The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  He examined the sole of his thick leather boot, and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I am in the wrong profession after all. What kind of newspaper man am I? To let my best leads slip through my fingers. The Verus and the Malum, the war to end the world – you’ve given me a story so fantastical that no one would believe me. Then there’s Princes Alice, smuggled out to the Crimea as Sister Agnes, nursing her mother’s soldiers back to health. Inspiring, yes, but a story so scandalous, it would destroy not just the princess but the entire Royal Family. I don’t want that burden on my back. So I am left with Lord Twisted. The facts are plain enough there: debt, greed and arrogance led him to treachery. I’ll write such a story; he’ll rue the day he betrayed his country. As for his young ward, Felix, God help him. Miss Nightingale is rarely wrong. He might just come down with cholera.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The Journey Home

  The sea was smooth as silk. It had been agony on the outward voyage; now it was over in a flash. The Little Angel was too weak to leave her bed and stayed behind with Florence Nightingale, while Katie travelled with James and Alice. Katie longed to speak to the Little Angel – to talk over the recent events and delve into their shared secrets – but time was against her. ‘I’ve only just found you,’ Katie said, ‘and now I am leaving you. Am I ever going to learn anything?’

  The Little Angel smiled, and did manage to say a few words. ‘Don’t worry, we will meet again. You’ll be surprised who you might be meeting again. But there’s someone who needs you more right now. Katie, find a way to return to your mother.’

  Florence Nightingale booked them on the fastest steamship possible. She knew that a scandal about Princess Alice would not only ruin her life and damage the Royal Family – it would also destroy the nursing profession for decades to come. Bringing Alice to the Crimea had seemed a gamble worth taking, but she was close to losing the bet. Everything was done to ensure the three reached England safely – and in secrecy. Bernardo DuQuelle’s servants met them in Marseilles, and whisked them through France and across the Channel. They had a private train compartment to cross England, and a heavily curtained carriage met them at London Bridge.

  At last the three rattled across the cobblestones to Half Moon Street, and were bustled, unceremoniously, through the servants’ basement entrance, then up to DuQuelle’s dark study. There had been no time to rest or wash or change. Princess Alice was still in her nun’s habit, now a dull grey. James’s clothes were stained with the gore of the operating table, and Katie’s grey tweed gown was encrusted with the dirt of the battlefield.

  DuQuelle shuddered at the sight of them and held a handkerchief to his nose. His sense of smell was painfully acute. ‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Grubby,’ he added. ‘It is one of the adverse side effects of your civilization. Personally I bathe three times a day, but still the residue clings.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Katie retorted. ‘It’s like we’ve gone through all this, only to get a report on your personal hygiene.’

  James’s mouth twitched and Katie noticed that Alice did not seem too shocked. Scutari had rubbed that out of her.

  DuQuelle looked at the tattered trio before him. ‘Do excuse me. You are correct, Katie,’ he said. ‘You have gone through a great deal.’ His eyes rested on James O’Reilly. ‘And you have suffered terrible losses. If I am sharp-tongued or mocking it is only as a release. Katie, you always say I have no emotions. Well, I do. I am relieved that you have arrived safely. And now, we must return Princess Alice to the Palace, as if nothing had ever happened.’

  ‘As if nothing had happened!’ Katie cried. ‘That’s impossible. Alice can’t go back. She’s learned a lifetime in these weeks. She’s a brilliant nurse. You’ve got to let her use her abilities. And James, he can’t just return to his old life, helping his father in the Palace. The government, the officials, the army – they’re making a mess of this war in the Crimea. James can expose the blunders. I mean, he knows what happened at the Charge of the Light Brigade. I’ve told him everything. He needs to do something about it. He owes this to Jack. And Jack, I mean, I feel . . . there was the battle, no, two battles, the Verus and the Malum . . . have the Malum been defeated? I’ve found the Little Angel. She’s safe for now, but will she stay safe? . . . and Jack is gone . . . and none of us will ever, ever forget that . . .’

  Alice had tears in her eyes, and even James looked as if he might cry.

  DuQuelle realized he had pushed them too far. ‘I know, I know. Sit down, sit down . . .’ he soothed them. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Jack was a fine young man, and will be again. I believe Mary Seacole was on the battlefield? Tempus fugit, libertati viam facere . . . Jack has taken the road to freedom. Will he live again?’ DuQuelle’s comments were baffling and the three still looked miserable. ‘What was I thinking,’ he continued. ‘There is only one thing to comfort the English . . .’ He rang for his footman. ‘Tea,’ he ordered. ‘Strong and hot; and I believe cook has baked some little cakes.’

  It was always a mystery to Katie, this thing about tea. But when the tea arrived, it was a comfort. She even ate three little cakes.

  ‘And now,’ DuQuelle continued after a long silence, ‘we need to marshal our thoughts and act. Princess Alice, the Baroness Lehzen has returned from Baden-Baden, where she was gambling under an assumed name.’

  ‘Gambling?’ Alice looked puzzled. ‘I cannot believe this. The Baroness Lehzen is not a particularly nice person, but she is not a gambler.’

  DuQuelle’s eyebrow went up. ‘Well, someone has lured her into gambling.’

  Katie shot him a sideways glance. She could guess who that someone was.

  ‘She has lost a great deal of money,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘I have agreed to cover her debts and shield her identity. In exchange she will write to the Queen saying you have been in the Alps for your health, and are now on your way to Balmoral. She will accompany you, and swear to that story. As you know, the Queen has great faith in the Baroness Lehzen. She is a great Queen, but at times . . .’

  James snorted, but looked at Alice with fond concern. ‘The Princess does not look as if she’s been walking in the Swiss mountains,’ he said. ‘She looks very pale and tired.’

  DuQuelle glanced from Alice to James, and then caught Katie’s eye. He seemed to understand. ‘Nevertheless, that is the story,’ he said, a crisp note returning to his voice. ‘The Princess can stick her head out of the train window on the way to Scotland, and then I’ll order an open carriage for the rest of the journey. The Queen’s beloved fresh air – that should put some roses in Princess Alice’s cheeks.’

  Alice didn’t respond for a long time. ‘So we will be separated,’ she said finally. ‘It is a hard bond to break.’

  Katie noticed a flicker of alarm in DuQuelle’s eyes. ‘But break it you must,’ he said, ‘and the sooner, the better. It will need to be quite a lengthy separation. The Queen will convalesce at Balmoral for many months.’ Alice sipped her tea and sighed.

  ‘I’m certain my father will be at Balmoral,’ James said encouragingly. ‘I will be able to join him, as soon as I sort things out about this war. First I’ll contact the War Office, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll turn to the newspapers.’ He shot Alice a half-fearful, half-defiant look. They did not agree on the war, but they had agreed to disagree.

  ‘You will not need to contact anyone,’ DuQuelle told him. ‘It is all in hand. William Howard Russell’s account of the Charge of the Light Brigade appeared in The Times three days ago.’ He took a newspaper from a pile and passed it to them. James seized the paper, and read aloud:

  ‘They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and splendour of war . . . with courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way through the columns which enveloped them . . . to our delight we saw them returning, after breaking through a column of Russian infantry, and scattering them like chaff . . .’

  James was stormy-faced, furious. ‘This simply cannot be,’ he splu
ttered. ‘Russell’s written complete rubbish. He’s made it read like a victory, as if we should applaud the Light Brigade for throwing themselves in front of the Russian guns.’

  Princess Alice tried to placate him. ‘These words are not the truth as you see it,’ she said; ‘but there is truth in them. Jack did die a hero, and he is honoured in these words by Russell.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle turned to Katie. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.

  Katie thought of her own time. Mimi was, after all, a celebrity. Sometimes the newspapers were kind – writing about her charity projects or her New Age enthusiasms. At other times they were cruel – telling all about her string of failed marriages, ridiculing her attempts to stay a pop star despite her age. Katie remembered one particularly harsh photo of Mimi staggering out of a nightclub at 3 a.m.; the headlines shrieked ‘MIMI AT DEATH’S DOOR: AGE SERUM FAILS’. Mimi had cried for weeks, and then had a facelift. Katie felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of her mother. ‘Well, I mean, newspapers are a business,’ she said. ‘They have to sell copies, so they need to make it entertaining.’

  ‘Entertaining,’ James spoke through gritted teeth. ‘How can you, of all people, call the death of my brother entertaining.’

  Katie looked miserable. ‘James, I saw the whole thing. I know it didn’t happen like this. But Billy Russell isn’t doing a really awful thing. He’s putting a spin on it. And yes, he’s making it exciting for the readers. But, like Alice said, he’s creating a bunch of new heroes. And Jack was a hero – he was terrific. He . . .’ Katie felt as if she might cry again, but this did stem James’s fury.

  DuQuelle watched them. His face was unreadable, but his silence spelled sympathy. Finally he broke the silence. ‘Katie is right. Her flights through time sometimes give her the edge of experience. There is no point fighting the press. Even when they are wrong – and they are often wrong – they will still win.’

  James hunched over his cup of tea, while Alice discreetly took the copy of The Times from him and hid it under the other papers.

  ‘Now I have some good news for you, James O’Reilly,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘I have taken the liberty of enrolling you for a series of lectures to be given in Paris – by Auguste Comte. I know you are interested in the interdependence of the sciences; indeed, I lent you the Course of Positive Philosophy myself.’

  James sat up, interested, but he was too angry to accept gifts from DuQuelle. ‘I have duties in London. Little Riordan is here, and Grace will need me,’ he said gruffly. ‘In fact, I cannot wait any longer to see them. They will require my help.’

  ‘I notice you do not mention your father,’ DuQuelle’s face took on its arch, mocking mask. ‘You are right there; your father needs no help. He has played the loss of his son to perfection. The Queen is showering him with attentions. I even believe there is talk of a knighthood. He has taken advantage of his high favour at court and sent for young Riordan to come to Balmoral. He will now be tutored along with little Prince Arthur . . .’

  Dr O’Reilly would always put himself first, James knew that, but it didn’t make him feel any better. ‘And my sister?’ he persisted.

  DuQuelle’s face looked more human at the mention of Grace – less happy, but more human. ‘Grace did not take the news of Jack’s death well,’ he murmured. ‘She is convalescing in a sanatorium outside Paris. It is one of the best in this world. That is another reason why I chose these lectures. You will be near each other. You can visit her daily.’

  ‘It does make sense,’ Alice agreed. ‘And I envy you the lectures. Even I have heard of Comte’s new science. He calls it “sociology”, and it sounds fascinating. You must write and tell me all.’

  As Alice approved the plan, James thought it might be best to go. ‘I will send you the lectures word for word,’ he told her. ‘I will write to you every day.’

  Both Katie and DuQuelle looked uncomfortable. ‘My personal view is that Comte is a rather silly philosopher,’ DuQuelle said. ‘It’s all very fine to link things together – but to create a new religion, new holidays, and new saints – St Shakespeare! St Adam Smith! But then, James, you might become one of the new elite industrialists – St James O’Reilly, I can see it now . . .’ They all laughed at this. But Alice sighed again.

  ‘Princess, I can see you are afraid of what is to come: a life divided between social visits and embroidery,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘How can you have learned so much, travelled so far, and simply return to your old life?’

  Katie couldn’t help but notice how Alice had aged. The hands, always slender, were now so thin, and the bones of her face jutted from the stark outline of her wimple. DuQuelle, too, looked at her with something that smacked slightly of concern . . . and affection. ‘What you need, my dear Princess is rest,’ he said gently. ‘But it is your nature to comfort others, without comforting yourself. So I have taken the step of corresponding with Lord Aberdeen. He is setting up a dispensary for the poor in Deeside, not far from Balmoral. I have told him of your interest and training in medicine – not, of course, about Scutari, but of the instruction you have received in the Palace. I believe he will recommend to Prince Albert that you help this new institution in some important way.’

  Alice was pleased. ‘Do you think my father will agree?’

  DuQuelle smiled, ever so faintly. ‘I think it is in all our best interests for him to agree. I will persevere.’

  Katie glanced around – at the firelight flickering through the book-filled room; at DuQuelle’s face, not unlike the wooden figures carved in the ancient furniture; at Alice, pale but resigned; at James, so sad still, but excited by his life of the mind. ‘What about me?’ she thought. ‘Is there nothing for me?’ She must have said it out loud, because everyone turned to her, and the only other sound was the leaping fire.

  ‘You will go to Paris with me,’ James said gruffly, ‘and continue to care for Grace.’

  ‘If Grace needs her, of course,’ Alice said. ‘Though I’d like Katie to come to Balmoral. I am less than happy when we are apart and there’s so much we could achieve together.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle turned to Katie. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  Katie looked at her friends, and then stared down at DuQuelle’s beautifully polished shoes. She didn’t answer, but raised another question. ‘How ill is Grace?’

  DuQuelle nodded to himself, as if Katie had passed some sort of test. ‘She is ill,’ he said ‘but she is in capable hands. The Sisters of Mercy are quite progressive in their treatments. I’ve sent them detailed notes of your care of Grace. They are quite impressed. They will follow your lead.’

  ‘Now you can answer, Katie,’ Alice said gently, taking her friend’s hand, ‘though I fear I already know what you will say.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ Katie burst out. ‘There’s something going on there, something really wrong. I keep dreaming about Mimi. And I had some kind of vision in the Crimea, some hocus-pocus with Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole . . . it’s all kind of fuzzy. I’m not really needed here now – not by Grace, not by Riordan. DuQuelle doesn’t need anyone, and you and James have each other – well, kind of, I mean, not really but . . .’

  Everyone looked a bit embarrassed. DuQuelle stepped in. ‘Yes, you’re all very keen on being needed. Though I thank you for placing me above hoi polloi,’ he said as he sniffed the air. ‘I think Katie is right to take leave of us. I too fear something is amiss in Apartment 11C.’

  Anxiety pulsed through Katie.

  ‘Then we’re agreed,’ she said. ‘James will go to Paris, Alice to Balmoral, and I’m off to New York City circa the twenty-first century.’ She turned to Alice, preparing herself for a hard goodbye.

  But Bernardo DuQuelle stopped her. ‘I’m not quite certain,’ he said.

  Katie gave him a sharp look. ‘Not quite certain of what?’

  ‘I’m at a loss, unsure how to return you . . .’ He seemed unmoved by this disclosure. His heavy lids drooped over eyes that showed no remorse.r />
  ‘But you knew how to get her here,’ James exclaimed. ‘You must know how to get her back.’

  DuQuelle almost smiled. Katie thought about hitting him. ‘I knew how to plant the seeds of Katie’s visit,’ he said. ‘It was always up to Katie to harvest them.’ He could be infuriatingly cryptic.

  ‘Well, start planting seeds again,’ Katie said.

  ‘Is it that urgent, that you leave?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Alice, I just know something is wrong at home. My mother, she’s not like your mother.’

  James made a sound between a bark and a snort. ‘Sometimes, Katie, I do think you’re dim,’ he said. ‘Of course your mothers are not the same. Alice’s mother is the Queen.’

  Katie turned her back on him. ‘Mimi doesn’t have a house filled with servants. She doesn’t have millions of children and she really, really doesn’t have a loving and devoted husband,’ Katie explained. ‘She just has me and she needs me. That’s it – the bottom line.’

  ‘Yes, we understand now. If you think she’s in danger, then you must return, immediately,’ Alice said. She looked up at Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘I know you can do this.’

  DuQuelle’s face was still impassive. ‘It might be that bit easier,’ he said, ‘now that I’ve heard Katie say those words. Need has a great magnetic force.’

  James got down on his hands and knees and began to rummage through Katie’s belongings. He didn’t look too happy about touching some of her stuff, but he had been amputating limbs not a week ago and had handled worse. ‘The last time Katie travelled through some letter Princess Alice wrote, and returned by her own diary,’ James muttered. ‘There must be something in here that she’s written. And she’s got the walking stick. Isn’t that important somehow? Is there anything you have, DuQuelle?’