DuQuelle looked at Katie with great disapproval, but she could only nod and laugh.
‘You’re supposed to be timeless,’ she said to him, ‘but you’ve certainly picked up Victorian morals. I’m glad to see you, though. There are a bunch of things you need to explain.’ She peppered him with questions, but he only responded with a lecture on female decorum. DuQuelle practically pushed her through the door, and then, with a curt nod, he stalked away.
In all the excitement of the day, she’d almost forgotten – she was still wearing her presentation dress. When she looked in the mirror, she stepped back in dismay – the figure reflected was so different from the young lady who had set out that morning. She was, truly, a mess. The headdress had settled into the crook of her neck, with the feathers sticking out sideways. Her hair was springing from its pins, waving about her head like disco-dancing caterpillars. Her cloak was soiled, her train was torn and the seams of the lovely dress were already giving way. She had no idea where she’d left the gloves or the bouquet.
Getting the dress off was nearly impossible. Grace was sleeping, Alice gone, and she certainly had no lady’s maid. She didn’t want to rip the thing, but she couldn’t go to sleep in it. After what seemed like hours, she shrugged the dress off her shoulders, bunched it down, and turned it back to front to detach the elaborate train. Then she had to undo every single tiny pearl button. There were 115 of them. It must have been one in the morning by the time she was done. When she finally got the corset unstrapped she looked at herself in horror. There were red welts coming up all over her where the tight clothes had rubbed. ‘I wouldn’t call this beautiful,’ she thought. ‘I’d call it barbaric.’
Luckily, a loose-fitting white muslin nightgown had been left out for her. She put it over her head and clambered into bed, exhausted. The bed was wonderfully comfortable, with a big goose down mattress. But she couldn’t sleep. All the excitement and tension and uncertainty were bubbling within her. Between the presentation, the unanswered questions and Jack, her nerves were a mess. She didn’t have anything to read, and besides, there was only about a half an hour left of her final candle.
A noise outside her room arrested her attention: the drawn-out creak of a door opening slowly, then footsteps. Slowly, almost rhythmically, the unknown person put one foot in front of the other. There was a remorseless quality to this tread – far away at first, but coming nearer and nearer. Katie held her breath and stared at the latch to her door. The footsteps continued, the latch did not lift. Whoever walked the corridor at the dead of night, they were not looking for Katie.
‘This is silly,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s just a busy hallway. Palace traffic. See, there are more footsteps passing by.’ This time they stopped at her room. She sat up in bed and grabbed the brass candlestick. It was large and heavy, a good weapon, just in case.
‘Katie?’ the voice in the corridor called quietly. It was DuQuelle.
‘Yes?’
‘Lock your door, Katie.’ Her candle spluttered, flared and died.
Chapter Nine
The Soldier’s Goodbye
She’d stumbled through the dark and turned the key firmly in the latch. Things were happening around her that she did not understand. Sleep would never come. And yet the next moment it was morning, and DuQuelle was standing over her bed.
‘What about your Victorian morals?’ she mumbled, hiding her head under the pillows. ‘Don’t they forbid entering a lady’s bedroom?’ And then she remembered the night before. ‘More than that, how did you get in? I locked the door. You were the one who told me to.’ She peered out of the window. ‘It’s the crack of dawn. Let’s just say goodbye now, and I’ll stay in bed – maybe until lunch.’
DuQuelle sighed – Katie had noticed he did this rather a lot. ‘Bed! There will be no more bed for you,’ he replied. ‘Didn’t you hear the Queen yesterday? Our glorious soldiers are off to the East. Grace has been invited to wave goodbye to her brother Jack, and you are to be at her side, tending to her. Isn’t that why you are here?’
‘I just want to sleep!’
‘Well, you are going to appear on the Royal balcony. But first you have to be bathed and groomed. Really Katie, we all spend far too much time and energy making you look presentable.’
By the time Katie was ready, the Royal Family was assembled on the balcony. Queen Victoria looked as round as a Christmas pudding, her short frame muffled in cloak, shawl and bonnet. Her tiny plump hands were tucked snugly in a fur muff. Beside her was Prince Albert, who hated the cold, but he had no cloak. It was important for the soldiers below to see him in his Field Marshal’s uniform. Bertie, much grown and also in uniform, bellowed with enthusiasm.
Beside him Vicky, the Princess Royal, smiled gamely. Her fiancé Frederick William was the heir to the Prussian throne, but Prussia had already declared itself neutral in this coming war. Vicky was in an uncomfortable position, but for now family was family, and she would stand shoulder to shoulder with her mama and Britain. With dismay, Katie noticed Felix at Vicky’s side. He was the most beautiful of youths, his pale creamy skin and silken blond curls further highlighted by his military uniform, donned especially for this occasion. Katie shuddered.
Along the balcony, Katie could see Princess Alice standing with her two younger sisters: Louise, highly strung and ‘artistic’, and Lenchen, large and placid. As was often the case, the girls were dressed in identical frocks. They were horrendous – magenta and sea-green tartan with heavy purple cloaks trimmed in black and mauve ribbons. ‘The Royal Family, are they colour blind?’ Katie wondered. Alice spotted Katie and tried to reach her, but the balcony was so crowded. Lenchen, in particular, was too bulky a figure to squeeze past.
The O’Reilly family was out in force to see Jack off. Dr O’Reilly was passing Princess Louise a bottle of smelling salts while he smiled and bowed. Katie could just imagine the elaborate compliments he was paying her. James, at his father’s elbow, had not inherited such courtly charms. He scowled at Katie and pointedly looked at his pocket watch. ‘Yes, I’m late,’ Katie thought, ‘but it’s so much easier for you James, it’s not like you’re in these ridiculous clothes . . . now where is Grace?’
Katie sidled over to the clustered royals, looking for her new charge. She tripped over Prince Leopold, in his bath chair. His eyes were on stalks with the excitement of the occasion. When he saw Katie, he gave a little jump. ‘Miss Katherine Tappan . . . my foot!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you, Katie Berger-Jones-Burg. I know it’s you! Why have you come back when we went to so much trouble to get rid of you . . . you must tell me. You know how helpful I am. You know I saved the day the last time . . .’
Leopold’s tutor, the Reverend Robinson Duckworth, did not greet Katie with such enthusiasm. He glanced sideways from Leopold to Katie to Bernardo DuQuelle. For a few long seconds Robinson Duckworth mulled things over and then turned to Katie with a smile. ‘The Prince is mistaken in your identity,’ he said, ‘please accept our apology.’ When Leopold began to protest, Katie saw Duckworth lean forward and hiss in his ear, ‘We will discuss this later.’
DuQuelle looked straight ahead, humming softly to himself. ‘Miss Tappan,’ he said. ‘You are certain to be searching for Miss O’Reilly. You will find her in the corner of the balcony. I don’t think she should be out at all, but she’s well wrapped against this bitter February cold.’
The Reverend Robinson Duckworth shot DuQuelle a look full of distrust.
But now the march past was about to begin and Katie took her place beside Grace. Despite her furs and blankets, she shivered with the cold. Spread before them was London, and the entire city seemed to have taken to the streets. The Mall was a heaving mass of people. They spilled down the avenues into the Royal Parks, screaming, waving and singing. The soldiers were still their heroes of fifty years past, the unbeatable victors of Waterloo. According to the great British public, the ‘Rooshians’ didn’t stand a chance.
Katie could hear the steady tramp of columns
of men making their way from Wellington Barracks and down Birdcage Walk until they marched past the balcony of Buckingham Palace. The first to be seen were the Scots Fusilier Guards in their brilliant scarlet tunics, bearskin helmets and tartan trousers. The crowds went wild, a sea of handkerchiefs and hats waving in the air. Grace stopped shivering, her cheeks were pink with excitement, and she managed to get up to wave with the rest of the crowd. ‘Everyone is so joyful,’ she exclaimed.
‘Not everyone,’ Katie thought. Hidden within the triumphant crowd lay the exceptions: tired-looking, anxious women, clutching the hands of small children and crying out to the men; these were the wives of soldiers, and they were being left behind. Some held their children high for a last look at their fathers, some whispered prayers for their men. Lord only knew when they would see them again.
The crowds had been shouting and singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Rule Britannia’. But now the regimental band struck up ‘The British Grenadiers’ march and the streets heaved with song.
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row,
To the British Grenadiers!
They cheered on the soldiers, as the sun rose over the park.
The Queen was not just on her feet, she was on tip-toes, clutching Prince Albert’s arm and waving her fur muff in the air. She was herself the daughter of a soldier; and she felt there was a sacred bond between herself and these men. She was filled with a mix of excitement and dread. As a queen, she applauded her soldiers; but as a wife and mother, her heart ached as well. She knew sorrow lay ahead for some.
The tramp of feet was replaced by the clip of horses’ hooves. The Heavy Brigade loomed into sight: the Scots Greys, the Royal Irish and the Inniskilling 6th Dragoons. Column after column of mounted cavalry trooped past the Queen. Leaning heavily on Katie, Grace strained her eyes for the one face she wished to see. ‘There he is!’ she cried. ‘There is Jack!’
Dr O’Reilly’s sons had been brought up within the Royal Household and many of the occupants of the balcony now pushed forward to get a glimpse of Jack, straight-backed and bursting with pride, as he rode amongst the 17 th Lancers, the Hussars, and the Light Dragoons. These were the divisions that made up the Light Brigade under the command of Lord Cardigan – one of the smartest units in the entire army. Jack was resplendent in his dress uniform, a deep blue jacket with a high collar – at least three inches high – encrusted with gold lace. Enormous gold-fringed epaulettes swung out from his broad shoulders and black feather plumes waved from his distinctive lance cap.
‘Jack!’ Grace cried, ‘Jack!’ and she reached out her hands, as if to grasp his through this sea of people. Katie glanced towards James. The look on his face was complicated: a mixture of pride in his brother, worry for his future, and more than a touch of jealousy. James was the kind of boy who shunned the limelight, who had no desire to be a hero. But even a bookish boy like James would envy his big brother at this moment. Dr O’Reilly’s face was easier to read. His son, his Jack, was marching towards glory. This could only strengthen his position at court. His vanity and ambition were satisfied.
The Light Brigade moved from a walk to a slow trot. On the command of Lord Cardigan, they halted before their Queen, tipped their lances and saluted her. ‘God Save the Queen’ the Light Brigade shouted as one. The crowd went wild. There were tears on the Queen’s cheek. Katie could see Jack, his head turned, like all others, towards his sovereign; but were his eyes searching the balcony, for his family – for his friends?
Their commander, Lord Cardigan, led his horse in a passage directly below the balcony. Both man and horse bowed their heads to their monarch. The Queen clapped and smiled, but Katie saw James roll his eyes. She had to agree with him. There was something about the scrupulously dressed Earl of Cardigan that Katie did not like. Perhaps it was his bristling ginger moustache, or his air of extreme arrogance. She got the feeling she wouldn’t like him to be her commander. He looked as if he might be a bully.
For Jack, though, this was a day of high adventure. As the Light Brigade moved away, he reined his horse in, ever so slightly, and against all military rules, waved up to the balcony. Both Grace’s and Katie’s hands shot up in return. ‘Goodbye, dear Jack,’ Grace said softly. ‘God bless you. And come back to me safe and well.’ As the cavalry disappeared, on their way to Waterloo Station, the band struck up again.
But someday I’ll return again
If rebels they don’t find me
And never will I roam again
From the girl I left behind me.
Directly behind the scarlet and blue uniforms, the glinting lances and the rousing music, came the camp followers. These were the soldiers’ wives, the lucky ones, chosen by a draw to accompany their men. The women were shabbily dressed and lugged bundles like pack mules. Amongst them Katie could see one man. He marched along cheerfully, his huge leather boots swinging to the music. In his mouth he clenched a smoking pipe that tipped dangerously towards his enormous curly black beard. A rakish cap was pulled down low on his forehead. As one woman stumbled, he reached forward, took her arm, and then relieved her of her bundle – slinging it over his back despite his own burdens.
DuQuelle laughed aloud. ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ he said. ‘If William Howard Russell is with them, they’ll come to no harm.’
‘William Howard Russell?’ Katie asked as the bearded man doffed his cap and bowed exaggeratedly to a stony-faced Queen.
‘Russell of The Times,’ DuQuelle explained, ‘The Times of London. He’s their correspondent covering the war. Not that the politicians or the establishment want a newspaper writer in the Crimea; but where there’s trouble, Billy Russell will report it. He is the hero of the downtrodden, and those soldiers’ wives look as if they could use a helping hand.’
Along the balcony, Prince Albert did not seem to share DuQuelle’s sanguine view. As Russell bowed, the Prince turned away in contempt. ‘Miserable scribbler,’ he murmured, as Russell cheered the women.
Prince Leopold could no longer contain himself. The pomp, the glory, the sheer excitement of the military parade had gone to his head. ‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ he exclaimed to his tutor. ‘When I grow up I’m going to be a soldier!’
Felix, overhearing him, laughed his particularly harsh, unpleasant laugh.
‘You, a soldier!’ he cried. ‘When you can hardly walk, much less march. I leave soon, to find glory. You will not even be able to leave your bed. What an absurd idea!’
‘Leopold is better every day,’ Alice piped up, looking at her brother’s miserable, crestfallen face. ‘And even if he cannot be a soldier, I am certain he will help with the war effort in some other way.’
‘Come Felix,’ Vicky said sharply. ‘You must learn to hold your tongue. If you continue in that rude way, there will be no war for you.’
Felix, with his disagreeable manner, had punctured the high excitement of the day. The Royal Family began to leave the balcony, Alice holding Leopold’s hand as he was pushed indoors by the Reverend Robinson Duckworth.
‘I can’t say I am sorry to see young Felix go,’ the Queen was heard to say. ‘That boy is not ideal. Aside from our beloved Frederick William, there is an occasional unpleasantness in the Prussian national character – so brusque, an indelicate aggression . . .’ Prince Albert nodded as they trailed inside. Katie gave the crowds below one final glance, catching sight of something she’d rather not see. It was Lord Twisted, leaning against a column, deep in conversation with a slim, sinuous man. Lord Twisted looked both sullen and fearful. The other man swayed in a graceful yet somehow repulsive way. It was Lord Belzen.
Bernardo DuQuelle sniffed the air and shivered. He did not care for the cold, and it was bitter this morning. Besides, he’d seen too much of history, too much of war to believe blindly in its glory. He’d had enough. ‘If war is to commence, there is much for me to do,’ he said, making his apologies and bowing to those still remaining. To Katie he murmured, ‘At our very feet stands something f
ar more dangerous than all the Queen’s brigades. I suggest we move inside.’
‘And what have you to do?’ Felix sneered at DuQuelle as he went past. ‘Must you dust the Royal Art Collection, or update the Royal Archives? I am now a warrior, while you are nothing. You are no Mars. There are no manly duties for you.’
Those remaining were quiet, shocked at Felix’s behaviour. But DuQuelle looked at him – not with anger, but with pity. ‘Poor child,’ he said. ‘There are different ways of being a man. And heroic actions do not always require the blare of the trumpet and the roar of the cannon.’ Felix, white with fury, stormed from the balcony.
DuQuelle shook his head, watching him go. ‘Poor boy,’ he repeated, ‘not really a boy at all. Not anymore.’ Katie opened her mouth, but DuQuelle continued. ‘I know, my dear, I know. Felix has no hopes for glory, no plans for heroism. Quite the reverse, I fear.’
Chapter Ten
Lucia
For Bernardo DuQuelle, it was a war on two fronts. Yes, the Crimea was of consequence, but only in this time, in this particular universe. Elsewhere, another war raged, a war of thousands of years – not between countries or peoples, religions or races, but a war, chilling in its simplicity, a war between good and evil. In comparison, the Crimean expedition was tiny; a pebble in the shoe of history. But throw a small pebble into a vast body of water, and it will create ever-expanding rings. So it was with this war between the British and the Russians. It could bring into motion a war to end, not just this world but many worlds.
‘If war is to commence,’ he said again, ‘there is much for me to do. I will need all kinds of knowledge: history, comment and philosophy. One must be well informed if one is to guide Lucia.’ The Royal Family would now be busy at breakfast: kippers and sausages, haddock in puff pastry, mutton, Scottish woodcock, and a large wobbly jelly in the centre of the table. The Queen, in particular, believed in a hearty breakfast; and she was certain to have built up an appetite. It would be hours before they were done. He was free to begin his vital work.
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