Sir Peter jerked out of his temporary paralysis and moved to shepherd the Queen further down the line of photographers.
There was a short pause, and then Caspar said, ‘Who was the guy in the skirt?’
A Groom
The Queen had reached the end of the formal presentations and was now making her way around the gallery in the company of Sir Peter. Prince Rudolph and the Austrian ambassador were circulating around the exhibition in the opposite direction. The rest of the crowd were following the royal parties at a respectful distance.
Caspar had been led away by Lady Dunwoody for a scolding. Charlotte scanned the room – she could see Chicken Hartopp’s burly frame standing by the door, and Fred and Augusta with Lady Lisle following the Queen, but there was no sign of Bay. Her mouth was dry with impatience.
She felt a touch at her elbow, and a voice murmured in her ear, ‘Do I have the honour of addressing the celebrated Charlotte Baird, the promising photographer?’
‘Bay! I have been looking for you everywhere.’ Charlotte had to stop herself from clutching at the lapels of his coat.
‘But I have been here all the time,’ he said, smiling down at her.
‘I wasn’t sure if you would come.’
‘Didn’t you get Tipsy’s telegram?’
‘I did, but—’ Charlotte broke off. ‘Oh, but I haven’t asked you about your accident, how thoughtless of me. What happened? Do you feel better? Was it terribly painful?’
Bay held up a hand, laughing at her torrent of questions. ‘It was no more than a passing inconvenience, as you can see. My shoulder was sore for a few days and my right arm unusable, which meant that I couldn’t write to you. But now I am practically recovered and instead of an illegible letter you have my imperfect self.’
‘Oh, I am so glad to see you,’ said Charlotte, overwhelmed by how good it felt to stand next to Bay.
‘Are you? I would have come to speak to you sooner but you seemed very thick with the fellow in the splendid waistcoat. I didn’t like to interrupt.’
‘Mr Hewes is a photographer. He also has some pictures in the exhibition.’
‘A photographer. How foolish of me to think that he was an admirer.’
‘Mr Hewes is my godmother’s assistant. We have been working on the exhibition together.’
‘And naturally you have become close.’
‘We have become friendly, yes. Isn’t that often the case when you share an interest with someone? I daresay that you have made many friends on the hunting field.’
‘Not with Mr Hewes’s taste in waistcoats.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Mr Hewes is an American.’
‘That explains a great deal. Now, you must show me where I can find Tipsy’s portrait. She is so disappointed not to be here. She has always wanted to meet the Queen.’
‘Even though she is riding out every day with an empress?’
Bay looked at Charlotte. He said quickly in a low voice, ‘I didn’t know what to think when you left Melton. I thought perhaps I had offended you and that our understanding was at an end. There was nothing for me there after you left.’
Charlotte put her hand on his arm. ‘But how could you think that, Bay? Why would I change my mind?’
But before he could reply, Lady Dunwoody’s voice interrupted them. ‘There you are, Charlotte. The Queen is looking at your pictures.’ She stopped and surveyed Bay. He bowed and kissed the hand that was held out to him. ‘You must be Captain Middleton. I recognise you from Charlotte’s photographs.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry. Aunt Celia, may I present Captain Middleton. Captain Middleton, Lady Dunwoody, my godmother and mentor.’
‘I am sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête. But, Charlotte, you will want to hear the Queen’s verdict on your work.’
‘I think we would all like to hear that, Lady Dunwoody,’ Bay said.
The Queen’s party had stopped in front of a group of pictures that included Charlotte’s portrait of Bay and Tipsy. Sir Peter was pointing out compositions by the celebrated Mrs Cameron and Charles Fox Talbot, the son of the man who had invented photography. Victoria had the slightly glazed look of a woman who was being forced to listen when she much preferred being listened to. As Sir Peter talked about the rule of thirds and shutter speeds, Victoria’s head snapped forward like a tortoise and peered at a photograph in front of her.
‘I have seen this young man before.’ She turned to John Brown. ‘He was with the Empress. What was his name?’
‘Middleton, Ma’am,’ said Brown.
‘Oh yes. He had had some accident, his poor arm was in a sling.’
Sir Peter coughed. ‘This is one of Miss Baird’s photographs, Ma’am.’ He beckoned to Charlotte, who stepped forward.
‘I met the young man in the photograph with Prince Rudolph’s mother, the Empress. What a coincidence.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, ‘it is.’ Collecting herself, she continued, ‘In fact, Ma’am, Captain Middleton is here today.’ She stepped aside so that the Queen could see Bay.
The Queen looked at him with interest. Bay made his bow.
‘Captain Middleton, did you leave the Empress well?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. She is hunting with the Cottesmore today.’
‘And you have left your post?’ An eyebrow hovered over one bulging blue eye. ‘I don’t think you have ever left my side, have you, John?’
‘Nivverrr, Ma’am,’ said John Brown.
Bay said quickly, ‘If you remember, Ma’am, I had the misfortune to dislocate my shoulder when I saw you at Windsor. I came to town to consult a doctor.’
‘And to admire Miss Baird’s photograph of you,’ said the Queen, the eyebrow still hovering.
‘That too, Ma’am. Although I would say that the true subject of the photograph is my horse Tipsy.’
‘What would you say, Miss Baird?’ said the Queen, her eyes gleaming with interest. ‘You must have had something in mind when you took the photograph?’
‘I would say that a good photograph can find favour with spectators for different reasons. I was taking a picture of a man and a horse.’ Charlotte spoke as calmly as she could. She was keenly aware that this side of the room had fallen silent to hear her interrogation by the Queen.
‘Well, if young ladies are more interested in horses than they are in young men, then the world has changed a great deal since my youth,’ said the Queen, smiling at her own joke. ‘I only wish my maids of honour were as interested in four-legged animals.’
There was a general murmur of amusement from the people gathered near the Queen. Charlotte felt herself reddening. She could not see Bay, as he was standing directly behind her. She longed to turn her head, but she did not want to give the crowd any more reason to gossip. It was unbearable to be branded publicly as a lovesick girl by the one person against whom there was no defence. In her peripheral vision she could see Augusta whispering to Fred. Charlotte fixed her eyes on the parquet floor, hoping that the Queen would approve of this display of maidenly modesty and move on. But help came from another quarter.
‘Your Majesty.’ Thirty heads swivelled to see Caspar Hewes on the other side of the room. ‘May I show you one of my photographs? I have only one aim when I take a picture and that is to capture a moment.’
The faces of the crowd turned like sunflowers following the sun. Everyone, including the Queen, was now looking at the American who had dared to interrupt a royal conversation. Charlotte allowed herself to look up and caught Caspar’s eye; he was smiling broadly.
‘I thought you might like to see my picture of the Grand Canyon, Ma’am. It is one of the wonders of the West, almost three miles deep. I don’t believe there is anything like it anywhere in the world.’
The company held its breath. Sir Peter put up his hand as if to shield his monarch from the uncouth American. John Brown’s ruddy face turned a few shades more towards magenta; Lady Dunwoody wore her most fixed smile; her husband had the smugly moist expression of someone whose w
orst predictions had been fulfilled. But the Queen, with the capriciousness that can only come from a lifetime of being indulged, surveyed Caspar’s improbably lanky form, the pink waistcoat and the unabashed candour in his wide blue eyes, and decided that she liked what she saw.
‘The Grand Canyon. What picturesque names Americans give to their landmarks.’ She took five steps across the floor, followed by Brown and Princess Beatrice, to where Caspar was standing. He pointed to his photograph, which had been hung above the line, far too high for the Queen to see it.
‘John, I can’t see this gentleman’s photograph.’
‘Ma’am.’
For a moment it looked as though the kilted giant was going to pick up his mistress, as you would pick up a child, so that she could put her face quite next to the picture, but then he reached up one enormous arm, took the photograph off its hook and put it in the Queen’s hands.
The photograph was taken from a mountain top; it showed the forested slopes of the Canyon’s banks bisected by the black snake of the ravine.
The Queen peered at the print.
‘Such a wild landscape. It reminds me of the Highlands.’ She turned her head a fraction and John Brown picked up his cue.
‘Sairtainly, Ma’am, verrry like the hills beyond the Dee.’
Caspar leant forward. ‘The most extraordinary thing about the Canyon is that it can be snowing on the slopes here, while at the bottom of the gorge the rocks are so hot that you can fry an egg on them.’
‘How very convenient for picnics,’ said the Queen.
The crowd murmured in amusement and the tension slackened. The Queen demanded to see all Caspar’s pictures of America, much to the indignation of the British exhibitors, and as John Brown handed them down to her (all Caspar’s pictures had been hung high above the eyeline) she examined them minutely.
Looking at one of the studies of Abraham she said, ‘What a handsome boy. Such an exotic face. He looks very like one of my Indian subjects.’
She tilted her head and John Brown followed with, ‘He could verra’ well be a Hindoo, Ma’am.’
‘Abraham’s mother was Irish and his father was from the Hopi tribe,’ said Caspar, frowning slightly, ‘Ma’am.’
‘I wish you had brought him with you, Mr Hewes. We would be so interested to meet an American Indian.’
‘And Abraham, if he were still alive, would have been delighted to meet the Queen of England, not that he had any knowledge of queens or indeed England.’
Queen Victoria stared at the American. A world without royalty was incomprehensible to her. Rather than admit this terrifying prospect, she chose not to believe it.
‘I am sure that the American Indians have their own kings and queens. It is the natural order of things.’
‘Yes, Ma’am, it is. That is why the Founding Fathers made sure that our presidents have to be re-elected every four years so that none of them could assume the trappings of royalty.’ The Queen’s eyes protruded from her head like marbles, but Caspar carried on, ‘Because, of course, real kings and queens must be born to the purple. A grocer’s wife can become First Lady but she can never become a sovereign Queen,’ and he made another very low bow. The Queen’s eyes subsided into their sockets and she blinked, mollified. John Brown, who had begun to swell at the sound of Republican heresy, shrank back to his normal bulk.
Sir Peter, who felt that it would now be safe to intervene, came up on the Queen’s other side. ‘Perhaps you would like to see some other pictures of picturesque landscapes, Ma’am. Mr Trelawney has made a most remarkable series of photographs of the Holy Land which have been much admired.’
The Queen allowed herself to be shepherded towards a study of the Holy Sepulchre, and the crowd began to disperse a little. Trelawney’s sepia-toned photographs of the sea of Galilee were unlikely to provoke an amusing reaction.
‘Your American friend has some nerve,’ said Bay to Charlotte. ‘Sailing very close to the wind there. Thought the Widow might erupt, but he got away with it.’
‘Caspar isn’t someone you can be angry with,’ said Charlotte. ‘And I am grateful to him for taking the attention away from me.’
Bay had raised an eyebrow at her use of the American’s Christian name.
‘You seem to know him very well, for such a short acquaintance.’
‘And you are quite the favourite with the Queen. You didn’t tell me that you and she were friends already,’ Charlotte retorted. ‘I thought John Brown looked rather put out.’
Bay smiled. ‘I am so very glad to see you, Charlotte.’ He leant towards her and she felt his moustache brush her cheek as he whispered in her ear, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to elope with me? We could take a train to Scotland tonight, and be married by morning.’
‘Or we could wait a few short months and get married properly without a scandal,’ said Charlotte.
‘But how can I be sure that you won’t succumb to the transatlantic charms of Mr Hewes?’ said Bay lightly.
‘And how can I be sure that you won’t be swept away by the Empress?’ said Charlotte with equal lightness. ‘Augusta thinks that I should be jealous.’
‘Do you think that we could go somewhere to talk privately?’ Bay said. ‘I can see Chicken heading this way. And I must spend a moment with you alone.’
Charlotte considered. ‘There’s a room on the floor above where they frame the photographs. If you go up there now, I will follow as soon as I can.’
Bay started to move across the room, but his progress was impeded by the crowd which had coalesced to the left of the door. The two royal parties had both completed their separate orbits of the exhibition and were now standing together. The Queen was talking earnestly to the Crown Prince, who looked tired and kept fingering the Golden Fleece hanging from his lapel.
‘You must be sure to visit the Crystal Palace while you are here. It was my dear Albert’s great achievement. I think the opening of the Great Exhibition was one of the happiest days of my life.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rudolph without animation, ‘your late husband was an example to us all.’
‘He would have been so pleased to see you here. Albert thought it was one of the sacred duties of royalty to promote greater understanding between nations. When my first grandchild, Wilhelm, was born, Albert called me the Grandmama of Europe.’
Rudolph bowed slightly. ‘A noble title, indeed. Although it is not one that would please my mother, I think.’
‘Well, the Empress was not blessed with nine children,’ said the Queen with satisfaction. ‘Now tell me, what do you think of the exhibition?’
‘It is most impressive. I think we should institute something similar in Vienna. The Imperial Photographic Society sounds very well. I might even design a uniform.’
Victoria’s eyes began to protrude. ‘A uniform. That is an unusual idea. It might deter the lady members, don’t you think?’
Rudolph looked at her blankly.
‘Some of the most talented photographers in this country are women. Are there no lady photographers in Vienna?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Your mother is not interested in photography then? I suppose she prefers more active pursuits?’ said the Queen, looking at the photographs on the wall in front of her.
‘My mother has developed an aversion to photography. I think the last one was taken ten years ago. My father the Emperor would like very much to have our photograph taken as a family but Mama refuses.’
‘How curious. I always find it such a comfort to know that my children can always have my likeness with them.’ She made the little jerk of the head that was John Brown’s cue.
‘A verra great comfort, Ma’am.’
Rudolph could make no answer to this. He knew that his mother’s dislike of photography was because she did not want to be reminded that she was getting older and that her beauty was fading. This was not, clearly, a matter of concern to Queen Victoria.
The Queen was staring closely at a photog
raph directly in front of her.
‘Now this is a curious thing,’ she said. ‘You say the Empress refuses to be photographed, and yet here is a picture of her and Captain Middleton.’
Rudolph, who had been admiring the ladies in the crowd, turned around sharply.
‘A picture of my mother, but that’s impossible. You must be mistaken, Ma’am.’
Queen Victoria looked up at him, the jowls on either side of her mouth pendulous, her mouth pursed.
‘We are not in the habit of making mistakes.’ She pointed one diamond be-ringed finger at the photograph.
‘That is most definitely the Empress.’
She tilted her head slightly and John Brown echoed her, ‘Most definitely.’
Rudolph’s pallor was interrupted by two red patches on his cheekbones. He stood quite still as the Queen pointed at the portrait. When, at last, he moved, it looked at first as if he was going to turn away and walk out of the room. But the Ambassador, who was standing next to him, angled his body so that it would be impossible for the Crown Prince to move in that direction without pushing him aside. Checked, the Prince sighed and walked slowly towards the photograph at which the Queen was still pointing.
‘Here is your mother. She is bringing a fan up to her face, but with all that hair, she is quite unmistakeable.’
Rudolph bent down to look at the photograph.
‘My apologies, Ma’am. This is a picture of the Empress. But it can only have been taken without her knowledge or consent.’
‘How unfortunate.’ The Queen looked at the picture again. ‘Of course, Captain Middleton, the gentleman behind the Empress in the photograph, is here. He will know what happened.’ She turned from the photograph to the crowd, looking for Bay.
Bay was at the door on his way to the rendezvous with Charlotte, but stopped when he heard his name spoken by the Queen in that high, clear voice. Stepping forward into the room, he saw that the royal party were clustered around a photograph. As he approached them, he saw Rudolph turn to look at him. It was only a brief glance, but Bay felt the Prince’s scorn like a slap. He stopped, wondering if he should go any further, but the Queen had seen him now and was looking at him expectantly.
The Fortune Hunter Page 30
