouth, and laughed as she spoke,
"I am with child!"
"What?" he replied, his voice barely there. He looked suddenly like a lost thing, looking about himself, eyes wet with an onslaught of feeling and mouth hanging open as if hoping to catch the appropriate words. "Victoria… Victoria, I-" He was speechless, and so Victoria stopped his mouth with her lips. It was chaste and simple, but she poured all of herself into it. Pulling away, her hands gripping his, she laughed to see he was crying.
The news was received joyously, and the pregnancy was the most comfortable Victoria had ever experienced. Lord Melbourne was so considerate, so patient. He eased her fears and her pains. He whispered love to her womb, listening and feeling for the kicks.
Victoria went into labour on a Tuesday evening at Buckingham Palace and, much to the distress of everyone, she insisted on taking the journey to Brocket Hall.
"Victoria, my darling, I think it would be wise for you to stay here."
"No!" she cried, her breath coming fast through her gritted teeth. She groaned. "I will not have our child born in London!" She was pale and sweating, but pulling on a shawl and wading through the palace towards the carriages, pursued by her husband, trying to suppress his panic. Unstoppable as always, the carriage was prepared at the greatest haste, and was soon thundering along the English roads towards Brocket Hall, carrying the Queen, her husband, and their unborn child, who was pushing its way out, impatient. William held Victoria's hand the whole way, ignoring the pain of her nails digging into his skin, and talked her through the great swells of pain, reminding her to breath. Keep breathing. Keep breathing. Breathe. Breathe. We're almost there. Brocket is calling. Breathe. Breathe.
The child, their child, was born early on the Wednesday morning in the bedroom of Brocket Hall, brought into the world and straight into the arms of her father.
There was a general gladness that it was a little girl: for it would have been harsh on a young boy to have been born to the Queen, and yet have no claim to the throne. A little girl was preferable and, although Victoria and William would have adored any child of theirs, they understood the positives of the female gender.
And what a pretty little girl she was!
Blue eyes, just like her mother, cold and clear and striking. The most beautiful eyes one could imagine, staring widely at this big new world, and into the face of her father, who looked at her with such adoration and pride to make her feel entirely welcome to this strange new place. So small, and yet so alert already. Hardly making a noise. Hardly crying. She fit into the crook of William's arm as if made to fit there. He never wanted to let her go. She was precious.
Eventually passing the child to her mother, Victoria noticed how she had her father's expression. Docile and gentle, but there was something almost witty in the new-born babe's gaze. It was as if, only moments after birth, she was mocking the world around her. It made Victoria laugh, exhausted and drowsy in her cocoon of pillows. She would be a forceful child, she knew that already. One with a great many observations, and a great many jokes to make of them.
It was surreal. Victoria and William looked at that tiny figure of a human, created by their two souls, and they saw the girl's entire life stretched out before them, stretching far out into the sun until they could no longer see the path. A million tears unshed, but would fall before long. A million laughs not yet laughed, but would be chuckled before long. A million heartbeats not suffered or enjoyed, but that heart would soon beat for sadness and love. A million words to speak, not one spoken yet.
Victoria had suggested the child be named Alice, for she remembered him commenting on more than one occasion that Alice was his favourite female name. And, for the middle name, she suggested Elizabeth – after William's mother who, in his own words, had such a strong influence on his manner. William protested, arguing that the name had too much of himself in it, and that her life should have more of an influence on the little girl's titles. But Victoria replied that his life was her own, and that Alice Elizabeth Lamb was such a pretty name, worthy of a daughter of the Queen.
And, so, Alice was borne into the world, and into the embrace of two doting and kind parents, and into a circle of a family that was good and full and happy.
It was autumn at Brocket, a familiar time for them, that had once been painful – perhaps – but was now quiet and burnished. The twilight was falling upon the tired land. Young Alice was in her cot. Edward was curled in his mother's lap, and Vicky was falling asleep in William's armchair. William held his wife close to him. She fell upon the lapel of his jacket. Her hair tickled his chin as he planted a kiss on her forehead. Victoria felt the breath of her husband rising and falling in his chest, lulling her, as they both watched their children, falling asleep. The rooks made gentle crows in the distance.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
And, there, they remained, living out their happy epilogue.