‘Captain Middleton, I hope you can enlighten us about this photograph.’ The Queen’s voice was not unfriendly. She had been shocked by Rudolph’s outburst. A young prince in a foreign country should know better than to make a scene, and certainly should know better than to contradict that country’s sovereign.
‘If I might look at it, Ma’am?’ said Bay. Victoria moved aside so that he could see the picture. Rudolph turned away so that he would not even have to look at Bay.
Bay saw the elegant curve of the Empress’s silhouette, the narrow waist, the coronet of hair, the leather fan she was bringing up to conceal her face. He saw the bulky figure of Earl Spencer leaning down towards her, the Roman nose, the thick neck, the massive thigh. But most of all Bay saw his own face – his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, staring at Sisi. He saw himself as he must look to others and he felt a chill of shame sweeping through him.
The Queen said, ‘I am sure you can explain to the Crown Prince how this photograph came to be taken when the Empress is so very set against it.’
Bay took a deep breath and bowed to Rudolph. ‘Your Highness, I believe there has been an unfortunate—’
But before he could finish his sentence, the Crown Prince put up his hand and without even looking at Bay, said to the Queen, ‘I have no interest in “explanations”. I do not talk to grooms.’
The room went quiet. The Ambassador laid a hand on the Prince’s arm as if to check him but Rudolph shook it away.
‘In that case,’ said Bay, ‘I will not trouble you with my presence any longer.’ He bowed to the Queen and backed out of the room.
Queen Victoria looked at Rudolph with distaste. ‘This time it is you who are mistaken, Prince Rudolph. Captain Middleton is not a groom. How could he be? He is an officer in our Army.’
The contrast between Rudolph’s scarlet cheeks and his ashen complexion heightened.
‘Please forgive me for casting a slur on the British Army, your Majesty. That was not my intention.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Queen, her pale blue eyes as glassy as marbles.
Count Karolyi murmured, ‘Your Majesty must excuse the Crown Prince for any infelicity of expression. He is, of course, a most devoted son, and like any son is anxious above all to protect the dignity and honour of his mother.’
Rudolph said, ‘On my mother’s behalf, I demand to know who took the picture and how it came to be exhibited in public.’
Queen Victoria turned to Sir Peter. ‘Who did take the picture, Sir Peter?’
Sir Peter, his face slack with horror at this unforeseen contretemps, made a show of consulting his catalogue.
‘This wall was rehung late last night. I wasn’t aware that this picture had been selected, there must have been a mistake. What’s the number…’ He fumbled with the card, inserting his monocle so that he could read the label.
‘I took the picture, Ma’am,’ said Charlotte from the other side of the room. The crowd shrank away from her as she approached the royal party.
‘Miss Baird.’ The Queen looked at her and smiled. ‘You could not resist taking another picture of Captain Middleton, perhaps?’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘I wanted to take a picture of the Empress. She is a magnificent subject. I didn’t know at the time of her objection to photography. I can only apologise for the intrusion. I never meant for this picture to be displayed; it must have been included in my portfolio by mistake. Let me take it away.’ She walked towards the photograph and took it down from the wall.
Queen Victoria gestured towards the Prince. ‘Well, there is your explanation, Prince Rudolph. I am quite sure the Empress would forgive Miss Baird for her mistake. Particularly since it is such a flattering photograph.’
Rudolph clicked his heels and bowed. ‘If you say so, Ma’am.’
‘As an empress myself, I do say so.’
Having given the final word, the Queen nodded to her entourage, allowed Sir Peter to kiss her hand, and swept towards the door, John Brown following in her wake. Count Karolyi took his charge’s arm and propelled him in the same direction.
The room was silent for a moment after the royal exit, and then, as if at a prearranged signal, the hubbub began.
Broken Glass
Charlotte held the photograph in her hands so tightly that later that day she found red weals in her hands where the frame had cut into her skin.
Lady Dunwoody put a hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear girl, what a drama! But how splendid that the Queen defended you. No one can blame you now that she has so publicly declared herself in your favour.’ Lady Dunwoody’s smile was wide but she spoke a little too loudly to be completely convincing.
Charlotte said nothing, but Lady Dunwoody did not wait for a reply.
‘And how strange that the photograph was hung without your knowledge. We put it in because it was such a striking image; those three heads made such a pleasing composition. I had no idea that it was the Empress.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Aunt Celia, I think I should like to get some air.’
‘Of course, shall I ask Caspar to accompany you?’
‘No. I would rather be alone.’
Charlotte hurried away from her godmother, keeping her eyes on the parquet floor. She had almost reached the door when she heard Augusta’s voice.
‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for asking me here today. Most entertaining. Poor Captain Middleton, though. To be snubbed like that in public.’
Charlotte kept moving, but Augusta was blocking her way.
‘Is that the famous photograph? Oh, do let me have a look.’ Augusta reached for the photograph, but Charlotte held onto it firmly. Augusta tried to pull it out of her hands but Charlotte would not let go.
‘Please show me, Charlotte. I am beside myself with curiosity.’ She turned to her fiancé, who was standing a little apart. ‘Fred, do persuade your sister to let us have a look.’
Fred shuffled his feet. ‘Actually, Augusta, I have seen the photograph and I don’t need to see it again. If my sister chooses to keep it to herself that is her decision.’
Augusta almost spat with fury. ‘Oh Fred, don’t be so tiresome. It’s not fair if I’m the only one who hasn’t seen it.’
But Fred did not waver and Charlotte walked past Augusta, through the double doors and onto the landing, the photograph still clutched to her chest.
The marble staircase with its red and gold carpet stretched in two directions: down to the street or up to the framing room, where she had arranged to meet Bay.
She hesitated for a moment. Would Bay be waiting for her? Did she want to see him?
‘Carlotta, there you are! Lady D said that you wanted to be alone, so of course I came at once. So much excitement. There has been quite a run on the sal volatile among the RPS matrons. The Bishop’s wife is having palpitations.’ Caspar came round to stand in front of Charlotte, blocking her way to the staircase.
‘I don’t understand how this,’ Charlotte held up the photograph, ‘came to be in the exhibition at all. I didn’t submit it.’
Caspar shrugged. ‘No. I did.’
‘But why? I would never have submitted it.’
‘I know. But it was too good to be left out.’
‘It would have been bearable if you had put in the picture of the Empress by herself. I think there are worse crimes than taking photographs of royalty without their knowledge. But not this one.’ She tapped on the glass cover of the plate with her nails.
‘But why not, Carlotta? It has a much better composition.’
‘Damn the composition!’ said Charlotte.
Caspar held up his hands in mock horror.
‘Why, Miss Baird, that is not an expression I expect to hear from a lady.’
‘No. But I don’t feel like a lady at this moment. Not only have I been humiliated in front of everyone I know, but Captain Middleton has as well. There would have been no reason for Prince Rudolph to snub him like that, if it hadn’t been for this!’ Charlot
te was trying to keep her voice down, but it rose at the end into something like a sob. She realised to her mortification that tears were pouring down her cheeks.
Caspar pulled out a large silk handkerchief from his pocket and deftly wiped the tears away.
‘Now, now, we can’t have tears. You don’t want that ghastly sister-in-law of yours to see you crying. After all, what have you got to cry about? It’s not your fault that Prince Rudolph is jealous of Captain Middleton.’
‘Jealous? But why would he be jealous of Bay?’
Caspar sighed. ‘For the same reason that you are clutching that photograph to your chest. Because he thinks that Captain Middleton is more than a pilot to his mother.’
‘I don’t understand you. Bay and I are going to get married. He asked me to elope with him, just now, before all this happened.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That I wanted to wait until we could get married properly.’
‘Did he know you were going to say that?’ Caspar asked.
‘Perhaps. I have told him before that I see no reason to run away. Why create a scandal when there is no need?’
‘How sensible you are, Charlotte. But I am afraid that Captain Middleton is not as prudent as you. Look at that photograph you are holding. You know what it reveals. He may well want to marry you, why wouldn’t he? You are clever, lovely and extremely rich, but you are not the only woman in his life. So I suppose the question is, do you want to marry him?
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Of course it’s my business. I think you have great talents. I don’t want you to waste all your promise and potential on a man who isn’t worthy of you. If I thought I could make you happy I would propose to you myself, but I know my limitations. However as your friend and admirer, I can’t stand by and see you throw your life away. I know he is handsome and I am sure he is charming, but he isn’t good enough for you.’
‘I suppose you think he is a fortune hunter.’
‘Perhaps. Who wouldn’t be interested in your money, dearest Charlotte? I am sure he likes you too, but he has been dazzled by that woman. The camera doesn’t lie.’
Charlotte looked at the photograph again. She remembered when she had taken it. It was the day the hunt had come to Melton. She had taken the photograph in the morning and in the afternoon Bay had proposed to her and kissed her for the second time. She felt a little pop of anger explode in her head.
Walking to the balustrade, she hurled the photograph down onto the marble floor below. The sound of the glass shattering brought the porter out of his cubbyhole. He looked at the mess of glass and wood in amazement and then looked up and saw Charlotte’s face.
‘How clumsy of me,’ she said, ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, miss, it’s only a bit of glass.’ He stooped down. ‘Here’s a lucky thing, the photograph’s undamaged.’
Charlotte began to laugh.
Caspar stepped forward. ‘I think I am going to take you home now.’
‘But he is waiting for me upstairs,’ said Charlotte breathlessly.
‘Let him wait.’
Caspar took Charlotte’s arm and marched her down the stairs. At the bottom, the porter came towards Charlotte holding the photograph.
‘Here you are, miss.’
Charlotte took the picture. ‘Do you see this man here?’ She pointed to Bay’s face in the photo. ‘His name is Captain Middleton. At some point he will come down the stairs. When he does, I would like you to give it to him with Miss Baird’s compliments.’
At Bay
The framing room smelt of varnish and ammonium salts. The windows had the blinds drawn in case the more delicate prints were damaged by the sunlight, so the room was dark, apart from a few stripes on the floor where the wintry light came in through the gaps in the blinds.
Bay pulled out his hunter from his waistcoat pocket. It was twenty-five minutes past the hour. He had been waiting now for thirty minutes. He went to the window and looked down into the street. The crowds had gone now the Queen had left. There were a few people standing on the pavement waiting for their carriages. Bay saw a clergyman hand a younger woman into a carriage and drive off. The woman had been wearing striped silk and for a moment Bay thought that it might be Charlotte, until the clergyman had put an unmistakeably uxorious hand on her waist. There were now two men and a woman standing on the pavement. From his bird’s eye view Bay could tell that the woman was not young. The hair falling out from under her hat looked grey. The woman turned her head for a moment and he could see now that it was Charlotte’s aunt, Lady Lisle.
He continued to look out of the window as Lady Lisle was handed into her carriage, wondering if at the last moment Charlotte would run down the steps to join her. When the carriage drove off, he looked at his pocket watch again. He would wait another five minutes, in case Charlotte had been waiting for her aunt to leave before coming to find him.
The hunter gave its tiny peal on the hour and Bay finally conceded that she wasn’t coming. He opened the door and walked down the stairs to the first floor. The building was silent. Bay put his head around the door of the exhibition hall; it was empty.
He wanted to have another look at the photograph of him and the Empress. It wasn’t that he had forgotten the image. It was in the hope that his recollection of the picture was somehow faulty. The glimpse he had got had been terrifying. He had barely recognised himself. The man in the picture was not someone he wanted to be: transfixed by the Empress, eyes wide with desire and – he could barely admit it – greed.
He tried to remember where the picture had hung. He wheeled around the empty salon, trying to identify the scene of his humiliation. But there were so many photographs. He found the portrait that Charlotte had taken of him and Tipsy. She had understood how much the horse meant to him.
At last, accepting that the photograph was no longer there, he realised that there was no point in staying. The hall was clearly empty; only the smell of wet wool remained of the crowd that had been there earlier.
Bay walked slowly down the stairs, towards the door, which was open. Outside, two men were rolling up the red carpet that had been laid out for the Queen’s visit.
‘Excuse me, sir, but are you Captain Middleton?’
Bay turned to see the porter.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I have something for you.’ The porter went behind his desk and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper.
‘This was left for you, sir. By Miss Baird. With her compliments. I wrapped it up, though, didn’t want the print to get dirty.’
‘Miss Baird. When did she leave?’
‘About an hour or so ago. She left with a gentleman.’
Bay undid the brown paper and string and was confronted with his own face.
‘Did she say anything else, leave any other message for me?’
‘No, sir. Just her compliments.’
Bay gave the man a half-crown.
‘Thank you, sir, thank you very much indeed. Do you want some more paper to cover up the print? Shame that the glass and the frame got smashed.’
‘Smashed?’
‘Yes, Miss Baird dropped it from the landing. It made quite a mess, but the print’s all right. That’s the main thing.’
* * *
Bay turned out of John Adam Street into the Strand. He stood there for a moment as the crowds milled around him, wondering which direction to take. He could go west to Lady Dunwoody’s house in Holland Park and try to speak to Charlotte. He could go north to Marylebone station and take the train back to Easton Neston where the Empress would be expecting him. He could go to his set in Albany but he had shut it up for the winter and had let his valet go. None of these options appealed.
He could not pursue Charlotte. She had decided not to see him and he could not blame her. The photograph had changed everything. Bay could not bear the glimpse of his soul that it had revealed, and he felt ashamed that Charlotte had seen it too.
To go there now would be to declare himself a man completely without honour, the fortune hunter everyone took him to be.
Nor could he bear to go to Easton Neston. He did not want to be the man he had seen in the photograph. Besides, the repercussions of his encounter with Rudolph would be profound. He wondered what the Empress would do when she heard about the incident.
In the end, almost without realising it, he found himself walking along Pall Mall to St James’s Street and his club. His shoulder was aching and he needed a drink. In the smoking room he ordered a brandy and, not seeing anyone he knew, he sat down and started to leaf through an old copy of Punch. But soon the heat from the generous fire and the fumes from the cigars overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep in one of the club chairs.
‘Well, if it isn’t Bay Middleton, the man of the hour.’
Bay came to with a start. Chicken Hartopp was standing over him, his face ruddy with drink.
‘Hello, Chicken.’ Bay took out his pocket watch. It was six o’clock. ‘Good heavens. I have been asleep all afternoon.’ He gestured to Chicken to sit down and called to the club servant to bring them both a drink.
‘But what are you doing in town? I thought you would be out with the Cottesmore,’ said Bay.
‘Same as you, old man – came up to see the photographic exhibition. Charlotte Baird sent me a card.’
Bay understood now why Hartopp looked so exultant.
‘So you saw my encounter with the Crown Prince?’
‘Infernal insolence. I am surprised you didn’t challenge him. I would have been happy to act as your second.’
‘In front of the Queen?’ Bay said.
‘I wouldn’t have stood for it. I would have called him out there and then.’
‘Then you are a braver man than I am,’ said Bay
Hartopp finished his drink and signalled for another. He shook his head and said, ‘Damn peculiar that the Prince should have taken against you like that.’
‘Indeed,’ said Bay.
‘Maybe he’s heard the rumours about you and the Empress,’ said Hartopp, slapping Bay on the shoulder, the bad one. Bay tried not to wince.
The Fortune Hunter Page 31
