The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  Grace took her little brother by the arm and dragged him away, and was soon whirling across the floor with him. Thank goodness for Grace. Jack might have died, but James still had his loving older sister and his impish brother Riordan. Katie had thought a party like this would be decorous, but it was turning out to be dramatic.

  There was a soft ‘ahem’ behind her. It was Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘You are standing alone on the dance floor,’ he said. ‘Abandonment, that is more shameful than being a wallflower. You must be rescued immediately. May I have this dance?’

  ‘Really? This just isn’t my night, is it?’ Katie said. But she put her arms out anyway.

  DuQuelle shook his head. ‘Not the most gracious of acceptances, but what I would expect of you.’ And taking her in his arms, they began to waltz. Even Katie, who was clumsy and inexperienced, knew she was dancing with an expert. At times she feared him and dreaded being near him, but that tiny corner of female within her was pleased to have a good partner.

  Bernardo DuQuelle glided and whirled across the floor, tails flying behind him. If Katie stumbled or tripped, he righted her immediately, making it look like a part of the dance.

  ‘I can’t believe how good you are,’ she said.

  DuQuelle actually laughed. ‘The compliment is always backwards with you. Praise with a bit of poison attached. You have to realize, I have had more time than most to study the art of the dance. I worked with Lully on the composition of wonderful ballets for Louis XIV at Versailles. Who do you think made him the Sun King?’ Bernardo DuQuelle gazed into a distant past. This always gave Katie the creeps. She was almost used to travelling back to the nineteenth century, but DuQuelle went even further and no one else could follow.

  DuQuelle moved Katie into a reverse turn. Something was amusing him greatly. ‘Is it my dancing?’ she asked.

  ‘That is entertaining,’ DuQuelle conceded, ‘but I am most amused by the youngest of the gentlemen in this room. They don’t seem able to concentrate on their partners at all. Their eyes seek others.’ He turned Katie so that she could see James, dancing with Grace but glaring at Alice, now dancing with Louis of Hesse. DuQuelle turned again, and over his shoulder she could see John Reillson staring straight at her. Suddenly she wanted to dance beautifully, to look graceful.

  She should have remembered, DuQuelle could read her mind. He drummed his gloved fingers lightly on the back of her hand. ‘Listen to the music,’ he said. ‘Look into my eyes.’ She did so, and they glittered green. Suddenly her legs grew lighter, her feet less cumbersome, as she skimmed across the floor. Katie’s shoulders went back and her head up. She twirled and whirled and dipped and spun. She could dance, and it was like flying. It was truly magical.

  ‘Now John Reillson really does have something to look at,’ DuQuelle commented. Katie scanned his face. Though he would smile and banter and sometimes laugh, there was always that waxwork quality to DuQuelle.

  ‘You invited him here, tonight,’ she said. ‘Sonny, Sonny-Jack, John Reillson – whatever he’s called. What are you up to, DuQuelle?’

  His face stiffened and he slowed the dance. ‘I was hoping he would take this opportunity to ingratiate himself to the Queen and Prince Albert. To put his best foot forward at a ball, so to speak. But instead he has concentrated all of his efforts on his old friend, Miss Katherine Tappan. Youth will be youth, and sometimes there is no guiding them to sense.’

  Katie looked again at John Reillson. He had been approached by the Lord Chamberlain, who was speaking to him quite emphatically. It wasn’t a conversation of festive pleasantries. Something was wrong.

  DuQuelle twirled Katie to a stop directly beside them. ‘Is there a problem?’ DuQuelle asked. The Lord Chamberlain eyed him. Bernardo DuQuelle, his equal in stature as far as the Court went, but there was something about him . . . so many rumors . . .

  ‘The young man is a part of the Unionist Delegation, I believe?’ the Lord Chamberlain asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said DuQuelle, ‘a very young member of the delegation, really too young and impressionable to be exposed to our daring English ladies.’

  Even overlooking the slight on the beauties of his kingdom, the Lord Chamberlain was not amused. ‘I am afraid the young man must leave immediately,’ he stated with pomp.

  DuQuelle stopped his teasing. ‘Couldn’t this wait?’ he asked. ‘The Christmas Ball at Windsor Castle – surely a social occasion such as this . . .’

  The Lord Chamberlain was not interested in compromise. ‘There has been a major breach in diplomatic relations between the United States and Great Britain; between the Unionists of the North and Britain to be more exact.’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ DuQuelle said. ‘Britain has not recognized the Southern Confederacy and has declared itself neutral in this civil war. The Americas’ battles do not concern us.’

  The Lord Chamberlain was not the kind of man to make a mistake. He became even stiffer as he addressed Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘The Union of the North has violated Britain’s declaration of neutrality,’ he said. ‘One of their warships has halted a British paddle steamer, the RMS Trent. The Union has fired shots, thereby taking our ship by force. Union soldiers have boarded the Trent and removed passengers. They have taken prisoner the two new commissioners the Southern Confederacy was sending to our country. The men and their secretaries are now incarcerated in Fort Warren, in Boston.’

  Katie couldn’t quite take it in. ‘Is this serious?’ she asked.

  The Lord Chamberlain glanced at her with disapproval. He was a man who lived for propriety. He believed in rules and status quo. He’d attended Katie’s court presentation and still cringed at the memory. Her upstart questions were true to form. He ignored her, turning to Bernardo DuQuelle and saying, ‘The Prime Minister has been informed. He is furious. He views this as a major violation of maritime law.’

  John Reillson explained it to Katie. ‘This is serious,’ he said, ‘such a rash action. Who knows what the consequences will be? Our presence at the Queen’s ball could cause further insult. If you will excuse me, I must find my Ambassador.’ He bowed low – not to the Lord Chamberlain or Bernardo DuQuelle, but to Katie. ‘We will meet again,’ he whispered, ‘I promise.’

  The final quadrille of the evening began. For Katie, the ball was drained of gaiety, but DuQuelle bowed and took her hand. ‘We must finish the dance,’ he said, ‘even if we are dancing on the precipice.’

  The Queen and Prince Albert took their places at the head of the figure. The hour was late, but the Queen was still smiling up at her Prince. Despite her protestations, she really did love a party. And there was still the theatrical pantomime to come. Prince Albert was decidedly less animated. There were dark circles under his eyes. His once luxurious black hair was receding and streaked with grey. He was a man who longed for his bed, or at least to be back at his desk, working diligently at the endless red government boxes.

  The rippling notes of ‘Le Pantalon’ rang out across the dance floor. Almost numbly Katie curtsied, rotating through the dance. At one point she moved forward, into a deep reverence before Prince Albert. He looked drawn and anxious, dancing automatically while glancing over Katie’s shoulder towards some commotion at the other end of the dance figure.

  She followed his glance. It was a cluster of men, not quite arguing, but in dispute. Lord Twisted was there. He seemed to be asking Sir Brendan to leave the dance, to give his place up to another dancer. At first Sir Brendan would not budge. But when the substitute dancer came forward, Sir Brendan blanched white and retired, not just from the dance, but from the ballroom. When Katie saw for herself, she almost dropped to the floor.

  It had to be him. As always, he looked the gentleman: slender, of medium height and dressed with great elegance. His dancing partner was highly gratified by her catch. But Katie knew better. As he bowed, his neck arched and seemed to elongate. His head moved sideways in a strange, sly manner. His eyes darted in another direction. Though he danced with grace, there was something sl
inking and repulsive in his movement. It was the person, or thing, that Katie dreaded most. Lord Belzen.

  The quadrille continued and the couples formed two lines. They advanced and retreated in stately formation. Then they turned and swirled and regrouped. Couple after couple advanced up the line, to bow to the Queen and her beloved Prince.

  Katie watched Lord Belzen, so smiling, so evil, coming forward in his turn. What would happen when he reached the Queen? She feared it would be catastrophic. Katie must stop him. She tried to break out of the dance, but just then Lord Belzen lifted his head with the eerie swaying movement and looked at her. Something surged through Katie, leaping and black. She did not break the chain of the dance. She did not warn the Queen.

  Midnight was near. The dancers smiled and nodded. The Christmas season would bring much cheer. And then, Lord Belzen danced forward, bowing before the Queen. Turning his head at that awkward angle he caught Prince Albert’s eye and held his gaze. The Prince stared back, the colour draining from his face. Sweat broke out in cold white pearls on his forehead. His shaking hand went up, trying to loosen his collar as his breath came fast in pants. The Prince stepped backwards, trying to look away and break the link to Belzen, dragging the Queen with him.

  The Queen looked up, a mixture of annoyance and concern on her face. She reached to her husband and turned his head, finally severing Belzen’s connection. Albert would not take care of his health. He worked so hard that he couldn’t even enjoy a party any more. She could have danced all night.

  ‘You are fatigued and the room is too hot. All you need is a good night’s rest,’ she said reassuringly. ‘We will cancel the theatrical performance and retire immediately.’ With a reluctant glance at the revelries around her, the Queen took Prince Albert by the arm. As they passed, Katie could hear the Prince, gasping slightly and muttering in wonder.

  ‘It was that man. Where have I seen him before? When he looked at me, it was as if a shard of ice did pierce my heart.’

  The quadrille gave way to a rousing polka. As the bells chimed midnight, the couples romped and laughed, unaware of what had happened. The women were still beautiful and the men still dashing. The bright ballroom at Windsor still twinkled with chandeliers and Christmas lights. But for Katie, the world was far from merry and bright. James came quickly to her side, his grumpiness transformed to a more mature concern.

  DuQuelle shook his head. ‘The Queen is wrong. It will take more than a good night’s rest to repair this Prince. Belzen’s damage has been done. Katie, find Princess Alice and bring her to her father’s private rooms. James, gather your medical bag and come with me – perhaps your medicines can help Prince Albert, I do not know.’

  Chapter Ten

  Life or Death

  The morning of 1 December arrived; a morning wiped of pre-Christmas joy. The night before had taken its toll. Everyone knew: Prince Albert was ill, again. Servants ran on tip-toe, clearing up after the ball, while keeping their voices down. Footmen stacked chairs and hauled away decorations as quietly as they could. The remains of the bountiful feast were dispatched to the poor.

  The Queen persisted in believing it was nothing; just the usual cold. Her husband would be fine. At her insistence, Prince Albert was dressed and out of bed. He lay on the sofa in his study, eyes closed. The Queen veered between imploring him to ‘buck up’ and pleading with him to ‘rest, mein Lieber’. She was a terrible nurse.

  She did, however, bow to his request for quiet and privacy, though her idea of privacy meant keeping the children away. The courtiers, upon whom she was so reliant, still came and went. The Royal Physician, Sir Brendan O’Reilly, was in attendance, aided by his son James. The Queen’s ladies-in-waiting clustered around, clutching their needlework. The Queen’s Pekinese dog ran in and out of the room.

  And Bernardo DuQuelle hovered, much to the annoyance of Prince Albert. DuQuelle’s affectations irritated him in the best of times, and he had never felt worse. The strange events of the night before had disturbed Prince Albert’s methodical mind. He needed solitude, so that he could dissect and analyse. What exactly had happened? But it was impossible to concentrate with DuQuelle watching him and practically reading his thoughts.

  Banned from the sickroom, Katie and Alice had retired to the safety of the schoolroom. There would be no lessons for the younger children that day; the governesses and nursemaids were recovering from the jollities of the night before, and the Queen was too involved with her husband to think of her children. Alice had been ordered to help with the Christmas gifts for the Queen’s innumerable servants. And though she longed to be with her father, she would carry out the duty assigned to her. They sat before a table, which was covered in trinkets. Alice, with a very long checklist, was wrapping and labelling each present painstakingly.

  ‘Why doesn’t the Queen just let him go to bed?’ Katie asked. ‘I mean, she loves your father so much. She even said he needs to rest.’

  Alice took up a pretty work-basket and tied a bright tartan ribbon around its handle. ‘The Queen has such robust health herself,’ she explained. ‘My mother doesn’t understand illness. To be honest, she feels my father is slightly weak when it comes to his health. She is impatient and wishes he would try harder.’

  Katie began to sort walnuts and oranges into little gauze bags. ‘He looks pretty ill to me,’ she said. ‘And it’s not just a cold. It’s something much worse, because Belzen is involved. You didn’t see what happened last night. Even Bernardo DuQuelle is worried.’

  ‘I am aware that it is serious,’ Alice said. ‘I’ve known that for some time. But I had thought it had to do with us, our time, our own sickness and health. I’m terrified to think that Lord Belzen . . . Oh! I hate being stuck up here, making dainty things, when I could be of use.’

  James came into the room and Princess Alice ran towards him. ‘What news?’ she asked. He bent protectively over her, as if to shield her from illness and distress. The misunderstandings of yesterday were gone. ‘I know the Queen wishes to be alone with the Prince Consort, but I think you should come,’ he said. ‘Your understanding and persuasiveness are sorely missed downstairs. I need another good medical eye.’

  They both looked embarrassed. James’s father might be the Royal Household physician, but Sir Brendan was much more of a courtier than a doctor. He would flatter the Queen and echo her opinion. Prince Albert needed a better doctor; particularly at this moment, when Sir Brenden seemed so nervous.

  Alice did not need to be persuaded. She ran from the room, followed by her friends. Through the long corridors and winding stairways of Windsor Castle they went, down stone steps that had been trodden on for hundreds of years, until they reached Prince Albert’s study. Princess Alice brushed past Sir Brendan O’Reilly as he conferred in the hallway with a colleague.

  Ignoring the warning looks of the Queen’s ladies, she went directly to her father and knelt by his sofa. Katie did not enter; a glance from Bernardo DuQuelle kept her on the other side of the door, hidden in the shadows. The room had been cheerfully arranged, with a crackling fire and candles alight on the Christmas tree. A clock on the mantle gave a contented tick-tock. The Prince sat up to meet his daughter, but his face blanched. With a slight groan, he lay back down.

  Turning from her ladies, the Queen came over to Albert, kneeling as well, her concern tinged with the slightest impatience. ‘My dear Alice, you cannot be of any help. You will only tire your father.’

  Prince Albert gave Alice a look that said ‘don’t go’.

  Bending forward, Alice whispered to him. ‘I will make you better. James and I, together . . .’

  Outside the sky darkened, but the snow continued to fall, faster and faster. James came through the door and she sprang up to consult him. The two were soon deep in conversation, heads together, as they so often were. There was a deep worry line between Princess Alice’s serious grey eyes.

  The fire gave a sharp crack and the lights twinkled on the Christmas tree the Queen had requested t
o cheer up her husband. The clock on the mantle struck eleven and the dark red curtains framed the falling snow outside.

  Katie gave a start. What was that expression Mimi liked to use? Deja vu all over again. This was the room in the snow globe. She had seen every one of these actions before in the snow globe, in New York City, in her own time. The snow in the window, the happy Victorian family turned mournful by the father’s illness. The girl – of course, it had been Princess Alice – with worry lines etched between her eyes. And then those clear grey eyes had turned to black. Then the strange calling. The pull to this other time. It was all predestined, but by whom? And what would happen next? The uncertainty, with the underlying sense of dread, made Katie anxious and quite unreasonably angry.

  ‘Can you describe his symptoms?’ Alice was asking James.

  ‘He is so weary and listless. Normally I would attribute it to the strain of his endless work – but he is shivering with cold, and suffers from bile. There are rheumatic aches in his legs and back. And he is terribly impatient. He will not lie still and mutters to himself,’ James replied.

  Bernardo DuQuelle shepherded them out of the study, into the corridor. ‘Best keep your voices down,’ he whispered. ‘You know what the Queen is like when Prince Albert is ill.’ He took James by one arm, and Katie by the other, to move them further down the hallway. ‘This isn’t a normal cold,’ he said. ‘Lord Belzen held the Prince’s eye. He inflicted something – I am uncertain what – a curse, a malaise, upon that poor man in the study.’

  James agreed. ‘It is ill-health, but combined with a great depression. Something is weighing on his heart. And though he loves the Queen, he will never confide in her.’

  They all turned to DuQuelle, the only one who could bridge the worlds of Queen Victoria and Lord Belzen. He stared into the distance, his green eyes dilating and darkening. Katie shivered. What did he see? He was still for so long that she thought he might have gone into some kind of trance. And then his gaze focused.