The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  The only person he could really tolerate was Princess Alice. As the days passed, Alice took on even more responsibility. She soothed her mother, took charge of the staff and courtiers, aided the doctors and corresponded with her extensive family abroad. On top of this, she rarely left her father’s side. The doctors marvelled at her nursing skills and all admired her, with the exception of Sir Brendan O’Reilly. James’s eyes followed her everywhere. She was truly the angel in the house.

  On good days, Prince Albert was calm and lucid. Now settled in the Blue Room, he lay in bed and talked quietly with Princess Alice. Looking into the distance, he spoke of his childhood, his lessons with his brother Ernst and the harmless pranks they would play on their tutor. Alice would often read to him: a poem by Tennyson or a chapter from Sir Walter Scott. After a time, he said, ‘the words confuse me, but music is still clear. I should like to hear a fine chorale, played at a distance.’ So Alice retired to the next room and played the songs he loved the most: ‘Nun Danket Alle Gott’ and ‘Rock of Ages Cleft for Me’. As she pressed the keys quietly, she looked back to where her father lay in bed, as quiet as an effigy in a church.

  He had been ill for two weeks. One evening he asked to be left by the doctors.

  ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Faithful Alice will stay with me.’

  ‘Shall I play, Father, or read?’ Princess Alice asked.

  The Prince looked at her with weary eyes. ‘This is the last of my energies, I can feel it. I need to speak with you alone.’

  Princess Alice took her place, kneeling next to his bed, and held his burning hand in hers. ‘Anything, Father,’ she said.

  Prince Albert sighed. When had she grown so thin? Her face had become pinched, her eyes hollow . . . She had given so much, nursing him. And now he was going to ask for more. ‘My dear Alice, I am leaving you,’ he murmured.

  She stroked his hand and smiled up at him. ‘I know, Father, and I accept it. You go to a better place,’ she answered.

  The Prince smiled back, weakly. ‘Alice, I am leaving, but I must make a final attempt to protect you, to be your father.’ She started to reassure him, but he shook his head. ‘It is hard to say, but I must shield you from your mother.’

  For a moment, Alice thought he was delirious, but he continued on, with more firmness in his voice.

  ‘Your mother, she has no gift for isolation. Her lonely childhood has led her to dread solitude. It is because of this that I have been so much to her, a friend, a husband, an adviser. I lived my life with her and for her.’

  ‘You have done your duty,’ Alice replied softly.

  ‘I have done my duty,’ Prince Albert repeated dully. ‘Sometimes I think, I have been killed by doing my duty . . .’ He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply. Alice started to rise and call one of the doctors, but he tightened the grip on her hand. He had more to say to her.

  ‘When I am gone, your mother, the Queen, she must have someone who will sacrifice everything to her. They will need to be at her side, carry out her correspondence, aid her in her political policies, her social duties, her family decisions. This person will never have a moment’s rest, and certainly no life of their own. They will become, as I have, an adjunct to the Queen.’

  Princess Alice willed herself not to pull away. Was he going to ask her to make this pledge? Though she tried to hide it, her father knew her thoughts.

  ‘This is not the life for you,’ he said. ‘Already your ambitions cause you pain. Though you are dutiful in the extreme, sweet Alice, you see a life beyond royal duty.’ Alice had willed herself not to cry for so many days, but now the tears fell. Her dear father had been thinking of her, protecting her even at this time. ‘You must marry,’ Prince Albert said abruptly.

  Alice recoiled. ‘I am too young,’ she said.

  ‘Too young to marry, but not too young for an engagement,’ her father answered. ‘If an engagement were approved, a marriage could take place in three or four years.’ Prince Albert tried to sit up, to convince his daughter. ‘I had hoped that you would care for Prince Louis of Hesse. He is a sincere young man, if not a brilliant one. He came to the Christmas Ball specifically to meet you again – how long ago that seems! Immediately Prince Louis wrote to me with the proposal. In normal times, I would have written back, said “she is young, let us wait and see . . .” but these are not normal times. Time has run out. I have told the Queen, it is my final wish . . . this engagement.’

  ‘No!’ Alice burst out, before she could prevent herself. ‘It is too soon. I have met him only a few times – as a small child, and then recently at the ball. You would be promising me, practically selling me, to a stranger. Please, there must be others, someone else . . .’ She faltered. The someone else she had in mind was impossible. She knew that.

  Her father looked pained. ‘I know Hesse-Darmstadt is a small kingdom, and you will not be as rich and powerful as your sister Vicky. His family, however, is grateful for such an important match. They will be kind to you. You will be left much to your own devices, to study and learn. It is the best I can do for you. It could be worse.’

  Alice could tell, her father’s lucid moment was fading fast. She had to make things clear to him. ‘If we could just wait,’ she pleaded.

  Prince Albert became fretful, picking at his quilted robe, trying to arrange his hair. ‘There is not time,’ he said. ‘Do you really wish to be a pinch-faced spinster, your mother’s shadow, taking her notes and plumping her pillows? Chasing up her every whim? I love my wife, and honour my Queen, but I do not wish that life for you. You will marry, snatch this tiny freedom, and then find a way to be yourself, with a new title and a new country.’

  Coughing and wheezing now overtook the Prince. ‘I cannot breathe,’ he gasped, ‘my chest . . .’ Princess Alice called out for the doctors. She knew the conversation was over. The fate of her father was sealed. And so was her own. The end was coming. The doctors began to dose the Prince with brandy, hoping to strengthen his pulse. James O’Reilly helped them, trying to convince them to use more modern treatments. Though several of them knew he was right, they didn’t dare experiment on someone as important as Prince Albert. Katie, watching from a distance, saw hopelessness on almost every face.

  Alice had sent a telegram to Bertie. It had to be done; he was the eldest child and the heir to the throne. He arrived from Cambridge, and spent most of his time peeking at his father from the doorway and getting in the way of the doctors. His mother glared at him, as if somehow it was Bertie’s fault his father was ill. Princess Alice stayed by Prince Albert’s side, praying as fervently as any of them. But now, she knew, there was something very selfish in her prayers. If only her father could recover, she would gain time, perhaps she could change his mind about her marriage.

  The Grand Corridor became crowded: courtiers, servants, doctors, equerries and clergymen all wanted to be of help, or at least to hear the news. Katie, standing among the milling crowd, wondered for the hundredth time at the lives of royalty. So much seemed to take place in the public eye, even births. Alice had once told her that the Home Secretary had to be present when Bertie was born just to make certain there really was a male heir to the throne. And now, the most important man in Britain was dying, and they had to be here too, peeping into the very death chamber. There was one good thing about the crowds: Katie was able to see Alice and James without arousing too much suspicion. And goodness knows, they needed her help.

  Katie was particularly worried about Alice. She never seemed to sleep and barely left her father’s side. She kept her emotions firmly in check. As she read her father the psalms, her voice was clear, without a waiver. It was only when James praised Alice for her devotion and medical skills that tears sprang up in her eyes. ‘Do not admire me,’ she said. ‘It is more difficult than you know to do my duty.’

  The Queen and Sir Brendan O’Reilly continued their pantomime of optimism. At one point they passed Katie in the corridor. ‘The Prince is so nice and warm,’ the Queen wa
s telling Sir Brendan. ‘His skin is so soft. That is a very good sign, I think?’ Sir Brendan nodded, he would agree with anything. More than ever, Katie thought him a very dangerous fool.

  To the end, Prince Albert was kind to his Queen. He held her hand, and called her ‘gutes Fräuchen’. At one point he rallied slightly, and teased her that her hair was in disarray. Day turned to night and the candles burned low in their sockets. A change crept over Prince Albert. His eyes became bright and gazed into the distance, as it were, on unseen objects. Only the Queen could see this as a good sign. ‘But he is so beautiful!’ she cried, ‘so calm. I believe the crisis is over. He will definitely live.’ And she ordered Princess Alice to telegraph her sister Vicky in Prussia. She must hear the good news immediately.

  Princess Alice bowed assent and, kissing her mother softly on the forehead, left the room. But she did not send a telegram. She knew her father’s calm beauty was the final stage. Moments later, Katie and James found her in a linen closet, crying wildly. Katie held Princess Alice in her arms, able to comfort her now that the dark bitter voice was gone.

  James hugged himself, with that awkward sympathy boys have for weeping girls. He reached out and patted her on the shoulder. Alice became very still. ‘I am afraid you have pulled away from childish things forever,’ he said to her. ‘You have become the person you were meant to be.’

  Princess Alice kissed Katie on the cheek, and with great effort, regained her composure. ‘Katie, I would never want to be without you.’ Then she smiled at James. ‘You speak some truth. I am becoming the person I was meant to be. Perhaps, though, that is the not the person I wished to be.’

  They were interrupted by a call from the Blue Room. The Prince’s pulse had dropped and his breath rasped in his chest.

  Bernardo DuQuelle appeared in the doorway. ‘This is your father’s last earthly battle. If ever he needed you, Princess, it is now.’

  James led her back to the bed, where Alice knelt and took her father’s hand. DuQuelle stood in the corner of the room, next to Katie. She looked at him with surprise. His face was lined, deep furrows appeared in his chalk-white skin. There were waves of sympathy coming from him. She could feel it.

  One by one, the royal children came to say goodbye: Helena tearful and Louise hysterical. Leopold was kept from the room, as the risk of infection was too great, but his bath chair was pushed into the doorway. Then overgrown Bertie came, sobbing, ‘I will try to be the man you always wanted me to be.’ At this, Prince Albert looked distressed and tried to push him away. Even now, he despaired of Bertie.

  Prince Albert’s skin grew dusky, his face dark. A grimace drew down his lips. The light was suddenly wiped from the room, as the candles, burning so long, went out. There was sudden confusion, as everyone scrambled to find a candle. The Prince Consort’s voice rose above them. Just minutes before he had spoken gently to his wife, but now he seemed to argue with some great and threatening unknown. ‘You shall not feed off me!’ he cried. ‘I have never relied on brutal ways. I have kept myself clean, as pure as I could. I will die in peace, for I have lived up to my purpose.’

  Katie darted into the Grand Corridor. There the torches were still burning. Pulling one from the wall, she ran back to the Blue Room. As she stood, framed in the doorway, the Prince Consort sat up in bed. ‘The light, the rock of ages,’ he gasped, but not with fright. Everyone turned to stare. ‘I see now,’ the Prince exclaimed. ‘What is good has come to claim me as its own.’ The light pooled around Katie, so bright she could barely keep her eyes open. It couldn’t possibly be the one torch. Turning around she shielded her eyes from an entirely different source of light, a blazing figure.

  It was Lucia. Katie could see her clearly for once; she was truly beautiful, her features thin and fine, as if etched onto her face. Her blonde curls waved gently. The light, which so often consumed her, radiated from within.

  Prince Albert opened his arms. ‘It is the door to a new life.’ Katie realized the Prince could see Lucia too. But what about the others? Candles had been found in the Blue Room. One by one they were lit, though they did not extinguish the light of Lucia. Katie looked from face to face. She saw tension, fear and sorrow, but she could tell, only three people in the room saw the supernatural.

  Prince Albert fell back against his pillows. ‘The light,’ he murmured, ‘the light.’

  ‘What is it, Father?’ Alice asked. ‘Do the candles hurt your eyes? Shall I shade them?’

  The Prince gave his daughter one last loving look, then turned to the light. His mind returned, just briefly, to forage among its harvest of knowledge.

  How far that little the candle throws his beams!

  So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

  His eyes became brighter and brighter. Two or three long and perfectly gentle breaths were drawn. And then he closed his eyes. Forever.

  All was silent in the Blue Room. Bertie turned to the wall, his head in his arms. The doctors stood, useless. Princess Alice sat in a heap on the floor, still holding her father’s cold hand. The courtiers in the Grand Corridor stood as stone, frightened and still. 14 December, 1861. Would time freeze for ever, on this cold December night?

  The answer came through one long piercing shriek. No one who heard it would ever forget the unbearable sound. The agony and fury of all mankind was contained in this one, drawn out, unforgettable wail. Katie shivered violently, chilled to the bone. It was the voice of a woman crazed with grief. It was the Queen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Exeter Hall

  All was grief. The country, which had often mocked the foreign Prince, realized too late how much he had done for his adopted nation. The people wept for their Queen. The Royal Family, that happy domestic circle, was broken forever. Newspapers were bordered in thick black edges, their pages filled with the heart-breaking story. All shops closed. There would be no buying and selling, no holiday entertainments and certainly no pubs would open. It was as if Christmas had been cancelled.

  The Queen was in a state of shock. Bouts of her wailing echoed through the hallways of Windsor Castle. Christmas passed and then the New Year. There was no change in her grief. ‘I have parted with my heart and soul,’ she cried, and refused to look at any government papers, sign any documents or make any decisions. The country was coming to a standstill.

  DuQuelle tried to rouse her to action, as gently as he could. ‘It is a great trial you undergo,’ he sympathized, ‘but you must nerve yourself for it. You have governed the country once without him and you will do so again.’

  The Queen would have none of it. ‘Stop!’ she cried. ‘When you speak of such things, you are tearing the flesh from my bones. Why? Why must I suffer like this? I am one with Albert. I will do nothing without him.’ She could not, would not be comforted. She must grieve, and she must share her grief. Princess Alice sat with her mother all day and slept in her mother’s room at night. The Queen, in the great selfishness of her agony, did not give her daughter’s health, or her own sorrow, one thought. But Alice was suffering.

  The Queen also turned to Sir Brendan O’Reilly, a dangerous choice. He let her do as she wanted, to wallow in her grief. He pandered to her weakness. To Katie’s frustration, she remained blocked out. Despite the heavy mourning, the Castle had returned to some semblance of order. There was no reason for Katie to be anywhere near the Queen, and she could not get to Alice. For weeks their only conversations were brief and whispered, as Alice hurried to fetch this and do that for her mother. The Queen showed no sign of improvement and Alice was wasting away. This made Katie worry all the more. She too, began to grow thin and was unable to sleep.

  ‘We know now, I was called here by Lord Belzen,’ Katie complained one day to Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘I think I’ve managed to fight him off, but I’m still here, I can’t help Alice, and I don’t know how to go home.’ DuQuelle always looked old, in a timeless sort of way, and tired. Katie didn’t even know if he slept. She noticed, however, that his usually natty appe
arance had frayed around the edges. His cravat was limp and poorly tied; his finely coiffured hair unkempt.

  ‘There is little certainty in this world of yours,’ he said, ‘but I am fairly certain there is more for you to do. If you cannot comfort Princess Alice, there is someone else who would take great pleasure in seeing you. In your crazy life, with your crazy mother, I believe Dolores is the one solid figure and helpmate.’

  As he spoke, Katie realized how exhausted she was, and how she longed for the reassuring, straight-talking Dolores. ‘Can I go and see Dolores?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want to leave Alice, but . . .’

  DuQuelle patted her on the shoulder, awkwardly. He had such trouble with these simple, human gestures. ‘It would benefit you to see something other than grief and despair. Come with me to London. I need the rest and respite of my home on Half Moon Street, and you will be heartened by what you see.’

  London was in mourning, as was all of Britain, but compared to Windsor Castle, it was a fairground. Life could not stop forever the metropolis. The government had to govern, the bankers to bank, the artists to paint. The flower-sellers had flowers to sell and the booksellers still provided books. A new kind of enterprise had emerged – the mourning emporium – and these shops were swamped as people bought ceremonial death clothes: black stockings, black shoes, black parasols, black bonnets, black-bordered handkerchiefs and yards and yards of black crepe to make into dresses, sashes and hatbands. They needed new black-edged paper to write letters on, and black ribbons for their hats. There was a brisk trade in mourning lockets, some carved from black jet, while others featured engravings of weeping willows or funereal urns. Every available photograph or engraving of Prince Albert had been sold within hours of his death.