Story [Victoria] "A Kingdom Where My Love Can Stand" | 2023/'24 Olympics & More | AU; Victoria/Melbourne

I'm still tweaking the next update, but here I am with a few replies so that when it's ready, I can just go ahead and post. (Yes, I am trying to be preemptive for the Kessel Run. )

Thank you! That's all that was bright and good from this update, for sure. (Even if Conroy did get in a bit of the last word - this time around, anyway. )

Just so! Unfortunately, Victoria can be pushy and entitled at her worst - put that together with her feelings of jealousy and protectiveness, along with the DEFCON 1 levels of stress she's under just prior to her coronation, then sprinkle in Melbourne's own grief and low spirits (which she doesn't understand the specifics of, and that only frustrates her more), and you get a mess . . . a big ol' mess.

Thankfully, though, this may yet be more of a kerfuffle than a rift - as is only fitting between two people who see the best in each other and actively strive to keep a positive accord in their relationship. But more about that soon!

Thank you for reading, my friend, as always!

Don't you even worry! My hand just, erm, slipped in the latter half of '23, and I accidentally churned out ~120k words of doomed OTP goodness for a niche pairing in a niche fandom on an otherwise SW website - you know, as muses do. That's a lot to keep up with, so please don't feel bad!

Aw, you honor me. It's been fantastic, just holding the pen while my muse has been on fire! This series is easily one of my favorite things I've ever written, and, as such, I'm so glad that you've enjoyed reading along the way. Your feedback is the absolute best and I ate up every word - so thank you! Thank you, truly!

So, so good!

Right? Wrapping my mind around some of the particulars of this time period has been no joke, and to think about a quite literal teenager being dumped into the deep end to either sink or swim . . . it's a lot, and I think that's one of the first things that really stood out to me about Victoria's relationship with Melbourne: he's not trying to force her under, but is instead there to help her stay afloat until she can sail on her own.

Thank you! I was particularly proud of that line.

And you really hit the nail on the head! Victoria has never been in an equal relationship once in her life. Melbourne is the first person to see her for her, and that must have felt like a breath of fresh air! They just click on a personal level, as much as a professional one, and it feels like a partnership - no matter every way that it's not due to the gulf of imbalanced power and life experiences stretched between them, one way and the other, just like you said. They're sovereign/subject, monarch/prime minister, knight/lady, mentor/mentee, savior/saved (and each one would call the other savior ), and allies and partners and friends and all but half-married, too - for all that anything more's obviously forbidden, even before factoring in their age gap and Melbourne's past. Yet, while his trauma means that he doesn't think he's worthy of her in any more personal a regard, her trauma means that trust doesn't come easy, and yet she trusts him. They were just everything to each other for a brief moment in time, and they inspired each other to be the best versions of themselves. It's a tricky, complicated relationship, to say the least - no matter all the ways that it's actually quite simple at its core - and I do love exploring each and every ebb and flow of their dynamic, clearly.

. . . I just, they give me feelings, Vi. Lots and lots of feelings.

I've had all the fun writing Victoria - and her sass - as she slowly comes out of her shell.

Success! Even if my job as a writer is made somewhat easier when I have a good actor to imagine - and endeavor to call to mind - along the way.

Spoiler

Agreed! And I absolutely love Victoria for that self-awareness, too - especially after the mess left behind by the Hanoverian kings. Even her RL letters and journals were like this: she wanted so very badly to make her mark as queen, but she wanted to be a good queen, first and foremost, and that meant trusting a select few of her advisors, especially this early in her reign.

Me toooo!

Spoiler

For all that these two are a painfully slow burn in most ways, they really aren't in others, is all I'll say on the matter.

No, he most certainly is not.

Vi, I knooooooooow! How protective Melbourne is of Victoria's sovereignty and ready to throw down for her right to rule - independently of any man - will never not get me. (And Victoria, too, most understandably. ) He just . . . he gave her the confidence to believe in herself during a time and in a world that wanted to tell women everything they could not do or be, and the rest is history.

Yes, she has!

Aw, again, you honor me! I can't thank you enough for your kind words - I've reread your comments more than a few times over the last few weeks, and definitely intend to do so again! Thank you.

Yaaaaas, you do!

*pester, pester, pester!*

I couldn't have put it better myself! Thank you so much for reading, and taking the time to leave your thoughts, as always!

A Ruby Mounted in Jet

*fist pump!*

I do know your thoughts on short-form writing, so this was even more of a compliment, thank you so much!

So far, I've really liked using these restricted prompts as interludes between the longer pieces in this collection! They've proven to be a great palate cleanser, so to speak, from a technical stand-point.

Just so! It's like I was telling Vi, for all that these two are a painfully slow burn (I have about, erm, two years of ground yet still to cover in my outline before I even get to a first kiss ), they really aren't in other ways. At this early stage, Victoria's perhaps a bit too inexperienced to understand exactly what she's feeling (there's that age gap rearing its problematic head again) and Melbourne is firmly in denial for just how entirely impossible (and worse: wrong, from his POV) his attraction is . . . but it's still there.

And those around them, friends and enemies alike, have a pretty good idea of what's what, even more so than they do - for good and for ill.

I have the honor to remain...

Yay! Thank you! It was so much fun exploring these different POVs through an epistolary format, I have to admit.

Because you know it was there.

Spoiler

Pictured: A Melbourne in his natural habitat as Prime Minister.

Because she's simply precious, isn't she? She's trying so hard to be everything a queen should be - and, in some aspects, she's succeeding, while, others . . .

Besotted teenager is exactly what I was going for, so I will count this as a victory. More than a few of her journal entries from 1837 read just the same - and not always in a flattering manner, you know? I was really trying to lean into the gulf between them as regards their ages and life experiences and overall power imbalance, and this is what poured out as a result. Victoria is extremely protective of this one good relationship in her life and jealous of those like Emma Portman, who do have a years' long relationship with Melbourne on equal footing, while so sincerely wanting to be a friend and confidant in a way that's entirely sweet and endearing in its own right, but ultimately impossible. It's just . . . tangled and messy, and Victoria doesn't know how to handle that, at all.

Sta et Retine

Didn't she? I mean, in the book/show, this conversation came fast on the heels of Victoria - and thus us, as the audience - learning the general strokes of Melbourne's past, so of course she's curious. This entire scene read/watched like a domino-effect of why did I say that? oh no I'm making it worse! and it was tricky as an author to continue to convey that here.

Because we're never too old for our parents, it's true! The Earl of Egremont was quite long-lived in history, and that gave me the perfect thread to tie back to my backstory fic for Melbourne, even while building on those same themes going forward.

It's so sad, juxtaposing Melbourne's close bonds with his entire family to the controlling, even abusive environment Victoria grew up with - and even now continues to endure. Matters with Sir John are about to reach a boiling point - through the Flora Hastings scandal, you definitely called it - and the scene for that stage is more than set, to say the least.

My gosh, but there are so many pretty dresses and jewels to describe in this story alone, just you wait!

THIS!

This is exactly what I was trying to convey in this chapter, and I'm so glad it came across! As much as Victoria has a very real foundation for her feelings, she's still right smack-dab in a besotted phase of hero worship. She's holding Melbourne up on a pedestal - one that he would be the first to say that he doesn't deserve - and she's willingly blind to his flaws and all the specific, uncomfortable parameters that make their relationship so unequal as such. Part of my job as the keeper of the pen will be to bridge that chasm - which will become somewhat easier as Victoria continues to grow, and oh boy but does she fall down and have to get back up on that path to maturity in this story arc - and I hope that I'm able to pull off my ultimate goals by the time I get to the final word!

Right? That's one of the reasons this scene was so hard to write! Like, I understand that Goodwin didn't have the luxury of the ~70k words or so I spent on a backstory for both Victoria and Melbourne to establish a firm foundation for my narrative - so this scene was entirely for the audience's benefit as much as it was for character development. As such, I was better able to focus on the jealousy and the protectiveness that Victoria was channeling (little as she was able to consciously identify either emotion, although she came close), along with Melbourne's grief, and how his passivity can be both a blessing and a curse, once again. In the show/novel, there wasn't much lasting damage done; Melbourne handled Victoria's rudeness like a mature adult - and his natural inclination for peace does complement the more contentious aspects of her own nature, for better more so than worse, as opposed to how he wasn't quite matched with Caroline - and they instead had a calm conversation on the subject. Here, again, however, I'm not constrained by Goodwin's limitations for time/pages, and I will be able to dive into the aftermath a little bit further than she was able.

And I am almost ready to share!

Thank you so much for reading, once again, and for taking the time to leave such detailed, insightful feedback! I appreciate each and every word more than I can say, and they just encourage me to write even more!



~MJ

 

Author's Note: So! A couple of scenes in this update evolved far and beyond my original outline; as a result, I had to cut this chapter in two so as to give both these scenes and the ball to come the attention they deserve. That said, this is still my longest entry yet at almost 13k words, exactly. There was just no good place, thematically, to cut this and the next chapter three ways! I can't complain too much, though, as I personally think that my decision to write all the words ultimately made for a stronger story, but I am really stretching the format of the original prompt to the point where it's more like:

Spoiler

. . . but I trust you'll forgive me.

Further, to disclaim: Lehzen's gift for Victoria and a select few lines of dialogue just prior to the ball are borrowed from Goodwin's novel. Everything else is my own.

Oh! And:

Spoiler: Mira's Visual Guide to Victoria's Dresses and Jewels

I describe a lot of costume details in this chapter, so I'm going to include these notes at the beginning, rather than the end, for those of you who'd like to follow along.

Queen Adelaide's Diamond Fringe: This is my absolute favorite of all Victoria's tiaras - and, as a bonus, it can be flipped and worn as a necklace! (Hey, a girl's gotta appreciate function as much as fashion, right? ) This tiara/necklace was a gift from Queen Adelaide, as it was one the few state pieces that didn't pass on to the Duchess of Cumberland upon becoming Queen of Hanover. Maybe, I'm guessing, since this was a wedding present from King William, Adelaide was allowed to keep and gift it however she saw fit? However it happened, Queen Adelaide held this piece back from her sister-in-law, and made sure it passed to her niece instead.

Here's a painting of Victoria wearing the fringe tiara to the opera, early in her reign, by Sophie Liénard. (And for my artist nerds, this portrait is a miniature done on porcelain - isn't that insane? I am just blown away by the artist's technical command of her medium in order to convey the illusion of so much intricate detail on such a tricky surface! )



Even with her widow's weeds, the diamond fringe was one of the few pieces Victoria wore throughout her mourning as a necklace. This went on to be one of Queen Mother Elizabeth's favorite pieces of jewelry, and she wore it often until her death in 2002. It hasn't been worn by the royal family in public since.




The State Diadem: Since the Imperial State Crown is such a beast, it's not worn by the regnant outside of a select few formal occasions; instead, the State Diadem is worn. I include specific details about the symbolism of its floral motifs in the text, but, for a visual aid, you can see Coleman's Victoria wearing it here during her coronation procession. And check out that diamond necklace - I'm not even much of a jewelry girl in RL, but that's just awesome!



And here is the State Diadem again, worn by a middle-aged Victoria in history:



Though fans of The Crown may better recognize the State Diadem from Queen Elizabeth II:



The Crown of Saint Edward's: You can St. Edward's Crown resting in both Elizabeth II and Victoria's portraits, though each are different iterations. The crown has been remade several times over the centuries, as I've already discussed in my notes for Queens of England, but here's what it would have looked like for Victoria's coronation:



The dominant three gems: the Black Prince's Ruby, the Stuart Sapphire, and St. Edward's Sapphire all have very interesting backstories of their own, just as I mention in the text.

The Coronation Portrait of Elizabeth I: I've referenced this portrait a few times now, and it's going to come up again, so I figured I should give you a visual while I'm at it.



And, Finally, Victoria's Coronation Ball Gown and Jewels: Since the coronation ball is going to be a Very Big Deal, here's some more pretty media to match :



For those keeping track, in this still, Victoria is dancing with Grand Duke Alexander, but that's her expression when Melbourne enters the ball . . . which is a story for the next chapter.

Although *coughs* since I'm here anyway, here's this for a teaser:

Spoiler: and *this*

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300+(+) Basketball)​

VII.II.II.

Synergy

The rest of her day passed in an unending procession of formal audiences for the newly arrived foreign dignitaries and what felt like an interminable number of fittings for the dozens of robes, mantles, and gowns she would wear for both the coronation and its surrounding celebrations.

No matter her divided mind, Victoria attempted to put her personal concerns aside in order to gird herself with the dignity of her crown – staring down Prince Alexander of Orange (she was not so very small now, was she, seated on a throne?) and the Duke of Nemours (who was intolerably haughty and made no secret of his disdain for the English court), while very much enjoying that same reception for Prince Louis’ elder brother, Prince Philippe the Duke of Orléans. She formed similar favorable impressions of the Duke of Valencia from Spain (who famously championed his own queen’s right to rule) and the Marquis of Loulé from Portugal – his wife, the Infanta Ana de Jesus, was an acquaintance she enjoyed for its own sake, and she tarried over tea for longer than was strictly necessary in the eyes of protocol, listening to the older woman’s amusing anecdotes and shrewd insights with an ear inclined to listen and learn, just as much as she sought out the happy promise of a new friendship in its own right.

(A friend - what a marvelous oddity that yet was!)

And yet, whenever she laughed or whenever she frowned, she could not help but instinctively seek out his eyes – wishing to share the foremost emotion of any given moment with her Lord M, above all others – only to find Lord Palmerston attending her in his stead.

Henry Temple was a most capable foreign secretary, Victoria reminded herself, and it was protocol that that the Crown's senior-most diplomat accompany the monarch through any and all such meetings of international importance, especially when the prime minister wasn't present, and yet . . .

He was no Lord Melbourne.

But she was not just Victoria the woman, was she not? (Victoria the girl, as she’d so shamefully proven herself to be.) She was Victoria Regina – and Lord Melbourne would have been the first to remind her of her duty if he was there by her side. So, she held her head up high as queen, above all else, and waved her hand to signal the steward.

She was ready for her next audience.



.

.

His day marched inextricably onward in an unending procession of the most tedious minutiae imaginable.

Thankfully, Colonel Hampson was soothed easily enough – albeit the Duke of Wellington less so, by that same degree – but then, William was nothing if not adept at pacifying obdurate personalities in order to see those truly requisite matters resolved for a satisfactory outcome, regardless of the parties involved.

Still, it was tiresome, thankless work – especially on a day when his natural inclination for equanimity was already so disturbed, the same as an agitated current lashing beneath the veneer of deceptively calm waters – and his fractious mind refused to be easily applied to any given matter. Instead, it was through no small amount of effort that he summoned a carefully polite expression, and welcomed the Archbishop of Canterbury into his office.

When the Most Reverend William Howley revealed the foremost concern that had necessitated the reason for their audience: that he, after much prayer and meditation, was forced to confess his reluctance to anoint Her Majesty with consecrated oil on her heart, as well as on her head and her hands, due to the naturally adjacent constructs of such particular feminine anatomy, William was hard-pressed to restrain his incredulity. He could only blink, and just barely held back a flummoxed "beg pardon?" if not a far ruder – and perhaps somewhat ironically blasphemous – "oh, for God's sake, man, but are you in earnest?"

Regrettably, dignity held through force of habit, if nothing else. “Forgive my confusion, Your Grace, but is not the actual anointing done under the privacy of a canopy, since it is far too sacred to be observed by the public eye?” Even so, William could not entirely hide his annoyance as he attempted to sort any truly sensible reservations from the overall buncombe of the archbishop’s speech. Normally, his habit would have been to lean back in his chair and raise a sardonic eyebrow, letting his opinion speak without words, but he was then far too agitated for even the appearance of nonchalance; instead, he leaned forward, and pierced Howley with his stare.

“Yes, it is,” was the short answer, given as if he were a child, slow to apply himself to his elder’s instruction. For the archbishop's timbre alone, William felt his annoyance turn for a far more dangerous state of aggravation.

“And shall not Her Majesty be covered by a golden sheet, to prevent the oil from marring her finery?” William continued before the man could pontificate on the particulars of the holy ceremony – all of which he knew down to every detail, if only to guide his queen through the necessary pageantry for her own sake. “It is not as if you would be touching our monarch's bare skin, no?”

Monarch – not woman; in this instance, perhaps more so than any other, the physical construct of their queen was just that: a vessel of flesh and blood to embody the true might and majesty of the Crown.

“Heavens, no,” the archbishop sniffed, as if offended by merely the thought, “but I would still be - ”

“ - and are you not a man of God, and thus immune to those base-most weaknesses that plague your fellow mankind?” An icy derision lined his voice like the steel edge of a sword, little as the archbishop chose to hear it.

Just so: “Ah, yes, of course,” Howley drew himself up even higher in a most unchristian display of hauteur, “but it is the implication of impropriety that is so necessary to guard against – which, surely, Your Lordship must understand.”

William did not understand – so much so that he refused to yield the point by any degree: “With all due respect towards Your Grace, but how would there be even the implication of impropriety in camera, where you shall be drawing oil over the queen’s covered chest – quite respectably higher than any area of Her Majesty’s person that would more rightly give cause for any concern, even if all the realm looked on to see, and the queen garbed as simply as David the shepherd-boy before Samuel the Prophet?”

For that, the archbishop’s response was as swift as it was pointed: “There can never be enough caution taken against even the appearance of impropriety – which you should know better than most; should you not, my son?”

Oh, but there was most certainly a rebuke in those words.

William chipped out a cold smile for the pharisaical old man, but the expression was far from amiable. “The assumption of impropriety aside," he nonetheless ignored the barb, "can a queen truly be anointed as such if she swears only her head and hands to her people, and not her heart and soul?”

“After discussing the matter with my fellow primates, we have been guided by God’s grace to know the Lord's mind on this matter: as long as Her Majesty speaks the vow aloud, that shall be quite satisfactory.”

Shall it indeed? For a moment, William found himself entirely robbed of speech – a lapse that the archbishop somehow took as an agreement and concession, both.

“I would never presume to think higher than such a revered holy body,” William made no attempt to contain the snide cast to his words, but he was at a point where he could hardly be moved to care about any supposed lapse in manners, “yet Her Majesty is to be the Sovereign Head of the Church of England, is she not? If the queen protests such half-measures for her anointing, then, surely, Your Grace - ”

“ - then Her Majesty must be made to understand the wisdom of accepting guidance from those who have dedicated their lives to the church, and are here to advise the Crown on the – quite understandably – unreachably lofty heights of such holy matters.”

The archbishop’s look rather communicated whom he thought was a less than worthy advisor to the Crown, at that – let alone a man whose soul was already beyond saving in the eyes of God – and William maintained his terse smile in answer, the words registering, if hardly scoring the blow that had undoubtedly been intended.

“How good it is that the Almighty has such a conscientious servant in Your Grace.” Yet, rather than being drawn any further into an entirely pointless argument, he concluded the interview by standing – perhaps stretching the bounds of propriety by doing so, but he was completely unwilling to suffer the archbishop’s company a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. He would discuss his concerns with his own contacts within the ranks of primates, and see what could be done to change Howley’s mind – if it could be changed. For all that church and state were one by tradition – and had been since Henry VIII’s time – they were very much separate entities, and one side ever had an unspoken lack of power over the other.

Yet he needn’t have worried about any perceived lack of decorum: the most reverend archbishop somehow took his words as a compliment (they decidedly were not) and left with an all too satisfied cast to his countenance – so much so that William curled his hands into fists once he was alone, and had to focus on counting his heartbeats in an effort to regain his bearings.

Finally, some minutes later, when the ripples at last soothed for stillness once more – no matter how they continued to eddy and churn beneath the surface – he called for his secretary to send in his next appointment.

In came Lord Hastings – a long-standing courtier with more social influence than political standing, but whom nonetheless had the ability to cause no small amount of grief for his ministry due to the vast monetary contributions he made to the Tory party in Opposition – and William cordially welcomed the marquess to speak.

The marquess did speak, at great length.

By the time William managed to convey the truth of: no, he had little control over who Victoria’s train-bearers would be – her cortège would be made up of select ladies-in-waiting and nobility from the peerage as chosen by the Duke of Norfolk, who truly organized the particulars of the coronation as the ceremonial earl marshal – and yes, he was well aware that Lady Flora was disappointed not to be counted among their number, although surely Lord Hastings’ sister understood the protocol surrounding such appointments, for, to be sure, there was no implication of a lack of tender feeling for one of her mother’s household intended, and so on and so forth, until, finally -

. . . needless to say, he was entirely done with society by the time he quit his office at Whitehall – and even good society, which the hornets and scorpions who’d plagued his day could hardly be called at their best. William wanted nothing more than to retire to the peace and solitude of his library for a stiff drink and blessed peace in silence, but knew that he could not. Instead, as the summer sun continued to illuminate one of the longest days of the year, he shouldered into a white cravat and black tailcoat in order to attend an assembly of the peerage, gathering for their own celebration of their sovereign’s imminent coronation at Waterloo Gallery.

At the very least, William strove to focus on the positive, he was able to drink the Duke of Wellington’s most excellent wine as he fielded yet more trifling questions and kindly intended concerns – and the diversity of the guest list meant that he was able to play comrades and rivals for and against each other in order to extricate himself from the worst of the onus that was otherwise incumbent upon him to endure as prime minister.

Yet, no matter his best efforts, his already strained forbearance was quickly worn too thin to bear, and he was ready to beg off the gathering entirely when Lord Palmerston alighted upon the still mingling throng.

Henry Temple – who’d dined at Buckingham for the quasi dinner of state that was the queen playing hostess to such a variety of foreign dignitaries – stopped in for a snifter of the duke’s port before going home to Emily, and William found the last dregs of his own energy restored to greet his brother-in-law for his own sake, just as much to hear his foreign secretary report on how Victoria fared throughout that day’s politicking and accumulated savoir faire.

Thankfully, Henry did not make him wait for an answer – instead, he raised his generously filled glass and expounded unbidden: “How refreshing it is to serve an actually charming and engaging regnant!” His words were punctuated by a grin that was as wide as it was sincere. “You know how I used to stand with no small amount of trepidation by old King William’s side, utterly dreading whatever His Majesty would think to surprise us with next – and he never failed to disappoint my worst fears.”

Any other night, William might have quipped to say that he quite empathized with those fears, given Henry’s own fiery tongue and combative nature, no matter how shrewd a diplomat he was otherwise – but he was then far too impatient for details to spare any such needless jape.

“How did Her Majesty fare with the Prince of Orange?” instead, he inquired somewhat impatiently. “And the Duke of Nemours?”

Those two, by his estimation, were the most likely to rouse Victoria’s temper – no matter that she’d already proven herself entirely capable of dealing with Prince William in the past, and the lesser French prince was at least made palatable by the excellent graces of his elder brother. That both men were each distant marriage prospects for the queen was hardly a thought that crossed his mind – no matter how Henry raised a brow, clearly sifting through his words for any deeper meaning than the one he’d truly intended.

. . . that was, somewhat admittedly, becoming an increasingly common reaction from several of his acquaintances (friends and foes, alike) that William could entirely do without.

But Henry ultimately decided to take him at face value. “They underestimated her like Goliaths before our very own David," he reported with no small amount of satisfaction, "and she felled every last one of them.”

Of course she did, pride stoked a heady fire from deep within his chest – the kind of pride, William told himself, that was not untoward for the success of one’s pupil in applying what they’d learned – such as a prime minister could ever call his monarch a pupil, of course – and an even greater sense of patriotic pride that this woman was his queen, whom he had the honor to serve as one of her foremost vassals.

“Any would-be naysayer need spend only seconds in Her Majesty’s presence to understand that physical stature means nothing,” his agreement was just as fierce. “She’s a titaness in every way that truly matters.”

There was that look again – heavy with consideration – before Henry raised his glass. “And,” he added, “it doesn’t hurt that bowing quite compensates for any supposed physical lack that may yet remain.”

“Hear, hear,” for the first time that day, William laughed outright, and he gladly drank to Henry’s declaration. For a moment, he succeeded in forgetting his own troubles as he basked in the hard won successes of his sovereign instead.

Yet it was a fleeting solace, that pride, and when he finally quit Apsley House – at far too late an hour after such an early morning – it was to the sight of black clouds above, obscuring the light of the stars. A fine mist turned to a steady drizzle against the roof of the carriage during the short journey back to Dover Street, blurring the passing glow of the streetlamps as the rich façades of Mayfair winked in and out of view – and when he made for the door of his townhouse, it was to the first flashes of lightning as thunder rumbled somewhere yet far in the distance.

The sound chased him inside, where he handed his overcoat to Baines and dismissed his valet for the night, saying that he’d attend to himself. It was late enough that no other soul from amongst the staff was about, and with he alone in residence . . .

. . . it was a particular kind of silence, that of true solitude, humming like the weight of an ocean from somewhere dark in the depths, and he cared for it but little.

Once, this never would have been a future he'd have imagined for himself. He had every expectation of the companionship of a wife, waiting to greet him when he came in through the door, at the mid-point of his days – and his daughters, too, if they had yet to marry and form households of their own, and, of course . . .

. . . yes, he did not have the words to describe this particular silence besides hollowbitternumb, and even that did not quite encompass that which remained impossible to define in its entirety.

By the time he made it up the staircase, thunder chased his steps, and he could not bring himself to pass by the door of what used to be the nursery – and what still was, as he hadn't the heart to change these rooms, even if white sheets now concealed the furniture and his son’s belongings had long since been moved to the attic. Lightning flashed through the windows, as if illuminating his memories, and he . . .

No matter his fatigue, William entered the room like a ghost to match, and sat at the foot of what had once been his son’s bed, all still in silence.

There he stayed until the small hours of the morning, lost to the world of the living as his grief pulled him under once more.



.

.

Morning came, yet Victoria had scarcely slept the whole night through.

“You have bruises under your eyes, Drina,” her mother chided over breakfast – spoiling some of the confidence that Victoria had taken from Skerrett’s efforts at styling her hair and her new gown of cool jade charmeuse – and when Lady Flora chimed in with a most useful poultice of tea leaves she could have made for Her Majesty’s benefit, Victoria let her spoon fall from her orange with a clang.

“How fortunate it is, then, that all eyes shall be focused on my crown," she snapped, "rather than my face.”

Victoria felt a petty bit of satisfaction when her loss of appetite meant that breakfast was thus aborted for everyone at the table – even if she felt a moment's guilt for her ladies and resolved to make up the loss of a meal to them – and that surface satisfaction only deepened into a truer emotion when Lord Alfred announced the arrival of the Royal Jewelers. Sir Rundell had come, accompanied by a platoon of Yeomen Warders from the Tower of London, which meant only one thing . . .

Her crown was ready.

Victoria was hardly the only one present who'd gleaned the importance of the moment: her mother all but preened, as if the Crown Jewels would instead be hers to wear; while Sir John smirked an overweening smirk, sharing the duchess’ entitled sense of triumph; and even Lady Flora’s beady little eyes alighted with anticipation – but Victoria refused to share this moment with a single one of them.

Instead: “Baroness Lehzen,” she turned to where her former governess and newly titled lady attendant stood at attention – as Lehzen was the only person (besides him) whom she wanted to share the victory of this moment with, and, indeed, rather deserved to share as her very own, “would you be so good as to accompany me?”

When she looked, even Lehzen’s habitually stern features had softened, and a there was a wet gleam in her eyes before she blinked to recover herself. She dipped into an overly formal curtsy to answer: “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”

Victoria acknowledged the genuflection by inclining her own head, and then directed her attention back to the table. “Mother,” she began – and the duchess smiled, obviously anticipating a similar invitation, before she archly dismissed: “I'll see you before the ball.”

From there, Victoria did not bother to acknowledge Sir John and Lady Flora, and swept from the room before they finished with their own curtsies and bows, no matter how grudging.

Once settled within her formal audience chamber, the Yeoman Warders brought in a parade of chests at the direction of the master jeweler – a Sir Edmond Walter Rundell, of Rundell, Bridge, & Co. She was first presented with smaller pieces: dazzling tiaras, ranging from informal to formal – intricate confections of coral, pearl, amethyst, topaz, and opal, encrusting frames of silver and gold, and imposing constructs of diamond and emerald and ruby and sapphire, made to command and impress. Many of the crowns had matching necklaces and bracelets and earrings, each dripping with an untold fortune of precious stones that glittered and shone, even in the dim lighting from the overcast summer’s day.

Victoria took the time to try on each one – with Skerrett and Jenkins attending their placement and removal with awestruck expressions that even the senior maids couldn’t entirely hide – most to the satisfaction of Sir Rundell, while others he frowned and fussed over, making notes to his attendant apprentices for various adjustments and improvements all the while.

Queen Adelaide’s diamond fringe tiara – which she had exclaimed over in her youth, awed by the corona of infinite tiny diamonds set into a proud halo of emanating rays – was one that her aunt had personally given to her at Clarence House, just following her uncle’s passing. Now it had been cleaned and polished and reset to fit her more petite frame – and the effect was . . . stunning.

Victoria held her head up high while wearing the treasure, looking this way and that in the mirror, and imagined that she was at last able to make what little she could of her aunt’s grace her own.

From there, the penultimate crown was that which she would wear at state functions – with the Crown of St. Edward being entirely symbolic in nature, with the grandeur that made is so also making it quite impractical for any sort of prolonged use. This crown’s foundation was composed of a dual diadem of perfectly matching pearls, in-between which was set a band of brilliant-cut round diamonds. From the circlet rose four square crosses and four graceful floral constructs – with roses, thistle, and shamrocks symbolizing England, Scotland, and Ireland, respectively – studded with so many diamonds and pearls that their silver supports were almost invisible to the undiscerning eye. On the foremost cross, centered on her brow, was studded a sole, fleeting bit of color in a massive, cushion-shaped diamond that seemingly swam with shades of blue and green – like the sunlight turning a sea wave aglow.

“It matches Your Majesty’s eyes,” Lehzen remarked with pride, and Victoria couldn’t help but agree.

Matching the State Diadem was the Queen Charlette necklace, set with a jaw-dropping array of round diamonds, with the largest stone in the center being the size of a sovereign coin, and diminishing only slightly in diameter as they regressed further up the strand. Hanging from its pinnacle was a pendant that featured another massive diamond that favored blue in the light, surrounded by a setting of smaller, brilliant-cut gems.

She would alight from Westminster as the anointed monarch and presented to her people for the first as such, wearing this ensemble, Victoria thought with a dizzying sense of apprehension and anticipation – with one emotion nearly intense enough to cancel out the other, leaving only a fleeting sense of unreality in their wake. She felt, in that moment, as if she was caught in the haze of a dream.

Yet: “We are pleased,” she managed aloud, even if she had to swallow twice in order to speak the words with any sort of grace.

Then came the Crown of St. Edward.

There was absolute silence in the room as the Yeomen Warders unlocked the chest and freed the crown from its anchoring cradle. She sucked in a breath to see the centuries’ old symbol of English might and majesty, reset for her brow at her personal specifications. The crimson velvet cap – such a deep hue that it seemed more blue-violet than scarlet, depending on the light – was bordered with ermine and lined with pure white silk. A staggering three thousand diamonds were set into the proud arches and bands, with the gems upon the fleurs-de-lis and crosses pattée being perfect, brilliant-cut gems. Three-hundred pearls – stunningly opalescent specimens of the sea that seemingly communed with the treasures of the earth to capture and command the light – complemented the diamonds, while a smaller collection of sapphires, emeralds, and rubies punctuated the design in foremost settings of honor.

Yet, while the mesmerizing opulence of the treasure – a true king’s ransom – was imposing as a whole, her eyes were drawn to the proud gem that coruscated at the pinnacle of the crown: St. Edward’s sapphire. That clear blue stone, which had once sat upon the hand of the Confessor as his coronation ring nearly two thousand years ago, was the oldest treasure possessed by the Crown – surviving the Norman Conquest and the subsequent civil wars and dynastic disputes and the scourge of the Parliamentarians, all. The gem was an illustrious symbol of the undying grace of the monarchy and their God-given right to rule, just as the Black Prince’s Ruby, set into the square cross pattée just below, was symbolic of the power and might they wielded as sovereign regnants.

The giant ruby’s quite literal bloody history – even if Lord M held that it was more myth than fact – made her uncomfortable to consider, and she could well believe the stories for their own sake: that this gem had seen the battlefields of Agincourt and Bosworth, where it had been removed from one would-be king, slain to crown another, and had darkened in color to absorb each and every subsequent war, looking into its seemingly fathomless red depths. If the Confessor’s Sapphire held a life of its own in light, then the Black Prince’s Ruby gleamed with life in death, and the purposeful push and pull of the twin settings was achieved to striking affect.

(On her brow, she still couldn’t entirely wrap her mind around the idea – around the fact that it was now her right and duty to wear them as such.)

Beneath the Black Prince’s Ruby was the Stuart Sapphire – an equally massive, oblong blue stone that was the last remaining of the Stuart relics (and perhaps even the Tudor relics, Victoria liked to believe, even though the stone's exact origins were debated). This sapphire had accompanied James VII into exile, and had been sold by his descendants for capital – until her grandfather, George III, had purchased the gem at auction abroad in Italy and returned it home, at long last, to where it belonged.

There was a reminder of its own in the Stuart Sapphire: that the people were yet stronger than the Crown, and they could see it removed (as James VII’s father, Charles I, had learned to his fatal undoing) just as quickly as they could see it honored.

(It was a reminder that she – as queen – knew to keep in mind, more so than any king who had ever reigned.)

Victoria held her breath as Sir Rundell worked together with Skerrett and Jenkins to set the monstrosity of a relic upon her brow, and when they finally released their hold . . .

It slipped forward, down and over her forehead.

Oh no, she couldn’t help but panic as she tilted her head back to compensate for the ill fit. She had to keep herself from physically reaching up to steady the crown – for she knew that the archbishop wouldn’t be nearly as careful as the jeweler and her dressers, and she most certainly would not be able to do so at her actual coronation, full as her hands would be with the scepter and the globe – and her neck strained against its weight (the crown weighed as much as Dash, she judged) with the effort it took to keep the crown from slanting too far down or even off her head entirely in a terribly undignified manner.

Sir Rundell, at least, looked entirely as horrified as she felt.

“My crown is yet too big,” Victoria, to her credit – later, she would be most pleased with her comportment – stated the obvious in a tone that was more wry observation than any more pointed an accusation. (Unconsciously mirroring him, perhaps.)

“Your Majesty,” Sir Rundell dropped to the floor to kneel, his head falling forward in an undignified bow that was as debasing as it was entirely unnecessary. “Please, accept my most sincere apologies for - ”

- but she impatiently waved Sir Rundell back to his feet. She would not wear this infernal thing a moment longer than must needs, and she’d have the jeweler waste no further time on a profusion of useless words when there was instead work to be done.

“The families of Rundell and Bridge have served the Crown faithfully for generations,” still, she recognized that it was incumbent upon her to set the jewelsmith’s mind at ease. (She could already well imagine how her Uncle Kings would have reacted in her place – especially if Sir Rundell’s strident attempt to forestall her anger was anything to judge by.) “As we trust that you will continue to do so for many more. Tell us, what can be done to resize the crown, now that it has been set?”

Sir Rundell loosed a still shaky breath. “Your Majesty,” he said somewhat helplessly, “this was the smallest circumference we could manage while still supporting the required elements. Anything less than has been used to enthrone a king in the past seemed . . . ill-advisable. We’d hoped that the lining within the cap itself would further compensate, yet our estimations were off, it would seem.”

Victoria loosed a sigh, knowing that he was right – even if the jewelers' doing so thus compromised her majesty by the same aim which they took to elevate it.

Thankfully, Sir Rundell assured her that alterations could yet be made to the interior of the crown to achieve a better fit – but she would still have to be most careful throughout the ceremony to keep the crown from slanting too far forward.

Of course, Victoria fought not to sigh – for she would already feel like a silly little girl playing dress-up as a king already; why not add her own crown failing to fit her brow to that equation?

She was then very grateful that Sir John wasn't in the room – oh, but how he would laugh and laugh and laugh . . .

. . . just as her lords and ladies would laugh – and her mother and Lady Flora and Uncle Cumberland and all her uncles and aunts and myriad cousins and the gathered foreign ministers and princes and princesses from each and every great court of Europe beyond -

Her vision suddenly swam with an imagined sea of jeering faces, and her unkind thoughts spiraled to resurrect the dozens of regnal portraits from the galleries of Buckingham and St. James’ beyond – from her grandfather in George III to her many-times great-uncle in Charles I, all the way back to her most formidable ancestors in Henry VIII and Henry V and William the Conqueror and St. Edward himself, all laughing their snide and booming laughs, until -

. . . in her waking nightmare, even Queen Elizabeth looked down her long, regal nose at her – hardly disturbing Anne Boleyn’s crown upon her own brow to vividly declare in a soft, deep voice, resplendent with command: “Who are you, child, to think that you could possibly aspire to the heights of Gloriana in our stead?”

The ringing truth of that innermost thought made her feel faint – air, she needed air; this room was much too warm and stifling – and she more importantly needed to have this great bleeding weight off her head, and she needed it gone immediately. She could bear it not a second longer.

Her ladies, thankfully, were hardly blind to the fit of panic that rose to overtake her – Skerrett and Jenkins, God preserve them both, made to remove the crown before she could even give the order, just as Lady Portman moved forward, unbidden, to discuss the particulars of the alterations with Sir Rundell. Then, most blessedly, Lehzen’s hand was discreetly at the small of her back to guide her from the room and -

- heedless of the rain, Victoria burst out onto the nearest balcony, and greedily sucked in breath after heaving breath of air, as if she'd suddenly been released from the crushing depths of an ocean and allowed to breathe without fear of drowning. Her lungs worked against the constraints of her corset, just as she choked on a sob and pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle the sound. It was already bad enough that her guards could plainly see her lapse in dignity – and she distantly registered Lord Alfred, too, fretting before Lehzen shooed him away and closed the doors to the balcony with a resounding click of the latch.

At first, she thought that her governess would merely stand guard for her privacy, blocking the view from the glass panes of the French doors as best she could – but, before she consciously understood what was happening, Lehzen moved purposefully forward, and Victoria then found herself being wrapped in the secure warmth of the older woman’s embrace.

Oh . . . her mind struggled to process the sudden, unexpected stimuli – the weight and pressure and warmth of comfortsecurityhome. It had been months since anyone had touched her so familiarly – not since the morning of her ascension, when Lehzen held her last as Victoria the child, before she alighted as Victoria the queen. She hadn't realized just how starved she’d become for the tangible reassurance that only another human being could provide since then – besides the impersonal touches of her maids and the fleeting respects of her lords, she existed as if she was statue of marble and gilt, held up on high as she was above all others – and she sank into the contact with a greedy sort of desperation. She clung tightly to her governess, and, finally, was somewhat successful in swallowing back the worst of her tears.

Her duties for the day were far from over, after all, and there were already shadows beneath her eyes. The last thing she needed was to make them red and swollen, too. Besides, poor Jenkins’ face would already be quite aghast for the sake of the silk she'd worn so carelessly out into the rain as it was, to say nothing of her hair. With that thought in mind, Victoria finally pulled away, and stepped back underneath the protection of the overhanging balcony above.

“Thank you, Lehzen,” she muttered when the baroness handed her a handkerchief. “I found myself quite overcome.”

“It is natural, Majesty,” Lehzen said, and Victoria sighed, already well espying even her closest attendant's retreat back into formality once more.

Yet, not entirely.

“I . . . I had wanted to give this to you on the day of your coronation," Lehzen said, her words hesitant at the first, "yet it seems best that I do so now.”

Victoria cocked her head to the side, curious as Lehzen reached into her ever-present reticule – prepared as she always was for anything – and drew out a small box, wrapped with a bright blue ribbon.

“For me?” she asked. “I have far too much as it is; you shouldn’t have.”

“It is indeed somewhat difficult to find a present for a woman who already has everything.” Lehzen did not smile – but a softening of her eyes told Victoria all that she needed to know. “Yet I thought this a great . . . reminder for that woman. This gift shall only have value for those who know where to look.”

Then quite intrigued, Victoria pulled at the ribbon and lifted the lid of the box. Inside, she found a locket nestled in a bed of red velvet. It was a very pretty thing in and of itself, the locket – antique bronze with delicate scrollwork framing the oval, so much so that Victoria suspected it had come from her native country of Hanover, though she would later have to ask to confirm for a certainty – and, within the locket . . .

Within the locket, there was a tiny – but most faithful, and all the more striking for being so – rendering of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation portrait.

For a moment, Victoria stared, and found that she could not breathe as her eyes threatened to burn anew.

“It is not remiss for even a queen to keep a talisman of some sort,” Lehzen seemed uncertain for only a moment as she explained her gift – not that she had to, for Victoria understood its intended meaning down to every particular. “Who better, I thought, to look out for our queen than such a great queen of old?”

Victoria brushed her thumb over the glass, feeling her heart turn inside her chest. “I regret,” she mumbled, blinking against the burning in her eyes, “that this queen does not have a more worthy successor for her legacy.” There, whispered to another woman – to the woman who’d first believed in her, as herself – she gave her innermost reservations an awful voice. “I fear that I am not – nor shall I ever be – her equal.”

“You do not need to be Elizabeth, nor should you,” Lehzen bowed her head to say – respectfully so, but with a strength of belief that rang out in her voice as iron. “You are Victoria – Queen Victoria. I do not think that you yet understand just how special that is, Your Majesty. Even by simply existing, you give hope and meaning to one half of mankind – a half who is thought of as lesser in all but the eyes of God – and, by the time your reign is done, I know – I know, for a fact – that you shall have achieved far more than that.”

Oh, but she was most certainly going to need that poultice for her eyes now, wasn't she?

Holding back her tears – releasing them truly to the best of her ability as she summoned her strength once more – Victoria inhaled the sweet, clean scent of the rain, and let that same breath out slow. She closed the locket, holding it as reverently as she would any of the Crown Jewels – for this, at least to her eyes, was infinitely more precious a treasure.

“I know better than to disagree with my governess,” Victoria finally managed aloud, “so I shall simply have to trust in your wisdom as true.”

“May this be the last time this governess is wiser than her charge – that a mere attendant is wiser than her queen.”

Victoria could not trust her voice to speak – instead, she wiped her eyes one last time, and bade Lehzen to clasp the locket around her neck. Then, she returned inside with her head raised to all of the curious looks that yet followed her, ready to resume her duties once more.



.

.

Victoria was indeed directed back to her apartments by a tutting Jenkins – insofar as a dresser ever could truly chide her lady, of course, let alone her sovereign queen – and helped to change into a citron gown the color of a lemon’s flesh. The chroma, desaturated and yet still energetic all at once, set off the blue-violet of her royal sash, and the rubies in the heart of her Star of Bath all but blazed against the shimmering, pale green embroidery that delicately accented the stiff taffeta. A modest sapphire tiara and its matching earrings completed the look, until, at last, she was declared ready for her next audience by Lady Sutherland.

She took luncheon with Archduke Franz Karl and Princess Sophie of the Austrian Empire in the second dining hall, and very much enjoyed their interlude. The royal couple complemented each other as a pair, and spoke about their children as much as they did their experiences in the court of the late Holy Roman Emperor. Victoria listened to their anecdotes, entirely aware that – were she a king, and their son instead a daughter – it wouldn’t have mattered that their eldest child was but seven years old. This luncheon would have instead been a grand reception of state, attended by at least a dozen or so members of her Privy Council, and there was every possibility that it would have ended with a signed marriage contract – as the young prince was one of the last remaining heirs to Charlemagne's ancient-most titles, and thus, a lingering, symbolic vessel of his legend and legacy.

A king could rule for a decade alone, waiting for his child-bride to mature in body before she was plucked from the nursery to become a mother herself, but a queen would be allowed no such luxury. Victoria was not even wholly anointed as such, yet she was already well aware of the chorus of voices, wondering when she would give her throne an heir, and they would not suffer to be silenced for overly long.

. . . she hadn't even had her first kiss, somewhat convulsively, Victoria wanted to protest those voices – she'd never even danced with a man who wasn't family (or may as well have been) – and the vaguest idea of motherhood (for any husband she'd ultimately submit to would be determined to put a child on her with all immediacy) was enough to send bile into her throat as she thought of poor, dead Princess Charlotte, slain in the gruesome battlefield of the birthing bed, long before she ever had the chance to rightly rule . . .

Yet Victoria concentrated on the weight of the locket she wore, even now resting beneath the neckline of her gown, and let not a single one of her thoughts show upon her face.

Nevertheless, she was thankful when Emma had the foresight to move tea with the American ambassador and his family to the conservatory attached to the rose gardens. Although it was still raining, the doors could be opened to allow in the outside air, and the fresh scent of the storm when combined with the heady floral fragrance was a soothing balm to her spirits after standing up tall to the expectations of protocol and courtesy before so many illustrious guests throughout the day.

. . . not that the American minister wasn’t an illustrious guest, of course – it was only that she trusted Andrew Stevenson of Virginia to more quickly forgive any supposed gaffe on her part than any delegate from the royal courts of Europe.

As the steward announced her arrival, Victoria couldn’t help but feel a rise of anticipation. Eagerly, she looked, expecting (hoping) to find -

. . . but no, she understood upon seeing Lord Palmerston – who even seemed to smile an apologetic smile, as if rightfully interpreting her disappointment – her prime minister would not be attending her . . . again.

Still, Victoria schooled her features, and accepted the deep curtsies and bows from her guests with all the grace beholden upon her as queen.

Victoria had received Andrew Stevenson’s credentials as plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James’ earlier that spring, yet she’d never had any more private an interlude with the man. Mr. Stevenson (how odd that he was only a Mister and not a Sir or a Lord – not that America had any such titles to give) presented her with the well-wishes of both President Jackson and President Van Buren (as President Jackson was still in office when Mr. Stevenson had last sailed, but President Van Buren now held power) and the continued desires of America to be both a friend and ally to her reign. Victoria, for her part, paid the polite ritual of his words only half a mind as their tea was poured.

This man was truly disreputable, she couldn't help but reflect – both her Lord M and Lord Palmerston had agreed to dub him as such. Apparently, Mr. Stevenson was disliked by his own government for being so vocal an anti-abolitionist, and his president had to appeal twice to their Senate in order to award him such a prestigious appointment abroad in a game of quid pro quo for Stevenson's championing President Jackson’s own causes in Congress.

Just the year prior, Mr. Stevenson had called out one of her own citizens – Daniel O’Connell, the MP for Dublin City – in a duel for the latter’s denouncing the cruel practices he engaged in on his tobacco plantations, though actual violence had ultimately been averted. Even so, she knew that Lord Melbourne had demanded the man’s removal for merely the threats made against one of the Crown’s honored servants – a request that President Jackson had denied, refusing in the strongest possible language to allow the United States of America to be ordered about by the hypocritical overlords on their lofty thrones in Britain across the sea.

. . . Andrew Jackson, Melbourne had only sighed to explain, had suffered tragically as a youth in the American War of Independence – and he had a long memory, with a temper of flint and fire to match. It was not merely his country that he purportedly sought to defend, but his own ghosts he wished to avenge.

Now, she observed Mr. Stevenson all the more curiously with those thoughts in mind. The minister was a charming man on the surface, she supposed, with a drawling accent and easy manners that wouldn’t have been out of place in the great salons of Holland or Chatsworth House. Baroness Lehzen had always depicted slavers as the worst kind of evil, and it was admittedly disjointing to see one of their ilk who was so . . . friendly – or at least outwardly so. Though, she reasoned, the devil himself had once worn the guise of an angel before showing his true face in the garden, had he not?

Still, no matter how the minister clearly endeavored to secure her favor, her sense of disquiet remained, and she could not entirely relax the set of her shoulders or the steel of her spine. That instinct was one Lord Melbourne had since insisted that she trust – honed as such perceptions unfortunately were after the years she’d endured at Kensington, even if he hadn’t phrased his words in quite so plain a manner.

Next to Mr. Stevenson was Mrs. Stevenson – the man’s third wife, who was not much older than Victoria herself. In her own way, the American woman sat equally as stiff and tall, and she spoke but little. Whenever Victoria attempted to engage her in conversation, her husband interjected to answer for her – so much so that Victoria noticed a tiny frown mar even Lady Portman’s indomitable composure before smoothing over for placid neutrality.

Better did she like Mr. Stevenson’s son, Victoria finally decided, as Mr. John Stevenson had his father’s easy manners, but with a smile that she instead found trustworthy and true. She especially liked Mrs. Sibella Stevenson – John Stevenson’s newlywed bride – and she liked all the more so how John included his wife in the conversation as, together, they honestly complimented their time in England and the country in its entirety as they'd experienced thus far.

Sibella stared at her in undisguised wonder for nearly their entire interlude, and Victoria couldn't help but recall Lehzen’s words, impressing upon her just how important it was for women the entire world wide that a queen regnant was now empowered with the might and majesty of the throne of England, and she . . .

. . . Victoria had thought to understand that truth, but found that she then did not – not entirely – not until the moment when Sibella said (in that lilting, honey-sweet accent Victoria had only just decreed was quite enchanting): “It is the privilege of a lifetime, being able to meet Your Majesty.” Her enthusiasm was touched with a genteel grace enough to match any of Victoria’s own ladies, granting her words an honest sincerity, rather than any more fawning or plebeian a sense of obsequiousness. “Someday, I will be able to tell my own daughter of this: the time I attended tea with the Queen of England.”

I’m just me, was Victoria's first, instinctive reaction, though she would never – could never – say those words aloud. Truly, there shall be nothing special to tell.

“The pleasure is ours,” instead, she allowed her distantly pleasant mask to soften as she acknowledged the compliment of her words.

“If I could tell her one thing,” Sibella hesitated before continuing – trading a look with her husband, who nodded as if to encourage her, “what would it be?”

Victoria paused, well aware of the fulcrum that moment balanced upon – the shaping of a legacy, intangible as such a construct ever was – before, finally, she did not think; instead, she spoke the first truth that came from her heart, knowing as she knew now how very well it trumped every other.

“Do not listen to the voices, telling her all that she cannot accomplish,” Victoria said, holding the American woman’s gaze. “I did not,” she allowed the royal pronoun to fall away in order to speak as she, herself, “nor shall I.”

Sibella’s eyes were bright, and Victoria watched as her hands shifted from the table to discreetly touch the stomach of her bodice – a telling gesture that even Victoria understood. “Yes,” she nodded to agree, her voice warm. “Yes, that is just what I shall say. Thank you, Your Majesty – you are most wise.”

Her father-in-law, however, had endured as long as he would suffer to be ignored – no matter that Victoria had almost forgotten his presence entirely – and interjected to add his entirely unwelcome opinion: “Your Majesty speaks with a woman’s wisdom – how trite!” Mr. Stevenson chuckled – having clearly amused himself, heedless of how no one else at the table joined him in laughter. To the contrary, his son went so far as to frown outright, and his wife's vacant smile turned strained.

Victoria bit her tongue to keep from asking what wisdom he’d have passed on to his granddaughter, if the babe was indeed a girl – yet, ultimately, she did not want to know; she could imagine well enough.

Instead, she steadied her mask to bid: “When do you think we can expect a female president? If only so America too may benefit from such wisdom.”

For that, Mr. Stevenson snorted outright – truly abominable as his manners were. “About the same time that there’s a female prime minister, I expect – you were born to your role, Your Majesty, but chosen by the people is another thing entirely.”

“Indeed,” she stated flatly. By her side, she was aware of how Lord Palmerston fidgeted in discomfort, though he wouldn't dare attempt to forestall her – even should she choose to give into the worst of her slowly rising temper. Lady Portman, in the English way, took a bracing sip of tea.

“This,” Mr. Stevenson waved his hand – ironically encompassing her crown and royal garter as much as he did the delicacy of the tea service with its candied fruits and sugared confections, “can be a woman’s province, I grant you – but politics are the natural domain of men, and I trust in God to see that they remain unsullied as thus.”

The amount of truth in his words rankled as much as their sentiment. Ultimately, Victoria was not entirely sure which one she addressed when she ventured upon a topic usually forbidden for even a queen to raise: “Is that so? Perhaps, then, you shall allow us to ask what you think of the upcoming parliamentary season. As a man,” she let the word drip from her mouth before continuing, careful not to place too much emphasis so as to be entirely noticeable, “who’s dedicated his life to the art of governing, we are curious to hear your thoughts.”

Mr. Stevenson sat up proudly in his seat, his chest all but puffing like a stag ready to bugle for a sweet little doe’s recognition of his talents. He waved a hand to enlighten her as such: “There will be more debates about corn and cotton, I expect – though I shan’t bore Your Majesty with the tedium of those particulars.” He gave her what he thought was, perhaps, a paternally indulgent expression – enough so that Victoria felt her mask threaten to crack as he presumed to explain the workings of her government to its sovereign queen. “Lord Melbourne’s ministry is refreshingly predictable in that regard.”

For that, Lord Palmerston let out the breath he’d been holding, just as Lady Portman and Lady Sutherland exchanged a glance that spoke entire novels in silence. Even John Stevenson had the good grace to look down at the table as his cheeks flushed in mortification for his sire's unchecked speech.

“We agree,” Victoria said – watching as if she was the lion emblazoned on the crests of her forefathers as satisfaction bloomed in Mr. Stevenson’s eyes. “Our prime minister, too, has expressed his concerns for the dangers of such stagnation in his ministry, and intends to take reparative measures once we resummon our government to convene.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Stevenson smirked. “Shall there be another debate about women attending the House in the gallery?”

Oh, but her blood all but boiled to be reminded of the bill that had been voted down the very same fortnight of her ascension – refusing to allow women the privilege of merely observing the business of Parliament as it was conducted – and she said perhaps too quickly: “Amongst other things.” Her mouth caught at the corners, no matter how she endeavored to maintain as serene an appearance as possible. “Foremost to be discussed shall be the cause of abolition,” she let the blade in her hand fall. “As you know, the slave trade has been outlawed by the Crown at home for over thirty years now, and the cruel practice of claiming ownership over one’s fellow man survives only in our Caribbean territories in lingering numbers. Our prime minister aims to attack even that last, vile remnant of godlessness come the new year. Then, with heaven's blessing, we trust that Parliament will act for the betterment of all in this most crucial of matters.”

She did not allow Mr. Stevenson a chance to reply – she thought that perhaps he couldn’t, at that, for the way his face had gone purple and livid, even as his mouth gaped like a dead grey fish. But she was not a mere MP he could bully – indeed, she almost welcomed him being foolhardy enough to try. At the door, she thought, Colonel Hampson was poised to physically intercede – let alone her attending ladies and Lord Palmerston with any necessarily spoken force.

“Not to burden a woman’s meeting with matters better left to men, of course,” she smiled sweetly, interrupting any retort the American minister could think to make. “We suppose that we should talk of tonight’s ball, instead – and so we shall: may the Queen of England be so bold as to presume a spot on her card for Mr. John Stevenson?”

She most pointedly did not ask his father to dance, she knew that the unspoken was loudly heard. Both men were rather tongue-tied, she thought – Mr. Stevenson in fury, and his son in dumbfounded surprise, although for her strong words or for the novelty of a woman asking a man to dance, she couldn't decide.

Poor boy – did he not know? She was the Queen of England, and such was her right.

“If you agree, we can promise the best of partners for your wife,” Victoria turned her gaze to acknowledge Sibella with the barest nod of her head. She rather thought that her Lord M would be the perfect match to help draw the shy girl from herself – especially when she lived in the shadow of such a father-in-law, so far away from home – and endeavored to make it so.

“I . . . I would,” John Stevenson finally found his voice to stammer. “Of course, ma'am; it would be my honor to accompany Your Majesty through any set you desire.”

“Excellent,” Victoria approved – and then turned to Mrs. Stevenson to pointedly seek her thoughts on the new fashion of plaid silks in America, ignoring the men outright. The woman was quite dazed, bordering on awestruck – both the Stevenson women were – but Mrs. Stevenson at last collected herself, and shared her opinion with a voice that grew in confidence with every word.

In that, Victoria could not help but reflect with pride, there was a victory all its own.

For this, she felt – if only for a moment – for this, she had been born.



.

.

It was through no small effort that Lord Melbourne resisted the urge to attend his queen at Buckingham Palace that morning.

William told himself that he was simply ill at ease with how he'd left matters with Victoria the previous day – better did he prefer to speak, sooner rather than later, and have the subject laid to rest in a more satisfactory manner, for both her sake as well as his own. Yet even that entirely proper impetus (was it not?) could be construed as more personal than professional – and it was made all the more so when he reflected that it was his queen's illuminous presence (her shining eyes and beaming smile) as Victoria that he (knew he) perhaps craved, even more so than the privilege of serving his reigning monarch, and that . . .

. . . that was a dangerously growing folly that he knew (he knew better) to up-weed now, when it had a delicate stem and still tender roots (though hardly shallow), before it grew into any more hardy and choking a vine (a bloom, resplendent in all glory with scent and color and life) -

This time, he held fast against his more imperfect inclinations, and set himself to his duty with the utmost resolution.

That rigid discipline saw him through yet another morning meeting with Colonel Hampson – the amount of letters that the palace had received, even in the twenty-four hours since they'd last spoken, threatening Her Majesty’s life and limb before she even made it to the altar at Westminster, was truly staggering and savage for being so – and their audience lasted near to noon as a result. No matter how sickly his gut churned, his own inclination for passivity was then nowhere to be found as they discussed a seemingly myriad list of specific threats – for the first, he found himself glad to know that he'd be wielding a sword at the coronation, as he'd happily turn that symbolic defense of his monarch into any more literal a devotion as necessary – and he couldn't regret a single moment spent on the subject of the queen's safety as wasted. Instead, he could only pray that their measures would be enough – they had to be enough.

From there, he forsook a midday meal in favor of yet more coffee as he had a fruitless conversation with the Archbishop of York – who stood by the Archbishop of Canterbury’s decision not to anoint the queen upon her heart, as well as her head and her hands. By the time one o'clock in the afternoon came, and the bishop took his leave, William was quite disgusted with all the world – and a good portion of his own countrymen, in particular.

But all he could do was empty yet another pot of coffee, and soldier on.

A note from Emma came soon after the archbishop's departure, informing him – as delicately and yet bluntly as was the baroness' wont – that the queen was most . . . desirous of his presence.

Desirous, perhaps – and he had to scuttle the way his own imperfect heart leapt for the idea – but not in need; never in need. Victoria had no true need of him – not even when he'd had, perhaps, made her first steps upon her path somewhat easier to bear. Instead, he was truly bound by his duties here, little as he himself desired . . .

His vision unfocused for an all too long moment, and it was not until the next line, elegantly flicked from Emma's pen, that he gave her letter his full attention:

You may need to mend fences with the American minister – yet it was satisfying to watch our true David of a queen put that Philistine in his place; I shall have to give you the particulars, so that you may tell O’Connell when next you see him in the House.​

See? he thought as pride overtook his every thought for an entirely proper sense of devotion. His Gloriana had no need of him – none whatsoever.

Imagining Andrew Stevenson's pugnacious face driven to speechlessness by the all but fairy-shaped woman who commanded the throne of England carried him through his subsequent audience with the Duke of Norfolk in his capacity as earl marshal, and then an urgent matter of government that could not possibly wait until the fall with Sir Robert Peel (God spare him the tenacious Tory dray horse, but the man was determined to work for as long as his fellow statesmen remained in London, even through the coronation of his queen) until, finally, nearer to evening, his secretary brought a fresh batch of letters, all marked for his immediate attention, and made certain to indicate the letter from the palace that held a place of prominence on top.

Merely a glimpse of that graceful, careful hand – even if she was somewhat less graceful and careful when writing him, which was just as dangerous an observation for the level of comfort it implied – had him reaching for the letter and breaking the seal before his secretary even quit the room, curiously observing his employer before he politely left him to his privacy once more.

The letter began as could perhaps be expected, inquiring of his health and the day they'd spent apart – and he could see where she constrained her pen from saying what she may have better wished to say when the ink blotted with her punctuation – though whether from an attempt at discretion or fear for his answer he could not tell – before she continued on to describe the affairs of state she'd accomplished with Lord Palmerston in his stead.

I fear that I quite angered the American minister, came near the end of her letter, though Lord P will undoubtedly tell you the whole of the matter before I can. I suppose that I may have to write President Van Buren in contrition? How very vexing! If you think that whatever damage I may or may not have done may be subverted without such a humiliation, Her Majesty shall be entirely grateful. If you were there, you would understand but you were not there, and I anticipate illuminating any details that Lord P may unwittingly exclude.

Her Majesty looks forward to her Prime Minister's attendance at the Coronation Ball tonight, and bids you come early, if possible, to discuss a last few manners of protocol.

I remain,
Victoria Regina

PS. I have volunteered your hand for Mrs. Stevenson – the younger – and trust that you will find her as agreeable a partner as she deserves in return. Just as you have always been the same to -

PSS. Oh, but I cannot end this letter without saying that I have many regrets about my conduct yesterday – I sought to alleviate your burdens as a friend as my foremost minister, and instead I only added to your troubles. Perhaps it is not advisable for a queen to admit herself in the wrong, but, as Victoria, I am quite ashamed of my actions and wish to apologize in person – preferably before the ball, so that there shall be nothing but friendship a true accord between Queen and Prime Minister for the rest of the evening.​

William – though he would never admit doing so (could not admit to doing so) – read the letter through more than once, and felt revived in a way that no amount of rest or fortifying stimulant would have been able to achieve otherwise. He was hardly even aware of the smile that was on his face when he called for Tom's attention again – though his secretary certainly noticed – and told him to push the rest of his waiting appointments to the following day. He'd take the most crucial of his correspondence back to Dover Street, and answer them accordingly.

By the time he returned home, he felt somewhat lighter on his feet, even as the rain continued to fall and the clouds hung low and grey in the sky. He called for Baines as he jogged up the staircase – ready as he was to dress for the ball. He should have been at the palace already, attending his queen, and so he'd now hasten to -

- but thunder rolled by the time he alighted the last step, drawing him a thousand miles and seemingly a million years away once more, and he could not . . .

He would just delay but a moment longer, William thought as his newfound verve seemingly left him in a rush of air to match, unable to pass the nursery by when his heart was seemingly connected by chains to the emptiness of a tomb – just a moment, and then he would face the world as Lord Melbourne again.

He only needed a moment, and then, he determined with all possible resolve, he would find his strength anew.



.

.

Skerrett and Jenkins had just finished securing her diamond and rose tiara against the artfully coiled braids of her hair when a knock sounded at the door. Victoria looked up as Lady Portman entered, and asked in a voice that rushed to match the skipping of her heartbeat:

“Has he arrived? Could you see?”

Emma's smile, she thought, was strained, for all that it was hardly discernable from her usual courtly manners. “Not yet, ma’am,” she answered in the negative, and Victoria felt her shoulders droop – little as her posture lost its tension otherwise.

“Would that he had," she voiced her anxiety aloud, casting a glance to the tortoiseshell clock on the mantel. "I cannot, for the life of me, remember the proper address for the Russian grand duke. Is he an imperial highness or a ducal highness? I do not want to err in decorum my very first time . . ."

For even the thought, her stomach turned, and she was momentarily unsteady on her feet.

"I believe, ma'am," Emma said gently, "that Grand Duke Alexander should be referred to as His Imperial Highness."

"And Your Majesty may call him whatever you like," Harriet added as she adjusted the setting of her pearl and diamond pendant with a critical eye. "That is your right as queen, you know."

Yes . . . that very well would have been her right, if she was instead His Majesty as king.

In reality, as she, herself . . .

"Still, I would very much like to make sure." Victoria fought not to bite her lip. "How much longer can we delay, do you think?"

“You are the queen," Harriet repeated once more – but only after trading a glance with Emma, Victoria saw. "The dancing cannot begin until you open the ball."

Yet she heard what went unspoken: they could not tarry too much longer before a fashionable delay instead turned into a rude delay.

So, Victoria squared her shoulders, and resigned herself to her duty.

“Lady Portman, may you have Lord Alfred alert the chamberlain? I shall make my appearance presently.”

"Very good, Your Majesty." Emma curtsied and left at her command, while Harriet directed Jenkins and Skerrett about, laboring over the last few details as concerned her appearance – little as Victoria could tell much of a difference in the final result as opposed to the last quarter-hour's worth of such painstaking care.

Yet, she thought, gazing at the stranger in the mirror, the final result was stunning – even to her self-critical gaze. Her ballgown was made from a heavy Venetian brocade, with stylized motifs of laurel and andromeda stitched in threads of silver and gold against a backdrop of rich cream silk. The fabric seemingly glowed like the white heart of a flame and danced to commune with the candlelight, even when she herself was at rest. The scooped neckline was the lowest she'd ever worn, even if it was entirely reserved when compared to the growing trend of off-the-shoulder necklines in fashion – a trend which Harriet insisted would complement her own particular stature, if and when she felt bold enough to don such a cut. For now, Victoria was all too concerned about her particular stature allowing any man she danced with an unrestricted view of more of her person than she was entirely comfortable with revealing.

. . . little as she had to reveal, that was, Victoria couldn't help but unkindly judge – wishing, not for the first time, that she was more like Harriet, who was the perfect height and had curves as generous as her waistline was small, even before the exaggeratedly feminine illusion as granted by her corset and the cut of her gowns.

Yet, where the neckline was very much grown-up, the puffed sleeves, stretching from just below her shoulders to just above her elbows, were modest, and the long white gloves she wore almost entirely covered the skin of her arms. The gown was beautiful, she had to admit that Harriet had chosen well, and, even with her sharpest criticisms ringing in her ear, she ultimately felt . . .

. . . she felt beautiful, and in that feeling there was a confidence all its own.

Victoria heard the doors open again, and she looked up, expecting Emma – and even hoped to look beyond and see -

- but it was only her mother who welcomed herself into her boudoir – with Sir John and Lady Flora waiting like jackals in the corridor, their teeth bared and hungry for the night.

Disappointment jostled with annoyance in her heart and mind; ultimately, her annoyance won.

“I've come to escort you to the ball," the Duchess of Kent smiled an unctuous smile – one which her daughter failed to return in the slightest. "My liebchen – how very grown up you look.”

Victoria had only just thought much the same in triumph; yet her mother somehow managed to imply just how much further she still had to grow, even when presumably voicing a compliment. The duchess came forward and adjusted the dripping pendant resting at her clavicle – the very same one that Harriet had so carefully set into place – so that it hung to her satisfaction. Victoria only just restrained herself from rudely smacking her hand away.

Instead, the double doors to her inner-rooms were thrown open, allowing in the rest of her entourage in to prepare for their departure. No matter that Victoria herself had just given the command, Sir John took it upon himself to look down at his fob watch and declare: "It is time for you to make your entrance,” as if the decision was his to make. The same words that had been kindly intended from Emma and Harriet were entirely condescending when coming from Conroy's mouth.

“Of course," he continued in that superior manner, "I need not remind Your Majesty that this is the first time the majority of your guests will have seen you.” And whose fault is that? Victoria thought bitterly, even as she refrained from accusing aloud. “It is imperative that you act with the utmost discretion, with all attention given to decorum. I would advise against drinking champagne, for example.”

“Or dancing more than once with the same man,” Lady Flora added. “Such things are most certainly noticed, and shall inevitably be remarked upon.”

“And do not smile in that way of yours." Her mother went on to pick at the glittering ribbons threaded through her braids – clearly disapproving of the modern style when worn by her daughter. "You bare all of your teeth like an ape, and it's most unseemly."

“Laughter, too, should be avoided – you must not give power over to your guests in any way," oh, and wasn't that rich? Victoria again held back from snapping at Lady Flora as she continued, "not even to share in merriment."

“And temper," Sir John added dryly. "For God's sake, ma'am, but you must control your temper."

Victoria rather thought that she did so most admirably then.

"Even if you do not understand a matter concerning affairs of the realm, do not let it show – come to us, and Sir John will guide you."

“You will, of course," Lady Flora – as a Hastings – ever took it upon herself to remind her of matters concerning court protocol, "open the ball with the grand duke, as His Imperial Highness shall be the highest ranking man in attendance of royal blood."

"But you must not," the duchess saw fit to repeat with all severity, "dance with him more than once – lest you give rise to certain . . . expectations."

For that would most certainly interfere with her mother's choice for her future bridegroom, would it not?

Yet Victoria did not deign to reply – instead, she turned away from her mother and asked aloud of Lady Sutherland: "How do I look?"

"Like a queen, Your Majesty," Harriet dipped low to answer, bowing her head, and Victoria found what little she could of her confidence restored.

"Excellent," she approved, before tilting up her chin with all possible regality to announce: "You have our permission to attend us."

With that, Victoria walked out on her own accord – with her ladies and equerries lining up behind her to the left as her mother and the duchess' attendants fell into step at her right. She came to the Grand Staircase, and looked down to where her guests had gathered below. Instantly, the chatter ceased.

She was announced by the chamberlain, and the entire assembly bowed – rippling in a spellbinding wave of glimmering silks and winking jewels – as she began her descent.

Her heart was in her throat, so much so that Victoria feared that the pulsing organ could be seen through the skin left bare by her gown. She held her head up high against the weight of her crown, all until -

- she almost missed her step on the fifth stair, and it was only through the grace of God that she did not tumble outright.

Maddeningly, she felt Sir John's hand at her elbow, discreetly steadying her. Before he took his place back behind her mother, she heard him whisper for her ears alone: "You see, now, why we did not think it safe for you to walk down the stairs alone? Your balance has always been uncertain. What a mercy it is that you did not fall in front of all these people."

The implication in his words was pointed, for all that they were deceivingly genial: there was still time aplenty for her to falter – this evening, or throughout the true dawn of her reign yet to come.

Victoria did not give into the urge to yank her arm free from his touch. Instead, she continued down the stairs without looking back, her eyes scanning the crowd for the only person she truly wanted to see.



TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

A Note on Princess Ana de Jesus: Technically, she was no longer in a place to represent the royal family of Portugal when Victoria came into power, but she was such an interesting woman in history that I wanted to include her here with an aim of bringing her character back again in the future! She was the youngest daughter of King John VI of Portugal and Brazil and the Spanish Princess Carlota Juanita. She fell in love with the Count of Vale de Reis, and married him. This was a scandal at the time, as she was the first Portuguese princess since the Middle Ages to marry a man not of royal blood. But she didn't elope: she talked her family into supporting the match, and they agreed. Her husband was elevated to the title of duke, and went on to serve as the Prime Minister of Portugal several times over the next five or so decades. In history, their marriage did not stay happy, and they separated, but that's not nearly as much fun for me as an author, so I'm ignoring that fact . . . you know, for reasons.

A Note on Prince Louis, Duke of Nemours: He was considered as a prospective match for Victoria – albeit a distant one, as he was Catholic, and more than a bit of a conceited tosspot, to say the least, so no serious consideration was ever given to his suit, which must have relieved both parties.

A Note on the Archbishop of Canterbury: In history, he did refuse to anoint Victoria over her heart for the impropriety of touching his female sovereign in such a way. I don't know if this was traditional for queen consorts before Victoria, and, admittedly, my research stopped there as I had more than enough subject material to work with through that alone.

A Note on Minister Andrew Stevenson: He was just as much of a bigoted blowhard in RL as I wrote him here – and it was a scandal in America that he was appointed as Minister to the United Kingdom (ambassadors used to be called ministers, for clarity) when he was so stridently anti-abolition. (He was a man after Andrew Jackson's own heart, though, with his temper and inclination to cruelty. ) This was such a point of controversy that Stevenson was indeed called out in England by Daniel O’Connell for his prejudices, and Stevenson did challenge the MP of Dublin City to a duel. (I know, what a stellar example of a diplomat – especially when America was still struggling to be taken seriously on the international scene. ) Victoria herself had abolitionist leanings due to Lehzen’s teachings (as Lehzen was a Lutheran minister’s daughter, and deeply pious), and a well documented history of being unwilling to suffer arrogant men – so I can only imagine that a meeting between them in RL just may have gone exactly as described.

A Note on John Stevenson: For all that his father was one of the worst examples of the time period, John Stevenson, the future governor of Kentucky, was against secession and pro-unification after the American Civil War, even though he was a Confederate by birth. He was a moderate voice of reason amongst the still volatile southern states, and he did his best to support civil rights throughout his political career – to a certain extent, at least, and to middling results.

The names of his daughters are not listed on Wikipedia – but I like to think that one of them was named Victoria after writing this story, for obvious reasons.

A Note on President Andrew Jackson: I don't think that I have to get into why Andrew Jackson was a colorful and even problematic character in history, if not downright reprehensible. But his earliest years were based in tragedy: Andrew Jackson and his two elder brothers served as curriers in the Continental Army as pre-teens. His one brother died of heat stroke at the Battle of Stono Ferry; the following spring, Andrew and his surviving brother were taken as prisoners-of-war. When Jackson refused to polish the boots of a British army officer, he was slashed with a sword, which left him with scars on his face and hands. He and his brother both became malnourished and contracted smallpox while prisoners; Jackson survived, his brother did not. His mother, who was already a widow, took it upon herself to nurse released POWs back to health following her son's death, only to contract cholera and die herself while doing so, leaving Jackson as an orphan at 14 years of age. Even before the Revolutionary War, Jackson's parents were Irish immigrants who had a strong hatred - based in no small amount of reason - for the British, which they passed on to their children.

A Note on Women in the Gallery: I couldn't make this up if I tried: the same week of Victoria's accension, the House voted down a bill allowing women (and select women, at that) the ability to merely witness government in motion from the galleries. This was a bill Melbourne supported, and he was frustrated when it didn't pass. As a side anecdote that I wasn't able to work into my backstory fic: when Caroline and Melbourne were merely engaged, Melbourne gave his first speech to the House of Commons as a freshman MP. Caroline borrowed her brother Frederick's clothing to disguise herself as a man, and sneaked into the gallery to watch him speak. Her eccentricity was mostly viewed as endearing at the time - the Duke of Wellington had an entirely straight-faced conversation with "Carl" when Frederick introduced them, I can imagine - and I'm still not sure if this was a sweet memory for Melbourne, or a precursor to . . . well, everything that happened next in life. But, again, this felt like a very petty bit of legislature to vote against when those same lords were quite literally bending the knee to their new queen at the same time, in the worst way.

A Note on Melbourne and Abolition: You only need to glance at Melbourne’s Wikipedia page to see an entire sub-heading on this subject – and it’s not at all flattering. While Melbourne was William IV’s prime minister, he was slow to support the 1833 Anti-Slavery Acts that aimed to abolish slavery in the East Indies, the last place in the British Empire where slavery was allowed (the bill was grossly injust as much as it fixed a gross injustice) – so much so that King William actually dismissed him as prime minister for a time. (Though that was only part of the reason - Melbourne had made appointments to his cabinet that the king Did Not approve of, but didn't change, as they weren't the Crown's place to influence.) RL!Melbourne’s exact quote was that, if it was left up to him, he wouldn’t do a damned thing about it. Now, was this more of Melbourne being entirely unwilling to welcome any conflict that he saw as unnecessary in government in order to keep the peace across both sides of the aisle, even before factoring in an incendiary monarch? Maybe. Or was RL!Melbourne just as much of a gross bigot as he was a classist, and he couldn’t be moved to care for the plight of those people that he viewed as lesser? Entirely possible.

But here’s something that I then found very interesting: in 1838, Melbourne’s ministry passed a final slew of anti-slavery laws in the form of the Jamaica Bills and Emancipation Act, which not only better enforced the good parts of the Acts of 1833, but abolished the awful condition that said that freed slaves should stay on as enforced "apprentices" to their former masters for little to no wages. Doing this at the time was political suicide, to say the least. Melbourne was already losing power in government due to his growing friendship with Victoria – their bond increased the pressure put upon her to marry an acceptable husband, and it was commonly assumed that the first thing her husband would do was dismiss Melbourne as prime minister. As such, his enemies rightly smelled blood in the water. Melbourne, however, threw the last of his political weight into the Jamaica Bills – and he did so knowing that he would have to resign his position even earlier than was expected, before a vote of no confidence could be cast against him.

Again: Melbourne’s final decisive act as a politician was to abolish the last remnants of slavery in the East Indies, and he did so knowing full well that he would lose Victoria in the aftermath. (Both in the novel/show and in RL, Melbourne and Victoria treated this more like a very bad break-up instead of a natural parting of the ways between Crown and First Lord – which you better believe that I am going to delve into writing, as I couldn’t even make these events up if I tried.)

At first, I thought that Goodwin’s inclusion of the Jamaica Bills was her way of making Melbourne more palpable for modern audiences – as such, I was surprised when I read that this was actually historically accurate. Did RL!Melbourne only grudgingly support these bills with a thought to his legacy, in order to reverse the embarrassment of being dismissed as prime minister earlier in his career for such a dishonorable reason? Maybe. Or did this last effort to truly make a difference stem from how he really felt on the subject (even if his opinion changed for the better over the years) and/or his dissatisfaction with his ultimate political reputation as a man of compromise? It's possible. Ultimately, that’s not for me to decide as regards RL!Melbourne, but I know which route I am going to take with this fictional version.

Anyway, we are going to cover the Jamaica Bills and Melbourne’s attempts to resign as prime minister before Victoria takes matters into her own hands further on in this collection – but I wanted to lay a bit of that groundwork here.

~MJ

 

That's exactly it! She has quite the heavy load on her shoulders, and a lot to live up to - by both her own expectations and those of others - but she's stronger than she realizes, and she has a core group of allies to help support her when she herself doubts her own strength.

Thank you! For as much as Victoria can absolutely put her foot in her mouth, she's quick to admit when she's wrong and apologize for doing so, which can only lead to mending.

Although, on that note . . . here's the next chapter.

Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to leave your thoughts, as always!

 

Author's Notes: What do you get when you put together trauma from years of abuse; secular stress, dynastic expectations, and its interconnected existential stress (understatement, all); intense public scrutiny (another understatement); family drama; relationship drama; and a lack of proper food and sleep, but no small amount of alcohol – even before factoring in pesky teenage hormones and the awkward flush of first love, no matter how sincere? Well – besides a big ol’ mess – you get turbulence.

So buckle in, folks, and make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in an upright and locked position - it's going to be a wild ride.

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300+(+) Basketball)​

VII.II.III.

Turbulence

The masses parted, still bowing as she passed, and Victoria walked the length of the ballroom to her throne. There were two more seats on the raised dais: one at her right and slightly lower for the queen dowager – where her Aunt Adelaide gave a shallow but respectful curtsy, which Victoria returned in like manner – and another to her left and even lower for her mother, who was queen mother in body but not formally recognized by the court as such, and thus unable to entirely claim the privileges inherent of that station.

If Victoria had it her way, she never would, and seeing her mother’s nose wrinkle to sit lower in precedence than Adelaide filled her with a hot glow of near vengeful satisfaction. Yet that satisfaction was short-lived as caution instead whispered, for a regent (a role her mother yet coveted) would sit at her very right hand – and more importantly hold and govern that hand with an iron grip.

And, if her mother was declared her regent – even if just a co-regent in tandem with her Uncle Cumberland or whomever her lords should decide upon – then, truly in power behind the puppet-duchess would be . . .

But Victoria reached for the glass of champagne that was offered, and drank deeply before returning it to the silver tray.

Her mother and aunt took their own places – with her Aunt Adelaide turning a brief, warm smile her way before she resumed her own mask of distant, cool regard, and Victoria endeavored to do much the same.

There was one last foreign delegate she had left to officially welcome before the ball – for the same storms plaguing England had made crossing the North Sea treacherous, even in the relative calm of June – and so she inclined her head to the chamberlain and summarily heard announced . . .

“His Imperial Highness Grand Duke Alexander Nikolayevich Romanov, on behalf of Czar Nicholas I of the Russian Empire and the Court of Saint Petersburg."

"We cordially welcome the friendship and affections of Czar Nicholas, and his representative in His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke, to the Court of Saint James'," Victoria let her voice ring out, clear and strong. There, she couldn't help but think, she had done it, speaking for the first time before so many hundreds of people as sovereign.

Her welcome heralded the arrival of a tall, slender young man at the end of the hall, and her guests once again melted like candlewax to show their respect. He wore a deep, navy blue uniform in the Russian style, a fur stole draped over his left shoulder along with his shako, with gold braid at his chest and shoulders and running in a stripe down the leg of his trousers. His eyes were a wintery shade of blue-grey, and his short-cropped hair and thick mustache a dark blonde in color. His features may have been called severe at rest, but his smile was warm, and truly quite . . .

. . . well, Victoria gave, Grand Duke Alexander could very much be called handsome, if in his own way.

The prince bowed once he reached the steps of the dais, and she repeated her greeting in French, the language of the Russian Court – only to have Alexander straighten from his bow and say in flawless, if heavily accented, English: "I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty. It is not only for my father, but for my own sake that I thank you for such a warm welcome."

“Oh, how marvelous,” she approved. "You speak English."

“Amongst other languages, ma'am,” he bowed again with a flourish to tease – but his words sparkled from him, and she took no offense.

“I, most regrettably, have no Russian,” she laughed for the informality of his manners – brightly and easily, and she saw heads raise from amongst her own courtiers as if seeing her for the first time. (But they were seeing her for the first time, were they not?)

Yet the grand duke only looked delighted. “Perhaps, when you visit my country, I shall be able to teach you a few words.”

There was nothing untoward in his invitation, she didn’t think . . . not exactly – but his voice prickled over her skin, unfamiliar (uncomfortable?) yet perhaps intriguing for being so.

As such: “Why should we wait?” Victoria voiced the thought as soon as it came to her, and rose from her throne. Her court dipped low to bow once more, but, this time, Alexander remained standing tall. He looked down at her as she descended the dais – so far down – if only by nature’s constructs, but she thought (if she could trust what her senses were telling her) that he quite liked what he saw. That knowledge made her bold in return. “What is your word for dancing?”

“If I were to ask Your Majesty to dance,” he indulged her by offering most formally for her hand, “it would go something like this: Vashe Velichestvo, razre****e priglasit' vas na tanets?”

How absolutely splendid!

“You may,” she declared archly, unable to wholly hide her pleasure, and placed her hand in his.

They took to the floor together, and the orchestra started up the first dance of the evening. It was a gavotte, she recognized the baroque flare to the strings, and she lined up across from Alexander at the top of the set and curtsied accordingly.

With her heartbeat thundering even louder than the strains of the music, she called the steps to mind – and, with a last, urgent prayer that she not falter, or, even worse, step on her partner’s toes, they begun.

Victoria did not speak – could not speak – their first time through the figures. She was far too busy concentrating on not making an absolute fool of herself in front of so many people. Yet she persevered until the floor filled with couples – with her Uncle Cumberland pairing with her mother and the Duke of Wellington attending her Aunt Adelaide. Then, in the slight anonymity provided by the growing throng, Victoria allowed herself to exhale, just as Alexander leaned in close to say -

“ - dancing tends to be more enjoyable if one allows oneself to breathe.”

They traded hands again, forearm pressed to forearm, and Victoria cocked her head to the side. “As I have not yet toppled over entirely from lack of air," she declared, "I believe myself to be managing tolerably well.”

“Indeed," Alexander's eyes glittered, "but there is a difference between breathing and allowing oneself to breathe – relax, Your Majesty . . . and just dance.”

He presumed much – but all so charmingly so that she couldn't wholly bring herself to mind.

And yet Victoria was not entirely blind to the gazes that studied them all the while – many in admiration, and not entirely for her own sake. Alexander wore his uniform well, and he moved with the confidence of a soldier, even if the military appliqués were just that: mere ornamentation, earned by blood, rather than in blood. He deserved the attention his person garnered, Victoria could acknowledge – the same as looking upon a beautiful painting and allowing herself to appreciate the artist’s talent – but she rather thought that he too was very much aware of the picture he presented . . . and rather enjoyed the eyes that followed him as a result.

As such, Victoria tucked in the corners of her smile – even as she refused to keep herself from smiling outright. A dance was still a dance, after all, (she was dancing – and with such a handsome man, at that!) and she was determined to enjoy herself.

Her growing confidence through the gavotte – and the easiness it inspired – did not go unnoticed by her partner -

“I have never known a queen to dance so well as Your Majesty.”

- no matter that she rather suspected he would have complimented her regardless, even if she danced like a clumsy elephant, endeavoring to trample a very small mouse.

“You have danced with many queens, then?” she raised a brow in challenge.

He laughed for her riposte, and leaned down to whisper: “I find that I only need to dance with this one queen to know that all others would pale by comparison.”

A young man of wealth and circumstance – and no small amount of charm, she suddenly recalled her Lord Melbourne taking stock of the grand duke’s measure, then quite far away from home.

Victoria found herself agreeing with his assessment in its entirety.

Still, Alexander was charming, and as she came out of her curtsy at the end of the dance but still did not see (where, oh where was he?) when she scanned the ballroom . . .

The gavotte was followed by a polka – and she did not immediately release Alexander’s hand and quit the floor to trade partners, as protocol may have otherwise demanded.

Instead: “Czarevitch,” she addressed him – unsure how to speak his full title in Russian but trusting that he’d forgive any error for the sincerity of her efforts – and then parroted his earlier invitation to the best of her ability: “Razre****e priglasit' vas na tanets?”

For the first, she thought that Alexander looked truly pleased – rather than merely making a game of delight – and that was a most becoming expression, indeed, for how it turned his cool grey eyes aglow with warmth.

“How can I refuse such an offer?” he replied, and swept her into the next dance as the couples around them broke apart and reformed again. “Vashe Velichestvo, ya prinimayu.”

The polka was fast and energetic, close and spinning all at once, and the intimate, amber-orange glow cast by the thousands of candles lining the room and glittering to reflect and refract from the chandeliers above turned to rings of molten sun and shimmering gold. Faces blurred together, one after another and another and all watching her, even as she searched each and every visage in return, hoping, all the while -

Lord M!

Victoria twirled the opposite way than the dance required, for a moment quite out of step with her partner, having thought that she finally saw, at last -

- but no, she recognized with a sigh – it was only General Sir Henry Wyndham, who, besides his dark hair and a vague resemblance in certain sharp facial features, was very much not Lord Melbourne.

(And she almost laughed aloud to confuse the two – for her Lord M had expressed his absolute abhorrence for the growing trend of mustaches in fashion on more than one occasion, and the general’s mustache was . . . most impressive.)

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but did I step on your toes?” Alexander asked as they recovered the rhythm of the dance.

“Oh, not at all.” Victoria refocused her attention. “It is only . . .” but she struggled to find her words, both wanting to speak the truth, but unsure how to give that truth a voice. “I thought I saw someone,” she concluded, perhaps somewhat inadequately, as they spun once more.

“Ah.” Even so, she thought that Alexander understood. “Someone you are wishing to see?"

Victoria could only nod, little as she trusted her voice to speak.

“Then I am sorry that I am not this man.”

“Oh,” she flushed an entirely mortifying shade of red – or so she could well imagine – no matter the half-light of the candles, “it’s not like that at all.”

“Is that so?” Alexander gave an almost tigerish grin. “You must be blushing on my account, then.”

She huffed (and nearly went so far as to swat his arm, the same as if disciplining her spaniel), but his words had their desired effect, and she smiled once more.

The rest of their dance passed quickly, and it was all so very different from her usual experiences that she did not entirely know what to make of the set. Until now, she'd only ever danced in public with her male relatives or Sir John or old, venerable members of her government like the Duke of Wellington – who may as well have been another grandfather to her. Dancing with the Russian Grand Duke was most . . . singular when compared to her Cousin George or even Cousin Albert – both of whom were more real marriage prospects than Alexander, for all that they were also family.

George and Albert were both so . . . so careful with her – George, out of respect for her position as his sovereign queen, and Albert, who'd suffered to endure dancing with her, as if he'd contract the plague by holding her too close. Alexander, for his part, was neither of those things. He was confident in his own power – for all that he'd yet to sit his own throne – and that confidence was reflected in the way he firmly took her hand, his grip sure at her waist. He didn’t lead her through the steps as if asking a question, but as if expecting that she’d follow.

Victoria hadn't wholly made up her mind on what she thought of him as a partner, but the experience was certainly . . . novel, to be sure.

She felt warm by the time the dance was done – perhaps too warm as she moved to the edge of the floor. A glass of champagne promised to be the perfect remedy, and she accepted the serving that Alexander gallantly procured on her behalf. The wine was pleasantly cold and soothingly effervescent, and she swallowed most gratefully.

From across the ballroom, she caught Sir John’s gimlet gaze – Lady Flora, too, was frowning for the two whole dances she'd shared with Alexander, while her mother stared quite pointedly at where the grand duke yet stood, perhaps a fraction just too close – and resolutely drank down the rest of her champagne. With a satisfying click of sound, she returned the empty glass to the tray, and took another.

“You drink champagne like a Russian,” Alexander approved as she emptied that serving too. "How enchanting."

Victoria allowed herself to smirk, enjoying their repartee for what it was. “I have never known grand dukes to be so charming,” she teased, sallying his words from earlier.

“And you’ve known so many grand dukes, Your Majesty?”

“Just this one, but I believe him to be quite enough.”

Alexander laughed, and bowed to kiss her hand. “May I always be singular,” he said, and then left her to further attend her guests.

From there, she danced with each of the French princes and the Spanish duke – whom, after Prince Louis, was a most welcome reprieve. Prince Charles of Prussia was an equally engaging partner – for being a general in the Prussian military as a younger son of the currently reigning king, he was instead more inclined to the arts than his martial career, which he and his wife championed as generous and passionate patrons – as was Archduke Franz Karl of Austria. She was then forced to endure a dance with her Uncle Cumberland, and then Cousin George (although it was more like Cousin George suffered to endure a dance with her), before dancing with members of her own government in the Duke of Wellington – whose company she always enjoyed, and who danced with the grace of a man mere half his age – and, finally, Sir Robert Peel.

The leader of the Tory party in Opposition was still an absolute toad, Victoria couldn’t help but think – but he danced very well with his wife, no matter that he fumbled with any other partner, herself included. Even after two decades of marriage, the pair was still absolutely devoted to each other – that even Victoria could see and think kindly of. Sir Robert may have been the first man of the evening to step on her toes, but he was openly pleased when she asked him of his family, and they spent the entirety of their required set speaking of his children, of whom Sir Robert was a most proud father.

The supper set came and went – which the grand duke led her through once more, if only to take precedence in leading her into the grand dining hall and sitting at her right in a place of honor at the head of the table. She’d never seen the opulent room so full before as hundreds now took their seats to dine, and the courses were as elaborate as they were rich in decadence, with one tiny culinary masterpiece after another after another parading before her dizzy eyes.

Victoria hardly tasted any of it, as she instead looked just beyond Alexander’s seat, to where . . .

. . . but that seat was empty, and she felt a seemingly answering emptiness twist inside her, piercing like a blade.

Had she truly offended him so badly? she couldn’t help but wonder, listlessly dragging her fork through the spiced yogurt and apricot sauce that smothered the roast capon beneath, all without bringing a bite to her mouth. She knew that she'd been uncouth and perhaps untoward, if not purposefully unkind (ignorant and shrewish and mean), but had she truly damaged their relationship to the point where he . . . where he would outrightly refuse to attend . . .

. . . but Victoria closed her eyes against the stabbing pain of that thought, and let her fork fall. Instantly, the dish was cleared for all.

She did better, managing a few bites of the pea and mint risotto that followed, and only set her fork down when she saw that the majority of her guests had also finished with the course.

Another glass of wine helped cure any lingering disappointment she yet felt when dessert came and went – her favorite cranberry tarts with cream – and still, he did not . . .

Alexander led her back to the ballroom when the meal finally broke, and again she looked . . .

“You are searching, still?” Alexander noticed, and pitched his inquiry low enough so that no one else could hear.

Victoria felt her throat work, but she could manage nothing more than the smallest of nods.

“I am not he – to my everlasting regret,” Alexander said gently, and bowed to offer once more for the next dance. “But, perhaps . . . ”

She looked down at his hand, yet hesitated to accept him – for she knew that she more properly ought not. She had so many guests that she'd yet to dance with, and she could feel the myriad eyes upon her – watching, judging, waiting . . .

The devil take them all, she finally gritted her teeth to decide – but she was the Queen of England, and she could bloody well dance with whomever she so chose to honor with the privilege of a dance!

(Especially when she could not dance with the one man she truly yearned to dance with, perhaps above all others.)

Ignoring the gazes that followed her – that followed them – she placed her hand within Alexander’s, and allowed him to lead her to the floor.



.

.

From years of long experience, Lord Melbourne knew that the ball was at its zenith when he at last arrived – slipping in quietly so as to go largely unnoticed by the still mingling throng. Enough drink had flowed to the point where the gathering was almost uncomfortably bright, before it inevitably tarnished and fell like once ornamental flowers withering as rot set in at their roots, clouding and moldering in an otherwise crystal vase.

William kept to the edges of the ballroom, content to take stock of the guests and better evaluate his surroundings, when Lady Portman appeared at his side, finding him out before he could greet even a single soul aloud.

“You have been missed,” Emma said most pointedly – no matter that her gaze was soft, even in rebuke, understanding the more private reasons he had for delay as she did. Discreetly, she reached out and pressed his hand.

“Have I?” William found himself muttering – for his own eyes had already found Victoria (had immediately been drawn to her like a tide tethered to its gleaming moon) on the floor, waltzing on the arm of the Russian Grand Duke. “She seems happy enough.”

Emma followed his gaze. “He has been a favorite partner,” she confirmed, and a frown marred the usually indomitable line of her mouth – telling him all that he needed to know.

“Perhaps it’s understandable,” yet Emma recovered herself to say, and added with a somewhat artificial brightness: “Her Majesty is young and handsome, and so is His Highness – for truth, I had no idea that Russians could be so charming.”

In that too, there was counsel as much as warning – and it cut, no matter how kindly intended its delivery. Better was it that their very young queen enjoy herself with a peer, Emma implied and even William agreed (didn't he?) – a true equal in age and power whom, in the unlikelihood that the czarevitch was ever tempted away from his own birthright, could even go so far as to be . . .

A glass of champagne seemed entirely necessary then – apparently, he had some catching up to do, at that, though he cut himself off at just one. He knew better than to mix alcohol with such a depression of spirits – at least not in public, where he could hardly afford to indulge the crippling malaise that inevitably would have followed.

Emma left him to his brooding when Lord Russell claimed her for the next dance – which Victoria continued on to partner with the grand duke. William wondered how many times they had danced already for the murmur that prickled through the crowd – little as it ultimately mattered but to the socialites and their wagging tongues.

For his part, William told himself that he was merely glad to see his queen smile (for he was) as he continued to stalk the perimeter of the ballroom, in no mood for company, but understanding the necessity of seeing and being seen. He wouldn’t have his absence remarked upon and potentially harm Victoria (not any more than he may have unwittingly done already) – which was the only thing that had dragged him from his son’s former nursery in the first place.

All the while, he continued to watch the dancing couples as they reeled – surprised, and yet not, to see the Duchess of Kent dancing openly with Sir John Conroy. He’d always supposed, as had the majority of the court, that they were lovers, but the look of open adoration, exposed like a wound, on the duchess’ face gave him pause. For a moment, he even allowed himself to pity the woman – twice married solely for the children she could bear, with that second union binding her to a prematurely aging, ill-looking man who’d only grudgingly left behind (and even that Prince Edward hadn't managed in full) a favorite mistress of nearly thirty years and God only knew how many unclaimed children for the august privilege of siring the next heir to the English throne. Then, hardly a year later . . .

The German princess, he uncomfortably remembered, had barely spoken a word of English when her late husband left her with an infant babe to raise – living on the mercy of a spiteful king and whatever castoffs he saw fit to begrudge his sister-in-law and heir. Yet, instead of retreating back to the comfort and safety of her native Coburg, she’d stood her ground to give her daughter the strongest possible claim to her throne in the country of her forefathers. Against the very real threat of assassination and the increasing enmity of the royal family – even if she’d more than fanned the flames of their contention herself – she’d persevered through every skirmish and outright battle . . . only to lose the war entirely by surrendering to the same vituperative comptroller her late husband had once employed, and thus inherited in her turn.

Sir John – especially in those early days – far from bearing fangs, must have instead seemed like a safe harbor in a storm . . . and the duchess had been a woman most desperately in need of refuge.

William could extend the duchess a semblance of understanding for that alone – but only to an extent – and that measure was ever eclipsed by the knowledge that she'd let far worse than a mere assassin close to her daughter . . . or, at least, Sir John would have been if Victoria had not been made of molten steel at her core.

Ever in constant orbit, his thoughts were drawn back, perhaps inevitably, to her – amazed that this truly remarkable young woman was smiling and dancing and seemingly so confident of her place in the world, even when surrounded by more foes than friends, all of whom would have gladly seen her torn down from her hard-won pinnacle, if only to ascend the heights of such an august summit for themselves.

His queen was, William thought – not for the first time, and certainly not the last – entirely empyreal, by every possible definition of the word.

“Are you going to stare at her all night?” came a knowing voice from his left, startling him from his reverie, and William looked up to see the Earl of Egremont, who'd approached entirely without his notice.

“I was not aware that I was doing any such thing,” he managed in lieu of a greeting – though his word strained credulity, even to his own ears.

Sure enough, George Wyndham’s eyes twinkled, even as he mercifully allowed him his demurral. “All eyes should be on the queen,” he cheerfully absolved in the abstract. “Her Majesty is a most enchanting young lady – I was able to tell that much from one dance alone.”

Unwittingly, William's gaze followed Victoria across the ballroom. “That she is,” he agreed softly.

“Your letters left out much,” the earl continued after a moment’s pause – watching him, watching her – a question in his words for all that they implied a statement.

Somehow, William managed an insouciant shrug. “Her Majesty is not the sort of woman who can be summarized in a letter. I'm hardly surprised that my efforts proved lacking, no matter my every intention to the contrary.”

“I see,” George murmured, and sipped thoughtfully at his wine.

The dancers moved down the floor, circling as the allemande required – but then, he saw the exact moment where her eyes found his in the crowd, and locked.

It was like watching the sun come out for how her blue eyes flew bright and she smiled in that way of hers that lit up her entire countenance from ear to ear. It was mesmerizing, that look, and William couldn't help but stare in return, completely transfixed.

Yet the grand duke was hardly an inattentive partner, and he did not fail to notice Victoria's sudden radiance of spirit. Alexander leaned in close to whisper some comment or another – far too close, William thought, his jaw squaring with a frown – and she glanced up at the prince, her mouth quirking to utter some pithy reply before she met his gaze again. She continued to watch him, even as she bodily whirled with the dance and was forced to twine her head at an awkward angle to do so.

It didn’t take long for Alexander to trace her attention back to its focal point, and the prince was clearly bemused for what he saw. His sense of bafflement was one that William shared in its entirety – for he too could not understand how Victoria looked on him and saw anything more than what he truly was: a tired old statesman, fast approaching the end of his usefulness in government, and staring down the nadir of his days from their highest point.

The truth of that thought made him itch for another glass of wine, but he wisely refrained.

“Ah,” George observed aloud. “I had not understood before, not in full – but it is you she has been searching for.”

“Me? Hardly,” William replied carefully, well aware that the Earl of Egremont was far from the only preceptive set of eyes in the room. “I am merely familiar to her, that is all – a touchstone, you could say.”

"A touchstone?" George made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “Perhaps.”

The dance carried the couples to the far side of the floor, yet Victoria refused to tear her gaze away from him – and oh, but William wished that she would, if only for her sake – so much so that George finally chuckled outright.

“Or perhaps not,” the elder lord amended. “There is no guilelessness in Her Majesty, it is clear to see – which is entirely refreshing after enduring the Kings of Hanover these long decades past.”

Yet, where George Wyndham found reason to smile, the entire Court of St. James' – let alone the eyes of the world – would not be so forgiving.

“She is entirely artless, you must understand,” William found himself . . . was he agreeing with the earl? Certainly. Was he defending Victoria? His queen needed no such defense. Was he giving into the heady temptation to talk about this most remarkable creature with someone – anyone – who would not judge him the lesser for his admiration in doing so? Perhaps. “She hardly has a thought before she expresses it – she’s as changeable as the ocean, but entirely bewitching for being so. She is nothing but sincere, for better or worse. It leaves me breathless, at times, waiting for whatever she may say or do next, and yet . . . ”

“You cannot take your eyes off of her?”

He swallowed against the truth he’d already so unwittingly betrayed – but then, William could hardly admit to the weakness of such a fallacy aloud.

In the end, however, he did not have to – not when he was instead provided with a most unwelcome diversion, so much so that he could have done without the distraction entirely and happily resign himself to his fate.

“I did not know that Russians danced their reels so close,” the earl’s voice too sharpened. “Do you see where the czar-ling has his hand?”

William did indeed see as Alexander’s hand fell from an entirely respectable position just beneath their queen's shoulder blade to rest on the curve of her waist. Any lower, and he’d brush the bustle of her skirts – which William quite thought that he even dared for the sudden look of discomfiture that crossed Victoria's features, little as she could smack his hand away without drawing yet even more eyes to them then had perhaps already noticed.

At this point in the ball, the grand duke was hardly the only one taking such liberties – not with the wine having flown so freely for hours now, and the bright glow of revelry instead turning for the dizzying blur of intoxication – but William rather suspected (perhaps unfairly so) that the boy was attempting to recapture the attention of his partner as it waned. Yet this was no private Parisian salon, and he did not dance with some world-wise miss who perhaps may have welcomed and even encouraged such games, but rather the Queen of England at what fairly amounted to the closest thing she’d ever have to a coming-out ball. She deserved to be attended with all due respect and dignity in reverence – and he’d see that she commanded nothing less.

“It’s a pity that we no longer have the Tower in use for those who disrespect the person of the sovereign,” William ground out as he turned for where Lord Alfred waited at attention in the crowd. Pointedly, he gestured.

“I think,” he said to the queen’s equerry – little as he could tend to the matter himself without causing even more tongues to wag, “that it would be best if the grand duke found a different partner."

“How utterly outrageous,” Alfred Paget, to his credit, looked as indignant as if he were a true knight of old, called on in defense of his sworn lady – and William entirely approved of his zeal. “I will see to it at once.”

“Tell him there is a message from the czar. Enlist Princess Lieven if you have to, and she will - ”

But, even as he spoke, William looked up and caught Dorothea’s gaze – aware as he'd long been of every piece on the board in the ballroom, much the same of a general maintaining stock of a battlefield. The Russian Ambassador’s wife was already moving towards the exit, cannily and discreetly, and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that she would need no direction to play her own part – and, as a woman who had the ear of the czar and thus commanded the respect of his son abroad, Alexander would be forced to listen if she chose to invoke that connection.

Lord Alfred strode boldly out onto the floor, little caring for the dancers who were forced to veer around him. Pointedly, he intercepted and tapped the grand duke on the shoulder. He was at first ignored outright – but he was not the youngest of six brothers for nothing, and, at last, he prevailed.

“What is it?” Alexander snapped, his fair features darkening in annoyance.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Lord Alfred was hardly deterred by the cross tone, and bowed most respectfully, “there is a messenger waiting for you, just arrived from St. Petersburg.”

“Tell him to wait. Can't you see that I am dancing with the queen?”

“I believe it is urgent, sir.” Lord Alfred was immovable. “That is, unless you would like the messenger to tell the czar that he was made to delay in the execution of His Imperial Majesty's will and forced to wait upon his son's convenience, instead?”

Alexander hesitated – and rightly so – which was all the opportunity that Lord Alfred needed. He stepped bodily between the pair, and led the still clearly irate prince away with no small amount of encouragement, both spoken and unspoken.

Then bereft of a partner to lean upon, alone amongst the still swirling couples, Victoria wobbled out a single step on suddenly unsteady legs – so much so that William frowned, better comprehending the situation and liking his understanding but little. His hands curled into fists, and he had to repress the urge to follow after the grand duke himself – for his queen needed him here, and that, as ever, trumped all else.

Feeling the earl’s eyes upon him – indeed, the Earl of Egremont and Emma and Wellington and Peel and Cumberland and Conroy and the entire blasted world – he made his way to her side. None of their wagging tongues mattered when it came to safeguarding his queen, and he would not leave her standing there – looking suddenly uncertain and ill at ease in a way that tugged directly at his heart – for a moment longer.

“You seem to be without a partner, ma’am,” he greeted with a formal bow. “Would you do me the honor?”

“Lord M!” she blinked large – and indeed quite glassy – eyes, her smile once again beaming from her face. “Yes, please – I would be delighted.”

Even as she accepted his hand, the orchestra transitioned into a waltz – and William scuttled a sigh, wondering, not for the first, for the capricious whims of fate. Well aware of the speculative gazes that analyzed their every move, he held his queen in as respectful a cradle as he could manage while still meeting the requirements of the dance – letting his right hand merely graze the back of her dress as he held his left hand for hers to rest in, rather than grasping outright. Even then, he could feel the rise and fall of her lungs for the scant distance between them – catching as she sucked in one particularly deep breath – and her small fingers wrapped quite firmly around his own, no matter his intentions to the contrary.

As that first measure blurred into the next, he had to forcibly ignore how naturally she complemented him. She leaned a bit too heavily against him through one change step, and he flexed to steady her, suddenly aware that she would fit, tucked under his chin in any more true an embrace. (Without her heeled shoes, her cheek would rest just so against his heart.) She was wondrously soft and small and warm and delicate and strong and graceful, while he . . .

Whom had he called a touchstone earlier? William wondered as if through a haze. She had quite literal oceans to conquer at her command, while he . . . he rather thought (knew) that he would be quite lost without her.

Ultimately, he did not need to lead – she simply moved with him – and for the innocently adoring gaze she fixed upon him, he could almost forget their surroundings entirely.

“I worried that you would not come,” she finally found her voice to say – as if previously unwilling to break the fragile trance (communion) of their connection as he was.

It was his first instinct to protect and sooth – and, perhaps more worryingly, he felt the entirely inappropriate urge (impetus) to divulge every last one of his woes to her alone, to have them absorbed in her ears (and her eyes and her smile and her hands) and absolved for being so shared and thus confided. Yet it was that (grossly improper) impulse that drew him back to himself. William had no desire to burden so young a woman – he had no right to presume upon his sovereign queen – and so, he would not.

“My apologies, ma’am,” instead, he finally managed aloud, a deeper rasp to his voice that he could not conceal in full, despite his best efforts. “I had some matters to attend to.”

She stared into his eyes – for she had never once demurred from holding his gaze outright – and considered his words. “I had thought,” she admitted, sounding as if had to summon her courage, “that you were cross with me.”

He was almost confused to remember any reason he could possibly have to be so – before he did.

“With you, ma’am? Never.”

It was far more than joy which suffused her features then – a girlish admiration that he could perhaps dismiss and reason away as being just that and nothing more in its budding maturity – but an all too dangerous sense of peace and shared strength as he felt her melt against him.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “I never want to be a source of,” but she swallowed, and had to try twice to find her words, “I never want to be burdensome to you.”

To the contrary, but he rather forgot his burdens with her – old fool that he was – but that, he knew far better than to say aloud.

"You're never that, Your Majesty," he replied – determined to keep his voice far and away from the intimacy of a whisper, and yet ultimately unsure of his success.

The next measure passed in silence, but Victoria felt lighter in his arms as they swayed.

“You dance so very well, Lord M,” she said once they came to the next switch. “Do you know that you are my favorite partner of the evening?”

The unbefitting sense of pride and satisfaction he felt for her words was one thing – the entirely inappropriate reciprocation that filled him was something else entirely.

“You are very kind, ma’am.” The self-deprecating smile he managed was then entirely true in its expression. “But my dancing days are numbered, and that must show.”

Her nose wrinkled in abject distaste, as if time itself was merely another nuisance that would invariably bow before her.

“Oh, but you are hardly old, Lord M,” she huffed. If her hand was free, he rather thought that she'd wave it in an entirely dismissive gesture.

Yet that was a truth that he could not so easily dismiss for himself. Sadly, he smiled down at her. “If only that were true.”

“It is true,” she ardently repeated, before her voice lowered to confess, “I wish . . . I wish that I could dance with you like this every night.”

She spoke those last words delicately, her tone hesitant in a way that she herself never was, as if to share a secret – and he too felt something long scarred over and dormant in his chest threaten to rouse once more, like old roots turning for an uncertain promise of spring. (What was even more so, he had to ignore the sudden jolt of awareness he felt for her statement – knowing that she had truly meant her words exactly as they had been expressed, and nothing more.)

To distract himself, just as much as to call his senses back to reason, William looked over her shoulder and saw where the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland danced just too close to be entirely proper in a clear attempt to overhear them, no matter how carefully Emma and Lady Sutherland kept up as purposeful boundary as they could in continued service to their queen with Lord Alfred and Lord Palmerston. It was that, perhaps more so than anything else, that checked his irresponsible heart. Opposite of that circle, the queen’s mother and Sir John too danced, and he felt the knight’s gaze like an oil stain on his back, warning him to tread carefully – he must needs tread carefully, for her sake even more so than his own.

“Again,” somehow, he found his voice, “Your Majesty is very kind.”

It was with a strange combination of disappointment and relief that he finally surrendered Victoria at the song's end. For a moment, her hand tightened in his, and he rather thought that she would refuse to let him go. Yet, no matter her boldness, she hesitated, and he released her.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to dance again?” nonetheless, Victoria attempted to cajole.

How could he? No matter the answer he quite impulsively (instinctively) would rather give, he was acutely aware of how Lord Hastings was speaking with his sister, just beyond the boundary of the dance floor, their two fair heads bent together with suspicious stares. Lord Palmerston, close enough to overhear Victoria's invitation, frowned outright, while Emma went so far as to narrow her eyes, her expression as cautionary as it was concerned.

Yet William ignored them all in favor of finding Lord Alfred. Most pointedly, he caught the equerry's eye and then glanced towards their queen.

“But here is Lord Alfred for the next dance, ma’am.” He felt comfortable surrendering her to Paget alone, as he didn’t think that Victoria would quit from dancing outright, even if he asked her, which he admittedly would have better preferred.

Victoria took a step closer to him – as if she was waiting for him to reach out and claim her again – and he had to consciously restrain his hands from doing just that.

“But I wish to dance with you,” she said earnestly (always so damnably earnest), her voice slurring just slightly enough so as to reinforce his decision with iron. “I have so much that I wish to tell you."

“And I shall hear it all,” he promised. “But first, I fear that Lord Alfred shall be very disappointed if you refuse him – and besides, ma'am, he dances the best polka in the country.”

She was still clearly reluctant, but at last relented when Lord Alfred stepped forward with a bow, and smiled his most charming smile.

. . . it would have been like turning away a most endearing puppy – which Victoria could never do.

Once he extricated himself, William bowed, and then backed away to find Baroness Lehzen standing with dozens of other attendants on the edge of the ballroom, rather than partaking in the festivities herself.

“How many glasses of champagne has she had?” he asked without preamble, an edge to his voice.

“Too many,” Lehzen’s mouth turned – though, for once, her ire was not directed at him. “I made attempts to water her portions, but that . . . that swine kept fetching her new glasses himself.”

William felt his mouth tug, and he had to make an effort to maintain a distantly amiable expression.

“After this dance,” he suggested mildly, ”perhaps you may persuade Her Majesty to take some air – if only to the retiring room, if she cannot be convinced to close the ball entirely.”

“I shall try.” Lehzen sighed, no matter the determination that lit her eyes. She paused, but then admitted somewhat wryly: “You must know, Lord Melbourne, that I've scarce been able to persuade Victoria to do anything she has not wished to do since she was a very small child.”

That statement was the single most civil thing she’d ever said to him – not that he minded terribly much; the baroness was a clear she-wolf amongst an enemy pack of such beasts, and he’d have her bare teeth for her charge. Victoria deserved nothing less.

. . . yet that didn't mean he wouldn't try to have her accept him as an ally upon that field of battle.

“Even so,” towards that aim, he punctuated his most charming smile with a courtly bow, “if there’s anyone who has a chance of success, I believe that it’s you, Baroness.”

His words clearly pleased her – little as she would ever admit to such – and William fell back to the sidelines, content to merely wait and observe until he was needed once more.



.

.

By the time Lord Alfred released her, Victoria felt as if she could fly.

She had danced with her Lord M – and her Lord M had danced with her! He was not angry with her, and she had not ruined everything – or, at least, she had not done any ruin that she couldn't yet undo, and that was indeed a most heartening thought upon which to soar, was it not?

If it wasn’t for the rest of this now interminable ball, she’d draw her prime minister away to some forgotten part of the palace and demand to have the whole of the matter out here and now, and yet -

“Your Majesty,” Lehzen appeared when the orchestra broke in order to allow new couples the opportunity to form. “Perhaps you would like to visit the retiring room for but a moment? Skerrett is waiting to tend to your hair.”

Her hair? Victoria refrained from reaching up to make sure that everything was still in place herself, suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. The grand duke hadn’t indicated that anything was amiss, and neither had her Lord M – though perhaps they wouldn’t, as gentlemen. Yet she had danced many times that evening, and now that her former governess made the suggestion, she didn’t entirely mind a moment’s rest for her feet.

Mayhap then, she could come back and convince Lord Melbourne to dance with her one last time before the ball closed . . .

“For you, I suppose I shall, Lehzen.” Victoria allowed herself to be led away. “Though I feel capable of dancing the whole night through!”

“Indeed, Majesty,” Lehzen’s voice sounded strained – but then, that was hardly surprising, given the baroness’ habitually stern nature and the equally natural merriment of a ball. Victoria merely supposed that her former governess felt as out of place as she herself felt that she had suddenly found her place.

The retiring room was at the end of the north corridor that led from the ballroom. Within, a small army of lady’s maids were set before mirrors and attending the minor costume details that inevitably came amiss after such a long evening of dancing, while there were a dozen or so women merely sitting on a gathering of low couches, recovering their breaths with loosened stays without having to fear for being judged while doing so – for corsets and dancing, too, in a summer-warm ballroom was a difficult combination for some to endure. Further back were discreet curtains concealing chamber pots, where yet more attendants waited to help with a surplus of skirts and undergarments at nature's demands.

Victoria, for her part, was given precedence before a trio of floor-length mirrors, and stood still as Skerrett and Jenkins saw to inspecting her dress and hair. There was nothing too untoward for them to fuss over, with only a few stray hairs out of place at her temples and the small of her neck, and no harm done to her gown from any inconsiderate partners.

The same, however, could not be said for . . .

“Is that the best you can do?”

A familiar voice then pitched with annoyance and frustration – little as Victoria had ever heard Flora Hastings speak as such before, with the more simpering, falsely demure tones that lady more typically favored instead.

Surprised, she looked over, and saw where her mother's lady was being attended by her own maid, who was contending with a quite unfortunate tear in the silvery-blue satin of her ballgown.

“My lady," the maid attempted to explain, "the hem has been quite trodden, and it is not a seam that has torn – I may pin it as best I may, but I fear - "

“Oh, you useless girl," Flora's ever genteel expression then creased in an ugly sneer, "what do I even employ you for?"

“My apologies, my lady," the maid bowed even further from her already subservient position, kneeling on the floor to better see the gown. "If I may, I shall try one last stitch."

With a huff of breath, Lady Flora held her skirts up and back, and, in doing so, stretched the fabric at her waist quite taut to reveal, in clear profile . . .

Was that, Victoria blinked, even as her eyes flew wide in shock . . . was that a swell?

She frowned, completely unable to process what she was seeing. Perhaps, she dumbly reasoned, it was a trick of the light, or -

- yet Lehzen too sucked in a sharp breath, clearly aghast, just as Jenkins tutted out a more telling, "oh my, my, my."

“Is that . . .” Victoria found herself stuttering in the lowest whisper she could manage. "Is that what I think it is?"

It was all she could do not to stare rudely outright as Lady Flora let down her skirts again. The woman looked at herself in the mirror, for a moment appearing pensive as she ensured that her dress – her unfashionably high-waisted dress, Victoria only at last understood – draped about her just so, purposefully concealing . . .

Lady Flora turned to take her leave, and, finally, Victoria exhaled in a rush: "Is Lady Flora . . .” but her cheeks pinked, and she could not finish her sentence.

“There was . . . " Lehzen sounded just as shocked to confirm, "there was most certainly a very distinct swell, ma’am."

Yet even she could not say exactly what that very distinct swell may have implied aloud.

“But she is so pious!” Victoria all but squeaked. “She wouldn't . . . she would never do anything she ought not with a man when she herself is unmarried. For heaven's sake, but she was only just chiding my choice of dance partners. She wouldn't dare counsel me while she herself is . . . "

But Victoria hesitated, realizing just how very naïve her words sounded – like the protestations of a little girl, rather than the understanding of a woman grown.

And a stupid little girl, she utterly refused to be.

“Besides,” Victoria continued to reason aloud, “with what man? The only man who's ever in her company is Sir John, and he most certainly would not - "

But her instinctive denial then failed her, slipping away as if falling over the edge of some steep precipice, as, with their loss, the beginnings of an entirely righteous anger stoked and grew to burn.

If Lady Flora was . . . if Lady Flora was with child, Victoria forced the thought through to its completion, then there was only one man who could possibly be the father.

She looked, and saw where Lehzen's eyes too were wide – but with a glint in them that was vengefully satisfied in growing fervor. “She shared a carriage quite alone with Sir John," Lehzen muttered to remind her, "on our way back from Scotland, just after Christmas.”

Victoria remembered – she had insisted on riding with her mother, and had banished Lady Flora to the second carriage, complaining of the lack of room with all of their thick coats and the blankets they'd donned to protect against the chill of the winter. She'd been most proud of herself then, yet had no idea that . . .

But, she reminded herself, they hardly had to pinpoint an exact moment they may have been alone together, for Sir John had quite been the master of his domain at Kensington, and if the couple truly wished for privacy to do anything they very well shouldn't . . .

. . . very little would have stood in their way.

Not even her mother.

The thought seemingly poured ice through her veins, not dousing her rage so much as crystalizing it. “Whatever Lady Flora pays her maid, offer her double,” Victoria coolly demanded, “and extend an invitation for her to join my household. Lehzen,” she turned to her attendant and ordered without words, “I trust you to be discreet in your inquiries.”

With that command given – given as a woman and a queen, she hoped, and not the furious little girl she better felt to be inside – Jenkins and Skerrett quickly finished their work, and Victoria at last turned from her own troubled expression in the mirrors.

“Lehzen," only when she was away from her maids did she ask in a small voice, "do you think . . . do you think Mama knows?”

Lehzen's expression, she thought, was gentle in its own right. “I should hardly think so, ma'am.”

Victoria nodded, feeling her throat turn tight, and then left the retiring room – and all she had seen therein – behind.



.

.

Yet Victoria did not – could not – immediately return to the ball. Instead, she waved Lehzen away for a moment's peace in the quiet of the north gallery, claiming her need to catch her breath and better order her mind. The sweet glow from earlier had faded, and she was suddenly so very tired. Her every step felt heavy – her every thought felt heavy – and they weighed upon her.

Gravity seemingly drew her down to match, and she obeyed its command to sit on one of the stiff benches lining the corridor. The night was full dark outside – the morning, now, well past midnight as they were – but the myriad glow of the candles made time deceiving. She'd unwittingly sat before the coronation portrait of her Grandfather George as a young man, and she studied his visage in the painting – looking out with a confident expression over the world he had yet to claim. She couldn't find any hint of the madness yet to come (had it been there all along?) in his gaze, even as the shadows flickered and played across the surface of the canvas, catching on the still lustrous sheen of the rich oils.

Her thoughts swam, the same as those shadows, dark and obfuscating and troubled before glinting white-hot with rage – such rage.

How dare he, her anger sharpened to a point – catching as the candlelight caught across the blue of George III's eyes (the same blue of her eyes) – before flickering for how dare she, over and over and over again, building and striking and breaking like sea waves upon some rocky shore, unable to dispel their energy as the deeper currents beneath continued to eddy and churn and grow.

Her head spun as if she yet still danced – her thoughts whirled even more dizzily – to the point where she did not quite trust her eyes when he stepped out from the intersection of a dark corridor further down the hall.

Sir John himself came through – so much to her surprise that Victoria rather felt as if she had unwittingly conjured him into being, like a devil answering the call of his name. Her confusion only lingered until she remembered what else was in this wing of the palace.

This was where she had banished her mother and her household to, far and away from her own chambers in the state rooms. Victoria had never ventured this far in her explorations of Buckingham's seemingly infinite expanse before – she'd had no need to, nor any desire. Perhaps, she attempted to absolve, he was returning from his own quarters for some innocent reason or another, but the idea that anything else could have been going on while she too took a reprieve from the ball suddenly grasped hold of her, and she could not so easily cast her suspicions aside.

So, she stood tall beneath the portrait of the Mad King and bit out: "Sir John, why are you not dancing?"

Sir John saw her, at last – she was slight and gilded enough to blend in with the shadows and ornate décor until he was almost upon her – and his expression turned in a moment's surprise before he gave the stiffest little neck-bow, only just acknowledging her presence with impunity.

“I had not realized that I was required to do so,” he said, scorn leeching into his voice where there was no one present to hear him speak as such.

“Because you always do what’s required of you; do you not, Sir John?” For a moment she swayed, unsteady with rage, as she flung her words like blows, revilement dripping from every word in place of the accusations she better wished to hurl instead.

In answer, his brow only furrowed. “I know not of what you speak,” he finally huffed to dismiss her outright. Infuriatingly, he made to pass her by without another word – brushing her aside as if she was as insignificant as one of his hounds.

Oh, but his disrespect was not to be borne!

“Don’t you wish to dance, though?" she called after him. "And I believe that I even know your preferred partner: Lady Flora.”

“What nonsense are you going on about, child?" Sir John stopped and turned, his face creasing in that very stupid manner again – as if he truly thought her so blindly ignorant. "If you must know, I have offered for your mother’s hand this final set – which is where I now make to return.”

It was as if her tongue had been loosened from all restraint, snapping free like the rigging on a ship's sail in a storm. “If my mother knew what you were really like," Victoria sneered with all the vitriol she could muster, "she would never dance with you again!”

She'd meant to convey an image of strength – as imposing in grandeur as the portraits lining the gallery, looking down with those eternal eyes fixed in timeless command – but the step she took towards him was unsteady. Her hands shook from where she had balled them as fists against the fabric of her gown in fury.

Sir John looked her up and down, his look creasing in disdain. Whatever he saw of her in that moment, it most certainly was not a queen.

“You never could hold your champagne, could you?” He paused for an insolent breath. “Majesty.”

With that, he turned to leave – he turned his back on his sovereign! – without deigning to engage her any further. It was all she could do not to screech – or even worse, for the sudden surge of violence that crashed through her like a sea squall – and perhaps it was that which ultimately held her back, for the force of her emotions startled even herself in that moment.

Above her, George III's clear blue eyes continued to look out in silence.

Victoria was still standing there in the corridor, struggling to regain control of her breathing – it was as if her lungs were twin furnaces, burning hot enough to melt slag from gold in a crucible – when her mother came, following the same path that Sir John had only just taken.

For some inexplicable reason, she felt her breath leave her in a rush, as if she had been physically struck in the stomach – with the same heat that had burned so hotly just seconds ago extinguishing as easily as snuffing out a candle. Distantly, Victoria felt as if her heart was breaking – even if she told herself (she had long told herself) that it did not matter . . . it did not matter.

It did not matter, whose company her mother preferred . . .

. . . whom she chose to fight for.

. . . whom she chose to protect.

. . . whom she chose to love.

Mortifyingly, Victoria felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Drina," her mother too was surprised to see her in the hall. "What are you doing here?”

“I'm taking some air.” Somehow, she kept herself from snapping – though, in that moment, it was all she could do to keep her words from breaking entirely.

“You have need of it, I suspect," her mother sniffed, taking a step past her before gliding to a stop. For a moment, Victoria thought that was all she would say, before the duchess thought better of silence, and turned to face her. "You have made a fool of yourself tonight – dancing so many times with the grand duke, and allowing yourself to overindulge in drink – not to mention the clear favor you've shown your prime minister. Your father, God preserve poor Edward's soul, would have been ashamed of you, if he had lived to see his daughter act in such a wicked fashion."

Next in line to George III, George IV's conceited visage looked just that: suddenly proud of the heir to his title – if not the entirety of his legacy, she had long ago resolved – and Victoria suddenly felt as if she would be sick.

As if her mother could hear her innermost thoughts, the duchess aimed one last parting blow with a look of undisguised disappointment: "Sir John says that you have quite done the House of Hanover proud tonight – and he is not wrong in the slightest. Congratulations, Your Majesty, on your . . . triumph."

Victoria could only dumbly stand there, and watch her mother go.

For some time, she could not move – she could not speak, she could not think, she could not even breathe until she ripped in a sharp inhale, as if surfacing from the depths of some great abyss. She breathed, in and out, and her pain and shock and grief was quick to morph into anger anew. (It always had been, with her.) As she watched her mother continue down the hall, her head held so righteously high, she felt that anger spread like wildfire.

Who was she to judge her? Victoria only just kept from screaming. Who was he to judge her, when he (she) was guilty of so much worse than . . .

She would destroy that man, she then determined with crystalline clarity. She would not stop until she ended the pathetic thrall he held over her mother – if it was the last and only thing she did as queen, with God above as her witness.



.

.

William had just finished his obligatory dance with Mrs. Sibella Stevenson – Victoria had been right about the American woman, and he was happy to help inspire what a smile that he could – when the queen at last returned to the ballroom.

Something, he knew from the first, was not right – which was a suspicion that was confirmed when he looked over and caught Baroness Lehzen’s troubled gaze, following her former charge in concern. Sir John, he instinctively found next, was smirking, not even attempting to hide his own pleased expression – William had purposefully ignored how he and the duchess had disappeared at the same time following the waltz, when Victoria too made for the retiring room – even as the Duchess of Kent looked as if she had choked down an entire glass of vinegar. Her expression was one that she quite shared with her daughter, nearly twin as their countenances were in that moment.

Victoria's small shoulders were tense and her stride was marching – every inch of her looked ready for war, for all that she kept her features remarkably neutral otherwise. Anyone who did not know the queen wouldn't think twice of her comportment. Yet he didn't trust that mask to hold when – perhaps unwisely – she reached for another glass of wine. William himself was just about to step forward and discreetly suggest water instead (for all that she seemed quite sober in that moment) – but found that he was too late in doing so.

Instead, Lady Flora took it upon herself to counsel – quite loudly, as the sanctimonious woman never wanted an opinion to flaunt her own probity – the queen before her court and foreign guests without even an attempt at discretion. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Flora reached out a hand as if she would take the glass from Victoria outright, “but the duchess thinks you've had quite enough wine for one evening.”

Victoria all but whirled on her courtier, and William saw the exact moment where she reared back – a gold-hooded cobra, ready to strike – and, sure enough:

“Mama has sent you to lecture me?" Victoria loosed an unflattering sort of laugh, her every syllable dripping with incredulity. "Who are you, Lady Flora, to command the Queen of England? Leave me – I will not suffer your presence a moment longer. I am not that weak little girl whom you once saw fit to order about at will – I am your sovereign and I demand your respect as such.”

If the venom of her tirade surprised even William – who well knew Victoria's depths, for their best and their worst – then the nearest ball-goers were absolutely stunned into silence.

Lady Flora, too, could not contain her shock – even as she fell to the floor in an unnecessarily debasing bit of obeisance. In a great show of humility, she bowed her head forward in contrition to beg, “Your Majesty, please forgive your servant's most unwitting error – I only spoke out of the deepest reverence in concern, and did not mean to - ”

"Did you not hear me?" but Victoria was in no mood to extend clemency. Instead, she towered over the prostrate woman to scathe: "I told you to leave – get out of my sight, now.”

A whisper threaded through those nearest in the crowd – and, for the first, it was openly flavored with the sharp, acrid sting of disapproval.

Victoria too sensed the shift – just as Lady Flora did. "Please, forgive me, Your Majesty," she leaned forward to bow even further, feeding off the turn of the tide as her fellow courtiers took up arms on her behalf. "Please, Your Majesty, I entreat you."

In answer, Victoria took a step back, her anger wilting for uncertainty as she cast her eyes from one carefully expressionless face in the crowd to the next. She looked trapped, realizing the damage her temper had done and yet unwilling to yield and surrender any more of her hard-won power in doing so. No, better was it not to say anything more at all. She needed to take her leave – she needed to turn and quit the room in silence, for there were no amends to be made for the better here and now, only the worse.

Towards that end, he hardly knew if his own actions would do more harm than good – he only knew what Victoria, herself, needed. Ultimately, that was the only consideration that held sway.

“Your Majesty, please, if you would be so kind as to indulge me,” but even his years at court and decades of knowing just what to say and when failed to provide him with any further excuse to coax her attention. He only knew that it absolutely could not seem as if he was leading her – even if only very transparently so, on the utmost surface.

Victoria – he was thankful for small mercies – was then as malleable as a doll, and turned as he gestured (he could not guide her any further, no matter how great the instinct he felt to reach out for her hand), leaving the ballroom with as much dignity as she could salvage from the situation, her eyes unblinking with shock.

“Do not let anyone pass – not even her mother,” William instructed the guard at the exit – grateful when it was Colonel Hampson himself. “But for the baroness,” he added, knowing that James would understand, “once she is through.”

For he'd glanced back just long enough to see where Baroness Lehzen and Lady Portman had physically intercepted the Duchess of Kent and were enduring her most cross tirade as a result. Lady Flora, he further noticed, had been encouraged to her feet and was being led to take her own leave by a clutch of concerned (gossip-hungry) courtiers, and looked equally as pale and dumbstruck in her own right.

However, the last thing he registered before turning away was Sir John Conroy’s satisfied little smile – and, for meeting the man's gaze outright, William resolved to deal with the execrable comptroller with all immediacy. Matters could no longer be allowed to continue as they were, and he'd not have Victoria placed in any such a position again if he could help it.

“Forgive my saying so, ma’am," but, until then, he could only seek to aid his sovereign here and now, "yet you look somewhat fatigued. It has been quite the night – perhaps you may wish to retire now?”

Victoria hadn't made it far down the corridor before coming to a halt, her expression torn between laughter and disbelief and hot, angry tears – as if she had felt so many things in the span of so few hours that she was completely lost as to which impetus should now control.

“But it is my coronation ball, Lord M,” she said in a small voice. “This is . . . this is supposed to be a happy night.”

“And perhaps it has been?" he cautioned to suggest, carefully watching her features for how to best proceed. "Certain, immediate events notwithstanding."

She looked far older than she truly was, then – far older than she should ever have to be – and he felt something deep inside his own chest ache in answer. Something had happened, he knew – something he did not yet entirely understand, but pressed on her just as much, if not even more so, than the weight of her crown. Her face was then impervious, even to his eye – with no merriment or anger to be found . . . only a distant, weary sense of resignation.

“Come, ma’am," he encouraged, "the hour is late, and I suspect that you might be - "

“ - but I do not want to retire,” she exclaimed, abruptly turning back to face him. “I wish to go on dancing – I want to dance with you.”

Before he could consciously understand her intentions, Victoria closed the distance between them – reaching out and yanking him towards her with a surprising show of strength. Her small hands fisted on the lapels of his tailcoat, and he could not tell if she did so to steady herself or to pull him even closer. She tilted her head up, her eyes huge and expectant in the candlelight – and, terrifyingly, if only from a moment’s reactive instinct (for that was all it was), he found himself leaning down to meet her before he shook his head as if to clear it, and drew back respectfully once more.

"Don't you . . . " she looked up at him hopefully, her hands still braced against his chest, as soft as the touch of a bird's wings, "don't you wish to dance with me?"

She was so impossibly earnest and unreachably beautiful enough in the candlelight to break his heart, and he very much wanted . . .

. . . but that was the danger, wasn’t it? His wanting. (Her wanting.)

And she . . . she'd already endured enough that night; he would never – could never – be another one of her regrets.

So, gently, he whispered: “No . . . not tonight, ma’am.”

It took a long moment, but, slowly, Victoria released him. She swallowed, falling back down to the flats of her feet once more – he had not even noticed that she too had made herself taller, as if hoping . . . but he pushed that thought aside as she recomposed her features into as dignified a mask as possible. Somehow, he felt bereft in her absence – empty, even.

“Of course, Lord Melbourne,” she found her voice to acknowledge his rejection. “I . . . I understand.”

Then, with her head up high, she stepped away from him, and continued down the corridor, alone and unaided.



TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

Aaaaaaaand breathe, I know! (Or scream into a paper bag or walk it off - all those things work. )

A Note on Grand Duke Alexander: The ball where Victoria danced five times with him technically occurred later in history, but, just the same as Goodwin mixed together timelines as she pleased, I'm following in her stead. In history, Alexander and Victoria did enjoy a bit of a flirtation when he visited England - though in the sense that these two were teenagers who had the freedom to flirt and actually be teenagers with each other as equals, without any serious expectations that they marry. (Their grandchildren, Czar Nicholas II and Princess Alix of Hesse, respectively, would eventually marry, and the Grand Duchess Anastasia was their shared great-granddaughter - for a bit of a RL fun fact.) In the book/show, Victoria enjoyed Alexander's company until he got a bit too handsy at her coronation ball, after which she seemed to tolerate him and her Cousin George's unspoken rivalry as both being distant considerations for her hand, which was entertaining in its own way. (Teenagers, again. )

A Note on the Russian Phrases: These were borrowed from an online translator called context.reverso.net - which seems more reliable than Google, but it's still an online translator. (And I had to add in an "e" to one particular word to keep the boards from starring it out entirely.) But if anyone has a better suggestion for this English-speaking author to use, I am all ears! The phrases are: Your Majesty, may I have this dance? and I accept.

A Note on General Sir Henry Wyndham: Why yes, he was Melbourne's older biological brother through the Earl of Egremont, and he did indeed have a most impressive mustache. His RL portrait looks like a caricaturized version of Melbourne's - the poor soul - so his inclusion was more me chuckling to myself by having Victoria confuse the two at a glance and from a distance in a crowd.

A Note on Victoria (and Albert) and Dancing: This girl could dance in real life - oftentimes closing out balls at three o'clock in the morning after dancing straight through from the opening set. In my opinion, this was one of the few times she could be as close to "normal" as a woman, and she took full advantage of these occasions.

Yet, interestingly enough - as I already implied in The First Grave - Albert was Victoria's complete opposite in this regard. He disliked dancing (though, to his credit, he tried for his wife), thought balls a frivolous expense, and was reluctant to even converse with any woman who wasn't family to the point where many in Victoria's court - and especially her female courtiers, who could only hold sway in their world through such social functions - disdained him as outrightly rude. Even Melbourne tried to broach this topic with Victoria shortly after her marriage - Victoria insisted that Albert was merely faithful, took insult at his implications, and dismissed her prime minister in a huff for the day. (Even if she forgave him on the morrow. )

Albert was, simply put, much more comfortable in the company of men, and large social gatherings were tortuous for him. Again, this was through his own childhood trauma, along with a few other factors, it can be argued. Historians have theorized that Albert had homosexual leanings, and the argument has weight, though I will save that note for a more relevant story. In short, for now: Albert had a close college "friendship" that he had to give up before marrying Victoria, and that makes his claims of "sacrificing his personal happiness for his country" in accepting her proposal heartbreaking in its own way - if only to an extent. (That Albert could confess that in all honesty to his grandmother, even while writing Victoria love letters, rather presses my buttons for her sake.) Personally, even after reading those arguments, Albert seems more likely to be somewhere on the ace spectrum to me, and grappling with his self-perceived shortcomings in either or both of those regards only added to his severity. (Or, at least, according to my admittedly amateur armchair diagnosis. ) When you put that together with a huge dose of naturally introverted social awkwardness, the Prince Consort's approach to society, marriage, and fatherhood made for the basis in the change from the Regency to Victorian morals and social norms of the time period. (Which is another note I have saved for later to speak on at length. ) This won't have any bearing until later in the story, but it's interesting to keep in mind for now.

A Note on Lady Flora and Sir John: Yep, we're getting into that scandal - and that's all I'll say so as not to spoil anyone who may not know the history here. Because RL truly is stranger than fiction, and I couldn't make a word of this up if I tried. (Spoiler: it gets worse before it gets better. )

A General End Note: This chapter has been both one of my favorites in the story to write, and yet one I really labored over to get just so - as it can be admittedly difficult writing a female character under so many intense stressors, let alone one who imperfectly gives into those stressors, you know? I rather exaggerated the emotions from Goodwin's depictions of the ball in doing so - and, once more, all recognizable lines of dialogue from what I did include are her own - because I thought she rather toned back the whole thing a bit too much. But, again, I don't have her constrictions of screentime/page count to contend with! So . . . here I am. And, that said, I do very much welcome your thoughts if you have any to share, especially on this story arc in particular.

~ MJ

 

I do love how you are delving into the politics of this era, really bringing them to life on both a large scale and a personal level. I also love how we are continuing to see our Victoria grow in confidence and power, finding her voice and wielding her authority with grace and strength. Like the true queen that she is.

I also appreciated that you did show the first argument between Victoria and Lord M in a way that I felt I could understand and empathize with both sides and perspectives.

Now, to offer some scattered quotes for more detailed commentary!

A very relatable sentiment indeed!

The Christmas hams comparison was hilarious and wonderful

This rings very true.

The grief here was so palpable.

And this may rank as one of the most heartbreaking asides ever

I really enjoyed reading all the little setting details you gave us here.

Somehow I suspect that it will be a little more than a moment of his time they want

And, again, I get the feeling that those humble suggestions aren't particularly humble...

Being in Victoria's mind is awesome because we get to appreciate the snappy retorts that she comes up with and just how much it costs her to show restraint and maintain her dignity when confronted with snide and sexist remarks and standards.

You always describe and depict Victoria's fraught relationship with her mother with such realism.

And this does a great job highlighting how even the highest-ranking women often do not feel the freedom to wear what they want because they know they will be under a microscope, scrutinized and judged for whatever they wear.

I love the sarcasm and attitude in this paranthetical statement.

What an excellent quote!

I do love the sound of that

You do a marvelous job writing Victoria's revelation and dawning awareness here.

And, once again, I can only cheer Victoria on with a "Slay, literal queen!"

 

Oh yay! It's a fine balance to walk, writing a young female character falter as she comes into her own, but I'm glad that I struck that balance to you.

*success!*

Thank you so much for reading, as always!

Thanks!

Aw, thank you! It's been quite the juggling act between the large scale of world history and a more intimate, personal level with these characters, and I'm so happy to hear that you think I've succeeded so far.

Thank you! Arguments are going to come in any relationship - it's just all about how you handle the fallout.

I am a morning person myself, but Lord M and Victoria are definitely night owls - which is probably a good thing, given the structure of their social world at the time.

Thanks! I was rather proud of that line.

So true.

Thank you.

You honor me! That was another line that really resonated with me while I was writing.

I do love setting all of those scenic details, myself.

Just so!

She's so snarky and sassy, I just love it - but even Victoria knows (most of the time ) that there's a time to speak and a time to just ignore the snide and stupid sexist remarks, especially from the likes of Sir John.

You keep picking all of my favorite lines - I was really proud of this sentence too.

Right? I completely agree.

Slay, Queen.

Because it really would be for Victoria, is just the thing! Which is as sweet and endearing as it is heartrending in its own way.

Long may she reign.

Thank you! The Flora Hastings scandal has been quite the tricky quagmire to sort through, and we're not even to the really messy parts yet.

For that, I humbly have the next few chapters of this story to present.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read and leave such kind words, as always!



Alrighty! I will have more up in just a few minutes.

~ MJ

 

Author's Notes: Sooo, I have to report that my muse has been quite wordy, again, and the development of certain scenes in this update - it will soon become apparent which - meant that I had to split the chapter in two once more. Judging by my current outline, this story will now be seven parts total, maybe even eight, we'll see how it goes. (So, yep, the original prompt has gone and flown right out the window. )

But, towards the endeavor of telling this entire story, it's now my pleasure to share . . .

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300+(+) Basketball)​

VII.II.IV.

Duty

No matter the late hour upon which she retired, Victoria woke early once more – though somehow not earlier than Lehzen, who had not only been up and performing her usual duties when she was summoned to the queen’s quarters before eight o’clock . . . but attending to those other, discreet matters of a most delicate nature.

Thanks to Lehzen’s inquiries, Victoria had much to consider as Skerrett braided and styled her hair. By the time she was helped into a simple gown of striped muslin by her dressers – she had no official duties of state required of her that day, only peace to seek in reflection as she prepared herself to be bound in spiritual union to her people – she came to a decision.

She would not (could not) act rashly; instead, she would give her mother a chance to do the right thing before she resolved the matter as queen.

Towards that end, rather than breaking her fast straight away, she returned to the north gallery. There, she distracted herself as she waited – throwing a leather ball down the long expanse of the corridor for Dash to chase back and forth with a happily wagging tail. She felt that she'd quite ignored her faithful companion with the demands placed upon her time as of late, and was happy to grant him the attention that he so rightly deserved.

The storms had finally broken with the dawn, and in the spill of hesitant morning sunlight the portraits lining the hall no longer seemed quite so foreboding. Now, George III rather sparkled (burned?) in his golden regalia, and his gaze was soft with expectation (hope?) as he stared with all indomitable resolution ahead. George IV, even with the kind concession of the light, only looked exceedingly foppish in his finery, no matter the sense of glory he’d undoubtedly intended to convey to the contrary.

Yet Victoria paid the visages of her kinsmen but little heed as she tossed the ball anew – only to have her mother exhale crossly in German and kick the ball out of the way when she appeared from the intersecting corridor.

“Drina?” the duchess seemed surprised to find her there, alone and unattended – although, whether because she was up and about so early or because she’d deigned to venture into her mother’s domain in the first place was anyone’s guess.

Victoria busied herself with dropping to her knees in order to free the ball from where it had lodged itself under a gilded console table – almost perfectly caught in the talons of the eagle that bore the weight of the structure on his outstretched wings. Dash barked in eager anticipation, and she obliged the spaniel by throwing the ball again.

But she could find no further excuse for delay as she returned to her feet, and smoothed her skirts.

“Mother,” she greeted stiffly. “Did you sleep well?”

Yet delay she did. Victoria held back a frown for her weakness – a weakness that always seemed to reappear wherever her mother was concerned, no matter how she grew in strength elsewhere in life – and grappled for courage.

“Tolerably.” The duchess regarded her suspiciously. “And you?”

In truth, her sleep had been restless. She’d succumbed to exhaustion only after sobbing into her pillow until she could cry no more – hurt and humiliated and forlorn in a way she still could not wholly quantify, even to herself – and, when she'd finally managed to sleep, she'd found no peace in dreams. Now, her head ached and her eyes burned and her mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. She could not seem to drink enough water, and, although her stomach gaped like a void, the thought of food sickened her. She both felt as a weight in her own skin and yet hardly tethered to her body, all at once.

Yet she knew better than to confide any such shortcomings to her mother; so, she did not.

Instead, her bravery washed over her in a burst of determination – much the same as it ever did. Rather than replying, she circumvented their pleasantries entirely to declare: “Mama, you must dismiss Flora Hastings. Immediately.”

Victoria purposely did not call that woman a lady, for she deserved no such title by any definition of the word.

Yet her mother only stared, incredulous. Quickly enough, however, when her bemusement broke, it broke for derision. “You would truly compound her shame after the awful way you treated her last night? Schäm dich, Drina!"

In the small hours of the morning, Victoria had thought long and hard about her own actions the night before. Ultimately, she regretted her loss of decorum in temper – especially before such an audience of foreign delegates and her own courtiers – but she could not (would not) bring herself to utter a word in contrition.

. . . what king would have been judged so harshly, after all, for ensuring that his own sovereignty was respected?

That answer was starkly clear. Thus, it would – it must – be the same for herself.

“Yes,” she answered simply, standing tall underneath the weight of her mother’s disapprobation. “But not for the reasons you believe.”

Impatiently, her mother waited as she knelt to pick up the ball again. Victoria lobbed it down the hall, much to Dash’s continued delight, and then boldly stated: “Mama, I have reason to believe – no, I quite know that Flora and Sir John have had a . . . a criminal conversation.”

There: she'd said it. Victoria lifted her chin, proud for how she’d uttered that entirely mortifying sentence in a way that befit the grace and majesty of a queen.

Her mother’s reaction, however, was less than encouraging.

The Duchess of Kent threw back her head, and laughed.

“My Flora? Sir John?” She could not countenance the idea. “What is this dreck you are saying?”

Yet, for all that she laughed aloud, her humor failed to reach her eyes.

Victoria bristled to be treated so dismissively, and responded in kind: “Surely you have noticed that Flora is with child!” she blurted.

Her mother was most decidedly not laughing then.

“I have noticed no such thing,” she coldly intoned. “Do you even understand what it is that you are saying? No, this ridiculous nonsense cannot have originated with you.” Her derision deepened, before sharpening to what was – for her – the only logical explanation. “Oh, but it was Lord Melbourne, was it not? Drina, you must not trust that man to advise you. He does not have your best interests at heart! Your friends are not his friends, and he’d have you see enemies where - ”

“ - no, Mama!” Victoria exclaimed, with her temper – already simmering just beneath her skin – then bubbling over into affronted outrage. “No one told me anything. I can think for myself – just as I can quite clearly see when the evidence is so stark before me!”

“You should know better than to listen to gossip,” yet the duchess continued as if she had not spoken. “Such base manners are unbecoming of a queen.”

“There is no gossip! Mama, I saw - ”

“That grasping viscount would like nothing better than to tear down a true lord in the Marquess of Hastings, but to have to attack the marquees’ sister to do so – and to use you as his pawn? Has he no honor? It's just like a Whig to tear at the feet of their betters, rather than having the decency to - ”

Victoria very much wanted to point out that her mother was no friend of the Tories, and had long encouraged her daughter to feel the same – or, at least, she had until Victoria’s prime minister was so stridently not a Tory himself. But she was then entirely consumed by a far more pressing argument.

“Mother,” she stated firmly – the force of her voice at last catching the elder woman’s attention, and holding it. “No man controls me – not even Lord Melbourne.” For a moment, her mother hesitated, and she took her opportunity to add, “I cannot, however, say the same for you.”

The duchess merely narrowed her eyes, before she asked – her voice dripping with condescension, “Why, then, do you believe what it is that you think you believe?”

Victoria drew in a breath, fighting the childish she had instinct to cower in the face of her mother’s displeasure, and took the opportunity she’d been given to present her evidence. “Last night, in the retiring room, I noticed a most distinct swell upon Flora’s person. Such an abnormality can mean only one thing.”

“You noticed a bump?” Yet her mother was not so easily convinced. “What could have been a trick of the candlelight or a . . .” she searched for the corresponding word in English, “a variance in posture - ”

“ - this was no variance in posture, but a most pronounced and visible swell. I was not the only one who saw; Lehzen and Jenkins too noticed - ”

“ - because two spinsters would know oh so well of the happenings between a man and a woman - ”

“ - and, this morning, Lehzen made inquiries with Flora’s maid, who only confirmed - ”

“ - you did what, Drina?” her mother’s eyes flashed, true anger turning her voice as harsh as a thunderclap. That same old instinct tugged at Victoria – knowing that she’d crossed the line as a daughter and demanding that she turn and search for it again in order to readmit herself to her mother's good graces – but she was no longer an errant little girl, required to endure such scolding, and she refused to be subjugated as one. “It is not enough that you have already embarrassed my lady-in-waiting in front of all the court – now there will most certainly be rumors, no matter how discreet you think you may have been - ”

“ - oh,” Victoria could not help but loose a mean little laugh, “but there will be far more than rumors once her pregnancy proceeds to a point where Flora can no longer hide her shame. What’s more than that, you must know how pale and drawn she’s been for months now! There’s a reason she had a tea compress at the ready for bloodshot and swollen eyes. She hasn’t had the strength to attend you on your walks; she hardly eats at any meal we share; and it was only just last week that she needed smelling salts to keep from fainting outright when - ”

“ - yes,” her mother retorted, “Lady Flora has found this foul London air quite taxing, as we all know. Yet I would say that she has borne you tearing us away from Kensington with the utmost grace, no matter the toll on her health.”

“Mama, if you would but ask her yourself, I am sure you would find - ”

“ - Alexandrina, I shall do no such thing! I trust my lady – do you even know the meaning of the word? Loyalty in another human being is perilous to seek and all the more precious for being so once found. I do not expect you to understand such a concept, however, after the horrid way you have seen fit to repay Sir John and Lady Flora’s kindness to you over the years.”

Even though she told herself that her mother’s words should not (did not) wound her – they hardly came as a surprise, after all – Victoria flinched back as if to avoid their striking her physically.

“Loyalty?” she echoed woodenly – for when had her mother ever been loyal to her? “Kindness? They are your friends, Mama,” she let her voice fall, low and raw as it burned, “but they have never been mine.”

Yet, as ever, her mother failed to hear her. Instead, she brushed past her with an agitated rustle of her skirts.

“I won’t listen to anymore of this,” she proclaimed over her shoulder, and Victoria was left looking at her mother's back – derogated and dismissed out of hand.

Instantly, Victoria felt her anger turn hot and racing – as if she was some hunting creature, ready to snap with hungry jaws.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” she cried after her mother. “That man has controlled you and now he has betrayed you! Yet still you would defend him?”

With that, she knelt and picked up the ball Dash had left at her feet – even as the spaniel whimpered uncertainly for her clear rise in temper, his fluffy tail seemingly shaking his entire body as it lashed to and fro. With all of her strength, she threw the ball – and the Regent china vase by the doorway at the end of the hall suffered for the blind rage of her aim, and shattered.

Dash, already agitated, flew under the nearest table, and began to bark. Her mother stopped and looked back – her eyes wide in shock – before she exhaled in disgust. She muttered something in German and flung her hand back with a contemptuous gesture, refusing to suffer her daughter’s irrational hysterics for a moment longer.

Victoria watched her go until she could no more, and then, alone – with no one but the portraits of her ancestors to see – she released a wordless cry of her own in frustration.

How could her mother ignore her so easily? Her eyes burned as she knelt to coax Dash forward, though she was beyond tears as her fury continued to claw through her as something living. Dash whined, but obediently came when she called, and she held him close as she stood once more, burying her face against his silky fur and clinging to the warmth and weight of him as he licked the underside of her chin.

Deeply, she breathed as she stood over the broken shards of porcelain. If her mother did not believe her, she resolved, then she would just have to make her believe.

And – damnably so, for the likes of Flora Hastings and John Conroy – in cases like these . . . nature was what it was, and the truth of the matter would not long be denied.



.

.

William did not bother resisting the urge to call at Buckingham and attend the queen that morning. There was no state business requiring her attention, granted – the nation, and thus its government, was on holiday from now through the coronation and the festival day following – yet it was for Victoria’s sake that he could not bring himself to stay away. He reasoned that it was merely incumbent upon him to ensure that the monarch was her best possible self for the sake of the people she served. In a way, he followed that logic through to its natural conclusion, he was rather beholden to seek out her presence – if only to help see to the restoration of her equilibrium when her coronation was less than a day away – it was his duty even.

(Somewhere in the depths of his mind, a voice that sounded far too much like Caro's sniffed out a snide, taunting laugh – but he'd become quite adept at ignoring the ghost of his wife over the years, and did so then.)

Besides, something had happened the night before, and an old, hard-won instinct whispered for him not to ignore whatever it was that had so disrupted Victoria's spirits prior to her return to the ball. And, perhaps more privately – not that he himself had any business remembering an upturned face and gleaming eyes, with small hands soft and warm against his chest – he did not want her to feel any lingering . . . embarrassment for how the night had ended between them. He wanted to assure her that all was well and would be well.

And so, he did.

Yet he hadn’t even alighted from Pelles’ back when he saw a familiar figure appear in the courtyard – garbed in her more familiar riding habit of deep forest green, rather than the new red – approaching where Majesty was already saddled and waiting.

“What fortuitous timing, ma’am,” William greeted – ignoring the surge of affection (founded in a most proper and acceptable sense of reverence and due respect) that filled him as Victoria looked up (her thoughts had been very far away, indeed, then) and the troubled cast of her countenance smoothed for joy. She turned a delighted (relieved) expression towards him, her blue eyes putting even the truant sky above them to shame with their brilliance.

“Lord M!” she exclaimed. “What a happy surprise. I did not think to expect you today, with the government on holiday.”

“The day before a monarch’s coronation is just as important as the coronation itself, is it not?” he doffed his hat to bow – even as she gestured for him to remain on horseback. “As such, I am here to serve at Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

“And, for that, I am most grateful,” Victoria said as she was helped to mount. She made the awkward, unbalanced motion look graceful, hooking her right leg over the pommel of the side-saddle so that it was just a suggestion of movement underneath the long fall of her skirts. She tucked her left leg in, better securing herself, and then took the reins up with confident hands.

Once she was settled, and Majesty free of the groom, she continued: “I wanted to summon you, yet was unsure if you would . . . that is, I thought . . . ” but she paused and bit her lip – an unconscious, nervous habit that she exhibited less and less with each passing day as queen, yet tended to resort to when she was in his presence alone. “Well, it does not signify what I thought, for here you are,” she squared her shoulders to dismiss. “And, now that you are here, there is a most particular matter that I would like to discuss with you – that is, if you would be so good as to accompany me whilst I ride out?”

That same instinct turned again, as canny as a fox in the dell, and he nodded. “It would be my honor, Your Majesty,” he tipped his hat in formal reply, and then followed Victoria from the courtyard.

This time, she did not turn for Hyde Park, but carried on towards the river and St. James’ Park. They kept to the path closest to the waterway bisecting the green, running parallel with the Birdcage Walk beyond the park proper. They traversed the meandering trail without speaking, as he let her take the time she needed to gather her thoughts.

It was an admittedly beautiful day, and pleasant to be out of doors for its own sake. The storms had cleared the ever-present soot and stink of rot from the air of London, and the trees and the grass and the cobblestones were still wet and glistening from the last of the early-morning rains. The mulberry trees were newly full for the harvest, and the ripe scent of their fruit saturated the air with tart sweetness. Closer to the shore of the lake, a pair of kingfishers were taking advantage of the break in the weather to teach their first brood of the season how to dive for minnows, and the bright shock of their azure feathers was dazzling against the green. Broken clouds still lingered high overhead, but a soft shade of blue now dominated the firmament, letting the sun take it rightful place in precedence for glory once more.

It was, William thought – if he were a man inclined to put stock in such things – a most propitious omen for the morrow.

Yet, when they made it as far as Queen Anne’s Gate and Victoria continued to mull uncertainly, he took it upon himself to venture: “May the Prime Minister be so bold as to inquire as to the health of Her Majesty?” as much for the general pleasantries of such a question as from a true desire to know.

Their queen had, after all, imbibed quite freely on champagne the night before – and her overindulgence was not one he thought her much accustomed to.

“I am well enough, I thank Your Lordship for inquiring,” Victoria answered, the words rote, before she frowned and loosed the smallest of sighs. “No, Lord M,” she admitted plainly, “that is not entirely true – I am tired, and I find that I have a rather monstrous headache.”

“If I may continue to presume upon Your Majesty's indulgence, I would recommend drinking a surplus of water throughout the day,” William advised through no small experience of his own, “and rest, such as you can.”

“Rest?” sure enough, Victoria parroted the word as if amused by its sound. “I feel as if I have a lightning bolt trapped inside me – I don’t believe that I shall be able to truly rest until after the coronation, and mayhap not even then.”

He could imagine, in his own imperfect way – some combination of what he’d felt before his wedding day, intermingled with shouldering arms at his colonel’s command to march onto an active field of battle . . . yet, not even those two experiences could come close to the yoke she was currently bearing upon her shoulders – not in the slightest.

So, aloud, he said: “You handle your burdens well, ma’am; I wouldn't have been able to guess that anything was amiss.”

She cast him a sideways glance, and he was happy to see her expression beam with pleasure – bolstered, as it was, by no small amount of pride – before her mood fell pensive once more. “And yet,” she admitted, “my coronation is not all that troubles me.”

“Oh?” patiently, he waited.

“Last night . . . ” but still she struggled. She faltered, and then clearly steeled herself to confess in a rush: “Flora Hastings is with child, and I suspect – no, I quite know who the father is.”

Lady Flora . . .

. . . with child?

William could not first understand her words, let alone process them towards any sort of true comprehension, so unexpected as they were in their entirety. Dumbly, he found himself struck mute in reply.

Out of all the things he could have imagined . . . well, he yet could not imagine this. There was no more pious a crucifix-wielding maiden in all the kingdom than Flora Hastings – in his opinion, that was part of what made her so adapt at ruthlessly judging the supposed sins of others to begin with. Her admittedly unpleasant, didactic nature aside, the same as any man who was familiar with women of more . . . receptive dispositions, he’d instinctively known that Lady Flora was the kind of woman who'd fail to humor a mere flirtation, let alone anything more dogmatically sacrilegious.

To the contrary: he rather suspected that she’d throw her Bible at any man who’d dare try.

And, as for the father . . .

. . . Sir John?

Inwardly, William grappled with that revelation, struggling to make sense of what was so entirely nonsensical – and quickly, so that he could advise his queen for or against any of the several courses he could imagine her temper was even now poised to take.

Sir John was a viper, yes – but what made him so dangerous was that he was snake-smart and snake-cautious as he slithered through the grass. Years of careful machinations were at last promising to yield their cursed fruit, no matter how determined Victoria herself was – and William too, standing as her shield – to see him deprived of reaping any such semblance of a reward.

It escaped credulity: why would John Conroy risk the fulfillment of years’ expectations for a moment’s tryst – for even the idea of a match formed in feelings of any more tender a regard was ludicrous enough so as to fail to warrant more than a moment’s passing thought – with such a cold and self-righteous spinster as Flora Hastings? Even if she was not such a nun of a woman, to risk everything with one of the Duchess of Kent’s own ladies when the princess very much fancied herself in love and would act as a woman scorned if that love was ever so abused . . .

No. He could not believe it.

Still, William knew to tread carefully in his reply. He couldn't challenge Victoria outright – not without her digging in her heels like a skittish horse for so feeling herself trapped in challenge – but neither would he allow himself to so quickly give weight to her suspicions.

“Sir John and Lady Flora?” instead, he repeated, buying time. “Surely not.”

“Oh, but most surely!” her words flew from her and through her, now that the subject was breached. “Last night, in the retiring room, I saw a most distinct swell upon her person with my very own eyes. Lehzen and Jenkins too noticed just the same – and, this morning, Lehzen confirmed our suspicions with Lady Flora’s own maid, who is even now in my employ.”

In answer, William could only blink.

“That is indeed most shocking news,” he managed, and meant his words true. Inwardly, his mind raced, wondering if he’d misjudged Lady Flora – misjudged Sir John – so completely. It was possible, he was not so proud as to deny the possibility, and yet . . .

. . . something, that same old instinct whispered for caution, was not quite right.

“It is most shocking!” Victoria continued. “And, what’s more than shocking, it’s troubling. Tomorrow I am to take the Coronation Oath. How can I swear to serve my people when there is such corruption running unchecked in my own household? They must both leave court; immediately.”

Deep inside, that cautious instinct was now a most insistent roar.

As such, William considered his words, and it was not until they came upon the large turn at the easterly-most point of the park that he began: “Lady Flora is not without powerful friends, Your Majesty. Lord Hastings - ”

“ - oh, I care not a fig for the Marquess of Hastings,” Victoria almost snarled to declare. “I fear him not in the slightest.”

“That may be easy to say when Your Majesty does not have the admittedly dubious pleasure of presiding over the House of Lords.” No matter the seriousness of the conversation, he couldn’t help but turn a teasing half-smile her way.

Yet, if he thought to distract her with humor – which he did, even if just for a fraction of a second – she knew him well enough by then to understand his aim. Her smile steeled, and then pressed into a thin, pinched line.

“What is the opinion of a mere marquees to that of the prime minister?” she sniffed – as if it was just that simple.

But, no matter that she liked to think his premiership as immortal as her own reign, William well knew that his time in government was finite, and dwindling to its sunset days even as they spoke. His enemies were already more than cognizant of his growing weakness – like hounds on the scent of a bloodied stag – and to stir up the Tories like a nest of hornets – as they would indeed be stirred if such a wealthy and generous contributor to their coffers was so stirred . . .

A very specific sort of headache seized at his temples, and he sighed.

Yet he knew better than to beat down that particular path when Victoria had the theoretical bit between her teeth. Instead, he attempted another line of reason: “You have suspicions, ma’am – valid ones, I grant you,” for they were, was what he could not make sense of, “yet you do not know for sure. An accusation like this - ”

“Even if it’s true?”

“ - will ruin her,” he dared speak over her in order to conclude most bluntly. “Our society is very good at turning a blind eye when it suits, but, if you force them to look, it is not Sir John who will bear any equal weight of the resulting ignominy – but rather Lady Flora as the woman in this matter.”

He was glad to see her anger ebb just as quickly as it first sparked, and Victoria hesitated. He let her absorb that truth without speaking, needing her to consider each and every possible consequence – and the consequences of those consequences, even further beyond – if she chose to act on her suspicions.

If those suspicions were correct, he yet did not say, then Lady Flora and Sir John were merely guilty of what most every man and woman in the peerage already shared an equal shame of – her uncles and her own father, even, had been guilty many dozens times over without any lasting repercussions. Though William himself had always been exceedingly careful to ensure that no lasting . . . effects were ever borne from his affairs, it was only by chance that he did not have any children to show from his own dalliances – for which, he knew, Victoria hardly would have judged him, even if he had.

But, Lady Flora . . .

“She acted ruinously to begin with,” Victoria finally said – slowly so, as if she was trying to speak around a mouth full of stones. “I hardly understand why it would reflect badly upon me to refuse to tolerate her sin, when her sin is not my own.”

For, he better knew, it was not the crime of a child born outside of wedlock that Victoria would refuse to forgive, but how the existence of that child was a betrayal of her mother – the same mother who had, in turn, betrayed . . .

William remained silent as Victoria grappled with all of the intricacies of the situation, and then picked up his sword anew. “It would be unfortunate to have a scandal so close to the coronation, ma’am,” he continued to insist, gently but firmly. “There are those who believe a woman as young as you is not capable of being queen, and if your own household is thought to - ”

“ - that is what Conroy thinks.” Yet his words had the opposite effect as Victoria’s temper unfurled to its full brilliance, like bellows working upon the open heart of a furnace, “and that is why he must go.”

With that, at least, William agreed entirely, yet: “There are far more delicate ways of removing Sir John than to accuse him of getting a child on Lady Flora!” he huffed, exasperation, at long last, rasping the edges of his words like sand upon stone.

“Even if it’s true?” she returned just as quickly, as stubborn as a mule.

“Whether or not it’s true will ultimately have but little bearing in the grand scheme of things,” he was unable to wholly gentle his words. “Please, I beseech you: you must think this matter through – in its entirety – before you act.”

“And you think that I have not?” Victoria snapped, caught somewhere between annoyance for being so challenged when she thought (knew) herself to be in the right, and insulted (hurt) that he would think to doubt her.

“I think that your heart is very close to the matter,” he continued bluntly, but with all necessity, “and that puts you in a very real danger of doing something rash.”

In answer, she looked struck – so much so that he wanted to take back every word and rescind his stance. Yet he could not – if only for her own sake.

“I feel that it's my duty to find the truth,” Victoria ground her teeth to insist. For her tight grip on the reins, Majesty pranced out an uncertain step, dancing in place before Victoria soothed her mount once more – which Pelles answered in kind, tossing his head and huffing out to nicker at his now familiar trail companion.

“The truth?” William rather forgot himself – and who he was speaking to – in order to declare, “I find the truth to be vastly overrated. Best would it be for all if you let this matter run its natural course, free of intervention.”

“But it shall not be my scandal,” Victoria refused to concede, “and I do not understand why - ”

“ - but will it truly not be your scandal?” he dared to interrupt outright. Distantly, he wondered how long it had been since he’d last tagged his words with a deferential Your Majesty or ma’am in fealty to his sovereign. Another voice for caution suddenly bludgeoned down from the higher (better) sense of his mind, so much so that he felt the impact of that thought as a physical blow. He had, far too easily (naturally), been speaking to his queen – to the Queen of England – as if she was instead a colleague or peer or his -

(Emma or Emily or Caro.)

- but that thought, he ruthlessly tore from its roots, and cast aside.

“Your Majesty,” instead, he bowed his head to recover the bounds between sovereign and subject once more, “I have found that the problem with scandals is that the mud does not always stick to the right people.”

“Is that truly all you care about – avoiding a scandal?”

Her words cut him, and he lowered his head even further at their sting. Firmly, he stated: “Yes, ma'am – for I know how difficult and painful a scandal can be.”

If the fight had left him just as quickly as it had first built, Victoria too was drawn up short for his reply. Her ever expressive face – so expressive, too expressive, Lord help him – then colored with regret, and she looked away, her blue eyes darkening as if absorbing the shadows underneath the eaves of the passing oak trees.

“So,” she said slowly, “you think I should do nothing?”

No matter her regrets, there was an edge to her words that was not entirely satisfied – leaping like sparks, cast from iron striking iron.

So, he pushed his luck – knowing that no advisor would have gotten even this far when Her Majesty was in such a querulous temper – and attempted to explain his reasoning a final time: “I believe that it may be the right course, ma’am. If your suspicions are correct, then there will soon be no denying the evidence, and matters will carry on quite naturally as far as Lady Flora is concerned. In the meantime, there are other ways of dealing with the likes of Sir John.”

Ways which he intended to pursue with all immediacy – this very day, even.

Yet, the sensibility of his words – a sensibility that he knew that she could be persuaded to adopt, if only this wasn't a blade that already stabbed so close to heart – was for naught. What was even worse was that, in her eyes, his refusal to tell her what she better wished to hear was instead a betrayal – and he was not sure if it was the last vestiges of the child in her or the imperiousness of a nascent queen (for God knew that her kingly uncles had been much the same at thrice her age) that refused to handle her disappointment with any sort of grace.

Sure enough: “You may be content to sit by and do nothing,” she concluded aloud, “but I cannot. I shall not!”

With that, she let her agitation overtake her, and she spurred Majesty down the path for Buckingham at a gallop. Pelles threw his head in surprise, snorting and tugging at the reins, as if fighting the instinct to fall into step and give chase – which was a quandary that William well understood for himself.

Yet he would serve neither of them for the better if he ran off after her – and he’d not enable her temper (grief) when his doing so would be to act against her best interests, no matter how understandable her stance was for the deeper emotions involved. Still, neither did he turn and go his own way – which was, admittedly, his first inclination. (For he’d well learned his lesson in that regard over the years, had he not?)

Instead, he followed behind at a more sedate pace, and caught up to where Victoria had slowed Majesty before passing underneath the Marble Arch.

Cautiously, William observed his queen – taking in her rigid posture and the tight stretch of her leather gloves over her knuckles. She stared sightlessly ahead without truly seeing him, as if anticipating a rebuke – no matter that he had not even the slightest word to give in chastisement. (And for that too, understanding was as uncomfortable as it was grounding as he found his own patience strengthened and renewed once more.)

But, eventually – and entirely to his surprise – he was not the first to broach the silence. Instead: “I am sorry,” Victoria said plainly.

It may have been against the royal prerogative for her to utter those words so plainly, and yet, in that moment, he found her all the more regal for her ability to balance pride with humility – such as the Hanoverian kings before her had ever failed to grasp throughout the entirety of their reigns.

“As of late," she continued, "I am constantly saying far too many things that I regret to you, and it’s maddening.”

“You have much on your shoulders, ma’am,” he absolved – with anything raw that may have been scoured by her words then soothed over just as easily. For that was the truth; he spoke no placation. Only a fool would put too much stock in how she spoke under the duress she was currently under – in every possible regard. So he softened his tone even further to say, “I hope you know that I am here to help you carry that weight, in whatever way possible.”

“I do know,” she said earnestly, lifting her eyes up to meet his again. “Yet I hope that you know that I never wish to abuse such a gift.”

It was impossible not to adore her so completely in moments like these – to respect her as a woman, finding her way as she built herself into the queen she wished to be, brick by painstaking brick – and he smiled a true smile in return.

He then took what an opportunity he had, and seized it: “It is not my place to make up your mind for you, and I shall support whatever course you choose to take. I only ask, ma’am, that you please consider my advice as an advisor who only has your best interests at heart: let this matter be. Time shall prove the champion of all, I believe – you need only the patience to see it though for the best possible outcome.”

Victoria sighed – but there was resignation in the sound. The fight had left her, and now she truly listened . . . and considered.

“I struggle so awfully with patience,” she admitted. “I have spent my whole life just waiting, and now, when my goals are at last within reach, I am forced to wait yet longer still.”

It was such a statement of youth that he could not help the answering quirk of his mouth. “I believe that Your Majesty shall find that age – in time – will inevitably grant perspective on this, as well.”

“I feared you would say as much,” she huffed, but with good humor as they returned to the courtyard. “I suppose, then, that I can wait a little while longer – but only if I must.”

“I am relieved to hear it. You have made a wise decision, ma'am, and I fully believe that your wisdom shall be rewarded.”

Her smile, in answer, was gratifying, for all that the expression did not fully meet her eyes.

That too, he knew, only time would mend.

Time . . . and relief in justice.

And so, towards that end: “With your leave, ma’am, I must return to Downing Street,” he said his farewells, with purpose settling into his bones and sharpening his mind with clarity. “There are a last few duties that I must attend to before the ceremony tomorrow.”

Victoria was openly crestfallen, and he thought that she’d protest – or even rightly call out the current cessation of government business and challenge what true duty he had that could not wait – before she instead brightened to beckon: “Will you come to dine tonight? It is only the family in residence, but I do not think that I can bear . . . ” but she swallowed, and then confessed, “I do not think that I can bear to sup with them alone . . . not knowing what I know now.”

William told himself that this too was merely his duty, done for her pleasure alone. “If Your Majesty so commands,” he accepted her invitation, “then I shall attend.”

“Her Majesty does indeed command,” she returned, a playful bit of hauteur coloring her words – and he could not help but feel a restoration of his own spirits to see her own so improved from the beginning of their outing.

With that, Victoria was helped to dismount by a groom, and Majesty was led away by yet another. He took off his top hat and bowed once more from horseback, and then watched as she crossed the courtyard, his eyes on her back until she was swallowed by the palace, and he could see her no more. Then, he reined Pelles for Whitehall.

It seemed that he had a serpent to bait and spear.

And so he would.



.

.

He did not believe her.

Victoria’s eyes stung during her mad gallop across the park, letting the wind in her face blot her cheeks dry as she chose to embrace fury instead of grief. (Weren’t they ever one and the same?) Not only did he not believe her, but he must have thought her so very stupid and spoiled and shrewish and small -

- and after she had already showed herself to be oh so small the night before! Even now the memory caused her world to tilt on its axis, threatening to topple her over and leave her hanging in the deep dark blackness waiting below.

That morning, it had been shame alone that held her back from summoning her prime minister. She had not the courage to look at him (not her Lord M!) and see any sort of discomforture (after how she’d accosted him), or disappointment (after how she’d belittled Lady Flora before her court), or, even worse, any sort of disgust . . .

(He’d chosen not to dance with her, after all . . . hadn’t he?)

As such, it had been a balm to her spirits when he came to her unbidden – such a balm! Then, to see him smile that smile – the one that she craved more so than any expression from any other person in her life! She knew his every countenance when he was confronted by those he truly disliked – or worse, those he did not respect – but none of that distant, not-quite-smiling, just-shy-of-sincere mask was in place when he’d appeared. Instead, he was just he, himself – and, somehow, he continued to look at her as if she was herself, even after seeing her at her worst.

Victoria could have wept for that knowledge, relieved, if she wasn’t so very sick of tears. Besides, they had far more important matters to discuss than her own silly, girlish heart – and so, discuss them they did.

Her newly restored equilibrium did not last - not when it seemed that he was more concerned with Lady Flora’s reputation (her own reputation) and the regard of his government (her government), rather than . . .

So she’d snapped her teeth, feeling herself strangely confronted (without an ally), and answered him in kind.

But no, Victoria understood when she gave herself a moment to recover her calm (why, oh why did she always seem to jump to temper so quickly – even with him?) and let the better logic of her good sense reign over her bruised and battling heart. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her (for he did believe her), or that he wasn't on her side (for he ever was, and there she trusted him to stay) – it was only that he was advising caution.

. . . and caution, she granted, was usually for the best – little as she enjoyed the exercise of such prudence in her day-to-day affairs. (But Victoria's impatience was one thing – and Victoria Regina's quite another.)

From there, how grateful she was that he accepted her apology! She had not wounded him (for she had tried, she was shamed to know), and all was well – even so soon on the heels of the last time she’d found it necessary to apologize, which was a matter she still didn’t feel completely resolved in its own right.

Her head rather ached as she slipped from Majesty’s back – and although she felt her pains momentarily forgotten when she took leave of her Lord M, that sense of hardly won peace and renewed equilibrium sustained her only through the palace doors. She crossed the threshold, and then looked back in time to see Melbourne turn his mount (and what a fine figure he cut on horseback) and depart for Whitehall. Then, she was alone once more.

For once, the palace she so adored – for Buckingham felt as her very own in a way that Kensington never had – seemed as empty as a maw: a tomb waiting to swallow her.

But, rather than giving into her megrims, she picked up her chin, and returned to her chambers. There, she was changed from her riding habit, back into her muslin day gown. Following, Emma and Harriet welcomed her to play a game of binokel – which was not, she felt, as much for the pleasure of cards, but to ensure that she ate at least one of the tea-sandwiches that had been ordered to accompany their game. She had skipped breakfast after hardly eating the day before – and the day before that? she couldn't quite remember – and Victoria did not miss her ladies’ satisfied expressions when she indulged them.

Yet even those light and refreshing selections sat as a stone in her stomach, and Victoria could not force herself to abide by stillness for long.

Instead, she fetched the red, leatherbound Book of Orders that detailed the entire script for her coronation ceremony, and declared her intention to go practice in the gardens.

Her proposal was instantly accepted by her ladies – Lady Sutherland did an excellent, albeit somewhat humorously exaggerated, imitation of the Archbishop of Canterbury that she was pleased to act out again – and they followed her into the hall, bonnets in hand. Or, at least, they did until Victoria saw where Lady Flora attempted to join them, coming upon them from further down the corridor, as if she had been lying in wait for them to appear. Both Emma and Harriet fell back to intercept the duchess' lady, and refused to let her come any closer – no matter her protestations to the contrary.

Lady Flora rather loudly announced her intention to seek her queen’s forgiveness – but Victoria had known that woman for nigh on a decade, and she did not miss the undertone to her voice that said that she too rather expected an apology in her turn.

And Victoria had no such apology to give.

Instead, she pretended to turn a deaf ear to the commotion, and walked up to the window and the view it offered of the gardens below, a dispassionate expression held on her features if only by a determined force of will.

There she stood, looking down, her face a mask of impassivity . . .

- only to see her mother, marching down the garden path with a determined stride.

Victoria blinked, taken aback by the fast clip of her gait – a sure sign of distress, for her mother was a princess of Coburg (a princess of England), and never deigned to hasten her step in such a base and common manner. (Little as she’d ever been able to impress upon her daughter the grace of doing much the same.)

By her side, seeing as she saw, Lehzen dropped her voice to ask, “What did Lord Melbourne say, when Your Majesty told him of this matter?”

Victoria did not immediately answer – could not immediately answer – when she realized that her mother was not alone. Sir John followed her down the path, his hands held before him in supplication – as if seeking to sooth some wild creature from violence.

Instantly, Victoria's eyes narrowed.

“Lord M thinks I should do nothing,” she said somewhat distantly – watching how her mother kept her back to Sir John, her spine tense with an emotion that Victoria well knew as anger for how it mirrored her own in its every shape and expression. For a moment, her heart leapt, wondering if her mother would finally, at long last . . .

Lehzen sniffed. “Your prime minister has lived a most irregular life, and so does not judge the irregularities of others, no?” she clearly disapproved. “I am not surprised that he would advise you as such.”

“No, I don't think that's it, Lehzen,” Victoria returned. “He only worries for a scandal – and, little though I like it, I suppose he's not wrong.”

“It will be a scandal,” Lehzen muttered, “if it is discovered that you knew of such wrongdoing in your household and did nothing.”

Victoria felt those words burrow into her ears – for they too rang with truth, did they not? Yet she wondered if that was because they were the words she more truly wanted to hear . . . or was this wisdom, too?

Her headache settled upon her anew, and she could not seem to focus her vision.

That was, until her mother finally spun on her heel. With her face turned to the sunlight, Victoria thought to know that she’d been crying. And yet, instead of dismissing Sir John from her presence – as Victoria even now waited for her to do, her heart in her throat and hoping . . . yearning . . .

Please, Mama, she felt with each rapid drumbeat of her pulse, pick me.

Pick me.

Pick me.

Pick me.

Yet, when Sir John at last reached out to take her mother’s hands in his own . . .

. . . she let him.

Sir John was speaking quickly then, and her mother was nodding – she was nodding, as if in agreement – and grasping his hands tightly in return. Victoria felt as if she’d been physically struck as the knight reached up to gently wipe her mother’s tears from her face, before, arm in arm – with her mother leaning heavily upon Sir John all the while – they continued down the garden path, beyond her vantage to further view.

So that was it, then.

When Victoria sucked in her next breath – for how long had she refused to breathe? – it was not with any sort of rage clouding her vision, but with an icy sense of certainty.

“Summon the court physician,” she turned away from the window to demand. “I require Sir James to do an examination.”

Lehzen’s gaze was satisfied for her decree – which only momentarily soothed Victoria’s guilt for acting against Lord Melbourne’s counsel. But his advice was just that, was it not? Advice. She alone was Queen of England, and she had a duty to act as how she best saw fit.

So, she would.

“And instruct the lord chamberlain to rescind Sir John and Lady Flora’s cards,” she chipped the words out from between her teeth. “I will not have them attend my coronation.”

It was only then that Lehzen hesitated, and she ventured to warn, “It will look, then, as if Your Majesty believes the worst.”

But Victoria stared stalwartly ahead, refusing to be moved.

“Exactly.”



.

.

William had Lord Ebrington and then Lord Russell summoned to his office – little as both men were happy to be called before the prime minister whilst on recess for the coronation holiday. But, as unsavory as this matter was, it was one he would see solved expedience; it could wait no more.

He’d rather deal with the likes of Sir John by more overt measures, but, for Victoria’s sake, discretion would have to serve an unfitting punishment for the crime. The peerage wouldn’t take well to a supposed girl who dishonored her foremost guardian (no matter how the title was as laughable as it was untrue), and he wouldn’t have her suffer Conroy's machinations not a moment longer. Now, what was done was done, and done for the best, he could only hope.

If he could remove Sir John from the board, then William thought that Victoria could be persuaded to pardon Lady Flora. They could then send her away quietly, to have her child in seclusion with her dignity preserved, and all would be well, out of sight and out of mind to the wagging tongues and unkind eyes of the public’s scrutiny. The greater world had no need to know of this whole affair – and, most importantly, no chance to judge Victoria by it one way or another.

It was well after three o’clock in the afternoon when he sealed the last of his letters and left them with his secretary. From there, he resisted the urge he had to return to Buckingham immediately, and instead waited for the socially acceptable hour to arrive for dinner, and appeared within that very minute.

As he strode down the long corridors of the palace, he did not make it to the queen’s drawing room to join her household before they were called in to dine. Instead, he was intercepted by Lady Portman, and – much to his surprise – Emma showed him towards the ballroom.

Upon their arrival, the large, cavernous space seemed somewhat bereft after the spectacle of the night before. The massive chandeliers had been lowered to the floor and were covered in protective canvas casings, and the candelabras were empty and devoid of light. Only the evening summer sun illuminated the floor with long shadows, nearly swallowing the sole, tiny form within as she walked straight and tall down an imaginary line in the center of the room. In her right hand she held open a slim red book that she studied, her brow furrowed in concentration. Once she reached the end of the ballroom, she proclaimed aloud in a firm, strong voice: “The things which I have here before promised, I shall perform and keep. So help me God.”

He was unable to constrain the warmth of his smile as he understood what his queen was doing – for she was utterly enchanting in that moment, and he could not look away if he tried.

“Your Majesty?” William hated to interrupt her scrutiny of the Coronation Orders, but at last he did. “I see that you are not dressed for dinner.”

And so she was not – she still wore an unadorned day gown, and her hair was swept up in a simple twist of pendant braids. Yet, in that moment, he thought her a vision to match the one she’d presented the night before in all of her finery.

By his side, Emma discreetly cleared her throat.

Victoria’s expression had first lightened to see him, much the same as it ever did, but wilted just as quickly to admit, “I do not feel very hungry.” She made her way back down the length of the ballroom, her formally confident stride now rife with agitation. “I do not wish to even look at them," she confessed when she stopped before him, "though I suppose I must.”

“You shall not have to for much longer,” he promised, thinking of his own efforts that day – and almost missed the flickering of Victoria’s expression for the distraction of his own thoughts. For a moment, she did not meet his eyes. (And inside, that old instinct roused once more.)

“Much longer cannot come soon enough,” she groused, though without heat. “Besides, I feel quite unable to dine with anyone – my stomach is full of butterflies, and I cannot get my heartbeat to slow. This day is supposed to be one of peace and reflection, but I feel as if I shall burst if I allow myself to pause for stillness overlong.”

“You are wise, then,” he said, indicating the ballroom and the book in her hand with an encompassing gesture. “Rehearsing does much to sooth the nerves, or so I've found in my experience.”

“I still think it strange that something as intricate as a coronation is not practiced on a larger scale,” Victoria admitted, a note of humor coloring her voice. “How is it that everyone will know what to do upon the morrow, if they do not try before?”

And he heard a note of fear there, too – little as she would ever admit to feeling so – for any error in the ceremony would hardly fall upon the men who faltered as such in its preparing, but upon her as queen.

“I entirely agree,” he felt his own expression harden. “But the earl marshal thought a large scale rehearsal unnecessary, and the Archbishop of Canterbury believes that since he has crowned two kings already, a queen shall quite be business as normal.”

“It may be to them,” she sniffed in disapproval, “but it hardly is to me. Now I wish that I would have thought to order it.”

William had attempted to in her stead – but he did not say that if those men were obdurate enough to find a way to reason against their prime minister, then they most certainly would have done the same with their queen.

Instead, an idea alighted upon him, and he spoke, quite without thinking: “That does not mean that you may not have a rehearsal of your own, however – although this may not be the appropriate theater in which to do so.”

Victoria tilted her head. “Lord M, what do you mean?”

The more he thought of it, the more he was certain that this was the right course – and, what was more than that, he was now quite eager with anticipation to do this much for her.

“Emma,” he turned, rather than answering Victoria directly, “would it be possible for Her Majesty to make use of your carriage? If Colonel Hampson can be persuaded, then a short journey without the pomp and ceremony of the royal equipage would be for the best, I feel.”

“Of course, William,” Emma agreed, even as she raised a brow, “but what for?”

For that, he couldn’t help but smile. “A visit to Westminster Abbey may be just the thing." And he turned back to Victoria to expound, "If Your Majesty may see exactly how tomorrow shall go, then that would do much to settle your nerves, I believe.”

“What a delightful idea!” Victoria eagerly agreed, all before her expression fell. “Oh, but there’s dinner,” she fretted, with the manners that had been instilled in her since her earliest days refusing to let her go so easily. “Mama will not be happy if I - ”

But William had little patience left for the Duchess of Kent’s continued interference in her daughter’s life. So he said, almost before she could finish her sentence: “You are the queen,” with hard emphasis placed on every word. He felt Emma’s eyes upon him, and so he softened his tone – if somewhat belatedly – for a more conspiratorial whisper: “If Your Majesty does not wish to attend dinner . . . then you simply do not have to attend.”

Victoria’s smile, in reply, was dazzling. “Do you know that I still quite forget at times,” she dropped her own voice for a matching whisper, “that I may do whatever I wish as queen?”

He could not resist giving his most formal bow in answer. “Then it is – and always shall be – my pleasure to remind Your Majesty.”

"Well then," Victoria gave her approval to decree, “I find that I quite like this proposed scheme of yours, Lord M – let us depart for Westminster forthwith.”



TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

Surprise! I know that it's shocking, but I really don't have much to add at the end of this chapter but to say . . .

A Note on Rehearsing Victoria's Coronation: Nope. This was not rehearsed large scale in RL, I kid you not - even if subsequent coronations afterwards were, undoubtedly due to a few bungled mishaps during Victoria's coronation that could have been avoided if the men in charge took it any more seriously. (All of which we'll get too soon. ) But I liked the idea of a private rehearsal at Westminster Abbey for Victoria alone, and once that plot bunny escaped the hutch, there was no saying no. As such, what was supposed to be a short scene at the end of this chapter is now an entire chapter of its own - you see how this beast just keeps growing? But, as it's now one of my favorite parts of the story, I can't regret it too much - and I look forward to sharing the next chapter with you soon.

Until then!

~ MJ

 

Aw, thank you so much for the wonderful compliment!

Victoria, for all that she feels her emotions deeply and can oftentimes express them as such, really has a heart of gold and a self-awareness that balances her moments of temper - which is something that absolutely fascinates me about writing her character! Especially when juxtaposed with Melbourne's. They just complement each other in so many ways.

Then, as for the scandal with Lady Flora . . . well, that is quite the mess that is just waiting to happen, and I won't spoil what comes next but to say that it is indeed a Very Big Mess.

This felt really important to show after how they left the last conversation between them. It's complicated, when there are so many tricky divides between them that act as a barrier to any sort of candidness - let alone factoring in their differences in personality - but, at the end of the day, it boils down to two people who respect and admire each other and are actively trying for equanimity. When you keep those emotions front and center, even when disagreements arise, everything else falls into place.

Yay! I am happy to hear it!

. . . because I have an entire chapter of a dress rehearsal ready to share in just a moment.

I couldn't agree more.

That is a very good thing, because I still have quite a bit of story left to tell - and I can't wait to share it all!

 

Author's Notes: And here I am, at long last! Besides being happily distracted by the KR, I had more than a few false starts, working concurrently on this chapter and the next. Writing a coronation, I've come to find, is a bit like writing a wedding - yes, it's an important and life-defining ceremony, but it can make for some admittedly dry reading, and is perhaps better left to a visual medium in terms of artistic impact. (And it has already been splendidly filmed more than once, at that!) The balancing act between this chapter and the next - hopefully focusing on the characters more so than the pageantry - is ultimately what I came up with, and I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing!

Now, without further ado . . .

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300+(+) Basketball)​

VII.II.V.

Hallow

It took some time to explain their intentions to Colonel Hampson – whose unflappable soldier’s demeanor faltered for a mere half second before resteeling in stalwart determination – and ready the household guard to attend their sovereign incognito. Yet, all things considered, they were on their way with impressive expedience. Victoria wore an unadorned grey cloak over her muslin day gown, the hood up and drawn to obscure her face, and she exited the palace by means of a service corridor to where Emma’s carriage waited to take her to Westminster.

They did not immediately go to the Abbey; instead, they drove the parade route that she would travel upon the morrow. Though the Duke of Norfolk had officially designed the particulars of the coronation spectacle as the ceremonial earl marshal, Victoria knew that her Lord M had made it a matter of parliamentary debate to afford her this opportunity in the first place – an old tradition, treated as a glamorized triumph by one uncle and ignored outright by the other, resurrected for her own anointing to emphasize the relationship between sovereign and subject over anew.

“The people need to see their queen; you cannot be a distant construct to them, not in the nineteenth century, when countries all around the world are proving that a monarchy is, perhaps, an unnecessary relic of the past. Your people need to take pride in you – to feel that you are a part of their daily lives – and you cannot do that if the common man does not know your face.”

The arguments made against her parade from the likes of the Duke of Wellington and even Colonel Hampson (this she knew, although he’d never admit as much in her presence), who misgave tempting any would-be assassin with a clear target on a predefined route, were one thing – but those others from the Marquess of Chandos and his ilk, who argued that it was improper for a young, unwed girl to be put on public display, and even unnatural to focus on an otherwise meek, vulnerable creature as such . . .

Chandos went so far as to argue to the House that, were she to swoon at any point, the monarchy would be quite ruined forevermore, and her reign stripped of all power before it even began.

Victoria would walk the route on bare feet – just as those ancient kings of old had done, her forefathers all – if only to prove that horde of intolerable men quite irrefutably wrong.

“You may wish to walk once you ride in that beast of a State Coach,” had been her Lord M’s somewhat droll reply to her pique – and, as such, soothing in its own way. “It’s a gaudy thing, for all of its inherent symbolism, and built with not a whit of comfort in mind. Your Uncle William took to calling it the bone crusher and claimed that he’d been on military frigates in rough seas that were more pleasant methods of conveyance.”

For that, Victoria had shown her teeth to proclaim: “Yet I will smile and I will wave and no one shall ever guess that I feel even a moment’s discomfort.”

He’d looked at her in such a way, then – in that most particular way, that she quite adored – before the corner of his mouth quirked and he agreed: “Yes, I believe you shall.”

What would take hours upon the morrow – the State Coach couldn't travel at anything more than a sedate walk to keep from jostling her about like an undignified sack of potatoes, and in consideration for the weight of so much gold when pulled by horseback – was then concluded in a mere twenty minutes before they arrived at Westminster Abbey through the Storey Gate.

This was not Victoria’s first time seeing the Abbey – far from it. She took communion regularly at St. Margaret’s, adjacent to the north, and the construct of the great Gothic monolith was such a quintessential part of the London skyline that she knew it as well as she knew her own hand, her own heart.

Yet she’d never stepped foot inside before – and, looking up at the massive twin towers that defined the western façade, she felt something twist and then settle, deep inside her chest.

She knew this place, she couldn’t help but feel, and the Abbey . . . it knew her.

“There are those who call Westminster Abbey orbis miraculum,” Melbourne did not speak until she herself chose to take that first step across the cobbled stones. “The wonder of the world.”

“Orbis miraculum?” she tried for herself, approving of the Latin and its translation. “I find that I quite agree.”

“The Thames looked far different in the tenth century, Your Majesty may know; what we’re standing on was once an island. The romantics like to claim that King Lucius of the Britons consecrated this site in homage to his new Christian beliefs in the second century – or, perhaps more accurately if not as splendidly, records show that King Edgar awarded this land to a group of Benedictine monks in the year 959 to build a monastery. Whatever its original purpose, Edgar’s great-grandson, Edward the Confessor, began rebuilding St. Peter’s Abbey into a church grand enough for his burial – and, most importantly, a place of coronation for his descendants.”

Was that what she felt calling to her, she wondered? Tugging at her and urging her forward and drawing her in . . .

“That said, the façade as we know it now came from Henry III. It’s been a perpetual work in progress over the centuries since. The towers in their current state, for example, did not exist until the time of your Grandfather George III.”

Victoria felt a shiver as she looked up and up and up – to where the Abbey loomed indomitably before her, with the palace of Westminster riding just beyond, and the beating heart of modern London surrounding her on all sides. Sounding displaced from herself, she muttered, “I wonder, sometimes, of the mark that I will leave behind with my own legacy.”

Would anything be remembered from her reign, aside from its oddity in having a woman on the throne? Would she be remembered for her actions and her deeds, rather than her sex? If so, would those deeds be remembered in glory, for the good she’d done her people, or in ignominy and ruin? Or would the world only ever consider her name in connection to the future king she would inevitably empower through her marriage or bear in turn from her body? She prayed, then and there, that such a future would never come to pass.

Her Lord M, she thought, understood her every unspoken thought. “You will have overseen the rebuilding of Parliament in your lifetime,” he pointed out, his tone blithely conversational. “Think of the Great Clock Tower you just approved – there will be nothing like it in all the world. You’re already leaving your mark on your nation in a tangible sense, and, as for the intangible,” but there, his voice deepened with a belief that she could feel reverberate between them as much as hear, “well, that’s only a matter of time, Your Majesty.”

With those final words, she looked up at the great collaboration of her collective forefathers, and proudly stepped inside.

Almost immediately, Victoria was struck by an almost surreal sense of light – everything, everywhere she looked, was ivory-veined marble and infinite, glittering grey granite. The surplus of high lancet windows let in the fading daylight, and the interior glowed with luminous warmth on the late summer's eve. The altar boys had already lit a myriad of gas lamps, which included the massive chandeliers that dominated either side of the central aisle, so many that the entire expanse now shimmered and glowed as some great, living organism.

Most interestingly to her eye – perhaps unexpectedly, and all the more intriguing for being so – were the surplus of memorials built to honor not only the expected saints of old and late members of the episcopacy, but also royalty and statesmen and numerous celebrated English citizens from a myriad walks of life. Everywhere she looked, some urn or sarcophagus or carved effigy caught her eye, and she could not decide where to rest her gaze overlong.

Westminster Abbey was, simply put, a shrine built to the past of the United Kingdom, even as it simultaneously expressed their proud hopes for the future.

Victoria paused at the mouth of the nave, absorbing the grandeur of her surroundings while her prime minister stepped forth to address the startled sub-dean of the Abbey. Whatever Melbourne said seemed to charm the warden, and the man was content to stand back with her attendants until she required his assistance to better learn the particulars of her surroundings – for which she was indeed most grateful.

Yet she did not want to have to attend one of her reverent subjects as queen just then – not yet. No, this moment . . . it was for her alone.

As such, she looked down the long expanse of the center aisle – through the quire and the screen, to where she could see the beating heart of the cruciform itself, which seemingly beckoned as if in readiness for communion. She felt drawn to the high altar as if from somewhere even deeper than her heart, and she yearned to answer.

Yet, for now, Victoria stood still in place – imagining her ancestors doing much the same as they stared down the nave to their own destiny – and allowed herself to be taken quite far and away by the weight of the history surrounding her.

Melbourne did not resume his place by her side until he saw her blink, returning to herself. Even then, he bowed lower than his usual genuflections – in this place of all places – and quietly suggested: “The sub-dean has humbly offered his knowledge for a tour. Perhaps that may best be done prior to reviewing the order of service? Your Majesty would,” his voice dropped as if to conspire, “honor Reverend Hale most immeasurably by doing so.”

She caught the wry shape of his smile, and returned it with an answering grin. “Indeed,” she allowed her voice to raise and carry, “it is Reverend Hale who shall honor us in return.”

With her permission thus granted, the sub-dean was happy to accompany her down the nave – setting out underneath the soaring arches with their gold-capped bosses and ribs – to the screen which marked the beginning of the quire. The impressive height of the ceiling was an illusion reinforced by the relatively narrow breadth of the nave, emphasizing the already lofty space with a sense of the divine in the open expanse of aether. The screen itself was a lavish work of art, gilded in gold, with the remaining constructs either gleaming mahogany or lacquered in vibrant, intricate patterns of blue and red and green.

Yet she was most curious for the marble inlays of the screen – where she was surprised to see homage paid to Sir Isaac Newton in that revered space. His earthly remains were entombed in a sarcophagus, upon which the famed knight and mathematician sat in life-like effigy, with the globe of their world poised above him and Urania, the Muse of Astrology, perched just higher, bestowing her gifts of enlightenment and understanding upon one of her favored sons.

(This was not the first time she would be amused for the presence of decidedly unchristian motifs in a holy place of worship – for all that the sub-dean referred to them as classical allegories instead.)

They preceded through the stalls of the quire, and soon came upon the intersection of the transepts. Victoria felt her breath quicken to gaze into the heart of that space, before she purposefully returned her attention to the sub-dean. Instead of pausing to linger in the coronation theater, they turned for the north transept, where Reverend Hale indicated various points of interest – of which there were many. Beyond the architecture and the various icons and the silent stories told in the stained glass windows, there were dozens upon dozens of gleaming memorials built to honor the dead – so many dead. Walking amongst their memories, her head swam and her heart swelled in awareness of the hallowed ground upon which she trod.

Logically, Victoria had known that Westminster was a final resting place for a great number of heroes from her nation’s history, but she had not realized just how many souls were interred in this shared space before experiencing it firsthand. They must have numbered in the thousands – or so it seemed as they passed the resplendent constructs erected to commemorate name after name after name in an infinite array.

In this transept, there were monuments paying tribute to two of her country’s foremost prime ministers in Pitt the Elder and his son, Pitt the Younger. Lord Canning – who had died whilst still in office – had also been awarded the privilege of a Westminster burial for his loyal service to Crown and country. She felt a shiver to glance over at her Lord M and wonder: could they someday be interred here together, too?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask – but her own prime minister’s expression was then quite troubled as he averted his gaze from the elder Pitt’s indomitable stare (or, at least, she knew that his expression was troubled, no matter that anyone else would have only seen a politely interested mask as he attended the sub-dean’s speech) and she could not find her words to voice that sudden wish of her heart aloud. Besides, even she could admit that it may have been in bad form to speak of her death on the eve of her coronation – she’d surely drive Colonel Hampson into a superstitious flutter if she did – and so, she maintained her peace in silence.

From the transept, they crossed to the ambulatory chapel, which was shaped like a horseshoe around the chancel and shrine to St. Edward at the center of the Abbey. This space was filled with dozens more raised tombs, many of which were set into further, radiating chapels of their own. Every possible inch of marble and gold and oak was seemingly carved with saints and angels and heraldic symbols – so many and so infinitely that the dean’s explanations blurred from one noteworthy figure to the next and the next in a haze of sovenance and sanctification.

Edward I, she passed with wide, awe-struck eyes, and his dearly beloved Queen Eleanor.

. . . Henry III.

. . . Henry V.

And then they went up the stairs to the Chapel of Henry VII – with its glorious pendant fan vault and clerestory windows illuminating the mahogany stalls and triforium-level banners depicting the Knights of the Order of the Bath. Here, the sub-dean was proud to declare, rested the tombs of some of the most illustrious names in her people's history, from Mary Queen of Scots, in the south of the nave, to . . .

. . . Edward V and his brother Richard – the murdered boy princes in the Tower – with their tiny bones laid to rest in a single, shared urn to comfort each other in death as they had been so ruthlessly torn from life.

. . . Henry VII – whom had vanquished the kinslayer Richard III, thus ending the War of the Roses – and his wife Elizabeth of York, honored in the apse behind the altar.

. . . William III and Mary II, England’s first and only pair of co-regents, and the perpetrators of the Glorious Revolution – whom Victoria even now owed her current titles and her country’s firm and hopefully long-lasting foundation of dual royal and parliamentary power.

. . . her great-great-grandfather George II.

. . . her great-grandfather Prince Frederick.

And, to the north, with the sisters resting head-to-head in death as they had stood toe-to-toe in life, divided by faith and circumstance, marked by twin marble lions, awake in eternal vigil at their feet . . .

Queen Mary I – the first sovereign queen regnant of England, no matter how aborted her reign and marred by fanatic strife – and her sister, England’s most famous and indomitably lasting queen regnant . . .

Queen Elizabeth I.

Victoria felt her breath leave in a rush as that feeling of awareness rushed over her anew. Sound fell away – both Reverend Hale’s words and Lord Melbourne’s softly uttered pleasantries as he discreetly guided the sub-dean back in order to grant her this moment alone. Then, even awareness of her Lord M faded – narrowing down to just she, herself, and these two dauntless queens of old.

Feeling as if she existed beyond the physical constraints of her body, she ascended the plinth and stared down at the larger-than-life marble carvings of the women who’d made her own path to sole regnal power possible. Mary’s hands – perhaps fittingly – were clasped in an eonian prayer, while her sister’s effigy was eternally crowned, with the scepter held in one hand and the globe in the other. Her eyes were wide open and stared straight ahead, alert and formidable and ever indomitable, even in death.

Victoria could say nothing aloud – but instead whispered a prayer from her soul, asking God for even a fraction of her ancestresses’ strength and grace, just the same as any ancient king may have done in his pre-coronation vigil at the Tower – and ended her devotion by kissing first Mary’s and then Elizabeth’s brow.

Her eyes were burning when she finally turned her back on the queens, but her head was held high and her shoulders were proudly squared. There was no Mama there to shadow that moment, not even in her mind – no Mama nor Sir John nor princely cousin or frowning uncle or king of old who thought she could not (should not) be queen at all. Instead, there was just her own majesty, and the entirety of her reign as it stretched before her.

And, when she turned, she thought to catch the merest glimpse of . . . something just as profoundly devoted in her Lord M’s gaze before he blinked and the emotion was gone – even as she herself suddenly felt worthy of that reverence in her own right.

“Thank you,” she said – to her entourage for giving her that moment, yes, but mostly to him for making this pilgrimage and spiritual cleansing (for that truly was what it felt like) possible in the first place. Her nerves settled in a way that she’d found illusive since the dawn of her ascension, giving way to anticipation and strength of purpose instead. Her heart thundered out a strong beat, knowing that she was here, and she would be here, and time alone would prove each and every naysayer who said that she should not be wrong in their entirety.

Towards that end: “Reverend Hale,” Victoria bade in a strong voice, “you have our permission to continue.”



.

.

As they made their circuit of the ambulatory chapel, Melbourne admittedly noticed but little of their surroundings – and heard even less from the sub-dean – in favor of watching his queen.

In an abstract sense, it had been years since he last felt entirely comfortable in a house of God – not since his youth, when faith was a simpler, far less complicated emotion – and that discomfort remained even in a place such as Westminster Abbey, which, while certainly built to worship the divine, did not wholly exist to venerate the Almighty in exclusive devotion.

. . . or, at least, he amended that somewhat blasphemous thought, Westminster did not pay worship to the Almighty alone.

Yet even the somewhat murky concept of faith in a higher power was an easier subject for him to contemplate than that of legacy – which was rather unavoidable when surrounded by a temple erected to the best and brightest of the United Kingdom over the centuries. That impetus was nigh inescapable as he wondered how he himself would be remembered, decades upon decades from now – would his name be spoken alongside Pitt and Canning, as great heroes of state, or forgotten as a lackluster premier who presided over an equally lackluster government to match?

In his worst moments, he somewhat cynically predicted that it would be even worse than the latter – that his decades of loyal service to his country would instead be overshadowed by his salacious connection to the name Byron – for that, at least, would scarce be forgotten by history, even if everything else about his name was consigned to nothingness. Yet the bittersweet comfort of his reasonable most expectations – that he would be thought of as a steady but unremarkable prime minister – then rested as a stone on his chest. Nothing terrible had happened to the country during his premiership, yes – which he could attest to with a certainty was no small feat in and of itself – but, then, neither had . . .

Pitt’s flint-eyed gaze seemingly stared down at him, judging all that he had not done, and, perhaps even more damningly, all that he had refused to even try. His usual rationale – that both Pitts had been prime ministers during very, very different times – then fell flat to his mind. He’d so long convinced himself that a steady hand was what England needed most after the latter half of the turbulent eighteenth century – recovering from the scourge of Napoleon and rebuilding relationships with France and America and grappling with the advent of industry in an increasingly monarchy-less world – but, now . . .

It was high time for him to pass the title of First Lord to someone who would fight for England’s best interests. He should have stepped aside years ago – and perhaps he would have, had it not been for . . .

Well, William Lamb knew himself as a creature of strange contradictions: he’d been accused of self-interest before, just as he’d been called dangerously self-sacrificing, near to the point of lighting his own immolation in the opposite direction. Both aspects of his personality could be called true, he supposed, if in the sense that it was not boastful of him to say that he could think of no more steadying a hand for the premiership than his own (that was how he’d been pressed to assume and since maintained his office in the first place), and yet he also knew that held on tight to the purpose of something – anything – to apply his days to, if only to forestall the yawning abyss of nothingness that awaited him with his all too quickly approaching retirement. The prospect of resigning himself to an empty house full of ghosts and bitter ruminations held but little appeal – and, in moments of brutal self-honesty, he even feared the time which was inextricably soon to come.

. . . retirement, he’d always thought (he knew), would not last overlong for him before he too faded from the world like a vapor on the breeze – for, what purpose was left to keep him bound to the mortal coil otherwise?

Yet that thought was an entirely disquieting one – even for the likes of him, who was used to keeping company with such maudlin reflections – and so William pushed them aside through the force of long habit. His doing so was made only somewhat easier when they came into the Chapel of Henry VII.

Here, the imposing tombs of the monarchy were each impressive in their own right, but none touched him as deeply as the one shared by the lost boy princes – so much so that he reached a hand out to brush the marble urn and offer up a prayer (whether or not a prayer from him was worth much to God was another matter entirely) that, somewhere, they were safe and at peace together.

(Just as he prayed that his boy – and his daughters too – were happy and thriving and whole in health, just as they’d been denied in life.)

No, William thought, looking away from the soaring knights’ banners far above, the likes of him would never be honored under the eaves of Westminster – nor did he deserve to be.

But she . . .

It went without saying that Victoria would have someday earned a place of reverence amongst her foremost ancestors. She could be entombed besides Elizabeth herself, an equal in glory after the long decades of her reign. The Victorian age was now hers to conquer – and he had no doubt that she would.

That certainty was one that filled him with pride (let history remember him for this alone, if he could choose his legacy: that he had helped one of the greatest queens to ever rule establish a firm foundation in which to do so, even if only in the smallest possible way), as much as an abject sense of grief. There was a gulf between them, he knew – one of several that existed between sovereign and subject, and rightly so. His Gloriana was higher than him in every possible way – just as she should and would always be – while he . . .

. . . why did it trouble him, then, to be reminded of how untouchable – unreachable – she was in her entirety?

That disquieting thought was one that continued to chase him as they returned to the ambulatory chapel – or, at least, it did until they came upon the shrine built to St. Edward.

The tomb of the Confessor was a study in medieval majesty, and William properly observed the grandeur with due reverence as a proud and loyal Englishman, but it did not hold his attention for long in favor of the deceivingly careworn chair that sat upon a raised pedestal – ready to be used upon the morrow once more . . .

The Coronation Chair.

He looked over in time to see Victoria draw in a breath, and hold it – he would always remember the awed expression that fixed upon her face for her sake, even as it energized his own spirit anew. The centuries may have left their mark upon this once glittering construct, leaving it weathered and beaten to the unknowing eye, but nonetheless resplendent for the glories it had since seen. For over six hundred years, this seat had been used to empower each and every one of her forefathers (and select few foremothers) with regnal glory, and, now . . .

Victoria slowly circled the chair, her eyes drinking in every detail. Remnants of the original gold plating and colored glass mosaics were yet still visible, stamped with the figures of birds and trailing tendrils of oak leaves and roses. She looked down to the four lions who held the great wooden frame perched above the Stone of Destiny – which had once been used to crown the kings of Scotland in ancient times – and trailed her gaze up the back of the chair to its pedimented top, with its large finial of gilded leaves and broken pinnacles.

But he then delighted to hear her giggle outright as she read aloud from one of the numerous scratched etchings and bits of graffiti that were decidedly less than regal in nature, let alone in origin: “P. Abbot slept here, the night of 5th July, 1800. What do we know of Mr. Abbot?” she inquired – her joy catching then, much as it ever did. “He has apparently spent more time than any king of England in this chair, which I find most curious.”

William failed to tuck away the entirety of his own smile, even as he said with as straight a face as he could muster: “I do believe that there were once some very naughty children who attended the Westminster School for Royal Scholars, ma’am.”

“Naughty, indeed!” she huffed – no matter that she was far too amused to be truly cross.

“Schoolboys and tourists, unfortunately, have been guilty of more damage done to the chair than mere time. You can see hammer marks there on the Stone itself, left behind from those eager to snare souvenirs.”

Victoria looked, and, sure enough . . .

“What a dreadful preservation of our history,” she sighed. He watched her glaze flit about, glad that St. Edward’s chair was now as well-protected as it could possibly be, even as she clearly wondered for everything it had seen in its time to make it less than such.

But her thoughts could not wholly remain in the past as she considered her own immediate future. In that vein, she remarked: “It’s quite tall.”

Her brow furrowed (in that way that he did not find at all adorable), and he could easily guess her thoughts as she wondered for how she’d climb into the seat while still maintaining an image of regal dignity. So, he assured her, “Tomorrow, steps shall be provided for your use, ma’am.”

Yet her frown remained, and he rightly interpreted that thought too in order to add: “There were for your uncles, as well.”

“Oh,” Victoria let out a breath, relieved but attempting against plainly displaying her relief. “In that case, I am grateful for such a kindly provision.”

“We have endeavored to think every detail through,” he inclined his head in subservient respect – but his words were intended to comfort. “Your Majesty need only focus on the intangibles of the ceremony, rather than its earthly elements.”

With that said, it was time. At Victoria’s permission, the sub-dean led them out from the shrine, and they returned by way of the south transept. There, of all things, was a collection of memorials dedicated to . . .

“Poets?” Victoria asked – drawn up short from where she had first intended to pass straight through to the coronation theater.

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Reverend Hale confirmed. “Chaucer was first awarded the honor of a burial in Westminster. Later, Edmund Spencer petitioned Queen Elizabeth for that same blessing, and she awarded his request. It has since become tradition to memorialize the best and brightest of England’s authors here in this space.”

“How marvelous,” Victoria approved as her eyes flitted around the names carved into the paving stones and, belatedly, she frowned to add: “These are not all grave markers, though; are they not?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Reverend Hale replied. “A great many are purely honorary in nature.”

“We should hope so,” Victoria’s mouth pressed in a thin line and her nose tipped in that same manner that she tended to adopt around the likes of Sir John – and William did not entirely understand her reaction until he saw her quite pointedly (in a gesture that he did appreciate for its solidarity) trod across the marker placed for Lord Byron.

But there is that within me that shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire, the stone’s inscription read – already uncomfortably touching on William’s lingering thoughts of legacy, and he, in his turn, merely gave the stone a wide berth.

From there, however, it was impossible to linger on thoughts of his own posterity when they at last entered the sacrarium.

In the heart of the Abbey, the cross-shaped intersection was purposefully placed in such a way that would make a monarch’s coronation visible on every side except that of the high altar. Above, there were grand mosaics on the ceiling, where the soaring arches intersected to form a truly spectacular dome, even when counted amongst the already intricate architecture of Westminster. Stretched in front of the altar was the Cosmati pavement – a dazzling work of art from the thirteenth century, made of purple and green porhyrys from Rome, colored glass, onyx, and glittering purbek marble. The design worked together to form roundels of stars connected by swirling lines of floral and hard geometric tesseracts. The largest circle of gold-veined pink marble sat in the center of the floor, marking the place where the coronation chair would stand, while, on the sphere just adjacent, marked by a single stone of night-black onyx . . .

“It is the universe caught in a mosaic – can you see it, ma’am?” William gestured to indicate the symbolism represented by the tiles. “Henry III was most canny in his commission – his aim was to fix the monarch in the very center of the cosmos for a good bit of political showmanship.”

“Oh, I see it now,” Victoria’s eyes brightened, her gaze skipping from one sphere to the next in the design. “How very clever.”

“The onyx marks the spot where the sovereign’s feet rest,” he said, his voice turning hushed. “This is where every monarch has received their anointing since Edward II. Unfortunately, tomorrow, it will be covered by a carpet.”

He tried, but could not wholly succeed in hiding the disapproval in his tone. The earl marshal had rather firmly delineated a prime minister’s role as opposed to that of the master of ceremony’s more than once – but William maintained the notion that the Duke of Norfolk was a pompous buffoon with dreadful taste in interior design. This choice, he privately maintained, was a mistake – if not one he could fix.

Victoria, for her part, agreed entirely. “That is indeed unfortunate.”

“Yet, even if it is covered, remember that it is there – just as it has been for every regnant before Your Majesty.”

Her look flashed with a moment’s gratitude, before she drew in a deep breath. She hesitated, but then took a brave step forward in order to stand exactly there – where Mary I and Elizabeth I and Anne I and Mary II had all stood, each to receive their kingdom and crowns – and she exhaled.

As she fixed herself in place, Victoria looked up and around. The specially erected stands of seats were now empty, but, upon the morrow, they would number well into the hundreds. He understood her trepidation then in its entirely.

“For the most part, Your Majesty’s back will be turned on the congregation,” he assured. “It shall be just you and the archbishop, standing before the altar.”

“And you too, of course,” she glanced from the corner of her eye to add.

His heart gave a most curious sort of twinge for her words, even as he respectfully demurred, “Only as required by tradition, ma’am – the Sword of State must always be before or level with the monarch, and I am merely a convenient set of hands to hold it as such.”

“Even so, I shall be glad to have you there, Lord M. Everything seems easier with you by my side; there is no one I would rather have stand with me as I speak my vows.”

It was entirely dangerous, just how easy it would have been to reply and say: just as there is nowhere else I’d rather be. Yet he bridled his tongue, and tapered the edges of his own truth to firmly state: “There has never been a prime minister more honored to serve, ma'am.”

Her eyes were luminous to reflect the candlelight as she held his gaze – so much so that he did not think that his queen in all her finery upon the morrow would ever be enough to match the sanctity of that moment in his mind – and he at last cleared his throat to offer: “Would Your Majesty like to go through the order of service? We may do so as many times as necessary for you to feel comfortable in your role.”



.

.

Victoria had read through the order of service so many times that she felt that she knew the sequence entirely by heart – and yet, there was quite a difference between imagining and knowing.

With an ease that would be absent from the official ceremony, they walked and talked their way through the procession, followed by the presentation of the regalia, and the recognition. She would be announced to the north, the south, the east, and then the west of the congregation, and the archbishop would wait for any objection to her claim to the throne to sound from her lords.

This, Victoria heard with some lingering apprehension – for, if there was ever a monarch that the peerage would only grudgingly accept . . .

“The recognition is a mere formality,” once again, her Lord M assured before she could voice her misgivings aloud. “You are already our queen and shall always remain as such. This part of the ceremony is more symbolic, to receive your subjects’ assent to be governed.”

From there she would hear God save the queen chanted in answer, followed by a fanfare of trumpets. She would then accompany the archbishop to the high altar for the first offering, upon which she would be attended back to the Chair of Estate for the Coronation Oath.

“It's very similar to a marriage vow,” Melbourne continued. “You will swear to uphold law and justice, tempered by mercy and truth. This same oath, for the most part, has been used since the tenth century – even if,” he added, his voice dropping in that lilting way that she knew was intended to replace apprehension with humor, “Henry VIII did try to have it altered in his time. He wasn’t much inclined to have the execution of his own will subverted by anyone, and he did not much like swearing that the Crown was answerable to its people, let alone the church and Parliament.”

“Of course,” Victoria huffed wryly – unable to imagine insisting on such dramatic alterations for herself, even if she thought there was a chance her commands would be adhered to in the first place.

“From there, you shall kneel and swear the Oath upon the Bible,” Melbourne continued to guide, but Victoria met his eyes with a proud grin and answered: “The things which I have here before promised I shall perform and keep, so help me God.”

“Excellent, ma’am,” he approved with deceiving insouciance. “You are quite the natural.”

Afterwards, a physical copy of the Oath would be signed, and then the time would come for her anointing. Her robes of state would be removed, and, for a brief moment, she would be exposed before all those gathered in her shift – for which she was, admittedly, somewhat apprehensive. The garment she was to wear was specially made purposefully opaque and entirely formless – in some ways, it was more modest than when she was corseted and fully clothed – and yet . . .

“There is nothing to be embarrassed by, Your Majesty – this is a holy ceremony, and if anyone present shall allow their thoughts to dwell on more earthly matters, then that shall be between them and God.”

“I already feel like a child playing at the role of queen,” yet Victoria muttered, careful to ensure that her ladies and the sub-dean could not hear. “The last thing I want is for the congregation to look on me and think much the same.”

“Nothing about you is that of a child,” Melbourne firmly stated – and she looked up, taken aback by the force of his voice. His eyes flickered down over her body – reflexively, she thought, due to the subject at hand – before he physically turned his head away, and she felt a curious flush steal across her cheeks in answer.

Right, then.

“Regardless, you shall not be left in a state of undress for long,” he quickly recovered. (Though from what, she wondered?) “The actual anointing is done under a canopy – and shall be entirely between you and the archbishop. When the anointing is concluded, you will be garbed in a golden mantle – which is symbolic, in a way, of your transformed state.”

“Then?” she asked softly.

“Then,” his voice was just as low to match, “you will take possession of your kingdom.”

The investiture to follow would start, oddly enough, with a pair of spurs. Thankfully, she would not be required to wear them the same as kings of old had – in their modern era, they were merely symbolic of the tenets of knighthood: honor, courage, bravery, and the determination to advocate for those in need.

Then, there were the martial aspects of her power to consider.

“The Sword of State encompasses the collective whole of the Sword of Spiritual Justice, the Sword of Temporal Justice, and the Sword of Mercy – the latter of which is always blunted and capped in any ceremonial capacity. At this point, the Sword of State shall be replaced with the Sword of Offering – I will give the Sword of State to the archbishop, who will place it upon the altar, and he will return with a much smaller sword that you must promise not to laugh at once presented.”

“Laugh at?” Victoria did not understand.

“Indeed: laugh at,” William confirmed. “Your Uncle George had one . . . specially made, you see. At the risk of entirely disrespecting the royal presence who proceeded you, His Majesty may have wished to imbue the sword with the grandeur of the Crown, but instead commissioned one of the most foppishly silly, jewel incrusted relics you will ever see. It is . . . well, garish may be putting it lightly, ma'am.”

For that, Victoria tried in vain to scuttle a laugh – and was glad to do so now, rather than tomorrow when given the sword outright.

“You will accept the Sword of Offering as a sign of your ability – and intention – to fight for justice, but only when tempered with mercy. Then, you will walk the sword back to the altar, and give it over to God.”

For the symbolism inherent in that gesture, she entirely approved.

From there, she had two more stoles to be robed in, and then would come the presentation of the crown jewels: the orb, the scepter, and the ring.

And her crown.

The ceremony would then proceed with her benediction and enthronement, and then the homage – which, Melbourne informed her, would be the most tedious part of the entire event to endure, with each and every one of her lords coming forward to bend the knee to their new sovereign and swear their vows of devotion.

“Including you, Lord M?”

“Always,” he replied solemnly – before his expression turned for a characteristically wry bit of humor, “though I shall be somewhere very far at the back of the line as a viscount. You may have fallen asleep entirely by the time I come trudging up to swear my fealty.”

“Nonsense – instead, I shall just have something to look forward to in order to see me through to the end.”

He looked a her in that most particular way again – the way that she felt deep down inside, like a touch on her spirit – before the moment passed and he asked if she’d look to walk through the service over again. They then did so - once, twice, and even a third time through.

By that last recital, she felt that the majority of her uncertainty had passed. While her confidence was bolstered with a decisiveness that could only come through practice, Melbourne continued to bolster her sense of determination by telling her stories of her ancestors’ admittedly . . . less than regal moments as they took possession of their own thrones.

“A profusion of bats interrupted Richard the Lionheart’s coronation,” Melbourne said with a carefully unaffected countenance (even as his eyes smiled in that ever-telling way of his), “and the bells started ringing, entirely unprompted by a human hand – or so it is said. His court regarded this as a bad omen, which Richard, of course, refused to countenance – you may interpret that however you wish when you recall that the good king was later shipwrecked, kidnapped, and ransomed – to say nothing of his brother’s unchecked machinations at home and his ensuing premature death on the battlefield.”

“Yet,” Victoria remarked as she walked down the length of the nave once more, “could it have been an ill omen if he was also a heroic crusader and a valiant warrior?”

For that, Melbourne merely shrugged – and she knew that he would personally prefer to judge a king by how his people fared at home rather than how he chased his own glory abroad. “There is often more than one way to look at history, ma’am,” yet he admitted neutrally. “That will always be true.”

By the time she came to the humble stool that they used to practice in place of the Coronation Chair, Melbourne continued: “Mary I refused to sit in St. Edward’s Chair when it had also anointed her Protestant half-brother as king – instead, she had the White Chair made specially for her use, which sadly did not survive the Commonwealth's time in power. She was one of our very few regnants who wasn’t anointed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, at that – whom she currently had imprisoned in the Tower on charges of treason. Instead, her High Chancellor Stephen Gardiner anointed her – who was also a bishop in his own right.”

When it came time for the anointing, he added: “Charles I wore a mantle of white – which people thought quite unlucky – and there was purported to be an earthquake as soon as the reading of Revelation was through. He dissolved Parliament and attempted to rule against the Constitution so many times throughout his reign that it perhaps wasn’t entirely surprising when he was tried by the Parliamentarians and removed of his head.”

Victoria rather thought that Charles I was a very low standard to surpass as king, but felt entirely capable of trumping that reign with her own, at the very least.

From there, William III and Mary II’s rings were confused during their investiture – they were each empowered with the wrong ring.

Yet her uncles’ coronations, it would seem, were some of the most embarrassing in the history of the Crown – and, indeed, fresh in the minds of many amongst the peerage.

“Your Uncle George spent a truly obscene 238,000 pounds on his coronation – and the solemnity of that holy occasion was interrupted by his estranged wife pounding on the barred doors of the Abbey and demanding entrance to be made queen. When that didn’t work, Princess Caroline tried to enter through the Poet’s Corner, causing the most unseemly ruckus imaginable all the while. If the king did not require a whole twenty-nine lords to carry his train, I daresay that he would have marched back down the nave and removed the princess himself, such was his rage. More than a few of us in the audience feared that His Majesty would suffer a fit of apoplexy before he could even be properly crowned as such.”

Victoria could hardly imagine a scene as he described – and to think that she was merely worried about whether or not her crown would wobble overmuch on her head!

“Your Uncle William was determined to be George IV’s opposite in every way – for the brothers rather unfortunately despised each other, you see. Yet William IV made an art form of frugality to the point where he was called the Half-Crowned King throughout the entirety of his reign. He treated the proceedings with such irreverence that it was remarked upon by all in attendance – even going so far as to wear his naval uniform underneath his royal mantle in a house of God. That was quite the mark against him, to bring a such a symbol of war into an otherwise holy ceremony. Thankfully, your Aunt Adelaide was his saving grace then, much as she ever was – she was everything a queen is and ought to be.”

Victoria thought of her favorite aunt with no small amount of affection, and agreed entirely.

By the time they finished that last run, Victoria’s cheeks ached as Melbourne continued with comments on the peerage’s required costumes and the surplus of coronets and mantles that would be worn upon the morrow – apparently, her personal fear of a dropped crown was one that had been repeated by more than one soul during her Uncles’ botched coronations. There was even a loud exclamation of "hell and damnation!" when the Duke of Rutland fumbled with his coronet and it rolled down the stands, and, there was, it would seem, a rather unfortunate wardrobe debacle concerning Lady St. Albans and Lady Vere, a disputed heirloom ring, and a displaced wig containing no small amount of ostrich feathers.

"I can only predict that there shall be further stories to tell after tomorrow," was Melbourne's easy shrug in conclusion. "The trick is to accept that these moments will come, and acknowledge them when they do with good humor and grace. Elsewise, you'll drive yourself to distraction, worrying over all that is beyond your control – which will inevitably ensure errors that may be otherwise avoided."

There was indeed wisdom in his words, Victoria could admit – little though she may have liked accepting that wisdom for herself. So, she breathed in deep, and attempted to let her apprehensions go with her next exhale.

When she at last denied another round of practice – it was well dark by then, though she had no idea how late it truly was, with time being such a nebulous concept within the Abbey – she instead found that she was rather hungry for the first time that day (for the first time in days, even). Her stomach had been ill-settled and churned like a growing sea storm the closer her coronation loomed, and she well felt the the effects of that lapse then.

She was about to suggest that they return to the palace and partake of a late repast together when Lord Alfred returned through the north doors. (She had not realized that he had even left to begin with.) He wore a most pleased expression of anticipation upon his face, and said to Melbourne – no matter that he began his words with a proper Your Majesty in due deference – "I did as Your Lordship requested."

"Excellent," Melbourne approved. He then turned and rather anticipated her to invite: "By Your Majesty's leave, perhaps we may adjourn outside? Lord Alfred has procured a meal for us, and, as hospitable as Reverend Hale has been, I do believe that he may object to the bringing of pies and mash into the Abbey proper."

Reverend Hale dutifully stated that he would object to no desire of Her Majesty's – but he did appreciate the consideration taken for the holy space, even so.

That decision ultimately led to the entirely novel experience of Victoria sitting on the steps of Westminster Abbey, looking down at the plate she held in her lap (her lap!) with a most curious expression. On the steps further down (loosely adhering to the structures of deference in what a way they could) sat Lady Portman and Lord Alfred, while Colonel Hampson continued his prowling vigil – out of uniform and dressed in plain clothes, walking back and forth across the length of pavement at the foot of the stairs. In her own unadorned gown and grey cloak, no one would ever guess that there sat the Queen of England, partaking in a most peculiar picnic with those dearest to her reign.

That thought alone was enough for lungs to fill with a heady sense of joy – even as she uncertainly prodded the pie on her plate with the prongs of her fork. The flakey crust was nonetheless clearly covered in grease, and swam in a vivid green gravy that didn't look the slightest bit appetizing, no matter that it smelled wonderfully inviting.

This was not, she couldn't help but think, something that would ever be served at the table of Buckingham Palace.

Yet she looked to where Lord Alfred was tucking into his meal with gusto – he'd already nearly cleared his own serving – and even Emma was eating, albeit with more constrained manners, with all apparent satisfaction. Melbourne – who sat just lower than her, but higher than Emma and Alfred – watched her all the while, the corner of his mouth turning upwards.

"I promise you, ma'am," he assured her, "the eels are really quite good."

For that, she looked up, startled.

"Eels?" she repeated – her voice unflatteringly sounding as half a squeak in her surprise.

"Eels," Melbourne confirmed. "Did you not know? The Thames is full of the creatures – they swim in from the sea in droves, and survive on the salt water in the estuary. They are considered a delicacy by many of your people. Indeed, I would even go so far as to say that you cannot truly be considered Queen of England without trying them at least once for yourself."

All too easily, that sick roiling in her stomach returned in full. She eyed the pie on her plate with a dubious expression, regarding it suspiciously. The eels looked like minced beef, she thought as she worked her fork into the crust. Perhaps they would taste like minced beef, too?

Melbourne didn't say anything more – he instead gave every appearance of paying her but half a mind as he continued to clear his own plate – and, finally, Victoria screwed her courage to the sticking place.

She was Queen of the British Isles, was she not? If so, she was determined to be that queen in whole, and experience everything her sea-bound home had to offer in its entirety.

Holding her breath, she took a generous bite, and was surprised that, rather than that taste of salt and ocean that all seafood seemingly held in some form or another, she instead tasted . . .

Oh, but that was rather delicious!

"It tastes just like minced beef," Victoria happily decreed, and loaded up her fork again. "I wouldn't be able to tell that they are eels at all."

Melbourne, she thought, was smiling in a most self-satisfied manner – as if he was waiting for something – and it wasn't until Emma turned back and said, "Eels, ma'am?" with her brows furrowed that Victoria suspected any sort of mischief.

"Oh, William," Emma then huffed to swat at Melbourne's knee with easy familiarity (which Victoria did not take note of with any sort of frown), "do not tease Her Majesty so!"

"It is minced beef . . . isn't it?" Victoria quickly understood. She exhaled a cross breath – but couldn't truly maintain any semblance of annoyance for the way that Melbourne let out an entirely over-pleased sort of laugh.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he inclined his head, but failed to sound truly repentant in the slightest. "I was too weak to resist the temptation – and, for truth, your expression for that bit of subterfuge is a memory I shall not soon forget."

"You are rather intrepidly brave, Viscount Melbourne," Victoria held up her head as imperiously as she could manage when sitting on the ground and eating a pie in her lap. "Yet you seem to forget that I am your queen – and a queen who has a most convenient Tower dungeon at my disposal."

"Indeed, ma'am – entirely intrepid, I must confess. Yet, as I remain hard-pressed to show true remorse for my crime, you must do whatever you think is necessary."

It was so rare that she saw her prime minister smile in such an open and unguarded manner – and, especially after the low spirits and aggravations of the last few days, she too could dub no crime.

Yet she was prevented from responding with any further riposte when Lord Alfred looked up from his plate – by which he had been most thoroughly distracted until that moment – and said quite hopefully: "There are eels left?"

In answer, Victoria found herself sputtering with laughter.

"There are eels here, though?" Victoria eventually recovered to ask with all determination – and when Melbourne indicated a dish of jellied grey morsels, she did not hesitate.

She tasted vinegar and lemon and pepper – and salt, first and foremost. But the eel itself was mild, and even slightly sweet, and the texture was not as displeasing as it may have first appeared. She then surprised herself by taking a second bite, and looked up to meet Melbourne's clearly surprised expression with no small amount of vindication.

"There," she declared after a swallow of the wine that had also been procured for their meal, "I am now properly Queen of all England."

"Indeed you are, ma'am," Melbourne agreed, his expression soft, and, with that, she returned to her pie with all satisfaction.

They ate until they were full in one of the most companiable meals that Victoria could remember sharing in quite some time (ever, even), and then stood to make their way back to the palace.

There, in the courtyard of Buckingham, Victoria lingered – hesitant to return inside and break the easy tranquility of the night. Instead, she breathed in deep of the midsummer's air, and felt the rapid pace of her heartbeat ease, even if it did not slow for true tranquility – she felt far too much anticipation for that.

It was towards that end that her Lord M said, as he waited for his horse to be brought around: "Your Majesty must know that tomorrow is only pageantry? You are already our queen – you have been since the moment your uncle passed – and you shall always be."

"I am ever attempting to remind myself," she confessed with a sigh. "It is only . . . I so dearly wish to be a good queen. It feels that, if I falter here, then I shall in my reign, as well."

"Should you falter tomorrow – which I hardly expect you will," yet he did not agree, "that will not change the fact that you will ultimately be – and are even now – a good queen."

"How I wish that I could share your ease of belief, Lord M."

"My belief is hardly quixotic, but based in fact from what I have seen of your reign thus far," he said easily, before his tone strengthen to add, "and, until the time that you see that truth for yourself, I shall happily believe enough for the both of us."

She felt something deep inside of her soar, and she smiled in the golden spill of lamplight that illuminated the courtyard. "Thank you," Victoria said softly as his horse was led out from the mews. "That means . . . that means more to me than I can properly express."

In the presence of the grooms, they could hardly say more than that – and the hour was late, with such an early start to the day awaiting for the morrow. Following a last bow and at her leave, Melbourne swung himself up onto Pelles' back.

"Until tomorrow, Your Majesty," he tipped his hat to her.

“I will be the one with the crown," she couldn't help but jape, and was rewarded with an answering smile in return.

"I will be the one with the sword."

Victoria was still smiling as he reigned Pelles and rode away. With a deep sigh of contentment she looked up, taking in the sight of the full moon and the stars that she could see in the haze of the London sky.

Tomorrow, it would dawn on her reign, she knew with no small amount of anticipation.

. . . and she was ready.



TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

I tried to keep everything relatively self-explanatory in the text itself - so, hopefully, this will mainly be supplemental information instead of repeat information - but, in the interest of sharing a few fun facts . . .

A Note on Burials at Westminster: There's a reason that Westminster Abbey is called the United Kingdom's National Valhalla: over 3,300 British citizens are interred or memorialized within the abbey, including royalty; clergymen; statesmen; soldiers; scientists; authors; artists; and, even as of late, actors.

I found the tomb for Sir Isaac Newton particularly interesting, which I described in the text, but here's a visual to go with it, because words can't do it justice!



Amongst the numerous kings and queens, I found the shared urn of Edward V and his brother Richard (the boy princes Richard III is said to have murdered to solidify his own claim to the throne) particularly poignant. From there, I was further touched to learn that Mary I and Elizabeth I are interred side by side, with twin lions lying awake at their feet. This plaque really says it all:



Here's Mary's effigy:



And Elizabeth's:



Also! Words are not enough to do the pendant vault ceiling in Henry VII's chapel justice. Check out this work of art! Below are the standards belonging to Knights of the Order of Bath.



A Special Note on Catherine of Valois' Tomb: I was originally very excited to see Catherine's name listed amongst the list of monarchy honored at Westminster! (As a refresher, she was the widowed queen of Henry V, who subsequently married the commoner Owen Tudor, and together they birthed the Tudor dynasty.) However, she was grossly dishonored by her family in death. Although she was originally buried in the old Lady Chapel in Westminster, underneath an alabaster monument as befit a queen, Henry VII had her remains removed when he rebuilt the chapel - undoubtedly to distance himself from his "shameful heritage" and the continued whispers concerning the legitimacy of his reign. With the memorial destroyed, her coffin opened, and, rather than fixing the lid, it remained as such for centuries - with her naked face becoming a tourist attraction (some visitors even boasted of having "kissed a queen"), I kid you not.

Much as she did at the Tower of London, Victoria was the monarch to finally ensure that this queen of old was also properly reinterred in Westminster with a fitting memorial once more. That Catherine languished as such for over two hundred years is just sickening in my opinion - but I absolutely adore Victoria for setting this wrong to rights again. I would love to explore that decree in this collection, but I fear becoming too redundant after Queens of England. So: needless to say, in this 'verse, I like to imagine Victoria going a step even further and having Queen Catherine and Owen Tudor reinterred side by side together. (In history, Owen was imprisoned after Catherine's death for their "illegal" marriage, and only released when her son Henry VI came into his majority and pardoned his step-father and legitimized his half-siblings, declaring them his true brothers with all the benefits of royal privilege. Even so, three years following his release, Owen was executed by the Yorkists in the early days of the War of the Roses.)

A Note on Poet's Corner: Technically, the tiles as we know them now were set in the 1960s. I'm not sure what form the memorials existed in during Victoria's time - I only know that they did exist. However, it brought me particular joy to imagine her walking over Lord Byron's predictably . . . well, Byron-esque plaque, and so, there that plot-point has remained.

If you're curious, check out this video from the Abbey's YouTube channel for more!



A Note on the Cosmati Pavement: I can't describe how awesome of a work of art this pavement is any better than this video, too. It's only three minutes long, and gives some gorgeous views of the Coronation Theater, if you'd like to give it a watch for the sake of further setting the scene.



A Note on the Sword of Offering: Because George IV was indeed that monarch - he was just as much of a conceited, wasteful glutton in RL as I depicted him in this story - look at the Sword of Offering that he had specially remade for his coronation.



The Sword of Offering is a modest sized sword, at least - even for being encrusted with almost three thousand diamonds. That said, check out the monster that is the Sword of State:



Checking in at 3.6 kg (7.9 lbs) and 1.2 m (3.9 ft) - Melbourne did indeed carry this sword (or the Sword of Offering, depending on where at in the ceremony) throughout the entirety of Victoria's coronation. If you want to be really angsty, it was his role to carry it at her wedding to Albert, too - which may have presented a temptation all its own.

Recently, Charles III's coronation was the first time in history that a woman carried the Sword for a coronation. Penny Mordaunt said that she was sure to "do a few press-ups" leading up to the event and "preemptively took Tylenol" to make sure she was prepared for the hours long ceremony.

Look at this girl go:



A Note on Pies in London: Technically, pie and mash (and jellied Thames eel) became a thing a few decades into Victoria's reign - and I don't know how hard it would have been for Alfred to go all the way to the East End and back for their take out, so to speak - but it's such a quintessentially regional dish that I just couldn't resist! So, here we are.

~ MJ

 

Thank you so much! That's just the balance I was aiming for.

A snide, misogynistic Eeyore, to be sure.

If anyone was ever pushed to a point to be such a drama queen, it was Caroline of Brunswick. Can you even imagine being married to the sorry excuse of a human being that was George IV, even before that hypocritical charade that he put her through in the courts? There was a very good reason they were estranged, for a certainty.

That said, imagining such a high level of drama unfolding during an occasion as solemn as a coronation admittedly makes me giggle. George IV was really just reaping what he had sewn.

(Caroline fell ill in London and passed away just three weeks following the coronation - her story has always been a tragic one to me. )

Thank you! It was absolutely fascinating, researching this aspect of the story and finding the reasons behind the pageantry. I too enjoyed the symbolism of the swords - they are very fitting, I completely agree.

As always, I thank you so much for reading, and for taking the time to let me know what you've enjoyed!


Alrighty, then! I will have the next part up in just a few minutes.

 

Author's Notes: Hello, dear readers! Here I am with the next chapter. (And yes, for those keeping track, this story will now officially be eight parts total. ) Buckle in for the ride, folks, because it's going to be a bumpy one . . .


(And, as always, to disclaim: all recognizable lines of dialogue in both the fireworks scene and the audience with Sir James belong to Goodwin, even if I do play somewhat fast and loose with her depiction of these events as a whole. )

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300+(+) Basketball)​

VII.II.VI.

Arise

Victoria was awakened upon the fourth hour – if she could truly call it an awakening, having never fully slept to begin with – by the sound of cannon fire.

The salute reverberated like thunder, rippling through her bones and echoing in the chamber of her heart. A lightning bolt seemingly struck deep within herself to match, turning her electric with storm-light. Yet that was nothing as compared to the susurrous din of the crowds, already gathering at the palace gates – a distant murmur, growing into a humming cadence as the sun rose and their numbers only continued to increase. They were as rain, Victoria couldn't quite believe – impossible to count and yet so very present as they drenched the air in a deluge of jubilance and anticipation.

It was overwhelming, their support, and, as the near cloudless sky alighted to dawn, Victoria could only stand by her window in silence, and drink her people in.

From there, time passed quickly. There was much to be done in preparation, and a veritable battalion of maids (overseen, as always, by an eagle-eyed Lehzen) saw that she was bathed and styled and dressed for what was and would be, in many ways, the most important day of her life. Looking at the glass to absorb the fruits of their labors – with scarlet velvet and snowy ermine flowing over her gown of cloth-of-gold and finely spun anointing mantle, and the gleaming state diadem perched over the coiled braids of her hair – she looked, at least, (and mayhap began to feel in her turn) every inch a queen.

Even Lehzen’s eyes were misty when she was declared ready to depart – no matter that her former governess blinked back the tell-tale gleam almost too quickly for notice – and Victoria filled on the warmth of her approval as much as she did the whole of her ladies combined.

Her mother, most curiously, did not come to darken her preparations with any supposed nurturance – which Victoria counted as a blessing, no matter how unexpected a reprieve. The duchess was undoubtedly seething over the rescission of Sir John’s invitation – and Lady Flora’s too – and wished to declare her disapprobation through silence.

Perhaps, Victoria even went so far as to conjecture with a mean burst of satisfaction, Sir James had already finished his examination of Lady Flora, and discovered her pregnancy for the betrayal it was. That thought cheered her for the moment she allowed herself to entertain the idea, before she permitted her mother and her attendants no further place in her mind.

(For she did not feel any sort of pang for her mother’s absence – why would she, when she hardly desired her presence to begin with?)

Yet neither was the Duchess of Kent anywhere to be found in the palace halls as they made their leave from Buckingham – nor was she waiting in the courtyard, where the State Coach waited to convey her to Westminster Abbey. Victoria was truly surprised to find her missing there, as she’d half expected her mother to insist on her supposed rights as her mother in a desire to accompany her within the gilded carriage, rather than without.

(Never mind that she had asked her Lord M to ride with her – as she hardly wished to sit through the hour long parade alone – only for him to demure and claim that it would be against precedent for him to do so. The privilege of attending the royal presence within the State Coach was reserved for the likes of a consort, not a prime minister.)

Yet Victoria did not have long to dwell on her mother’s absence (or so she told herself) when the glittering equipage began to roll, and her mind was instantly transported elsewhere.

For how could she belong to anyone other than her people then? The streets of London seemed to undulate as a living being for her passing, with excited faces cheering to greet her no matter where she looked. The droves hardly seemed contained by her ever diligent guards, pressing against the rope lines and crying “God save the queen!” from the windows and balconies above.

She’d never seen such a crowd before – could hardly even fathom such a mass of men, women, and children after her quiet years spent cloistered within Kensington's walls – and now, here was such a multitude, all calling out her name and rejoicing because of her.

(And it was more than merely Sir John’s voice in her head, whispering of assassins and the wicked men who’d stop at nothing to ensure that a king ever sat upon the throne of England, no matter the cost, when she happened to notice a particular shadow or a glint of sunlight off of what could be metal – but she ignored the supposed knight’s voice and her own admitted fears by fully attending this ancient tradition of her forefathers. Rather than her doubts, she focused instead on where her people – her people – held patriotically striped banners and threw flowers in the path of her carriage and applauded in exultant fanfare and jubilation.)

In answer to the myriad souls, Victoria smiled until her cheeks ached and her arm felt heavy at the shoulder from continuously waving – feeding on their support as if it was bread and water and the finest of wines, instead. Yet, even as she partook in that communion with her subjects, there was an ever-present part of her mind that remained overwhelmed by the outpouring of their support for the sense of responsibility that it inspired. It was a heavy yoke to assume – a mantle as tangible as the one that would more literally be laid across her shoulders in mere hours’ time – and she then felt its weight most acutely. (She was just her own small self, after all – how would she ever prove equal to their expectations?) Yet another part of her felt poised to fly upon the rallying current of their trust, for all that it was firmly rooted in hope as much as expectation, and never come down again.

(She perhaps clung to that feeling even more so when the State Coach – for, no matter how magnificent to look upon, it was only magnificent to to the eye – proved itself true to its reputation as the bone crusher. Yet she was so distanced from her body that she hardly noticed the physical, no matter how jarring – although, granted, she undoubtedly would upon the morrow. She wished that her Lord M was there with her to trade wry glances every time the beastly carriage hit a crooked paving stone or rocked over a divot in the street, and jerked most dreadfully as a result.)

This time, when the Abbey sought to draw her in, Victoria answered – with her heartbeat pounding in time to the strains of Zadok the Priest as the cords seemingly became the thundering pulse of her life’s blood over the more natural constructs of the mere fleshly organ. She felt at once beyond her corporeal self and yet so very present as she walked down the long aisle of the nave to the altar, and offered herself up to her fate.

Her voice did not shake when she swore the Coronation Oath, but sounded loud and clear. She was not helpless little Alexandrina in that moment, but Victoria Regina – a Queen of England in mind, body, and spirit, who stood proud in the light of her ancestors to claim custodianship of her kingdom.

(Even if she did sneak a glance over to where Lord Melbourne stood – never more than a pace away to ensure that the Sword of State moved as one with the monarch, as was symbolic of the marriage between Parliament and Crown – and for the discreet, encouraging smile he returned, she raised her head even higher still.)

Yet even awareness of her Lord M faded when it came time for her anointing. It was just she herself then - a breathing vessel for the Crown, made humble only before God – and she returned to the plane of the physical only when the Archbishop of Canterbury placed the coronation ring on her wrong finger during her investiture. She caught the moment of consternation that flashed across Howley’s face when the far too small band refused to slide easily across her knuckle – but, rather than admitting his error by withdrawing and properly repeating the gesture, he carelessly forced the ring in place.

It hurt, she drew in a breath to absorb the unexpected sensation – although, thankfully, she refrained from snatching her hand away and exclaiming aloud in discomfort. Victoria simply bore it, and focused instead on the bond it represented as the red cross of rubies glittered from its sapphire bed in the light that streamed down from the stained-glass windows above.

(Even so, she couldn't help but notice how Melbourne fixed the archbishop with a most disproving expression, his hands flexing over the hilt of the sword – but Howley rather pointedly ignored them both as he droned on with the ceremony in his far too somnolent voice.)

(Reverend Hale, she also observed – it had been necessary for the Sub-dean of Westminster to step in to fulfill the duties of the Dean of Westminster, with that gentleman unfortunately being too ill to attend; which she could hardly regret overlong, delighted as she’d been to find a familiar face amongst the episcopacy – looked just as momentarily vexed with the high prince of the church to match, and she found her own equilibrium restored so as to keep a cool adherence to the ceremony for those who were so clearly roused on her behalf.)

Ultimately – and what a moment her crowning was – the crown of St. Edward did not fall when placed atop her head, but it was a very near run thing. She concentrated, instead, on the climax of the acclimation, with her lords and ladies donning their own caps and coronets and chanting together, “God save the queen!”

Trumpets sounded, and, even from within the Abbey, she could hear the echoing outcry of the crowds without as the cannons fired so that all of London knew the exact moment when she was endowed with her full regnal might as their monarch.

Victoria strained her head, her hands flexing against the scepter and globe, and forced herself to sit rigidly straight and still as the choir sang. She had no desire for the crown to slip down into her eyes, let alone fall and clatter on the ground outright. There was more than one moment when she wished to reach up and physically adjust the awkward weight, but she retained her dignity, and resisted the temptation.

“Stand firm and hold fast, from now on, the seat and state of royal and imperial dignity, which is this day delivered unto you, in the name and by the authority of Almighty God, who establishes your throne in righteousness. May it stand fast forevermore. Amen.”

“Amen,” Victoria too whispered, and “amen,” the congregation concurred as one.

With the exhortation thus concluded, she was happy to hand the scepter and orb over once more – and even happier when Reverend Hale played his part to lift her crown for a blessed moment to relieve her neck, holding it poised above her head while her throne was brought out and readied. (A provision, Lord M had assured, that had also been done for the kings before her.)

Once she was enthroned in all due ceremony, the long process of homage began – where her lords individually came forward to swear allegiance to the Crown. That procession was saved from complete monotony and made perhaps somewhat too exciting when Lord Rolle – a large and admittedly ungraceful man, she suspected, even in his youth, let alone as far into his twilit years as he now was – missed his footing upon the steps of the dais and suffered a terribly unfortunate fall. Thankfully, the elderly lord didn’t seem to suffer any lasting injury – to the contrary, he determinedly waved off those kind lords who'd rushed forward to assist him, and then made to attempt his ascent a second time.

For Victoria, however, it was instinctive for her to rise from her throne and meet the peer halfway. Holding her crown steady with her left hand, she came to the edge of the dais and leaned down, her right hand held out and ready to receive his vow of fealty. The steps naturally put her higher than him, and she waved when he yet attempted to kneel on the dais, fearing another tumble.

“This is a celebration, Lord Rolle,” Victoria gave both her pardon and her blessing – attempting to afford him his dignity, even while being mindful of his health. “We would not see one of our loyal vassals pained to express that loyalty when we know they feel it thus inside.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Rolle answered by bowing his head in deep reverence – thankfully, he was not so proud as to refuse her grace outright, which she had first feared – and took her proffered hand. “God bless you and your reign,” he said, unscripted as he, himself, before he recited his more formal oath of allegiance, and she returned to her throne.

Their exchange hardly went without notice – nor comment. A low murmur thrummed through the crowd as she resumed her place, and if there were those who held that she'd sacrificed the dignity of her crown – her Uncle Cumberland certainly curled his lip in a sneer, while her mother refused to meet her eyes outright (just as she had the entire ceremony through) – she thought that the majority of her lords regarded her favorably, little as she’d acted with an aim to garner such favor in the first place. It had simply been Christian kindness that moved her – but, that, perhaps, when done concurrently with her newly installed might in royal majesty, was much of where the novelty came.

(For her Lord M’s approving smile, she found herself grinning broadly in return – all before she remembered herself, and schooled her features into more appropriate mask of distant tranquility once more.)

The long line of homage continued, and it indeed proved to be the most time-consuming part of the ceremony, just as Melbourne had warned her it would be. An interminable procession of dukes, marquesses, earls, and counts passed in a conglomeration of deep red velvet and gleaming coronets and somber voices. (The Duke of Wellington winked at her outright once his vow was through, while she stared down the Marquess of Chandos with her most imperious expression – let him think her in danger of swooning now – and the Earl of Egremont, she thought, fixed her with a truly warm smile before he quit the dais.) By the time the viscounts came, her neck ached most painfully from keeping her crown steady, and she could feel the distant threat of fatigue set in from the long hours that had passed – no matter how invigorated she felt with the greater ceremony as a whole.

Yet Victoria found her flagging energy bolstered when Lord Melbourne took his turn to pay homage – with Lord Landsdowne, for the moment, assuming his duties with the Sword of State. He knelt, allowing her to clasp his hands between her own, and said in a solemn voice: "I, William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, do become your liege man of life and limb, and of earthly worship; and faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and die, against all manner of folks. This I swear, so help me God."

She felt his vow seep into her bones and reverberate with a promise – a promise that was emphasized all the more so when he kissed her ring, and then reverently touched her crown as he stood.

(That particular gesture, she noticed with no small amount of satisfaction – made so poignant by the likes of her Lord M – was performed by her Uncle Cumberland only most grudgingly, with a thundercloud seemingly shadowing his entire red-faced countenance before he turned to give way to the next lord with a scowl. Her Uncle Sussex and Uncle Cambridge, at least, paid their respects with far more sincerity as the last remaining of the royal dukes – and her Uncle Sussex even went so far as to whisper how proud Edward would be of his daughter in her ear before he straightened from his obeisance, and Victoria had to blink against the unexpected onset of tears as they threatened. For her father had remained close to her that entire day through, if only in spirit.)

Then, it was over – she returned the regalia, and breathed a sigh of relief when the crown of St. Edward was exchanged for the far gentler weight of the Imperial State Crown, and the heavy robes royal exchanged for her cape of white ermine and imperial purple velvet. She was then attended from the Abbey by a flourish of trumpets, and when the doors to Westminster opened, they opened to the overwhelming clamor of her people, welcoming her as their queen.

Victoria lifted her head proudly to receive their obeisance, and the great crown poised on her brow glittered to catch the sun.



.

.

There was to be no coronation banquet that eve – the Penny Crowning, Melbourne had already heard a few snide Tories whisper, little as he could regret the decision as a bad one. Better was it that the thousands of pounds that would have previously been poured into that medieval tradition reverted into aspects of the coronation – such as the parade and the London fair – that could instead be shared by Her Majesty’s subjects. Especially after the steep expense of a coronation ball the eve before, the decision seemed as balanced as it was sensible.

He’d rather Victoria – or, better yet, he himself on her behalf – be mocked as overly prudent with the royal purse, rather than carelessly extravagant. God, but imagining the satirists in the papers upon the morrow if Her Majesty was viewed in any way wasteful or glutinous when she had subjects who went to bed with wanting bellies was almost too much to bear.

Instead of a banquet’s entertainments, there was to be a fireworks display over Hyde Park – again, a spectacle that her people could partake in for themselves – and the queen would dine simply (as simply as a queen could dine, at any rate) with her innermost court and family.

As such, William made his way to Buckingham after detouring only briefly back to Dover Street – happy to finally shuck the ceremonial garb required at the Abbey, and thankful to never again have to wear velvet and ermine only days short of July – in favor of the more comfortable formality that was a white waistcoat and cravat with black tails. The journey from Mayfair – usually less than ten minutes on horseback – threatened to take thrice as long with the crowds that yet filled the streets, especially closer to the palace gates, but William could hardly begrudge the masses for their joy. This was a day for England, after all – and it was only right that all of England celebrate as such.

Towards that end, he tapped the roof of the carriage and informed Morris that he would walk the rest of the route. That mode of conveyance certainly promised to be more expedient, and he welcomed the opportunity to experience the exuberance of the people for himself as he quit the thoroughfare of Piccadilly in favor of cutting across the Green. The park was almost as splendidly bedecked in celebration as Hyde to the west – and he had a moment’s unguarded thought, imagining how Victoria would enjoy being here, rather than ensconced within the palace walls. Her delight would be endless, her curiosity boundless. He even entertained the far-fetched idea of her dressing incognito again in order to experience the spectacle for herself – as if she were some medieval princess from a romantic’s novel, escaping her castle in a servant's disguise to indulge in life and its living beyond the strictures of the court.

. . . yet he had only to consider just how many supposedly proud Englishmen were decidedly less than proud to have a queen to reign over them as Her Majesty for that thought to sober. With the cloaking shroud of night, and the wine flowing freely the whole day through in celebration, from the highest born to the least . . .

William felt a chill go through him, and could not quickly recover his warmth again.

By the time he was admitted to the queen’s presence, it was evening, although the sun had yet to set in accordance with the extended hours of midsummer. The remaining daylight was low and richly golden as a result, casting long, warm shadows across the floor – shadows which rippled and winked as -

“Dash!”

He looked up to hear Victoria, even before he could properly see her, startled when her spaniel came bounding down the corridor – still quite wet, and trailing suds in his wake. Droplets flew from his black and white coat, flashing like gems in the half-light, and when the dog wagged his tail in delight to greet him, it was instinct as much as habit to kneel and catch him before he could make any further progress towards freedom.

“Oh, Dash, you naughty boy!” sure enough, Victoria sighed when she rounded the corner – and William was momentarily bemused to see his queen with the ornate coil of her braids unpinned and dressed once more in an unadorned cotton day gown. That gown, it was impossible not to notice, was quite soaked through in many places, and she carried an equally sodden towel – which rather explained the state that her spaniel was in to match.

“I assume that His Highness made to escape his bath?” William smiled for the sight, even as he shook his head – for only Victoria would follow her coronation as Queen of England to care for her dog in such a menial fashion.

“Indeed he did,” Victoria huffed in consternation. With Dash thus secured in place, she knelt down next to him in order to continue toweling the dog’s fur dry. “Apparently, Dash took my absence as an excuse to hunt for squirrels in the garden. One led him on quite the merry chase through the petunias, it would seem, and now he bears the consequences.”

“He is a true lion amongst dogs, ma’am,” William checked his smile in order to state with the utmost gravitas.

“Dash may think he is,” Victoria retorted with a laugh for the comparison, the sound tinkling and bright, “yet he was ultimately unsuccessful in his pursuit, no matter his best efforts.”

“As happens to us all at times.” William found her high spirits – and the lingering, heady triumph of the day’s events – as catching then as they ever were. “I perhaps empathize with his defeat even more so than I would any more noteworthy a triumph – the poor fellow.” He reached to scratch behind the dog’s still clammy ears, and was rewarded with a canine smile as Dash’s tongue lolled in happy satisfaction.

“Now that I think of it, he was the only thing missing from today,” Victoria mused as she drew the towel away – and Dash shook himself in a rather pointed manner to settle his fur back into place. “We could have found some part for him in the ceremony.”

“I find that I quite agree with Your Majesty – such a gross oversight was utterly remiss on our part.”

“He will need to have a crown fashioned for him, of course, for any future such pageantry.”

“The royal familiar deserves nothing less; I shall make a point of addressing the matter with the earl marshal with all expedience, ma’am.”

A little bath water dampening his evening dress was nothing for how she smiled at him, and William found himself entirely incapable of looking away. It was casually intimate, that moment – for all that it was hardly untoward, which was perhaps where the even greater danger laid – and for the ease of comfort and the familiarity it so naturally assumed at it beating core . . .

Right, then.

William cleared his throat as he stood, stepping back a full stride in order to return a more respectable distance between them. He clasped his hands behind his back, and let his head and shoulders bow forward in a deference that was as habitual as it was sincere.

“If you'd permit my doing so, I would like to commend Your Majesty on your performance today,” he resumed a more appropriate vein as First Lord to the Crown, and expressed the sentiments that he had initially intended to convey with their audience. “You were most regal.”

“Would you believe there were times that I even felt regal?” Victoria was clearly pleased for the compliment. Her cheeks dimpled, and she brightened with joy as if she were a sunflower on a cloudless day. “I did, even when my crown wobbled on my head and the archbishop had to force the ring on my finger.”

“You were dignified in your reaction, ma’am,” William approved, no matter how his jaw ticked to recall Howley’s ineptitude. “Others, it would seem, were not quite as diligent in the execution of their own duty.”

“Lehzen had to ice my hand for a near quarter hour to remove the dreadful thing, it jammed so,” Victoria’s nose crinkled to admit. “I almost feared that I would be forced to wear it forevermore, so little would it budge.”

“As I see no ring now, we may celebrate the baroness’ ultimate success.”

“And dear Lord Rolle!” Victoria continued to relive the day’s events as they turned back down the hall, Dash happily trotting alongside them. The west-facing corridor was awash in a spill of molten amber, with the dying sunlight bright enough to outmatch even the ornate frames of the great portraits that looked down on them as they passed. “He quite rolled, did he not? I was shamefully amused for a fraction of a second for the irony before I worried for his health. It was noticeably hot in the Abbey, and the poor man was sweating most profusely – he did not look well at all.”

“Yet his fall had a fortunate recovery, in great part thanks to Your Majesty,” William recalled the moment with no small amount of pride and affection – an entirely patriotic pride and affection, he told himself, and thus, completely acceptable for him to feel. “You have already begun to win hearts as well as minds – which is one of those intangible aspects of ruling that cannot be manufactured, and is thus quite elusive for many. I daresay that your uncles struggled to achieve the same for themselves throughout the greater part of their own reigns.”

She looked down for but a moment before she recalled herself, her cheeks pinking winsomely. “I hardly acted with any thought towards the perception of others. It simply seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

William was quick to agree: “You acted with all sincerity, ma’am, and it is that sincerity which resonates. There is no guile in Your Majesty, and that is most . . . refreshing change for your subjects.”

It was safe, such compliments, he told himself – true in their entirety, yes, but made even truer still when he could count himself amongst the greater number of those subjects.

Even so, she observed him closely for his words – her eyes fixing on his own in that transparent, artless way of hers that he wished he didn’t respond to so strongly. Her mouth opened, and he found himself holding his breath for whatever she would say next, when -

“Begging Your Majesty’s pardon,” a voice interrupted from just down the hall – the steward, William recognized, winking from between the ever constant ranks of footmen and guards to announce: “Sir James is here, and has requested an audience.”

William’s brow furrowed for the pronouncement. His first thought was that the court physician must have been called for Victoria’s hand, and concern pulsed through him – that was, until his queen’s gaze fell away and she did not quickly meet his eyes again. Puzzled for the almost furtive shift in her demeanor, he did not immediately understand – that was, until he recalled, with a cold whisper of foreboding, that he had not seen Lady Flora in attendance at the coronation.

. . . neither had he seen Sir John.

Sure enough, Victoria tilted up her chin, and stared stalwartly ahead.

“You may show him in,” she gave her permission, and there was an awkward moment of silence between them as the physician was admitted.

Sir James made his obeisance, and said, “Forgive me for disturbing you on such an auspicious day, Your Majesty, but it seemed best to come in person.” The man shuffled on his feet, casting his gaze anywhere and everywhere but directly at the queen, and William felt his unease grow. “I thought that you would want to know the results of my . . . erm, my visit to Lady Flora straight away.”

That whisper turned edged with warning as he understood exactly what Victoria had done.

Inextricably, he felt his heart sink.

“Yes, please,” Victoria granted her leave. “What did you find?”

Sir James did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at the thick, patterned weave of the carpet, and William rather irrationally wished that he would not speak for what he feared he had to say.

Sure enough: “As commanded by Your Majesty, upon examination, I found Lady Flora to be . . .” but the doctor cleared his throat, and his face flushed scarlet to match the red backdrop of the rug in a way that had naught to do with the summer’s heat, all before he awkwardly concluded, “virgo intacta.”

Victoria did not recognize the Latin, even as understanding slammed into him with all the force of a winter gale. Instead, she sighed out through her nose in that cross way of hers when confronted by something she did not understand, but did not wish to admit aloud to a failing in her comprehension. “Speak plainly, sir,” she fell just short of demanding. “Is she or is she not with child?”

Yet, rather than responding when saying as much the first time had clearly been so laborious, Sir James looked his way – entreating his guidance, if not his outright relief, much to William’s own annoyance. Honestly, but there was no need for prudery in such a matter – especially when their queen was a woman grown, and one who'd already suffered the ill effects of enough sheltering in her life as it was.

So, he relieved the flummoxed physician by saying: “The one generally precludes the other, ma’am.”

It still took Victoria a moment to process; he thought that he would have to expound more plainly, before: oh, he read her understanding as her mouth fell open to gape, and: “Oh,” her eyes widened to say aloud, and then it was her turn to flush as mortification set in. “I see.”

From there, the doctor was clearly desirous of imparting the rest of his diagnosis with haste – thus ending the discomfort of their audience, if not the greater affair in its entirety. “I believe that the . . . the swelling – which indeed could easily be mistaken for a pregnancy – is rather, in fact, the result of an advanced cancerous condition. Cancer of the ovaries has been known to cause such deformations in the female body . . . especially once the malady reaches a state of metastasis from the site of the original tumor.”

William closed his eyes for the prognosis, feeling as his early whisper of foreboding turned to a most insistent roar.

“A tumor?” Victoria repeated, her voice small. “Are you saying that Lady Flora . . . that she is . . . ” yet, no matter how her mouth worked, she could not voice her fears aloud.

“Yes, ma'am.” Sir James’ face, in its own way, creased in an expression of sympathy. “I regret to inform Your Majesty that Lady Flora is gravely ill.”

That dull roar turned lined with teeth, poised to bite and rend and tear and devour. Discreetly, William exhaled as the full magnitude of the potential consequences of her actions began to set in. Once the Marquess of Hastings discovered how his sister – how his terminally ill sister – had been treated by the queen . . . once the Tories discovered what their most generous benefactor in Lord Hastings knew . . .

. . . Lord Hastings and the Tories and the Duke of Cumberland himself, ever insatiably hungry for her crown . . .

Victoria, he saw, was hardly blind to the feral pack of beasts she’d so inadvertently unleashed, and her face paled, even in the yolk-thick glow of the sunlight.

“Thank you, Sir James,” she said hollowly – numbly. “That will be all.”

To her credit, she held herself proudly upright as the physician genuflected and backed away. Only when he took his leave did Victoria reach for the support of the nearest table, leaning to brace her weight upon its deeply lacquered surface for strength. Her opposite hand came to brush against the stiff bodice of her dress, with her lungs clearly working against the constraints of her corseting as she struggled to breathe.

For a long moment, neither spoke – not Victoria as she processed the scandal that was poised to unfold, nor William as his mind automatically leapt ahead to ways to subdue and mitigate that same scandal before it could leap as wildfire from sun-scorched kindling and a single unwitting spark.

If Lord Hastings – and Sir John, just as crucially – could be persuaded to silence, and the papers kept unaware – if only for the sake of Lady Flora, who surely had no wish for her condition to be bandied about by the cruel gossips of the world – then, perhaps, they could find a way to -

- yet his thoughts could march no further down the warpath when he was once again made aware of the young woman in the hall – who, in that moment, seemed suddenly so much younger still.

“I should have listened to you, Lord M,” Victoria whispered, and her timbre lanced through his own heart, bleeding with regret on her behalf.

For that, what could he say but the truth?

“It is always easier to give advice than to take it, ma’am.”

Yet, no matter how gentle his words, Victoria was in no place to absolve herself of her own self-recriminations. Instead, she looked as if she would argue the point entirely before Baroness Lehzen rounded the corner, and reminded Her Majesty that it was time to prepare for the evening’s festivities – for she had no wish to keep her court waiting, did she now? The festivities of her coronation day were not yet complete – thus, William watched as Victoria once again straightened her spine, and blinked against the tell-tale sheen that had dampened her eyes.

“Of course,” she muttered – and only William was privy to hear the bitter note that soured her voice and understand her regrets for what they were. “I wouldn’t want to deprive my court of their queen for any longer, would I?”

Victoria surrendered to her attendants, and, for then, at least, Lady Flora and her maladies – those both inflicted and endured – would have to be put far from mind.



.

.

William was in no mood to join the party gathering in the gardens whilst awaiting his queen, and so, he did not.

Instead, he found himself wandering the long corridors of the palace, mostly without aim but for the intention of dispelling the restless energy he could feel, coiling in his body and seeking an outlet for release through motion. Beyond the core rooms that Victoria generally preferred for her use, Buckingham was a veritable labyrinth of chambers and halls, and he lost himself in that seemingly infinite maze, admittedly taking but little note of the gilt and ornamentation and silent opulence, shrouded in the evening’s half-light and heavy with the advent of shadows. His surroundings were present, yet distant all at once, and he felt just as liminal to match.

It was not until he came upon the north gallery – and stopped before the coronation portrait of George III, unwittingly taken by how the polarizing monarch’s eyes were exactly the same as Victoria’s in shape and color – that he became aware of a shift in that space. The shadows whispered across the floor; the sunlight cooled, yielding to a passing form. It would seem, then, that he was not alone.

“Lamb,” he heard in greeting – a petty bit of disrespect from a petty man – and William did not favor the knight (if he could truly be dubbed such by any code of chivalry, ancient or present) with even a raised brow in reaction.

Instead, without looking away from the portrait, he levelly acknowledged: “Conroy.”

William half expected Sir John to keep on walking; surely they had nothing to say to each other, and he had no desire to suffer, let alone invite, the comptroller's company in the slightest. Yet Conroy took it upon himself to infer his own welcome, much the same as he ever did, and joined him in standing before the portrait. He tilted his head back to look up at the larger-than-life depiction of the Mad King as he had once been, before his unfortunate descent into mental decline. William did not need to wonder what the other man saw in George III’s deceivingly clear gaze as his mouth curled, lifting at the corners in an expression that was as loud as any spoken word.

With his own usual want for equanimity then faltering, William felt his ire stoke, roused like some hunting animal from a long sleep. Carefully, he exhaled against himself.

“I have been told that today was a most . . . momentous day for the Crown,” Sir John remarked aloud.

“For a certainty,” William agreed, not yet betraying any of his true thoughts in his tone. “It was a momentous day for the monarchy, yes – but, even more importantly, I would go so far to say that it was a day to remember for the entire realm.”

Perhaps it was equally petty of him to place the slightest emphasis on the word entire when the knight was still clad
in informal day dress, and would remain as such. For Conroy had not been invited to join the queen for the evening’s festivities – just as he had been excluded from her coronation proper as a whole.

The jab did not go unnoticed; Sir John smiled a cold smile, his dark gaze frigid to match. “It's interesting to reflect on the vicissitudes of such occasions, wouldn't you agree? No matter our perceptions in the moment, only time may tell how they are ultimately remembered.”

“I agree; time ever reigns over all, in due course.”

It went without saying who William expected time to champion in remembrance: Victoria would go on to define an entire age with her name, while Sir John would someday be nothing more than a footnote in history, blotting the inception of her reign.

Yet, much like a viper in its death throes, Sir John resisted conceding defeat, and flashed his fangs. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but, instead of allowing him to voice any more oblique half-words, William dared grasp the snake by its head.

“How is Lady Flora?” he interrupted, spearing the matter at its heart. “Her Majesty was much aggrieved to hear Sir James’ report on that good woman's health.”

“Every one of us in the duchess' household shares Her Majesty’s grief,” Sir John said, with a stirious expression that could only be described as satisfied. “It was most distressing for our dear Lady Flora to be subjected to the humiliation of the queen’s suspicions; the entire ordeal has rather unfortunately taxed both her spirits and her strength.”

“I regret to hear of Lady Flora’s distress." For he did – most truly. "Yet, if there is any good to come from this endeavor, I am glad to know that her malady was discovered, so that it may be treated in due course.”

“Her cancer is such that it cannot be cured with a bit of physic,” Sir John flashed a sneer, “especially when her nerves have been most cruelly exacerbated by Her Majesty’s unkindness.”

William ignored the barb, and continued to hold what a pleasant expression he could. “In the pain of the moment, when emotions are understandably high, I can well imagine Lady Flora’s vexation and empathize. Being forced to endure an unjust accusation isn't an experience I'd wish on anyone – let alone a woman who is already so grievously suffering."

(But then was most certainly not the time to think of Caroline Norton and that most unfortunate affair, and so, he did not.)

"However, I am sure that two people who have proved themselves so devoted to Her Majesty – and have been ever since her infancy – will find it within themselves to forgive the young woman they have served for so many years. The mistake she made was just that, and, ultimately, I trust in Lady Flora’s grace to forgive her as such.”

It was a distant hope, perhaps, his words, as much as they were counseling in their own right – yet he felt beholden to give them a voice, regardless.

As such, he was hardly surprised when Sir John refused to register the rebuke for the cut it intended. “Knowing Drina since her birth as I have,” he instead assumed a familiarity that caused a muscle high in William’s cheek to twitch, “I sadly feel that it is my duty to inform the prime minister that she is still very much a child, put into a position of authority beyond her age and disposition. This . . . mistake, as you so kindly dub, is merely the latest proof in a long line of such proofs that this girl is far too young to rule. If she cannot preside over her own household with grace, affording those closest to her with the simplest most respect in dignity, then how can she be expected to govern a kingdom?”

“That girl is your sovereign queen,” William felt his hackles rise, “and I will not tolerate any disrespect spoken of Her Majesty in my presence.”

“She is yet still queen regnant, yes,” Sir John remarked – casually, but dangerously so. “Or so she is for the time being. But come now, Lamb; let us speak frankly, as men who serve England as a whole - ”

“ - were we not already?” William couldn’t help but retort.

Yet Sir John continued as if he had not spoke: “It has been a ridiculous experiment, letting Drina command the throne with any semblance of independence. She has already shown herself incapable of shouldering the burden placed upon her, and I, for one, would move for a regency to be put in place now, before she can err on any larger scale, in a way that could harm the people she is sworn to serve – to say nothing of Great Britain's interests on the global scene, God forbid. You must know the dangers her unchecked reign poses as well as I do.”

“That is very frank speak, sir,” William said from between his teeth, “and overreaching in the extreme.”

“Overreaching?” Sir John tilted his head. “I am not the only one with these concerns – surely that, as prime minister, you must know. Just as you undoubtedly know from your own . . . unique experience, how damning a scandal can be in the eyes of public opinion.”

It was not a vague threat that Sir John uttered – but it was one that could yet fall as arrows against a shield, and William was determined to brace that shield himself. So, he stepped upon the field, and held his line: “As you say, my unique perspective rather grants me the ability, borne through experience, to ascertain which scandals are fleeting, and which have the potential to malinger. If a man such as myself can attain – and then continue to keep the post of First Lord these seven years past, no matter how many times my name has been dragged through the mire by the gossips of society – do you think the people, let alone Parliament, will allow this one misstep to strip Her Majesty – who has only just been duly anointed with her power and all rights as such – of sole custodianship over her own throne?”

“For a people – and a Parliament – who may be already leery of a woman sitting that same throne?” yet Sir John fired another volley still. “It's hard to say.”

For his wholly unenlightened words, William scoffed outright. “Then I would move you to further consider: why do you think that same public and Parliament has been so forgiving of the scandals attached to my name? The words against me should have been enough to bury my career more than once over, yet here I am, maintaining my premiership, year after year. Why do you think that is? Please, I ask you truly, Sir John – my question is no rhetorical one.”

Conroy made no attempt to withhold his disdain. “In truth, Your Lordship," contempt oozed from his words, "I could hardly say."

So William moved to elucidate the matter: “I myself have reflected on the answer to that question many times over the years. In the end, the only conclusion I have been able to reach is that I am still here, engaged in public service, because that same public sees something of my character as a whole – and thus, my ability to lead – that is yet greater than the gossip that has, at various times, endeavored to tear me down.”

“If you say so,” Sir John’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth in a truculent expression that nonetheless belied his words as false.

Yet William wasn't nearly finished: “Now,” he continued – in an easily conversational tone of voice that perhaps disguised the sharpened steel underlying his words, “if the people were asked to form a similar such opinion of a man who's swindled a widow and an orphan for these two decades past – let alone when that widow is the queen mother and that orphan their sovereign monarch . . . do you think that they would be so forgiving?”

It was the briefest moment – almost impossible to catch in the half-light, had he not first been searching – but Sir John paled, clearly taken aback. “Now that is pure conjecture,” he denied the accusation outright, even before William could give it any further substance in form.

“Is it?” he spoke in an undertone, letting the full weight of his words sink in before continuing, “Besides the funds that you have skimmed from the Duchess of Kent – monies that were intended for the raising and education of the future Queen of England – I perhaps do not even have to mention how egregiously you have extorted Her Royal Highness Princess Sophia for ill-gained capital. Let’s let the public know how the youngest, unmarried daughter of George III and Queen Charlotte – sadly blind and addle-minded in her dotage – trusted you as keeper of her privy purse, and you have since taken her for the amount of . . . oh, what is it again? You would know better than I. Somewhere in the range of 148,000 pounds over the last seventeen years? Is that an accurate estimation?”

Sir John did indeed go pale then – his skin bloodless and sickly against the faux black hair of his wig. “Your conjectures are just as baseless as the queen's. I do not have to listen to these insults,” he nonetheless held as if he were the injured party, and made to turn. “What utter nonsense.”

William allowed him to retreat a single step, and then continued, his tone not raising in the slightest, “I would advise you to heed me well, and consider your next move very carefully. Should you act with dignity in this matter, I believe Her Majesty may find some small affection in her heart for such a valued member of her household, and reward you for your long years of . . . loyal service,” and how those words dripped with condescension, for all that he scarcely changed the inflection of his timbre otherwise. Better were the crimes of abuse and neglect and malfeasance through his attempts to manipulate and control the future queen of England that he would like to lay at Conroy's feet – but the financials, sadly, were more damning in the eyes of the world as an exposed thief than a failed guardian. “The queen may be moved to award you with, say . . . a baronetcy. In Ireland. With a modest estate to go with your new title and a pension from the Crown. You may retire with honor, and live the rest of your days in comfort – if not the grandeur that you somehow believe is owed to you.”

“And if I should refuse to accept such a kindness from Her Majesty?” Sir John picked every word as if he spoke against a blade at his throat – even as he yet continued to hold fast to the sword in his own hand. “If I believe that more is yet possible, and choose to bide my time to receive my due . . . what then, Lamb?”

“Then – regardless of the scandal of the queen pressing charges against such a faithful guardian – perhaps Newgate Prison shall indeed become your new abode for the rest of your days.” He eyed Conroy with outright disgust, and, this time, did not hold his true feelings from leeching into his voice to add, “It would certainly be no less than what you deserve.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I welcome you to try me.” Truly, there was a part of William that almost preferred that he did. “Yet I caution you not to cross me on this matter. There is no future where you come anywhere near the Crown of England, I swear that with God as my witness. If you continue to grasp for what is not yours to be had, I shall have no choice but to see that you are destroyed, in every possible manner – and I believe that you know as well as I do that Her Sovereign Majesty will do but little to stay my hand.”

For that, what answer could Sir John give but to glower in silence?

So, William inclined his head in a respectful gesture to take his leave of the repugnant man – for he was still a gentleman, even if Conroy was not – and bade, “Give my regards to Lady Flora. I do pray for a speedy recovery, if one is possible. In many ways, it would have been better if she merely had the blessing of a child to welcome into the world . . . I truly grieve for her, as does the queen.”

This entire affair was could never be anything but a tragedy, from any view. Yet, in the end, there was nothing he could do for all that had already transpired; instead, going forward, he could only endeavor to stand as a shield for his queen, and protect her from the sharpest arrows as they flew.



.

.

Victoria felt numb as she was dressed for the evening’s festivities, this time in a silk gown of the deepest royal blue, with rubies lining her throat and weeping from her ears. Her aunt's diamond fringe tiara completed the ensemble, and yet, where she once would have worn the ornamentation proudly, overjoyed for the achievement adorning the crown as her very own, shame threatened to hang her head low as she avoided her reflection in the looking glass.

Queen Adelaide, after all, would not have erred so grievously as she had erred – no; she would have acted with grace, with discretion, and poise. She would not have reacted impulsively, with hurt and a thirst for vengeance and rage, such rage . . .

All the while, her ladies' compliments rang in her ear – with each comment, intended to uplift, only weighing her down even further with each and every syllable that was uttered.

"Your Majesty shone a vision today – such a heavenly vision!" Sarah Lyttleton repeated more than once, and "I don't believe that the Abbey has seen a crown rest on a fairer head since Queen Elizabeth herself, ma'am," Anne Caufield proclaimed.

(As if Victoria did not flinch for the weight of her ancestress' shadow then.)

"You did all the realm proud, Your Majesty," Maria Phipps agreed entirely. "I have never been happier to be an Englishwoman than I was today."

(But how would she feel upon the morrow, when the glit and the glamor of her queen’s coronation faded for the dull reality of the girl they had seen crowned instead?)

"My heart was in my throat for poor Lord Rolle," Harriet Sutherland's genuine praise continued to sting, "but you acted with such kindness in helping him recover his dignity."

(But she wasn't kind – not truly . . . no, she was the furthest thing from truly kind as it was possible to be.)

"Please, I am not kind," Victoria said aloud, her voice hoarse to her own ears – though, for the confused expressions her words drew from her ladies, she attempted to fix her features into a more acceptable mask of genteel demurral, rather than . . .

"Your Majesty?" yet Emma Portman, canny as ever, saw through her best efforts, and Victoria summoned a stronger smile still.

"Come now," she forced out with overbright cheer, "but it is time to celebrate, is it not?"

And that was that.

No matter her intentions to the contrary, Victoria felt listless as she sat to sup – numb, even. The continued absence of her mother’s household, which would have once filled her with every satisfaction as a most welcome reprieve, filled her with such dread and an awful sense of foreboding. The giddy effervescence that she had felt mere hours ago had by then vanished completely, and her heart galloped sickly in her chest, pounding as a wounded warhorse – sticking with every other beat in a way it had yet to tremble throughout the entirety of the day.

It did not help that, whenever she looked to meet her prime minister’s gaze, Lord Melbourne was clearly lost in thought, and his conversation was as lacking as her own throughout dinner – no matter Lady Portman’s best efforts to the contrary. It was undoubtedly the political fallout that healready anticipated and looked to contain, Victoria could well guess – for there most certainly would be consequences once Lord Hastings discovered how his sister had been abused (oh, but how unfairly that word stuck in her throat!) by her queen.

If, before, the sharks in the water had merely waited for her to misplace her step on the tightrope above, she’d quite indulged them by plunging into the churning depths entirely.

. . . and the sun had yet to completely set on the first day of her reign.

That thought tormented her as they adjourned to the gardens. The combination of the dark and the crowds meant that she could hardly attend the fireworks in Hyde Park itself, even as her people gathered to celebrate her anointing. Yet torches had been lit and chairs set out for her inner court to view the display from the safety and comfort of the palace. The sun was at the nadir of its descent, with the last of its rays setting the dome of the sky ablaze in a deep scarlet spectacle, bathing all the world in red, while the night drew its veil in shades of dusky violet and inky blue-black. The summer air was pleasantly warm, rather than overly hot, and the flowers in the beds were rich and full and heady in fragrance. Glowbugs pulsed green in the bushes, and the fountains trickled with a merry song – idyllic in every aspect of the word, if it had not been for the dark clouds that moved to shadow her heart.

The first rocket sang a high-pitched whistle, bidding the sun farewell as it sank beneath the horizon, all before exploding in a brilliant cloud of golden sparkles – unexpected for all that it was not, so much so that Victoria jumped at first for the violence of the display. Her lords and ladies oohed and aahed, properly delighted as the show began in earnest, yet Victoria could hardly summon their joy as her own.

Instead, then safely ensconced within the dark, she felt the dangerous sting of tears threat – no matter how ruthlessly she was determined for them not to fall. She didn’t deserve such an indulgence – especially not after she had proven herself to be so small and naïve and foolish and cruel . . .

Oh, she may not have meant to be cruel (hadn’t she?) – she had meant to be vengeful, perhaps, and yes, she had been, and yet still was, desperate for her mother to open her eyes and see what she saw so clearly . . . yet her intentions meant nothing in the face of her reality, now did they?

Lady Flora was ill – gravely ill – and Victoria had only furthered her pains by accusing a woman who’d so long been a loyal (hah, but how the term tore with its barbs!) addition to her household (her mother’s household) of holding loose morals and wanting in all character.

“You stupid, thoughtless girl,” Sir John’s voice rang in her ear – crackling like the red sparks erupting from the fount of fire overhead, “but this is not a game!”

“How did I raise such a pitiless and thankless creature?” echoed her mother’s voice, as crystalline in memory as if she spoke the words into her ear anew. “And this child is to be Queen of England?”

“Don’t be shortsighted, Alexandrina,” the wispy spectre of her brother sighed to agree, “of course you will need the men around you to rule – if only for your own sake, just as much for the good of your people, to protect your fragile constitution. You know that you are not capable of anything more.”

“Albert has grown into a fine man,” even her Uncle Leopold proclaimed – yet once more and always over again – in just his last letter. (In their own way, his words were all the more a betrayal for the tender affection he bore her, and she for him in return.) “Your cousin is more than ready to assume the burden of ruling, which I know must come as a relief to you. The female mind is divinely intended for her family; the male mind, for governance. With such a husband taking the lead, you needn't worry for anything, and may instead only enjoy the privileges of your rank with every possible indulgence.”

“You will be seen as ignorant and foolish,” Lady Flora herself insisted in that exaggeratedly modest way of hers, “if you do not trust the guidance of those who have your best interests at heart. And, if the Court of St. James’ believes that there is a true child on the throne of England . . .”

“The people of Hanover can wait," her Uncle Cumberland fairly scathed, his eyes fixed on her crown in every way. "There is yet much to attend here . . . much that can happen, and may yet happen, before I will be content to leave for my new home.”

Stupid, thoughtless girl . . .

. . . incapable of governing . . .

. . . pitiless and thankless creature . . .

. . . shortsighted and fragile . . .

. . . ignorant and foolish . . .

. . . and this child is to be Queen of England?

Victoria sucked in a breath, just as a flurry of blue and gold exploded overhead. Trapped behind the cage of her ribs, her lungs struggled to fill in her chest.

“You needn’t worry yourself, ma’am – in time, all will be well.”

Yet she was hardly the only one paying the festivities but little attention. For the softly uttered assurance, she looked over to her right, and caught as a flash of light illuminated the sculpted planes of Melbourne’s features in alternating highs and lows.

“Will it?” she muttered, not even pretending to misunderstand him. “I've only been crowned for a matter of hours, and yet I've already . . . ”

Stupid, thoughtless girl . . .

Deeply, Melbourne sighed. “The look of the thing is regrettable, that I cannot deny. Yet it is just that: the look of the thing. You had a reasonable suspicion, and it was your right to act upon that suspicion as you best saw fit.”

“The world will not see it that way.”

. . . shortsighted and fragile . . .

“The world enjoys tearing down, more so than building up,” he grimly agreed – yet not. “But they will not tear you down to your foundation; they will not ruin anything that cannot be rebuilt.”

“Mayhap for a king,” her deepest fears took an awful voice, “yet I am not . . . ” but she swallowed, feeling the ugly, threatening presence of a sob.

. . . and this child is to be Queen of England?

“You are our queen,” yet Melbourne firmly took a stand against her every unspoken thought to proclaim with all conviction, “and our queen you will remain. It was the result of your inquiry that made your inquiry an error – not the inquiry itself. Even a queen is allowed to make a mistake, if one can dub this as such, and keep her throne.”

Oh, but how she wished that she could believe his words as true.

"There is yet much to attend here . . .” she felt her Uncle Cumberland’s words crawl up and down her skin, like spiders with whisper-cruel legs. “There is much that can, and may yet happen, before I will be content to leave for my new home.”

A shiver bit through her, despite the defiant warmth of the night.

Overhead, the fireworks had reached a frenzied crescendo of light and sound – seemingly punctuating her every thought and blazing to expose her innermost doubts. For the finale, she heard a sound of delight go up from her court – and imagined that she could hear her people cheer all the more so from beyond the barrier of the palace gates – and the rockets spark to reveal her own face, wearing the Crown of St. Edward and filling the night sky with her triumphant visage. It was a most disconcerting sight, especially as the flames dissolved and her features morphed in an entirely too abstract way for her liking as the dark won out again.

Here she was standing, she couldn’t help but think, and watching herself go up in smoke, all at once.

“This is at once the best day of my life, and the worst,” she muttered, feeling the truth of those words rend a wound of their own.

For that, she thought, her Lord M smiled a sad smile – but that may have just been a trick of the lanterns. “Give it time,” he advised. “With age – little as I know you like my saying so – you'll find that the world is not so extreme. Victories and defeats may seem as highs and lows in the moment; but, ultimately, the mountains and valleys will wear down to a comfortable plateau.”

Yet there was something about his words that did not sit entirely right with her. “Comfortable?” she repeated, suddenly imagining herself in ten years’ time – in twenty years, thirty – and liking what she saw but little. “I should prefer to be happy.”

For a long moment, he did not speak. “With age, too, you may better find the appeal in comfort.”

Were you happy? she nonetheless felt bubble up on her tongue to ask. Are you happy now?

Yet she bound her mouth – already well stinging from the effects of her impulsive nature and unwilling to compound her errors yet further that day. Instead, she sighed, and looked up to watch the stars as they returned to the sky.

With the absence of the fireworks, the attention of her court returned once more to her – for she was yet still queen, was she not? So, with no small amount of effort, she turned her attention back to her duty, and endeavored to rule as such.



TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

A Note or Two on Victoria's Coronation:

• Yep, Victoria's coronation ring was jammed on her finger - but it wasn't entirely the archbishop's fault, but rather the jewelers' - as her ring had been made to fit her smallest finger, not her ring finger. However, since the archbishop has already earned a stink-eye a time or two in this story, I decided to put Howley in the wrong once more. Especially as, in history, he still forced the ring on when it clearly did not fit.
  
  
• Lord Rolle did, erm, roll when paying his homage, and Victoria did ignore tradition in order to come down from her throne so that he wouldn't have to attempt the steps a second time. This absolute dear, right?
  
  
• Victoria's coronation was indeed a bit haphazard from being unrehearsed. One commentator said that only Victoria and the Sub-dean of Westminster (Reverend Hale, as I named him, being unable to find his actual name, did step in for the Dean of Westminster when he was too sick to attend the event) knew what to do at any given time - which is what inspired the informal rehearsal of the prior chapter.
  
  
• Her coronation as a whole was called the Penny Crowning for its lack of a coronation banquet, which rather amuses me. Can you imagine what she would have been called if she was viewed as extravagant, instead? (As a side note, I feel like Lord Byron ghostwrote much of Melbourne's main page on Wikipedia, let alone any further mention of him. The timeline of events for this year in the history of the United Kingdom - so, not even a page dealing with the coronation itself - smacked this onto the line for her coronation: 28 June – The Coronation of Queen Victoria takes place at Westminster Abbey. Lord Melbourne denies her the traditional medieval banquet due to budget constraints and critics refer to it as "The Penny Crowning". The pettiness is strong with this one, is all I can say. )
  
  
• And yes, Victoria did indeed come back from her coronation and give Dash a bath - she made an entire entry about doing so in her diaries.

A Note on the Flora Hasting Scandal: I know - ouch, right? This is another one of those instances where fact is indeed stranger than fiction, and this happened in history - albeit a few months further into Victoria's reign. But I am following Goodwin's timeline here for all of the added drama. Let's just say that things are about to get worse before they get better . . .

A Note on Sir John (and the Duchess of Kent): I am, however, deviating just slightly from Goodwin's timeline as far as Sir John is concerned. I'm dealing with him now, rather than during the Bedchamber Crisis - mainly because I can't countenance a reason for him being allowed to remain in court other than for the drama factor his presence adds to any given story. And, when I do get to the Bedchamber Crisis, a portion of that will be written from Victoria's mother's POV, and I want to have the duchess deal with her failings as a parent, and the fallout of those failings, without the influence of a man spewing poison in her ear - all while she learns to separate herself from her own abuser. In history, it took many long years for their bond to recover, but I am going to see if I can do slightly better in this AU. But, that's still in a story yet to come!


Until then!

~ MJ

 

Thank you! We really did run the full gauntlet of emotions in those scenes, didn't we?

This whole thing was such a mess - and a tricky one! Victoria was well within her rights, yes, and yet, at the same time, there was the very real factor that she pursued this path because she wanted to punish her abuser in Sir John and to finally get the champion she always wanted in her mother. For that aim to fail so spectacularly is . . . painful, to say the least.

It frustrates me, too, that for all of the true "scandals" that her uncles subjected the Crown to with their gross depravity, the Flora Hastings Scandal is still remembered as such, and it was indeed a blow against the earliest days of Victoria's reign.

Needless to say, I enjoyed writing every word of that confrontation.

Exactly. In the moment, our challenges can feel insurmountable - but this too shall pass.

Me tooo! These characters just get me right where I live, and it's been my pleasure to share this journey with all of you!

Thank you so much for reading, and for the lovely feedback, as always!

Oh yay! That makes me so happy to hear.

Ha! One can only hope, indeed . . .

Thank you! I was so proud of that description.

Right? I thought the same thing with Victoria's costume changes - can you imagine the horror of her maids, that she's getting her "plain cotton day gown" soaked in bathwater right before they need to dress her up for another spectacle with the public?

Writing this scene was so, so satisfying.

And here is where I disclaim that that line, in its original form, was all Goodwin's!

Thank you so much for your lovely feedback, as always! I hope that you continue to enjoy.

 

Author's Note: And here we are with the penultimate chapter of this particular story.

---

“Sta et Retine (Stand Firm and Hold Fast, From Now On)”
(bonus 3x300++ Basketball)​

VII.II.VII.

Mettle

It rained every day, the entire week following her coronation.

The dreary cast of the weather kept her indoors, with even turns about the garden denied to her. With no other recourse left available, she took to interior pursuits to amuse herself in the time she had between the demands placed upon her as queen. She sketched, she played the piano, and she read with admittedly limited degrees of success in applying her mind to the words on the page – itching instead as she was for movement and fresh air and an open sky.

(Away, the hazy, unformed impetus itched against her senses; she simply felt the urge to be away.)

What she wouldn’t give for the ability to ride out! She longed for a good gallop across the park the same as she would thirst for water, instead. She felt as if she could finally breathe if she stole away with Lord M on horseback for even the briefest spell. But that, she could not do, and even Melbourne opted for the comfort of a carriage for the short journey from either Whitehall or Mayfair when the deluge was so constantly unrelenting.

Buckingham felt stifling (suffocating with more than the muggy summer’s heat, pressing in like a thunderhead and smothering the palace in a clammy embrace), even in her council chamber when Melbourne did attend her. With Parliament in recess, there was no need for him to call on her daily as prime minister, and she was grateful, then, that he was nominally her private secretary in order to necessitate the need for his continued audiences as such.

Yet, even then, her Lord M’s smiles were strained, and they never quite managed to reach his eyes.

All the while, a cloud seemingly hung over her entire court to match – did Lord Ellenborough cut his bow short just a fraction of a second too soon, she wondered? Was Lady Hamilton’s curtsy truly so stiff, or was it a trick of her eye, seeing shadows where there were none to be seen? She thought that Lord Herbert said Your Majesty with . . . something about the inflection of his voice, and Lady Clinton hesitated a full heartbeat too long before addressing her as such entirely. There was a ripple surrounding her at all times – as if she were a stone sinking in deep waters – with the reverberations slipping through her hands and growing impossibly beyond her reach with each shifting undulation of the tide.

No one, Victoria thought, quite managed to look her in the eye.

What was even worse was that, whenever she entered a room, it was as if a candle blew out. Conversations – already conducted in whispers – ceased, and she was treated with only the coolest respects in rote, scripted civility.

It was enough to make her want to scream.

Finally, one particularly hot day – when she could tolerate the suffocating air in her drawing room no longer after her ladies dutifully praised her playing of Mozart, no matter how inexcusably she had butchered the Rondo Alla Turca in her distraction – she moved to find some respite in the conservatory. The rest of London may have been stewing in the heat, but the tropical foliage thrived in the otherwise intolerable conditions, and here, at least, the doors could be opened to the rain, even while she was yet trapped within.

Then – sitting before the koi pond with servings of refreshingly iced lemonade (she couldn’t countenance the idea of tea) – she looked plainly at Emma and Harriet, and asked outright: “Will you tell me what is troubling you?”

She did not use the royal pronoun – she did not wish to with two women whom she considered her friends (they were her friends, were they not? Or was she merely a duty for them to attend?) – and she hoped that they would respond to her in kind.

Yet Harriet’s smile continued to strain. “Troubling us, Your Majesty?” she said cordially. “Why ever would we be troubled?”

Victoria simply stared at the duchess, feeling something twist inside her, before she turned to fix Emma with an equally expectant (beseeching) gaze.

“It is simply the weather that has everyone in low spirits, I fear,” the older woman, at least, sought to sooth.

So Victoria attempted to respond to her kindness – for even she was unsure if she wanted to hear all that they did not say. “It is promising to be an overly warm July, which is most unfortunate,” she managed woodenly.

“Most warm,” Emma agreed.

“And the rain does not help,” Harriet put in brightly. “That is all it is, certainly.”

It was always telling when the state of the weather had called upon as a social recourse, but Victoria took another sip of her lemonade (all the while scuttling the entirely untoward impulse she had to throw the glass) and let it pass.

“I look forward to removing to Windsor,” she said next – for travel plans were marginally better a topic for discussion than the state of the heavens. “There promises to be some relief in the country, at least.”

She should have been at Windsor already, a part of her (a shamefully immature part of her that belonged to Victoria the girl, rather than Victoria the woman – let alone Victoria the queen) felt annoyance for the delay, no matter how necessary. It was traditional to remove from London for the hottest months of the year, and she felt an itching for the broad greens and the endless woodlands she remembered from her visits to her Uncle Kings in the past. As much as she was indifferent to the castle itself – old and dour and imposing as it was – the grounds were more than a draw enough, and she longed to answer their call.

Yet she could hardly move her court until Lady Flora was well enough to travel.

For that thought, Victoria set her glass down, fighting yet another frown. In the week since her coronation, Flora Hastings had scarce risen from bed (she couldn’t rise from bed). She declined dining at the royal table, and the trays that went up to her room were sent back entirely untouched (she couldn’t eat). Victoria had sent Sir James to offer his services as a physician, only for him to be turned away at the door, and coolly informed that his aid was not required. (Though Lord M had pointed out – gently as ever, but wearily so – that it was perhaps understandable that Lady Flora would prefer the counsel of her own physician, rather than . . . well, rather than the man whom Victoria had sent to discover her cancer in the first place.)

Yet Victoria knew that Lady Flora was hardly unattended – her mother nursed her lady-in-waiting herself, a pursuit which kept her from her daughter’s side from morn until night. (Which Victoria was nothing but happy for – ecstatic, even.) The duchess and all of her attendants (and Sir John too, most fortunately) kept to themselves in the north wing, offering a support in vigil for one of their own in solidarity.

(And Victoria most certainly did not remember Ramsgate then – when she had only Lehzen by her side as she battled against her fever’s thrall, and her mother nowhere to be seen.)

It was, she darkly held, a very good thing that she was no longer holding her glass.

She had not even seen her mother that Sunday for church. (A reverend attended Lady Flora’s room in private.) Instead, for Victoria, the ripples and murmurs at St. Margaret’s – undercutting the sermon as the rector counseled his flock about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you – had been even louder than they were within the palace walls, prompting her to finally put a name to that awful undercurrent for what it truly was.

Disapproval.

Disapproval . . . and she had not yet been a fortnight crowned to earn the condemnation of the masses as such.

“We tarry in London for Lady Flora’s sake,” Victoria continued. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded like a stale biscuit – sweetly iced on the outside, but dry and brittle within. “Once she is well enough to travel, we may depart for Windsor with all expedience.”

She did not miss the glance that Emma and Harriet traded; so, she stalwartly continued, “I have only ever visited Windsor, but I must confess myself glad to leave town behind – and the move shall only benefit Lady Flora. For what better place is there to convalesce than in the country?”

Again, Emma and Harriet looked at each other. This time, when their attention returned, there was resolution in their mirrored gazes. Inexplicably, Victoria felt her chest tighten.

“Your Majesty,” Harriet began – gently, but carefully, as if she was testing her footing against a potentially perilous patch of ice, “you must know that it is unlikely that . . . well, that Lady Flora . . .”

But even she could not say that which hung so thickly on the air around them.

“Ma’am,” Emma interceded for the younger woman, and spoke plainly: “It is not expected that Lady Flora shall live much longer.”

She knew that – she had known that, hadn’t she?

And yet . . .

“Surely not.” Victoria fixed a brittle smile in place, feeling as the pressure surrounding her threatened to snap as a crack splintering the foundations of that oppressive dome – but only to let in the chill of the cold. “She was quite in health not even a month past. She most certainly cannot be . . .”

Dying.

Yet Victoria could not force the word out from between her suddenly trembling teeth. “She cannot be,” she finished. “She is not.”

But even the will of a queen was nothing as to the unyielding demands of nature's pitiless might.

Emma’s gaze was kind, more so than sympathetic, but it still made Victoria clench her hands for fists. “Her cancer, it would seem – not that I wish to repeat gossip – is most advanced.”

“I know that Mama is nursing her,” Victoria’s tongue continued to voice a denial that her mind already knew as false, “but you must know how my mother likes to exaggerate.”

“It is not just the Duchess of Kent who says so, ma’am.”

Lady Portman’s voice, no matter how disposed to lenity, sounded as a thunderclap, breaking from the heat in the sky. Static rippled across her skin in answer, and bristled to catch in her throat.

“Well, I think that this is nothing more than . . . nothing more than a tempest in a teacup,” Victoria spoke against that burning. “You’re wrong – time will see Lady Flora returned to health, just as time shall . . .”

Maddeningly, she blinked, and felt the tell-tale presence of tears, which she refused to let fall.

She refused.

Towards that end, she shot to her feet in a burst of discontented energy. Just as quickly, Emma and Harriet too rose in a rustling of skirts and a clatter of chairs, and the sound chafed against her already agitated nerves. Behind her, she registered Anne and Sarah and Maria doing much the same, eager and anxious to attend their queen, but she could not – she did not want -

“I desire a walk,” Victoria declared, perhaps too loudly for gentility. “Just inside, through the galleries,” she scuttled a sigh when she saw how Emma made to object.

She turned for the door, and heard the answering flutter of silk and the soft click of heeled shoes against marble tiles.

“No, please,” she raised a hand to order – to beseech - and only just kept from slashing it through the air like a blade. For God’s sake, don’t follow me, she thought desperately, but aloud she only said: “You have my permission to withdraw. I wish . . . I would like to be alone for now.”

Her throat felt thick to force out the words, laughable as they were – for when was the Queen of England ever truly alone?

Sure enough, she registered Lehzen and Lord Alfred discreetly following after her – to say nothing of the constant presence of her servants and guards, waiting at hand to answer her every need. (Her needs – how laughable!) She did her best to ignore them as she stalked away from the conservatory, feeling as restless as a caged lion, prowling through the halls.

Oh, but how she wanted to cry; she wanted to scream, but she could not – she could not.

Instead, she could only focus on the sharp cadence of her breath and the strike of her steps as they were absorbed by the intricately patterned carpets and parqueted floors. One, two, three, she counted her heartbeats, four, five, six . . .

By the time her circuit brought her to the north wing, her mad want for tears had ebbed, even if they did not vanish outright. Instead, her pulse thrummed with useless insistence as her mind continued to scour down unquiet paths. She would never admit to loitering in the gallery – yet she had not spoken to her mother since their confrontation about Sir John and Lady Flora, the day before her coronation, and while she would not lower herself to calling on her mother’s apartments outright, she did perhaps wish that, by chance . . .

Heaven save her from herself, but she was a fool, Victoria thought as she spun on her heel, her fury sparking anew. She would not go chasing after her mother like some beaten and cowed little girl, seeking reassurances and forgiveness when she had done nothing wrong. She was a woman grown now, and she did not need her mother to affirm any sort of -

- yet when had fate ever proved so kind? She did not make her escape before a most unwelcome presence turned the corner just ahead – truly, this hall was cursed, with the devil himself answering every unspoken call of his name – and came marching down the corridor, a sheaf of newspapers in hand.

Yet Victoria would not be the one to shy away. This was her palace, and she could go wherever she pleased.

(Behind her, Lehzen took a step closer, and she was grateful for her loyal attendant's unspoken support.)

She continued to walk, and did not make to slow. She waited for Conroy to yield the way, and was incensed when he instead stopped right in her path. Her nostrils flared, and she felt as disdain flared to burn white-hot in her gaze.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Conroy gave the shallowest of bows. His mouth was turned up in that way of his that was more smirk than smile, and she knew from experience that he had something to say. Unwittingly, she braced herself. “I trust that you have seen this?”

At first, she thought not to dignify him with a reaction – let him stupidly stand there with his hand held out to offer one of the papers he held – but the drawing she espied made her curious.

(Her own papers, most notably, had not been delivered that morning – when she’d asked Penge for an explanation, the butler had stared straight ahead and claimed that they had not been delivered.)

She took the page – knowing that she ought not all the while – and found that it was indeed a newspaper clipping. Upon which, there was inked a rather untoward . . . no, a most obscene cartoon, depicting a woman in a swoon upon a bed, her features creased in agony as she held a hand weakly over her brow. Sickened, Victoria realized that the first of the three figures at the foot of the bed was Sir James, performing his . . . examination. Mortification filled her to recognize that the other two men were supposed to be Sir John and Lord Melbourne himself, looking intently to the doctor for his verdict.

. . . yet that was nothing as compared to the horror that filled her when she took note of the fifth person in the scene. Whom she first mistook for a child standing by the head of the bed – a rather gleeful little girl, exaggeratedly small and round and mean-looking, peering over the sheets and asking the doctor if he could see Sir John’s baby . . . that little girl, she wore a crown.

Was that . . . was that supposed to be . . .

The cartoon was entitled Lady Flora’s Distress, beneath which, she grappled to comprehend, Lord Hastings had published his sister’s letter, detailing the exact abuses she’d suffered at the hands of her queen – and the resulting discovery born of those abuses.

For an awful moment, the room spun, and Victoria feared that she might be sick.

Yet, somehow, she composed herself. She did not even tighten her grip to crumple the paper in her hand.

Sir John’s face, she thought, was that of a wolf before a bleeding doe, limping in the dell. “The press can be so cruel, can they not?” False concern oozed from his voice like oil bubbling from a lamp. Mockingly, he bowed. “I shall leave this here, for Your Majesty to peruse at your leisure."

She did not utter a single word in answer – she would not give him the satisfaction – but instead turned down the corridor, her head held immovably high.



.

.

The rain continued to fall.

As the days passed, farmers murmured of the book of Job as their fields flooded and a very real worry for their crops of corn and wheat and barley set in – so much so that William was quite ensconced with his duties as prime minister as his cabinet planned contingencies for the nation if they did indeed see a failed harvest.

Yet, with the greater majority of the ton refusing to empty until the queen herself took leave of Buckingham, London was full of idle hands aplenty amongst the upper echelons of society, and idle hands, as always, made for idle thoughts . . .

. . . and idle tongues. (Truly the devil’s tools, all.)

With the heat and the rain, and the putrid miasma of London moldering with no fresh air to blow the rumors away . . .

This was not what he had wanted – nor could have possibly predicted – for Victoria’s first fortnight as queen (she should still be glorying in the height of her success, far and away from the rot of London in the peace of Windsor) but theirs was the hand that fate had dealt them. Now, much the same as always, there was little left to do but persevere.

William, at least, had some practice with weathering the storm of public opinion when it turned its ever ravenous attention to the flesh between one’s ribs. And so, towards that end, he acted.

First and foremost: never let the beasts see you bleed.

As such, he kept to all of his usual habits, and assumed even more besides. With purposeful diligence, he made himself available at Downing Street during the day, and he paid and received calls as if it were still the height of the season, rather than its end. He suspected that there were times when Victoria resented his resulting absences from the palace (and perhaps he more dangerously did, as well), but there was nothing to be done there too but endure. He made a point of dining at Brooks every night (another mark that displeased Victoria), and even amended his schedule (God, but how he loathed being about so early in the day) to break his fast in public – or at least take tea in full view of any and all who would note and report on his doing so when there was such speculation being focused on the strength and inviolability of the Crown.

His party needed to be assured that, while a scandal may have been rocking the innermost social circles of society, the business of government remained unshaken – just as it truly was.

(And he was determined to ensure that it remained as such.)

Yet, even amongst his supposed allies – those same lords who had knelt and kissed their new queen’s ring only days before – idle tongues continued to wag.

And they trailed fire in their wake.

“Hastings had it all in a letter from his sister,” William heard before he crossed the threshold into the Great Subscription Room. “The queen asked Sir James Clark to perform an examination.”

“On Lady Flora?” the answering voice was perhaps just too loud to chortle – whetted at the mouth for the scintillating revelry that was indulging in the misfortunes of another. “What poppycock. That woman was born with a crucifix in hand!”

“Nonetheless, the queen believed her with child.”

“Must have been an Immaculate Conception, if so.”

“Sir John Conroy was meant to be the guilty party.”

“Conroy? Surely not. We all know that his interests are quite fixed . . . elsewhere, after all.”

William was well acquainted with the sound of whispers choking for silence when his presence was eventually noticed by those same gossiping tongues – like eddies fading back into the stillness of unaffected waters – and they did so then, much the same as ever. The trick, he had since learned, was to act as if he didn’t notice their existence in the slightest.

Rule number two: to address a rumor, in any form, was only to give it credence.

And that, he utterly refused to do.

So, with his habitual air of untouched languor firmly fixed in place, he made his way to his usual table. He traded pleasantries with those who met his eye – and more than a pointed few of those whom did not. Then, in full view of any and all who wished to look, he perused the papers that had been offered along with his coffee. He held up the pages as if interested in their contents, albeit without taking much note of a single word. (He had already studied them closely in private, after all.) He did not let even the slightest reaction show when he came across that day’s sketch from the satirists – this time, another crude caricature of Victoria, demanding that God refuse to allow Lady Flora and Sir John admittance upon a vessel reminiscent of Noah’s ark as the rains continued to pour – even as a muscle high in his jaw tightened.

What drivel.

He put the societal page aside without expression, and instead turned to The Times’ far more relevant reports on President Van Buren’s management of the continuing Great Panic in America. The prices of wheat, and, more importantly, the corresponding interest rates set in the United Kingdom would affect all in their hegemony, and warranted a close and watchful eye. There were far greater issues unfolding in the world than a queen’s mere misstep in what should have been a private matter – and he’d have his party remember the truth of that fact above all else.

(Only his butler knew of the late nights he spent awake in his library – staring unblinkingly ahead with a decanter of brandy at his side, with those God awful political cartoons dripping their black ink for red spread out before him.)

The minutes ticked by, yet he was still reading the same article a third time over – his eyes merely scanning the lines without a matching comprehension sparking in his mind – when a most unexpected figure approached his table. In spite of himself, William blinked, his air of disinterest rippling outright – and truly so.

“Your Grace,” he stood to greet the Duke of Wellington. No matter that he was the prime minister, and Wellington merely a member of the Opposition in the House of Lords, there was always a part of him that would view the duke as his general, first and foremost, and bow lower out of a sense of deference that was steeped in habit as much as the most sincere of respects.

“You honor everyone here with your presence,” William managed to speak past his surprise. “I did not think that Brooks was an establishment that suited Your Lordship’s particular taste.”

And he was curious, at that. The indomitable old Tory, for all that his views were leaning more and more Conservative as his years turned for their twilight, had never favored the Whig dominated halls of Brooks in the least. Yet the hard line of Wellington’s mouth quirked, and he acknowledged his words with a tip of his top hat before doffing it entirely. He then graciously took a place at the table when William gestured in welcome for him to do so.

“You have the right of it,” Wellington agreed. “I am more than happy to leave Brooks to you and your ilk – but certain souls have made Whites . . . shall we say, somewhat intolerable at the moment.”

“Indeed?” William raised a brow, inviting further explanation – but anything more was slow in coming when a server came to attend the duke, necessitating a pause in their conversation. Wellington made his selection – taking his own coffee black, but refusing anything more. For a moment, he leaned back in his seat, casting a canny eye over the crowd that observed them just as closely in return – for all that no one was so gauche as to stare outright, of course. William rather suspected, then, that the duke’s patronage of the club was just as pointed as his own.

Wellington was there to be seen, even as he may have practically sought an audience for its own sake – which could have easily been done at any point throughout the day, and hardly in such a public setting as this, if he desired.

So William indulged him, and spoke of pleasantries to start. He inquired on the health of the duke’s daughters-in-law (Arthur yet had no grandchildren, and little favored his sons) and plans for the summer. In return, Wellington asked him of Susan (which did truly please him) and he shared news of the latest letter he’d received from Geneva. They did not speak of the goings on at the palace, nor of politics at all – as must have wearied the salivating ears around them – until -

“The Duke of Cumberland was just as kind to honor Whites with his own condescension today – much the same as he has done many times this last fortnight or so.”

William schooled his features into a pleasantly disengaged mask to remark, “I did not think that His Grace much cared for Whites.”

And that was true. The Duke of Cumberland – although he certainly agreed with the more traditionally minded Tories who sought to preserve the oldest traditions amongst the English, which included an unswerving deference to royal power – thought that he was not awarded the adulation owed to him as a prince of the blood whenever he attended the club. He'd long attempted to make Whites into a quasi-court of his own ruling, and the recalcitrance of his would-be subjects to honor him as such had quite proved . . . aggravating over the years.

“Not usually, no,” Wellington wryly agreed – with the sharp edge of his humor ever serving as his own preferred mask. “Instead, I rather think His Grace came to be something of a spectator.” He paused, considering his words, and then committed to the field to say, “He would never join in himself as regards the persisting tittle-tattle at the moment, but his presence alone speaks volumes.”

That, William could well imagine.

“His Grace may come and go wherever he pleases,” he shrugged to comment – for that was the only reply he would voice aloud.

“To an extent, yes. Yet His Royal Grace has ever set his eye on a most particular destination – one where he is not currently welcome, nor shall he ever be, if God sees fit to continue to act in any sort of wisdom.”

William heard the unspoken warning as loud as cannon fire, and its answering reverberations thrummed in his chest with a disquieting murmur that lingered, long after the initial round had passed.

“I quite understand you.” Gravely, he inclined his head – and that was that.

“Good.” Wellington clipped out a nod, and, with his message thus imparted – his presence seen and commented upon – he found his feet again. “Well, I am off now – I always feel an itch come upon me whenever I stay in such liberal company overlong, and I find it setting in as we speak.”

“I’m pleased that you braved the discomfort for as long as you did,” William replied just as wryly as he too stood – and was treated with what he thought was a sincere chuckle from Wellington. (It was, admittedly, always hard to tell with the general – for, even after decades spent serving the realm together, he still could not tell himself from friend or foe in his gaze.) “You've honored us with your presence as it is – in any duration.”

Yet, rather than departing with a bow, Wellington more familiarly shook his hand – and then went so far as to grasp his forearm in a gesture that would simply be seen as one soldier taking his leave of another to any who watched. Yet he leaned in close to say, for his ears alone: “Cumberland was speaking with Conroy – and you may well guess the nature of their conversation. Tread carefully on Her Majesty’s behalf, for the field is yet treacherous.”

Wellington released him, and William did not bother with any sort of deflection as he pondered over the general’s words. “Thank you, sir,” he muttered. “I shall bear your counsel in mind.”

The duke stepped back then, and redonned his hat. William stood for a long moment, watching him go, before he too decided against retaking his seat. He was far too agitated for stillness, and he’d tired of humoring the spectators who'd only continue to study his every move if he stayed. They already had enough to gorge themselves upon, and he’d sate them no further.

When he stepped outside, the sky remained overcast, but, for that moment, the rains themselves had ceased. As such, he took advantage of the opportunity he had to dispel some of the restless energy pooling in his limbs, and opted to walk back to Downing Street. Instead of taking St. James' Street for the Mall, he cut back to the Green Park. For all that the rest of London was left broiling in the hot and damp, the parks were thriving, and the thick air of the city was somewhat less offensive on these lush, wooded paths than without. He breathed in deep of the petrichor, heady and rich, and felt his mind begin to clear to match.

But such peace was not to be his for long, hell take it all.

He’d hardly set his feet to the path when he crossed the palatial façade of Spencer House – and there, exiting from the courtyard was . . .

Wonderful.

Not for the first – hardly the first time that day, even – William wondered at fate’s sense of humor, and not in a way that was at all flattering to the incorporeal entity. Yet he couldn’t muse further on the thought when his mind instead leapt ahead for the how and the why of the matter. The Spencers were a highly influential family and had been for centuries; the current Earl Spencer was a member of his own party, and quite possibly one of the most decent men who held high government office in this or any realm. If the Duke of Cumberland thought that he had foundation enough to move for a regency so as to entreat the backing of Honest Jack Althrop himself . . .

With a sigh, William knew where he’d be paying a call of his own later that day – even as he sternly told himself that it would be beneath the dignity of his station, let alone the maturity of his years, to turn back the opposite way (and he most certainly was not going to duck behind that nearest elm tree) now that the prince had taken note of his presence.

“Lamb!” sure enough, Cumberland called out in greeting. He seemed in high spirits – with his normally inimical expression creasing in a smile that was as jarring upon his mouth as the dueling scar that bisected his blind left eye. “How fortunate a coincidence this is, as I was just on my way to Downing Street.”

“Indeed?” William assumed what a neutral expression that he could – bowing as was proper to the son of his former king, but only just as deep and for so long as was absolutely necessary. “Your Grace honors me,” the words stuck like sand in his mouth, and grated as such before he smoothed any noticeable signs of his irritation. “Was yours merely a social call?” One could only hope. “Or is there some business you wish to attend?”

“Ultimately, that would have been for you to decide,” Cumberland obfuscated, and William felt that half formed hope evaporate like a vapor on the breeze.

“Oh?” but he gave no more than a raised brow in reply. If Cumberland wished to speak of that which he so clearly wished to speak, he’d make him do so plainly.

Cumberland turned, clearly intending for them to walk down the path together, but William held his ground, refusing to follow unless expressly commanded to do so. It may have been a petty – and ultimately useless – bit of defiance, but William rather thought it pointed.

Sure enough, Cumberland loosed a huff of breath and gruffly bade outright: “Walk with me, Lamb.”

“As Your Grace prefers,” William scuttled a sigh, and conceded to the prince’s command.

“It is good to be out of doors, is it not?” at length, Cumberland commented. “The rains have been most unceasing as of late – biblical, some would say.”

So the ignorant and the unenlightened liked to believe: that even God himself was displeased with the woman on the throne, and moved to punish the whole of England as a result. Yet William refused to humor such nonsense for himself.

“The rains will find their end, much as they ever do.” Instead, he merely shrugged. “Come the height of August and the fields are in want of water, we will be lamenting their lack. Such is the way of things.”

“So pragmatic, as always.” William heard naught of a compliment in the words – or, at least, not any compliment that he wished to accept. “I appreciate that about you, Lamb – I do not think I've ever had the chance to tell you before.”

William inclined his head, acknowledging the statement, yet he refused to give Cumberland the opening he sought. Instead, he veered the conversation further to remark, “Surely it is the rains that have delayed Your Grace’s own travels? I would have thought you to be well on your way to Hanover, now that Her Majesty’s coronation has passed.”

“I will take my crown in due time,” Cumberland grunted, all before he paused, and took the opportunity to add, “I would even go so far as to say that I am quite looking forward to assuming my throne.”

The duke was as oblique as a bull, stomping through a field of flowers – no matter how he may have thought himself clever. For his part, William held back a scoff.

“Yet, for the time being,” Cumberland continued, “it is not the rains, but rather family that keeps me bound to England.”

William wanted to loose a disbelieving laugh – for when had there ever been any of the familial binding the Dukes of Cumberland and Kent? A cold whisper cut through the heat of the day, and William could not help but recall when the duke had been investigated (even if he was eventually acquitted) for the attempted assassination of his niece in the earliest days of her girlhood. Even if he had not commissioned the failed blackguard, as the courts had ruled, he most certainly would have benefited more so than any other from the misdeed – and there was not a single soul who knew him that would have believed his grief sincere for that particular variance of fortune's wheel, had it come to pass.

There were few more loathsome men on the face of the earth, William had long concluded – and he felt that opinion strengthen all the more so with each passing moment.

“It is unfortunate that this business has gotten into the papers,” Cumberland pushed forward. “My niece has been queen for hardly five minutes together, and already the Crown is embroiled in scandal.”

Only long years of practice helped him maintain a visible veneer of equanimity, as, inwardly, he scowled outright. “Scandal is such a strong word for what I would better call a misunderstanding,” he mused aloud – ever untouched, even as he gave a voice to his own stance on the matter.

Aggravatingly, Cumberland chuckled. “Yours is, as ever, a most unique point of view – but then, you always stood by that wife of yours, did you not? You somehow tolerated the embarrassment of her throwing herself at that poet in front of any and all who cared to observe the spectacle, rather than seeking to control your household with a firmer hand.”

William felt his fingers curl, wanting for fists – for he had forgotten so soon, the presumption of the royal family, who rather thought it their right to comment with impunity on anything and everything concerning their subjects. In so short a time, he’d come to expect better through Victoria’s graces – which had since proven to be the opposite of her uncles, even in those moments when she did speak or act impulsively.

Impulsively – never carelessly or cruelly . . . which was not something he could say for the remaining princes of the House of Hanover.

“Yet I fear that there is more than such natural feminine hysteria at play here.” Cumberland did not invoke the ghost of his own kingly father – not outright – yet, as ever, it lingered. “I trust that marriage and motherhood will eventually subdue my niece, but the realm cannot wait for her to wed. Anything that embarrasses the dignity of the Crown must be seen to now, quickly and decisively – for the good of the entire United Kingdom.”

William would call Cumberland’s an equally unique point of view – hypocritical, even, considering the decades of embarrassment the sons of George III and Queen Charlotte had heaped on the realm through their entitled depravity and gross indulgences, straining the loyalty of even the most patriotic Englishmen. Yet, action had never been taken against the crowns of the truly repugnant George IV or the mercurial William IV. Victoria’s supposed sins, when compared to those of her uncles, were utterly insignificant – all but for the unspoken sin of also being a woman, sitting on a throne that most held should instead belong to a man.

Yet William wouldn’t waste his words on deaf ears. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I fail to see how the dignity of the Crown has been as injured as you claim. Her Majesty is the most competent regent I have had the pleasure to serve – nor can I imagine serving a one better.”

Including yourself, sir, he left unspoken – but all the more clearly heard for being so.

Also unspoken, Cumberland’s sneer proclaimed rather loudly just why he suspected he was as devoted to Her Majesty as he was – and it was not based on her merits as queen. That suspicion – which William had borne for months now, from numerous fronts – pressed upon him, and he felt his temper stoke, no matter how ruthlessly he fought to maintain his control.

“My niece is fortunate to have such a . . . devoted champion in her prime minister,” Cumberland’s words dripped with insinuation, and William consciously took a deep breath. Slowly, he exhaled.

“I am proud to serve for the advancement of the Crown – as do we all.” William tilted his head in a pointed manner. “Time will see to that advancement, I have no doubt.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say now, if you’ll excuse me and take his leave, but Cumberland spoke quickly – seeing yet another opportunity, and seizing it. “Yet time is precisely what concerns me – given time, who knows how else my niece may falter. This . . . misunderstanding, as you so kindly dub it, troubles me for all that it may yet portend. The realm needs a firm hand on the tiller – and, as much as it pains me, I doubt that Victoria can provide that hand.”

William, in his turn, replied just as quickly, and only just kept his words from an outright retort. “Whose would you have instead, sir – your own?”

“It would seem the obvious choice.”

“But not the popular one, I think.” Again, he only just tempered his voice for civility, let alone deference – and yet, his words remained.

Cumberland waved in dismissal. “The people do not always know what is best for them; they must be told.” The irony of his words was intolerable. “With the right support in Parliament – support which has already come forth to speak with me unbidden – I believe that a regency may be put in place before any true harm may be done through Drina’s reign."

Yet the royal duke was not done, and he even went so far as to step closer and place a hand on his shoulder – as if they were instead allies, united by a common goal, which they most decidedly were not.

Sure enough, Cumberland continued: “Such shall only benefit my niece – act for her sake, Lamb, for you know that the female mind is not meant to bear such burdens. This is for her own good. As you . . . care for the girl, surely you must want what’s best for her just as dearly as I do.”

There were few times when William had known such a raw scourge of anger in his life – but he felt it most acutely then, boiling up from usually still waters, drawn from some deep and raging current until it was almost tidal in its every shape and form.

It may have been reckless, perhaps, to speak to the current heir apparent and would-be regent as such, but, for once, the better sense of caution failed to serve William Lamb in the slightest.

“The queen may have her difficulties at the moment," each word dripped with glacial conviction, "but the one thing that would rally the public to her support is the possibility of being ruled by you."

Indignation, followed by outright animosity sparked in Cumberland's eyes – yet William only felt hot, clean satisfaction as he pulled away from the duke's hand.

"Should that day ever come," he continued, and swore his vow with all finality, "as a most faithful vassal to Her Majesty, I will pride myself on leading that rally as the tip of a spear – on that mark, you quite have my word."

Cumberland, at least, was struck speechless for his unequivocal stance – his face turning a rather remarkable shade of livid red – and William took advantage of his fit of choler to put an end to their interlude. "Now, if you would excuse me – I have not the day to spend in idleness, and duty calls.”

He bowed – only just so, as propriety yet demanded – and turned his back on the duke to continue on his way.



.

.

The next morning dawned to a hesitant flush of blue, breaking through the ominous weight of the yet still grey sky above.

“Look, Dash!” Victoria all but ran to the window and threw back the heavy curtains to better see. Roused by her excitement, her Spaniel wagged his tail and panted to follow. “I may finally be able to take you for a walk today – and perhaps even ride out; what do you say to that?”

Fast on the wings of her exhilaration, she wondered how long it would take for Lady Flora to die, that way they could remove from London entirely and enjoy -

- no.

No, no, no – she wondered how long it would take Lady Flora to recover, for she must recover . . . she had to.

Yet, no matter how sincerely she amended her thoughts, there was no ignoring that she had first thought them as such – as an impatient, spoiled, cruel little creature, and not . . .

God save her from herself, but was it any wonder that her people currently doubted her suitability to reign over them as queen?

Instead of ringing for Lehzen and immediately sending for her riding dress, as had first been her intention, she sank down to her knees before the cushioned window-seat, and bowed her head. She didn’t know how to pray in that moment, so overwhelming was her every thought and feeling, and instead merely sent up a wordless plea for wisdom and grace . . . and for his servant Lady Flora to be relieved of her suffering, however the Almighty best saw fit, with all kindness in expedience for her own sake.

She had to be better, if she meant to be a good queen – her people needed her to be better.

And so, she would be.

Eventually, Victoria rose and saw to her morning ablations. She breakfasted with those selected from her court for the honor, and partook in the opportunity to ride only once she was sure that there were no other demands depending upon her as regnant. (Her social diary was painfully empty, as she had not anticipated remaining in London for so very long. She had not been so idle since becoming queen, and the sudden change for inactivity was disorienting in its own right.) By the time she roused her ladies to accompany her – for Lord Melbourne had yet to attend her that day, as there were no dispatches to see to, which did not perturb her in the slightest (it did not) – there was no more blue sky to be found. Yet she thought that, perhaps, if she could only push her horse fast enough, they could chase where surely it dwelt beyond the grey.

But the limits of Hyde Park came upon her all too soon, and she reined in an equally frustrated Majesty with a huffed sigh from both horse and rider.

By the western boundary of the park, a collection of spectators had gathered – as they often did when espying the red uniformed soldiers of her guard, curiously chancing a glance at the royal presence. She heard a cry go up when she came into view, which was at first hardly unusual. Yet the cadence was off from how she better knew it to be – it was wrong, all of it wrong – and she noticed how Colonel Hampson took the reins of his own mount more firmly in hand, his usually inscrutable expression hardening even further in a look that she thought to recognize as a warning for danger, in and of itself.

She was not close enough to hear what they shouted . . . she only knew that they were shouting, rather than cheering. She could not make out the familiar cadence of “God save the queen”, but, instead . . .

“Fame!” she thought she heard?

No, that could not be right.

And yet . . .

“Ma’am, I must confess myself eager for another gallop – if you would be so kind as to indulge me?”

Lady Portman, Victoria noticed, had first traded a look with Colonel Hampson, and her eyes now narrowed to stare down the spectators who were kept from coming any closer by her guards.

Inextricably, Victoria too felt a want to be away then, and so she indulged the baroness, and reined Majesty back to the right.

A gallop was just the thing following – the warm, heavy air stung at her cheeks and made her eyes water as the wind snapped at the fabric of her habit and whipped up the long white hair of her horse’s mane. She felt, for a moment, as if she could run beyond herself . . . all until the curve of the Serpentine greeted them, and necessitated that they slow once more, and they continued on at a brisk trot for the palace.

All the while, in the back of her mind, she continued to wonder: fame?

Lame? Claim? Name? Blame? Game -

. . . shame.

Your Majesty, for shame!

She started in the saddle for the realization – and Majesty snorted for the matching jerk on the reins – mortification filling her with a sickly roiling feeling that flamed behind the skin of her face before pooling low and sour in her belly. By the time they passed beneath the Marble Arch, she was quite ready to return indoors – and even welcomed the long, grey shadows filling the great foyer as the heavens rumbled, promising a renewed onslaught of rain.

Victoria stood, listless as a doll, as she was dressed again in her day gown, and woodenly agreed when Harriet suggested a game of whist – her voice only just too bright for cheer in any sort of sincerity. Victoria was hardly an attentive partner for Emma, and they lost soundly in the hands that followed.

That evening, she was engaged to attend the opera. The show was the finale of the Royal Opera House’s season before they too broke for the summer, and the company had been delighted to have the queen yet in London to grace their performance with her patronage. Victoria loved opera, loved music in any form, and she’d anticipated this outing for the escape it promised. Bellini was a favorite composer of hers, and La Sonnambula a most enjoyable example of his genius.

Yet, now . . . it bubbled on her tongue to call off the entire outing as Skerrett fixed her royal sash into place with jeweled pins at the shoulder of her gown, and she had to check the urge for silence. Victoria the girl may have preferred the oblivious safety of Buckingham, but Victoria the woman would not hide away, just as Victoria the queen was beholden to keep her word to her subjects – and so she would.

As such, she held to her dignity – even here, amongst the well-dressed men and women who filed into the opera house, she thought she heard a whisper, edged with that same disapproving undertone – and walked a step ahead of her ladies as was her due, her head held proudly high.

For shame, for shame, for shame . . . she thought to catch trace of, or perhaps that was only the too-loud beating of her heart. Either way, she turned up her chin as she took her place in the royal box – in full view of any and all who attended, just as much to be gawked over as the stage itself.

As she took her seat – allowing the audience to do the same – she could not help but glance to her left, to where her mother’s usual chair sat empty. Attending the opera was one of the few times that she merely felt as a daughter to her mother, as their sincere love of music bound them together – but her mother had turned down her invitation, and Victoria was as aware of her absence just as much as she invariably would have been conscious of her presence. She wondered what her people thought, at that – with the Duchess of Kent abstaining from her usual honored place in favor of nursing her lady, and was glad, then, that she could not make out the murmurs in the crowd but to know that they were murmuring.

She would not, she fiercely told herself, react in any way – no matter how her eyes burned or her insides recoiled. For one horrible moment, she felt as if her stomach would rebel outright – but she concentrated on her breathing, deeply in and slowly out, and the moment finally passed.

It helped, at least, that she had Lord Melbourne in the box with her. She had missed him dreadfully over the week, and even the worst seemed . . . well, even the worst seemed not quite so terrible when he was there by her side. She knew that he was mostly indifferent to opera – there were some productions he enjoyed more than others, especially those by Mozart; yet, in general, he held that a little bit of opera went a very long way.

La Sonnambula – which Victoria called romantic, and delightful for the course of true love ultimately winning the day, as was not always the case upon the stage, her Lord M had scoffed as being vacuous. He was of the opinion that Elvino was a faithless man, and undeserving of Amina’s love for his doubt – while Victoria argued that Elvino could only believe what his eyes told him, even if his acting on that evidence was wrong, and ultimately hurt an innocent woman who instead only deserved -

She suddenly had little taste for even Bellini – and the idyllic, pastoral scenes upon the stage grated upon her nerves for her own disquiet as the company put on a most admirable performance otherwise.

Yet, by the time the plot of the second act built to its crescendo, she found herself taken quite far and beyond her own troubles as La Persiani – one of her favorite sopranos for her effortlessly clear, sweet voice – performed the titular sleepwalking scene. In a daze, unaware of the peril of her state, Amina lamented her lost love, and the misery of her voice seemingly reached out to pool in the wound of her own spirit. Victoria allowed herself to be absorbed by the music, and, this time, did not stop her tears when they fell.

“I had not thought that I would see you, dear flowers, perished so soon,” Persiani heartrendingly trilled, and Victoria felt those words reverberate somewhere even deeper than her physical self in answer.

She was so taken by the music that she at first hardly noticed when Melbourne stepped away from the box at the summons of an aide, and she only became aware that something was amiss when he reentered and chose to stand behind her instead of resuming his own seat. He leaned down, very close, and she was then entirely distracted from the aria on stage for the sudden intimacy of his body bracketing her own, no matter the high-backed barrier of her chair. She could feel the warmth of his breath, unwittingly teasing at her ear, as he whispered, “My apologies, ma’am, but this cannot wait.”

She could not at first attend his words as she tried to parse out the scent of him – something earthy and spicy that she couldn't wholly identify, yet entirely pleasing for being so – before the most likely explanation for his words registered, and a heavy feeling sank like a stone within her for understanding.

“Lady Flora?” she muttered, hoping that it was not, and yet knowing . . .

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his voice was kind, for all that it was also resolute. “I’m afraid that the end is near.”

Victoria swallowed, her throat thick. “I see.”

She rose unbidden, and with a last, regretful look back at the stage – she always did so adore the final duet, when Amina was rewarded for her goodness and perseverance with the return of the love who had once forsaken her – she turned to exit the box along with her prime minister.

In the red velvet lined corridor, she released a breath. “You think I should go to her.” There was no question in her statement, only a weary observation.

For a heartbeat, he paused. “I think it very possible that Your Majesty may regret it if you do not.”

She could acknowledge the truth of his words with her own higher reason, yet her heart still recoiled. “Must I go tonight?” she instead attempted to evade. She wasn’t ready, no matter that she quite suspected that she would never be ready, and she did not want -

“Tomorrow may be too late.”

His words, no matter how gently spoken, broke over her like a shower of ice. “Yes,” she shook herself from the graceless immaturity of her thoughts. “Yes,” she repeated in a stronger tone, “of course you’re right.”

She took a single step down the hall – she had not gone far enough for Melbourne to fall into stride behind her – when she stopped again. She paused, and then said, still looking unblinkingly ahead, “I am afraid.”

The words hung in the air before dissolving between them, yet, strangely, she did not feel any weaker for the admittance. Instead . . .

“I know,” his reply was just as soft. “But I also know how much courage you have.”

She hung her head for but a moment – not quite believing his words for herself, but inhaling in an attempt to allow their truth to fill her, even so. This time, when she resumed her course – the triumphant chorus from the stage beyond growing distant – she did not falter.

The carriage ride from Covent Garden was somehow an eternity and yet not nearly long enough. Once back at Buckingham, Victoria first wanted to change from her evening dress – for it felt . . . wrong, somehow, to visit Flora Hastings’ sickroom (death bed) garbed in jewels and wine red silk – before she thought better of doing so. Just as impulsively, she rather desperately wanted to ask Melbourne to come in with her, but knew that some things she had to do for herself.

Even so, Melbourne remained standing in the corridor as Penge admitted her, and she did take some comfort in the fact that she was not entirely alone – not truly.

. . . but then, there was merely herself, and her lady.

The first thing that hit her was the smell – the air of the room was close and stifling, even with the windows open to let in the reprieve of the night’s air. A sour scent saturated everything within – an odor of sweat and fever and . . . and decay. Victoria had to fight the urge to cover her mouth with her hand as her eyes sought out the limp, listless figure huddled in the pile of bedclothes. Only a single candle was lit, but, even in that scant light, Lady Flora seemed weak and shrunken and pitiful. Her fair hair was limp and plastered to the skin of her neck and brow, and the flush of her cheeks had gone pallid and grey. Bruises surrounded her eyes, which were deep and sunken in their hollows. Her lips had drawn back from her teeth as she struggled to breathe – as if her skull was already showing from her skin – and Victoria could hear each silted exhalation from the door of the room.

There was a single nurse sitting vigil in the chamber – Victoria was simply relieved that her mother wasn’t there in that moment – and she waved away her clumsy curtsy and confused “Your Majesty?” with a gesture, granting her leave to depart. Flora showed no sign of noticing either the movement nor the sound, and Victoria shamefully felt a moment’s hope that she would remain sleeping, so that she would not have to . . .

But Victoria closed her eyes against her unforgivably feckless nature, and summoned her courage.

“Lady Flora?” her voice sounded hesitant to her own ears – a little girl’s voice in every timbre – and so she repeated again with more strength: “Lady Flora, are you awake?”

Bleary eyes blinked, as if rousing from some far away place, and slowly focused. When they did, Victoria thought that she saw them gleam.

She swallowed to wet her far too dry throat, and came closer to the bed. “Lady Flora, I am sorry to find you in ill health.” She painted on her brightest smile, yet felt ridiculous for the expression. Her hands fluttered like anxious sparrows by her side, and, just as unnerved, she found herself rambling: “If there is anything we can do for your present relief, you must let us know. Would beef tea suffice? Or – oh, or peaches, perhaps? We have peaches fresh from the hothouses, and I am certain that they shall tempt you back to health. If you wish, I may - ”

- but Flora raised a hand, and – as if she was the subject to her sovereign – Victoria immediately fell silent. “Enough,” the dying woman (for she was dying, wasn’t she?) rasped. “I am . . . beyond the aid of peaches.”

Even so: “Don’t say that,” Victoria whispered. “I am sure that, with rest and good care, you will soon be on your feet again. Once you are well enough to travel, we may all go to Windsor – and then, only see how well you will recover in the country.”

Flora merely looked at her – in much the same way she ever did when she felt that she was being particularly ignorant or foolish. Yet the familiarity of that expression had lost all its want for guidance. “I am going to a better place,” finally, she managed to force from between her teeth. She tapped the Bible that Victoria hadn’t even realized she’d been holding close to her chest, just visible underneath the bedsheets.

A long, awful silence then fell. Flora’s breathing sounded like twin bellows, choked by smoke and yet sodden as the murky bottom of a river, all at once. Seizing her bravery, Victoria took the chance that she had to say: “I have wronged you,” in a voice that trembled, if only at the edges. “I know that now . . . and so, I have come to apologize.”

Yet Lady Flora gave a wet, scoffing sound. “Only God can forgive you,” came her swift judgment – and, for the stridency of her words, she began to cough anew. One agonized hand came down to clasp at her swollen midsection for the force of the action as her body failed her in every possible regard.

Victoria felt as if she'd been slapped. “And I intend to seek his forgiveness as well,” she said, perhaps too sharply, before she pushed her own feelings aside to continue, “I believed something that wasn’t true because I wanted to.” For that was the truth of the matter, was it not? “In doing so, I have done you a great injustice. I regret that now . . . I regret my actions most dearly.”

Flora sank back against her pillows, and closed her eyes. Victoria nearly feared that she would never open them again.

Yet Victoria waited, and, finally, Flora managed with her last reserves of strength: “Your subjects are not dolls to be played with.” She stared at her with such intensity that, for a single, disorienting moment, Victoria believed that she spoke with the voice of the Almighty himself. “To be a queen, you must be more than a little girl wearing a crown.”

The effort of those words was clearly too much. Flora wilted, her breath wheezing from her mouth in wretched, haggard gasps.

Victoria could only stand there – staring as Flora's body warred with her spirit, with the weak flesh struggling to constrain the departure of her intangible self. Her eyes burned, but, this time, she felt no shame for her tears, and let them fall.

Wordlessly – for she would not ask a second time for what Lady Flora had refused to grant with the first – Victoria closed the scant distance remaining between them. She fell to her knees by the bed, and humbled herself by reaching out to clasp and kiss Flora's hand, just as devotedly as her own lords had paid their homage only days ago.

Yet Flora's hand felt cold and heavy, as if the soul that warmed and animated the body was already half beyond the veil – but that did not matter. In answer, she held on all the more tightly, imparting what she could of her own warmth and vitality. Tenderly, she pressed her brow to the back of her knuckles, and then stood, her every last emotion entirely spent.

When she looked down again, Lady Flora's eyes were closed, even though her chest continued to rise and fall in trembling shudders of breath.

Putting her hand up before her mouth to forestall a sob, Victoria somehow backed from the bed without stumbling, and left the sickroom behind.



TBC


~ MJ

 

Aw, thank you so much! I absolutely adored writing this chapter, and I am so happy to know that you enjoyed reading it, as well.

He is most definitely Victoria's number one fan.

Because that is so much more important than the gossips and the social pages, it's true! It's a whole wide world out there, and the United Kingdom at this time had an incredibly strong bearing on so many other countries - which made a strong government all the more imperative to strive for. (And that adds even more weight to Victoria's shoulders - and Melbourne's too; their missteps - and their victories - are felt by many rather than a few.)

I took particular delight in writing that scene with Wellington, I must confess - and, needless to say, the Iron Duke is going to have quite the part to play in the stories to come.

It really is.

Victoria may not feel like it, but she displayed true courage and strength in admitting how she'd wronged Flora (especially when Flora is incapable of seeing the abuses she inflicted in her turn) and seeking to make amends. She truly humbled herself without any reservation, and I was so, so proud of her in that scene. Needless to say, that chapter was a joy for me to write, and I am so happy that it read as well to you.



Alrighty then! I will be back with the next chapter after a last bit of editing.