The Fortune Hunter

by Daisy Goodwin

  Sisi could think of nothing to say in answer to this. To her relief, the boulle clock started to strike noon, its precise melodious chimes echoed by the deeper notes of the chapel bells outside. There was a brief hiatus as the party waited for the noise to subside.

  This, Sisi decided, was her cue. She leant over to the Queen and said, ‘I must trespass on your hospitality no longer, Victoria. I shall write to the Emperor today to say that I find you in good health and to convey any other messages you would like to charge me with.’

  Sisi wanted to stand up, she was almost rigid with boredom, but protocol meant that she could not rise before the Queen.

  Victoria shook her head.

  ‘What a pity you cannot stay longer,’ she said again, although she did not look particularly sorry. ‘I had hoped we might have more of a chance to talk together. It is not often that I am able to converse woman to woman with another,’ a little pause, ‘empress.’ She made a little pecking motion of her head as she said this, and there was a gleam in her eyes. Ponsonby made a noise somewhere between a cough and a warning.

  The Queen ignored him and carried on.

  ‘You may tell your husband that I am to be Empress of India, as well as Queen of England. So you see, we are both empresses now, Elizabeth. Although, of course, there is a difference as I am a sovereign and you are a consort.’ She beamed, the smile of a child who has been given an enormous box of chocolates.

  Sisi saw that she would have to acknowledge this triumph adequately or be condemned to sit in this hideous cold room for ever. Clearly Victoria did not think it was enough to be the Queen of the world’s most powerful nation; it had irked her that there was a still grander title that she did not yet possess. Sisi, who had been an empress since she was sixteen, could not share her excitement. To be a queen or an empress, what did it matter? Both titles were gilded cages. Any crown grew heavy. But Victoria would not understand any of this. The little queen was so like Franz Joseph. They both believed that God had chosen them to be monarchs, never doubting their position for a moment. The two monarchs might occasionally tremble at the burden of the duties imposed upon them, but they would not relinquish the tiniest fragment of their powers. Sisi wondered what it would be like to have that certainty, to wake up every morning knowing that you were God’s anointed put on this earth to rule over your subjects.

  She picked up one of Victoria’s hands and pressed it.

  ‘Although mere words can hardly express my feelings, I am so happy to be able to congratulate you in person.’

  ‘Empresses and grandmothers. We stand alone on the World Stage, dear Elizabeth.’ Victoria was at her most gracious.

  ‘But you are superior to me in this way as in every other. I only have one grandchild,’ said Sisi.

  This speech seemed to strike the right note with Victoria, and she squeezed Sisi’s hand in return and with much rustling rose to her feet.

  ‘You will send my very best wishes to the Emperor. I often think of his poor dear brother. He was such a favourite with us here.’

  Sisi lowered her eyes. Maximilian, her brother-in-law, had been crowned Emperor of Mexico eleven years ago, but his brief reign had ended three years later in front of a revolutionary firing squad.

  ‘Poor Max. It was a terrible thing.’

  ‘What a dreadful country. You can be sure that we expressed our indignation in the strongest terms through the British consul. An anointed sovereign put to death like a common criminal. The Mexicans are little better than savages.’

  ‘Yes, we are fortunate to be in Europe,’ said Sisi. ‘But Max so wanted a kingdom of his own. He wanted to be an emperor like Franzl.’

  ‘Such a mistake to think that a monarchy can be manufactured. It is a sacred trust.’ For affirmation Victoria looked at John Brown, who nodded solemnly.

  Sisi did not point out to the new Empress of India that her title was equally artificial, although she would have been liked to see the look on her face.

  ‘Goodbye, Victoria, it was such a pleasure to see you.’ She kissed the Queen and Beatrice. Sisi did not think she would say goodbye to John Brown, who after all was only a servant.

  The Queen walked with the party to the entrance to the Tower.

  ‘You must be careful, Elizabeth, I beg you. Please don’t take any unnecessary risks.’

  She turned to Bay. ‘I am relying on you, Captain Middleton, to make sure that no harm comes to the Empress on British soil.’

  Bay bowed and said, ‘I will watch over the Empress night and day, Ma’am.’

  Bay saw a flash in the blue eyes and wondered if he had gone too far, but the Queen smiled and said, ‘I feel sure that you will.’

  They were halfway down the corridor when the Queen stopped and said, ‘Beatrice, you have forgotten the book! Run and fetch it at once.’

  The party waited as Beatrice set off down the corridor without evident haste. She returned with a parcel which she pressed into Sisi’s hands, ‘From mama.’

  Ponsonby came back to the station with them in the carriage. This time they were in a landau where the seats were directly behind each other rather than facing. Sisi invited Bay to sit next to her, while the Ambassador and the Chamberlain sat in the seat behind.

  ‘You promised the Queen that you would look after me night and day,’ said Sisi, looking straight ahead. ‘You will be very busy, Captain Middleton.’

  ‘Very busy. But I can hardly disobey my sovereign,’ said Bay.

  But as they walked up the red carpet to the waiting train, Bay remembered the kilted mass of John Brown standing behind Queen Victoria’s chair. He had seen the cartoons in Punch of the Queen and her Highland Servant and had laughed in the club at the jokes that circulated about ‘Mrs Brown’. There was no similarity, of course, between John Brown’s situation and his own, but there had been something about the way that the Queen had looked at him that had made him uncomfortable. It did not surprise him that she had looked. What disturbed him was not Victoria’s scrutiny, the slow flick of her blue eyes across his body, but the little turn of her head as she looked over to Brown and back. She had been comparing them.

  Bay glanced over at Sisi, who was flicking through the book that the Queen had given her. ‘Leaves from our Sketchbook of our life in the Highlands,’ she read, imitating Victoria’s emphatically accented delivery. ‘What charming pictures. But how dull their life is – just ponies and picnics and those dowdy shawls always. And all the men showing their legs. How do you call the skirt that the Scots men wear? Not a flattering garment, I think.’

  ‘It’s called a kilt,’ said Bay.

  ‘I am so glad you don’t wear a kilt, Captain Middleton, like that great mountain of a man standing behind the Queen. What a brute, and yet she clearly dotes on him. But he is a very odd choice. She needs someone, perhaps, but even at her age she might do better.’ Sisi looked over at Bay and smiled. Bay knew that it was a smile of triumph. By choosing him, Sisi had shown her superiority over the dowdy English Queen. He smiled back automatically, the easy smile of a ladies’ man. But if Sisi had been observing him closely she would have seen that his pale blue eyes were distant.

  But by the time they arrived at Waddesdon to look at the Rothschild stud, the Empress was so reliant on her pilot to tell her which of the many magnificent animals would be best suited to carry her in the field, that Bay’s mood lightened. There really was nothing so pleasant as spending someone else’s money. And later still when Sisi visited him in his room and together they mocked the hideous carpet, the downtrodden princess and the general dowdiness of Windsor, Bay felt altogether himself again.

  The Royal Mail

  In Holland Park Charlotte waited for a reply from her aunt Adelaide. Her letter had been as nonchalantly phrased as she could manage – after the usual enquiries about her aunt’s health, Lady Crewe’s health and the trousseau preparations of Augusta, Charlotte had said as if in passing, ‘Although I find the work here enormously interesting, I do miss our little party at M
elton. Do write with some news of Captain Hartopp and Captain Middleton – I suppose they will have left to take up their shooting box.’ Then she went on to describe to her aunt the gallery where the exhibition was being held and the heated disputes that were taking place over the hanging. She went into rather more detail about this than her aunt’s interest would warrant, but it was necessary to disguise the real purpose of her letter.

  Three days after writing to Aunt Adelaide, Charlotte came down to breakfast to find an envelope in Lady Lisle’s handwriting. She must have made some sound as Lady Dunwoody looked up from her letters and said, ‘I wish I still got letters that made me gasp with delight.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘It is from Aunt Adelaide.’

  ‘Ah.’ Lady Dunwoody looked sceptical. ‘Well, your aunt must have improved as a correspondent.’

  Charlotte waited till her godmother had left the room before opening her letter. She scanned it quickly, looking for Bay’s name, but Lady Lisle had never got out of the old habit of crossing the pages so it took her quite ten minutes to decipher her aunt’s pinched hand. At last, after detailed, and in Charlotte’s view, interminable instructions about the monogrammed tortoiseshell dressing case that her aunt wanted Charlotte to order from Asprey’s as a wedding present for Augusta, she finally reached the paragraph she was looking for.

  The atmosphere here at Melton is not nearly as gay as when you were here, dear Charlotte. Captain Hartopp has gone to hunt on the other side of the county and poor Captain Middleton has not been here since his accident.

  Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. There had been only one accident in her life, and that was the one on the bright winter morning that had left her motherless. She gripped the edge of the breakfast table and for a moment she thought that she might actually be sick, but then her wits returned. It could not be a fatal accident; Aunt Adelaide had said that Bay had not been there, which meant that he must be still alive. She tried to read on, but her hand was shaking so much that she had to put the letter down before she could decipher it.

  The Empress has quite taken charge of him. Some servants came over to fetch his belongings and his horses. Such livery! We were quite dazzled by the gold braid. But he sent a very charming note to Lady Crewe, saying that his visit had been quite memorable. I think we both know what he means by that! Lady Crewe read the note aloud after dinner and Augusta said that Bay had become quite the courtier and that quite soon he would be too grand to consort with his old friends. Lady Crewe wrote back at once to tell him that she would be very honoured to entertain the Empress if she were to suggest a visit. We have not yet received a reply but Lady C has ordered all the footmen to have their wigs repowdered, just in case.

  As Charlotte read on and she realised that Bay could not be seriously hurt, she felt the tide of terror that had swept through her body subside and the tightness at the back of her throat ease. She put the letter down and drank some tea, uncomfortably aware that her chemise was clammy with sweat. She would have to go and change. It was unthinkable that she could stand next to the fragrant Caspar like this. It was only when she had got to her bedroom and was trying to unlace her corset (she had felt too embarrassed to ring for her maid), her hand behind her back struggling to undo the corset laces which had been tied into a particularly intractable knot, that she realised that although Bay was not in all likelihood badly injured, he was now staying at Easton Neston with the Empress.

  There was a knock at the bedroom door and without waiting for a reply Lady Dunwoody walked in. She looked at Charlotte’s state of undress in surprise.

  ‘Do you want me to ring for the maid?’

  ‘If you could just undo this knot for me, I think I can manage.’

  Lady Dunwoody gave a sharp tug and the laces came free. Charlotte opened the chest of drawers, looking for another chemise. She felt awkward undressing in front of her godmother, so she turned away from her as she took off the old garment and put on the new one, but Lady Dunwoody carried on talking regardless.

  ‘I came to give you some good news. The hanging committee has looked at your work and they have decided to show four of your prints. Before you think that there might have been some influence on my part, I must tell you that I submitted the pictures quite anonymously. It is true that I voted for their inclusion, but on a committee of twelve I felt that was quite fair. And to be truthful the votes were unanimous. Such an honour for you, Charlotte. I am so very proud of you.’

  Charlotte turned round and saw that her godmother’s craggy face was quite soft with pride. She put her arms around the older woman’s neck and embraced her.

  ‘Not having children myself I have never known what it is to feel a mother’s pride, but now that I have seen you succeed, Charlotte, I feel I know something of that emotion.’

  Charlotte kissed the leathery cheek. ‘If I have succeeded, it is because I had the best teacher.’

  Lady Dunwoody straightened up, her briskness returning. ‘Well, at least I have managed to put something in your head other than waltzing and cavalry officers. Men are all very well, and a good husband can be enormously useful, but women like us need something to do.’

  ‘But you have a good husband, Aunt Celia, you can’t blame me for wanting one too,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Of course! But a man will only make you happy for a while, while a skill, an occupation – learning something – will always satisfy you. If only your poor mother could have realised that. She was such a clever, charming creature, but her whole life was about sensation. She never understood the value of accomplishment.’

  ‘I believe she rode very well,’ said Charlotte, who did not like to hear her mother dismissed so lightly, ‘my father always said she had the best hands in the kingdom.’

  ‘She may well have done. But to ride well to hounds is simply a diversion. It leaves no record. But already, my dear Charlotte, you have created something, a legacy. When you have children, you will be able to say to them, this is the picture that was picked by the greatest experts in the field, to hang before the Queen. That is something, is it not?’

  Charlotte nodded. She did not point out that the inheritance her mother had left her had affected every aspect of her life. Everything she did lay in the shadow of the Lennox fortune. It was true that her godmother had shown her how to take photographs, but it was her inheritance that paid for her cameras, the dark rooms and her freedom to indulge her hobby. If she had been forced to earn her living as a governess she would not have had the time or space to create a legacy.

  ‘Anyway, to show you that I haven’t entirely forgotten what it is to be young and foolish, I suggest that if there is anyone you would like to invite to the opening next week, you should do so. I am sure that Fred will want to come with the Crewe girl and Adelaide Lisle, if you must, but I am sure there are other friends you would like to ask. I believe that one of the selected pictures is of a very special friend.’ Lady Dunwoody raised an eyebrow with an archness Charlotte had not known her to possess. ‘Of course you will make Caspar terribly jealous when he sees how handsome your cavalry officer is, but he will survive. The point is that all your admirers should cluster in front of your pictures and acknowledge your talent. That would be a fine thing.’

  Charlotte found herself blushing. She had not had enough compliments in her life to know how to acknowledge them. Compliments inspired by her own self, that is, rather than by the Lennox fortune: that kind of flattery she knew exactly how to deal with.

  ‘You are right, Aunt Celia. It is a very great honour and I shall certainly invite people to come. Of course it is very short notice, so I fear that—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ interrupted her godmother, ‘this is an event.’ She opened the door and delivered her parting shot, ‘Anybody who truly cares for you will be there.’

  The door closed and Charlotte picked up her green velvet bodice. Realising that she could not do up the line of hooks down the back unaided, she rang the bell.

  While she waited fo
r her maid, she sat down at the bureau and took out some writing paper.

  ‘Dear Bay’, she wrote, and then, deciding that was too intimate, she took a fresh piece and wrote, ‘Dear Captain Middleton’. She would have liked very much to start with ‘My dearest’, but she thought of the print that Caspar had been so reluctant to show her, and she knew that this letter must be carefully phrased.

  My aunt writes to tell me that you have had an accident. She did not vouchsafe the extent of your injuries, simply that it was serious enough to warrant you staying at Easton Neston. So I am writing to you there to wish you a speedy recovery. I was so sorry not to see you before I left Melton. It was rather a sudden departure; my godmother Lady Dunwoody is organising an exhibition of photographs to be presented to the Queen and she needed my help. I thought I would be perhaps more useful to her than to Augusta and her trousseau preparations. Once I had announced my decision I decided to go to London at once – Augusta’s reaction made it uncomfortable for me to prolong my stay. I left you a note but I believe that it may have been given to Captain Hartopp by mistake. I hope that he passed it on.

  The maid came in without knocking and Charlotte quickly covered the letter with her blotter. She didn’t know if the maid could even read, but she had spent enough time listening to servants’ gossip to know that if she could, everything about her letter would be public knowledge below stairs. As the maid did up her bodice with impatient fingers, sighing because she had been called away from her breakfast, Charlotte looked at her reflection with distaste. Her hair looked dingy and her complexion sallow. It was all very well for Lady Dunwoody to talk about achievements, but what use was public approval when what she wanted was Bay’s admiration? She thought of Grace, the maid who had arranged her hair so prettily at Melton. She had always resisted having her own maid – it was one of the trappings of heiressdom that she despised – but now Charlotte thought she would like to have someone who could make her look charming. When she had finished her letter to Bay, she would write to Lady Crewe.