Goodnight Sweet Prince

by David Dickinson

  ‘You could be Marshal Ney who led the last great charge of the Imperial Guard, if you like,’ William had offered generously. ‘Or Napoleon.’

  Somehow Robert had not been very keen on becoming Napoleon. He didn’t like the thought of being sent away to that island in the middle of the ocean. Its name temporarily eluded him.

  ‘I think I’ll be one of the British generals defending the line, if that’s all right,’ he said, looking with amazement at all the uniforms spread out before him.

  ‘You’ll probably get killed,’ said Patrick cheerfully. ‘Most of them were.’

  Robert felt that a British death would be better than defeat and a French exile.

  The organ was playing Bach. The choir looked at the music in their stands. The vicar had the happy smile that vicars wear to weddings. Powerscourt hoped Lady Lucy wasn’t going to be late.

  ‘Francis. Francis. For God’s sake.’

  ‘What is it, Johnny?’

  ‘You know I said I’d be fine for this wedding business. Well, I’m not. I’m feeling rather ill.’

  There was a rustle at the back of the church. Lady Lucy, escorted by her brother and a trembling bridesmaid, was advancing up the aisle.

  ‘Hold on to this pew very tight, Johnny. If that’s no good, hold on me.’

  Powerscourt saw himself suddenly supporting his bride on his left, trying desperately to keep his best man upright on his right.

  Lady Lucy was passing the little boys in their sailor suits, penned in together under the stern eye of William Burke. She smiled at them, aunt-like. Well, nearly aunt-like. Robert was waiting in the bride’s pew, looking very solemn in a new suit.

  Fitzgerald was swaying slightly now.

  ‘Hang on, Johnny. Hang on. The parson’s got to do his bit now.’

  ‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love honour and keep him, in sickness and in health?’

  ‘I will,’ said Lady Lucy, very firmly, smiling across at Powerscourt.

  ‘I, Francis, take thee, Lucy, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .’

  There was a sudden commotion three pews back. Two of Powerscourt’s nephews were having a fight. William Burke was administering a terrible telling off. The way he frightens the Household of the Prince of Wales, thought Powerscourt, I’m surprised his children dare to breathe when he’s around.

  The organ played the Wedding March. A couple of local policemen, watching the proceedings benevolently from the roadway, saluted as they came out. A line of sailor-suited nephews, joined now by Robert, formed a miniature guard of honour. Johnny Fitzgerald limped slowly forward and gave Lady Lucy a huge kiss on the lips.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to that for ages,’ he beamed.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed it, Lord Johnny. It’ll help you get better, I’m sure. Don’t you have to make a speech now, or something like that?’

  Fitzgerald’s speech was short. He was looking very ill. He read telegrams from Rosebery – ‘May all your mysteries be little ones’ – from Signor Pannone in Venice – ‘Everyone in the Danieli sends their congratulations, especially the waiters’ – from Capitano Ferrante – ‘Congratulations. Tonight I sing the aria for you both. The Marriage of Figaro perhaps. Or would you prefer Cosi Fan Tutti?’

  The following afternoon Lord and Lady Powerscourt were leaning on the rails of their liner in the docks at Southampton. They were sailing to America for their honeymoon, to New York and Boston, to Charleston and Savannah. Powerscourt was excited about the architecture in Savannah, huge ante-bellum houses laid out in grids across the town.

  ‘Have you seen our cabin, Francis? It’s enormous. There are great windows or whatever they call them looking out to sea, and all sorts of cupboards and things to put our luggage in. I’ve made it very cosy down there.’

  Her husband patted her arm. A crowd had gathered beneath them, come to wave the great ship off.

  In the telegraph room one of the officers of the Metropolitan Police was making his report to the Commissioner. ‘Subjects safely aboard,’ it said. ‘No disturbances on the way. Will send further reports en route to New York. Handing over to the American authorities in the harbour. Johnstone.’

  Ever since Powerscourt’s return, he had been watched by the officers of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, concerned for his safety. Ferrante had recommended it to his friend the Commissioner. ‘You asked me to keep him safe,’ his telegram read. ‘I have. But he is not safe in England, I think. These people are very dangerous. Watch him if you can, Commissioner. Perugia grew very fond of Lord Francis.’

  The great cables that held the ship to the shore had been cast off. An insistent hooter sounded above them. The dots left behind on the quay were still waving, waving at loved ones they might never see again, waving at friends departing, waving to the new world that would greet the boat at journey’s end. England was growing smaller as they gathered speed. On the deck above, the band struck up the overture to Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana, the great hit in London the winter before.

  ‘Lucy,’ said her husband, putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘I am so glad you are here.’

  He wanted to say something to bind her to his last investigation, something that would join them both together in his mind. There had been too many deaths. He had almost lost count by the end. Prince Eddy, he didn’t care about, one way or the other, he decided. Gresham has gone to meet Louisa. So beautiful, my Louisa. He must be happier now. He thought of Lord Lancaster, lying in the cold ground of Sandringham Woods, his life lost for wasted honour. He thought of Simon John Robinson at rest in the graveyard at Dorchester on Thames. Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do.

  ‘Lucy. I give you a motto. May it see us across the Atlantic. May it see us across the future. I love you very much, Lucy. Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’

  ‘Oh, Francis, what a beautiful thought. Let me give it back to you. For our future. You and I. Francis and Lucy. Lucy and Francis. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Forever Faithful. Semper Fidelis.’