DOWN, two, three . . . Katie made her curtsy to the Queen. With knees hovering above the floor, she reached forward and kissed the royal hand. With surprise she saw that the Queen’s fingernails really could have been cleaner, though this was compensated for by bright jewels on every finger. UP, two, three . . . Katie had done it. Princess Alice smiled broadly as Katie curtsied, really bobbed, to the other members of the Royal Family. Bertie was looking at her with admiration now. Up close, he liked what he saw; there was nothing better than a tall strapping girl.
For Katie, the worst was over. All she had to do was walk backwards, down that long aisle. As she tried to step back, she wobbled badly. Once again, she couldn’t move. She lurched dangerously. She seemed to be caught in something; trapped, directly in front of the Queen. Katie began to panic.
‘Your train,’ Alice mouthed, ‘you’re caught in your train. Hold out your arms.’ Having successfully curtsied to the Queen, Katie had forgotten all about the three-foot-long train. She was hopelessly entangled. Following Alice’s advice, her arms shot out, much in the manner of a scarecrow in a cornfield. The Lord Chamberlain had to get on to his hands and knees to release her. He then looped the beautiful embroidered train over her extended right arm; doing so with great dignity, as if this were a revered part the ceremony. Katie had to hand it to the Lord Chamberlain – he had a lot of class. But down the room, the sniggering, in some places, had turned to open laughter. Felix was pointing his finger and shrieking.
‘I won’t cry,’ Katie said to herself, more annoyed than anything else. ‘I’d like to see them drive a car, or log on to a computer, or use an iPhone. Who’d have the last laugh then?’ As she backed away she could hear the Queen speaking to Prince Albert.
‘The Americans are not known for their grace, but they have a certain exuberance, a raw health that one must admire.’ She too was annoyed with the courtiers, and swept the room with a stern look. That shut them up. Katie’s exit seemed even longer than her entrance. She backed out of the room to a leaden, oppressive silence.
Chapter Eight
Jack
It had been a disastrous presentation, but at least it was over. Katie was desperate to get away from the crowds and the courtiers. But where was the Honourable Emma Twisted? ‘I think she’s deserted you, my dear,’ a voice beside Katie commented. ‘I find her a fair-weather friend, the Honourable Emma Twisted.’ It was Bernardo DuQuelle.
‘You pushed me, didn’t you?’ Katie exclaimed. ‘I mean, right at the beginning, you gave me a big kick. That really got me off on the wrong foot.’
‘I don’t believe you have a right foot,’ he replied. ‘Yes, I gave you a gentle nudge. I thought you’d never start down the aisle. Stage-fright, perhaps. But when you did, it was quite the performance.’
Katie’s annoyance boiled over. ‘Yeah, I know I totally bombed; but I don’t give a flying . . . anything . . . about all that. What a stupid waste of an afternoon.’
‘It wasn’t the worst presentation of the day,’ DuQuelle consoled her. ‘A Miss Anne Moorden McPherson of Canada fell flat on her face, hurling her bouquet in the process. It hit the Baroness Lehzen and knocked her wig askew.’
‘Not a waste all,’ DuQuelle continued as Katie laughed. ‘You have had your introduction to the Queen. Every drawing room in Britain is now open to you. You can stay in the Palace as Grace’s special friend and help care for her. There are other uses for you as well, but you must be careful.’ He peered around the room, and led Katie to a quiet corner. ‘I’ve heard this morning of a most curious case,’ he told her. ‘Sir Lindsey Dimblock. Always a man of little use – well, now he is of no use. They’ve fished him out of the Thames, horribly bloated, dead for some time.’
‘Yuk,’ Katie shuddered.
‘A strange word, yuk. But I believe you use it in context. Yuk it is.’
‘Foul play?’ Katie asked.
‘Most foul,’ DuQuelle answered. ‘The mutilation was a sickening sight. His eyes had been gouged out, his tongue ripped from its root, and a strange tar-like substance oozed from every orifice.’
Katie searched into the recesses of her memory. DuQuelle seemed to be foraging in her mind too. ‘So you remember now,’ he said. ‘You recognize the mode of attack – the frightful death of Fräulein Bauer. What else do you see?’
‘The Black Tide,’ Katie said. ‘They tried to assassinate Queen Victoria in the Crystal Palace. But this isn’t their style.’
DuQuelle shook his head. ‘I find style a soft word for mutilation and murder. But you are correct. Do you remember your last exit from our time? It was midnight in the Palace and you were bungling it as usual. There was an intrusion and a scuffle. The Black Tide were seized by the palace guards and imprisoned for treason. They are silent for now. You must look further than European revolutionaries for this murder.’
A figure, svelte and snake-like, arose in Katie’s imagination along with a name she had tried to blot from her memory. ‘Lord Belzen,’ she said.
DuQuelle sniffed the air in distaste. ‘I can almost smell him from here. But why is he interested in Sir Lindsey Dimblock? I suspect the connection is with Dimblock’s gambling companion, Lord Twisted.’
Katie looked across the room for Emma Twisted’s father. Lord Twisted was standing next to young Felix, in conversation with the Lord Chamberlain. Usually such a close connection to the Royal Family would have thrilled him. But today, he just looked nervous. ‘Lord Twisted is a jerk,’ she said. ‘And Felix there is worse.’
‘You are perceptive,’ DuQuelle commented. ‘Rather coarse, extremely tall but very perceptive.’
Katie groaned, as more and more unwanted information flooded her mind. She’d almost forgotten about Lord Belzen and the Malum; Lucia and the Verus. There was a world beyond this world, and they were in never-ending conflict. The Malum sought power through brute force. The Verus mined the globe for words and exported communication to their own realm. Both wished to control the actions of this world. Both had champions, the Chosen, who did battle for them. ‘Is young Felix enslaved by the Malum?’ she asked DuQuelle.
‘Can you not feel it when you are near him?’ DuQuelle asked her.
She looked down at her bouquet, once so lovely – now wilted. A new, disturbing thought occurred to her. ‘Are you really so sympathetic to Grace?’ Katie asked; ‘or is there another reason I am here?’ DuQuelle was silent. ‘Have I been brought here as part of your Great Experiment?’ Katie ploughed on, ‘To stop the war in the Crimea? Or must I participate in another battle: the endless struggle between the Malum and the Verus?’
DuQuelle suddenly looked very tired. He hated the convolutions of his own world. It was a topic that always seemed to age him. ‘The war between the Verus and the Malum is more real than this tiff in the Crimea, or what the Queen quaintly calls the East,’ he replied, not really answering her question.
Their conversation was cut short, however, as the Queen and Prince Albert entered the room. At the Queen’s side was a military officer. He was well past his prime, between sixty and seventy years old, with grey hair and sideburns that swept down from temple to chin. In his person, he was unassuming – of medium build, with light, mild eyes and a gentle smile. But his dress uniform was gorgeous beyond belief: a scarlet tunic ornamented by gold-fringed epaulettes, an opulent silk sash and more decorations than a Christmas tree. He held his plumed hat under one arm. His other sleeve was empty, and pinned to the front of his tunic.
The Lord Chamberlain stepped forward. ‘THE QUEEN,’ he announced, as everyone bobbed down. Katie wondered if he spoke like that at home. The Queen seemed to take it for granted.
‘I have an announcement to make,’ she said. ‘It is with great pleasure that the Queen makes the appointment today of Field Marshal FitzRoy James Henry Somerset, 1st Baron Raglan, to command our troops in the future expeditions to the East. Lord Raglan has long served the Crown; first under the Duke of Wellington and now as a commander in his own right. He was vital in le
ading us to victory at Waterloo, and should the need arise, is certain to do so again.’
A murmur of surprise ran through the assembled courtiers. DuQuelle gave a low whistle. ‘Is this really the best we can do?’ Katie heard him say under his breath.
The Queen went on. ‘Further appointments include the Earl of Lucan to command the Cavalry Division, and the Earl of Cardigan to command the Light Brigade.’ The mild-looking Lord Raglan seemed both surprised and annoyed by this additional news. ‘The Queen is most pleased to announce that our young German relation, Felix of Hanover, has requested leave to observe in the East, and when the troops are established, he will depart for the Baltic, under the excellent guidance of Lord Twisted.’ The Queen continued. ‘Some will begin their journey as early as the morrow, and the Queen and her family will salute these troops from the balcony of Buckingham Palace.’ At this, the Queen and Prince Albert withdrew from the assembly.
So the dangerous Felix was moving closer to the war. Katie turned to demand answers from DuQuelle, but he had slipped away during the Queen’s announcements. Most of the other debutantes were gone too, escorted home by their mamas. Alice and Leopold were the only other people Katie knew, and they’d been whisked away by their own mama, the Queen. They were probably back in their rooms, having toast and hot milk.
Katie felt a pang. All these unanswered questions. She would have liked to have talked it over with Mimi. After all, any mother was better than no mother. And the presentation – Mimi would have loved that. The pang was followed a growl of her stomach, so loud that a nearby archbishop jumped. ‘I have got to eat,’ she said to herself, hunger driving away a hundred questions. ‘I did think that, having been presented, they might give us some food, a sandwich or something, some canapés maybe . . .’
She looked around, but could spot nothing. A door at the far side of the room was slightly ajar. Perhaps it would lead towards the kitchens, or at least to a bowl of peanuts. Sidling along the walls, she nipped quickly through the door, shutting it behind her. The room was empty, except for a young man with his back towards her. She thought she recognized him. So this was where James was hiding. He seemed to be in some sort of court uniform and he was stuffing the remains of a large cake into his pockets.
‘Shove over,’ Katie said. ‘I’m absolutely starving.’ As the young man turned around, Katie realized he was taller than James, and broader in the shoulders. It wasn’t James at all, but his older brother, Jack.
‘Uh, yeah, not James, not good, sorry, gotta go,’ she muttered. Jack stared for a moment, one cake-filled hand still in his pocket, and then they both burst out laughing.
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I am Jack O’Reilly. And you are, I believe, MISS KATHERINE TAPPAN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.’ His imitation of the Lord Chamberlain was very good, and they began to laugh again.
‘Otherwise known as the giraffe,’ Katie said, sticking out her hand to shake his. But Jack’s hands were sticky with cake and Katie wasn’t sure if Victorian girls would or could actually touch a boy. They both blushed.
‘You have been the talk of the presentations,’ he admitted. ‘And you are tall, but not as tall as I am,’ he squared his broad shoulders, while his blue eyes danced with merriment. ‘I believe you to be the boon companion of my sister Grace. She says you’ve cheered her up tremendously since your arrival from the Continent. And James holds you in admiration, though he’s usually so tight-mouthed and pompous about girls.’
They laughed at his accurate, if unkind description of James. ‘Do you think I could have some of that cake before you stuff it all in your pockets? I’m dying of hunger,’ Katie said.
Jack tried to wipe the crumbs from his hands. ‘Please don’t think I’m a glutton,’ he apologized. ‘The cake is for my little brother Riordan. The Palace is swirling with excitement and he’s stuck in the nursery. I thought something sweet might cheer him up, especially since I leave for the East tomorrow.’
Katie cut herself a generous slice of cake. She had seen Jack before, at a cricket match in 1851. But she’d been dressed as a kitchen maid at the time, and now she was supposed to be a grand American traveller. ‘So this war is coming and you’re going with the army?’ she asked.
‘Yes, with the Light Brigade. It’s a marvellous commission. My father pulled out all the stops to get it.’
The Light Brigade. Katie felt a twinge. She didn’t know why, but the Light Brigade sounded bad to her. She looked uneasily at her new friend.
‘Do you have to go? I mean, can’t you get out of it?’
‘Get out of it?’ Jack was astounded. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted – a commission with the nation’s top cavalry brigade. Every cadet in my class envies me. It is a wonderful posting for someone of my position in society. Only an idiot would abandon it!’ He looked at Katie’s downcast face. Perhaps he’d spoken too naturally, but he did feel very natural, very normal, with this American girl.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You’re so tall, why don’t you don a soldier’s uniform and come with us? You’d make a fetching cavalry officer.’
Now this was flirting. If it had happened at Neuman Hubris School, Katie would have kicked him in the shin, or elbowed him in the ribs. But here, in full court dress, she did what any Victorian girl would do. She blushed, again. Changing the subject seemed a good idea, otherwise she’d spend the entire conversation looking like a tomato. ‘So what do you think of your new commander?’ she asked.
Jack O’Reilly paused, pushing cake crumbs around the table. ‘In some ways he’s top drawer,’ he said. ‘Lord Raglan has been in the army since he was fifteen. He was one of us, the cavalry. He’s brave, that’s for certain. As a young man he cut a dash serving with the Black Watch at Talavera. The Duke of Wellington rated him; he was the duke’s military secretary for seventeen years. And they were close. He’s married to the duke’s niece. Raglan’s industrious, unflappable, tactful, decent . . . the cadets like him, admire him . . .’
‘What happened to his arm?’ Katie asked.
‘Waterloo,’ Jack said. ‘A musket ball shattered his right elbow. The surgeons had to amputate.’
An amputation like that, on the battlefield; Katie winced, knowing there’d be no anaesthetic, nothing to ease the pain, perhaps a shot of whisky if Raglan was lucky.
Jack seemed to read her face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was awful. But Lord Raglan showed great bravery, even humour. He endured the operation in silence. It was only when the surgeon tossed his severed arm into a pile of sawn-off limbs, he shouted out “Hey, bring back my arm. I need that ring on my index finger. It was a gift from my wife.”’
Katie laughed, and then shook her head. ‘Yeah, he sounds really brave. I mean, to still be funny at a time like that. But you don’t think he’s that good, do you?’
Jack gave her a long stare. ‘You’re a funny girl, to be so interested in such things. Yes, I do doubt him. I am ashamed to question a man of such standing. I’m only a cadet with the Royal Military College; a cadet with his first commission. But Lord Raglan has not been in active service for many years. And most of his experience is as a second-in-command. He’s used to acting on orders, not giving them.’
Jack rolled some cake between his fingers. ‘It’s almost treason to speak like this. I’m certain to be wrong. I don’t know why I should tell you such things,’ he said, his merry eyes now solemn.
‘I think it’s a shame, to put you on a battlefield,’ Katie said. ‘You seem to really understand things. Wouldn’t you rather be in the Foreign Office? Or working as a diplomat?’
Jack looked astonished. ‘Are you crazy? Every boy my age dreams of war: the cannons, the charge, the glory of battle.’
‘We don’t feel that way about war. We think war’s really bad,’ Katie started to explain, and then stopped, flustered. The ‘we’ she was discussing was 150 years away.
‘You are a strange one,’ he repeated. ‘And we’ll disagree on this to the end. But I would like to kn
ow more about you, Miss Katherine Tappan. If I have your permission, I will write to you of the pleasures of the campfire, and the exhilaration of battle. And you can write back to me about the peaceful comforts of court life.’
He was flirting again. Katie suspected that corresponding with a boy she barely knew would be highly improper. The rules had changed over 150 years. She thought about Neuman Hubris School, and the note she’d passed to Michael Fester just days ago: ‘You stink,’ it had said, with a couple of other pithy comments. And now she couldn’t even write a polite letter to a boy. She had to put a stop to this flirtation. What would Princess Alice do?
‘I’m afraid I cannot allow the correspondence,’ she began in a prim imitation of her royal friend. ‘I am surprised and disappointed that you would suggest such an action. It shows a lack of delicacy . . .’ Jack looked crestfallen, and Katie suddenly realized that she didn’t want to follow Alice’s imaginary advice. She wanted to hear about the war, and she wanted to hear from Jack. She began again. ‘Perhaps if you write to your sister Grace, then she might be kind enough to read your letters to me. Only sections which cover the colour and tone of military camp life, you know, what you do in the campaign. I’d really enjoy that, and like, it would be, like nice . . .’ she ended lamely.
Jack eyes lit up. ‘Can’t I just write to you?’
‘It would be improper.’ Katie gave him a nudge, and he began to pelt her with cake crumbs. They were on their way to a full-blown food fight when Bernardo DuQuelle entered the room.
‘Jack O’Reilly, your brigade is retiring to barracks. Your commanding officer is looking for you,’ DuQuelle said sternly.
‘Oh bloody, oh sorry . . .’ He pulled the much-mauled cake out of his pockets and threw it to Katie. ‘Can you pass this on to Riordan for me?’ he asked. ‘Give him a hug. Tell him he’s my little man, and I’ll bring him a Russian sabre from the East.’ He ducked his head and with a sheepish grin ran from the room.
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 29
