The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  Again, Grace, here’s to your health. My duty to Father. Tell little Riordan less cake and more lessons will do him good. For James I recommend more cake and fewer lessons. Too much studying will stunt his growth. My respectful wishes to the Princess Alice; she is so kind to you, perhaps she would take out her globes and maps, to show you the lands where we camp. And as for your friend, Miss Katherine Tappan – she has told me not to address her directly . . .

  With all my brotherly affection,

  Your Jack

  Grace handed the letter to Katie. ‘My eyesight isn’t terribly strong,’ she said. ‘Would you mind glancing through the letter? To make certain I have missed nothing?’ Katie took the letter, and stared down at Jack’s boyish scrawl. As she began to read, it was as if she’d left Grace’s room. The bed, the billowing curtains, the night table with its books, even the letter in her hand – they were all gone.

  She was in Scutari. She could see the men, sprawled under the trees in the spring sunshine. She could smell the sweat pouring through their unwashed shirts, and the smoke of hasty campfires. Their talk was rough, and their laughter sharp; but it was a relaxed and happy camp, a camp of men excited at the prospect of a quick and easy victory. If only they could corner the Russians.

  Princess Alice gave her friend a troubled look. ‘Katie, Katie, where have you gone? You seem a thousand miles away.’ Katie did not respond, and Alice got up to shake her gently.

  ‘I can see it,’ Katie said, as her eyes slowly focused on Princess Alice.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘Despite being that bit too ribald, Jack does describe it all so nicely.’

  ‘No,’ Katie said. ‘It’s like something else. I don’t know anything about this war; we don’t study it in my school. I do remember seeing a book about it once, but that’s it. I’ve picked up that you side with the French and the Turks and it’s against Russia, and it takes place in the Crimea. But that’s all I know. But when I read Jack’s letter I can really, truly see it, I can smell it.’ She ran her tongue across her teeth. Her mouth was dry and sour and hot. ‘I can even taste it.’

  Alice squeezed her friend’s shoulder. ‘It might be the power,’ she said, ‘the Tempus. The words do something to you. I believe it’s tangled up with your gift.’

  Grace looked at the two girls. ‘This must be yet another part of my treatment,’ she said, ‘this mystery about Katie. It makes me so curious; it really does quicken my brain.’ Alice started to reply, but Grace put her hand up. ‘Katie is special,’ she said. ‘And when I know her better, she will tell me all about it herself. But until that time, I will wait. Now tell me something else: what do you think of my Jack?’

  ‘This is the part I find most mysterious,’ Princess Alice said. ‘I can be rather blinkered about these things, but it’s obvious, even to me, that Jack wrote that letter for Katie to hear. I didn’t know they’d met. And it certainly wasn’t for a length of time to make such intimacy acceptable.’

  Perhaps it had been the European tour, but Grace was less shocked. ‘You are quite correct in your decorum, Princess Alice,’ she said solemnly. ‘Jack has been too eager to make a friend of Katie. But then, my dears, there is a war, and he is young. Don’t you think we should forgive him? And grant his wish that Katie should hear his letters?’

  Katie interrupted. ‘I am here, you know,’ she said. ‘I can explain things myself.’ She turned to Alice. ‘I met Jack after the presentation. I didn’t think it was a big deal. At least, he was leaving, and I wasn’t sure he was talking to me the way he should and I told him he couldn’t write to me but anyway, he is James’s brother, and Grace’s brother too, and little Riordan’s big brother, and . . . well, I felt like I knew him already. I mean, I liked him the way I like you and James and . . .’ Every time she talked of Jack, she seemed to trail off lamely.

  Grace was laughing. ‘Katie has shown no impropriety,’ she told Alice, ‘or at least no more than is normal for her. Jack knows I will read her the letters. I imagine now that my gallant brother will become quite the correspondent!’

  All this teasing made Katie grumpy. She liked Jack, even more so after his letter. But she didn’t want to be a Victorian girl, mocked about her beau. James would hate it too, and her friendship with James counted for a lot. Besides, there were more important things afoot in the Palace than a wartime flirtation. Felix was about to depart for battle, to do the dirty work of Belzen.

  There was little time for brooding. The bouncing tread of a small boy reverberated through the sitting room, and with a leap Riordan was on Grace’s bed, pulling her curls and rifling through her pockets. ‘You have a letter from Jack,’ he cried. ‘I want to hear! I want to hear! I wager he’s killed all the Russians already!’

  Grace began to read, editing out the parts unsuitable for such young ears, and Princess Alice settled down to hear Jack’s adventures yet again. But Katie retreated to her own room. She could still hear the gruff shouts of the men, and see them lazing in the sun. It was as if she was sitting next to Jack, watching him write the letter. She could see him frowning in concentration, then laughing at the thought of little Riordan eating too much cake. Jack might be unsettling, in a boy-meets-girl kind of way, but the scene in her mind was of far greater worry. Though the sun was shining on Scutari, there was one ominous dark cloud. It continued to move, lazily, towards the military camp. And then a shadow fell on Jack’s half-written letter.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Challenge

  On the surface, life continued uneventfully at the Palace. Each morning Katie had breakfast with Grace, while James absentmindedly drank some tea, took Grace’s pulse and checked her vital signs.

  ‘I am well, James,’ Grace protested, ‘now, do sit down and eat a proper breakfast with us.’

  Katie agreed. ‘You can poke and prod Grace and thumb your books all day, James,’ she said. ‘But Grace is getting pretty healthy; you can see it in her eyes.’ When Katie had first met Grace, they were enormous, glittering, desperate eyes. Now they twinkled, if not with full health, at least with mirth.

  Princess Alice came to see them mid-morning, and they all went for a walk in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. She’d had a private chat about Grace with her beloved father, Prince Albert. Unlike the rest of her family, the Prince approved of Alice’s interest in nursing. He thought it an excellent skill for women of all classes, as long as it was not taken to an immodest level. ‘Young Grace is fatigued,’ he said, accepting Dr O’Reilly’s incorrect valuation of the case. ‘She needs rest and nourishment, but I think you are right to suggest moderate exercise.’

  Alice had smiled, and taking her father’s hand, held it to her cheek. ‘You look fatigued as well, Father,’ she had said, gazing up at him with her serious grey eyes. ‘Perhaps you need to be nursed too.’

  Prince Albert laughed and rubbed his temples with his long pale hand, a larger version of Princess Alice’s small one. ‘It is this war,’ he said. ‘It’s more complex than the British would have it. I am harried, night and day, by Lord Palmerston. Proposal after proposal on the war; he continues to pretend he is still Foreign Secretary. I am awake all hours, counteracting his directives. The Queen complains that I am wearing myself out. If you are the nurse, then I must listen. I will get more rest.’

  So each day Alice, Katie, James and Grace set out – to the lake, the rose gardens, the bedded plants, or the stone follies. As Grace leaned on James’s arm, walking through the flower gardens of the Palace, her troubles receded. But Katie’s problems multiplied. It had to do with Jack’s letters. Every week or so, Grace took one from her pocket and, seating herself on a stone bench amongst the roses, read aloud to her enthralled friends.

  Varna, August 1854

  My dearest Grace:

  The cholera is amongst us! It is rampant in the Light Division and sixteen men have died of it this day in the Rifles. The men are doubled over in muscle cramps, lying in their own effusions. To hear their cries, their high-pitched, faint voices,
calling in thirst, begging for wine or water. Hundreds of men lay in camp before me. I see them through the haze of such intense summer heat, their eyes sunken, their hands and feet filthy and wrinkled. The disease comes on so rapidly, it is so fierce, the poor men age fifty years in five hours. I am glad you cannot see what I see.

  The medical care for the British troops is almost non-existent. The French have set up bakeries with fresh bread – they have tents with medical supplies – their men are tended by nurses, sisters of charity in their starched white kerchiefs. We have nothing; sparse rations and no medical supplies to speak of. Our bluff army surgeons are ready to saw off a limb at a moment’s notice, but useless in comforting a man in his last minutes. Billy Russell says it is a crime, a form of murder, that the British do not have proper nurses. Grace, we have lived in a doctor’s household, so I do not hold back in describing these horrors. There must be some women, so trained in England. Perhaps, if you soften the tone, you could discuss the situation with Princess Alice. She has a keen interest in nursing, and the ear of Prince Albert. Talk to James too. See what he suggests. It is best to avoid Father. He does not believe in female nurses. He says no woman has the stomach for war.

  Please let your friend Miss Katherine Tappan know that I am one of the fortunate few in good health, even if my spirits are shaken. If she were here, I wager she’d start ripping linens for bandages and boiling water. She might even face up to Lord Raglan and command ‘strike camp, forrrward march!’ And we would all follow. The sooner we leave this godforsaken site, the better.

  Tell James I will never tease him about his books again. I can only watch the men die, knowing full well that he has the knowledge to save them. And take care of dear Riordan, his little life is precious to me. I hope your friend Miss Katherine Tappan is as merry and audacious as ever. The thought of her makes me laugh, at a time when I can barely raise a smile.

  With all my brotherly affection,

  Your Jack

  What could they say? The only sound was a tinkling fountain, as Grace passed the letter to Katie. Within months, Jack’s merry military encampment had become the sickroom of the Baltics. James stared at the ground, and kicked gravel into the tidy flower beds.

  Alice listened with quiet concentration, but for once lost her self-control. ‘Oh, that I were a man!’ she cried, eyes flared, cheeks red. ‘Or that I had the training to aid those men in need. The French provide everything for their men: wholesome food and the care of proper nurses – gentlewomen from religious orders. Yet we, the so modern British, feel our women are too delicate, too fragile to nurse. We must do something. James, tell me what to do!’

  James looked closely at Alice, who was alight with indignation. It made her very pretty.

  ‘We must find the right person to talk to,’ he said. ‘Not your father – not Prince Albert – but someone in the government who is naturally sympathetic to our cause. Much as I dislike this course of action, I think we must go to Bernardo DuQuelle.’

  Alice nodded, regaining some calm. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘He knows everyone and everything. If we can get him to take us seriously, he will help. What do you think Katie?’

  But Katie was no longer with them. Clutching Jack’s letter, she stared – not at it but through it. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, her bushy black hair curled damply around her neck. Her breathing was harsh and quick. ‘There must be water,’ she murmured. ‘Somewhere in this godforsaken place, there must be water.’ She looked up wildly, but did not see her friends. ‘You can’t just leave him dying in the sun!’ she cried, and unwinding her light shawl, threw it up into the air. ‘Take this,’ she commanded, ‘improvise some kind of tent; try to make him cool and comfortable. And damn it, there must be some water!’

  Grace stood up and started to say something, but James put out a restraining hand. ‘It gets worse when she reads,’ he said. ‘I think this is like sleepwalking; and I’ve read that one must never wake a sleepwalker. It affects their heart rate.’

  Katie paced the gravel path, talking and talking, into thin air; and then stopped to stare down at the letter.

  ‘Perhaps if we take the letter,’ Alice suggested. The letter was tight in Katie’s grasp. Taking her friend’s hands, Alice stroked them in her own, until Katie’s finger’s loosened. Slowly and gently, she pulled the letter from Katie, and folding it twice, handed it to James. Katie stood very still, her wild voice subsiding to a murmur. Alice guided her to the bench, and again, with the greatest gentleness, helped her to sit down.

  Grace watched them all attentively. Someday James would explain this strangeness of Katie’s, and she trusted him enough to wait. As for James and Alice, it had not escaped her how well the two of them worked together. Gradually Katie began to regain her normal self. With a shake of her head, she turned to her friends and wiped the sweat and tears from her face. ‘The soldier,’ she said, ‘he’s going to die.’

  ‘I know, my dear,’ Alice said softly. ‘We are trying to help, I promise. We’re asking Bernardo DuQuelle to help.’

  ‘And he’d better help with Katie too,’ James added. ‘Yes, she’s the Tempus, the Chosen, but chosen for what – to frighten the rest of us, I think.’ The little group was shaken. This war in the Crimea was not going well. And Katie’s gifts were stirring in a troublesome way.

  The uneasy stillness was broken by footfall on the gravel. Someone else was walking in the Palace gardens. They could hear him before they could see him. Bernardo DuQuelle’s voice was low, but easy to recognize. There was an archness, an irony in his tone, that was both entertaining and irritating.

  ‘I do not expect you to confide in me,’ he was saying to his companion, ‘as I know you are the soul of discretion. And I do sympathize with the danger of your position. All I ask is that you reconsider. Think of yourself for once.’

  Before DuQuelle’s companion could answer, they turned into the narrow path and came face to face with Katie and her friends. DuQuelle immediately ceased his conversation and bowed low to Princess Alice. He looked singularly out of place in the bright sun of high summer. His white skin took on a chalky grey hue, and the creases of his face could have been carved from old ivory.

  But the biggest surprise was his companion. It was Lord Twisted, groomed and moustachioed to within an inch of his life – all lavender gloves and pomaded hair; the least discreet and unselfish man at court. He looked relieved that this tête-à-tête with DuQuelle had been interrupted, and doubly so when he spied Grace. She was very lovely, and so very young – really just leaving girlhood. Out of duty, he bowed to Princess Alice, but ignoring James and Katie, spoke only to Grace.

  ‘Ah, Miss O’Reilly,’ he exclaimed, ‘I have heard reports from my daughter of your return to health. And now I see it – no, feast upon it – with my own eyes! There was a time when we thought this great beauty was to be taken cruelly from our grasp. Your father is to be applauded for his medical skills. He has vouchsafed a goddess for us mere mortals.’

  James looked furious, and Grace hardly less so; but before anyone could respond, Felix came skidding around the corner, spraying gravel into the group before him. He was, as always, in ill humour. ‘How dare you leave me?’ he spat at Lord Twisted. ‘If you are to be my guide, you must stay by my side and do as I tell you!’

  Lord Twisted winced, but carefully arranged his face into one of concern. Katie felt that dull pain behind her eyes that Felix always brought on.

  Only Bernardo DuQuelle smiled down at the blond curls. ‘But Master Felix,’ he remonstrated. ‘You were so occupied sailing your toy boats on the lake. We didn’t wish to disturb your child’s play.’

  This made Felix even angrier. He was growing up; and to be ridiculed as a baby, in front of the other young people, was unbearable. ‘I was not playing with toy boats,’ he practically shrieked. ‘I was planning a naval attack on the Baltic seaports. I was seeing how the little boats could fire upon the people on shore. I am going to war. I will triumph in battle, whil
e you make garlands of roses. I will be killing your enemies, while you make polite conversation. I am a brave soldier! None of you are the least bit brave!’

  It was a shocking way to speak. Alice pursed her lips and James looked as if he might throw Felix to the ground. Bernardo DuQuelle, having egged the child on, leaned back and watched impassively. But it was Grace who responded. The colour had drained from her face, except for two round red spots on each cheek. ‘I know of brave soldiers,’ she said. ‘Every week I receive a letter from one of the bravest. He does not boast or berate. He does his duty manfully, God preserve him, dear Jack . . .’ Her voice trembled, and she faltered. The warmth of the day, the emotion of Jack’s letter, the strangeness of Katie’s behaviour and the sheer cruelty of Felix – it was all too much for her. Though Grace was better, she was still not well. She swayed and sank to the ground.

  Everyone sprang forward, except Katie. She was sitting very still on the bench, trying to break free of the visions. As the cholera-infested campsite faded, a new danger appeared. Through her blurred vision, Katie could see Lord Twisted. He was kneeling on the ground, with Grace in his arms. There was something highly unpleasant in the way he caressed Grace’s cheek as he smoothed her long red hair from her face. Katie wanted to stop him, but she was still too confused. Now she could see James, leaping forward, pulling Lord Twisted roughly from his sister. Felix’s high, unpleasant laugh rang through the rose garden. He seemed to feed off the hostility and anger in the scene before him. Katie stood, but felt so sick she had to sit down again.

  James was pushing Lord Twisted away from Grace; bellowing, his face contorted. ‘I don’t care how grand you are, who your father was,’ he was shouting, ‘or your grandfather, or great grandfather. You are not fit to touch the hem of my sister’s skirt.’

  ‘You! You are little more than a servant, a menial in the Palace!’ Lord Twisted pulled off his glove. He whipped it through the air, and threw it at James’s feet.