A Flaw in the Blood

by Стефани Баррон

  It was a hunch that drove him toward Coburg: a seed in the gut that Gibbon planted unwittingly in the courtyard of a French gendarmerie. It grew during an interlude at the Château Leader in Cannes and would flower, von Stühlen felt certain, in a day or two at most.

  He had not tried to wring information from young Leopold—who clearly had helped Fitzgerald escape; the loss of the donkeys was common knowledge in the Bowater ménage. Nor had he approached the girl Louisa, who seemed frightened of him. He assumed he had his eye patch to thank for this—and Lady Bowater, who clearly knew his reputation and treated him with chill civility. Gunther, however, was different. Gunther was German.

  Von Stühlen talked to the young medical man of his training in Bonn—recounting his own student days with Prince Albert—and then of the boy in Gunther's charge. He had never really paid attention to Leopold before; Windsor's nursery set held little interest for him.

  “This woman doctor,” he mused, as though he knew nothing of Georgiana Armistead. “She was acquainted with Prince Leopold?”

  “She had examined him—at the Consort's request.”

  “So she claims.”

  “Leopold volunteered the fact. I find nothing singular in Prince Albert's confidence; despite her sex, Dr. Armistead is highly regarded in British scientific circles.”

  “A pity, then, that she should throw herself away on such a disreputable fellow as Fitzgerald.”

  “Ye-es,” Gunther agreed doubtfully. “I must assume we have an imperfect understanding of the facts. I cannot believe a lady of Miss Armistead's—I should say Dr. Armistead's—intelligence and character should be capable of duplicity.”

  They spoke in German, of course, as they walked against the force of the mistral, on the château's terrace: two men shoulder to shoulder, von Stühlen nursing a cigar.

  “I see you were susceptible to her charms, my unfortunate Theodore,” he said with amusement. He had decided to treat Gunther like a younger brother. “My condolences. But you are not the first to be flummoxed by a pretty face.”

  “It wasn't like that,” the doctor protested. “We talked of theory, always. The heritability of disease.”

  And as they walked in the weak December sun, waves booming off the Esterelles, Gunther told von Stühlen exactly why Georgie's mind was so stimulating.

  By the time von Stühlen made his farewells, the name Stockmar had reached Gunther's lips. The Count was intimately acquainted with Albert's old friend.

  Three hours later, he was on the road to Coburg.

  * * *

  Christian, Baron Stockmar lived with his wife in the Weber-Gasse, not far from Fitzgerald's hotel.

  It was the baroness who led them to her husband's study. In all the years he had spent in England, he had always traveled without her; and she seemed resigned to this secondary role of messenger, of a life spent in subordination to the demands of the Saxe-Coburgs, barely meeting the baron's eye as she opened the double mahogany doors. She left them to face the dragon: an elderly man with sparse white hair, his neat clothes entirely black.

  His hands shook as he took off his spectacles, and he braced them against his knees when he bowed to Georgiana. For this one important call she had abandoned her servant's clothes and donned a bombazine dress and sober bonnet Fitzgerald had purchased for her, second-hand, from a Coburg mourning warehouse.

  “I had formed no intention of receiving visitors, and had you been anyone else, I should not have been at home.”

  “You have our gratitude, sir,” Georgie said.

  “You may thank your late guardian, Dr. Armistead. Oh, yes—I was acquainted with John Snow. We met in London, during the summer of the Great Exhibition. He was a rising man, then—but already marked by genius. A tragedy, to die as he did!”

  Georgiana's lips parted; for an instant, she seemed at a loss for words. “We might say the same of the Consort.”

  Stockmar smiled thinly. “I have lived too long, when I must bury a man who might have been my son. There are those in Coburg who feel compelled to offer condolences to me—to Stockmar!—who is nothing but an old man with one foot in his own grave. But you will hardly be so stupid. Albert spoke of you, some once or twice; and as he rarely spoke of anyone other than himself, in his letters to me, I comprehend what an impression you must have made. Your intelligence.” He cocked his head and studied her keenly. “Yes—your intelligence. It is a supreme mark of respect, that he should have admired it.”

  “I knew how to value his good opinion, sir.”

  “Of course you did. You are not a fool, like most women. And this gentleman with you—he is your guardian also?”

  “At Dr. Snow's request.”

  “At your age, Dr. Armistead, I should not think you required any. Fitzgerald.” Stockmar wrapped his spectacles over his ears—which protruded rather like a monkey's from his bony skull—and consulted a folded bit of notepaper. “You sent me this note from the hotel. Fitzgerald. As I recall, it was a barrister of that name who defended the Queen's would-be assassin, some twenty years ago. Are you the same?”

  “I am, sir,” Fitzgerald said, astonished.

  Stockmar frowned at him. “In Coburg, you should never have been allowed to present your case. But that is by the by. Why have you come all this way to talk to me?”

  “Because the Prince Consort is dead,” Georgiana said. “And because we cannot believe it was typhoid that killed him.”

  They had agreed, that morning at the hotel, that no word of the Queen's pursuit would pass their lips. It was essential that Stockmar know nothing of their true position; his being Albert's confidant did not necessarily make him theirs.

  “Typhoid.” The baron began to hunt among the papers on his desk, his palsied hands touching and discarding things with the frustration of age. “I disregarded the bulletins from Windsor—they were pure nonsense—and telegraphed directly to Squires, the Royal apothecary. They told me which medicines the Consort's doctors prescribed. I, too, am a doctor, you realise.”

  “You diagnosed his illness from their prescriptions,” Georgie concluded. “And what was Prince Albert given?”

  “Almost nothing but tea and brandy, at the end,” Stockmar returned sardonically. “Old women, all of them—Holland. Watson. Sir James Clark. They got him drunk in his final hours, so he wouldn't feel the pain. For years Albert complained of gastric disorders, Dr. Armistead—a perpetual weakness brought on by the cares of his station—but the inclination took a morbid turn as lately as November. The Prince lost the will to fight. Let me read you something.”

  He settled his spectacles once more, and licked his forefinger to aid in thumbing the pages. “This is from Albert—the very last letter I received of him, dated the fourteenth of November last. I am fearfully in want of a true friend and counsellor, and that you are the friend and counsellor I want, you will readily understand. You see in what despair he was.”

  Georgiana glanced at Fitzgerald. “Are you suggesting, sir, that he died of unhappiness?”

  “Unhappiness—overwork—disappointment—doubt. A year ago I told his brother, Duke Ernest, that if anything happened to Albert—he would die. His mind was so given over to melancholy, he had not the resources to survive. But surely you cannot have come so far to learn what you already know? Having been acquainted with the Consort, Dr. Armistead, surely you observed his decline over the past twelvemonth?”

  “To a degree,” she replied guardedly. “But what can have occurred in November to make him lose all hope?”

  Stockmar shrugged. “I have had a letter from his wife, the Queen. She blames some trifling indiscretion of the Prince of Wales's. As though Albert had not grown up in the Rosenau! Where every kind of vice was encouraged and displayed— Bah! It is nonsense, again.”

  “You knew him better than anyone alive, I think,” Georgiana said gently. “Surely you must have an idea.”

  “Love is no protection against death, my dear.” Stockmar rubbed at his eyes fretfully. “One can see
what is best for another soul—one can fear for him—offer counsel . . . and in the end: One is powerless to save him. That is the agony of being human.”

  Theo, Fitzgerald thought. He rose from his chair and turned restlessly about the room, his agony so physical he could not contain himself. Had he even tried to save his son? Or had he thrown him to the dogs without a second thought? He deserved this Divine retribution. This ripping of his soul in half. He wanted to drown his pain in drink so stupefying he would feel nothing of love or sorrow until he died; but he would not do it with Georgie watching.

  She had fallen silent. Stockmar waited without a word, his eyes following Fitzgerald's jerky course about the room. Fitzgerald stuttered, “Sure and I beg your pardon—a brief indisposition only. Pray continue.”

  Stockmar inclined his head austerely.

  “Might the Prince have been anxious about his youngest son, rather than the eldest?” Georgiana suggested. “We understood he sought your opinion regarding Prince Leopold. That you recommended a man of your acquaintance—one Dr. Gunther—to care for the boy in Cannes.”

  “I did,” the baron answered impatiently. “But what of Leopold? He was absent for the whole of his father's final illness. He can have had no effect on Albert whatsoever.”

  Fitzgerald had the strong impression that the baron was surprised—that the conversation had taken an unexpected turn. Stockmar was unsure how to meet their questions. He stared at them frowningly.

  “Leopold's disorder is generally regarded as a family one,” Georgiana observed. “The Prince asked me, more than a year ago, whether any cure was possible—and required me to examine the child. In some wise, I feel responsible for him—my inability to reassure the Consort . . .”

  She smiled at Stockmar faintly. “As a medical man, you will no doubt understand. Leopold's condition demonstrated the limits of my science; his fate has haunted me. I suggested that the Consort search for the illness among ancestors of his own line, or the Queen's, to understand the progression of his son's disorder. It appears to be a disease manifested only in males, but passed most often through females.”

  “Victoria,” Stockmar said.

  “Yes. Her mother being a Coburg—can you tell us anything at all about the family, sir? Whether Leopold's illness, or something like it, is known among its various branches? Is it possible that the Duchess of Kent, Victoire—”

  Stockmar rose. He took off his glasses. His mouth had set in a forbidding line. “There is nothing I can tell you, Dr. Armistead. My service to the august family of Saxe-Coburg was limited to two men—Leopold, King of Belgium, and his nephew Albert. The women interest me not at all. And now I believe I must bid you both good day—I am an old man, worn down by grief, and I guard my privacy closely.”

  “We understand, of course,” Georgiana murmured, “and are grateful for your time. Perhaps tomorrow—”

  “I travel to Erfurt tomorrow, on a matter of business,” he said with finality. “It has been the greatest pleasure. Mr. Fitzgerald—”

  The baron clicked his heels together, bowed, and reached for the bellpull beside his desk.

  The mahogany doors opened so swiftly, Fitzgerald was certain the baroness had been waiting just outside, in readiness for this summons. She stood as still as a statue on the threshold, her aged hands folded over her skirts. Had she listened to their conversation? Did she understand English? She watched impassively as Georgiana curtseyed to Stockmar. Then she turned and swept to the front door.

  It was only as they said goodbye that the baroness spoke at last.

  “He thinks I see nothing, understand nothing. He thinks I am only a woman. Pah!” She spat venomously at their feet. “It is to Amorbach you must go, natürlich. Inquire of the equerry's frau.”

  And the heavy door shut with the softest of thuds behind them.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Later, Fitzgerald would realise that their decision to push on to Amorbach that same afternoon—it was New Year's Day, 1862—was one of the odd turns of Fate that kept them from encountering von Stühlen. And blind to the fact that he was on their trail.

  “Amorbach,” Georgie muttered. “Where in heaven is that?”

  “And why should we care?” Fitzgerald added bitterly. He was weary and dispirited; their days of hard travel had ended in a closed door. If either of them was ever to return to England, they needed the truth in their pockets. Nothing else would help them survive.

  “Let's find out,” Georgiana suggested. “May I buy you a tankard of ale?”

  “If you change your dress for trousers, first. Ladies never drink in public taverns.”

  It was the innkeeper who told them, in broken French, that Amorbach was the seat of the Princes of Leiningen. The town sat in the northwest corner of Bavaria—an appendage once belonging to Hesse, and tacked on to the region by happenstance. Leiningen's ancient princedom had lain west of the Rhine, where Napoleon seized it for his Empire; after his fall, it had been “mediatized”—absorbed into the Rhineland—though the Prince was allowed to keep his hereditary title. His new home was in the Miltenberg district of Bavaria, southwest of Coburg, not far at all as the crow flew.

  “Trains?” Fitzgerald asked.

  A local one existed, to be sure. They could change at Würzburg.

  They thanked him, paid their bill, and put Coburg to their backs an hour and a half later.

  “The present Prince of Leiningen, Charles, is Queen Victoria's half brother,” Georgie said as the train chugged slowly south. “Their mother—the Duchess of Kent to us—was married to the old Prince when she was just seventeen. Two children and a decade or so later, he died—and the widow married Edward, Duke of Kent. Poor Kent survived only a year after the wedding. He left his duchess to raise their girl to be queen. But what has all that to do with an equerry's wife?”

  Fitzgerald frowned. “There were always rumours, I believe, about the Duchess of Kent and her man-of-all-work, Sir John Conroy. He was the Duke's equerry before he became the Duchess's man, after Kent's death. But he was Irish—and had no ties to Amorbach I ever knew.”

  “The person the Baroness spoke of must be a link to Victoire,” Georgie mused. “It is her past—or perhaps I should say the Princess of Leiningen's, as she then was—we're seeking in Amorbach. Victoria—or Albert, for that matter—never had anything to do with the place.”

  “Then we must find out who served as the Prince of Leiningen's equerry in Victoire's time.”

  “Is anyone likely to remember?” Georgiana threw up her hands in frustration. “She married Kent and left Amorbach in 1818. We're asking the local people to think back more than forty years. Patrick, it's impossible!”

  “I know.” He ran his fingers through his tangle of hair. “This whole trip has been a fool's errand, hasn't it? We can't exactly drive up to the palace and ask Victoire's son for the name of his mother's lover. He'd be unlikely to know much at all. He must have been a child when she married Kent.”

  “A servant could tell us something. One of your old retainers, long tied to the Leiningen family.”

  “Let's hope, then, that they feel no loyalty to Victoire's memory.”

  They had been expecting something like Coburg: a thriving city, fit for a prince. But Amorbach was a small town lost in the hills and the dense growth of the Odenwald Forest. It was known for its Benedictine abbey, which had been founded in the thirteenth century and converted to a country manor in the last one; for the cathedral that graced its northern heights; and for the schloss that dominated the western edge of town. In between, there wasn't much: pretty half-timbered cottages, a tavern or two, and the railway station where the trains from Würzburg and Mainz arrived each hour.

  They were the only passengers getting off. Georgiana glanced about her as they descended to the platform.

  “There can't be more than a thousand people in this place,” she said to Fitzgerald. “It might be Windsor, but for the trees.”

  “Let's try a tavern, first.”
>
  They chose what seemed to be the principal inn, on a side street not far from the cathedral, with the arms of Leiningen swinging over the door.

  Fitzgerald presented himself as an English writer, commissioned to research the life of the late Duchess of Kent—almost a year after her death, he told the credulous, he was preparing a distinguished biography at the direction of the Queen. The work would be serialised in the London papers and published later, in three quarto volumes, by a prestigious British press.

  His manservant, George, translated this deferentially into French, which the innkeeper's wife at least understood. She had been educated at the convent school in Mainz. When they had done with the explanations, she conferred in German with her husband, and then called out into the taproom. A hurried confabulation with two men ensued, after which she turned once more to Fitzgerald.

  “She says that most of Victoire's household have died, but we must of a certainty talk to the Prince of Leiningen's nursemaid, who is nearly eighty, and pensioned off,” Georgiana murmured. “The nurse came from Coburg to Amorbach with Victoire, at her marriage to old Prince Emich, God rest his soul; and now lives with her son, a tenant farmer, near the Schloss Leiningen.”

  “Eh, that's grand.”

  “There is also the late prince's old steward, who lodges here in town.”

  “Ask if the equerry is anywhere to be found.”

  Georgiana put the question; Fitzgerald saw the woman hesitate, shake her head, and then add a few words.

  “Dead years and years ago, she says. And, of course, Captain Schindler—that was the equerry's name—was a military officer, far above the serving class, so she did not even consider of him. But his widow”—Georgiana's voice trembled slightly with excitement—“his widow lives with her married daughter, in the Otterbachtal. The innkeeper will draw us a map.”