Isabella Rockwell's War

by Hannah Parry

  Isabella smiled at how much this must annoy the Duchess. The door opened again and a footman announced the carriages were ready. Isabella and Alix headed towards the same one as Prince Ernest.

  “It’s better than travelling with Mama and Mr Conroy, I suppose.”

  “Much,” muttered Isabella under her breath observing how the Duchess’s mouth was set in a petulant line as John Conroy greeted Princess Fredericka.

  “I don’t know what his majesty is going to make of our turning up with a commoner.” Said the Duchess in a loud voice to no one in particular.

  Isabella made a move to walk back inside. “I don’t think this is a good idea Alix, I don’t want to aggravate your mother anymore than she is already. It’ll be you who pays for it.”

  Alix was firm.

  “King William wants to meet you. Don’t worry about my mother. I’m used to her.”

  Mrs Jolyon, pretty in a black velvet dress nodded.

  “The king will be furious if you do not attend and the Duchess knows it,” she whispered. “Just you get in. I’ll sit with you.” So Prince Ernest and his wife and Alix, Isabella and Mrs Jolyon sat in the first coach and Isabella resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at the Duchess, as the Duchess’s carriage passed hers.

  The carriage jiggled as it pulled out of the palace gates and picked up speed along Kensington Gore and then entered Hyde Park to cut across to St James’s Palace, which though, small, Isabella thought it to be beautiful, with ornate towers and sparkling windows. Uniformed guards standing in man-sized wooden shelters lifted their sabers as the two royal coaches passed, and footmen sprang to open their doors. Isabella got out onto a red carpet, which ran the length of the arch and then into the hallway, so the ladies would never get their satin slippers wet. It was very hard not to be overawed by it all.

  Alix, sensed this.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, taking Isabella’s arm. “The king is so very nice, and the Queen. They will put you at your ease. Just try to relax.” So Isabella tried to, and stuck close to Alix, and watched and copied how Alix conducted herself – handing her cloak to a servant, saying no to a drink and curtseying politely to any adult to whom she was introduced. As a group they moved up a staircase and entered a pillared reception hall the size of the parade ground at home. Huge fires burned in grates at either end of the hall, and gilded tables and chairs were scattered at intervals throughout the room. Magnificent portraits of past monarchs lined the walls, along with polished suits of armour. It was like the reception hall at Kensington Palace, but on a far grander scale.

  “There are so many guards.” She whispered to Alix as they waited at the top of the steps to be announced.

  Alix nodded.

  “Being king is a serious business. There’s always someone who thinks they can do the job much better…” her words tapered off as a large man with a huge white wig banged his staff on the ground next to them, making Isabella jump.

  “Her Majesty Princess Alixandrina Hanover! Miss Isabella Rockwell!” Fifty pairs of eyes turned to the staircase. Isabella smiled as she watched Alix descend the staircase with more grace than it would take Isabella a lifetime to produce. Just for a moment, as she felt the heavy weight of the room’s attention, Isabella could see the queen Alix would one day become as she smiled from side to side, her step never faltering as she threaded her way toward the elderly man on the large red chair near the centre of the room. Isabella crept along behind her and gradually the room resumed its bubble and hum, the elegant crowd turning to back to their gossip and champagne.

  “Uncle William, I would like you to meet Isabella Rockwell.” Isabella curtsied deeply. How she wished someone she knew could see her meeting the King of England. They’d never believe it – she didn’t believe it! Isabella staring at the ground felt a rough warm hand lift her chin and she looked into a kind, round face framed with wayward white curls. King William looked just like what he was, Prince Ernest’s kinder, older brother.

  “Bravo young lady, for saving our girl.”

  Isabella was completely overawed, so she curtseyed again and tried hard not to mumble, but her words came out in a rush.

  “Oh it’s all right sir, anyone would have done the same if they had wanted to… I mean if they could ride… I mean…”

  The king smiled and nodded.

  “I’m sure they would, but it was you who did do it, and I am most grateful. I would be most upset to lose my niece.” He placed a large hand on Alix’s; “she means the world to me… to both of us.” He gestured to the rounded bejeweled woman who sat next to him. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Queen Adelaide’s chins wobbled and her blue eyes filled with tears.

  “I can’t even bear to hear you speak of such things, Villiam. Please don’t.”

  Alix threw her arms around her aunt. “Aunt Adelaide, stop this minute! I am here and I am fine. It was just an accident.”

  “I know, I know, but zis does not make the thought of your loss more bearable.” Isabella smiled, liking this round queen who so plainly adored Alix and wore her heart on her sleeve.

  She summoned up her courage.

  “Might I get your majesty a drink to make you feel better,” she asked, curtseying.

  There was a great honking as the queen blew her nose, still clasping Alix in her satin embrace.

  “Kind girl. Yah that would be fine.” Alix smiled at her and gestured with her head to the far side of the room where a long table with a heavy red cloth was laid with sumptuous hors d’oevres and glass goblets containing red wine or champagne. She had just picked up a goblet of red wine when Mrs Jolyon appeared at her side.

  “So how did you find King William and Queen Adelaide?”

  Isabella was relieved to see her.

  “I like them very much. I’m just getting the queen a drink. She was a little upset at talk of Alix’s accident.”

  Mrs Jolyon nodded.

  “I can imagine. It warms my heart to know that she gets the love from them that she sees so little of at home.” Isabella looked over to where the duchess, exquisite in cream lace, showing a great amount of bosom was surrounded by men.

  “Why is the duchess so unpleasant? And why does John Conroy put up with it?

  Mrs Jolyon opened her fan.

  “She comes from an extremely rich family and has been spoilt all her life. The Duke of Kent only married her so they could have a chance at having a baby, which, at least, she did. Except now they’ve got their heir, no one really wants to have anything to do with the duchess. John Conroy puts up with her because he’s paid to. The king put him in charge of her household because her spending had got so out of control. I don’t think the king expected the duchess to fall in love with John Conroy, but she did, and now they conspire for more money by using Alix as bait.”

  “So she’s not allowed to see the king, unless the king gives her mother and John Conroy more money?”

  Mrs Jolyon fanned herself casually.

  “Something like that, though you didn’t hear it from me.” She smiled. “Now, shall we go and extract Princess Alix before she is loved to death?” Isabella laughed and picked up the goblet of juice, but as she did so, the glass slipped from her fingers and, shattered on the floor in a million tiny pieces. The crimson juice quickly sank into the porous stone floor, a bloody, jagged trail pointing across the floor to where Alix sat with her aunt and uncle. And Isabella, despite her shame at having dropped the drink, felt a little shiver run through her. If Mrs Jolyon had asked her why this was however, she would not have been able to say.

  At dinner she sat with Mrs Jolyon and copied the way she used her cutlery, resisting the impulse to pocket it. The food was delicious and she chomped happily watching those at the long table. The king and queen didn’t sit at the head of the table, they sat in the middle with Alix next to them and Prince Ernest and his wife nearby. The duchess and John Conroy were sat far at the other end of the table. To the left of the queen was a tall elegant
man, wearing a long Nehru jacket. His beard was long and sat on his chest and was smoky grey, unlike the hair on his head which was black. His face was narrow with prominent cheekbones and though he was handsome, when he smiled, his eyes remained cold. Behind him hidden, somewhat, in the shadows of the pillars, was a manservant.

  “Mrs Jolyon? Who is that man, next to the queen?”

  Mrs Jolyon peered down the table. She fumbled in her bag for her spectacles.

  “Oh dear, I can’t quite see that far,” she placed some pince-nez on her nose. “Oh yes, with the beard? That’s the Russian Ambassador.”

  “Is that his manservant behind him?”

  “Why yes, I can hardly see, but it does seem as if he has a bodyguard there.” She raised her brows. “I’m not sure he really needed to bring one to dinner, but there you are. It’s probably more about status than safety.”

  “I think he’s a Pathan,” said Isabella, excitedly, just able to make out the bodyguard’s distinctive tribal hat and the white djellaba thrown around his shoulders. Mrs Jolyon adjusted her glasses again.

  “Why I think you are right. Well, how exciting. I am not surprised though. If I were a Russian feeling insecure, there’s nothing I’d like more than an Afghan at my back.”

  “Do you think I’d be allowed to talk to him?” Isabella’s longing was so strong she could taste it through the raspberry mousse, but Mrs Jolyon gave a little frown.

  “I’m really not sure, dear. You wouldn’t want to insult him by distracting him from his job. I’d leave it for a bit. Maybe if the ambassador dances a moment might present itself. So you speak Pashtu as well?”

  “I do. Father’s best friend was a Pathan and there were four Pathan families who sent all their sons into his regiment. He said they were his best soldiers.” Mrs Jolyon dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

  “Of course they were! Now lets wait for coffee and then when the dancing starts we’ll see.”

  Isabella’s excitement at seeing someone she considered practically a kinsman was a distraction and she cast around for something to occupy her until the dancing started. Noticing Alix had left the table with her mother, Isabella thought to join her, but didn’t find them in the ladies’ sitting room. It wasn’t until she was practically on top of them that she realised the Duchess and John Conroy and Alix were arguing with each other in an alcove, tucked away from the rest of the corridor and rooms. The heavy red velvet drape concealed their forms but not their voices.

  “You ask him, madam, tonight,” came John Conroy’s voice sounding harder than Isabella had imagined he could sound.

  “I can’t ask him again,” the duchess sniffled, “Alix, you must ask him. He will not refuse you. Tell him this is the last time, we just need ten thousand pounds, and we will not ask for more until you come of age.”

  “I won’t, Mama.” Came Alix’s voice. There was the sound of a stinging slap.

  “You will, you ungrateful child. If you do not, you will not see your uncle again. I will put your little urchin back on the streets tonight and Mrs Jolyon will be dismissed. We will move down to Brighton, and you and I will share a room until you are old enough to behave like an adult. I don’t care if you are heir to the throne. I am your mother and you will obey me.”

  “You can’t make me do that!”

  “I can and I will.”

  John Conroy spoke again.

  “Your highness. The king does not have good health, if something should happen to him, your mother will become regent until you are of age. She will then have access to the monies available to you. All we are asking is for a little advance.” His tone was wheedling and Isabella disliked it even more.

  Alix’s voice by contrast sounded sad and distant. “Very well.”

  John Conroy’s voice immediately became hearty. “That’s a girl.”

  Alix came from the gap between the curtains and Isabella walked toward her. Threading her arm through Alix’s she made no mention of what she’d just heard. She just said, “I’m sorry…” stopping when she saw the tears rush to Alix’s eyes. “Come, come and see something I have discovered,” this at least would give the red handmark on Alix’s face a moment to go down. Isabella pulled her along the stone balcony, which lined the ballroom. The guests were just moving through from the dining room, and Isabella caught a flash of white and a swarthy face.

  “Look, there. Do you see the man with the hat and the white towel thing around his shoulders?”

  Alix peered down.

  “Oh yes. Who is he?”

  “He is a Pathan,” said Isabella proudly and proceeded to tell Alix all about the proud warrior soldiers of the Afghan tribe. “I am hoping to speak to him, but Mrs Jolyon told me I had to wait until the dancing started.”

  “What nonsense,” declared Alix, sounding very regal all of the sudden. “We can speak to him whenever we like,” and she picked up her skirts, seeming happier now she had a purpose, and tripped off down the stairs. Isabella scurried after her.

  “Alix,” she hissed, “you cannot just go barging…” but she was cut short by the arrival of the king at the bottom of the stairs at precisely the same moment.

  “Ah my dear, just the person I was looking for. Will you do an old man the great honour of opening the dancing?”

  If he had noticed Alix’s face, he wasn’t mentioning it. Isabella felt a rush of affection for the old king. Alix hesitated, looking at Isabella, who gave her shove.

  “Off you go.” Alix smiled and walked to the middle of the ballroom floor with her uncle. The music began and as the young girl and old man started to dance, others took to the floor and in a moment the room was aglitter with the swishing of satin skirts and the winking of jewels in the light of a million candles. Isabella watched for a moment, her mind carried away by the music.

  “Would you care for a chocolate, Miss?” A footman stood in front of her and he looked away politely as she took a handful, and tucked them into her pocket. She couldn’t wait to see the children’s faces when she told them they came from the king’s palace. Why, there was Mrs Jolyon! And she was dancing, with the Russian Ambassador no less. Isabella smiled. They looked handsome together, Mrs Jolyon’s face alight with pleasure and the Ambassador more animated than before. She scanned the room. There he was, standing as still as only a Pathan could. With her heart in her mouth she approached him from one side.

  “Greetings, honourable friend,” she muttered in Pashtu, careful not to let anyone else hear her. The man turned his face to her. His eyes were like a hawk’s, gold with black rings and his hair dark and glossy as a raven’s wing.

  “Who is this who speaks to me in the language of my fathers?”

  “I am Isabella Rockwell, daughter of John Rockwell, sergeant of King William’s First Horse stationed at Rawalpindi.”

  He looked back at the dancing.

  “This is the last place I thought to find a daughter of the Raj.”

  “This is the last place a daughter of the Raj expected to meet a son of the Lion.”

  His lips twitched.

  “I am Hassan Al-Hassan, son of Shakib Al-Hassan. I serve the Russian Ambassador and, though I am sworn to follow him until death, it warms my heart to hear you speak the language of my home.”

  “It is the same for me also. It excited me greatly to see you here.”

  He looked at her again briefly.

  “And yet you appear as a child of England. Nothing about you would persuade me you are not of this country, yet your language is clearly that of home.”

  Isabella hung her head, never having felt so distanced from her home.

  “My father used to tell me I am of both, but India is my home and I wait only until I have enough money to return.”

  He nodded.

  “This country has little promise, from what I see. They believe themselves civilized and yet they have no god. They drink and starve and hurt each other and I see little honour.”

  Isabella thought of the duchess and John Conroy, the
Molesey’s and Mrs Trotter.

  “There is honour here sir… it’s just… well hidden.”

  He smiled.

  “I will accept your view, Isabella Rockwell, though not possibly agree with it. How is it you come to be here, when it will soon be spring at home?”

  “I am a guest of her majesty Princess Alixandrina Hanover.”

  “Are you her companion?” He had turned fully toward her now, his attention more focused. Isabella laughed.

  “Sort of, I suppose. I am her highness’s friend.”

  “You are fond of her?”

  “Oh yes. She is very dear to me. A kind and loving person and an honourable one. She will make an excellent queen.”

  “That is good. There is nothing worse than a worthless ruler.” As he spoke he looked directly at the Russian Ambassador, who was, now he was no longer dancing, scowling to himself and making his way toward his bodyguard. Al-Hassan’s face didn’t move.

  “You must go now, daughter of Hind,” the was a momentary silence in the music and then he said, “be of great courage and watch the wind at your back.” Isabella slipped away and stood at the foot of the staircase, whilst Alix said goodbye to the king.

  Why had Hassan said that? It was an old and well know Pathan saying, ‘watch the wind at your back for it might bring knives,’ but why should he say it to her? She was quiet as she got into the coach behind Alix and leant her head against the freezing window.

  “Did you enjoy it?” asked Alix, her face pink from the dancing.

  “I did. I liked your uncle and aunt.”

  Alix nodded.

  “Me too.” As they left the palace, Isabella heard a bell strike eleven. Her head started to nod and she fancied she could feel the snug warmth of her bed at the palace.

  The shriek of wheels on gravel brought her to her senses, sharply, unpleasantly. Opening her eyes she found herself lurching to one side and putting her hands out she steadied herself, as the coach seemed to corner on two wheels. Alix’s eyes were wide with horror.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, but sit still! If we crash, we are safer sitting down.” There was another lurch and Isabella wrapped her arms around Alix, pushing her head down under one of her arms. There was shouting and hoof beats from outside as their escort tried to bring the coach to a stop, but it was too late. With a terrible shriek of wood and metal the coach lurched all the way over the road and rolled over onto its side. The horses still continued to pull it and Isabella lay on her side and prayed for them to stop. Her left arm was painfully crushed beneath her, but at least she could hear Alix moaning, so she was still alive. Slowly, slowly the coach came to a skidding sideways halt. Isabella lay still.