The deckhand leaned his head against the wall, his arm cradled on his leg, while the artist busied himself with his lantern. The artist might be all business, but his subject had a euphoric expression on his face, as if his senses had transmuted his pain to pleasure. The notion intrigued Edward.
“Back in a minute,” the artist grunted, picking up his tools.
Edward stared into space, his head on his right fist. Not sleepy precisely, almost drunk but not quite. Just the mood for making bad decisions.
“Move,” said the artist when he returned, smelling of gin. The deckhand stood and wobbled to another chair and Edward took his place.
“Better light this way,” the artist said. “What do you want?”
Edward took off his coat and pushed his right sleeve up his elbow. “A ‘C’ on my wrist.”
The artist nodded. “How large?”
Edward spread his thumb and forefinger apart an inch, then pulled some coins from his coat pocket.
“Won’t take long.” The artist pounded his chest to force another belch, then set out his materials.
Edward was pleased to see the needle he chose was clean. The artist held his hand in an iron grip and considered Edward’s wrist, then took a quill, dipped it in ink, and drew a “C” with the tip.
“Like that?”
Edward nodded. The artist moved his lamp until Edward felt the heat against his arm, then the man bent to his work with the first needle. At first, the pinpricks were nothing much, an irritant like a mosquito bite, but about halfway through, Edward felt sweat break out on his forehead, then begin to drop down his back. He gritted his teeth and attempted to relax his neck. By the time the artist had finished his bloody outline, Edward felt faint and at the man’s mercy.
If he hadn’t chosen his public house well, he’d find his pockets emptied by dawn. But the dockhand, looking less white-faced now, sat by him, keeping guard, as if they had formed a brotherhood of the needle for this one night.
While the artist prepared his ink for the second stage of the operation, the deckhand made conversation, asking Edward about his wife. He explained that her name was Charlotte and she was German, with a mother that didn’t want her married to a soldier.
The deckhand snorted. “Mothers all the same, ain’t they? Think no one’s good enough to plow their girls. But someone’s gotta get babes on them. Might as well be you, eh?” He punched Edward playfully in the right bicep.
He blinked, and noticed the artist was dabbing at his wrist. Fumbling in his coat, he pulled out more coins. “Get us more whiskey,” he told the deckhand.
“Right you are, matey,” said the man, jumping up.
Edward drank his whiskey slowly as the artist retraced his steps with the ink, a more painful process. He wasn’t sure how he’d make his way home. He knew if he followed the river, he’d eventually be able to find a street that led him up to the Strand and he could find his way from there once he had sobered up.
Eventually, the artist wound a strip of bandaging over his wrist, just as he had done with the deckhand, and pronounced himself satisfied.
“Peaceful, eh?” said he. “Like there is nothing left to trouble you.”
Edward loosed a ghostly chuckle. “You have no idea.”
“It will take a few weeks to heal. Keep an eye on it. In this heat, wounds can fester.”
Edward nodded blearily. “Time for some fresh air. Thank you for the company.”
The deckhand stared at his own arm. Edward tapped him on the shoulder. “Some food now? Anywhere to eat at this time of night.”
“Dawn in an hour,” the artist said. “I’m going to find me bed.”
Edward stared at him, bemused. Had all that time passed? He hadn’t noticed. At least his tattoo had saved him from the night. Had it only been two nights since he’d spent those hours in Charlotte’s arms?
~
By Friday, Edward had heard nothing from the palace. His wrist hurt, but it had been a day and a half since the tattooing, and his wound had scabbed over nicely without a hint of infection. He had considered simply staying drunk, but water tasted better than spirits given the heat. Quintin had despaired of him and had left for the day to watch horse racing somewhere, so when a knock came upon the door Edward was the only one available to answer it.
He expected a messenger with a letter, and was surprised to find the soldier-gone-to-seed personage of Sir John Conroy at his door.
“May I come in?” the man asked, looking down his nose in disdain at Edward’s bedraggled appearance.
“Of course.” Taken off guard, he struggled into his coat as Sir John swept back his coat tails and sat down in an armchair.
Edward scratched his cheek. He hadn’t bothered to shave himself and had been afraid Quintin, mostly recovered but still a bit shaky from his long illness, would damage him when his man offered. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I want to speak to you on an urgent matter.”
Would Victoria have sent the person she hated the most on a mission? He doubted it. Was the Duchess of Kent attempting to make peace with him now? Equally unlikely. “What is this in regards to?”
“Lady Amy Blair,” Sir John said, taking off his hat, exposing thinning dark hair.
“I see.” Edward ran the facts of the case through his mind. “What of her? She’s been sent away from court.”
“She’s ill, Colonel.” Sir John put two fingers to his forehead. “The truth is, I never touched her, and she has sworn on the Bible that no man has ever touched her.”
“The evidence suggests otherwise.”
“They never examined her completely. She was too, err, delicate to allow it. But now, you must understand, she is willing to be examined more thoroughly, to prove the truth.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
“The queen will not see her, or me. There is no point obtaining our proof if we cannot present it to Her Majesty.”
“I do not see that I can help you, Sir John. I am in equal disgrace.”
“You are still her half-brother. You could get word to your wife,” Sir John suggested.
“So you know about that.”
Sir John spread his hands over his knees. “I still have my sources.”
“Why should I help you?”
“I know you had something to do with Lady Amy’s downfall. Your wife may have been the chief architect, but you were involved. I saw you at the opera that night.”
Sir John had it wrong, Edward realized. But he kept his mouth shut. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“If the queen is seen to be wrong about this, perhaps she will be persuaded that she is wrong about Princess Charlotte. You do not want her sent back to Germany, do you? That is what is going to happen otherwise.”
“I had not heard,” Edward said.
“Stiffen your backbone, man, and take some action. Escort Lady Amy to the doctor and find out the truth for yourself. You’re a married man. Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?”
Edward shook his head slowly. “When?”
“Monday. I have the specialist appointment made already, I just need an impartial witness. I’d have asked your wife if she was still in London.”
He considered. It would keep him occupied and he felt some responsibility for the situation. “I shall do as you ask, the cards fall as they may.”
~
By Monday, the heat wave had broken, and Edward appeared at Lady Amy’s brother’s home to collect the lady for her appointment late that morning. She was larger around the middle than before, ungainly, and purple circles of exhaustion had appeared under her eyes. She did indeed seem quite ill.
He took her arm, hesitant to express sympathy as her expression was haughty, and helped her into the carriage he had waiting. Along with them went a maid and Lady Amy’s aunt.
When they reached the specialist’s office on Harley Street they were ushered in quickly, with much bowing
and scraping by the staff. In the examining room, Lady Amy kept her eyes closed, her lips moving as in prayer, while Edward watched the man look her over intimately.
“Definitely a virgin,” the man said, turning away from the woman on the table. “Hymen intact.”
“Jesus be praised,” the elderly aunt murmured, while the maid’s eyes filled with tears.
Lady Amy’s hawk-like face remained serene, but of course, she knew herself still to be untouched.
“Can you explain the swelling of her abdomen?” Edward asked.
The specialist nodded and reached back underneath the blankets that swathed the lady. “A tumor, I’m afraid. Around the area of her liver.”
Lady Amy struggled to a sitting position. “Am I going to die?”
“We are all going to die, my lady, it is the human condition,” the specialist said.
“It is God’s will,” said the elderly aunt.
“Will the tumor be fatal?” asked Edward.
The specialist nodded thoughtfully. “Very probably. It would be best to put your affairs in order while you still can, my lady.”
The man had no delicacy. Edward went to Lady Amy and took her hand. “Is there anything I can do?”
Lady Amy ripped her hand out of his grip. “Make me right with Her Majesty. I want to return to court.”
“You should rest,” the specialist soothed.
“I want my name cleared,” she insisted.
“It shall be,” Edward promised. “I shall write a letter to my half-sister this very night, and to other interested parties.”
“The prime minister?” Lady Amy said, the tiniest hint of a smile playing around her lips.
For a spinster, this was a lady who liked men. “Very well, my lady. I shall write Lord Melbourne as well.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
The specialist sighed and gestured Edward out of the room, so the ladies could help Lady Amy redress. “She’ll never see another spring, I’ll tell you that,” he said in the corridor outside of the room.
“Maybe she wants to die in the queen’s arms.”
“Or the prime minister’s,” the specialist said with a snort. “Poor lady. All that virtue and no reward.” He cleared his throat. “I will write up a report and have it messengered to the lady’s home by tomorrow.”
“I’m sure that will help clear her name,” Edward said.
“Who are you?” the specialist asked. “I know the lady was with the Duchess of Kent.”
“Colonel FitzPrince,” Edward said, not offering any further details. He doubted his case with Victoria would be helped by disseminating his family identity across Harley Street.
“An equerry?” the doctor guessed.
“Something like that.”
A maid passed them in the hallway, carrying a mop and bucket. The doctor pressed up against the wall, attempting to avoid the droplets of dirty water splashing in her wake. Edward took the opportunity to escape, and went into the front area of the man’s chambers, to await the ladies.
~
Edward took his letters to Buckingham Palace personally, late that day, and persuaded a secretary to have them sent on to Windsor with the next messenger. Late the next day, he received a summons to Windsor. On Wednesday, he found himself sharing a carriage with Sir John Conroy for the long drive out to the palace.
However, it was an unaccountably pleasant journey, given Sir John’s history with Edward’s father. He spoke for hours, fueled on the contents of a hamper that had been provided, sharing stories of the long-dead prince.
“I should have spoken to you long ago,” Edward said ruefully, as they approached Windsor Park. “I would have known there was no hope that I was legitimate.”
Sir John shrugged. “You had to try. Could have been, the College of Arms wanted Victoria gone and would have ruled in your favor.”
“But Lord Melbourne likes her too much to take the risk.”
“Afraid so. And these times are too peaceable to take the throne by violence. No, Victoria will take some German princeling as her husband and we will go on the way we have.”
“I expect I’ll be in the backwoods of Canada and will miss it all.”
“Tell me, Colonel, would you marry your princess all over again?”
Edward leaned his elbow against the window. His tattoo itched against his shirtsleeve, the scabs still firmly in place. “I was sixteen when I married. I scarcely recall who I was, much less my reasons for wedding a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Not much more than a child.”
“Neither of us were. And we were the worse for drink. I never make sensible decisions in that state.”
“Who does?” Sir John said philosophically. “Did you think about rejecting the marriage?”
“Of course, but we had a witness, who refused to let us forget. And we fell into each other’s company again.”
“And into love?”
“Only time will tell,” Edward said. He rolled down the carriage window to take a good breath of the country air. “It is good to be out of London for the day.”
“They should keep us for the night.”
“Do you think we’ll be dinner guests?”
“No, no, just an audience, I would assume. We’re lucky to have that. But Lady Amy served Her Royal Highness long and faithfully. And she’s a woman, who will excite the queen’s natural instincts of protection.”
“Unlike you.”
“Quite, sir, quite. Or you. But she might feel some natural sympathy for your wife.”
“We shall find out, if I am allowed to see her.”
“I would not try to see her alone,” Sir John cautioned.
“Why not? If nothing else, I am definitely her husband. That should give me rights to her bedchamber for the night.”
“Not when she’s in waiting,” said Sir John, shocked. “Not unless she is under your roof. Really, Colonel, you go too far.”
“Do I? Or not far enough?” Edward mused.
~
Shortly before dinner at Windsor Palace that evening, Edward stood in a grand salon, in front of the queen and Lord Melbourne, sharing the story of Lady Amy’s examination, Sir John at his side. They were not treated as guests, but informants. Never had he felt so used by a man he loathed for his half-sister’s sake, but at least he was back in a palace, though his wife was nowhere to be seen. The queen was attended by one of her other ladies, not one he had seen before, as well as her mother.
“So you see,” he finished. “Lady Amy is in mortal peril due to her health, but her reputation has been cleared.”
“In action, if not in intent,” the queen sniffed.
“Lady Amy is a good woman,” her mother said. “I am glad to see our dear Sir John could clear up the matter. Poor soul.”
Edward could see how pink the tip of the queen’s nose was, and the tops of her ears. The queen was embarrassed by both the subject matter and the truth of the lady’s situation. He considered expressing his sorrow that he’d brought the case to light, but everyone had been duped, including the initial doctors who had been unable to make a full examination. Apologizing would only put him in a bad light. After all, he’d been attempting to protect his sister from Sir John, her childhood tormentor.
“We were in your mother’s service together for a long time, Your Majesty,” Sir John said with unctuous charm. “My wife considers Lady Amy to be a dear friend.”
“That is all very well, but what is your role in the affair, Colonel?” Victoria demanded.
“Sir John asked for my help for the sake of the lady,” he admitted.
“You have no role in my court, whatever certain persons might think,” she snapped. “Do not involve yourself in my affairs.”
“No, ma’am,” Edward said.
Lord Melbourne looked amused, as did Victoria’s mother. “The colonel has a knack for defending ladies.”
Edward imagined his feet rooting to the expensive carpet, so that he didn’t shift from
his position. He would never show weakness in front of these people, no matter that they held his future in their hands. All power was temporary. Lord Melbourne would not be prime minister forever, and his sister would submit to her husband in time.
The thought struck him that maybe he should go to Germany with Charlotte, and make friends with any German prince likely to pay court to Victoria. It might gain him much in the future.
“I can see we are boring the colonel,” Victoria said in an acidic voice.
“My apologies,” Edward said quickly. He schooled his features to impassivity.
“No doubt he could use a good meal and a glass of wine,” the lady-in-waiting said timidly. “It is still a hot day, Your Majesty.”
“He can have a tray in his room,” Victoria said with an air of childish spite.
“Like a naughty schoolboy?” the lady tittered.
“Exactly.” Victoria did not look so amused. “It won’t do to have him mingling with my guests, when I haven’t yet decided what to do with him.”
“He must return to his regiment, surely,” her mother said.
“It is not so simple now, thanks to the von Scharnburgs,” Victoria said.
The lady-in-waiting looked puzzled. Did that mean Charlotte’s marriage was still a secret in some quarters?
“You wanted to visit the chapel before meeting with your guests?” Lord Melbourne inquired.
“Yes,” Victoria said. “Thank you.”
Edward inclined his head and Sir John bowed. Victoria waved to a footman to escort them out of the room. Almost before Edward knew it, they were in the hallway.
“Can you show us to our chambers?” Sir John inquired. “We don’t know where we have been quartered.”
The footman scratched his head and went to inquire of a compatriot. They hovered in the hallway for ten minutes while the staff tried to figure out where they would be staying. The royal party stayed behind the closed door. Either there was another exit or they were discussing the Lady Amy affair. Or him.
The Princess Dilemma: A Victorian Royal Romance Page 23
