The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  But even as they mourned, the people of London still ate and drank, worshipped at church and attended events. Instead of being driven to his home off Piccadilly, Bernardo DuQuelle ordered his carriage to proceed past Trafalgar Square, turning onto the Strand. They stopped in front of a large impressive building, its doorway framed with high stone columns.

  ‘I thought you’d go home and flake out,’ Katie said.

  DuQuelle shivered, pulling his cloak right around him. ‘Flake out. What an odd turn of phrase you have, Katie. I’d like to flake out. Preferably in front of a warm fire. This is the type of raw grey day in which London excels. Instead we are visiting Exeter Hall. There is something important I’d like you to witness.’

  They alighted from the carriage, and were immediately carried along by a large crowd. Men, women and children were queuing to go through the portico and double doors of Exeter Hall. They were talking animatedly and some held banners furled under their arms. Katie found herself swept up a flight of curved marble steps. When they reached the next floor, the crowd surged through double doors into a grand auditorium. Everyone scrambled for seats, but DuQuelle moved at a more leisurely pace. ‘Do not worry,’ he said to Katie. ‘They are expecting us.’ And he moved down the aisle to the front of the hall, directly before a large raised platform.

  The room was abuzz with talk, and people began to unfurl their banners.

  ‘This is really something,’ Katie said. ‘There must be over 4,000 people here.’ She craned her head to see what the banners said:

  ***We are of One Blood Before God ***

  ***Humanity Before Cotton***

  ***Unchain Our Brothers***

  ‘It is the abolitionists,’ DuQuelle told her. ‘They meet four to five times a week. And as Prince Albert was President of their society, today they come in tribute to him.’

  Katie looked at people, rows and rows of them, leading high up to the tiers of galleries behind her. It was exhilarating. ‘If the Queen could see this, I think she’d spend less time crying,’ she said slowly. ‘She’d see, kind of, how Prince Albert’s actions made him great. She might stop weeping and start doing things.’

  DuQuelle nodded. ‘Terrible syntax, but an excellent sentiment. If only the Queen would listen.’

  The day’s speakers had now filed onto the platform. Katie started to ask another question, but DuQuelle shushed her. A sombre black-clad clergyman was standing behind the podium. He launched into a very long, very serious prayer, rolling his Rs. At the mention of Prrrrrince Albert, the Prrrrrince Consort, there were sniffles from those around Katie. When he had finished, a distinguished elderly man with enormous side whiskers stood up. He talked at length about mankind and freedom and God. His voice boomed and his language was ornate and sentimental. The audience nodded along, rather subdued.

  This set the tone for the day, and Katie began to wonder, what did this have to do with her? Beside her DuQuelle was still as a statue. The wooden bench was extremely hard and she shifted uncomfortably and began to think about lunch, just like she did in calculus lessons when she didn’t understand. After the fifth man finished, to a smattering of polite applause, a figure rose from the back of the platform. It was a woman, a black woman, whose face Katie had known since she was a baby. Dolores had taken centre-stage.

  Clearing her throat and looking slightly nervous, Dolores began. She didn’t sound anything like the men who had preceded her. She spoke naturally, using simple language, and from the heart.

  ‘My people were taken from their homes and brought to America in chains,’ she told the audience. ‘America is supposed to be a land of freedom – we sure wanted to be free of you here in Britain. Even so, in America they made us slaves. I just don’t understand. How could they do it? To treat us in this inhuman way. I mean, goodness, we knew we were human. Anyways, it makes sense that I’m here, saying no to slavery. I’ve got an awful lot to lose. It’s pretty amazing though that you are here. I guess you’re just really good people, who know a bad thing when they see it. And I testify before the Lord, that slavery is an evil sin.’

  The crowds before her were slightly startled, then began to clap. Dolores relaxed.

  ‘Amen!’ she cried out. ‘I have great faith in God, and God, with your help, will free the slaves. But we can only do this by defeating the South. As long as there’s a Confederacy, there’s slaves.’ The audience looked askance. They wanted freedom for all, but they did not want to go to war. The boarding of the Trent had led them to the brink of war against the North, and now this woman was asking them to stand against the South.

  Dolores looked down across the audience and then up into the galleries. ‘I have a letter here,’ she said, ‘a letter from my President, Mr Abraham Lincoln.’ The audience erupted into roars of approval as Dolores unfolded the letter. This woman held the voice of the President in her hands.

  Katie, shocked and delighted, looked up at Bernardo DuQuelle. ‘How did Dolores get that letter?’ she asked.

  ‘Your President has been writing to Florence Nightingale,’ DuQuelle whispered. ‘Everyone writes to Florence, she is so well-known. We needed a messenger to spread his word, and we couldn’t think of a better one than your Dolores.’

  As Dolores read out the words of the great man, Katie looked admiringly at her. She knew now, Dolores was the best education she could receive. Better than any museum or library in New York and certainly better than Neuman Hubris School. If there was any kindness in Katie, she must have learnt it from Dolores.

  ‘. . . The peace and friendship which now exist between the two nations will be perpetual,’ Dolores reads with a mixture of pride and humility. Her hands shook slightly as she looked down at the handwriting of this man who changed the lives of millions of people. ‘We thank you for raising your voices against slavery. You have placed humanity above prosperity. God bless you, a people who understand freedom. We thank you.’ Dolores finished reading the letter to thunderous applause. And looking straight at Katie, she smiled broadly and winked a little wink.

  It was hard to reach Dolores after all the speeches. She was absolutely mobbed. But eventually Katie pushed her way through the throng and threw herself into Dolores’s arms.

  ‘Whoah baby, you’re gonna knock me down, jumping on me like that,’ Dolores laughed. But Katie could tell Dolores was just as pleased to see her. DuQuelle led them down the marble stairs to a small room on the lower floor. As they went, Katie noticed many people taking note of Dolores. Men doffed their hats and women bowed their heads in respect.

  ‘Dolores, you were just so great!’ Katie said, giving her another squeeze when they had left the crowds. ‘I didn’t know you could speak like that.’

  Dolores grinned. ‘I told you that I’d learned a lot from that shaking and singing of Mimi’s, didn’t I?’

  Katie laughed too. It had been a long time since she had done so. ‘You know Mimi mainly lip-syncs to a recording. And I’ve never seen her hold an audience like that.’

  Dolores took Katie’s hand, looking more serious. ‘Well, she never had such an important message to give. You know how all this hocus-pocus works, Katie. Mary Seacole has tried to explain it a dozen times, the time travel and the Tempus children, but I think she’s kind of confused too. I have the feeling that things can change in this time; that you and me could change the course of history. We’ve got to keep working. You know, the South could still win this war.’

  This was a sobering thought. ‘That would mean we could never go back to our own country, much less our own time,’ Katie said. They were both silent for a minute, holding hands. In this strange place, each was to the other the only remnant of their real lives. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make sure the South doesn’t win,’ Katie added. ‘Did you know Britain almost went to war against the North, just before Christmas? It was Prince Albert who put a stop to it. He wrote a memo, about the RMS Trent, right before he . . . well, it was a great letter.’

  Everyone stopped to think about the Prince.
Dolores sniffed a little and rummaged in her large bag. ‘He might have been a foreigner,’ she said, ‘but he sure seemed to care about this country.’

  Bernardo DuQuelle passed her a large immaculate handkerchief, bordered in black. ‘This German Prince has governed our nation with more sense and intelligence than any English king ever managed,’ he added, with great respect for his past master.

  The gloom lifted as Mary Seacole burst into the room. She was usually dressed in the brightest hues, but the Prince’s death had sent her into mourning. She was swathed, from head to toe, in the deepest, inkiest black crepe. Her vivid blue leghorn hat had been replaced with an equally large black one. It flapped backwards as she ran, its long black silk ribbons streaming behind her.

  ‘Dolores, you are a one woman army, you are,’ Mary Seacole exclaimed. DuQuelle observed them with some amusement. ‘Florence sends her how-de-dos,’ Mary Seacole told him. Dolores stiffened at her name. Her warm friendship with Mary Seacole obviously didn’t extend to Miss Nightingale.

  DuQuelle raised his hat and bowed slightly in recognition of the formidable Miss Nightingale. ‘She would have been proud to see you today. She is a fierce abolitionist. You are making good use of your time.’

  Dolores looked at him keenly. ‘It’s OK for you to cheer us on, but there is a problem, one that for some reason never troubles you.’ DuQuelle raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Money,’ she continued. ‘Mary here just doesn’t have any. She spent every penny she had taking care of soldiers in that war you had over here.’

  ‘The Crimea, the Crimean War,’ Katie piped up helpfully.

  ‘That’s right, the Crimea. And everyone says she was a heroine, but being a heroine doesn’t put a roof over her head and food on her plate. She can’t stay with Miss Nightingale forever, no one could stay with that woman forever.’

  DuQuelle examined the silver top of his walking stick. He never thought about money. He had no need.

  Katie watched him roll the cane through his fingers. It was engraved with fanciful letters and symbols that spun round as he turned it.

  ‘The letters,’ she exclaimed, out of the blue.

  ‘A change of subject,’ DuQuelle murmured. ‘Quite right. One must never talk of money . . .’

  ‘Of course one must talk of money,’ Katie imitated his slightly foreign, disdainful accent. ‘How else is Mary Seacole going to eat? The letters on your walking stick gave me the idea. She could write.’

  Mary Seacole, usually enthusiastic about everything, looked doubtful. ‘I can do a lot of things, but I’ve never seen myself as a writer,’ she said. ‘Besides, what do I have to write about?’

  Katie grew quite excited, pushing back her own black bonnet and rubbing her head. ‘Write about yourself. My mother, Mimi, is bringing out her autobiography and she’s really kind of boring if you think about it. You’ve travelled the world, nursed on the battlefield and saved men’s lives. You’ve probably met all the most famous people alive. Everyone would want to read your story. I can see it now: Mary Seacole, Medicine Woman . . . or maybe The Wonderful Adventures of Mary Seacole . . .’

  ‘But I’m not a writer,’ Mary Seacole protested. ‘A letter to a cousin is one thing, but a whole book . . .’

  Dolores shook her head at her friend. ‘Now this is not like you, false modesty and self-doubting. Do you think Katie’s mama is going to do one stitch of work on her book? She is not. You’ll need a ghostwriter, just like Mimi has. We’ll get someone in who’s real good and I can help. You supported me when I stood up to address the crowds, and I can sure support you. I can run errands and get your thoughts in order. I’d say Florence could write it; she writes all night, letters and stuff, but it’s pretty dry writing, kind of full of facts . . .’

  ‘Grace O’Reilly will help you with your memoirs,’ Bernardo DuQuelle said, without looking up from his walking stick. ‘She has already assisted you with the pamphlets. And she is going through a difficult patch. Her father wants her to marry and encourages a string of idiotic suitors. There is even rumour that Lord Twisted is pursuing her again. This poor young woman is in need of refuge. Grace has a lively writing style and does not lack a sense of humour. I suggest she pays a visit to Miss Nightingale at the same moment that Mary Seacole and Dolores are there. Her father could not deny Florence’s request. Together, the three of you might produce something worth reading.’

  Dolores practically bounced with enthusiasm. ‘That’s just the person, Bernie. She’s a nice young lady with a good education. She can come help write and we can look out for her. Keep some of those sniffing hounds of men at bay.’

  DuQuelle looked appalled at his new name, but for Katie, it was the joke of the century.

  ‘That’s right, Bernie,’ Katie added, ‘for someone who doesn’t talk of money, you’ve come up with a pretty good plan.’

  Studiously checking his pocket watch, Bernardo DuQuelle ignored Katie. ‘I find this hall extremely chilly. I suggest we retire to Half Moon Street for tea and cakes in front of the fire.’

  Their good humour had given them an appetite and everyone bustled towards the door and the promise of a delicious tea. But as the carriage came round, the footman stepped from DuQuelle’s vehicle, and bowing, handed him a note. ‘It is from Princess Alice,’ the footman said in a hushed, reverential tone. ‘She said you must read it at once.’

  Katie watched as DuQuelle tore open the message. As he read, he teetered slightly, leaning on his walking stick. Turning to the footman, he began to issue orders in a shaking voice.

  ‘Please hail a hansom cab for these two ladies,’ he said, gesturing towards Dolores and Mary Seacole. ‘I wish you to accompany them to South Street, to the home of Miss Nightingale. Tell her I shall write shortly to explain. The train? No, we have missed it. Miss Katherine Tappan and I will return in the carriage to Windsor immediately.’

  Something had gone very wrong. Both Mary Seacole and Dolores recognized this, and followed his instructions without protest. DuQuelle held out his hand and practically pulled Katie into the carriage. ‘Drive on!’ he cried and the carriage dashed off, leaving the others on the pavement.

  For some time Katie didn’t say anything. She watched DuQuelle, huddled in the corner, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, his top hat low on his forehead. He muttered slightly, resting his chin on the silver-tipped stick. His green eyes had dimmed.

  Finally, she shuffled over on the carriage seat until she was next to him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Share and share alike. You’ve helped me through enough trouble. Now what can I do for you?’

  DuQuelle sat up. He didn’t smile, but he did look slightly less grim. Reaching inside his voluminous cloak, he took out the message from Princess Alice and silently handed it to Katie. As she unfolded the crinkled paper, she could see Alice’s beautiful script, turned to a scrawl of distress.

  Oh please do come – as quickly as you can – the Queen – she is gone!

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hiding the Queen

  ‘I have been caught unawares. I did not foresee that the Queen was in danger,’ Bernardo DuQuelle raged in the carriage. ‘Since the Queen refuses to rule, I have been overwhelmed with paperwork, meetings, the day-to-day decisions of running an empire. The government’s red boxes have defeated me. And this damned humanity welling up inside of me. It weakens me with each passing day.’

  Katie watched London fly by – the beautiful stucco homes of Mayfair and Hyde Park, drab in the darkening winter sky, the villas and building sites in South Kensington – and then the market gardens and open countryside. She could not comfort DuQuelle, nor did she seem able to help him. He spent the trip talking to himself, trying to master the crisis.

  Princess Alice had been watching for them. When they finally rode up the hill through the Henry VIII gate, she came running, followed by James O’Reilly. Katie’s body ached. She could feel her muscles, tender and strained by two bumping, rolling carriage trips in one day. But looking at Princess Ali
ce’s face gave her that extra bit of toughness. Alice appeared haggard, she really seemed to have aged. The grief over her father and the unremitting care she’d given her mother had taken their toll. And now this.

  ‘You must be tired,’ Alice said, taking her hand. ‘And cold, you’re hands are freezing. Where are your gloves, Katie?’

  ‘Never mind any of that,’ Katie said. DuQuelle agreed, though Katie could tell he too was stiff with cold.

  ‘Let us find a private place, and then you must tell us all.’ They were up the steps and into the Castle in a moment. Its gloom and silence told the story of the months past.

  Alice led them back to the Blue Room, where her father had died. ‘I felt this would explain much of the Queen’s state of mind,’ she said.

  The last time Katie had seen the room it had been chaos. Now it was tidy with the bed made, the windows washed, the curtains drawn back and draped. A marble bust of the Prince Consort stood on a column next to the bed. And on the bed a large floral wreath had been lovingly laid.

  ‘My mother has turned this room into a shrine for my father,’ Princess Alice explained. ‘See, here is the glass from which he took his last medicines, and here is his pen, the one he laid down after writing the letter to President Lincoln.’

  DuQuelle’s eyebrows went up.

  ‘You are right to question this behaviour,’ James added. ‘The Queen’s mind is greatly troubled. Look here. These are Prince Albert’s clothes. The Queen has ordered them laid out each day.’ He picked up a jug, set in front of a mirror on a small table. ‘This is water, brought in warm in the morning, as if the Prince were going to shave – again, on the orders of the Queen.’

  Katie took in the room. It had a strange sense of anticipation about it: as if Prince Albert might walk in any moment.