The Queen at War

by K. A. S. Quinn

  For a moment James looked like he might push Katie right out of the door and back into her own time, but Alice stepped in.

  ‘Jamie, you wanted Katie here as much as I. And now you must listen to her. And, Katie dear, James and I know how serious this illness is. Do you believe we would have disrupted your life for something trifling? You understand James’s character, so you will appreciate how hard he is trying. He has been reading, researching – suggesting every known method possible to treat Grace.’

  Alice could always put them both in their place, gently but firmly. Katie spoke quietly to James. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It was rude of me to butt in like that. I guess I just wanted to start helping as soon as I could.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ James said stiffly. ‘And since we have summoned you here, we might as well make use of you.’

  Katie knew from past experience that this was as close to reconciliation as she would get from James. ‘I think – though I’m not sure – that Grace needs a good nutritious diet. We need to take her off all these drugs. Keep her off anything like that. Please tell me your father isn’t bleeding her?’

  ‘Father has been discussing the idea with his colleagues. Also cupping.’

  ‘Well, you have to stop him. James, I know your father has the most gorgeous side-whiskers, and says wildly flattering things to the Queen, but really, his medicine! He’s not exactly the world’s greatest doctor.’

  ‘Now, Katie,’ Alice reproached her. ‘You should show more respect for the senior medical adviser to the Queen.’ But they all knew Dr O’Reilly had obtained his position through social, rather than medical, skill.

  ‘I think your advice is good, Katie,’ James said, ‘not exactly ground-breaking medicine, but sound and practical.’ Katie felt a rush of warmth, as praise from James was high praise indeed. ‘Bringing my father to your point of view is quite impossible, though,’ James added. ‘He is stubborn, and will continue to keep Grace in bed, starve her, and dose her with laudanum and alcohol.’

  All three were silent. Overruling the Queen’s own doctor was a daunting task. ‘If I could somehow be near Grace a lot, then I could make sure she gets the things she needs,’ Katie suggested. ‘I’d open the windows, get her the right food, take her for walks . . .’

  James scowled. ‘We’ve made such a stupid mistake,’ he said. ‘We called you here, but we forgot something. You don’t even exist in this time. You have no family here, no background, no position. What would people think of a strange American girl who simply appears from nowhere – it’s not as if you could roam around the Palace giving medical advice.’

  ‘It is a problem,’ Alice nodded. ‘Entrance into the Palace circle comes either through service or social pedigree. I don’t mean to sound snobbish, but you have neither, Katie. Where would you fit in?’

  They looked Katie up and down, her tall lanky frame, currently clad in yellow flannel pyjamas, her bushy black hair, her funny foreign accent. Everything about her shouted out ‘not one of us’. How could they possibly make her belong? Alice’s face was full of concern ‘Don’t look so crestfallen, Katie. To us you are as family . . . it’s just my family is quite particular . . . and . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, Alice,’ Katie cut in. ‘This isn’t anything new. I’m kind of a freak in my own time too.’

  James snorted, and they lapsed into silence.

  With a brisk knock on the outer door, Bernardo DuQuelle entered. ‘Princess Alice was lucky to escape the party,’ he said. ‘Really, what I have to endure in the name of diplomacy. The music! I loathe Liszt! Still ringing in my ears. But Napoleon III says the Empress is entranced by his work, and of course, the Queen adores anything Germanic. And then there’s the endless debate on Russia, despite the late hour. All they can talk of is “teaching Russia a lesson, and protecting the Ottoman Empire.” Do you truly think the English care a fig for the Turks? It is almost a relief to return to the problem of Katie. How shall she be enabled to help Grace – an exciting challenge I’d say.’

  Katie had a sinking feeling he’d been outside the door listening all the time.

  ‘We cannot have her lurking behind screens or doubled over in Chinese chests this time.’ DuQuelle tapped the knob of his walking stick against his chin. ‘We’ll have to make her into someone. Someone important enough to have free reign of the Palace – though looking at her just now, I don’t think that importance will stem from the worlds of fashion or beauty.’

  Alice pursed her lips slightly. DuQuelle’s banter was easy, but always left her with an uneasy feeling. Still, she spoke to him with great courtesy. ‘Do you have any ideas, M. DuQuelle?’

  ‘Ah, Princess, I do indeed. Have any of you ever heard of Lewis Tappan Esq.?’ They all shook their heads. ‘That’s a good thing,’ DuQuelle continued jauntily. ‘Few people will have heard of him, and even fewer met him; but Lewis Tappan is a power to be reckoned with. He is a prominent American, in the fields of commercial trade, finance and credit. An important figure in Boston and New York.’

  ‘How can this Lewis Tappan help me?’ Katie asked. Bernardo DuQuelle waved his walking stick in the air, as if painting an imaginary picture.

  ‘Let us pretend that Lewis Tappan is on the Grand Tour, with his family. He has a wife, rather prim and sickly, two strapping sons, and an equally strapping daughter. Ah, the New World, it does raise them big and strong.’

  ‘But what does this family have to do with me?’ Katie asked again.

  ‘Imagine the Tappan family, visiting Florence, the cradle of the Italian Renaissance. No American on the Grand Tour of Italy would miss Florence.’

  Katie sighed. DuQuelle would answer her questions only when he was ready.

  ‘There the illustrious Tappans meet the beautiful Grace O’Reilly,’ he continued, smiling at his own narrative. ‘They are taken with Miss O’Reilly. Who wouldn’t be? Particularly Miss Tappan, the strapping daughter. They become inseparable, the best of friends in that charming way of young girls. So it only seems natural that when Miss Tappan visits England, she would want to be with her dear friend Grace.’

  ‘But I haven’t seen this girl in the Palace,’ James said. ‘And Grace has never mentioned her.’

  ‘She is standing before you,’ DuQuelle replied.

  ‘Me?’ Katie cried.

  ‘I understand,’ Alice exclaimed. ‘Katie will pretend to be Miss Tappan, Grace’s dear friend, come to England to visit.’

  James spoke up. ‘I’m not certain I approve of this plan,’ he said. ‘We all know Katie is courageous, but she can be foolish and she takes risks. To have her so exposed at the absolute centre of English life could put her in danger.’

  ‘But Grace is at the centre of English life,’ Katie protested. ‘She’s tucked up in bed in Buckingham Palace. If I’m to help, I have to be here too.’

  ‘Katie is right,’ Alice chimed in. ‘I don’t wish to see her in any danger, but she will need to stay close to Grace. And she isn’t foolish, James – she’s just a bit impetuous.’ Alice smiled at her friend. ‘James and I will be near, ready to help at a moment’s notice; and of course Bernardo DuQuelle has abilities far beyond anything . . .’ Alice trailed off, slightly embarrassed, while James glared at the floor.

  Katie looked up at Bernardo DuQuelle. Could they trust him enough to adopt his plan? The lids drooped over his eyes as he examined the head of his walking stick, humming a tune from La Traviata. She noticed that his dark curls were carefully arranged across his creased, white forehead. Did he dye his hair? Did his sort even get grey hair? What was his age? Fifty? One hundred? One thousand? He looked old, but did he even age? Everything about him provoked unanswered questions. They were indebted to DuQuelle. He had once even saved Katie’s life. But they knew he was dangerous. They didn’t understand him and his motives were questionable. Was it really a good thing to have him nearby? The silence became strained.

  DuQuelle sensed what they were thinking, and seemed to revel in the uncertainty he created. �
�Then we are agreed: Katie will take the role of Miss Katherine Tappan,’ he said crisply. ‘Now I will use some of those abilities referenced by Princess Alice. We need letters of introduction to the Palace – the Tappan family might be obsolete here, but they have powerful connections in the United States of America.’ DuQuelle smiled to himself. ‘I think I will write one from John Quincy Adams II – a man with a fine future, though not quite of the grandfather’s stature.’

  Alice’s eyes widened. ‘But wouldn’t that be forgery?’

  DuQuelle’s smile broadened, deepening the creases around his eyes. ‘Please do excuse me, Princess, but bringing Katie here was a violation of the laws of nature and of time – bending the laws of man is child’s play in comparison.’ He looked at James. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll cover my tracks and intercept any correspondence that might emanate from the Foreign Office or the Prime Minister. The Palace will be easier to handle. I don’t believe the Queen is in communication with many Americans – not with Mr Adams, and certainly not with Mr Tappan. She tends to stay within her area of comfort – princely cousins, uncle kings, the occasional grand duchess . . .’

  DuQuelle looked down at Katie, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘So much to do and so little time. There’s the letter to the Lord Chamberlain, the sponsor to be found, the dress, the train, the headdress, the curtsy – though I don’t believe Katie will ever handle the curtsy . . .’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Katie asked.

  ‘The presentation,’ he replied briskly. ‘We need to prepare you for the presentation to the Queen. If you are to be staying in the Palace, you must be presented to the Queen.’

  For the first time Katie could remember, James O’Reilly was laughing at DuQuelle. ‘This must be a tease,’ he said. ‘The idea of Katie being presented at court!’

  ‘You may laugh,’ ‘DuQuelle replied, ‘but there is no other way. The Queen is holding a presentation, a Court Drawing Room, in ten days; and Katie, I mean Miss Katherine Tappan, will be presented at that drawing room.’

  Katie did not like the sound of this, and James continued to bark with laughter. Only Princess Alice seemed to take DuQuelle seriously. ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘This will liberate Katie, give her stature in the household, making it possible for her to go anywhere with Grace.’

  ‘Do you mean to place her on the marriage market?’ James joked. ‘Then Katie could find a suitable country gentleman and settle down.’ Katie kicked him with her fluffy bedroom slipper, but Alice simply ignored him.

  ‘In truth, she’s much too young to be presented,’ Alice mused. ‘But Katie’s so well grown, she can pass for seventeen, or even eighteen.’

  ‘Overgrown,’ James commented, looking in amazement at Katie’s large foot in the fluffy slipper.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ Katie replied. ‘I want to do this like I want a hole in my head, but the plan does make sense. Now what do I need to do?’

  ‘I’ll tutor you,’ Princess Alice suggested. ‘Though with only ten days – the curtsy in itself can take months to master. We have to acquire the proper court dress. As M. DuQuelle said, there are the plumes, the headdress, the embroidered train – it takes much practice, to learn to handle the train – and if Katie’s coming out, she’ll need an entire wardrobe.’

  ‘And a trousseau,’ James added. ‘Within months she’ll need a wedding trousseau.’

  DuQuelle’s mouth turned up at the corners. ‘It would indeed be a problem, if some young nobleman were transfixed by Katie.’

  He was looking quite merry – for DuQuelle – but suddenly he stopped mid-stream. He sniffed the air in that odd way of his, and his face became still and very pale. Katie started to ask him a question, but he put his hand up, listening to the silence. He sniffed again. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked. ‘Can you hear that?’ They all shook their heads. ‘How very strange,’ he murmured. ‘What a dank and foul smell; the stench of polluted water. And the sound; it is something falling into that water, from quite a height. Something heavy and lifeless, making a great splash.’

  ‘There is no water here,’ James protested. DuQuelle continued to listen and sniff.

  ‘The River Thames,’ he said. ‘London. Something is afoot in London. Something that bodes ill.’ Bernardo DuQuelle looked at Katie. ‘Lord Belzen, could he possibly know, already, that you are here?’

  Tower Bridge

  DuQuelle was right. Something was afoot in London. Not that one could see much. The inky blackness of night had been overlaid by a particular mix of soot and fog, known by the locals as a London particular. And this February night the cocktail of wet coal dust and icy droplets was foul in every way. It caught in the lungs and left traces of grime running down cheek and cloak. It was weather that invited one to stay indoors, bolt the shutters and draw close to the fire. Yet here was Lord Twisted, exposing both his health and a fine new Chesterfield coat to the harshest of elements.

  Lord Twisted was not adverse to midnight revels – nor had he spared himself the baser aspects of the city. Indeed, he had often been spotted in St. Giles in search of the night’s pleasures. Yet standing on Tower Bridge, at midnight, with a nincompoop like Sir Lindsey Dimblock, was far from fun.

  As if trying to add to his irritation, Sir Lindsey asked for the twentieth time, ‘Are you certain he said Tower Bridge? And at this time of night?’

  Lord Twisted turned his velvet collar up against the cold and nodded curtly.

  ‘As I said . . .’ was his only response.

  Sir Lindsey was not used to cold or discomfort, and his pride was wounded. ‘But really, dash it, such a demand is impertinent,’ he complained. ‘And to come from him, a nobody, no footing at court, no position in the country – a man of no standing. Lord Belzen, I swear, is no lord, no lord at all. To have him call the tunes, and for us to dance to them! Tower Bridge – at midnight! If I wasn’t so hard up, Twisted, I’d be home, safe in my own bed, and not catching my death of cold on a London bridge at midnight.’

  Lord Twisted resisted the urge to throttle his companion. ‘But you are that hard up,’ he reminded Sir Lindsey. ‘Your debts at gaming are the talk of society. You have no knack for cards, and yet you play.’ Lord Twisted omitted the fact that most of Sir Lindsey’s losses at cards had been to Lord Twisted, and most of the money Sir Lindsey so missed had been rehoused in Lord Twisted’s pockets. Not that much of that money remained. Lord Twisted lived a life of luxury – in keeping with his title, but far beyond his means. Jewels, horses, fine wines and women – nothing was too good for him. But it was for him alone: his only daughter, the Honourable Emma, was forced to make her own way as a nursemaid in Buckingham Palace.

  Lord Twisted looked at Sir Lindsey Dimblock. ‘He truly is an idiot,’ he thought, trying to mask his dislike. Sir Lindsey had sold his military commission, his family estates, his forestry, his mining rights, even the Dimblock silver. About the only thing left was the illustrious Dimblock pedigree. If ever an aristocrat needed money, it was Sir Lindsey. Belzen would lend this money to him. Lord Belzen, with his fake title and unknown history, was always generous. For him, the association with the gentry was worth the financial layout.

  And yet Lord Twisted feared Belzen. There was something about the man. On first meeting, he seemed handsome, almost a gentleman. But the more one looked at Belzen, the more uncomfortable one became, until it was necessary to look away. What was it? Twisted wondered. Was it the dart of Belzen’s eyes, the palsy-like shake of his body, or the way his head swayed strangely, as if not truly attached to his neck or torso.

  No, Lord Twisted wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, but Sir Lindsey needed the money, and Belzen loved to lend. This was no good deed, though. Lord Twisted knew Sir Lindsey; once he had the money, he would not pay off his debts but go back to the gaming tables. And some of that newly lent money would be Lord Twisted’s by the end of the night. And Belzen? He would be grateful for the introduction to Sir Lindsey; yet another aristocrat in his debt, a
nother victim. This might even lead Belzen to turn a blind eye to the vast amount Lord Twisted owed him already.

  Sir Lindsey was stamping his feet to stave off the cold, and muttering to himself, ‘To keep me waiting, really, to keep ME waiting . . .’ And then the wait was over. Neither man had heard a sound, yet Lord Belzen was before them, undulating slightly, and wrapped in a long, hooded cloak.

  ‘Perhaps it is his nose,’ Twisted thought, as Belzen bowed to them. It was a large, strangely blunted nose, with wide dark nostrils – more of a snout than a nose. Twisted shivered. Lord Belzen seemed to bring a deeper cold with him, making the uncomfortable weather unbearable.

  When Belzen spoke it was softly, quietly, with a pointed politeness. ‘Lord Twisted, a pleasure to see you again; and Sir Lindsey, what a pleasure to be introduced to such an illustrious member of the royal circle. I trust the night has not been too much for you? I do apologize for the time and place of this meeting, but such matters, between gentlemen, are best dealt with in secret.’

  ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t meet at my club, or even a public house, somewhere enclosed and warm,’ Sir Lindsey Dimblock complained.

  ‘Servants, waiters,’ Belzen murmured, ‘so quick to hear everything, to spread the story. This is a case where discretion is more important than personal comfort. We need to be entirely alone.’

  Sir Lindsey barely returned Belzen’s bow. He was willing to take money from this man, but he was not willing to treat him as an equal. Belzen was a money-lender, someone on the darker side of commerce. ‘I believe we are here to conclude a business transaction,’ he replied curtly. ‘I am ready to do business.’

  Lord Twisted looked from one man to the next. Sir Lindsey, bullish, stupid and proud, wanted the money but not the obligation. Belzen was angered by his tone. His body twitched in a weird convulsion; his head darted out from its hood. For a moment Lord Twisted could see Belzen’s watery blue eyes. They were angry. And yet his voice stayed soft, though with an ominous hiss. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘It is too cold for pleasantries. I will name my terms.’