The Queen at War

by K. A. S. Quinn

  James hunched over his cup of tea, while Alice discreetly took the copy of The Times from him and hid it under the other papers.

  ‘Now I have some good news for you, James O’Reilly,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘I have taken the liberty of enrolling you for a series of lectures to be given in Paris – by Auguste Comte. I know you are interested in the interdependence of the sciences; indeed, I lent you the Course of Positive Philosophy myself.’

  James sat up, interested, but he was too angry to accept gifts from DuQuelle. ‘I have duties in London. Little Riordan is here, and Grace will need me,’ he said gruffly. ‘In fact, I cannot wait any longer to see them. They will require my help.’

  ‘I notice you do not mention your father,’ DuQuelle’s face took on its arch, mocking mask. ‘You are right there; your father needs no help. He has played the loss of his son to perfection. The Queen is showering him with attentions. I even believe there is talk of a knighthood. He has taken advantage of his high favour at court and sent for young Riordan to come to Balmoral. He will now be tutored along with little Prince Arthur . . .’

  Dr O’Reilly would always put himself first, James knew that, but it didn’t make him feel any better. ‘And my sister?’ he persisted.

  DuQuelle’s face looked more human at the mention of Grace – less happy, but more human. ‘Grace did not take the news of Jack’s death well,’ he murmured. ‘She is convalescing in a sanatorium outside Paris. It is one of the best in this world. That is another reason why I chose these lectures. You will be near each other. You can visit her daily.’

  ‘It does make sense,’ Alice agreed. ‘And I envy you the lectures. Even I have heard of Comte’s new science. He calls it “sociology”, and it sounds fascinating. You must write and tell me all.’

  As Alice approved the plan, James thought it might be best to go. ‘I will send you the lectures word for word,’ he told her. ‘I will write to you every day.’

  Both Katie and DuQuelle looked uncomfortable. ‘My personal view is that Comte is a rather silly philosopher,’ DuQuelle said. ‘It’s all very fine to link things together – but to create a new religion, new holidays, and new saints – St Shakespeare! St Adam Smith! But then, James, you might become one of the new elite industrialists – St James O’Reilly, I can see it now . . .’ They all laughed at this. But Alice sighed again.

  ‘Princess, I can see you are afraid of what is to come: a life divided between social visits and embroidery,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘How can you have learned so much, travelled so far, and simply return to your old life?’

  Katie couldn’t help but notice how Alice had aged. The hands, always slender, were now so thin, and the bones of her face jutted from the stark outline of her wimple. DuQuelle, too, looked at her with something that smacked slightly of concern . . . and affection. ‘What you need, my dear Princess is rest,’ he said gently. ‘But it is your nature to comfort others, without comforting yourself. So I have taken the step of corresponding with Lord Aberdeen. He is setting up a dispensary for the poor in Deeside, not far from Balmoral. I have told him of your interest and training in medicine – not, of course, about Scutari, but of the instruction you have received in the Palace. I believe he will recommend to Prince Albert that you help this new institution in some important way.’

  Alice was pleased. ‘Do you think my father will agree?’

  DuQuelle smiled, ever so faintly. ‘I think it is in all our best interests for him to agree. I will persevere.’

  Katie glanced around – at the firelight flickering through the book-filled room; at DuQuelle’s face, not unlike the wooden figures carved in the ancient furniture; at Alice, pale but resigned; at James, so sad still, but excited by his life of the mind. ‘What about me?’ she thought. ‘Is there nothing for me?’ She must have said it out loud, because everyone turned to her, and the only other sound was the leaping fire.

  ‘You will go to Paris with me,’ James said gruffly, ‘and continue to care for Grace.’

  ‘If Grace needs her, of course,’ Alice said. ‘Though I’d like Katie to come to Balmoral. I am less than happy when we are apart and there’s so much we could achieve together.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle turned to Katie. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  Katie looked at her friends, and then stared down at DuQuelle’s beautifully polished shoes. She didn’t answer, but raised another question. ‘How ill is Grace?’

  DuQuelle nodded to himself, as if Katie had passed some sort of test. ‘She is ill,’ he said ‘but she is in capable hands. The Sisters of Mercy are quite progressive in their treatments. I’ve sent them detailed notes of your care of Grace. They are quite impressed. They will follow your lead.’

  ‘Now you can answer, Katie,’ Alice said gently, taking her friend’s hand, ‘though I fear I already know what you will say.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ Katie burst out. ‘There’s something going on there, something really wrong. I keep dreaming about Mimi. And I had some kind of vision in the Crimea, some hocus-pocus with Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole . . . it’s all kind of fuzzy. I’m not really needed here now – not by Grace, not by Riordan. DuQuelle doesn’t need anyone, and you and James have each other – well, kind of, I mean, not really but . . .’

  Everyone looked a bit embarrassed. DuQuelle stepped in. ‘Yes, you’re all very keen on being needed. Though I thank you for placing me above hoi polloi,’ he said as he sniffed the air. ‘I think Katie is right to take leave of us. I too fear something is amiss in Apartment 11C.’

  Anxiety pulsed through Katie.

  ‘Then we’re agreed,’ she said. ‘James will go to Paris, Alice to Balmoral, and I’m off to New York City circa the twenty-first century.’ She turned to Alice, preparing herself for a hard goodbye.

  But Bernardo DuQuelle stopped her. ‘I’m not quite certain,’ he said.

  Katie gave him a sharp look. ‘Not quite certain of what?’

  ‘I’m at a loss, unsure how to return you . . .’ He seemed unmoved by this disclosure. His heavy lids drooped over eyes that showed no remorse.

  ‘But you knew how to get her here,’ James exclaimed. ‘You must know how to get her back.’

  DuQuelle almost smiled. Katie thought about hitting him. ‘I knew how to plant the seeds of Katie’s visit,’ he said. ‘It was always up to Katie to harvest them.’ He could be infuriatingly cryptic.

  ‘Well, start planting seeds again,’ Katie said.

  ‘Is it that urgent, that you leave?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Alice, I just know something is wrong at home. My mother, she’s not like your mother.’

  James made a sound between a bark and a snort. ‘Sometimes, Katie, I do think you’re dim,’ he said. ‘Of course your mothers are not the same. Alice’s mother is the Queen.’

  Katie turned her back on him. ‘Mimi doesn’t have a house filled with servants. She doesn’t have millions of children and she really, really doesn’t have a loving and devoted husband,’ Katie explained. ‘She just has me and she needs me. That’s it – the bottom line.’

  ‘Yes, we understand now. If you think she’s in danger, then you must return, immediately,’ Alice said. She looked up at Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘I know you can do this.’

  DuQuelle’s face was still impassive. ‘It might be that bit easier,’ he said, ‘now that I’ve heard Katie say those words. Need has a great magnetic force.’

  James got down on his hands and knees and began to rummage through Katie’s belongings. He didn’t look too happy about touching some of her stuff, but he had been amputating limbs not a week ago and had handled worse. ‘The last time Katie travelled through some letter Princess Alice wrote, and returned by her own diary,’ James muttered. ‘There must be something in here that she’s written. And she’s got the walking stick. Isn’t that important somehow? Is there anything you have, DuQuelle?’

  ‘There was a book,’ Katie said, ‘Tempus Fugit, Libertati Viam Facere – and the card: the aide-memoire.’
>
  ‘Katie arrived with quite a bit of cargo,’ Bernardo DuQuelle said, and opening a drawer, he took out the original book and the embossed card that had flown Katie through time.

  ‘What about the mirror?’ Katie asked. ‘I arrived deep in the looking glass.’

  ‘It’s in the Palace,’ DuQuelle replied, ‘but it was a conduit only; it didn’t actually give you the power . . .’

  ‘There were those loose fitting garments she arrived in,’ Alice added.

  ‘Pyjamas,’ Katie interjected. ‘My pyjamas, they’re in the carpet bag, James.

  They piled all of the belongings into the centre of the room. DuQuelle circled the small mound of odd and ends and sniffed about; then shook his head. ‘This won’t work,’ he said. ‘Katie’s gift comes from the words. She has great power, when the right words come. I don’t believe the right words lie before us.’

  Katie couldn’t believe DuQuelle. If ever she needed an optimist, this was the time. She looked beseechingly at Alice and James.

  ‘Why don’t you put on those ghastly pyjamas of yours,’ James said, ‘to get you in the mood.’

  ‘At least I’ll be comfortable,’ Katie replied gloomily.

  She scooped up the pile of her things, and disappeared behind the carved wooden screen in DuQuelle’s study. Her clothes were so filthy, she almost had to peel them off. Letting out a sigh, she loosened the corset and rolled down her stockings. Her skin was grey with the dust and travel. She smelled sour and sweaty. All Katie really wanted to do was have a bath and go to bed. But an underlying anxiety drove her forward. It was as if an entirely different life was going on beneath the surface. If only she could reach it.

  ‘There is something I want to ask you,’ she said from behind the screen. ‘Florence Nightingale, what’s going on with her?’

  ‘And what do you mean, what’s going on with her?’ DuQuelle replied. ‘That is a question with no meaning.’

  Katie peeked around the edge of the screen. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ she said. ‘Is she as you are, Bernardo DuQuelle – or is she as we are?’

  DuQuelle examined his nails as if they contained an epic tale. ‘It is a woman’s prerogative to keep her own secrets,’ he said finally. ‘If Miss Nightingale hasn’t spoken, then I certainly won’t.’

  ‘Katie,’ Alice said. ‘I can see your shoulder from here, and Jamie is looking very embarrassed.’

  ‘I am not,’ James protested. ‘After what we’ve seen, do you really think I would react to Katie’s scrawny shoulder?’ They began to bicker, lightly but, Katie thought, happily; the way great friends or couples do.

  Katie shrugged into her pyjamas and, separating out the walking stick, the book and the card from her things, began to pack the rest into her carpet bag. As she folded up the grime-encrusted bodice, a piece of paper fell to the floor. Picking it up, she found Mimi’s letter:

  Katie-Kid: I’m off to the Hamptons!!!

  The words, they always had such power over her, and Katie’s recent experiences had increased this. Her brush with Felix, her association with the Little Angel, her interaction with the Tempus: it gave her more ability, but also made her more vulnerable. The magic was within her, but she could not control it.

  Even as she read, the room began to change. Alice’s and James’s voices grew faint. The dark carved wood of DuQuelle’s study disappeared. Instead she was on 89th Street, in Apartment 11C. She was in Mimi’s bedroom, standing before the mirrors, but there was no reflection of herself. Instead she saw Mimi. She was sitting up in bed now, her eyeshade pushed back over her mussed hair. One tasselled earplug dangled over her shoulder. She clutched her cashmere throw to her chest. Something was swirling through the house. Katie could hear the splintering of glass and wood snapping. Mimi fumbled for the telephone, but then dropped it and dashed for the door, towards the noise and destruction, as a single thought overtook her mind. ‘Katie! My baby!’

  ‘Mimi!’ Katie shouted, running after her. The noise and destruction – it was Diuman. His fury had welled up, sweeping all before him. In the distance James’s and Alice’s bickering died away. DuQuelle’s face appeared before her, but only as a ghostly reflection. She just had time to clutch the walking stick, the very thing Professor Diuman was searching for. Then she was swirling through light and noise, Alice was calling for her, Mimi screaming. Words swirled around her: Tempus fugit, libertati viam facere . . . And then Diuman was before her, glasses glittering, his braided beard writhing like three tiny snakes. He was standing in her own pink bedroom. Mimi faced him, on fire with defiance. She lashed out, kicking towards him, blocking his way, hissing between her teeth ‘not my child’. But Diuman was strong. Before Katie could stop him, he struck hard, and Mimi fell to the ground.

  In a frenzy, Diuman rampaged through the room, slashing at the bed with his metal pipe. But what he wanted wasn’t in that bed. It was right behind him – and it had powers beyond that of a normal New York girl. She could choose, and she could act. ‘Not my mother!’ Katie shouted, and brought the walking stick down on his head with all her might. The world around her exploded.

  Here and Now: Yet Again

  She ached – everywhere: the top of her head, under her knees; her back felt as if it had been welded into one solid throbbing piece. Katie had never known her earlobes could hurt, but they did, like the blazes – and the tip of her nose. She could smell some kind of burning, electric smell. She turned her head, and winced. There was a sound – voices, low and excited, and running footsteps. Bracing herself for what might come, she opened her eyes.

  She was in the bathroom on 89th Street, in Apartment 11C. How had she got there? Groaning slightly, she raised herself to look in the mirror. It wasn’t broken any more. When she looked into it, she could see herself but nothing more. The door handle rattled, and then there was urgent banging. ‘Is anyone there,’ a man shouted. ‘Open up. It’s the police.’ Katie was frightened now, and didn’t answer. So much had happened, in so many different times and places. What was reality? Katie had no idea. She felt paralysed. And then there was another voice.

  ‘Katie, honey, open up the door now. Everything will be fine, sweetheart.’ It was Dolores, and she sounded even more frightened than Katie felt.

  Getting to her knees, Katie unlocked the bathroom door with shaking hands. Why was the door locked anyway? She’d left it open when she’d crept towards the mirror; but that seemed so long ago.

  On the other side, flanked by two policemen, was Dolores. She swept Katie into her arms in an enormous bear-hug. ‘All safe now,’ she crooned, ‘all safe and sound now.’

  Katie rubbed her eyes, confused. ‘Why am I here,’ she said. ‘I don’t know . . . what’s up?’ And then the anxiety washed over her again, drowning out the pain. ‘Where’s Mimi?’ she asked sharply.

  The two policemen looked at each other. ‘Thank God, the kid slept through the whole thing,’ one said. ‘He didn’t even know she was here.’

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ Dolores echoed, holding on even tighter to Katie.

  ‘Where’s Mimi?’ Katie asked again, a rising note of hysteria in her voice. ‘I want to see Mimi.’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Dolores soothed her. ‘She’s gonna be fine, but they needed to take her to the hospital.’

  ‘We’d like to take a statement, as soon as the mother comes to,’ the policeman added. ‘You bring the kid with you as soon as you can. We’d better get on.’

  Katie was now almost speechless with fear. ‘Dolores,’ she whimpered, ‘what happened? Where is Mimi?’

  ‘Sit down, child,’ Dolores said.

  ‘I don’t want to sit down,’ Katie said, though she could barely stand. ‘Where is Mimi?’

  Dolores stroked her back. ‘They loaded her in the ambulance as quick as they could,’ she said. ‘She’s bad hurt. You see, I was worried about you, honey, so I slipped back to check on you. And I found this man, that Professor we always thought so nice. That man, he broke into the house. He tried to
kill your mama.’

  Katie groaned as she remembered her visions. She’d known, all the time she was in Buckingham Palace, in the Crimea. She’d known that Diuman was in the apartment. She should have tried harder, come home earlier. An even more horrible thought crossed her mind. ‘Mimi’s not going to die?’ she whispered.

  Dolores held her even closer. ‘No, my honey, Mimi’s not going to die. She got hold of that walking stick of yours. The one I’m always complaining about. Well, I’ll never complain again. She must have attacked him with it. Somehow she brought him down. They were both unconscious when I got here. If she hadn’t found that thing, she really might be dead. My, but it’s lucky she found that stick.’

  Katie detached herself from Dolores, and sat down on her bed. ‘It’s not luck,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it is, but it’s not luck. Dolores, the world . . . it’s just not what we think it is . . .’

  Dolores shook her head. ‘No, it’s a bad world, dearie, a world of sin. To be woken in the dead of night, given such a shock – that can’t be good for you. You look like you’ve been in a fight yourself. But we need to get to the hospital. Now, let’s get you dressed and I’ll find a taxi.’ Dolores sniffed Katie and wrinkled her nose. ‘What have you been up to? I swear you had a bath before I left last night . . . I’ll just wet down a washcloth and find you some fresh clothes.’

  As Dolores bustled out of the room, Katie got down on her hands and knees under her bed and surreptitiously searched for her diary. She had to get to Mimi, but there was something else she had to do. This time she wasn’t going to forget. She would write it all down. The power of words – DuQuelle was always going on about the power of words. She would start at the beginning. Stick to the plain facts as William Howard Russell was fond of saying.