The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  The Prince Consort exchanged a long glance with DuQuelle. They had reached an understanding.

  ‘There are papers here that relate to both wars, the one of our time and the one you sense, but cannot see,’ DuQuelle informed him.

  The Prince sat up that bit straighter. ‘You know?’

  ‘I know.’ DuQuelle rifled through the box. ‘I believe these are the papers you seek.’

  Katie peeped over his shoulder. Across the top she could see the words RMS Trent, and at the bottom, a signature: the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston. ‘Under normal circumstance I would not bring this to your attention,’ DuQuelle apologized, ‘but we have reached the crisis. Britain is on the brink of war with America.’ Everyone looked to him, startled.

  ‘It’s the Trent,’ he explained. ‘Our ship was to transport the Southern, Confederate envoys to Britain. The North fired their guns, boarded our ship, and took the men prisoner. There was a certain amount of agitation on this topic at the Christmas Ball. It has been festering for over a week. I would have brought it up sooner, but . . .’

  Prince Albert’s delirium vanished. For the first time in days, he looked like himself. Work might have weakened him, it might even be killing him, but it was what Prince Albert did best. ‘And this is the Prime Minister’s response?’ he said, quickly flipping through the pages. ‘It looks decidedly war-like to me.’

  DuQuelle leaned over him, pointing out some particularly belligerent passages. ‘The Prime Minister is calling the boarding of the Trent an act of aggression on the part of the North, and demanding a full, official apology from President Lincoln as well as the safe return of the Southern men to Britain. If the North refuses, the Prime Minister is indeed threatening war.’

  Prince Albert shook his head. ‘I have worked so hard to keep Britain out of this war, and now, a careless swipe of the Prime Minister’s pen could lead us to disaster. The President of the United States of America will not apologize. Britain will enter the war; France, Russia, Austria might follow. What is that man thinking? The Prime Minister cannot expect me to sign this. ‘

  DuQuelle cleared his throat. ‘The Prime Minister is under the impression that you are too ill to sign anything. He had suggested that I simply bypass you, slip the memorandum to the Queen, and that she will sign.’

  Anger gave Prince Albert strength. He sat up, demanding pen and paper. The winter sun shone in a blue sky as he worked, but gradually a shadow fell across the bright windows of the room. In the Grand Corridor all was silent. The fire in the fireplace lost its comfortable crackle, replaced by a strange, ominous hiss. As the room became darker, Prince Albert’s writing became slower. His head tilted back. His eyes closed. ‘Ah, the pen is so heavy,’ he murmured. Perhaps I shall go to bed. I will look again . . . later . . . later.’ Alice took the pen from him, and James sprang forward to help him to bed.

  DuQuelle ran his fingers through his hair, so that it stood, jet black, on the top of his head. ‘This is disastrous,’ he said to Katie. ‘If the Prince goes to bed, he will never rise again. Without his intervention, Britain will enter this war. ALL of Europe will enter this war. The greed and brute force will feed the Malum for centuries to come . . .’ Katie thought of John Reillson and his plea against slavery. If only she could find a way to help.

  And then the light slowly returned to the window. A bright, thin streak made its way inside the room, stopping to rest on Princess Alice’s forehead. She blinked at the brightness, and then found herself returning the pen to her father’s hand. ‘Dear father,’ she said gently. ‘Do take up your pen, for just one moment longer. I know you will want to finish this piece of work.’

  Prince Albert sighed, holding the pen listlessly between his fingers. ‘It is so complicated,’ he complained, ‘and I am so tired.’ The room became light then dark, as shadow followed sun. And finally, the sun streamed into the little dressing room, bathing them all in brightness.

  A burst of inspiration flashed through Katie. ‘I know what to do,’ she cried. Prince Albert looked startled. Between the delirium and his work, he hadn’t noticed her before.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked. Katie could have kicked herself. She might know everything about Prince Albert, but he knew very little about her. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and then DuQuelle came to her rescue.

  ‘This is Miss Katherine Tappan,’ he said, ‘the daughter of the eminent American Mr Lewis Tappan. As the crisis at hand involved her country, and she was in attendance at the Castle, I felt she might be of help . . . as a reference . . .’ It was a feeble explanation, but the Prince was really too ill to question it. ‘Please precede, Miss Tappan,’ DuQuelle continued.

  The Prince looked so weary. Katie talked, as fast as she could. ‘You must be as you always are,’ she said to the Prince Consort, ‘the diplomat of the family. All men are proud – the Prime Minister, President Lincoln. The President will not apologize, and male pride is a silly reason to go to war.’

  Princess Alice looked very shocked by what Katie was saying and James snorted in derision. Strangely, it was Prince Albert who treated her with respect. ‘Please do proceed,’ he encouraged her.

  ‘You must give the Northerners a way to back down,’ she continued. ‘Write to President Lincoln. Say that you kind of assumed he didn’t know anything about the boarding of the Trent. Tell him, you know, tell him that you suppose the captain of the Northern ship, the Union boat, didn’t ask permission to board the Trent. And if the Union will just return the men they’ve taken to Britain, quietly, kind of on the sly – they don’t even have to say they’re sorry – everything will be OK with you . . . If you could all just kind of do the whole thing without having to say who’s wrong . . .’ she trailed off, feeling like an idiot. Even as an American, her knowledge of the American Civil War was sketchy. Yet here she was, suggesting a strategy that might affect the outcome of a major war. The bright light now flooded the room.

  Prince Albert’s keen mind picked through Katie’s playground vocabulary and found her advice sound and practical. ‘That just might work,’ he murmured, his pen moving quickly over the paper. ‘I will write directly to your President. If we take the pride out of our demands, and simply ask for the return of the prisoners.’

  The fire crackled merrily again and the sunlight flickered through the room. Princess Alice took each paper as he wrote, blotted it neatly and handed it to Bernardo DuQuelle. For a very long time the pen scratched across sheet after sheet of paper. As the last was handed to DuQuelle, the Prince seemed to collapse. He smiled weakly at the group around him, then turned to DuQuelle.

  ‘This will be the last of it,’ he said. ‘I can do no more.’

  DuQuelle bowed very low, then taking the Prince’s hand, kissed it, sincerely.

  ‘You have done more than your duty,’ DuQuelle said. ‘And now you may rest.’ Quietly, he ushered the three out of the room.

  ‘You think that’s enough?’ Katie asked him.

  DuQuelle looked at her with something akin to admiration. ‘More than enough,’ he said. ‘Prince Albert has provided the Unionists of the North with a dignified climb-down. He will keep Britain from joining this war. Europe, too, will stand back. This act of the Prince has kept us from a World War, and thwarted the Malum . . . for now.’

  He turned to Katie, ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t realized how much they . . . well . . . we . . . need you.’ Katie felt a surge of gratitude and relief.

  ‘And now we need you even more,’ he continued. ‘If you could deliver a message to John Reillson that the North is safe from war with Britain. The Unionists need to know.’

  Katie blinked in confusion. ‘John Reillson? I don’t know how to find him.’

  This was no time for smiling, but DuQuelle almost smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘Go to London. John Reillson will be very keen to find you. And now I suggest we call the doctors back in. Though they can do so little, this poor brave prince has need of them.’

>   Chapter Sixteen

  Yankee Doodle

  All of London was waiting for word of Prince Albert. As Katie walked the city streets, she could see the crowds scanning printed bulletins, delivered by the hour, with news of his health.

  When she rang the bell to South Street, Florence Nightingale herself answered the door. Like everyone else, she was impatient for news. ‘How does the Prince?’ she asked.

  ‘Not too great,’ Katie replied. ‘Not great at all. Much worse than the bulletins are saying.’

  Florence Nightingale nodded grimly. ‘I’d expect no less, with that buffoon Sir Brendan O’Reilly at his side. Do you bring me a message from Bernardo DuQuelle?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Katie said, and then found herself examining a pattern in the rug. She did not want to discuss John Reillson with this brilliant, impatient woman. A loud tread on the stairs interrupted her silence. It was Dolores, with her new friend Mary Seacole. In a moment she was down the stairs, wrapping Katie in her arms.

  ‘There’s my baby girl,’ she said. ‘No matter what Mary’s said, I’ve still been worrying about you.’

  Katie felt the tears, hot on her cheeks. When she was with Dolores, she could stop making decisions, carrying burdens, being so grown up. It was a relief. She looked Dolores up and down and smiled; her first smile in a very long time. Dolores had adopted the style of the time. Her grey wool dress and paisley shawl suited her and the dove-coloured bonnet with red ribbons was very fine indeed

  ‘You look beautiful, Dolores,’ Katie said.

  Dolores smoothed her skirts. ‘I’m not wearing those corsets though,’ she said. ‘I’m a big, broad woman and that’s that.’

  Mary Seacole laughed, and tied the ribbons of Dolores’s grey bonnet, explaining, ‘I tried to get her into something more colourful but she wanted to look “proper”.’

  Florence Nightingale sniffed. ‘Soon enough we’ll all be in mourning black, so you’d best enjoy your crimson ribbons while you can.’

  Dolores squeezed Katie tight and said, ‘I’ve finally come round to believing what they say. Just think, I’ve never been out of New York, and here I am, in a whole other time and place. And I owe you an apology, honey.’

  ‘Me?’ Katie asked. ‘All you’ve ever done is take care of me. Sure, you get mad sometimes, but who wouldn’t? I’m surprised you even stay with us. I’m bad enough, but Mimi . . .’

  Dolores slumped down on the chair in the hall and, fishing around for a handkerchief, wiped her eyes. ‘Mary here explained everything to me. There I was, thinking you were just some rich, spoiled kid, lying around on the sofa all day. How was I to know that you were flying around, saving the world?’

  Mary Seacole smiled broadly, but Florence Nightingale seemed nettled by this description of Katie.

  ‘I’d hardly call myself the saviour of the world,’ Katie said sheepishly. ‘It’s this thing, the Tempus. I can’t help that I’m part of it. I’ve got this power of words. I’m supposed to kind of keep history on course. I’m not doing a very good job of it . . .’

  Florence Nightingale gave a soft ‘harrumph’, and busied herself with a tray of calling cards.

  But Dolores would not be suppressed. ‘Mary says that this group, the Versus?The Verpers?’

  ‘The Verus,’ Mary Seacole corrected, ignoring Florence Nightingale’s warning look.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dolores continued, ‘the Verus. They’re a civilization from a whole different world, and they need words to communicate. They get the words from us, but they have to keep our world in balance.’ She looked again to Mary, who nodded away in agreement.

  ‘I always thought it was kind of hard-natured of them,’ Mary Seacole said to Dolores. ‘Sending your Katie back in time – what did they call it? The Great Experiment? Getting the children to do the work and keep this planet in good shape. Just a young girl, who doesn’t know any better, to take on the Malum. And the Verus. They’re supposed to be so good. That Lucia – all bright light. Seems harsh to me. She’s no wordsmith. Just won’t compromise . . . kind of like Florence here.’ Mary Seacole was one of the few people in the world who would, and could, contradict Florence Nightingale. In this she was fearless.

  Miss Nightingale let it pass with a loud sniff. ‘That is enough cats out of bags for one day,’ was all she said. ‘And don’t the two of you have an urgent appointment? You seem very willing to loll about and gossip when there is vital work to be done against slavery.’

  Dolores clapped her hands together. ‘My Lord but we’ll be late. We’ve got to get those pamphlets out to Hyde Park. Katie, honey, you come with us. We could use every available hand.’ Taking Katie by the arm, she turned her around and pushed her out of the door.

  Florence Nightingale closed it behind them, looking relieved and rather grumpy. ‘Save the world . . . really . . . and to criticize Lucia . . .’ Katie thought she muttered as the door banged shut.

  ‘Dolores, Mary, I’m here for a reason,’ Katie protested as they swung up South Street and crossed Park Lane. ‘I have something important to do.’

  ‘It will wait, dearie. It will wait,’ Mary Seacole replied merrily as they headed into Hyde Park. ‘We have important things to do too.’ She handed Katie a leaflet. On the front was an engraving. It was of a man, a slave, on his knees, his hands bound in chains. Above him the words proclaimed: AM I NOT A MAN, AND A BROTHER?

  ‘I listened to you, Katie, and made good use of my time,’ Dolores said. ‘Mary and I have been writing up flyers and passing them out at anti-slavery rallies. That nice young woman, Grace O’Reilly, helped. She’s got a way with words. We’re getting a lot of support for our cause. We’re working with the Quakers, and even some boys from the North in the USA.’

  They walked rapidly, Dolores’s skirts swinging like a church bell, until they reached a small gathering of people. Beyond them Katie could hear music, a violin and recorder, playing a mournful tune. Dolores and Mary Seacole moved to the front of the crowd and raised their voices to join the song:

  ‘be buried in my grave

  ‘fore I become a slave

  Seal away . . . steal away . . .

  Soaring above the other voices was that of a girl. She was a great beauty, whose dark shining eyes seemed to hold all the pain of the world. As she sang, the song took on an almost unbearable sadness. Katie knew her. They had an unbreakable tie. And they needed to speak. The crowd grew, wondering at the girl’s gifts.

  ‘She sings like an angel,’ Katie murmured.

  ‘. . . and that is what they call her,’ a young man standing next to Katie added. ‘I told you all about her. That night at Windsor Castle. She’s called the Little Angel.’

  ‘The Little Angel,’ Katie repeated. ‘We go way back. This is my day for chance meetings, Mr John Reillson.’ DuQuelle had been right. John Reillson had found her. ‘I have a message for you,’ she said, taking Bernardo DuQuelle’s note out of her little reticule and handing it to John Reillson. ‘But I’ve just got to talk to the Little Angel.’ John Reillson looked rather hurt and puzzled. ‘I thought you’d want to speak to me. I know it’s only been a week, ten days at most, yet the ball at Windsor Castle seems so long ago.’

  The Little Angel had finished her song, and her guardian, the Countess Fidelia, was standing atop a soap box, waving a tambourine. She was as flamboyant and dishevelled as ever. Her familiar pea-green shooting jacket had been exchanged for a navy one, with gold buttons and braid, echoing the Northerners’ army uniforms. In her haystack of hair she wore a tiny soldier’s cap. Standing on tiptoe, she led the growing throng in a rousing chorus:

  Yankee Doodle took it up

  To whip the Southern traitors

  Because they would refuse to live

  With black men as their brothers.

  Dolores and Mary Seacole began to distribute their pamphlets. Katie could see some of the other Northern men talking to people in the crowd, Elias Finch and Bill Patterson. She was glad not to see Jeb Lawson.

  ‘I
do want to talk with you,’ she said to John Reillson, ‘and we will. But I must speak with the Little Angel first.’ The crowd had become more active with the lively song. Between all the heads and shoulders, Katie could just see the Little Angel, clapping along with the rest of them.

  John Reillson, next to her, was reading DuQuelle’s note. Katie began to push through the crowd. So many answers would lie with the Little Angel. Then someone took hold of her arm. Why was she always waylaid? It was a woman, unrecognizable in a cloak and heavy veil. But when she spoke, Katie recognized the voice: distinct, crisp and decidedly upper class – Florence Nightingale.

  ‘I could not risk sending anyone else. My carriage is at the side of the park. The train for Windsor leaves in ten minutes. For once we have been fortunate in its scheduling. My footman will make the travel arrangements. I see that you have delivered your message. You must leave immediately.’

  The Little Angel had now mounted the soap box. She began to sing a sad ballad. John Reillson was coming to the end of DuQuelle’s message. ‘I can’t go,’ Katie protested, ‘I have to, I’ve GOT to talk to . . .’

  For a small woman, Florence Nightingale had a very firm grip. ‘This is not the time to think of “I”,’ she rebuked Katie. ‘I should think you would have learned by now to put others before yourself.’ Pulling Katie through the crowd, Florence Nightingale thrust her into the waiting carriage. ‘I do have some sympathy for you,’ she admitted, ‘but you must wait for your answers. The time has come more quickly than we’d imagined. You are needed by your friends at Windsor Castle.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Into the Light

  Prince Albert had kept Britain out of the American war but, as they had feared, it was the last act of a great Prince. His final journey had begun. It is rarely easy to leave this life, and even a man as saintly as Prince Albert would succumb to pain. He complained endlessly about the stomach cramps, the nausea, the chills; the sheer exhaustion of the act of dying. The Queen snatched at any possible sign of improvement and Sir Brendan insisted that, though gravely ill, the Prince could recover. This irritated Prince Albert more than he could say. Why couldn’t they just accept that he was dying?