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

Author's Notes: So, dear readers, I ran into a bit of a quandary when editing the final part of this story. All together, this chapter totaled ~16k words. Now, that's quite a monster to post in one go, even by my standards. My chapters for Sta et Retine have averaged about 10.5k words each, and I didn't much like the dissymmetry of 16k, or breaking that 16k into 9k and 7k, respectively, as the scenes would naturally divide. But, putting in a pause does work better thematically, for pacing between a few very heavy scenes, so I ultimately decided to break this mammoth finale in two - even if that makes for two somewhat shorter chapters (relatively speaking, of course, I know ) compared to the rest of the fic.

That said, the good news is that I already have the concluding chapter entirely written, and I plan on posting it Friday, so you won't have to wait long! I'm really inspired to write for a few of the 2024 Olympic prompts next, to honor both the inception of this thread and its approaching one year anniversary - hence the wee bit of haste on my part. Yet I figured that no one here would mind.

So, without further ado, I thank you all for reading and hope that you enjoy. Needless to say, this chapter is near and dear to my heart for . . . reasons. You'll soon see why.



(Also, also - this chapter includes more lines of Daisy Goodwin's dialogue than I usually prefer to use, even if I've heavily remixed her scenes to be more like distant cousins to the originals. But, as always: all credit goes where credit is due to our true ship captain; long may our flag fly. )

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

VII.II.VIII.

Worth

Crowds gathered to watch Lady Flora’s cortège pass through the streets of London.

The progress of the hearse, pulled by six gleaming black horses from the royal stables, was met with the deepest respect as men doffed their hats and women bowed their heads, holding their children silent and still. Her people grieved for a woman whose name they had not even known a fortnight prior, but maintained as innocent, and their outpouring of solidarity pierced the still smoldering ruin of her own regret as she observed the procession from her window.

The next morning saw the dawn finally break from the shackling mire of storm clouds, and, this time, the promise of blue skies seemed there to stay. Yet, no matter the happy reprieve of the much-anticipated summer sun, Victoria couldn’t countenance the idea of riding out – not after The Times’ latest sketch, which featured that same mean caricature of her, this time stealing flowers from Lady Flora’s grave. Lord Melbourne stood beside her in the cartoon, looking weary to the point of enervation as he halfheartedly advised that a queen should be gracious in all things – as if he was some ineffectual and overly indulgent parent, rather than her prime minister and foremost advisor concerning the affairs of the realm.

The picture wounded all the more so for the knowledge that she'd heaped yet another indignity upon Melbourne’s already checkered name (with the mud not at all sticking where it ought to have stuck), especially when she alone knew that he had advised caution, only for her to ignore his wisdom and forge on recklessly ahead, regardless. It tormented her, knowing that it wasn’t merely her own reputation that she’d tarnished – but his as well.

Yet, no matter how cruel the japes nor how snide the editors’ comments, she couldn’t bring herself to avoid the papers entirely. Morbidly, she turned to them, baring her face as they continued to pelt her with stones, day in and day out.

That morning, the article beneath the headline praised the tender heart of her mother for nursing Lady Flora through her last days on earth. The Duchess of Kent was lauded as the pinnacle of feminine grace – a beneficent Madonna whom all women should exemplify – for faithfully honoring her attendant to the very end. Only then – when the article suggested (scolded) that Her Majesty could learn much from the queen mother – did Victoria clench the delicate newsprint in hand, with the pitiless words blurring as her eyes burned with frustration and resentment (and pain, such pain).

She still had yet to speak to her mother since their quarrel, although she expected she would soon have to, with no excuse left remaining to bind the duchess to the northern wing. The previous evening, Victoria had gone so far as to extend a formal invitation to dine – no matter that such an invitation was hardly necessary, not when the duchess' place at the royal table was ever assumed – only for her mother to decline the honor outright, claiming an indisposition of spirits.

Now, Victoria sat in a vast pool of sunlight, listlessly plodding away at the piano in her morning room. Yet she failed to apply herself to the music with any sort of fidelity, and, finally, when she struck yet another discordant note, she decided that enough was enough. Closing the piano lid with a satisfying thud of lacquered wood against protesting ivory, she stood, her course fixed in mind.

She had not deigned to enter her mother’s apartments since their first arrival at Buckingham. It was a substantial walk from the rooms she favored for her own use, hidden out of sight and out of mind in the oldest wing of the palace, far and away from the resident chambers of state. Here, the carpets underfoot, while still intricate and rich, had begun to thin, and the furniture was outdated – heavy and ornamental, as George IV had preferred, with the gilt wanting for shine and the velvet brocades dulling with the passage of time. The sight, which had been entirely satisfying when they first removed from Kensington, now filled her with an unwelcome pang of guilt – especially when she considered how she’d ignored her mother’s requests for funds and permission to update her rooms for months now.

But there was nothing to be done for the duchess’ living situation at present – and a part of her yet refused to invest in any sort of comforts that Sir John too would enjoy – and so, she marched resolutely on.

In the end, Victoria gave her mother no chance to refuse an audience. Instead, she waved the startled footmen aside and strode into the sitting room through the already open doors, entirely unannounced. She looked and found the duchess alone (with Lady Flora’s usual place now vacant), sitting on a rose-gold canapé sofa, an embroidery hoop held in hand that she plied with deft, unfaltering swipes of her needle.

“Mother,” Victoria greeted, her voice strong. The duchess did not stand, nor did she lift her gaze in welcome, not even when her shadow cut across the plane of her needlepoint, cast from the brilliant light of the windows framing the dominant wall of the room just beyond.

Instead: “Victoria,” her mother acknowledged her presence with the smallest of nods.

That name, she was displeased to note, filled her with a pang of its own – she'd never thought that she’d wish to hear Drina from her mother’s mouth again (oh, but how she despised that name), and yet . . .

Well, never mind that.

“You were missed at dinner last night,” Victoria pushed on, keeping her voice blithely pleasant only through a concentrated force of will. “I was concerned, and thus wish to inquire of your health.”

Still, her mother was unmoved. “Your Majesty is all kindness.”

Was that a subtle note of scorn in those dulcet syllables? Victoria could not be certain, but she felt each tiny blow as they landed, even so.

There was nothing to do but be direct, then. Steeling her heart, Victoria said: “I want to express my condolences for your loss. I know how much you cared for . . . for your lady.”

And didn't that remain a wound all its own?

“Indeed, I cared for her.” Victoria watched as her mother drew in a sharp breath, before exhaling again. The delicately arranged ringlets around her face trembled, then stilled. “I have found so few loyal companions in this country since your father passed. You cannot understand the depths of my loss.”

“No, I cannot understand . . . not exactly,” her voice was small (too small) to agree, “but I grieve for your grief, even so.”

“Do you?” her mother's challenge was cold. In her hand, the needle refused to be swayed from its purpose as it picked out an intricate border of winding green vines, surrounding tiny yellow flowers, newly in bloom.

“Of course I do,” Victoria replied, quick as a flinch. “We may have had our differences,” for the injustice of that all but forgotten truth yet rankled, and would continue to asperate in silence, “but that does not mean I ever wished for Lady Flora to - ”

“ - how dare you speak her name!” her mother exclaimed, interrupting her fruitless platitudes with an abrupt burst of fury. She slammed her embroidery hoop down on the sofa with a dull thud, but the unexpected violence of the action clapped in her ears like cannon fire. “You do not deserve that honor, not when it’s your fault she’s dead.”

Victoria could not have been more stunned if her mother had stood and slapped her. The blood drained from her face, and her hands half raised from her sides in a useless gesture, as if to ward off the approach of an arrow that had already flown. Her mouth worked – once, twice, and then a third time – but she could make no sound for the way her mother’s hot eyes continued to glare at her from beneath furrowed brows.

“Mama, Lady Flo-she was very sick,” Victoria found what she could of her voice – hating that she sounded like that cowed little girl from Kensington all over again. “She had cancer; there was nothing I nor anyone could do to - ”

“ - cancer? She died of shame,” her mother refused to extend even the slightest absolution. “She could not bear the humiliation you inflicted upon her, and faded before her time.”

“But, Mama, I did not mean to - ”

“You drove her to her death.”

“I apologized!” an edge of desperation propelled her words, breaking on a tormented burst of sound. Again, her hands moved, uselessly fluttering before her.

Yet her mother’s judgement fell like the swing of an axe: “And you think that is enough?” She shook her head, incredulous. “You think that you may treat another human being so cruelly, and then merely say that you are sorry, like a child who has broken a glass?”

“Of course it’s not the same, but it was all I could do after - ”

“You cannot be both a foolish little girl and a queen,” her mother scathed. “It is time for you to grow up, Victoria – more than time.”

Yet those words assailed her for their truth as much as they agitated her already smarting regrets. No, she most certainly could not be a weak little girl any longer, not when she was also a sovereign queen regnant – that alone was an indelible fact. Grappling against herself, she relaxed her shoulders, and let her arms fall back to her sides; determinedly, she lifted her chin.

“I had a reasonable suspicion,” Victoria stated, and though her voice was not as strong as she'd prefer, neither did it tremble. “I was within my rights to pursue that suspicion.”

“No, you had a ridiculous suspicion – one that I told you was quite impossible.” Her mother blew out a disdainful huff. “Yet, instead of listening to the wisdom of your elders, you forged on carelessly ahead. And it wasn’t only my poor Flora that you accused, but Sir John as well. You owe him an apology, more so than anyone yet living, for he too is just as innocent!”

It was as if hoarfrost had been set in her veins. In answer to the icy fury that suddenly filled her, Victoria let her gaze harden as she drew herself up to her full height. She fought not to gnash her teeth like some feral creature, even as she bit out: “Sir John may be innocent of this crime, but he has been guilty of far worse.”

Her mother replied with no less emotion: “This again? I do not understand the animosity you hold for the man who has been like a father to you. Without Sir John, we would have been – you most certainly would not be where you are now. And, if you’d allow him, he'd ensure you go yet further still.”

Yes, as far as a regency, Victoria knew, but didn't bother to retort aloud – with her crown held in thrall to the will of another and the hand on her scepter eternally bound and made useless. But her mother saw no betrayal in so easily giving away her birthright and sundering her sovereignty – in keeping her as some useless doll whose only worth would be in submitting to the bars of her gilded cage and bearing the next true king from her blood like some gold-crowned broodmare. Even worse was that her mother truly believed such a bleak fate to be in her best interests, if only because she had been told that same lie by that man for so long and for so often that she had naught left of the ability to think for herself. She could no longer exist on her own – not anymore, not when she had already so happily handed over her strings and submitted to be puppeted by the likes of him.

Not for the first time, Victoria wished Sir John far from her court and her life – and her mother’s life, too. She wanted to reach out and shake her mother – to cry that, without Sir John, she would have been free from the unnatural restraints of her childhood. She would have been free to skip and leap and run, to fall down and get back up again – to learn how to pull herself back up again through experiencing a child’s natural hurts and griefs, rather than the devastating wounds of spirit that had since become her character’s every chisel and mould.

She would have been free to learn with abandon, to fill her mind with the wisdom of a proper education and exercise the furthest reaches of her conscious self. She could have absorbed the laws of the realm and the Constitution that formed the great cornerstones of their empire, instead of being forced to make do with the merest scraps of knowledge she’d been allowed to glean when it came to the art of governing.

She would have been free to truly explore the country that she was to someday rule, and meet the people she'd dedicate her life to serve. She could have better understood their wants and needs already, and they too could have known her in return. She would have been free to attend the courts of her uncles, to stand by the side of William IV as his heir in preparation for assuming one of the greatest privileges (burdens) known to mankind as queen of the most powerful nation on earth. Just as she would have been free to -

. . . just as she would have been free to have a mother that truly loved her, first and foremost, above all else.

Yet Victoria was struck mute with that yet unspeakable hurt, and, in her lapse, her mother seized the opportunity to continue: “Now, you see fit to repay Sir John's years of unselfish kindness with this slander? Look at you – but this is not how I raised my daughter to be.”

But she could not stay mute for how that last spear shattered the sense of numbness that had overtaken her. “No," Victoria agreed darkly, "you did not raise me to be the woman I am today. You locked me in a cage at Kensington, and you would have kept me caged if you had your way. You raised me to be meek and ignorant and blindly obedient, content to be used by that man for his advancement – not my own.”

“Drina, please,” the duchess cast her eyes heavenward, as if too weary to endure yet another unfounded outburst from her daughter, but Victoria felt the words pour from her now that she'd begun. She could not stop herself – she did not want to stop herself.

“I will never be able to escape Sir John’s voice in my ear, calling me stupid and weak and small," she exclaimed, wishing for her mother to finally realize the full extent of her injuries. "He has taken every opportunity to mock me for years now. How many times has he laughed at me, even when you could hear? And, Mama," her voice broke, even as she forced herself to continue, "you always laughed with him.”

“Victoria,” yet her mother merely stared into the open, bleeding center of her weeping heart, and sighed. “Enough – I cannot bear another one of your fits, not right now.”

Yet Victoria had come too far, and she refused to be forced to silence (she would never be silenced again). “Ever since I can remember, you've looked to him first, then to me!”

To her horror, her words caught against the threat of a wail, no matter her most strident efforts to maintain her composure. She pressed a hand against her chest, clenching against the lace of her bodice, willing for her mother to look and truly see her grief – to truly see her as she stood before her.

“Why don't you love me as you love him?”

The words were torn from the depths of her spirit – agonized and desperate and raw – yet the Duchess of Kent only furrowed her brow in a complete inability (unwillingness) to understand her pain for the part she'd played (and yet continued to play) in its inception and ongoing infliction.

“What is this drivel?” Instead, her mother held up a hand as if to physically forestall her (or her words) from coming any closer. “Ever since your ascension – no, ever since you took that man as your counselor – you have not been yourself.” She doubled down on the comfort of her own illusions. “I do not recognize you as the girl I raised . . . you are not my Drina, not anymore.”

“No, I'm not,” Victoria’s closed her eyes to elucidate, one last time. “You raised me to be that girl only . . . but I cannot be a child any longer. I have to be Queen instead.”

“And what a wonderful job you have done thus far, Your Majesty.”

Yet her mother’s words had lost their ability to draw blood. Victoria shook her head, disbelief and the searing burn of rejection still fissuring from a boiling fount in her veins, but she somehow managed to compose herself. She didn’t bother wiping her eyes (let her mother see her tears) as she stated in a firm, if dull, voice: “Whether you believe me sincere or not, please accept my condolences for your loss. I bid you a good day.”

The duchess did not acknowledge either her words nor their sentiment as she turned for her embroidery hoop. Pointedly, she resumed her stitching, and although Victoria had announced her own intention to depart, she felt the greater dismissal in her mother’s actions.

Yet, in spite of herself, she lingered for a heartbeat longer. She so dearly wanted her mother to look up and call her back to her side (to tell her that everything was going to be all right, that she understood and shared her grief and would do everything in her power to make it right). There was a thick grey mist billowing between them, it seemed, obscuring one from the sight of the other, but she so fervently (fruitlessly) wanted her mother to break through that mist and find her.

. . . what was even worse was that she could feel a ghosting embrace through the fog – an old memory come to life – and the scent of rose water perfume filled her nose with its revenant so strongly that she swayed in answer to its presence.

Her mother did not look up again, but her needle stilled in her hand, as if she too felt that same tug on the thin, fraying cord that yet bound them and would ever bind them together. Victoria held her breath, despite her higher sense already knowing how their audience would end, hoping . . .

. . . but the needle fell, and her heart sank with it.

Victoria quit the room, feeling like a sleepwalker in a dream. Only then, in the blind solitude of the forgotten corridor beyond, did she at last allow herself to weep.



.

.

The morning dawned bright and clear a second day through, with not a single cloud to be found above the haze that ever clung to the skyline of London. The sunlight peeked into his library like a tired old friend, illuminating the corners of the shelves and shining across the spines of the books he'd neglected as of late. Here, the silence was peaceful as the longcase clock ticked out a steady cadence and the birds seemingly sang in time to its rhythm. There was no minister asking for but a little of this, nor lord inquiring for just a moment of that – no snide smiles nor rude snickers nor aborted half-whispers – and William was happy to indulge in what a repose he could for as long as it was his to indulge.

Towards that end, he took the morning for himself. He’d been all too content to keep the curtains drawn and awaken naturally, at a far more civilized hour after such a late night spent dining with the Earl of Spencer. Now, he sat alone in his dressing gown and drank coffee at his leisure. It did not always signify, but he held that, along with the change in the weather, all else would soon be well. Should the sunlight continue to hold, the fields would dry, and the farmers would quiet; with contented farmers, the banks and tradesmen and lawmakers would calm in turn; and, with the prospect of full bellies and full purses, so too would public scrutiny on their queen ease to give way for the next scintillating story when it came. With Lady Flora having gone to her peace – and he did truly hope that she was at peace – they could pick up and carry on once more, and let time cure all the rest.

As such, he put that day’s papers aside in favor of opening a book of Saint Chrysostom’s homilies, no matter that his attention was admittedly diverted from the words on the page. He was far more inclined to close his eyes and soak in the sunshine, the book lying open but unread against his chest, content to simply exist in the unassuming nothingness of the moment.

But, as was so often proved true as of late, the moment did not last.

“My lord,” he heard from the doorway. William opened his eyes to see his butler, standing with a letter on a silver salver. “From the palace.”

Somewhat drowsily, William blinked, but dutifully sat upright in his old leather armchair. He took the letter with a nod of acknowledgment, half expecting a missive from Victoria – as he’d had to beg off attending her at the palace several times over the last fortnight, no matter her summons to the contrary – but was instead surprised to see Emma’s usually graceful hand dashed upon the direction. Instantly, his spine straightened as he leaned forward, fully alert.

W,

Her Majesty has locked herself in her bedchamber and refuses to admit anyone. Yet she will undoubtedly make an exception for you. Yet I suspect that she may speak to you. There is the inspection of the troops this afternoon and I fear that she means not to attend. Please come.

E​

William sighed – a sound loosed from the depths of his lungs – and ran a hand over his stubbled face and back through the unruly curls of his hair. Stalwartly, he set his book down and stood.

Richards – canny as the butler ever was – said: “Baines is ready with the shaving water, sir.”

“Thank you,” William dredged up a wry expression, acknowledging the shrewd efficiency of his household, then as much as ever.

“And the blue frock coat, perhaps?” the butler continued – for William had favored the garment often as of late, if simply because Victoria did as well. It seemed that his preference had not gone unnoticed.

William narrowed his eyes, wondering if that had been the merest flicker of a smile about Richards' mouth – but the old servant was far too well-mannered for that.

So, he merely rolled his shoulders and conceded, “Why not? It shall do as well as any other.”

By the time he departed from Dover House, the bells were chiming the noon hour. On the Mall, the tall plane trees were draped with celebratory banners, striped with red and white and blue. Stands had gone up for spectators in Horse Guards Parade to attend the spectacle of the inspection, and crowds were already gathering to claim the choicest spots along the route from the palace. Yet William could not help but notice that there were far too few bonnets milling amongst the throngs – and there were fewer children still. Women and children, he knew, often proved the difference between loyal subjects turning out to cheer their queen and a querulous mob that could be purchased by the highest bidder.

He frowned, wondering if Cumberland would stoop so low – the princely duke was certainly capable of such, but he hardly had need to open his purse for how the press and the greater public was currently gorging on the carrion of Victoria’s reputation. Perhaps it was cynical of him, but William maintained that the masses as a whole enjoyed a tragedy far more so than any triumph. They were ever poised to tear down, and with a brick in the foundation of their new queen’s character thus loosened, they were cheerfully content to jostle and pry further still – and so would their hunger remain until the next headline came and distracted their appetites with the promise of fresh blood.

For the anger of the greater number would begin to ebb once the scandal lost its luster – much the same as it ever did. Come the start of the season, and further chances for Victoria to prove herself a capable monarch once the work of government resumed along with the workings of high society, whispers about her competency would undoubtedly fade with all proof presented to the contrary. Until then, there was naught to be done but soldier on and endure.

Yet it was taxing, such endurance – that even William could admit. What was nearly as frustrating as the more dangerous whispers, suggesting a regency, were the growing murmurs – and shockingly bold-faced demands – that urged Her Majesty to turn her thoughts towards marriage without delay. More than one headline entreated her as such, for both the good of her own health as well as the security of the realm. Marriage and motherhood were still believed by the masses to cure the worst of such natural feminine hysteria, and even the queen herself was not free from such base, uneducated suppositions. William had clenched his jaw for more than a few of those articles, roused on her behalf in a way he hadn't felt since the earliest days of Caroline’s increasingly public attempts to recapture Byron’s affections, ignited by the cruelly slanderous tongues that had reveled to opine on a matter that was, quite frankly, none of their concern. Not in the slightest.

It didn’t matter that anyone who spent but half a moment with Victoria would be left in no doubt of her soundness of mind – such firsthand evidence was simply not possible for the majority of her subjects. As such, these public appearances were absolutely crucial to maintain – critical, even – and especially now, more so than ever. If she wished for the gossip to fade, their queen had to be seen carrying on as usual, no matter what – just the same as one would endeavor to choke a fire without any further fuel to feed its hot and hungry belly.

Now, for the very real possibility that Victoria intended to miss her first public appearance since Lady Flora’s death . . .

It did not bode well – not in the slightest – but then, William reminded himself, neither was the course of the day fixed in stone. There was still time aplenty to encourage an outcome for the better.

The crowds around the gates of Buckingham Palace were especially thick, even more so than could typically be found – and already they rippled with discontented murmurs. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to be admitted by the guards, who were even more thorough than usual, but, once he alighted in the courtyard, Emma was already waiting for him atop the central staircase leading into the palace. He was surprised to see her there, and even more concerned to note the transparent way she displayed her anxiety in her restless pacing and the unsettled line of her mouth.

“William, thank God you’re here,” Emma breathed, her voice rushing like a white rapid over river stones. Without any further preamble, she turned back inside, clearly expecting him to follow.

“She has locked the door, and refuses to answer for anyone," she informed him as they passed through the grand foyer. "Dash barks when we knock, but she does not . . .”

Emma swallowed as she came to a stop, as if hearing the emotion in her voice and seeking to constrain it. For his part, William tilted his head for the fervency of her care, which was, at first, perhaps more than would first be expected between a lady and her queen – not that he was surprised, of course. Victoria could not help but endear herself to others, and he empathized with the roused state of Emma’s loyalties in their entirety.

Emma drew in a breath, ruthlessly summoning her composure, and William took the opportunity to reach out and press her hand. “Do not fret,” he said. “All will be well.”

She merely nodded. “Come now,” she returned the pressure of his touch for the briefest moment before pulling away – cool and sharp and collected once more. “With haste, William.”

They had nearly ascended the great marble staircase when, upon the second landing, they were intercepted by a figure coming down in the opposite direction. Of all those who dwelled within the palace, William had to bite back a sigh to see Sir John – little as he intended to humor the man when he had far more pressing concerns to attend.

It should have been dependent upon the knight to bow and yield the way before any viscount or baroness – let alone the prime minister and one of the queen’s favored-most ladies-in-waiting – but Conroy gracelessly stopped in the middle of the lowest step of the last flight, barring their way.

“I suppose that you are here for Her Majesty,” Sir John remarked with galling informality, “I do wish you luck – for I am told that Drina refuses all company at present.”

William merely stared, pointedly refusing to step around the other man and very much tempted to call the guard over outright – but, after a long, insolent moment, Sir John at last relented. Even so, his voice followed them up the staircase like an oily plume of smoke, polluting the air above: “I hope her indisposition does not last. It would be a pity if she were to miss the inspection. People might think there is something . . . wrong.”

He had to consciously release a breath in order to maintain his silence – utterly unwilling to grant Sir John the reaction he sought. Only then, when they were safely in the corridor leading to the state rooms, did Emma mutter, “I truly despise that man.”

“You will not have to for much longer,” William promised, and that vow was just as satisfying to voice as it soon would be to act upon.

“Good,” Emma nodded with vengeful satisfaction, and that was all that could be said before they were admitted through the gold embossed double doors that formed the anteroom before Victoria’s bedchamber. Within, the queen’s ladies and a gaggle of maids (each one unerringly aware of the time) fluttered about anxiously, clearly in want for action, yet forced to wait upon the queen's pleasure. Even Lord Alfred looked troubled, no matter that the equerry noticeably relaxed when he saw him approach with Emma, and a cautiously hopeful expression eased his features instead.

Presiding over them all, Baroness Lehzen stood guard at the door leading to the inner room, stalking like a sentry wolf before the young in her den. William approached her as such, doffing his top hat and bowing as low as he would to a much higher-ranking peeress out of the sincerest respect.

“Her Majesty is quite well, no matter what anyone else would like to say,” before he could speak a word, Lehzen attacked, wasting no time with pleasantries. She cast a sharp glance over the gathered attendants, her rebuke pointed. “This is all a great fuss being made over nothing.”

“I am sure that you are right,” William agreed. “After all, you know Her Majesty better than anyone.” His statement pleased her, yet she did not move to give way in the slightest. “However, perhaps you would permit me to try? I shall do so only if you are in agreement, but I do hope for your accord, Baroness.”

Lehzen hesitated, and it perhaps spoke more to the depths of her concern for her former charge, rather than her trust in him, that she finally took the smallest step to the side. “I shall be standing right here at the door,” nonetheless, she warned in lieu of voicing her concession aloud.

“But of course,” William bowed easily, “where else should you be?”

They each traded a long look, and there: they were understood.

Doing his best to ignore the eyes that followed his every move – and just as closely listened to his every word – he knocked against the gilded mahogany door.

“If it pleases Your Majesty, may I presume upon but a moment of your time?”

A long heartbeat passed, then another, yet he heard no reply – not in spoken answer nor in movement within. He was about to raise his hand and try a second attempt when the lock unlatched, and the door cracked open. There was a soft sound, almost wholly absorbed by the thick carpets, but nothing more. It was dark when he looked inside, with the curtains yet drawn against the daylight and no candles lit to hold back the gloom.

William glanced at the baroness, a brow raised in question – truly uncertain as he was for how to proceed. Lehzen was clearly unhappy – so much so that he nearly resigned himself to her barring the way between them – all before she sighed in consent, and sharply gestured for him to step within.

He did so, and the long block of light from the antechamber receded on a sharp angle before disappearing entirely. With a click, the door shut behind him. Inside the room, the heavy curtains were indeed drawn – but, although the dark was enough to obscure the sight of the crowds, ever growing beyond the gates, they were not enough to entirely block their sound. They buzzed like a roused swarm of hornets, muttering in the distance; already, they carried a sting.

As for herself, Victoria was only just visible in the faint light, diffusing through the drapery. She wore a fringed paisley shawl over the lacy white froth of her nightgown, and her hair was bound in a single thick braid down her back, still disturbed from a restless night’s sleep. Even in the shadows, there were dark circles about her eyes, and her skin gleamed wraith-like and pale in contrast. She looked at once younger than he’d ever seen her, and yet painfully beyond her years.

Dash, at least, was most pleased for his arrival, and William was glad for the moment's distraction of kneeling and petting the spaniel in welcome. Yet the sight of her dog's joy failed to move Victoria as it normally would. Instead, she returned to her window seat, all without speaking a word. She sat, drawing her legs up to her chest and wrapping a single arm around her knees. With her opposite hand, she peeked out from a sliver in the curtains, inviting a warm beam of light to cut across her figure in a single glowing stripe. On the cushion next to her, he saw a collection of newspaper clippings – and he well recognized the articles contained within.

Hesitantly, he lingered by the door – what he wanted and even instinctively felt that he must do warring with what he perhaps ought not to do. The intimacy of the situation was hardly lost upon him – not in the slightest – nor was its inherent impropriety. If the papers were ruthless now, when they had only the scavenged bone of an honest misstep to gnaw upon, he could only imagine the delighted vitriol they would spill upon the morrow if they caught even a whisper of this audience – this audience, he firmly reminded himself, for that was just what it was, and nothing more.

Yet, William confronted his own uncertainty, the societal strictures of morality had no place in that moment but for the appearance of the thing, rather than the thing itself. More importantly, hadn’t he only just sworn life and limb and earthly worship to his queen? And so he had sworn since the very first time he'd knelt and kissed her hand at Kensington. (Even more distantly, abstractly, he felt as if he'd been waiting to serve her all his life.) As such, he allowed only thoughts of Her Majesty's need to govern as he walked further into her bedchamber.

“May I?” Towards that end, he stood before the window seat and asked permission to move the clippings aside.

Victoria nodded, if slightly, and he placed the newspapers on the nearest table in order to sit next to her. Adhering to what he yet could of propriety's diktats, he put as much space between them as the bench allowed - which was ultimately little more than a hand's breadth. (It felt yet closer still.) Dash jumped up between them to claim even that small gap, and settled in, loyally resting his head and forepaws on Victoria’s stockinged feet with a long canine sigh. In his eyes, at least, all was right in his little world – or, if it was not, soon would be.

William hadn't needed to search for words with his queen through the entirety of their acquaintance, but found that he did so then. Victoria, even more concerningly, was just as mute. (She, who was always liveliness and life and light.) So, he decided that he would start with the most obvious tack, and proceed from there. “I regret to hear of Your Majesty’s indisposition,” he said softly. “However, it is a beautiful day out; perhaps the sunshine shall prove the best tonic for any ailment?”

Yet Victoria maintained her silence as she stared between the curtains. Almost compulsively, she stroked Dash’s silky fur with her opposite hand, wordlessly seeking out the tactile reassurance of touch.

“The regiment in full fig is a fine sight – one that you've always found quite pleasing. It may just be worth the effort to attend,” he continued. “I hope that you are well enough to do so.”

Victoria blinked, and the small gesture read as a flinch. “How can I?” she whispered, and in that too, much was spoken with so very little.

“Oh, rather easily, ma’am – simply by placing one foot in front of the other.”

Yet Victoria was in no mood to be distracted by humor. Instead, her frown deepened as she gestured to the papers he’d displaced. “Have you seen these?”

“I have, yes,” he admitted. And yet: “But they do not matter.”

They could not matter.

That, at least, won a stronger reaction from his queen. “What do you mean they do not matter?” she let the curtain fall, extinguishing the light. “I am nothing but an object of ridicule to my people – can’t you hear? They are waiting to tear me apart! They’ll not suffer me as any queen to rule over them. I am nothing more than a . . . a silly little girl wearing a crown to them, and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

A strangled noise loosed from her throat – such as he'd never heard from her before – and William had to clamp down on a sudden rise of answering emotion on her behalf. The sound broke as she swallowed back the threat of tears, desperately reaching for control, even when there was no one there to judge any such supposed weakness on her part but himself.

“I understand, ma’am,” William gentled his voice to say. “Public opinion is a fickle thing, yet it is changeable, and changeable for the better - just as you have seen it change for the worse. However, that better will not be won hiding away here; you cannot allow them to write your story for you.”

“Why should I fight them when they will write whatever they wish to write, regardless?” she replied bitterly. Yet that small bit of acrimony failed to sustain her overlong, and she lowered her head onto her knees with a sigh. “I am so tired of being strong – I do not think I can do it anymore.”

Her words should have been comical, coming from a girl of eight and ten – yet, when had she ever truly been a girl from the day of her birth? Victoria had already lived and endured far and beyond her years, and she would continue to do so all the days of her life. His heart ached for the loneliness of that thought, and he wished that he could better share the yoke of her burdens outright – or, at the very least, provide her a support to lean upon as their weight bore down, so that she did not have to stand up tall alone.

If she were any other woman, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to take her hand or place an arm about her shoulders – offering a physical assurance when words themselves wouldn't wholly serve. He felt the most intense urge to draw her to him and hold her close, shielding her from everything and everyone awaiting her beyond this room. She looked so impossibly small and soft, and he anticipated that she would fit just so tucked against him with a sense of wanting that suddenly bordered on burning. A wavy lock of rich brown hair hung loose from her braid, and it would have been so easy to reach out and twine it about his fingers, thoughtlessly toying with it as he once would have with -

- no.

But shutting that thought away was harder than it usually was, here in the hushed not-light of the one private sanctum Victoria was allowed in all the world. He attempted to tell himself that the urge was merely steeped in friendship and the sincerest regard – for it was – little as he could wholly summon the lie that his fondness for her was more paternal than platonic. Not then. Oh, but it would have been so much easier if he was simply the nursemaid that his party laughingly dubbed him to be – or even the father replacing his dead children with this one living, as was supposed by the kinder voices in the press. Instead, the truth was like a living ember, pulsing and warm, no matter his most strident efforts to extinguish it for ash: if she was any other woman . . .

But Victoria was not any other woman – and his thoughts already bordered on treasonous as it was.

“I no longer wish to be strong, Lord M,” she repeated into the silence. “I can bear it no more.”

That, at least, was a sentiment he was intimately familiar with, if in his own way. So, he drew in a breath, thinking to know what she needed to hear then as he began to speak: “I don’t believe that I ever told you, ma’am, why I removed from London just prior to your coronation – or even why I was late the night of your ball.”

Victoria stilled for his words, but he knew that she was listening – she was listening closely.

“You may not know, but I was once a father.” That truth still ached to speak, even these many years later. “I lost two girls as babes. One was stillborn, while the other . . . she lived mere hours beyond her birth.” He could still remember the exact shape and feel of that tiny, fragile bundle as he cradled her in his arms – perfect as she was for the impossibly insufficient amount of time he'd been blessed to know her (to love her) for. Yet he couldn’t manage that thought aloud, not if he wished to keep his voice. “And then, my son . . .”

William swallowed against the hot swell of grief that rose in his throat, as consuming now as it had been at its infliction as his own heart threatened to choke the breath from his lungs. Almost imperceptibly, he registered Victoria shifting closer.

“Augustus was his name," he continued, the rasp of his voice thickening. "He was diagnosed with the falling sickness at a very young age, and did not grow out of the condition as he grow. With the one malady bearing upon the other, he was what some may call feeble-minded – though I always found him quite sensible in his own right. He suffered from the most dreadful fits and seizures . . . it was agony as much as joy to love him, but love him I did – I loved him so very dearly.”

One breath followed another, marching inextricably on, and, somehow, he found the strength to say: “The night of your ball was the anniversary of his death.”

Victoria must have already deduced as much, but still, her eyes went wide. He could see the blue of their irises in the dark, absorbing what little light there was to be had in the room and keeping it as her own. She reached out, as if she would touch him, and he could have laughed for the sight if the sound wouldn’t have expressed itself as something closer to a sob, knowing that she then wished to comfort him . . . it hadn’t at all been his intension to seek comfort, but rather to give.

“Augustus didn’t like to be touched – he would fly into the most heartrending fits if we ever attempted to hold him – but, in the way of children, he was scared of storms. Only then would he accept any sort of physical comfort. It was . . . it was storming the night he died, and he let me hold his hand.” Once he began, William found himself quite unable to stop. These were memories that he had never spoken aloud before. He never could with his wife, not as Caro had been by that point. Neither had he ever made himself vulnerable enough with any other soul – not with Emily nor Emma nor Elizabeth, not even when their affair was at its height, and his grief raw and freshly burning.

“I regretted his fear, of course," his voice ghosted to admit, "but there have been few times in my life when I was as content as I was in those moments . . . sitting in the dark, and holding my boy’s hand while he trembled.”

Victoria did reach out and take his hand then, and he . . . he was too weak to resist the balm she offered for how it so warmly soothed. Her touch was soft and her fingers were slight, but there was such strength there as she anchored him – just as he hoped he anchored her in return.

. . . for he was there to anchor her, he reminded himself – as a prime minister to his sovereign, and nothing more. He had perhaps (undoubtedly) shared far too much – no premiere had ever spoken to their monarch as such, he was reasonably certain – and the veil between them was thin as a result . . . perhaps too thin. It was time to pull it back again.

“At any rate,” William cleared his throat, “I cannot describe the loss I felt when he died. I have lost many times in my life, and each loss has felt crippling on its own – let alone in their entirety.”

He meant to stop there (he absolutely must needs should have stopped there), yet he found himself adding: “I have not wanted to go on more than once. I would have called the whole of my days worthless, even, not so long ago. There have been times when I couldn't understand the point in living . . . times when I wondered what any of this is even for, when life seemingly had such endless pains to offer, as opposed to joys.”

Victoria turned her whole body to face him, and her grip on his hand tightened. “You have worth to me,” she said fiercely – and he felt those words as much as he heard them aloud.

“Oh, do not worry, ma'am,” he summoned what a wry expression he could, grappling for the role of worldly mentor once more. “I no longer feel that way – not now. Since becoming your prime minister,” yet he could not bring himself to prevaricate, no matter how his higher reason battered his sensibilities for the better caution of restraint, “and, hopefully . . . your friend, I have found a new reason to continue. And so, I shall.”

Her eyes shone in the dark – her entire figure pulsed as if with the strength of a current, and he then felt as if he could share that current to match. Why had he worried about dragging her under and pulling her down with the weight of his woes, when he instead watched her breathe – and he along with her?

Yet it was hardly beholden upon her to lift up the likes of him – not as a sovereign was beholden to a subject (and certainly not as a woman to a man) – and so he forcibly reminded himself of the true parameters of their relationship in an endeavor to return to the safety of those bounds.

So, towards that end: “You will find your stride again,” he assured. “You will regain your sense of purpose and worth, even if both seem impossible now. In the meantime, what you must do is smile and wave, and never let them see how hard it is to bear.”

Victoria drew in a long, shuddering breath, but her shoulders did not droop again. “I do not want to," she admitted, "but I will try.” Her voice was yet timorous, but held a distant, growing note of determination.

“And you shall succeed – you have the fortitude of a dozen kings combined. I know for a certainty that you are made of sterner stuff than that,” he cast a scornful glance at the papers. “The muck will always be there, yet you must not allow it to touch you.”

She reached up to wipe at her eyes, and he broke her hold on his hand only to offer her use of his handkerchief. There was no small part of him that wished to reach for her again, but William knew better (he knew better) . . . he'd already dared to cross too many lines as it was.

Instead, he stood and tilted his head and shoulders forward with all due (entirely necessary) deference. After a moment, Victoria too found her feet again, and he could not help but notice how slight she was without the discreet height of her heeled shoes or the illusory bulk of her dresses. Far too much of her true figure was implied through the fine, delicate weave of her nightgown, at that – and he drew in a breath against himself, if only to unwittingly inhale the scent of lavender from her hair.

“Thank you, Lord M,” she lifted her own head high – and there was his Glorianna, returned to light once more, “I shall do just that.”

William gave what he hoped was an encouraging (paternal, even, heaven help him) nod. “Now, may I send your ladies in? You will want to look your best for the Parade Ground - and, if I might be permitted to say, the dress uniform is most becoming upon you.”

For the first time that day, Victoria smiled.



TBC


~ MJ

 

And here's where I have to disclaim that the exact wording of Victoria's rejoinder was all Goodwin's. I just reshaped the sandcastle around her dialogue!

But that's exactly it: her mother may not think she's doing any harm, because of course she loves her daughter and only wants what's "best" for her. But she's been living in a toxic, mentally/emotionally abusive relationship in her own right for almost twenty years now. As a result, her perception of reality - and her resulting actions based on that reality - are incredibly skewed; at this point, she's incapable of seeing the devastating harm she's inflicting, and it's Victoria who suffers the most from her blinders. Their entire dynamic as mother and daughter is just heartbreaking, is all I can really say, and it's been painful to explore at times.

Aw yeah, but that's the good stuff, right? Although I do have to apologize in advance to say that this is going to be a very slow burn with oodles of mutual pining and an entire dance routine of one step forward, two steps back until I get this OTP of mine over that brink. Melbourne's too much of a self-sacrificing (gun shy) dummy intent on doing the right thing for it not to be - no matter Victoria's best efforts to the contrary.

Spoiler: This Beautiful Dummy, Feeding My Shipper Heart

Pictured: said self-sacrificing dummy in his natural habitat. (Though why is this gif so small on the boards? It's better on Pinterest.) You know that the feelings had to be intense for Melbourne to show them this openly - needless to say, Rufus Sewell did not disappoint us heartbroken fangirls up through the royal wedding and beyond. That's Albert that Victoria is walking up to in the background who's not looking at her in a sulky fit, for clarity, and this is during their courtship. I'm going to get right up to this point in the story before I go AU. Because, yep: isn't it crazy that none of this collection has been AU so far? I feel like that says it all right there.

Aw, thank you so much for your kind words again! I hope that you continue to enjoy this story as it goes.

---

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

VII.II.IX.

Dauntless

All throughout her preparations, Victoria kept the same smile fixed upon her face. She perhaps truly turned it upon Lehzen, and then Emma and Harriet and all her ladies in apology for the distress she'd caused them, and to sooth their lingering concerns, and then held the expression as she stared at herself in the looking glass, watching as she was transformed. Her dress uniform was specially designed to match that of her soldiers (with there being no feminine equivalent otherwise), with crisp navy-blue wool cut in the style of the Windsor uniform, lined with red facings and gleaming golden buttons. A hat in the martial style, with a glossy black peaked brim and proud crest of arms emblazoned on its crown, sat upon her brow, while spotless white leather gloves completed the ensemble. She knew that she looked her very best – she looked like a queen, even if she yet struggled to wholly feel like one inside.

Yet that which she felt within could not be that which she showed on the outside.

It must not.

It could not.

So, she made sure to hold her smile in place as she took up Majesty's reins and was enclosed by the Household Calvary. Together in parade formation, they proceeded through the Marble Arch, and even though she knew it would not come – not this time – she awaited the cheer that would have previously arose from her subjects in greeting. This time, there was only silence – a low, muttering silence that she thanked God did not yet give way to outright jeers. A band proceeded her through the streets, and she focused on the tempo of the brass and drums as they marched. Yet, no matter how celebratory the tune, the crowd was ill-inclined to joy; to the contrary, they seemingly simmered all the more so for the fanfare that was part and parcel with the traditional pageantry. In reply, she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, locked on the plumes of her guards’ helmets as they fluttered in the breeze. She did not look to the left nor to the right, lest a disapproving face lock on her own, and she falter.

There were no flags flying amongst the masses, unwittingly catching her eye as their bold stripes flashed – not that day. Neither were there children being held up by their parents to wave and catch a glimpse of their queen. Underneath the saddle's weight, Majesty was a skittish creature, feeling the tightly coiled anxiety in her seat and snorting to share in the turbulence of her emotions. Victoria made a point to relax her grip upon the reins, for it would not do to have her mount rear or, heaven forbid, balk outright for her own unconscious commands – not when so many were already gathered in order to pass judgment upon her as it was.

It was only half a mile to Horse Parade Ground from Buckingham Palace, but she felt every single inch of road they travelled as if it was the most vast of distances instead. With each clap of her horse's hooves, she kept to the untouchable dignity of her most tranquil mask, and held fast against the sea of reprobation that roiled from the same people who had only just made her feel so loved and certain of her place on this very path.

(She was – no matter any other emotion she may have felt at the moment – entirely determined to win them back again.)

The formal parade ground was lined with stands decorated with bunting, and already full of spectators. To the left were the families of the military and yet more soldiers still; to the right sat the politicians and members of the peerage; while, in the middle, stood the red and gold canopied royal box. There, at least, no one scorned her outright, but Victoria could feel the combined weight of their reproval closely assessing gazes bludgeon her like a siege weapon.

Her mother, she saw, sat next to Sir John Conroy (as ever), clad in full mourning dress (which did not wound her – it did not). A delicate black lace veil hung from her bonnet and obscured her face, but Victoria did not need to look to know that the duchess refused to even glance her way in return. To the right of her mother, she was startled to see her Uncle and Aunt Cumberland, sitting with her two legitimate Cousin Georges – George Cumberland and George Cambridge, respectively – though perhaps she should not have been surprised. Her uncle yet remained her heir (and he sat with his own heir, that increasingly shrewd voice in her mind whispered to warn) and such a place of honor was his due, if not a privilege he usually cared to assume for how it put him lower than her, no matter how high above others.

Victoria felt her stomach roll (precariously so), and told herself that it was simply precedence that saw the Duke of Cumberland sitting side by side with the Duchess of Kent – and not any foredooming sign of any progress being made towards a regency. It could not be.

(Please, God, but how she prayed for the chance to actually rule before being dubbed unworthy of her crown in its entirety.)

Yet her smile threatened to waver outright when, fast on the wings of that last thought, she heard: “Long live the Duchess of Kent!” loudly cheered by the crowd as she came into view. Victoria felt the rebuke as a blade lancing her side, and that cut only deepened as her mother allowed herself a beatific smile in answer, lifting her handkerchief underneath her veil to dab at her tears. Even more maddening was how Sir John nodded in like manner – loathsome man that he was, but he presumed too much – as if her people were cheering for him in extension of her mother.

Yet no one, at least, gave any such cheer for the Duke of Cumberland. That, once more, the sharply pragmatical part of her consciousness that existed separate from the greater emotion of any given moment, took note of, and she grasped what comfort from that knowledge as she could. Then – as if she was floundering for mooring against a suddenly treacherous seashore – Victoria held that comfort close to heart.

From there, however, she had little time left to further consider her would-be regents (gaolers) – nor the greater sentiment of her people as to whether they would suffer to keep her enthroned or not. Instead, Victoria held to her smile as she rode into position underneath the ceremonial arch, where she then awaited the signal to canter out to the head of the parade ground. Normally, this was a duty that she quite adored – saluting her soldiers as they filed past her for inspection, resplendent in their dress uniforms as they marched with unerring precision, but now she quite dreaded the ceremony to come. This crowd had not come to cheer their queen, after all, but to condemn her – and, what was worse, there was a part of her that felt as if she deserved their censure, and shared it in her turn.

For an awful moment, she wavered in the saddle – she even considered pleading faint entirely and returning to the palace in a wholly unbecoming bout of craven reluctance. But then, another cheer sounded for her mother, and so – imagining the look of triumph that would twist Conroy’s face if she were to turn tail and run – she dug in deep for her courage.

The signal came from the earl marshal, and Victoria spurred Majesty forward, submitting herself to the judgement of her people.

Almost immediately, a low hiss greeted her from the crowd as she took her place at the head of the neat columns of stone-still soldiers. She focused on their immovable expressions, just as they deserved from their sovereign, rather than the wholly animated faces amongst the masses, but she felt skittish and poised for flight all the while, no matter how rooted she may have appeared on the surface.

Yet her people wouldn't suffer to be ignored, and – the same as lightning crackling from a thunder cloud – that rumbling hiss grew in timbre until it became an outright boo. She could feel that sound as it reverberated in her bones, rattling against the cage of her heart. And then, one loud, male voice cried out above the din: “What about Flora Hastings?”

“What about Flora Hastings?” another echoed his challenge, and then – like razor-sharp drops of rain slicing from a deluge – that clarion call was taken up in a storm.

Still, Victoria kept her smile, no matter how it threatened to waver upon her mouth. Every instinct within her was telling her to flee, to hang her head and shy away and hide, but she held fast – she stood firm and held fast – keeping to her seat of royal dignity as queen with a stiff upper lip and a raised chin as she refused to let anyone see how she bled.

Everyone, that was, except for . . .

Oh, but how she longed to look back and catch her Lord M’s gaze in the stands! The cruel words assailing her would be all the more bearable if she could glimpse that encouraging nod he was ever ready to bestow, anchoring her determination with his own – but, in that moment, she knew better. (She knew better.) This time, it was dependent upon her to stand alone, no matter how she absorbed his strength in spirit – for its presence was ever there by her side, just waiting for her to reach out and make it her own. But then, as if deigning her thoughts from the furiously charged air, she heard "Mrs. Melbourne!" hurled from a woman’s snide, chastising voice, and fought not to flinch in response.

Ruthlessly, she bit the inside of her cheeks until she tasted blood.

And she smiled.

Finally, just when she worried that she’d reached the limits of her endurance, the band struck opening notes of the National Anthem – distracting her from the virulence of the crowd and muting their sharpest edges. In answer, the column of soldiers began to weave in and out of each other, presenting themselves to their queen and colonel-in-chief. Victoria raised her hand in an answering salute, and gave them her full attention, just as these brave men deserved.

And then, they began to sing:


“God save our gracious queen
Long live our noble queen
God save the queen
Send her victorious
Happy and glorious
Long to reign over us
God save the queen”


The deep voices of the infantry and cavalry and guards resonated – as did those faithful citizens who yet remained in the stands. (She liked to fancy that she could hear his voice sing out proudly amongst the clamor; though, of course, she could not tell one single voice from the next.) The melody provided by the band and the lyrics of the anthem fought with the still discordant tones from the crowd, and their undertow tugged at her, threatening to pull her under.

Yet, wasn’t the tide (and the sovereign moon that commanded the oceans) ever stronger than any mere current? Victoria steeled her spine, and thought of all the monarchs who'd stood here before her, and held fast to their place – to her place. Somehow, each and every one of them had endured – through thick and thin in a dynasty that spanned back nearly two thousand years – and thus, so too would she endure. She would weather this onslaught and prove herself all the stronger for her endurance, and then – perhaps then – her people would welcome her the next time she presented herself for their inspection.

When the second verse came, she heard the words like never before:


“The choicest gifts in store
On her he pleased to pour
Long may she reign
May she defend our laws
And ever give us cause
To sing with heart and voice
God save the queen”


Her arm ached from holding the salute for so long, and her mouth trembled from the effort it took to keep to such a distantly untouched expression, but she would not falter now.

She could not.

She refused.

Instead, as the singing voices grew in number – even if they remained only grudging from far too many, and battled a cacophony of sound with the continuing jeers – she heard to remember:

“You must be more than a little girl wearing a crown.”

Her hand steeled at her brow.

“You have the fortitude of a dozen kings combined – I know you are made of sterner stuff than this.”

The line of her mouth fixed firmly in place.

“The things which I have here before promised I shall perform and keep,” her own voice echoed in her ear, ringing out with sincerity and intention, “so help me God.”

Then and there, she renewed her oath deep within her heart: in the future to come, she would do everything possible to truly give her people cause to sing with heart and voice.

Until then, she was determined to smile, and never let them see how hard it was to bear.

Usually, applause and cheers followed the end of the anthem – yet such adulations were then few and far between, and mostly from the stands as a brave few clapped their hands in loyal support. The condemnation against her remained yet louder still.

. . . that was until she heard, breaking through the storm the same as a piercing ray of sunlight, a high and clear voice – that of a child’s – shout: “God save Queen Victoria!”



.

.

Victoria had not been as regal at her coronation as she was in that moment, bearing the objurgation of her people with her head held high and her gaze immovably fixed on the fulfillment of her duty.

Instead, William felt as if he was struggling not to frown – or worse, glower outright – as his anger grew. It took every ounce of his well-practiced control to keep to his own unaffected mask, knowing as he knew that, after the vultures in attendance studied their queen, they would undoubtedly turn their hungry eyes to her prime minister next.

He would never be an eroding crack in her foundation (a millstone hanging about her neck, threatening to pull her under), not if he could help it.

Yet, no matter his most determined efforts to the contrary, there was already offal aplenty to feed the scavengers – if not, he carefully observed with a politician's cool assessment, to the point of complete satiation. Though it rankled him to see Sir John’s smug little smile when the Duchess of Kent was cheered (and oh, but how he would deal with that presently), he perhaps somewhat relished the Duke of Cumberland’s contrasting expression when the crowds failed to call for him in Victoria’s stead. There would be no regency – not now, he knew, and the princely duke knew too – not based on the current tendre of the British people, no matter how vocally they may have expressed their dissatisfaction with their queen otherwise.

Sitting stone-faced in the stands, William caught the eye of the Duke of Wellington – and Arthur nodded his head only once to acknowledge the fruition of their shared efforts. That was, at least for now, one arrow blunted and shielded – the threat clattering uselessly to the dirt, where it would thence remain.

. . . or, William acknowledged with a chill of foreboding, so would that threat lie sleeping until the Duke of Cumberland found a reason (any reason) to take up arms for the crown he believed that was rightfully his again.

William let out a breath for the thought, and told himself that day would never come – not if he had any say in the matter, and, God willing, Victoria fulfilled the imminent potential of her reign in the interim.

Still, it was a task of Herculean proportions to support his queen in silence, thus honoring her dignity with that of his own. Only mere days ago, he would have said that he fought best through quiet endurance – through simply weathering the storms that raged when accusations and taunts were hurled, and laughter and whispers sounded in hushed corners – but he now found himself fighting against that one core aspect of his nature. No matter his usual preference to let constancy in actions speak louder than any spoken defense while playing the greater long game – with a deep ocean current ever outlasting the passing violence of a squall – what he usually found bearable for himself was simply intolerable on her behalf.

William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, Second of that Title, then felt the want to war like never before.

Almost inextricably, the impulse to find his feet and take a stand against the masses with a raised voice pulled at him like a moon-bound tide. He would happily meet any naysayer in the crowd and challenge them to do better with the circumstances into which Victoria had been born – and that included the would-be regents who all but salivated to assume the weight of her crown for themselves. He wanted to demand that they open their eyes to the strength and grace and glory of the woman who would do such great things for her people, but only if she was given the chance to truly reign. How was it that they could look at her and not see what he saw so clearly?

Yet, perhaps even more dangerous was the part of him that was not merely roused to defend his liege lady – his sovereign monarch and queen – as one of her sworn vassals. Instead, he dearly wished that he could meet her gaze in that moment as he, himself. He wanted to catch her eye and smile to reassure her that she was not alone – she would never be alone again, not so long as he maintained the privilege of his position in government to do so. He wanted to bolster and encourage and fortify – to assume a place by her side and stand tall for her while she stood tall for an entire nation.

(Failing that, an even deeper instinct insisted that he step out and bodily hide her away from the rabble-rousers and the ne’er-do-goods; he wanted to hold her close and shield her from the world so that she would never, ever have to know even a moment’s pain again.)

She did not deserve this, any of this; it was none of it quite fair, and the injustice of it all staggered him. But when had fate ever been known for any sort of fairness as she wove her tangled web? And no one, perhaps, knew that better than the young woman sitting regal in the courtyard, attending her duty despite the revilement of the greater number.

Glorianna, William thought, his heart full as he watched her – the brilliance of her as clear to him as sunlight on a cloudless day.

When the inspection at last concluded (it had seemed utterly interminable until the very end), he was one of the first to rise from his place in the stands. He wished to turn back for Buckingham with all immediacy, for he had no desire to leave Victoria alone for a moment longer than necessary. Yet he knew that he had a window of time before she would notice his absence – as transitioning the queen from one costume to the next always seemed to take bewilderingly long – and he intended to use that time to its fullest.

Towards that end, he found the yet still warring instinct that had banked (but never extinguished) due his ruthless restraint, and stoked it back to life. If only in this small way that he could, he picked up his sword and made to wield it on Her Majesty's behalf.

This time, William was the one to alight upon Sir John Conroy – meeting the knight’s gaze with a deceivingly genial expression while they yet remained in combined company. Although the Duchess of Kent had removed almost immediately from the royal box – her mourning wouldn’t allow anything else, no matter that William had been surprised that she'd ventured out from her apartments in the first place – Sir John yet remained. Capitalizing on the public’s support ultimately took precedence over the memory of her lady, it seemed – and she undoubtedly would have been encouraged to do so by him.

Sir John now clearly basked in the outpouring of public support for the duchess as if it was his own. He oozed satisfaction and smug superiority underneath a thin façade of grief as he received the sympathy and well-wishes of the peerage. What was even worse, at least to William's mind, was how he basked in the light that now shone on him at the detriment of two women that he was supposed to have defended as his very own, all as a part of the household he was privileged to oversee. There was nothing of a true man about Conroy then – let alone a knight sworn to chivalry and defense of the weak and innocent, at all costs – and the sight of him revolted William down to the very marrow of his being.

William was about to take the greatest pleasure in explaining, in no uncertain terms, just why these empty accolades would be the highest pinnacle he'd ever surmount from his machinations – for Sir John Conroy would never see any further advancement from the Crown than this, not in any way that truly mattered.

Towards that end: "Sir John," he invited (ordered) with a congenial expression, "may I have but a moment of your time?"

Though he rather thought that Conroy would prefer to do anything else other than follow (obey), he could hardly withhold his concession when so directly addressed by the prime minister – not when he was surrounded by a gaggle of the duchess’ potential supporters and currently presuming upon their misplaced sympathies. They then quit the stands together, and William chose a relatively private place in the alleyway behind the construct, where the crowds had never gathered. Here, the shadows were long in the late afternoon sun, and tricolored banners rippled in an attempt to obscure the bare-bone bracing of the beams that held up the royal box above. The angry rout of the masses had only grudgingly broken and dispensed once the queen departed, and any lasting remnants of their unrest sounded only far off in the distance. In the wake of their earlier fervor, the resulting quietude was almost uncanny in its stillness.

“My, my, my,” Sir John drawled with a cutting smile, refusing to give him the precedence of the first word. William merely tilted his head, allowing him the petty bit of disrespect with a patiently amused twist to the corners of his own mouth. “Today was a rather telling day for the future of the monarchy, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I believe I would,” he perhaps surprised the other man by conceding – albeit in a fashion that Conroy would never understand for himself. “Triumphs come in all shapes and sizes, but I believe that today qualified as a victory for Her Majesty in no uncertain terms.”

Sir John’s brow knit, parsing out his words for the meaning which yet eluded him, all before he finally settled to sneer: “Yours, as always, is a rather singular outlook, Lamb.”

William merely shrugged, little interested in enlightening the other if he was incapable of reasoning the point for himself. “I trust that time shall prove my opinion right; however, should it not, you will not be here to see it.”

There was nothing in the least bit insouciant about how his gaze sharpened to punctuate his words – not then, not by the least degree. Pointedly, he fixed Conroy with an exacting stare, refusing to let the viper twist free of the blade that had speared it.

Yet: “This again?” Sir John nonetheless attempted to forestall his end, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a brockish expression of displeasure. “You have no grounds to remove a member of the queen’s household. I was appointed by the Duke of Kent himself, and charged by His Royal Highness to watch over his family – which I will continue to do until told otherwise by that family, and none other.”

William could have snorted for that empty deflection – for the Duke of Kent hadn’t trusted Conroy beyond the exact bounds of his comptrollership whilst he lived, which must have been why he'd refused Conroy any true legal authority over his family beyond his paid position in the household before his death. From the first, Prince Edward had merely been employing one of his base-born daughter’s spouses in an attempt to keep part of his illegitimate family close to his lawful family, all without his newly wedded duchess understanding his aim.

Yet that was beside the point, and he wouldn't be drawn into such a useless debate with the likes of Sir John.

“That is true,” instead, William gracefully acknowledged. “Yet, as prime minister, I do have the grounds to suggest promotions to the Crown as I best see fit. On that mark, allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Sir John, on your new baronetcy. The title is one I'm sure you’ll prove the equal of.”

Sir John’s voice was flat to repeat: “A baronetcy?”

“Well, an Irish baronetcy – but a baronetcy nonetheless,” William reiterated. “Lord Ebrington awaits your call, in order to discuss the particulars of your pension and to recommend various available estates for your seat. I believe that the greater Conroy family yet hails from Roscommon, do they not? There are many delightful possibilities thereabouts, and I wish you the best in your endeavors for the county.”

No matter how pleasant the sentiments his words wrought, his tone remained as glacial as pack ice and his stare just as cutting, with no true commendation to be found. As intended, neither did Sir John take the most happy news as such. Instead: “If I were to refuse such a great kindness from the Crown,” he yet moved to hold back the forces that had pressed against him, his voice quiet with fury, "what then?"

William obligingly matching him in timbre: “That, sir,” he promised darkly, “I believe you already know.”

Sir John grimaced, before letting out a breath from between his teeth. William watched as he grappled with the blade that had pierced him, wondering if he would continue to struggle, or if he would graciously submit to the way out that had been provided for him.

There was a great part of him that admittedly wished for the former – no matter how it would complicate matters for Victoria’s already tenuous reputation as far as respect for her guardians was concerned. Yet, unfortunately, restraint and caution ultimately held sway.

“A baronetcy,” at long last, Sir John repeated, shaping the word as if it was execrable to the taste. “After all I've done for that girl, and for so many years – this is how she sees fit to repay me?”

The knight’s words would have been laughable if they weren’t so infuriating. Having always been disinclined to violence when words could just as satisfyingly wound in riposte, and even that only if silence failed to serve, he’d never much felt the urge to call another man out – not even Byron, though there were certainly times when he wouldn’t have minded smashing a fist in the poet's arrogantly smirking face. For the first time, William understood the near imperative of that need – no matter how he told himself that he was currently fighting in Victoria’s best interest, if in a way that didn’t offer the same immediate satisfaction as any more tangible a blow.

No, there was no immediate satisfaction with this course of action – nor even any true satisfaction in seeing justice done as it ought to be served – and yet, this was a cut that would most certainly linger with Sir John for far longer than any wound borne by a dueling blade. (If not a prison cell.)

All the while, the ultimate irony – not that William would ever express as much aloud – was that if Conroy had approached Victoria with honey rather than with vinegar during the years of her girlhood, he undoubtedly would have been blessed with a far greater reward than the pittance he was now paid. He never would have had any possible hand in her regency, perhaps – avariciously seeking that truly unattainable height had been his first and fatal error – but an earldom, perhaps, (mayhap even a dukedom, depending on the disposition of Parliament) would hardly have been unfit to bestow upon the quasi-father of the queen – but if only he had truly looked out for her best interests in that privileged capacity. If he had chosen to act differently, he would have had a place at court for as long as he may have wished, and attended in a place of honor as one of the queen's foremost advisors.

Indeed, if Sir John would have truly defended and guarded and guided – if he would have looked on the fatherless girl in his household with all due Christian kindness and natural tender compassion, and put aside any self-interest in ascending his own heights in order to loyally attend their queen-to-be by ensuring that she rose even higher still . . .

Well, he would have had more to show for his years than an empty title and an exile in no uncertain terms from every social circle in London of note – let alone the royal court itself.

Yet that concept was entirely beyond Sir John Conroy’s ability to comprehend. So, William plainly agreed, “It is as you say: your years of service have indeed been weighed . . . and found wanting. This reward is all your actions are deemed worth.”

In answer, Conroy had no recourse but to suck in a breath, wrath blazing in his eyes.

And wasn’t that satisfying to see in its own right?

Swiftly, he continued before Sir John could find his voice, unwilling to draw their conversation out any longer: “Her Majesty departs for Windsor tomorrow-next. You will not accompany her. You may have use of your apartments at Buckingham until your arrangements to remove from England are complete – but, if you are still here when the queen returns at summer's end, I will be forced to take more immediate and decisive action, baronetcy or no baronetcy. I trust that I have made myself clear?”

For a long moment, he thought that Conroy would protest, until: “Utterly,” Sir John chipped out from between his teeth.

“What was that?” William challenged, unwilling to accept any more of the other man's blatant disrespect. “I couldn’t quite hear.”

“Yes," the edge of that single word could have cut through glass, "Your Lordship.”

“Excellent,” William coldly intoned, and meant for that to be that. He turned, offering the other man no further dignity in address when he so rudely had none of his own to give, but made it only a stride towards the Mall when -

“You know, it’s only a matter of time before she does the same to you,” Sir John said to his back. “Your days are numbered, Prime Minister; someday – and someday soon, I expect – you'll end up just like me.”

He should have ignored Conroy's one last attempt for envenomation, and kept on walking – yet, despite his better sense, William stopped. “But, you see, I’ve always known where my path would lead.” For his future had only one possible outcome: an honorable retirement and what years he had left to him spent in a quiet (empty) house in the peace (loneliness) of the countryside. “I do not grasp for more, not when I know that anything more is not rightly mine to be had.”

“But do you not grasp for what isn't yours for the having?” Sir John surprised him by trying another tack. “I am not blind, nor is the court; I've seen the way she looks at you . . . and, what’s worse, I've seen how you look at her in return.”

“Nonsense,” it was instinct as much as it was reflex for him to deny, and he scoffed outright. (No matter that he did start inside, taken aback to hear what he knew was wondered in whispers by friends and foes alike stated so plainly aloud by an enemy.)

“Is it, though?” Sir John stretched the words out thoughtfully, uncoiling and serpentine.

“Entirely,” William was stringent to affirm. “The court likes to bandy about its baseless suppositions and rumors, but they are just that: baseless.”

Gallingly, Sir John dared to laugh: “Rumors? You think that is all I speak to? Do you forget that I have seen little Drina every day of her life since her birth? I know her well – far better than she may think. It is my firsthand observation that she is completely besotted – and pathetically so. That, at least, you cannot argue. She does not even attempt to hide it, and you are ever a most . . . perceptive man when it comes to such matters, are you not?”

The option of Newgate Prison looked better by the moment.

Yet William clamped down on the sudden surge of anger that washed through his veins, and returned: “I believe that you are merely confusing gratitude for at last being treated as a woman and a queen capable of knowing her own mind by an advisor who has her best interests at heart with something more. I understand where the confusion must lie for you.”

Maddeningly, Sir John continued to smile. “I believe that I may have struck a nerve. What a most curious thing it is: the utterly immovable Viscount Melbourne, who ever fights for nothing and for no one . . . roused on behalf of our slip of a fledgling girl-queen."

“Our sovereign queen,” he reminded sharply – he warned. “Your cat is running out of lives, Conroy.”

But Sir John continued as if he had not spoken. “I only wonder at what you have to tell yourself: are you the righteous knight, the loyal minister, the Crown's faithful most advisor . . . or do you explain away the familiarity as being entirely paternal? Even then, weren't there rumors concerning your conduct with your last ward? That poor orphan had to go as far as Geneva to escape the taint of her connection to you, and you would call me an unfitting guardian to the queen? I, at least, have a reputation as a man of honor where the fairer sex is concerned; I would never dream of inflicting such abuse on any lady of my acquaintance.”

“Indeed not," his words came quick and hot, "you have seen fit to inflict far worse.”

Yet one would first require a conscience for that rebuke to sting; in the absence of such, they struck as harmlessly as blunted arrows against plate armor.

“Peace, please,” Conroy bade with false civility, raising his hands in a condescendingly placating gesture. “I only voice such words in concern, as my last act as a member of the queen’s household. I do still worry for Victoria’s reputation – for you, of all people, know how fragile one's good name can be.”

It was only thought of Victoria's good name that kept him so rigidly to his place, for William could well imagine how the papers would enjoy supposing just how and why Conroy returned from a private audience with the prime minister with, say, a blackened eye or a bloodied nose. Sir John doubtlessly wanted him to lash out and lose control – a last bit of mean mischief while he himself struggled against his death knells – but William would give him no such satisfaction. In the end, his words were just that: words, and entirely empty as such.

Which was why he calmly, albeit uncordially, managed: “For truth I do – which is why I endeavor to act with nothing but care towards the betterment of the Crown, and the advancement of Her Majesty’s name in every possible regard.”

Conroy’s answering smile was unctuous to the extreme – and nearly unbearable for being so. “I am pleased to hear it,” yet even he knew better than to push any farther than one last parting barb. “If only for your own sake, you must know what an impossible business this all is. I rather anticipate the day when she weds her Coburg cousin, as has long been anticipated; I will quite drink to your name when Prince Albert comes to claim his bride.”

“Just as we shall all toast Her Majesty’s health and happiness on such a joyous occasion,” William defused in agreement (for that knife did not at all twist at an emotion that even he was determined would remain unnamed) – but only to middling success.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Conroy’s final words all but dripped with insincerity – but then, they were just that: his final words.

This time, the knight was the one who turned, and made to depart in the opposite direction. William held fast, and waited for one stride, then another, before -

“Conroy,” he saw fit to warn, one last time. “Needless to say, if you ever show your face in court again . . .” he let the threat taper off, unspoken, but all the louder for silence.

He was treated to a most satisfactory sneer in answer. “I understand,” Sir John bit the words out – for what else could he say? And then, that was that. He would never be able to turn his fangs on his queen again.

William remained fixed to his place, and watched Conroy’s retreating figure until he could no longer. This moment was a victory, he saw fit to remind himself, yet, in many ways, that victory only felt hollow - Pyrrhic, even. Sir John was receiving far more than he deserved, yet far less than he'd machinated to obtain. His exile would see him out of sight and out of mind, all the while forestalling another unfair round of public scrutiny for Victoria so closely following the unfortunate business with Flora Hastings, and yet . . .

It rankled him, he could admit as he finally turned for the palace, this seemingly constant feeling of never being able to do enough for her. Even though Conroy himself had called him a knight and minister and adviser all, there had been some foundation in his more acerbic accusations – as only the truth could so deeply smart. Yet, with awareness, William told himself, a defense could be made. As it now stood, the court was very much aware of, if not anything untoward, then a depth of some fellow feeling between the queen and her prime minister. Yet that was all it was – which was perhaps to be expected between two people who so naturally found themselves in accord, so often placed in close proximity to one another and ever united towards advancing the same goals.

Yet that was all the court knew for a certainty – and William was determined to act in such a way that ultimately convinced them that there was nothing more to be found in their baser suspicions.

Nothing.

. . . never mind those moments when Victoria’s eyes were only just too bright and her smile far too wide whenever he entered a room (and he too filled on her as if on sunlight in return). Some small part of girlish besottedness was just as natural on her part, especially after the constricted life Victoria had lived to that point. She was merely responding to the new experiences that had only just been opened before her. As such, he quite understood her innocent admiration (and burgeoning curiosity as a woman, which he most certainly refused to consider overlong) for what it was – even when it bordered more dangerously on infatuation.

In many ways, she was only just growing into herself, and he was merely a man optimally placed at the coinciding time to receive her fascination. He was safe, he was an ally, (he was a friend) – just as he perhaps had just enough of his long ago youth left within him to still be considered handsome in her eyes. Someday soon, she'd realize as much – even unconsciously so – and her gaze would no longer brighten upon him in such unfettered affection as it did now. (And such a thought did not steal the air from his lungs, it did not.)

For that was the ultimate truth, was it not? In time, the novelty of him would fade, and so too would her adoration temper as her horizons widened and she explored more of the world and interacted with those who shared that world with her. Eventually, Victoria would outgrow him, and put him aside as one last childish thing as she matured into her full glory – all with a true, proper partner by her side to share her yoke, someone who could support her as an equal, in every possible way.

While he . . .

Well, it was of no matter, William remained steadfast to remind himself. It could never matter – and that vow he voiced just as fiercely as the oath he had sworn mere days ago to his queen. How he felt did not and could not ever signify; so, it would not.

He had already failed Her Majesty once.

He refused to fail her a second time.

FIN

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End Notes: . . . and thus concludes the first arc of three in this story collection.

Why, yes, dear readers, I have the potential for an absolute monster epic on my hands, and, as always, I thank anyone who's onboard for the journey! Your support has been invaluable thus far, and I appreciate every last one of you more than I can say.


~ MJ

 

That's exactly it! Those who know, know just how truly regal she was in that moment, and the rest of her people are only acting on the small part of the story they have available to them - and that story is sadly being twisted and exasperated by the press. (At best, at least - Victoria's uncles got away with far worse on the account of being men just doing what men do, but this entire series of events is still remembered as a scandal to this day and was a very real blight on the beginning of her reign. )

But, for the good stuff: needless to say, I've been waiting for about, oh, about 150k words to finally write that scene between Melbourne and Victoria, and I really, really wanted to get it just right! So I'm very happy to hear that you enjoyed the finished result.

It wasn't quite as satisfying as throwing him in prison, but it was still pretty darn satisfying to finally send him packing - especially when, for Conroy, this "reward" is the equivalent of an exile/prison sentence. Which is just another revolting mark against Conroy's character in its own right.

And I'm all ready to dive into Part II just about . . . now.

I can't thank you enough for your continued support and encouragement, as always!

So much more to follow.

Right? There was no other way for her people to know their queen at this time, outside of gossip and the press - and the press always has the goal of selling papers in mind, first and foremost.

Thank you! I was particularly proud of that line.

I just can't even with this hopelessly smitten man being hopelessly smitten.

Just so.

Exactly! Since her coronation, and even long before, when has Victoria had the chance to simply be her, herself, as a human being who needs these emotional connections for her health and happiness? Even with Lehzen, there's a divide, and the same with her ladies too. She has to be so strong to maintain her sovereignty, and that means wearing her mask through almost every moment of every day. That's enough to break anyone - let alone an 18yo girl who's a recovering trauma survivor (and continuing to bear that same abuse, in a way). She's an island - and Melbourne's been on an island of his own for so long, too. Together, they can empathize with the griefs of the other in a way that may not be at all appropriate between a queen and prime minister, but makes perfect sense between two human beings who are already so instinctively drawn to each other. It's a dynamic that I've certainly enjoyed exploring thus far, and look forward to continue to do so.

!

No doubt, indeed.

It's scary, just how tangled the net is around her if she fails.

I do love it when the quiet and peaceful ones are moved to war.

Right? Melbourne may have won the battle, but Sir John definitely got in a few hits of his own - and taunts like this always wound all the more so when there's a kernel of truth to them.

But also: Good riddance, Conroy. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Aw, thank you! As always, I appreciate your taking the time to read and leave your thoughts. It means the world to me!



Alrighty, then . . . who's ready for more? I will be back in just a minute with an update!

 

Author's Notes: Hello, dear readers! Here we are with my first entry for the second arc of this story collection. We're going to start with something of an interlude, even if it also counts as my Marathon Swimming event for the 2024 Summer Olympics. (Yes, I promise this is still very much an interlude, despite the word count. ) I'm so pleased to tackle this challenge once again, especially to celebrate the one year anniversary of this thread! Towards that end, I will also be including the optional picture prompts, which are:

Spoiler: Marathon Swimming Images

These pictures really helped me develop this story, and solved a bit of narrative maneuvering as far as the overreaching plot is concerned, which was a very happy development! For maximum inspiration, I am also using this as an opportunity to write for the Story Building Challenge in the Mini-Games thread. My required elements were: who: someone who hears; what: a crack; when: never at all; where: atop the summit; why: for good; how: in a 5+1 story.

So, without further ado, here we are with: five who saw from a distance, and one who saw up close.

Spoiler: A Note on Feodora, whose POV starts this story

For anyone who may not remember, or is perhaps reading these stories out of order, Anna Feodora is Victoria's elder half-sister from her mother's first marriage, whom we met back in The First Grave. She only lived in Kensington with Victoria for the first eight years of her life, and found Sir John just as oppressive in her own way. She then married, moving all the way to the south of Germany in a match arranged by Queen Adelaide, but often expressed her regrets for leaving Victoria behind with one less ally. The sisters corresponded regularly through letters, and Feodora visited England as often as possible. They absolutely adored each other; Victoria was crushed by her death and mourned her deeply. This, perhaps somewhat obviously, flies in the face of the show's absolutely glaring mischaracterization of Feodora in Season 3, which I didn't even know about until researching this story. I, admittedly, had to bow out in Season 2, as I personally found too much of Victoria's marriage triggering. But that's okay, because that's what inspired me to write this AU in the first place. )

Enjoy!

---

“Your Miles of Shore”
(Marathon Swimming; Story Building Challenge)
​

VIII.I

The Sister

The letter came just as her youngest was persuaded to take her midday nap.

The footman who delivered the letter most wisely held off from approaching while she yet stood at the nursery door, looking inside to ensure that her daughter truly slept. Anna Feodora, Princess Consort of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, was hardly beholden to attend this particular task herself, but she found a sense of fulfillment in caring for her children in a way that made her hesitant to surrender her mother’s prerogative to Nurse Rosel in any sort of entirety. Especially now, when baby Adelheid – newly two years of age – was quite vocally of the opinion that she no longer required naps, and thus saw fit to turn their once amicable routine into a battlefield of wills. Her daughter only had so many words available to her, but managed to express her discontent most insistently with what vocabulary she did have – and, failing her attempts at speech, was easily reduced to frustrated tears and outright hiccupping sobs. (Which was exactly why the dear girl had need of her naps to begin with.)

Patience ever proved the ultimate victor, even if Feodora often conceded to holding her daughter and rocking her through the worst of her tears, all until she calmed and submitted to sleep with heavy eyes and a last few errant sniffles. Now, it was that tenuous peace that had the footman carefully, quietly treading across the hall to join her when she stepped away from the nursery door.

“Compliments of the Queen of England, Your Highness,” the footman said in little more than a whisper, still wary of disturbing the silence, as he presented the letter.

Pride crested within Feodora for the nascent glory of her sister’s hard-won title, and she accepted the letter gladly. “If His Highness inquires," she advised, "inform him that I have gone to read this in the gardens.”

“As Your Highness pleases,” the footman acknowledged, and bowed to take his leave.

Feodora tilted her head, listening for her daughter one last time, and then turned down the corridor once she was satisfied. Here, the surplus of windows let in a pleasant spill of sunlight, hushing over the parqueted floors and shining off the intricate plaster moldings that framed the vast cove ceilings above. She slowed as she came upon the schoolroom, looking inside as she passed. Here, her oldest four attended their lessons with varying degrees of diligence. Little Victor was only just old enough to join in with his siblings, and he was currently scribbling most contentedly underneath the rows where he'd practiced writing his name until his attention lapsed – no matter how Hermann tried to instruct him to the contrary. Ignoring her brothers in that practiced way of an elder sibling, Elise worked her multiplication tables with determined intensity, muttering the numbers under her breath to ensure that she ordered them correctly.

Carl, her oldest, was the only one of her children who noticed her in return, and he mimed an exaggeratedly gagging expression upon catching her eye. In spite of herself, Feodora found her own mouth quirking in amusement – all before she pointedly glanced back at the tutor, who had indeed noticed his pupil’s untimely comedic display. Instantly, Carl snapped back to focus on the book held open before him, and dutifully resumed his studies.

From the family rooms, the walk through the halls of Schloss Langenburg to the eastern entrance was substantial – even when she made to expedite her route by cutting through the central courtyard. The castle, which had been in her husband’s family for over five hundred years, was impressive in its majesty – unquestionably so – yet it had since become a relic of a now distant age, and turned all the more so with each passing year. Her husband was the first Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg to have no domain to accompany his title, following the ceding of his ancestral lands to the larger Kingdom of Württemberg. Though her Ernst maintained his position as a courtier to King William I, and even shared His Majesty's visions of progress for the region, that honor was hardly as lucrative as what the House of Hohenlohe-Langenburg had enjoyed previously. That loss of revenue, when combined with the horrible economic depression that had scourged the southern German states since their wars both for and against Napoleon, made for meager coffers and even tighter purse strings.

They could not afford to maintain such a vast estate – which, in its glory, could have housed two hundred souls, not counting the now empty soldier's barracks beyond the castle proper – was the stark truth of the matter. Yet neither could they abandon Schloss Langenburg for the history it represented and the inheritance it promised for future generations. With the current peace, and renewed interest in agriculture, manufacturing, and trade – all augmented by the advent of the railways to connect Württemberg to the northern German states and Europe beyond (an endeavor that absorbed a great deal of her husband’s time in service to the king, and, more importantly, to the people he yet served in fulfillment of his title) – perhaps that future was bright. Yet, for the time being, the castle had entire wings that were unsuitable for habitation due to their state of disrepair. Feodora habitually turned a blind eye to the chips in the plaster and the dull gleam of the neglected portraits – the frigid drafts in the winter and the damp, moldering smells in the summer; the smoking hearth and the leaks staining the ceiling in her once favorite sitting room – and held her head up high.

Yet, no matter the comforts her home may have lacked in any supposed grandeur, it would always hold an unrivaled majesty for where it sat so happily cradled in the indomitable embrace of nature. She drew in a breath as she walked through the garden doors, inhaling the sweetness of the summer flowers and the thick, spicy scent of the fir and larch and leafy hardwoods that blanketed the slopes leading down into the valley. For this was where the true grandeur of her home would ever lie.

Feodora walked past the ornamental shrubs and underneath the rose arbors, heavily crowned with full pink blooms, and approached the balustrade that ran the length of the gardens. She peered over the timeworn stone ledge, and there to greet her was . . .

The castle itself dominated a high granite spur in a landscape of vast, rolling hills and farmlands tucked into the fertile mountain plains, standing proud before the town of Langenburg to the east. Here, the steep drop from the face of the gardens plunged into a sea of dense green forests that undulated to meet the curving embrace of the Jagst river in a sculpt of gentle waves. The river itself was even now a glittering ribbon of light, with its waters cheerfully saluting the high face of the sun above. There were times – when the mists rose from the valley and obscured even the tallest treetops, and the heavens pressed down from above – that she felt close enough to touch the sky; while, on clear days such as this one, she imagined that she could fly on the strong winds that sang between the hills, and never come down again.

It was there that she took her seat on her favorite bench, and eagerly broke the seal on the letter to read:

My Dearest Feodora,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and your husband and children too. Far too much time has passed since I last had the pleasure to embrace my nieces & nephews and kiss their cheeks, and I quite long for you all! I have yet to even meet dear little Addy, and can only imagine how tall Victor & Hermann have grown from the babes I once knew! In remedy, I insist that we plan your next visit to England with all possible haste. I have much to show you, and even more to tell you, and I need no longer host you at Kensington to do so!

Yes: all of the royal dwellings are now at my disposal. Neither of us need ever step foot in that horrid place again. I’d order it burned to the ground outright if it wasn’t yet home to my Uncle Sussex & Aunt Sophia – indeed, I have often considered awarding them better lodgings and then dismantling the palace entirely. Yet I have been advised – perhaps wisely if not as satisfyingly – to the contrary by those who have the best interests of my reign at heart. Alas, I was prevailed upon to agree.

But I digress. In short, I have attached a list to this letter, and you shall choose whichever residence most appeals to you – whereupon we shall stay up all night eating marrons glacés by the dozens and chatting about anything & everything until you are quite exhausted of me – little as I can ever be exhausted of you in return, sister mine.​

The easy affection with which Victoria wrote was as heartening then as it ever was – as were the sentiments she conveyed. Her letter, sharing news of her ascension and initial removal from Kensington, had been such a relief that Feodora had sank to her knees in this very same spot and thanked God for his mercy through her tears. She had so long prayed to have her sister safely settled on the throne of England, unshackled by a regency and in a place to better deny the likes of him any further power than he'd already machinated to presume. The long-awaited answer to that prayer had been sweet indeed upon its arrival.

Would that Kensington could be leveled and forgotten entirely, Feodora yet tasted the rise of an old, acrid pain to agree. She would happily tear that palace down her own hands, brick by painstaking brick, if it meant that blight on their shared past no longer stood. There had been a reason, after all, that she’d been so eager to leave her mother’s household (Sir John’s household) in the first place. Although it had pained her (guilted her, to the point where she still had restless nights full of unanswered worries) to abandon her much younger sister to such a nest of vipers, when Queen Adelaide herself had offered a way out . . .

Feodora had accepted Ernst’s hand after meeting him only once – grateful as she was for any escape, and even cautiously hopeful that they could build a relationship of mutual understanding together – and she’d never turned back but to look behind for her.

Yet she shook off the heavy (smothering) mantle of that thought, and continued to read.

I was at last able to visit Bushy Park this summer, where I was hosted by Aunt Adelaide. Perhaps this is where I shall start in suggesting possible houses to visit – as I know that she is also Cousin Adelaide to your Ernst and thus yourself. I was able to dine with many of my own FitzClarence cousins throughout the course of my stay, and further the acquaintances we established back in London. Which is perhaps why Mama chose not to attend. We were such a merry party, and so wondrously happy for the week I spent in residence. I needed only the company of your own self to make my joy complete.

Even Lord M was able to join us for a day in Teddington – he had to attend me on matters of state, for it seems that a Parliamentary recess does not mean that all business of government ceases to function. Aunt Adelaide invited him to sup, which he was of course then beholden to accept. I may have been somewhat insistent to ensure that he did not beg off the invitation for my own part. It was by then far too late for him to embark on such a long journey back to Hertfordshire, or even to his house in London, and he was further persuaded to take an apartment for the night. Upon the morrow, we all made to tour Hampton Court Palace together, where I saw so many interesting things of note that I shall have to host you there myself in order that you too may experience them in person. Lord M knew much of the palace’s history, and was able to share more than a few amusing anecdotes that our guide did not include. He even succeeded in making Aunt Adelaide laugh, which quite gladdened my own heart – for she has not been much inclined to the least smiles since poor Uncle William’s death. Though I hardly find that surprising, as Lord M always seems to know exactly how to pick me up from my own fits of choler and low humor; it stands to reason that he'd be able to do the same for my dearest aunt. ​

There, Feodora paused, and reread the entire paragraph a second time through again. Though she did not quite frown – how could she, in the face of her sister’s happiness and her own relief that she had such a champion for her reign? – she nonetheless turned a pondering gaze out to the river far below. There, a man lead a herd of sheep over the bridge, or so she assumed from such a distance. She watched them until they made it to the other side, her thoughts still turning, one over another, in careful consideration.

Then, she resumed her reading.

If not Bushy Park, perhaps Carisbrooke Castle shall do? That most delightful retreat will always remind me of you, as it played host to those few joyous times we were able to spend together as children away from Kensington, all before you were quite forced to your marriage necessitated your removal so very far away.​

Again, that old twinge of guilt made itself known, and she accepted its presence only through the long force of aching familiarity. When she lifted her gaze, having absorbed what she could of its bite, the timeless branches of the forested slope rippled and swayed in the strong summer breeze.

Here, I believe that I've come upon a natural point to inform you that Sir John Conroy is finally unable to torment me any longer no longer a member of the Royal Household, and has quit both the court & the country entirely.​

Feodora drew in a sharp breath, and almost dropped the letter outright, so great was her surprise – her relief. She reread the sentence twice and then a third time, making sure that she had not misunderstood its meaning through the sheer force of wishing, for so very long . . .

Yet those same words remained, stark from her sister's pen, and she felt tears fill her eyes as she allowed herself to breathe once more.

It would seem that Lord Ebrington recommended Sir John for a baronetcy in Ireland, and would you believe that he accepted? Mama was most furious inconsolable aggrieved distraught for his departure – so much so that I almost feared that she would abandon me for him would choose to join him in Ireland. I, of course, would have hardly mourned her departure and even wished her well; she can follow him to Hades for all I care. She has been immovably cross with me hasn’t at all been well since Lady Flora’s death, and somehow this too she considers a bitter loss of the deepest kind.

Unfortunately, I have no happy update to report on that matter since the date of my last letter. Mama still refuses to engage me in either look or word unless absolutely necessary, as if both Lady Flora’s sickness and Sir John’s advancement are through fault of my own, which is so maddeningly unfair, to the point that I can hardly speak of it; I can hardly even think of it without wanting to scream.

Yet, despite my own causes for complaint, I find that I am worried for Mama more often than not. She has been in an untouchable depression of spirits for so long now, such as I've never seen from her before. I do not know what to do or say to make things better – why am I never enough to make her happy? – just as it yet rankles me that it’s somehow dependent upon me to see the rift between us mended when she should be the one who -​

Feeling her sister’s grief as a matching throb in her own spirit, Feodora touched her fingertips to those words, as if by doing so, somewhere so many miles away, Victoria would feel the touch as a distant whisper, and take comfort from her presence.

But enough about Mama – I shall drive myself out of my wits if I consider the state of our relationship any further. It's a beautifully sunny day here in Windsor’s Home Park, and I will not waste the tranquil state of mind that my surroundings – and the knowledge that you shall soon read these words – inspired in me but moments before.

Instead, let me tell you that I suspect it wasn’t Lord Ebrington who truly orchestrated Sir John’s long-desired ascension to the peerage; to the contrary, I rather believe that Lord M saw to his removal, no matter that he’s quite maddeningly evaded confirming my suspicions one way or the other. He’s always striving to protect me, and I wish to bestow honor & reward to show him how thankful I am to have him in my life where honor & reward are due. Without Lord M, I suspect that I never would have made it to the altar at Westminster. If any other Prime Minister held the post of First Lord, I shudder to think, there may have been the very real possibility that I would be chained to a regency already – or even forced to abdicate entirely for the next male heir in Grandfather's line. Without him, I -

. . . let me simply acknowledge that it is a very good thing to have an advisor I trust so completely; it is a very good thing indeed.​

Again, Feodora took the time to study the passage, sifting through each sentence for any hidden meaning tucked away as words between words. Yet she ultimately decided to interpret them just as her sister had written, and found herself agreeing with their sentiment wholeheartedly.

She would gladly and most fervently thank Viscount Melbourne herself if she made it back to England whilst he was yet in office – and, until she could do so in any earthly manner, she thanked God once more for his foresight in providing for her sister in this most vital of ways.

Over the course of the summer, I have done no small amount of reading – especially now that I have more time to do so, away from the demands placed upon me in London. Lord M has provided a veritable library of books – those he studied at Eton & Cambridge, and has since collected to further his own interests, all concerning topics ranging from the history of the realm to the Constitution and the practice of the law. Once I finish these, he has promised further recommendations on more focused subjects, but these, together, shall provide a solid foundation from which to further increase my knowledge. All these books are those which I should have studied already, if it was not for -

I have currently made it as far as the second volume of Hume’s History of Great Britain. It is almost too dull of a book to bear, and I've often despaired for the presence of six whole volumes to try my patience muddle through. I may have thrown this particular volume at one point, so great was my frustration – but then I felt absolutely abhorrent for treating one of Lord M's books in such a mean fashion. Most recently, the chapter concerning the Levellers has quite taxed my understanding and left me feeling hopelessly & hideously ignorant. Yet Lord M kindly assured me that there are more than a few of his learned peers who once felt – and yet still feel – much the same regarding Hume; there is nothing lacking about me than what most men also suffer through at university, which is a great comfort. Beyond that, he has most kindly & blessedly taken the time to explain the more difficult passages & unfamiliar terms with an aim towards practical application for my reign. He says that my mind is growing in both its ability for comprehension & its capacity to turn knowledge into wisdom with each passing day; soon, I shan’t need his help in the slightest. Though surely not!

Yet, Sister, so much of Hume’s work, instead of greatly extolling the glories of our nation, has rather opened my eyes to its horrible cruelties & gross injustices many weaknesses instead – though Lord M says it’s important to read about the worst moments in our past so as to prevent their recurrence in the future. With his wisdom, I agree entirely.

But so much injustice seems to only be repeating, and even forming into new atrocities across the globe. It’s overwhelming to think of, for how can I possibly do better than all those wise men who’ve come before me? I am just me, myself; I am too unprepared, too short-sighted, too clumsy & childish & stupid to ever impact change in the smallest of ways, let alone on such a vast scale, such as perhaps must needs -

Please, do not attend that last paragraph, as I have no wish to cause you distress, dearest of hearts. I was merely taken by a momentary vexation of spirits, but it has passed. I blame Hume entirely.

And now it seems that I have digressed even further than I first intended! Let me thus conclude this letter by sharing that I depart for the Isle of Portland upon the morrow, in order to attend VA. Sir C. Adam’s report on the state of our naval defenses, and then for Weymouth Tuesday next on an abbreviated tour of the southern coast. Ultimately, we shall conclude in Brighton, and then return once more to Windsor. Along the way, I shall endeavor to find the time to put down my reading in order to enjoy the sea & sun for my own sake. I am, most admittedly, quite looking forward to the reprieve. This year has been almost too exhilaratingly full, and I am left feeling like a top that has ceased to spin!

I quite anticipate your response to this letter, and shall write you again soon. Know, until then, that you & your family have all my love, and are remembered in my prayers.

With all affection, I remain,
Victoria Regina, Queen of the United Kingdom

PS. I know that I needn't sign myself as such – but I rather thought that signature would bring you joy after the most fervent support with which you have provided me over the course of these long years. I think that you alone are the only soul on this earth whom I do not mind calling me Drina, and you may assume your right to do so whenever you please.​

Feodora read the entire letter a second time through, happiness and pride (and an ever present, lingering concern that had nothing to do with the yet distant sense of misgiving that loitered at the edge of her mind) filling her until she felt almost buoyant with emotion. After so many years of apprehension and worry (and such futile rage) on her sister's behalf, she allowed the edges of that constant vigil to temper, if ever just slightly.

Deeply, she inhaled, and let her breath out slow.

Yet, before she could turn back to the first page anew, there was a flurry of movement at the garden gate, accompanied by that cheerful ruckus of chattering sound that only five excited children could so uniquely create. She looked up in time to see Carl and Elise chase after each other in a burst of ebullient energy, as if shot from the mouth of a cannon after being confined to the schoolroom. Following close behind them was Hermann, running with dogged determination to keep up with the much longer strides of his elder siblings.

Only Victor held back with his father by his own choice, watching the commotion with wide, observant eyes. Contrarily, a very awake Adelheid squirmed in Ernst's arms, as if her waddling steps would certainly be enough to allow her to join in their game, if only through a sheer force of will.

Feodora stood from the bench as they approached, and accepted her husband's kiss on the cheek in greeting. Somewhat dryly, Ernst informed her, "This one decided that she'd napped long enough, and was quite vocal in ensuring that anyone and everyone who could hear was left in no doubt of her displeasure."

"Oh, my little cacophony," Feodora sighed, but the sound was fond as she reached to kiss her daughter's head and ruffle her curls – which prompted Adelheid to twist and wiggle in an endeavor to escape the affection.

"Down, Papa, down," Adelheid insisted, and Feodora watched with a knowing expression as Ernst, perhaps somewhat predictably, yielded to their daughter. (He never could deny any wish of hers for long.) He lowered the little girl to the ground, where she promptly pushed away from his arms and toddled after her siblings as fast as her little legs could carry her.

"The children were all distracted from their studies," Ernst explained, somewhat sheepishly yet hardly remorseful, "so I thought it best to take them outdoors for a reprieve."

"I see; it was the children who were distracted?" she could not hold back from teasing.

"Well," Ernst gave, his eyes twinkling, "like father, like sons and daughters? It was impossible to attend the latest proposal from Baden with all the noise – yet, admittedly, I may have been in want of a distraction to begin."

By that point, Victor had gone as long as he could in waiting for his mother's attention – he was now old enough to understand the concept of interrupting, and they were actively practicing against it, to varying degrees of success – and he did not allow her to make reply. His patience broke in a burst, and he tugged at her skirts most insistently to say, "Mama, Mama, look – I made this for you."

"A present? How very kind," Feodora knelt to her son's level as bade, and was rewarded with a broad sheaf of thick pressed paper. She looked, and saw an abstract watercolor painting composed of bold – and surprisingly harmonious – lines and bursts of color. It was easy for her to properly exclaim over his achievement and promise to treasure the gift. They would have to have this painting framed, she thought, so that she could display it in her private sitting room.

Only then was Victor content to run off and join his siblings, and Feodora was equally content to watch them play.

A long moment passed, filled with easy tranquility, before Ernst asked, "It was a good letter from England, then?"

"Yes, it was a very good letter," she confirmed. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him exactly why it was – but Ernst had never quite understood the animosity she bore for the likes of Sir John, and she had no desire to revisit a topic that would only lead to a quarrel anew.

"If you wish," he said – kindly so, in that gentle manner that made her regret her moment's discontent for the few ways in which their very amicable partnership did not quite align, "you may start your reply – I am happy to mind the children on my own."

"Ah," Feodora recovered in time to tease, "for this continued distraction promises to be far preferable than returning to the proposals from Baden, I take it?"

"Oh, infinitely so," Ernst confirmed with mock severity. "It's always propitious when pleasure and duty can be one and the same."

That, she understood entirely – and it was with a most sincere affection that she made to kiss her husband properly before she left him with the children, and returned inside the castle.

There, once settled at her writing desk, she picked up her pen, and began her own letter:

To Her Majesty Queen Victoria,

I know that I may have indulged in the intimacy between sisters to call you Drina, but let me assure you that it brings me the greatest possible joy to address you as such. I quite feel your triumphs as my own, you must know, and I hope to soon be able to visit England and congratulate you on your ascension and subsequent victories in person, where I even now long to be . . .
​

TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

These are probably more historical notes than you need to accompany this entry, but I learned quite a few fun facts that I wanted to share with anyone who's interested!

A Note on Schloss Langenburg: Check out this absolute beaut of a castle! I have an entire list of European castles I'd someday love to tour, and this is now most certainly one of them.



You can find more pictures and read about the history of the castle here at its official website, but this really sets the scene all on its own.


A Note on Prince Ernst: In 1806, Frederick III, the Duke of Württemberg, joined the Federation of the Rhine in support of Napoleon. As a reward for his allegiance, Napoleon expanded his territory by awarding him control of the smaller, neighboring dutchies - including Langenberg. Frederick III thus became Frederick I as the incipient king of the Kingdom of Württemberg. In keeping with his part of the bargain, Frederick supplied 16,000 men for Napoleon's march on Russia; ultimately, only a few hundred returned - which had to be a hard blow for a state with such a relatively small population to begin with. Frederick deserted Napoleon after the loss, and signed a treaty with Austria to join the alliance against France. Following the Napoleonic Wars, Württemberg joined the newly formed German States in 1815 - but the Congress of Vienna did not change the borders of his territory and allowed Frederick to maintain his kingship, as was promised by that first Treaty of Fulda. Following Frederick I, his son William I was frugally minded and endeavored to restore Württemberg to a state of financial stability. A huge part of that effort included the advent of the railways connecting the uttermost south of Germany to the rest of Europe to foster trade, along with Württemberg's new membership in the German Customs Union to unify and manage economic policies across the German States.

Ernst inherited the title of Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg from his father in 1825 (he and Feodora married in 1828). It was not an easy time to be a prince of a mediatised state, but, as far as I can tell, he made the most of his title in order to advocate for his former people. At least for purposes of this story, as I couldn't find any evidence for or against this, he's heavily involved in the construction of those aforementioned railways. In RL, whatever good he made of his circumstances must have worked, because, to this day, Schloss Langenburg is still in possession of his descendants, all of whom yet maintain the honorary title of prince.


A Note on Feodora and Victoria: I highlighted their relationship at the beginning of this update, but I will also note that, in her endeavor to visit England regularly, Feodora was actually present at Victoria's coronation. My plot was just far too full in Sta et Retine to include her. So, for this story, she was home in Germany, and I'll write her next visit to England in a future entry. Quite a few of the familial details in this chapter were intended to help set up that story, I must confess.


A Note on Feodora and Ernst (and family): My basis for their relationship being amicable is almost entirely based on the close bonds they had with their children. Their children didn't grow up feeling at all entitled or beholden to their place amongst the royalty of Germany. Prince Carl, the eldest, renounced his claim to his father's title in order to marry beneath his station to a Miss Maria Grathwohl. Prince Victor did the same - he joined the British Navy, and served with distinction, eventually becoming a rear admiral. During his service, he met Laura Williamina Seymour, the younger daughter of Admiral Sir George Francis Seymour - who was one of his commanding officers. They too entered into a morganatic marriage, with his wife and children being unable to bear similar titles of prince or princess. Laura was made a German countess as a courtesy, but Victoria demanded that when Victor attended her court, Laura share her husband's title, thus placing her as his equal in precedence with the royal family. (I know, I just love this little spitfire so much. ) Even though Victor was a naval man, his first love was art, and he dedicated himself fully to his craft as a sculptor after retiring from the navy. He was pretty darn good, too - there's a statue of Queen Victoria outside the Royal Holloway College in Surrey that was sculpted by him. Check it out:



Now, happy, healthy children don't necessarily equate with a happy, healthy relationship between their parents - but it sure does suggest it more than it disproves it, and, as the holder of the pen, here I am.

Eventually, Feodora outlived her husband, and died only months following the untimely death of her youngest daughter in 1872. Which, again, points to strong family bonds.


And now, that's enough rambling from me. I will be back to share the next part of this event soon!

~ MJ

 

Yay, I'm so happy for this feedback! (And all your feedback, as always. ) I worried that I was veering too much from the main cast and plot for what are, even if they're based in history, essentially OCs. But then, much as ever, I just couldn't resist.

Success!

I love writing - and reading, for that matter - outside POVs, so this entire interlude is one big indulgence for me. (Heck, this entire story collection has been one big indulgence. ) Sometimes, those who know us best can pick up on things even before we can.

I completely agree! Victoria and Feodora's relationship absolutely warms my heart, and I was so happy to showcase it here as I could.

And there just may be one coming soon to a story near you.

Thank you so much! It's certainly a very happy milestone for me.

I love European history, convoluted, crazy and rich.[/quote]

Isn't that the truth?

The good thing is that this backdrop gives me plenty to delve into with my own writing.

Aw, thank you! That certainly checks the boxes for everything I was aiming for with this entry, and I appreciate your feedback, as always.

And that is indeed Hearst Castle - which I had no idea was in America until googling the picture! It's stunningly beautiful, and gave me a great bit of inspiration coming up for the Roman baths in England, as well, which were quite the rage at the time . . .

They really are.

 

Author's Notes: In the funny way of writing being a fluid artform, this entry was originally going to be the whole of this interlude before the new Olympics prompts inspired me and my plans grew. As such, it's a bit on the long side of what I'd like the sections of this 5+1 fic to be. Yet I trust that you'll forgive me, much as you ever do, because there are just so many words to write!

For this entry, I'm also going to include my usual supplemental notes at the beginning, rather than the end, to help better inform the story.

Spoiler: All of the Notes

A Note on Susan Spencer-Churchill Cuénod: We met Susan back in Say We Choose, but, as a refresher, here's a quick summary of her character. The very short of it: Susan was Melbourne and Caroline's ward, who moved to Switzerland to finish her upbringing with one of Melbourne's former mistresses after Caroline's death. But, as always, it's far more complicated than that.

The long of it: Susan was born to George Spencer-Churchill (the Marquess of Blanford and future Duke of Marlborough) and Lady Harriet Spencer. (Yes, those Churchills - as Winston Churchill was George's great-grandson.) The two married, but didn't consecrate their vows in a church, and openly lived together in Scotland as man and wife. Through a whole mess that I won't detail, George's parents threatened him with disinheritance and demanded he return to England - where the English courts declared his "marriage" null and void. He submitted to their ultimatums and left Harriet and baby Susan. Harriet, to recover her honor, was married off to a distant relation in Bavaria who did not welcome her daughter to accompany her. (Which, sadly, was not an unusual practice at the time - even for remarrying young widows with legitimate children.)

As such, Susan was raised by Lady Ponsonby - Caroline's mother - for a time, and was then welcomed by the Lambs into their household. Through the unravelling of Melbourne and Caroline's marriage, and Augustus' declining health and death, raising Susan was something they both took pride in. Even Caroline did her best to be a mother to the girl throughout the worst of those days, and doted on her. That said, it was still an emotionally charged household to grow up in, and I've written Susan to be a character who takes the health and happiness of others a bit too much on her shoulders as a result.

Following Augustus' death, Melbourne was made Home Secretary to Ireland. Susan and Caroline went with him to his new post. (Caroline, at that point, was honestly trying to start over from her disastrous affair with Lord Byron - even if those efforts didn't last long.) In Ireland, the Lambs became close with Lady Elizabeth Branden and her daughter Cecelia. Eventually - as the result of a long, awful story - Caroline returned to and remained in England through the final deterioration of her health and death. During that time, Lady Elizabeth was a paid, live-in companion and governess to Susan, with Cecelia too. As such, Melbourne and Elizabeth fell into the tricky harmony of fitting together as a family unit, even when they weren't one. Following Caroline's death, that spark took flame, and resulted in an affair that was particularly amorous by the standards of the day. Of course, this affair became public; when it did, Elizabeth's husband divorced her, and took Melbourne to court for adultery.

In the aftermath, Melbourne's suitability as a guardian for Susan was called into question. So, Elizabeth - who had plans to move to Switzerland to join the family she had there - agreed to take Susan with her, and finish raising her alongside her own daughter. Melbourne paid for Elizabeth's and Susan's expenses, and continued to support Elizabeth financially, even after Susan married. All three of them kept in contact through letters up until Melbourne's death.

In Switzerland, Susan eventually married a banker named Aimé Cuénod - or, a banker's son who was endeavoring to establish a private bank of his own. Susan's dowery - and Melbourne's backing as an investor - helped the bank open, and Susan's name was included in both the bank's name (Cuénod-Churchill Bank of Vevey) and its founding charter. I don't know if this was because of the funds Melbourne donated, or because of Aimé's honest respect for his wife and her involvement as a partner in every way. We do know that the Lambs ensured that Susan was as educated as possible for a woman at the time, so I like the thought of her being involved in - even unofficially - the actual running of the bank.

Susan and Aimé's first two children were a girl and a boy. They were named Jane Caroline and Charles William after their grandparents, even if one set was only in heart. That detail always struck me as poignant - as did the fact that she named her youngest two girls Emily and Elizabeth. Now, with that said, here we go . . .


A Note on Vevey, Switzerland: This town is now officially on my bucket-list to visit, to say the least. Vevey lies on the north shore of Lake Geneva, and look at these views!

This is looking down on Vevey from the vineyards on the mountain slopes to the north:



&



These are both sharable files from Wikimedia Commons, but to see the promenade (and, yes, the swans who feature there) and the surrounding architecture in the Old Town - which I absolutely encourage - you can check out the Google Maps collection here.

Or, if you really want to be immersed:

---

“Your Miles of Shore”
(Marathon Swimming; Story Building Challenge)​

VIII.II

The Ward

The blue-green waters of Lake Geneva glittered in the cradling embrace of the Alps.

The day could be called overcast, if in a manner that made the play of the heavens against the distant mountains dramatic rather than oppressive. The clouds whipped across the peaks in a swirling frenzy of might and haze, obscuring the highest summits, while fragmented breaks of blue sky illuminated the high crests of the storm clouds with golden light. However, here on the north side of the lake, they were quite safe from the rains that yet dominated in the distance.

Taking advantage of the weather's relative calm, Susan Cuénod took her children out to walk the promenade. Liam could only take a few toddling steps of his own before requiring assistance, but he was a gentle, even-tempered babe who enjoyed outings in his pram without fuss. Lina, at four years of age, wasn’t quite old enough to push the pram by herself, but she was certainly old enough to assist – which she then did so most assiduously. Susan walked behind her all the while, ready to offer a steady hand when necessary.

Together, they made their way down the sloping streets to the lakefront, where many were taking the air and enjoying the ambient beauty of their surroundings. It was never truly hot in Vevey, not even nigh upon August, but a cool breeze blew into the valley from the distant storms, pleasantly offsetting the relative warmth of the summer season. The chestnut trees bordering the promenade swayed with new green pods, while the maple and plane trees lifted their proud, leafy arms to the sky. Raised beds of gold-hearted poppies (peace and remembrance, she’d never forgotten her lessons) and hardy alpine roses (resilience and survival), framed by hedges of cascading candytuft (endurance through all seasons), rippled in the summer breeze and filled the air with their scent. It was a felicific scene – and made all the more so when she caught sight of Cecelia, waiting at their usual spot on the corner of the Rue du Château.

Cecelia – Madame Ansermet as she now was – was also a mother of two, and her daughters were near an age with her own children. The other woman – who’d been her first true friend in Ireland, and sister of her heart following their removal from England's scores – waved to catch their notice, whereupon Lina promptly abandoned her endeavors with the pram in favor of dashing across the cobblestones to greet her aunt.

Cecelia knelt to intercept the girl, peppering her face with exaggerated kisses intended to make Lina laugh – for which she most certainly succeeded. Chloé, Cecelia’s eldest, was then just as eager to welcome her friend, and they chatted excitedly as Lady Elizabeth came up behind them, pushing a pram that held Cecelia’s youngest daughter.

“Grandmama!” Lina exclaimed, and Susan filled with contentment for how Lady Elizabeth greeted the girl with a matching familial affection.

. . . for family was of the heart as much as the blood, was it not? That truth, Susan knew better than most. It had taken her some time, living under Lady Elizabeth's guardianship, to shyly ask for the privilege of calling her mama, but she’d done so ever since she was answered by daughter in return. Now, her children embraced their extended relations just the same, with no idea of the supposed lack of true blood ties between them.

(Her own flesh-and-blood had made the conscious decision to forsake her as a mistake, after all – and so, she was determined to pick her own family in return. Ultimately, she thought that she had the better of that blessing.)

After exchanging her own welcomes, Susan fell into step next to Elizabeth, pushing the prams, while Cecelia walked ahead with the girls, swinging their arms from where she held each of their hands in her own. They proceeded happily as such, trading pleasantries until they reached the park at the end of the promenade. There, the girls were eager to purchase a snack of pastries from a most strategically placed vendor, and they took their prizes of honey bread down to where the deep blue waters of the lake rippled in gentle waves to greet a grey-pebbled shore.

With the prams hardly as appreciative of the park’s rough terrain as the children, Susan held back with Elizabeth to find seats at the white-painted, wrought-iron tables that stood at the boundary of the park’s gardens. There, their vantage was framed by both the storm-shrouded mountains across the lake and Vevey behind them, with its steep hills, adorned in lush vineyards, rising to meet the great green face of Mount Pèlerin above.

Once the younger children were settled with their own pastries, Susan watched as Lina and Chloé attracted the attention of the swans. The girls generously threw bits of bread, and giggled loudly when one of the former cygnets of the season – now fully fledged with white feathers of its own – fought its elders for the choicest pieces. There was a loud squabble as a span of snowy wings flapped in annoyance, and then the overreaching youngster took further out to the lake when chastised by a larger, fully mature adult. The action sent up a dramatic spray of water, delighting the girls even further.

It was a pang that was as bitter as it was sweet, watching the children play with the waterfowl. Their joy was ever her own, and she was grateful for the making of new traditions, new memories, even as she could not help but remember . . .

Susan had purposefully written her former guardian near the end of June, hoping to ensure that her letter would arrive in England on or near that day. It had been her hope to provide some comfort on the anniversary of Augustus’ (her brother’s) death, but she had yet to hear reply. She did not like thinking of that empty house on Dover Street, with its ghosting memories and the one revenant who had yet to join . . .

The wind blew, carrying a chill down into the valley, and she fought a shiver.

It was not only that letter that had gone unanswered, but every letter since. As a whole, she received few and fewer letters as the years passed, and she frowned to consider just why that could be.

With those thoughts at the forefront of her mind, Susan found her courage to ask Elizabeth outright: “Have you heard from England as of late?”

She had no need to clarify; Elizabeth understood.

“Not recently,” was her answer. “Our correspondence has been intermittent these last few years.” Since she herself had wed, Susan understood, thus giving Elizabeth less to report on as her surrogate guardian. “And it slowed even further with the Norton debacle. My name was mentioned in that case, as you know, as was the fact that we have since continued to maintain our acquaintance.”

Susan felt her hands clench, before she consciously relaxed her grip.

“Yet I would not worry overmuch for any delay in writing,” Elizabeth addressed the heart of her fears. “Not every prime minister has the privilege of attending a monarch's ascension – let alone one so singular as Her Majesty. I imagine that his time is quite occupied, well and beyond his usual duties.”

Her words rang true, and yet . . .

“Aimé says much the same,” Susan acknowledged. “If the both of you agree, you must be right.”

“There you have it,” Elizabeth approved. “You have no choice but to yield to our superior wisdom.”

Susan summoned what a smile she could, but she still felt inexplicably restless. Rather than being lulled by the tranquility of the day, she had an unfocused desire for movement – for miles of movement, even. She had, admittedly, been keen to visit England for quite some time now. For her part, she wanted to return to the land of her birth in order to share what she loved best about her first home with her children. She would like nothing better than to show them the glasshouses at Brocket Hall; the great ballroom where Lady Caroline had taught her to dance; the old ash tree where she'd once been convinced the fair-folk lived . . . and the duck pond in Hyde Park. Her memories were their legacy to inherit, and she wished to share this fundamental part of herself with them.

Then, she was self-aware enough to admit, there was a deep-seated part of her – the part that had been angry for so long, ever since she first understood exactly who she was and why she'd been abandoned – that wished to return to England as a statement. She – perhaps somewhat vengefully – wanted to stand by her guardian’s (true father’s) side and turn her chin up to anyone and everyone who’d sneered to believe the worst of him in regards to her, if only because the name Melbourne was one already smeared in scandal, and thus easy to assume as morally corrupt in every possible manner as a result.

So few guarded him when he so quietly stood strong for so many, and she was now of an age and place in life where she could raise her own shield high.

“I have been much inclined to visit England, I must admit.” To make sure for myself, she thought but did not say. “We’ve discussed the idea, but our plans always seem to be pushed to next season and then the next. Now, with Aimé’s work with the bank, and Liam being so young for such a journey . . .” she sighed, once again frustrated with the distance (both great and small) that spanned between them

“A slight delay may prove to be beneficial,” Elizabeth replied after a moment. “Lord Melbourne will undoubtedly be able to better host you once he retires his premiership.”

Even these many years later, Lord Melbourne remained foreign to her ears. Lord Melbourne had always meant Grandfather Melbourne to her heart, while Lord William was just that, and entirely more approachable for being so. So much had changed over the years – for the best, even, as she would not give up her current circumstances and the family those circumstances had afforded her for anything, and yet . . .

“Perhaps that’s true,” Susan muttered, taken by her ruminations. “I understand why he's remained in office, to attend the passing of the crown. Now, though, I am not sure what he intends. I will have to write Aunt Emily on the matter – for she always seems to know more than what he reveals in his letters.”

(When he did write, at that.)

Her Aunt Emily, after all, was just as determined for her brother to find a new interest in life beyond public service. (No matter that her efforts as a matchmaker had – oftentimes humorously, if also frustratingly – been for naught over the years.) Susan agreed with her endeavors entirely, and was grateful for their continued correspondence for the insight it afforded.

A bright peal of laughter then sounded on the air, punctuating her thoughts, and she looked up to see one of the swans trumpet rather loudly at Cecelia – she’d missed the initial impetus – all the while pointedly flapping its great white wings. Yet, no matter her family's high spirits, she felt ill-inclined towards a matching good cheer for herself.

Elizabeth, who’d continued to observe her unspoken struggles, then softly remarked, “He always did fear that you felt yourself more guardian than ward. You already had far too many cares to wrest with, and at such a tender age, to assume his as well.”

That did sound like something Lord William would say – and perhaps rightly so – but aloud she replied: “I would not have to fret so if he did not give me so much to fret over. It’s his fault entirely for leading wholly by example.”

Elizabeth laughed to concede, “You are not entirely wrong.” Still, she reached over to take her hand, and pressed comfortingly. “Allow me, then, to encourage you to live in the moment as best you may. There will be trials enough in the future without granting them a place in the here and now.”

She was right – of course she was right - and so, Susan endeavored to let the time to come be just that. Towards that end, they turned to speak of pleasant things until Cecilia approached with the girls. Both of the children had splashed too far into the water, and now had sodden boots and hems to show for their play; thus, it was declared time to start for home. They parted ways with promises to meet again upon the morrow, should the threat of rain continue to hold, and, soon enough, Susan was back at the yellow townhouse on the Rue du Conseil, ushering her children inside.

Within, her husband was just where she had left him, bowed over his desk in the library – if with an emptied carafe of coffee, and discarded sheets of crumpled paper at his feet. Yet he gladly put his work aside when Lina bounded in (still with wet stockings, even if she'd removed her shoes), eager to tell her father about their encounter with the swans.

Susan followed, holding a drowsy Liam in her arms, who roused for the sound of his father’s voice. Sure enough, Liam held out his hands most expectantly for Aimé, and Aimé was more than happy to oblige.

“You are a far better sight than any ledger,” he greeted at his first opportunity – with Lina momentarily distracted by Miss Elda's arrival with clean stockings.

“I should hope so,” Susan teased in return, glancing down at the open book and its corresponding papers spread across the desk. It was no small thing, their endeavors – and neither were the numbers that such a venture generated.

“I may help, if you would like to rest your eyes?” she offered – for numbers had always made sense to her, even when so much else about life had not. As such, she rather enjoyed applying her mind to the structured order of the challenge they presented until solved.

Aimé needed no further coaxing. He pushed the ledger aside – which also served to move it beyond Liam’s curious reach – and slumped in an exaggerated show of relief. “Yes, please – I would be eternally grateful.”

Affection filled her, brightening her spirits, and those spirits rose yet further when Aimé said: “I received a letter from the viscount while you were out.” He gestured to a stack of pages besides the coffee carafe, where she espied a familiar hand. “Lord Melbourne was most industrious in providing a list of potential English investors, all of whom expressed interest when he made his queries – Georg and I will be quite busy with our correspondence in the weeks to come, but happily so.”

“That is wonderful news,” she agreed – and it was, both for the future of their business (for a private bank, catering to English expatriates would be well served by English investors), as well as for the promise of . . .

Aimé was hardly blind to the way her eyes searched the desk, looking for a similar seal amidst the sea of papers. “At the risk of distracting you from the assistance you so kindly offered,” his eyes twinkled to reveal, “that parcel there is for you.”

He nodded his head – then unable to gesture with his hands for how Liam was very interested in pulling at his neck-tie – towards the side table, which she eagerly approached.

Susan pulled back the string securing the brown packing paper to the mailing crate, and found neatly wrapped gifts within, decorated with colored papers and ribbons. The two largest were marked for the children, although she noticed a smaller box for herself, and a trio of tall, slim packages for Aimé – which she assumed was some spirit or another, as the two enjoyed trading Lavaux wines and Obstler brandies for the Isles’ scotch and whiskies.

Most importantly, though, was the letter tucked in amongst the shredded newsprint that further protected the gifts. It was a thick packet, with the seal straining against its surplus of pages, much to her delight. She opened the cover letter with impatient hands, and noticed that the subsequent page dated as far back as the sixth of June. Thumbing through at a glance, she found a multitude of starts and stops, as if he could never managed to bring the letter to a natural conclusion before adding more in whatever bits and pieces came to mind when he did find the time to write.

“Silly man,” Susan huffed as she sank down onto the nearest sofa – half addressing herself as much as Aimé. “It seems that he kept adding to his letters without ever breaking to post.”

From there, she turned back to the cover letter, and read:

Mme. Cuénod​

Susan sighed, not for the first time, for the formality of the introduction, before her eyes flicked to the next line.

I must beg your indulgence for the tardiness of this letter. I would ask you not to worry outright if I did not already well know the futility of such an entreaty. In explanation, rather than any defense intended to sway you towards excusing my deficiencies, I may only say that it presumes a great deal of time and effort to see a Queen of England enthroned not to mention all that has assailed her since. It is wholly upon me for failing in my correspondence, and I throw myself upon your mercy in passing judgment on my shortcomings.​

How could she not smile for those words – able as she was to imagine the wry look and easy, self-deprecating tone that would have accompanied their speaking in person?

Not that I need do overly much where Her Majesty is concerned; I am merely here to advise on the sundry matters particular to government that she will quickly come to command for herself. She already has an instinct for the court, and a natural dignity that cannot be taught – such as her uncles never managed to learn for themselves, God rest King William’s soul etc.​

Her smile only grew for his casual irreverence, even as she shook her head. Aimé, she noticed, had been watching her until that point, but he turned his attention in full upon the children once he was satisfied that it was a happy letter.

And happy it was - there was page upon page containing anecdotes leading up to the coronation, and then concerning the coronation itself. She knew that some of the lines were exaggerated for her benefit, while others she considered more thoughtfully for all that they may not have said. There was an entire paragraph, for example, detailing a squabble between the Duke of Wellington and the Duke of Norfolk concerning the bunting on the parade route that very nearly led to a duel. This, she suspected, may have been somewhat embellished – while a line written with tight letters only briefly mentioned how ridiculous the Marquess of Chandos was for arguing against a coronation parade in whole, fearing that Her Majesty would succumb to a swoon for being so unnaturally put on display before such a multitude. There, she read anger, and there, his words did not linger.

A line concerning the American minister and his attempts to lodge an official complaint against the queen’s conduct at a state luncheon was scratched out entirely – and it was far from the only line, which was curious when Lord William usually wrote so cleanly and concisely in expressing his thoughts.

She read through the events of the coronation with relish, imagining the glittering majesty of such a spectacle – and took note of the queen’s reaction to Lord Rolle’s fall, in particular. Lord William’s pen was then most praiseworthy, but not, Susan concluded, with any false sincerity for her benefit.

There, the letter continued:

The parcel for your daughter contains a doll depicting the exact look and style of Her Majesty’s coronation dress and regalia. I am told that they are currently sought after by many, regardless of age and even sex, and it is my hope that she may find the doll as inspiring as our sovereign is to so many young ladies here in England.

For your son –​

There, Susan saw how the ink uncharacteristically blotted, so much so that she suspected the letter had momentarily been abandoned and then later resumed.

– I have included the gift of Augustus’ old toy blocks. They were of no good to anyone here nor shall they ever be, lying useless in the attic, and it is my hope that they may bring as much joy to your household as they once did my own.​

For the impetus of that paragraph, she felt an old blade, long left to rust in her chest, turn once more. She closed her eyes, and breathed; then, she resumed her reading.

On that mark, I wish to thank you for your letter. It was a balm on what was otherwise a particularly trying day. I hope that you were able to pass that time yourself in what peace you could. I will always be grateful for the love you showed my son in life, just as I shall ever regret the pain it has caused in yours.​

Again, that blade twisted; deeply, she breathed.

Yet that was all he wrote concerning the memory of Augustus’ passing – not that she'd expected anything more.

Instead, the letter returned to matters concerning the queen. The weeks following her coronation had been most contentious – that, even Susan knew from the headlines in Switzerland. She'd suspected that there was more to the story, so much so that Aimé had been treated to an instance or two of her furious pacing as she maligned the British press (and all those international editors beyond) in the strongest language (if not always the most genteel) possible.

Although there was much that Lord William did not say – or, perhaps, rightly could not say without breaking confidence with his sovereign – she felt vindicated to read his view on the matter. There was more to the story – there always was.

Yet Her Majesty has persevered through this most unfortunate start to her reign with all possible grace. I rather suspect that you would quite enjoy meeting her. She is both long-suffering and tenacious; she burns brightly, but constantly; her curiosity and desire to learn is as endless as her mind is swift to fix itself upon matters that require decisive conclusions. She truly considers her advisors as her uncles never did, unwilling as she is to depend solely upon her own wisdom as it grows – which is something I never thought possible for the head wearing the crown. She is genuinely gracious and kindhearted and exceedingly inclined to humor, just as she is stubborn resolute and forceful and proud – all without that assumed superiority of manner that previously defined the House of Hanover. She is most illuminable entirely refreshing as a monarch. I would lie if I didn’t say that I find her enchanting, and my opinion is one shared by many of my fellow ministers - even on opposing benches. We’ll undoubtedly be back to shouting at each other come the start of the season. In this session alone, there’s policy concerning the Tin Duties Act, rights for divorced mothers, and the continuation of the Jamaica Bills to argue – along with the ever impossible quagmire surrounding the workhouse and poor law amendments the child labor laws and the most necessary manufacturing regulations that ever seem to fall short of keeping pace with the ever expanding industrial north – but on this sole matter we quite agree.

Previously, just considering the magnitude of those incipient matters would have been enough to drive me towards resigning. I admittedly still look forward to doing so when the time is right, yet, for now, I feel as if I have some fight left in me, and I mean to do just that with the time I have left. It doesn’t seem impossible now, influencing change for the better – or, at the very least, I feel equal to my duty to try whilst I am yet in a position to do so.​

Out of all the pages she'd read – Lina, by then, had expressed her intention to paint the swans on the lake with her watercolors, while Liam was playing quietly on the floor as Aimé returned to his work – it was this one that gave her the most pause. She reread it more than once, parsing through the words as fondness and joy sparked in her to join a most contented sense of relief. (Many years had passed since Lord William wrote so positively of the future, after all.)

And yet . . .

Susan was torn between gratitude for this young queen and the devotion she inspired, even as she couldn’t help but worry for the many ways that devotion could serve as a forewarning of its own. At length, she relaxed her grip about the pages – for it was merely in her nature to unduly concern herself where there was no true cause for concern. She was sure that this was one of those times. (Wasn’t it?)

Yet that was nothing as to how she felt when she read:

I don't believe I've mentioned that I've returned to tending the glasshouses, whenever I'm in residence. Since quitting London, I have been able to apply myself to this once favored endeavor as I haven’t in years. It has been a most rewarding pursuit – rejuvenating, even, and I'm glad to have done so. ​

Surprise was too slight a word to explain the emotion that filled her. She could still remember the greenhouses in their glory from her girlhood, down to their every detail. It had always saddened her to think of that veritable Eden left alone and abandoned over the years, with only the estate's cultivators to care for and enjoy.

Susan swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat, and continued:

I have included a pressing of some of my first efforts in the parcel for you I know that you once liked collecting them but I am now unsure, from a ranunculus I managed to coax back to health. The poor fellow was trying to go dormant far too early in the summer, although I have hopes for his future well-being. Not that I need extend myself too strenuously, of course, as Mr. Waldron has done an exemplary job of keeping things in order during my absence.

The yellow flowers, I thought you would quite enjoy. I have considered cultivating a white variety, if only because Her Majesty has expressed an admiration for similar such blooms in the selections at the palace – scant as Buckingham’s gardens currently have to offer. George IV never did have much interest in cultivating the natural beauties of the world in favor of artificial splendors – sadly unlike his father, before his mind left him. There are certain species of orchids, too, that I suspect she may find intriguing – but the progress I have made in propagating new plants won’t show fruit for some time. I doubt that, by then, I’ll be in any position to present such a gift, yet the thought is a pleasing one that I enjoy indulging for the time being.​

Yellow buttercups, she still remembered, for filial love, happiness, and new beginnings . . . and white for ardent admiration.

Not that, she glanced at the paragraph again, the meanings themselves had any bearing on this particular decision, and yet, there they remained.

From his desk, Aimé noticed her shift in demeanor. He put down his pen, and gave her his full attention.

“Bad news?” he asked, concerned.

Was it? she wondered, even as: “Oh, there always is,” she said, only somewhat sardonically. (The slight rise of her shoulders and quirk of her mouth was all his in origin, she'd long recognized about herself.) “But not expressly this time . . . or, not exactly, I don't think.”

To further convey what she couldn't wholly put into words, she handed Aimé the pages she'd already read. He looked at her, a brow raised, before he curiously turned his attention to the letter. It took him some time to catch up as she went on to read her own concluding pages, which spoke of general plans for the rest of the summer. Some pages he merely skimmed over, while, with others, he lingered.

“I see,” he finally murmured. He held a hand to his chin, as he often did when deeply considering a matter, before he asked, “Do you think he knows?"

So her concerns were not unfounded.

“There is a stark difference between knowing and acknowledging,” she pointed out with a sigh. “Where he falls on that score, I cannot say. Instead, I can only . . . ”

But she bit her lip for the surge of frustration that swelled within her (with foreboding and happiness and preemptive sorrow, all), and said no more.

Seeing the clear rise of her emotions, Aimé stood and came over to join her on the settee. He opened his arms, and she leaned against him with a sigh. For a long moment, he merely held her, letting her recover what she could of her peace as he stroked a comforting hand over her back. “Your heart is far too big for your chest," he muttered against her hair.

“How can I not worry?" she returned, her hands tightening against him. "I feel as if my heart is not big enough to hold all the worry that there's cause to feel."

She felt Aimé's chest move with a fond exhalation of breath. “I never said it was a bad thing – only a good thing that may nonetheless cause you pain, which, in turn, pains me." He was quiet for a moment, and then said, "I would like the viscount to be happy, too – not only for your happiness, but my joy for the gift of you."

Her heart then filled with far more than pain. She lifted her head in order to meet his eyes and say: “And I am happy here. I never mean to suggest otherwise."

“Oh, I never doubted," he assured. "Even though I suspect that you wish to visit England now, more than ever, do you not?"

She did not answer – but then, she had no need to as Aimé continued, "Let us see how this next year goes – mayhap, before long, we can even call it a business trip to secure connections with our English investors."

“I would like that very much," she confessed – and then, how could she not kiss her husband for how warmly he smiled? She felt herself sooth all the more so, drawn back towards equilibrium once more.

“Now, write your reply," Aimé encouraged. "I can brave the ledgers in the meantime."

“My knight," she said affectionately, and followed him back to the desk for the neighboring escritoire that she had for her use. There, she brought out a fresh sheaf of stationary, and picked up her pen.

It was still an instinct for her to write father, these many years later – but she had never assumed that privilege, and then, after Ireland . . .

Nothing had ever been the same again.

Yet she shook that maudlin thought aside as she instead began to write:

Lord William,

You are indeed right that the tardiness of your reply caused me much distress. Yet I find your explanation – not any excuse in defense, surely – quite understandable, and am thus willing to extend my forgiveness, if only upon the condition that such a lapse does not become habitual in the future . . .​

TBC


~ MJ

 

Aw, thank you! I've quite enjoyed developing these alternate POVs in the little window I've had! It's been a fun interlude to write - and definitely a great challenge for my muse - before we dive back into the story proper.

The language of flowers, in particular, continues to be the gift that keeps on giving, and I am not nearly done with it yet.

As always, I thank you so very much for reading, and for your constant encouragement and feedback!

---

Author's Notes: Alrighty folks, here I am, delving into the POV of a certain German prince that, needless to say, may quite set the stage for further arcs in this story to come.

Yet I need say no more, in favor of getting right into . . .

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“Your Miles of Shore”
(Marathon Swimming; Story Building Challenge)​

VIII.III

The Suitor

It was an unseasonably hot day, even for summer in Coburg.

The weather had everyone in foul tempers – or, at least, it did one particular denizen of Schloss Rosenau, who, as lord of the castle, had the ability to inflict a matching ill humor on all those around him and no inclination for restraint against doing so.

As was his habit whenever the duke seemed poised to vent his spleen, Franz Albert, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, chose the preemptive measure of a retreat. In his youth, such routs had been accompanied by thundering heartbeats and shaking hands; now, he simply regarded the man who was nominally his father with quiet contempt, and refused to allow him any further power over his mind.

Invariably, he'd found the best place to weather the storm in the north-western corner of the uppermost attic. The duke would never lower himself to search a space so beneath him – or so Albert had assumed as a child, before he realized that only the servants were ever sent to find him – and that one benefit outweighed its every disadvantage in comfort. The air was invariably close and stale, while the sweltering heat stuck his clothes to his skin and caused his hair to fall limply over his forehead. The crowded space had always felt small, even as a youth, without his adult self's full height, yet it was comfortable in a way that superseded the mere physical. Here, between the shield of an old, baroque chest of drawers and an upright brace of cloth-covered paintings, he had his sanctuary.

Years ago, with a child's curiosity, he’d pulled back the flaxen cloth and crate paper to analyze the visages of his stern-faced ancestors. Most unexpectedly, he'd found a portrait of his mother hidden away amongst the forgotten works, depicting her as a very young woman, perhaps only newly married. Somehow, this painting had survived the duke's scourge of ordering every last remnant of Princess Louise expunged from the castle upon his exiling her from Coburg. Aware of the portrait's great value for its singularity, Albert was always careful to tuck the cloth back around the dull bronze frame whenever he pulled it out to examine. (Whenever he found his own memory of her fading at the edges, and wished to strengthen her presence.) In the worst moments of his childhood, he’d even gone so far as to talk to his mother's likeness – though he'd since grown beyond the need to indulge in such a pointless puerility.

Instead, he sat perfectly still, his head resting back against the chest, and watched the dust motes float in the too-bright sunshine streaming in from the windows.

“Sweet Christ, Albert, but I'd hoped against finding you here – this hole hardly felt spacious as a child, let alone now.”

At the sound of his brother's voice, Albert looked to see Ernst, hunched at an awkward angle in an effort to avoid the low, steep slant of the roof. Carefully, he brother picked a path between the furniture and crates and other such miscellanea, all the while muttering intermittent oaths in consternation. For his part, Albert said nothing aloud – which, as ever, deterred Ernst but little as he claimed his usual spot on an old scarlet footstool with torn velvet upholstery.

Dramatically, he sighed.

“I would have thought you much too old to hide from Father like this – yet here you are, proving me a fool.”

Albert recognized his brother's intent to raise him from his brewing choler for what it was. Even so, his intention to hold his silence – for boring Ernst ever proved the most effective way to ensure he’d take his leave sooner rather than later – faded to naught when he replied:

“I am not hiding.”

He placed not the slightest stress on a single syllable; still, Ernst heard how they bristled.

“Father thinks you are,” Ernst returned, and Albert caught the warning disguised by his own seemingly untouchable good cheer in answer.

For that, he leaned his head back against the chest without a word.

And he reflected.

That morning, he’d awakened early, as was his habit. He had no inclination to indulge in mindless revelry through the small hours of the morning, and his retiring early at night usually had the added benefit that the duke was rarely about to catch him before he stole away in pursuit of his own interests for the day.

Usually, that was.

Yet, that morning, when he'd alighted from his quarters, the duke unfortunately caught him in the corridor. (And Albert refused to think about which room he was coming from, as always.) The duke was currently making a grand affair of hosting Lord and Lady von Bernau, and it seemed that even the morning meal was to be another study in garishly overweening decadence. As such, in no uncertain terms, Albert was required by his father to attend.

There, once the table finally sat (well past ten o'clock), Albert was present merely in body. He poked at his boiled egg with little appetite, and made no effort to attend the conversation at the table, let alone contribute. Yet, somehow, no matter his every indication of disinterest, Lady von Bernau saw fit to address him directly and inquire of his studies at Bonn.

Even for a subject that he could usually bring himself to discuss in a stranger's company, Albert could only stare, uncertain why his father’s latest mistress thought that he’d have anything to say to her when her lawful husband sat just there by her side - and, to all reports, was complacent in her sin.

The moment could have been called uncomfortable – little as Albert thought his manners lacking towards a woman who'd already so grossly shamed herself by her own doing – had it not been for Ernst, who answered on his behalf.

“My brother excels in studying the sciences.”

“Oh,” the lady’s brow had furrowed, as if she could not understand having such an inclination, let alone pursuing its advancement. “How singular.”

“Entirely,” the duke had agreed, his voice tight. Albert, despite himself, went still in his chair for the timbre. “Little as his playing at a scholar will ultimately matter once England calls.”

It had been on the tip of his tongue to challenge those words – yet the duke maintained the opinion that his continued education was an expense they could ill-afford, and Albert had no desire to stoke that argument anew. Following the scourge of Napoleon, Coburg and Gotha were little more than bankrupt states, yes - but the duke ever found ways to scam his creditors in order to pour obscene amounts of guldens into opulent improvements both here at Schloss Rosenau and the seat of the duchy in Schloss Ehrenburg. Yet, somehow, financing his youngest son’s studies was a strain too far on the royal coffers.

Besides, Albert heard all too regularly, what use would he have for science and art and philosophy, when he was instead intended for . . .

So Albert had stood, and left the table without a word.

Needless to say, the duke had been in high dungeon ever since.

“Ah, well,” Ernst shrugged, breaking into his ruminations, “Cousin Marie deflected your departure with all the graciousness that you failed to show – much as you must know how I admire your intrepidity otherwise.”

(The neither of them could ever bring themselves to call their father’s second wife mother – and Marie had never pressed. The duke, for his part, had no care what his sons called their stepmother, so long as it was Duchess Marie in company.)

“Of course, it is Lady von Bernau who will truly distract him,” Ernst blithely continued. “It’s utterly intolerable indoors – even you must be in want of some relief. In pursuit of such, that good lady is currently suggesting an expedition to Goldbergsee.”

Albert tensed for the idea, little as he had any desire to be trapped in their company if the outing was agreed upon, and utterly unwilling to -

“If you go out through the west door now, you shouldn’t be seen.”

- but Ernst seemingly plucked his thoughts from the air, much as he ever did, and addressed them at their heart.

“I’d make my way with haste, that said. I was supposed to be looking for you, yet if one of the servants finds you, I doubt they’ll be as . . . forgetful as I am when reporting to Father.”

Albert smiled in answer – a small smile, but true – and said simply: “Thank you.”

It was a trick, unfolding himself from the cramped space, but he managed. Still crouched against the roof, he picked up his satchel – not that he’d accomplished any of his intended reading – and carefully slung the bag over his shoulder so as to avoid knocking the paintings askew.

Yet it was not until he made to pass Ernst that his brother snapped his fingers.

“Ah, yes; I almost forgot!” Ernst epiphanized – if in a tone that suggested no such lapse in memory. “This came from Her Majesty, just after you sulked from the table. It is Father's command that you have a reply ready to send with the next post.”

Annoyance danced across his skin with prickling intensity. “I will answer our cousin in my own time, much as I ever do.”

Even so, Albert well knew the boundaries that he could not push against, and accepted the letter thusly. He slipped it into his pack without looking, and was then content to forget about its presence as he left the attic behind.

It was, by then, a familiar route to his feet – following one of the servants’ passages down the curling staircases, and pausing for sign of either footsteps or voices. It was slower going than he would have liked, yet he found himself outside soon enough. The heat of the day rippled over him once he stepped through the doors, reinforcing its presence after the relative relief of the cool stone passageways, and he stopped only long enough to shrug off his frock coat and roll up his shirtsleeves. Already, the sun felt as a brand against his face.

The gardens spanned before him, but he ignored their cultivated orderliness in favor of turning for the ruins of the ancient stone wall, which had once stood as part of the castle’s fortifications in times bygone. Without slowing his stride, he cut through the deteriorating archway, and allowed the shade of the trees to swallow him.

He made quick time, picking out the nearly invisible path that led down the exposed shale and lydite outcroppings that formed the great hills of the region. Moss grew over the dominant boulders that framed the deep gorges, where small cascades and streams flowed down to the Itz river below. Only when the descent began to level, and he heard the sound of shallow rapids rushing over river-stones, did he allow his pace to slow. Finally, he breathed.

Here, the ancient beech forest was thick and dense, blocking out the worst of the sun's rays. He walked deeper and deeper into the wood, as much out of his own inclination as to increase the distance between himself and the castle. At his feet, wood-rush thrived in the shadows, while the second crop of that season’s heather prepared to bloom where the sunlight filtered down through the canopy. Closer to the water, elderberry trees thrived, with their branches bearing the new green berries of the season. He followed one particular stand down to the river itself – where a most favored stone outcropping provided an ideal spot for respite.

There was, at the summit of the buff, one particularly old tree with a wide, gnarled base of a trunk. Its massive expanse of branches was vast enough to both join the retreat of the forest before the water’s edge and bow over the river itself. The bark provided a natural support at its roots, and it was there that Albert found his seat. He spent some time motionless, doing nothing but breathe as he absorbed the nature-quiet of his surroundings. The babbling of the water, the breeze soughing through the leaves, the birdsong far above . . . together, their harmony soothed him, until, finally, he felt that he could open his eyes again.

With his newfound composure thus secured, he took a book out from his satchel with the intent to sketch. He’d already drawn an exact replica of the flowering elderberry, and now he wished to capture its life cycle with new berries; in a month’s time, he would draw its fruit again, ripe for the harvest.

Elderberry trees were not so common in the north, closer to the sea – and Otto (who studied agricultural advancements in the form of hybrid crops to grow in the less hospitable saline soils of that region) had expressed his interest in the flora of the Thuringian states. Towards that end, Albert was happy to provide what examples he could – especially when he didn't have the option of hosting his schoolmates at Schloss Rosenau during the summer. It would have been a very pleasant thing . . . to have Otto and Lukas and Theodore here to visit. He could imagine no better company, yet neither would he ever inflict his father upon that same company – little as the duke would have welcomed the second sons of the minor nobility who'd decided to turn to employment in order to advance their prospects in the first place.

(As if their fate wouldn't have been his own, if he didn't also share ties of blood with the august House of Hanover in England.)

That thought bit at him as he applied himself to his task – which was perhaps why each drawing was just slightly off so as to convey the truth of the specimen. After a fourth failed attempt, he gave up, frustrated by his lack of discipline.

Albert tapped his pencil against the leather binding of his sketchbook, and allowed himself the indulgence of a sigh.

With growing discontent, he replaced the book in his satchel. There, his hand brushed against the letter he'd forgotten about (ignored) just as quickly as it had been imposed upon him. He took it out, slowly turning the weighted paper over between his fingers before conceding to the inevitable. His mood was already nettlesome; better would it be to add to that distemper now, rather than when he was in a more favorable state of mind.

So he broke the seal, and looked to where the letter began, much as it ever did, with a single word:

Cousin,​

The lack of formality was Victoria's prerogative, of course – he ever called her Cousin Drina in return, as she was no sovereign over him. (Yet that did not wholly explain why he felt his mouth tighten, all before he consciously eased his expression for neutrality.)

He skimmed the first paragraph, which contained the expected inquiries as to the health of her uncle and aunt (as always, for the title, his fingers pressed against the page) and dearest Cousin Ernst, who always makes me laugh – as if he didn’t already well know that she regularly communicated with his elder brother with far more enthusiasm than he, if the length of her letters was any indication.

That line, he knew, was merely a petty jab from an equally immature girl; thus, he resolved to pay it no heed.

(And yet, to this girl, he was expected to submit?)

From there, her letter delved into perfunctory reports on the events surrounding her coronation, which momentarily gave him pause – had it truly been so long since she last wrote? He hadn’t paid much attention to the news from England at the beginning of the summer but to recall that Uncle Leopold had been in arms over his nephew's lack of an invitation to the event. For his part, Albert understood why he'd not been welcome to attend – even if the rest of his family refused to accept that apparent logic for themselves – and was instead more befuddled for why his father did not attend when he was so invited.

There were an even greater number of whores to fornicate with in England, after all – Albert would have assumed that he’d appreciate the variety.

(Better, though, did he know that the duke liked to think himself more a king over his humble dutchy. Ernst I had no desire to be reminded of his true insignificance in the Court of St. James', where he wouldn't carry anything near a matching prominence with Victoria's English uncles.)

From there, he noticed that his cousin made scant mention of the initial weeks following her coronation – as if he wasn't aware of the great embarrassment she’d already inflicted upon the Crown with her cruelty towards Lady Flora. Albert had said his own prayers for the maligned woman when the headlines first reached Germany – along with entreaties that the Almighty help temper his cousin's wildness for a more befitting feminine grace and Christian modesty – even while fighting his own unbecoming sense of vindication (satisfaction) for the criticisms her blunders garnered from her own people and beyond.

It was best that she learn the error of her ways now, in a relatively personal fashion, he'd reasoned, before she faltered in a matter any more vital to her realm and the subjects she ruled.

His expressing those thoughts to Ernst, however, had afforded him a rare moment of actual temper from his brother – in a way that Albert still did not like to recall.

“Have you been completely blind these years past?" he'd been incredulous to challenge. "There is far more churning beneath these surface headlines. You must have observed it for yourself when we were last in England, or at least you would have, if you but opened your eyes to see.”

“You mean the nonsense of her claims against Sir John?” Albert failed to understand – for, in England, he'd seen nothing but a headstrong girl grossly disrespecting her elders. For the way she presumed to know her own course, and how disgracefully she treated her mother in conjunction with the man who only sought to kindly advise her . . .

After all, a mother alive and well and present was a blessing – little as she could see the value of that gift for what it was.

Victoria needed a strong hand, had been his conclusion – and would benefit and flourish from one, if she ever allowed herself to be so guided. The friction that resulted at Kensington and beyond was entirely due to her stubborn intransigence in refusing to yield.

“Nonsense?” Ernst had repeated, as if he couldn't fathom the word. “Sometimes, brother, for all the time you spend thinking, I pity you for your utter lack of comprehension.”

Ernst's rebuke had stung – for he did place a very great value on his brother’s opinion – and, out of respect, he'd taken the time to further consider his arguments. Ultimately, however, he'd maintained his own conclusions.

Albert glanced through the next passage, summarizing her time at Bushy Park with the dowager queen and her many cousins. (Bastards all, born from her uncle’s myriad sins – shameful acquaintances which he would not allow to continue if her household ever became his own.) He had little interest in the few details she chose to share, all until she continued with her recent-most arrival in the south of England:

The Isle of Portland is as charming as an island can be – it may not compare with the Isle of Wight, but it's entirely lovely in a way that is stark in majesty. I suppose that there are no equal wonders in Coburg, locked by land as you so sadly are on every side. The entire coastline is similarly to be marveled over with its dramatic cliffs and quiet coves. We were even fortunate enough to have found fossils on the beach, as this region is rife with such treasures. I found a fossil etched in a chip of stone – a perfectly preserved dragonfly, I've since learned after inquiry, from eons past. I thought you would like that, as you are always collecting such things from the natural world, are you not?
​

As ever, he was bemused by her changeable disposition – vacillating between pique one moment and kindness the next, and with each emotion as genuine as the last. (He did not at all find her demeanor intriguing so much as aggravating, of course.)

Yet, instead of dwelling overlong on that thought, he continued to read:

There are the queerest birds on the shores here, who walk on stilted legs – at first, Dash did not quite know how to conduct himself before instinct held sway and he gave chase. As such, he was rather surprised when the ocean surf caught up with him in one particularly violent wave. He was drenched with saltwater and grit, and I was forced to put off meeting with the First Sea Lord in order to give him a bath.
​

More of the same frivolous generalities then continued – what monarch postponed a meeting concerning their realm’s defenses for the sake of a dog? He could not understand his cousin, and he found his mind drifting.

(He wondered what Otto was doing then. It had been a fortnight since his last letter, and he rather knew that he'd find a better match for his mind in any correspondence he sent.)

Vice Admiral Adam wishes to establish a stronger naval presence on the isle, for purposes of defending our shores against foreign threat, and he told me such war stories so as to encourage my favorable opinion towards his proposal - as would have horrified Mama, so much so that I was once again glad that she was not with me, in favor of waiting in Brighton. The French are expanding their own naval port in Cherbourg, just across the Channel, which is cause enough for concern – no matter that we are currently at peace France, and Louis Philippe has been kind in his letters thus far. That may be naïve of me to judge by – or is it, given that his daughter is our Aunt Louise through Uncle Leopold? I never want to put my soldiers and sailors through what they experienced with Napoleon, not if it can otherwise be helped. However, Lord M saw fit to remind the VA that the reason why his proposals had yet to reach the House is precisely because we are living in a time of peace. The people were severely taxed in order to finance our wars with the French, and the reparations to the multitude have yet to reach a satisfactory state of equilibrium so as to justify any such further expense in investment.

The points offered by both sides were quite sensible, and when I suggested the possibility of a compromise, I half expected that I was to be laughed at. The VA looked at me in such a way, at least – but Lord M’s smile was more approving than amused, which quite calmed my own temper. The VA expressed that we should never compromise on security for the realm, whereas Lord M countered that, with a little compromise, a great many necessary things for the realm could be accomplished – this proposed naval base included. As such, he most pointedly called my wisdom refreshing, right to the First Sea Lord, me, wise? which, I must admit, heartened me dearly.
​

For a long moment, Albert stared at the page, assessing her words. In the absence of Sir John, his uncle had pressed upon him to establish his own influence in the vacuum that was naturally left in his wake. He’d warned that Victoria was relying on dangerous advisors – advisors who played their own games by manipulating such a young, easily impressionable girl for their own ends. Amongst those advisors, Leopold had cautioned, her prime minister was the most egregious offender. Yet, for his part, Albert saw but little opportunity for himself, not when it seemed that need was already filled – nor would he press himself to infringe, not when he'd already vowed that he would never lower himself to court (entreat) her attention as if he was some fawning lapdog, desperate for treats. His pride necessitated as much.

His uncle had since expressed his frustration that he had not already been invited (summoned) to England to present his suit, yet Albert was in no hurry to bind himself in matrimony. He had school to return to in a mere month's time, and a tour of Italy planned the spring following, headed by his long favored mentor, Florschütz, and a selection of his closest schoolmates. Albert infinitely preferred that course to being immediately chained to the throne of England as an ornamental dead-weight.

That bleak future was an ill thought – and one he hardly intended to allow pass, if and when he was beholden to do his duty for his country. He would never be ruled by his wife; somehow, he would take his place ruling – and so, he pushed those considerations aside for another time.

Instead, he continued reading:

Following, we toured the site where naval batteries may yet stand in just a few years' time. It is an admittedly overwhelming thought to consider: that it may someday fall upon me to command an engagement of our armed forces that would necessitate the use of such violence.
​

It was, Albert thought, entirely perplexing that his cousin thought herself colonel-in-chief in anything more than name to begin with.

Yet Lord M says it is the mark of a good ruler to have such reservations – as war is never a thing to be entered into lightly. I wanted to ask about his own service then, but couldn't find the words before the moment passed. He went on to assure me that I have faithful & loyal advisers who’ve made the defense of this realm their life’s work. If – God forbid – such a time should ever arise, it is a decision I shall not make alone.

Thankfully, those foreboding thoughts were not mine overlong – how could they, in the face of such beautiful surroundings? High on the cliffs, we came upon a vast spray of tiny purple flowers – Portland sea-lavender, although I am told that they have no relation to common lavender at all. These are a very rare flower in the United Kingdom, it seems; they only grow on the cliffs of this isle, and then sporadically on the shoreline of Dorsetshire. They were quite enchanting to look upon, and their scent, when combined with the salt of the sea, was most pleasing.

Lord M was particularly enthused with the sight – he seems to know the name and meaning of every flower there is, and I am endeavoring to extend my own knowledge on the subject. If I may ever escape reading beyond Hume, that is. The sea-lavender, being uncommon, doesn't have a single meaning, but rather several as horticulturists reach their consensus. I quite like the proposed interpretation of tranquility – an ocean at rest, or even of sustaining love, as Venus herself once rose from the waves – when combined with resilience, for only a very few species make such an unhospitable a place as these rocky summits their home. Lord M said that, as queen, my inclination should be made law – or, at the very least, so it shall be to him.

I then suggested bringing a clipping back home to propagate – as Lord M quite makes an art of such things – but he demurred against doing so. He said that some beauties are not meant to be cultivated. The sea-lavender thrives here on the ocean spray & the salt in the wind & the violence of the storms, just as it does the rocky soil & surplus of sunlight – it would find no matching haven trapped in a glasshouse. I have never considered such a thing before; flowers are simply there for my enjoyment, and I've never given much thought to how they come to me, either by garden or vase. But I now consider a great many things about the world that I wouldn’t have before.
​

Those paragraphs where the longest she'd kept to a single subject throughout her missive. Perhaps somewhat unkindly, Albert suspected that the letter would have already been concluded if Victoria refrained from any mention of what Lord M did or did not do or say.

For that sudden perturbation of thought, he wondered at himself. He frowned, his eyes turning unseeing to her words as he distantly took in the dappled sunlight that skipped over the water and danced across the stone face of the outcropping. He let his thoughts flow much the same, examining them one by one.

He was not, Albert concluded, jealous – for that emotion would have to be antecedent to any claim to feel infringed upon, or an attachment, at the very least. He had no understanding with his cousin except that which was implied by the wishes of their families, and he himself was begrudging to fulfill that unspoken promise . . . was he not?

"You could do great things as king," Otto had pointed out, one of the rare times that he'd expressed his thoughts on so personal a matter. "You’d be in a place to make the kind of progress that the rest of us can only dream about an actuality. Why wouldn’t you want to assume such a role?"

"I would hardly be king – merely the queen’s consort."

"Yet will you not be the queen’s husband? Ultimately, the diktats of nature will ensure that she yields to you; some things are impossible to circumvent, crown or not."

"You have never met Victoria, then," Albert had neither smiled nor sighed for that truth – but merely stated it aloud. (There was no small part of him that was already weary to consider the battle of wills that he suspected would define their relationship where the matter of power was concerned, at that.)

Restlessly, he drummed his fingers against his knee, before consciously ceasing the aimless gesture. Was it familial concern that he felt, then? Perhaps he merely worried on behalf of his cousin, and feared that she was being taken advantage of by a far older politician who was commonly known to be disreputable? No; neither did that ring quite true. He would have to consider this matter further in order to better know his own mind.

(He was uncertain of so many things as of late, it seemed, and that uncertainty maddened him.)

We have only just arrived in Weymouth, in continuation of our tour – I have already attended the opening of the Weymouth Dispensary and Royal Infirmary & shall next continue my meetings with the VA concerning plans for the redevelopment of Portland Harbor on the mainland. We are staying at Gloucester House – where my Grandfather George resided to take the water and attend his health before the worst of his decline. I must admit that I am intrigued to try the spas with their sea water for myself – as that is such a quintessential part of my country that I yet remain ignorant of. What I wouldn't give to swim in the ocean itself – but I have never been permitted to swim before, not even in shallow and tepid waters. I do not know how, and mayhap never will.

Yet I have presumed upon your time long enough. How is your summer thus far, allow me to ask instead? I must confess that I cannot imagine you taking any sort of holiday. You must be applying yourself to some study or pursuit, and I will listen, if you wish to tell me.

Until then, I remain,
Victoria Regina, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
​

As always, she did not refrain from the (most pointed) use of her full title. Equally so, Albert felt a spike of amusement (irritation) for the sight, even as he refolded the letter. Loosely, he held it, considering all that he head read within.

He supposed that he should go about composing his reply – as that would be one less thing to try his father’s disapproval. Yet he found himself slow to do so, and it was only with an effort that he reached into his pack for fresh paper and a pen.

Dutifully, he set himself to his task:

Cousin Drina,
​

(He did not at all feel a certain amount of satisfaction to begin his letter as such.)

I am glad to hear
​

(Yet, was he?)

It is good to hear
​

(He supposed that was true.)

I thank you for the pleasure of your correspondence
​

(It may have been beholden upon him to say.)

I would thank you even more not to speak so often of him when you are writing to me​

(And that was far too true, was it not?)

None of those lines would do. Frustrated, he considered the page before setting it aside, and leaned his head back against the tree with a dull thud. For a time, he simply stared at the light-seared canopy far above him, watching the leaves as they communed with the sun. Deeply, he breathed. He simply had to subject his errant mind to his will, he concluded – and thus, he would. So, towards that end:

Cousin Drina,
​

- he applied himself anew. Yet his pen merely hovered over the page, and there it remained, silent and still. He felt an unwitting frown turn at his mouth, at a loss for how to proceed.

Yet, perhaps it was understandable, he lowered his hand to acknowledge – he merely needed to consider her letter further before he could form a suitable answer. That was only natural, and thus, acceptable for being so.

Instead, he turned over for a new sheet, and began to write:

Dear Otto,

Coburg yet remains as dreary as I remembered – the pleasures of my natural surroundings aside, which can never fail to replete my spirit with all due contentment. I have yet to have an intelligent conversation with a single soul, although, to his credit, my brother tries. I look forward to your reply already, as I feel I shall go mad if forced to endure a continued drought of any superior thought with which to engage my own . . .​

Quite heartened, he continued, his pen flying easily over the page as the great boughs above continued their timeless dance.


TBC

Spoiler: End Notes

Needless to say, I could write entire essays about this particular installment, but I will limit myself to just a few notes.

A Note on Schloss Rosenau: This was the summer residence for the Dukes of Coburg, and the estate that Albert favored over the official seat of the duchy in Schloss Ehrenberg for its surrounding forests and "rural" feel. It's definitely on the charming side with:







If you'd like, you can see more photos and read about its history in greater detail at its official website!


A Note on Ernst I, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (and Princess Louise): I've mentioned this in bits and pieces throughout previous notes, but to tie everything together as a refresher: Ernst I was the eldest brother of Victoria's mother and Uncle Leopold. As such, he inherited the dukedom from their father during the Napoleonic wars, which he served in by fighting for the Prussian army while Coburg was under French occupation. He eventually married Princess Louise of Gotha, and they had Ernst II and Albert. Unfortunately, their marriage was unhappy, which was largely due to the duke's rampant adultery. He did not tolerate his wife having affairs of her own, however, and he exiled her when rumors of her infidelity started to circulate in the court. (Some sources say that she ran away with one of her lovers, but then, there are also accounts of her literally disguising herself as a servant to sneak back into the palace for a glimpse of her sons.) The sad part is that I could only find mention of two men in conjunction with Louise, and she did end up marrying the second man after Ernst officially divorced her, two years into her exile. Yet that happiness did not last long, as, mere months into her marriage, she died of cancer at the very young age of 31; Albert was then but 12 years old.

Ernst I wasted no time remarrying, and he did so to his niece, Princess Marie of Württemberg. This was not an uncommon practice for royalty in previous centuries, but it was falling out of favor in the early 1800s - just as marriages between first cousins began to phase out during the 19th century as a greater understanding of potential genetic conditions came with advancements in the medical field. Ernst's marriage to Marie was also unhappy, and the couple had no children.

As a ruler, Wikipedia credits Ernst with improving the economic, educational, and constitutional development of his territories. Yet he's most famously known for his extensive renovations to the ducal palaces, which is what confuses me - as those were very expensive projects, and, like many states in Germany following the Napoleonic wars, Coburg and Gotha hardly had the money to spare. So, you may judge that for what it's worth. Needless to say, Albert had a low opinion of his father, which brings me to . . .


A Note on Prince Albert: Perhaps understandably due to his upbringing, Albert endeavored to be the exact opposite of his father. He was devoutly moral, studious, frugal, and had little liking for any sort of decadence or idleness. He was described by many (and even described himself) as severe and cold, though he softened in the presence of a select few family members and friends. He was an incredibly smart man, who had big ambitions and a fierce desire to leave his mark on the world for the best. As such, he thrived in academic settings - his first tutor, Christoph Florschütz, was more a father to him than his actual father, and one of the closest bonds he forged throughout his life. He was equally close with his brother Ernst. In his youth, Albert similarly formed intense relationships with many of his fellow academics at school - which has led to theories of homosexual leanings, as his disinterest in women was also remarked upon at the time by those same friends and even his Uncle Leopold. That could certainly be true, but I tend to hold with the opinion that he was somewhere on the ace spectrum - perhaps naturally, or in answer to his childhood trauma and the views he formed regarding sex on the opposite side of the spectrum from his father. If you take theories from various biographies and find the median, it seems that, regardless of his own interests one way or another, he held the view that sex was for procreation only, and anything more was indicative of a failing of character. He was never comfortable around women who were not also family, even if just to speak to at social functions, and he tended to be very critical of moral failings in others. Which, again, makes sense with his upbringing.

In short: Albert responded to his childhood trauma by retreating inwards, while Victoria fought against her restraints and burst outwards. They both, however, developed a fierce need for control and independence. I could say so much about how that influenced the resulting dynamics of their relationship as both spouses and rulers in the years to come, but I'm going to save those notes for when Albert actually arrives in England.


A Note on Victoria's Letter: I tried to keep everything in Victoria's letter self-explanatory, but if you want some awesome views of the Jurassic Coast on the Isle of Portland (yes, where you can still fossil hunt, isn't that awesome?) to flavor your reading, I humbly offer . . .

~MJ

 

Excellent.

Writing Albert's voice was a trick, but I'm glad it came across well.

She's just such a dear, and I promise that I love her a completely normal amount.

And more about that coming up.

lol! The informal address of Cousin was more Victoria being petty and passive-aggressive after Albert first addressed her as "Cousin Drina" during their initial meeting in England, rather than her title. She's never going to call him "His Serene Highness" if she can help it now, and that's her prerogative as Queen of England. Using her full title at the end there is just another perhaps not-so-friendly reminder of their vast differences in station.

Poor Albert absolutely could not talk to girls, period. (Although RL!Albert eventually found his pen to write very pretty love letters to Victoria while they were engaged - which I would give him more credit for it he wasn't at the same time complaining that marrying her was "sacrificing his personal happiness for his country" - which is a page straight out of Leopold's "it was my duty to know everything about her" playbook for ruling through one's higher ranking royal wife if ever there was one.) His closest bonds were always with men, and, especially at this age, when so much about his life seems out of his control, he's going to feel all the more comfortable confiding in one of those friends than "courting" a woman (even worse: an immature, spoiled girl, in his view) who clearly does not want to be courted.

. . . it's all just such a mess, for everyone involved.

But, as such, it goes without saying that it's going to be quite the wild ride once Albert arrives in England, and I can't wait to get that far.

Thank you so much for reading and sharing your thoughts, as always!

It really is - and all the more so when you know what you know about the mental health of the one ghosting you.

It all sounds delicious to me!

That is a very astute characterization for Albert, especially at this age.

lol! Because, as much as I hold that their relationship was unhealthy and unhappy more often than not - even when they both would have said that they loved each other, and that's where the fairytale endures - there was still something there when they could put aside being rivals, and I can't completely ignore that as an author, either. (Plus, Victoria can be absolutely cutting and petty with her words, especially at this age, but she's kind through the core - and that can't help but shine through. )

As always, I thank you ever so much for reading and hope that you continue to enjoy!

HELLO!

I was so excited when I saw your name pop up here too! Welcome! Yep: the JCF has been my fanfic writing home since I was a wee bebeh!Mira first picking up her pen. (Gosh, 20 years ago now. ) Star Wars is still my first and longest lasting fandom flame, but I love that we have a section on the boards were I can share my non-SW interests too. Especially when the challenges here are what helped this collection take on a life of its own in the first place.

I am slowly but surely migrating this series over to AO3, but updates will definitely be posted here first and foremost.

Aw, thank you! I have had so much fun letting all of my inner-history geek free, needless to say.

We have the best community here for reading and writing, I completely agree! And, again, I was so happy to see your voice added to that mix. Thank you for reading, as always, and I hope that you continue to enjoy the rest of this collection as it goes!


Alrighty! I will be back with my next update in a jiffy.

 

Author's Notes: And here we are, keeping on keeping on with the Marathon Swimming.

For this entry, I am going to include my notes at the beginning again, rather than the end, to help better inform the scene. From there, I thank you all for reading, as always, and hope that you enjoy!

Spoiler: Even More Notes

A Note on George Wyndham, the 3rd Earl of Egremont: We first met the earl in Say We Choose, and he popped up again just recently in Sta et Retine. He is Melbourne's biological father, which was a fairly well known secret at the time. George, apparently, was a biological father to several children - with a whopping 43 illegitimate offspring total. (He eventually married his favorite mistress - with whom he already had eight children with, yet their one legitimate child together died in infancy, and she left him for, you'll never guess: infidelity. ) Yet George, very interestingly, maintained a relationship with as many of his children as possible; they were often guests at his estate of Petworth, and he provided financial support and social influence in large measures. This was possible for the earl, as he was one of the richest men in England. He was known by his contemporaries to be as generous as he was wealthy, and used his fortune to be a great entrepreneur and philanthropist. He had a particular love for the arts, and was most famous for sponsoring the up-and-coming career of the one and only J.M.W. Turner. Which leads me to . . .

A Note on J.W.M. Turner: Joseph Mallord William Turner was one of the foremost artists of the Romantic movement, who famously elevated the landscape genre to an unprecedented level of prominence with his vivid imagination, expressive coloring, and ability to capture atmosphere in nature - both in violence and tranquility. He was also decidedly abstract for the time, especially later in his career. His work challenged contemporary views of what art is and should be, just as it went on to inspire subsequent generations of painters to do much the same. Turner was a child prodigy, who began exhibiting at the young age of 14. He trained at the Royal Academy of Arts, and was then apprenticed as an architectural draftsman, which gave him a technical skillset that he later employed in his paintings. During the rise of his career, George Wyndham was one of Turner's most generous investors, and Turner often spent long periods of time at Petsworth painting. The grounds of Petsworth feature in many of Turner's works - such as this painting of the estate, which I just may have let inspire the scene for this vignette in turn . . .



In this piece, I have also included reference to one of Turner's most famous works - and one of my favorite paintings ever - for further inspiration. This is The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her last berth to be broken up. The painting was completed in 1838, so while it's entirely possible that Turner was working on the painting at this exact same time, I don't think it was actually painted at Petsworth. That little bit is my own artistic inspiration.



THEN, if you would like to be further immersed - or if you're just a nerd who loves history, like me - you can check out this episode of Secrets of the National Trust, where Petworth Manor, the Earl of Egremont, and J.M.W. Turner are all explored in further detail.



A Note on Regency/Victorian Sea Bathing: Needless to say, a day at the beach looked far different in Victorian times as compared to our own. "Sea bathing" at resort towns like Weymouth required a trick or two to fit the rules of propriety that dominated polite society. First, beaches were segregated between male and female swimmers. Then, to transition from being respectively attired on the shore and immersed in the water in a bathing dress, there were bathing machines. Yes: bathing machines. Basically, these were horse-drawn carts converted into stalls. A lady would enter into the covered portion, and change. While she did so, the cart was led out into the surf by horses, where she then modestly descended into the water out of view from anyone on shore. She could then wade and frolic to her heart's content in the area of water the cart shielded - if not swim outright.

Men also used bathing machines, but they were, um, permitted to dispense with bathing suits entirely until a law was passed against swimming nude in 1860. I believe that it goes without saying that there was more freedom allowed male swimmers as opposed to ladies merely wading, as well.

This contemporary etching - even if I believe this piece is more satire than not - depicts just such a scene at Brighton:



And here's probably a more accurate depiction from this photograph, later in the century:



Now, on that note! Here we go.

---

“Your Miles of Shore”
(Marathon Swimming; Story Building Challenge)​

VIII.IV

The Father

His favorite view of the estate was in the morning, just as the sun began to rise.

For decades, it had been his habit to quit the manor-house when it was still dark, and walk down to the lake. There was no better spot than on its far shore to watch the dawn alight the morn, stretching its glowing hands across the sloping hills and cresting the trees with gold. The lake gleamed as molten as a mirror when the angle of the sun struck just right – or, on days like this one, heavy with mist and dew, the entire scene turned aglow as the land seemingly absorbed the dawn from within and reflected it as its own.

George Wyndham, 3rd Earl of Egremont, did not typically enjoy silence, nor could he keep overlong to stillness; to the contrary, he strove quite actively against each. A full house, overflowing with life, was where he was most content – with his children and grandchildren and extended family, along with a host of friends and colleagues and protégés alike. Beyond the family wings, Petworth abounded with resident artists, authors, engineers, scientists, and other forward thinkers who both required patronage to pursue their craft and a comfortable seat from which to see those pursuits accomplished. What else were these vast manor houses for, he held, but to fill and be filled by such excellent company in return?

Admittedly, that mixed company did not always lend itself to tranquility – especially amongst the mothers of his children, if in years past, more so than now. Yet he’d always felt most at ease in the din that came with life and its living, with all of its foibles, than he did otherwise. It was only recently, when his life had fewer sunrises left than not, that he found true contentment in these moments of quiet and contemplation.

The park itself was hushed this early in the day, with the still of the lake broken only where Mr. Thomas led the estate’s fishermen in securing a haul of carp, destined for Petworth’s table. Yet, here, the waters murmured in gentle undulations as they reflected the dawn's growing brilliance. Only a scant few years ago, he may have elected for a swim in order to offset the humidity of the summer's morn, but his old bones were now quite content to stay put on one of the stone benches lining the shore. There, he considered the length and breadth of his days as they waned.

George was not naturally given to maudlin reflections, but they seemingly came unbidden more often than not as of late. For the most part, he thought (worried) about his children – both those with whom he'd cultivated what a relationship he could over the years, and those, out of necessity, he could not. He knew his good fortune for the bonds he had maintained, just as he would ever hold regrets for those he only knew through the monetary support he invested in their futures. He had outlived far too many, at that, (he knew the names of each and every child lost, and remembered them still) while others were untouchable in distance as they pursued fortunes of their own, far and beyond England’s shores. Many more, as so happened with such spans of long acquaintance, had simply lost contact with the man they could not properly claim a filial connection with as their own families grew and they lived their own lives.

For that thought, there were times – and in growing number – when he wondered how things would have changed if he'd sworn himself to one woman alone. What would his life look like now, if he'd married Elizabeth Lamb when she was still just that Irish baronet’s intrepid daughter, all those years ago; if he would have gone through with his engagement to Maria Walpole; or honored his short-lived attempt at the wedded state with his Eliza . . . and reaped the reward of being a true father to whatever children they may have had together – all before he pushed his ruminations aside for their impossibility to bear on the here and now. Ultimately, all he could do with the choices he’d made was to cherish the bonds he still had, and strive to maintain them as best he could.

Towards that end, there were few of his progeny who gave him as much cause for concern as William Lamb.

William, he thought with a sigh – his lungs filling and then emptying so completely that his shoulders rose and fell with the gesture. George had always been particularly close with the two Lambs who were rather Wyndhams instead. So much had been different about the strictures of their society at the time – with Peniston Lamb maintaining his claim on his wife only as his partner and helpmate, so long as she was as discreet in seeking out any further affections as he was his own. They had developed their bonds in an unorthodox manner – one that spurned traditional values, perhaps – but in a way that best served their particular circumstances for each party involved. (Even if it had torn at George, in a way he ever told himself was unreasonable, whenever the viscount came to collect his wife and children as the family he could lawfully claim as his own, in every way that truly mattered.)

Yet, since Peniston had passed – a loss that had strangely saddened George as well – and Liz far too soon thereafter . . .

Well, he now thought it his duty as much as his privilege to look after their family (their family) to the best of his ability.

As such, he was a constant presence for Emily as a supposedly honorary grandfather for her children, just as he had attended her second marriage to the Viscount Palmerston and blessed her union as a father would – all when they could not. With William, however, it often seemed that there were far more defeats to weather than there were victories to celebrate – from that damnable mess with Lady Branden and the loss of Susan . . . to the ugly façade of justice in the Caroline Norton case . . . to the night the buildings of Parliament had burned. Although years had passed, George could still remember – he would never forget – how his heart had turned in terror when he first realized the source of the inferno on the Thames. He'd never felt so intense a fear before, all until he'd found his son – his son – amongst those who’d endeavored to save what they could of their nation’s history from the fire, blistered and coughing and soot-faced but alive, God be praised for his mercy.

Yet, for the victories he had attended: watching William be sworn into their highest office of civil service by the king; attending the first opening of Parliament that William oversaw as prime minister, and every session since . . . knowing of the good he had done for the realm, even in all the ways that would go long unpraised . . . and now, to be the prime minister who attended Queen Victoria through her ascension and ensured that she embarked upon her rule from the security of a firm foundation . . .

Liz, George had thought more than once, that most auspicious of days in Westminster Abbey, would have been so very proud of her son – and he'd been happy to be proud enough for their entire triad as he cheered God save the queen louder than any of his peers.

And yet . . .

Well, wasn’t there always such a caveat in life? It was with elation as much as foreboding that he now considered all that he had observed in London – from that which was to be expected between a new monarch and her prime minister, perhaps . . . and all that was decidedly unexpected.

At first, George hadn't thought anything of William’s letters that season, but to be pleased by his renewed zeal for his premiership. In his own way, George had found his own interest in the monarchy renewed, if not quite faith restored – as he ever held that it was the deepest pockets in the land who more effectively saw to governance, let alone change, which he ever fought to promote with his own fortune for the better – and he came to anticipate the gems that William had to share from the palace.

As the summer days lengthened, however, George was not sure exactly when the tone of that admiration had shifted – deepened – except to realize that it had at Her Majesty’s coronation ball.

George held that thought closely, examining it from every facet as he once again looked over the water. The mists had begun to recede, if ever so slightly, and they burned with a rosy heart of gold to mirror the sun's hidden brilliance above. They would not hold for much longer, he knew, before they gave way completely for the day.

William, it was with as much fondness and exasperation as a considerable amount of worry that he wondered: what is there to be done with you?

For that thought, George brought out the letter that had rested in his pocket since its arrival the day before. He turned the folded paper over in his hands and stared at the now broken seal, absorbing the peace of the morn for but a moment longer before he unfolded its contents anew.

And there, he began to read:

Your Lordship,
​

It was, as ever, a very old pang that glanced within him for the formal greeting – little as it could have been addressed otherwise.

Since the date of my last letter, the Crown has fulfilled its commitments in Portland and proceeded thence for Weymouth. I write to you now from the height of morningtide – for which you may laugh, knowing as you do my every preference to the contrary. But there are few sights as inspiring as the sun rising over the ocean from the cliffs, and such a wonder is worth the absurdity of the hour in order to rise and attend. I know that you have maintained the habit of observing the dawn, even inland, and so presume that this knowledge would please you to hear.​

That it most certainly did. George already anticipated teasing him quite heartily in his own reply (and once again advising less brandy and nights spent sleeping in that damnable chair – God, but when had he become such a nagging ninny?), but, for the moment, that answer would have to wait.

Truth be told, I cannot remember when last I enjoyed any such outing of state business. When was the last time I traveled to the coast just for the pleasure of its own sake? I cannot recall. I would need to go as far back to those early days with Caro, before – Needless to say, any similar trips spent attending King William were painstaking exercises in endurance, and I took but little note of my surroundings as I instead constantly endeavored to put out fires in his wake.

Yet Her Majesty is most certainly not her uncle. It still amazes me, how thoroughly she wants to learn – remind me to tell you of her progress with Hume, if I forget to broach the subject in this letter. She does not yet trust her own wisdom – which no good ruler can wholly do, regardless of age or gender – but instead truly considers the opinions and insights of those supporting her rule. Even when she’s entirely determined – I cannot call her stubborn though she perhaps is, if forced to truth – to disregard my advice after fully understanding a matter, she acts as she best sees for her people. To anyone who proports that I am forming the Crown in my image, I want to heartily laugh and welcome them to observe any and all of my interactions with Her Majesty. No one molds the queen. She is not and shall never be any sculpted Galatea, given life by the hands of another; no, she most determinedly molds herself.

Even more so than attending Her Majesty as she embarks upon the duties of the Crown, it is enchanting pleasing to watch her experience more of the world beyond Kensington’s walls. She is wondrous for each and every new thing, which, in its own way, moves me to feel as if I am experiencing those same things anew for myself. She is as taken with sea-lavender on the rock or sandpipers on the shore as she is with the views from the cliffs and the more man-made wonders of the region, from the salt spas in town to the ruins of Henry VIII’s Sandfoot Castle. To her, the gift of a massive cast of ammonites, with dozens of the fossilized shells preserved in a single long cut of stone from Lord Digby, was as much to be marveled over as the gift of a tiny shell from a little girl she met on the quay. She still carries the shell, and wishes to have it set into something wearable once she returns to Windsor.​

Even more so than the admiration that exuded from the paper, there was something else that colored these words. It had taken George more than one reread to identify that emotion as happiness. Had it really been so long since William last wrote in such a state, for him to near fail in recognizing its presence entirely?

It was a thought that lingered with him as he read once more:

Most amusing, however, was Her Majesty's reaction to the bathing machines on the shore. You know that I’ve always found the contraptions to be unnecessarily prudish, and her face scrunched up most adorably once I explained their purpose to agree. She very much likes the idea of swimming in the ocean – but the idea of being escorted in and out of the water when concealed by such a cumbersome carriage and then free to merely wade in a bathing-gown that would cover her from wrist to ankle, admittedly, takes some of the joy from the experience.

She says that she has never once swam in her life, as part of the System that dominated her upbringing. I struggle to imagine such a thing. How can anyone be forced to live in such an unnatural state? I still remember learning to swim back at Petworth, and at Brocket too, with the utmost fondness; those remain treasured memories from my youth. Mankind is drawn to the water from the spirit – this, I firmly believe, was instilled in us at our creation. Yet, for the Queen of the British Isles to have never known a similar freedom for herself is entirely -​

Her Majesty expressed her desire to learn how to swim outright, as she’s never before had the pleasure. Yet, for our queen unmarried and without an heir, the strictures surrounding her enjoyment of the waters would be even more severe in order to take every possible precaution for the safety of the royal person. This, Her Majesty knows, and acknowledges with good cheer, for what else can she do but accept her situation for what it is, with its every limitation and privilege? Even if I know that she better would have preferred – Even so, she whispered to wonder if it would be possible for her to go incognito to some isolated cove and swim freely, with no limitations. Perhaps at dawn or dusk, and with clothing more suitable to -

I, admittedly, saw it necessary to stop her there, and reminded her that she would drive Colonel Hampson to an early retirement if she did any such thing to say nothing of myself. ​

George let out a chuckle, as much amused for the easy inhibitions of their new queen – truly innocent as those inhibitions were at heart – as he was on behalf of William’s discomfiture. George would wager that this boldness was not at all a byproduct the Duchess of Kent had first anticipated when she chose to raise her daughter in isolation, yet it was hardly surprising. Her Majesty's curiosity for the world was entirely sincere, and she saw no need to temper her thoughts and opinions for being raised away from the same society that would've instilled in her that there should be shame. Their queen was at once very much aware of the constraints of her age and gender, and yet separate from those constrictions all at once – which was, admittedly, a most singular combination.

He lowered the page again, and looked beyond the water, out to the green hills as the mists softened to reveal their verdant crowns, taken by his thoughts. George had enjoyed the privilege of dancing with Her Majesty at her coronation ball – an honor, to be sure, given the list of illustrious guests from which she had to choose. Even in those few minutes, she'd met his eyes boldly and brightly, without any of the coyness and false modesty that usually marked a daughter of high society. She spoke openly and freely in a way that, he suspected, was quite herself, no matter how many glasses of wine she may have consumed otherwise.

Then, wine or no wine, there was how she'd looked at his son with such adoration from the very first moment she’d espied him across the ballroom . . . not to mention how easily she'd moved with him during their waltz.

George would perhaps, with caution, call Her Majesty's admiration entirely understandable as that of a sheltered young woman towards the very first man – and an entirely handsome and urbane man, at that – she’d known beyond the nunnery of Kensington, had it not been for . . .

. . . well, had it not been for the way his son looked at her in return, and held her as if she was something infinitely precious.

Deeply, George exhaled. This time, he was slow indeed to return his attention back to the letter.

As for myself, I was happy to go out early this morning, away from town, and swim where there were no eyes to offend. It’s an utterly unparalleled feeling, to be submerged in the might of the ocean; to exist as an entirely insignificant being between the waves and the depths; and I lingered for some time as thus. My spirits were entirely at peace as I sat on the shore to dry, more so than they have been in quite some time – years even, I am self-aware enough to recognize. Such repletion, I wish she could experience too.​

For those words, his old father's heart ached – with happiness and pride and concern, all – and he lingered over the paragraph before reading further.

The letter then continued to discuss the highlights of Weymouth away from the sea, including the royal residence at Gloucester House. More words were spent on the First Sea Lord’s proposals for improvements to both the Isle defenses and the mainland harbor, and the vice admiral's interactions with the queen concerning such – all of which was intelligence that George appreciated in its own right. There were more details concerning the somewhat unorthodox opening of the new Royal Infirmary, and the patronage the queen paid to the various vocational and charitable institutions in the area, all before the letter wound down to its natural conclusion.

From Weymouth, we shall continue east along the coast, making stops in Poole and Portsmouth before arriving at Brighton. Once the Crown’s business there is complete, I should be happy to make for Petworth at your leave, given our easy proximity – I would be honored for the privilege of glimpsing the new Turner piece, and may even presume upon your hospitality to partake in the start of the grouse season. Following, it shall be necessary for me to return to Hertfordshire in order to entertain my own guests for the sport – as I have arranged the dubious pleasure of entertaining members from both Houses in order to pursue the business of our upcoming legislative session. Such an occasion will undoubtedly cause me to think back on these peaceful summer days with all the more fondness in comparison.

I look forward to your reply in furtherance of such plans, and, until then, remain,

William​

The simplicity of the signature, at least, was a boon in its own right. It was with no small amount of feeling that George looked over the familiar slant of letters before he refolded the sheets and returned them to the inner pocket of his coat. By the time he looked up again, the orb of the sun was fully over the horizon, and the colors of the estate had begun to sharpen from the pastel hues of the dawn to their full saturation in welcome. With the day thus marked, George stood from the bench, and began his trek back to the house.

By the time he returned indoors, a fair number of his guests were up and about, and he stopped in the breakfast room to partake in their company. He chatted with the half-dozen of his children and grandchildren present – great-nephews and nieces and cousins so many times removed that their relation all blurred together but to call them his – regarding their plans for the day, just as Mr. Fisher proposed an experiment on the west-lawn that he’d later be interested in attending, and Mrs. O’Neal welcomed any who were interested to join her excursion to sketch the full-blooming gardens in watercolor.

Yet, for the most part, the conversations at the table washed over and around him, and George rose to take his leave before overlong. His thoughts were still many as they vacillated between such opposing poles, and they continued to agitate him like restless currents lapping against a rocky shore.

From the breakfast room, he passed through the second dining hall, which had long since been turned into a great shared studio. Most of the drawing horses and painter’s easels and sculptor’s plinths were empty but for half-finished projects, although there were a few artists making the most of the relative stillness of the morning in order to pursue their own inspirations. The whole space hummed with color and light and line, yet he felt like a discordant note to match, even as a mere observer. Restless, he continued on.

Instead of turning for his study and applying himself to his duties for the day – he left more and more such particulars to his stewards with each passing year – George turned for the private rooms of the manor. Here, he passed yet more souls – traded smiles and pleasantries as were appropriate – before deciding against his usual favored morning room. Instead, he made for the small library on the third floor, the one where . . .

Here, the great, north-facing windows dominating the foremost wall – an expanse of indirect light that was once thought perfectly essential for reading – had turned this space into a preferred refuge for perhaps the most famed artist in residence. (A distinction that now filled George with pride, given how so many of his peers had mocked him – some in good humor, while others decidedly not – for investing in such a modern style that was once considered gouache in its originality.) This studio – for that was truly what it was, the books on the shelves and the comfortable reading chairs notwithstanding – was now entirely Mr. Joseph Mallord William Turner’s domain, and ever remained as thus, even when the artist himself was absent from Petworth.

Turner had never much been one for company – or, at least, company was never much one for Turner – and that disposition had only increased over time. Yet George had patience and wit enough to withstand even the most rapacious of souls; for decades now, Turner had yet to do more than merely amuse him with his grousing, which, in turn, won him a grudging respect and certain amount of forbearance in return. (He knew that the other man appreciated him, more so than merely tolerated him – liked him for his own sake, even, as much as for his patronage – but he’d never force Will to admit half as much aloud.)

George now presumed upon that tolerance in order to enter the library, and take his usual seat in one of the comfortable old leather armchairs. Turner was, as expected, already at the easel – he hardly left whenever he grappled with the advent of creation that was the struggle between artist and canvas and muse – and did not pause but to give a short nod in acknowledgment of his presence. All in silence, George helped himself to the coffee service that was out, and, for a moment, was quite content to watch the master work at his craft.

And what a craft it was. George had seen the study for this piece last year – a faint impression of a ship against a nebulous atmosphere of color that seemed to dominate Turner’s work these days as he endeavored to explore the ambiance of space even more so than an exact focal subject. That study had since evolved into a composition depicting a great, ivory tall-ship being tugged by an ugly, smoke-chugging steamboat to her final berth to be broken down for kindling. The famed HMS Temeraire, Turner had since identified – that glorious marvel of English naval supremacy and as heroic a warrior of the Napoleonic Wars as any of their soldiers of flesh and bone. Turner was currently hazing out the mesmerizing expanse of sunset sky with tongues of rust-fire and ash-black from the smoke, both marring the work of God with the work of man . . . and obscuring the former wisdom of the old ways with the advent of the industrious new.

It was indeed a sunset he painted, in more ways than one. George, for his part, empathized with the picture; he could see a reflection of himself in the painting – just as all great works of art communed between eyes and picture and heart with their audience, each in their own turn.

It was there, as Turner endeavored to strike a balance between clear blue sky and miring clouds, that he took out William’s letter, and read it through once more. He considered each word thoughtfully – and even went so far as to retrieve the stationary that waited in the nearby writing desk, intent on composing his reply. Yet, over the fresh clean sheet, his pen lingered, unsure of where to begin.

(For he had so very much to say – too much, even – to manage a word at all.)

It was then, perhaps noticing his hesitation, that Turner said: “One of your children?”

Turner had backed away from the easel, almost to the boundary of the windows by which George sat, critically observing his painting from a distance to grant his eye a fresh perspective. George glanced up at him, and then down at the pages of William's letter once more.

“Who else?” his voice was dry in answer – well aware that the lines of care on his face had undoubtedly revealed just that.

Turner merely continued to stare at his own work, rather than venturing into any further a distracting remark. George joined him in his scrutiny, and wondered what the artist saw in the glittering white ship as she was pulled away from the horizon.

“When was the last you heard from yours?” George murmured quietly – so quietly that Turner could choose to ignore him completely if he so chose. Turner’s family, after all, along with any and all such personal matters, was a subject rarely ventured upon. Even a scant year ago, George would have known better than to even try.

Yet, with such a painting upon the easel and a letter in hand . . .

“I do not,” Turner thus surprised him utterly by saying – even if the words were, sadly, the anticipated answer. “They have their father now in every way that matters; I have long been just a distant name to Sarah's girls.”

A floorboard flexed as Turner shifted his weight. He crouched, seeking a new vantage, and then stood up high. Finally, with a muttered word underneath his breath, he stepped forward, and added another blot of violet-grey against the heavens.

The tall-ship all but shimmered in contrast.

Time passed as the long-case clock continued to tick out the minutes – so much so that George thought the equally ghosting interlude concluded and returned his attention back to the letter – before Turner continued: “Which one?”

George blinked, and found that his answer came reflexively, rather than by any conscious command of his tongue: “William.”

Turner snorted – a far more characteristic gesture from the man that nonetheless signified amusement in its own right – and grumbled, “That narrows it down.”

George tipped his head in acknowledgment of the hit, even as he was nonplussed to elucidate: “Lamb.”

“Ah.”

Turner took another step back; a minute later, he returned to blight the canvas.

This time, the smoke burned against the sun.

Silence returned as Turner continued to push the light into the distance with another thin wash of color. Restlessly, George thumbed between the pages of the letter in his hand.

“Do you ever wonder . . .” at length, he attempted to give voice to an entirely abstract thought, “if, at some point – or, any of several points, even . . . if you had chosen differently . . .” but he faltered, and merely ended with a sigh. Usually, words came easily to him, yet then, they failed.

“Show me an old man alive who has not considered such questions," Turner muttered, if more to the canvas as he held his face close enough to see the individual woven fibers of the linen, "and I'll show you a liar – or, at the very least, a fool.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to quip that he was far from old – yet George felt his age most acutely in that moment. He felt it down to his bones.

Instead, he asked, "Have you found your own answers, then?”

“Only futile ones,” Turner murmured. "Always futile."

Another stain deepened the smog; brilliantly, the white beams of the ship burned in answer.

And George thought that, perhaps, he understood completely.

“In the end, we're all old ships destined for kindling – what matters, I suppose, is where we’ve sailed before the axe falls.”

Where one has sailed, and through which storms – and those that they harbored and anchored and journeyed with along the way.

Yet those were more unfocused thoughts that George could hardly venture aloud, content as he was to leave such ideational expressions for the poets and the artists. Instead, he gave a very physical shrug. He filled his lungs deeply, and then emptied them again.

“Your legacy is already a lasting one,” he commented aloud – knowing that Turner would hardly suffer any further praise. “And you have time to secure it yet further.”

A grunt of sound was his answer, before: “As do we all, while we are yet upon the water.”

Turner pointedly flicked his brush towards the unanswered letter, and George loosed a grin – quite sincerely – to agree, “Quite right you are.”

Yet he was unsure if his words words were even heard. Turner's attention was then fully committed to the painting – he worked quickly now, with sweeping washes of color over the vast expanse of sky, pushing and pulling the height and depth of chroma and tone to better fit his vision – and George knew that the artist would be insensible to the world around him for quite some time, absorbed as he was in his own nebula of creation.

So George let him be, and turned his own attention back to his paper once more. Again, he picked up his pen.

He had never presumed upon the privilege of calling William my son aloud – just as he could not for so many. Instead:

William,
​

- his pen greeted, assuming what familiarity he could, before he continued on to say:

Your letter of the 10th quite gladdened this old man’s heart to receive, much as your correspondence ever does. At my age, you learn to take all that is good from life, even in the smallest of things, and, as such, I am happy to hear of your current endeavors on behalf of the Crown and your own self, just as I look forward to hearing of the continuance of such endeavors in the weeks to come . . .​

TBC


~ MJ

 

Aw, I thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I am so proud of how that description turned out - and, of course, it helped that I had such gorgeous inspiration to work from with Turner's original sunrise painting of Petsworth!

You and me both!

George is a man who knows what's what when it comes to attraction anyways (understatement, I know ), even without knowing his son as well as he does, and especially for how Victoria was, erm . . . less than discreet at her coronation ball. It really is a golden combination for me to work with as an author.

I did much the same thing myself as I dove into my research!

Most of History The 1800s: A Summary.

I have so many good things to write, and so little time!

lol! You know, I wasn't planning to detail these events any further than this - I was actually very happy for the Marathon Swimming prompt to help me move the plot along as a narrative device - but now I'm rather itching to do much the same! Even if it's just a post of drabbles or some other form of short fiction to detail a few scenes.

As always, I can't thank you enough for your lovely support and feedback!

So, so deep.

I am definitely embellishing with the crossed out words, because you're completely right! I've noticed cross-outs here and there in RL letters - but mostly for misspellings and what not. (Victoria was very much a fan of underlined words, that said. This girl could punctuate for emphasis like no one's business. ) Yet I also noticed that the closer the relation, the more informal the letters turned. I can only imagine that when someone is writing entire pages to catch up with a friend or loved one - without the benefit of modern communication - it's easier to just cross out sentences or words rather than rewriting entire segments over again. I bet they did a better job of my scant strike-throughs, too - especially for the really telling lines.

Yet, as a whole, I have to admit that the crossed out words are 90% artistic liberty. Once I started with the trend, I may have since been carried away for what those strike-outs really say. I am a weak shipper author that way, and cannot resist.

Me tooooo! He's definitely become an unexpected favorite for me to write! As soon as I read that the Earl of Egremont was still alive, and that Melbourne maintained his relationship with him until his death, I knew that I wanted to show what I could of their dynamic. (At least, the earl was alive until 1837 - but, as I'm being a bit nebulous with Melbourne's age to better fit with Rufus Sewell, I figured I can be with the earl's as well. ) We are never too old for our parents, after all. And, as an author, it's a fantastic plot device to have another character who is all aboard the good 'ship Vicbourne and ready to help influence its course as he may.

This makes me so happy to hear! As I was just saying to Nyota, I wasn't really planning on detailing these events in my original outline. I was actually grateful to the Marathon Swimming prompt to help me move this plot along as a narrative device! But now I'm rather itching to dive into their firsthand POVs myself - even if it's just a post of drabbles or some other form of short fiction.

(And that's why interacting with readers is so awesome as a fanfic writer - your feedback ever makes the story even better. )

&

Our darling Lord M went from automatically, immediately trying to think of how he can make any desire of Victoria's a reality, all before Melbourne.exl shut down to consider the particulars of this particular wish. (Or maybe did a hard restart. He's trying so hard to be a gentleman. ) I'm going to be so mean to this poor man for the next two years or so of UST, to say the least. Because, yep: very sus.

Then, as for swimming lessons, rest assured that I am trying to see how far I can bend the rules of propriety for this time to include that plot bunny somewhere in the future. Yes, indeed, I am.

*wheezes*

I was dying for this. Maybe not here - I tried really hard to consider how far I could push this plot arc before deciding to leave it as is - but you better that I have a perfect moment planned for a Mr. Darcy's Wet Shirt trope coming up. After all, Melbourne well knows the attraction he's fighting, but Victoria may need another push or two to realize that she's well gone and joined him on that good ol' river in Egypt. The poor smitten dear.

Turner was an unexpected pleasure to write, too - this gruff curmudgeon.

I can't thank you so much for your AWESOME feedback, that said! It's really inspired me to write all the more so, and makes me even more excited to post the next update.

Oh, yay! Success! I was really worried about the pacing of this fic, I can't lie - all with the bonus fear of becoming entirely redundant with each part - so this feedback really made me happy to hear. Thank you so much for your kind words, again, and I hope that you continue to enjoy!



And, with that, I will have another update posted in just a bit! Already, you may wonder? Yep: already. Let's go.

 

Author's Notes: I know, I'm on a roll with these updates! I'd normally sit on a draft for a few days, tinkering with edits, but I'm really challenging myself to finish this event before the Olympics end on Sept. 1, and there's still one part of this 5+1 story left to go. So: onwards we push, dear readers!

Yet again, I'm including my notes at the beginning of the chapter, rather than the end, for anyone who's interested in a bit of background information going in.

Spoiler: All of the Notes

A Note on Leopold I, King of the Belgians: I know that I have said this much in previous notes, but I'm going to tie everything together for ease of reading once more. Leopold was another prince of Saxe-Coburg as the youngest brother of Victoria's mother and Albert's father. When Napoleon took control of Coburg, Leopold joined the Russian army to fight against the French, and served with distinction. That distinction helped him stand as a suitor for Princess Charlotte (the only legitimate child of George IV, and the only legitimate grandchild of George III and Queen Charlotte as a whole their 60 illegitimate grandbabies nonewithstanding before the marriage/baby race between the middle-aged princes that led to Victoria's birth), whom he then married. Sadly, however, Charlotte died a year into their marriage, giving birth to a stillborn son and thwarting Leopold's expectations of becoming king consort of England. (The idea of prince consort didn't really exist yet, as far as I can tell.)

With the throne of England thus denied to him, Leopold nonetheless continued to aid the Crown by consenting to be the elected king of the newly established country of Belgium. (Which had just succeeded in winning its independence from the Netherlands, a move the British had backed.) To do so, Leopold took Princess Louise of Orléans, the daughter of the recently restored King Louise Philippe of France, as his queen. This was a political move, as Louise's brother was also considered for the role of King of the Belgians, and it helped both unstable monarchies gain more legitimate traction in the eyes of the rest of Europe. Louise was shy and devoted to her family. She did not wish to leave France, and protested the marriage. Leopold, to his credit, won her over in time, and their marriage was content. Content-ish, at least, as Leopold made it a point to keep Louise isolated from court and even separate from the high society in Brussels, and he most famously kept a decades' long affair with Arcadie Claret, with whom he had two sons.

Technically, the affair with Arcadie didn't start until about five years after this story (Arcadie was only 10-12 years old in 1837) - but I wanted to tweak the ages/dates to include their relationship for its future relevance to the plot as far as Leopold's hypocrisy goes. (All the while abiding by the TOS, too.) The affair with Arcadie, that said . . . was not discreet. He married her to a palace official to keep her close at hand, and visited her and their children daily. The Belgians despised both Arcadie and Leopold for this, as they adored their shy and introverted queen, yet that did nothing to check Leopold. Which, to me, is hardly surprising after the gross way he used teenage girls in the past - i.e. the mess with Caroline Bauer that we saw in The First Grave.

It goes without saying that Leopold was the greatest matchmaking force behind Victoria and Albert's marriage. If Leopold couldn't have the throne that had been denied to him one way, he'd see his thwarted dynasty assured another way, and so he did. I have . . . well, very few nice things to say about Leopold in history, and fewer nice things to say about Goodwin's Leopold, even if I do try to be as fair to his character as I can. He did truly love Victoria, in his own way, and wanted what he thought was best for her - but that best was severely colored by how he viewed women through the lens of the time, and acted on that view.

A Note on Leopold and George Lamb: Their acrimony is 100% my own invention after writing Say We Choose, but I regret nothing.

A Note on the Duchess of Kent: Her full name was Marie Louise Victoire. I have been calling her Louise throughout this collection, mainly to help with confusion between Victoire and Victoria. Yet, in this update, since Leopold's wife is also a Louise, I use Marie-Louise from his POV. Just for clarification's sake.

A Note on Oostende, Belgium: I don't have as many visual aids to share for this update, mainly because most of the royal landmarks that currently exist in the town were built during the reign of Leopold's son, Leopold II. (Yes, that Leopold; but, as he grew up to be one of the most barbaric monsters of the late 19th/20th centuries, this note is the only time I will ever mention him.) Yet, in history, Oostende was where Queen Louise preferred to spend her time, especially during the summer months. (Leopold did eventually go on to holiday separately from her at their castle in the Ardennes, following the birth of their last child - as Louise's health wouldn't allow her to try for more. She died young, unfortunately, at only 38 years of age.)

Yet I found these contemporary etchings from the 1830s/40s to help set the scene, and thought I'd share!





A Note on Royal Yachts: I mention two royal yachts in this story! One, the HMS Royal Sovereign seems to be the main vessel used by the monarchy for naval reviews - she was a gorgeous beaut of a tall-ship, to say the least! The second, HMS Royal Charlotte, I kinda stretched history to include - as she was broken down and recommissioned in 1832. Yet I had to use her when I saw that Lord Alfred's elder brother was her captain! As such, I trust that anyone reading will forgive me for how fast and loose I am playing with history yet again.

---

“Your Miles of Shore”
(Marathon Swimming; Story Building Challenge)​

VIII.V

The Uncle

The heat of Oostende was intolerable as the summer gasped in its first death throes of the season.

The seaside town – normally pleasantly warm through the midyear, but no more – baked in the sun, turning the deep, steel-blue waters of the North Sea into a harsh grey mirror, blinding with reflected light. Leopold Georg Christian Frederick, King of the Belgians, could think of nowhere he’d less like to be. Even sitting in the shade of the pavilion, where the breeze off the shore ruffled the gauzy drapes adorning the Grecian columns, with an iced drink in hand and a cold handkerchief draped around his neck, the scene was utterly unbearable. It was only worse indoors, where the heat seemingly pressed down from the ceilings and the heavy air threatened to close in and suffocate its occupants. At least there was a breeze here, no matter how maddening it was when the wind blew in salt and sand from the sea.

Fruitlessly, Leopold glowered up at the cloudless heavens; resolutely, the sun glared back.

Yet, somehow, his wife took joy in the insufferable tableau. Louise so rarely smiled – or, at least, she ever did so softly – but here, her smiles were wide and easily given. She’d spend her time exclusively at the seaside if she could, far and away from landlocked Laeken. Now, with two sons born, the nascent royal line of their country was somewhat secure; perhaps, after another son, he could generously allow her the indulgence of such freedoms more often. His wife favored solitude, after all; since the onset of their marriage, her preference was to be away from the pressures of court life, and he ever ensured to keep the onus of ruling separate from her gentle constitution and tender sensibilities.

Even now, she paid no heed to the empty beach as it spanned untouched before her, content as she was to exist solely in the space of her own little world. He'd ordered the shore cleared as soon as they'd arrived in residence as a matter of privacy and security – for he’d not have the public gawking at his queen, not when her disposition was so frail. No matter what accusations the insensible Belgians liked to hurl at him, he did put her health and happiness above all else, and he knew best what her well-being required.

Now, sheltered from the intrusion of her subjects, Louise guided their eldest son (eldest now, Leopold’s heart twisted to remember) to seek out seashells from the sand before the waves could rush back in and obscure the treasures. At not yet three years of age, the marvel of the sea was as much a wonder as everything it held within, and Leopold watched as the boy gave a delighted giggle to bat at the water, trying to push the frothy surf away to find the hidden prizes concealed within.

Soon, he decided, he’d have his young family turn back indoors – this weather couldn’t be healthy for either mother or child – but, for now, Leopold was content to let Louise do as she pleased. For his own part, he closed his eyes against the glare of the day and leaned back in his wicker chair, mopping the sweat from his brow yet once more as he sought the indulgence of the wind. When that passed, he swallowed the last dregs of his cognac, and gestured for fresh ice – a command which was promptly obeyed, and satisfyingly so.

Then, he set himself to his correspondence. He made a point to push aside the letter from his father-in-law – for King Louis Philippe of France wished to have Louise visit Paris so that he and his queen could meet their newest grandchild, which Leopold did not at favor. Having his wife but a few miles away on the coast was one thing; out of the country was another thing entirely – just as he had no inclination to accompany her on any such a journey. (For how could he leave her behind, when their own son was still so tenderly young?) He would have the French king travel north, instead, and use Philippe’s infancy as a reason – which would surely be understood.

Towards that thought, he was well aware of the letter awaiting him from Arcadie, burning like an ember for his notice at the very bottom of the pilled missives. She had newly arrived in the Ardennes, he knew – his preferred summer residence, little as he could invite her to Oostende – and undoubtedly wrote to hasten his arrival. He’d leave that very day if he could – the weather be damned – but, with his wife having spent so long in her confinement with Philippe and only just now able to rejoin his company, the strictures of honor demanded that he attend her, if only for the time being.

Leopold sighed, and took a long draw of the freshly iced smash. It rankled at times: the obligations of duty; but he was nothing if not a most dutiful man, and he’d continue to be so, even in defiance of his own self.

As such, he pushed all thoughts of his wife and mistress aside in order to look at the trio of letters spread before him. Together, their contents vexed him more sorely than the heat of the day – with one being from his sister; another, his niece; and the last, his nephew. In totality, they told a story that sorely tried his patience for their discordance in deviating from the future that had been so long scripted beyond mere possibility so as to be irrefutable fact, instead.

It was more of the same from his sister: complaints of her current finances and accommodations; grousing for the English court and her place within it; aspersions against her daughter, who ever failed to pay her the proper respect and so on and so forth; and, most irritatingly, denigrations cast against her new comptroller, Sir Walter, who was not and would never be her dearest Sir John.

Good riddance to the snake, Leopold had thought from the first – the one and only time he would ever raise his glass to Lord Melbourne’s name – all before writing his sister to say that he would exert none of his influence to see that leech restored to his proper place. For all that he was concerned, Sir John's proper place had and always would be far down with the vermin he'd connived to rise from amongst. He was lucky to slither away as a mere baronet; Leopold wouldn't have been half so kind.

A greater cause for concern, however, was how Marie-Louise expressed her wish to visit him on the Continent, both to meet her nephews and better acquaint herself with his wife. Leopold had no desire to indulge her request for his own sake, as he did not need to hear his elder sister’s oftentimes vocal chastisements regarding his personal affairs. It was not her place to question how a man spent his time or controlled his household; it was already bad enough that he had to endure her unsolicited harping in written form, let alone inviting her to screech straight into his ear.

Yet, most irksomely, was how his sister was currently content to summer in Brighton . . . all the while her daughter was off playing monarch with no one but her prime minister present to guide her fledgling reign.

Damn it all to Hades, but he needed Marie-Louise there, in person, to be the queen mother she quite styled herself as and demand that her daughter, in turn, heed his orders for how to exert the powers of her station. This was not something that Drina could do alone, and it was utter vanity – nay, hubris – for her to ever think that she could.

God save him from the overreaching delusions of a brazen-faced woman. Leopold raised his eyes heavenwards, and took another long swallow of his drink.

With that thought, he picked up Victoria's letter. This was only her second time writing him following their correspondence concerning Albert’s lack of an invitation to her coronation. That particular matter was still one that grated upon him; for, to have his authority so defiantly ignored when each and every thing he advised was for her benefit was not to be borne. Her first letter had been an exercise in brevity – hardly even a full page as she reported on the success of her coronation and inquired as to the health of her aunt and cousins. There had been no mention of any matters of state, as if the several communiqués he had sent regarding the imperatives of her rule had simply been lost to the ether, for ether was all that she wrote in reply – impertinent, headstrong girl as she was proving to be!

In this letter, at least, Victoria gave him some clue as to her recent most regnal duties. He read with interest of the First Sea Lord’s proposals concerning the Isle of Portland and Weymouth Bay, even if the length of those paragraphs was eclipsed by talk of flowers and seashells and shorebirds – girlish and unnecessary prattling that only betrayed his niece’s true immaturity of age, and served to fortify his certainty that his presence was most certainly needed for her to avoid making an absolute fool of herself on the throne of England.

(A throne that had so nearly been his as king consort – a fate which, had it come to pass, would have allowed Princess Drina the freedom to remark over the beauties of the seaside to her heart’s content.)

Eventually, Victoria's report turned to her time in Portsmouth: the seat of the United Kingdom’s naval supremacy over the seas since times bygone. At least then, her commentary was primarily focused on the marvels of the old Roman fort at Portchester Castle, and current wonders like the Hillsea Lines and a tour of Nelson’s own HMS Victory at the dockyards.

There, she wrote:

I did not know that something made by man could be so tall – the masts of the Victory eclipse even the tallest church spires in Portsmouth. Even after knowing the grandeur of Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London, I am amazed by the sheer presence of this utterly magnificent Glorianna amongst the ships of the line. Imagining her on the water, leading the charge in battle, is quite the thing – and our guide, a Vice Admiral Hardy, who served in the Trafalgar action captaining the Victory at Nelson's command – was able to bring the scene to life with the utmost vividity. I attended his every word, and thanked him most sincerely for his service to Crown & Country, even if years before my time.​

Leopold loosed a sigh for his niece finding entertainment in such violence – tales of a man’s war, fought by men, that had no place in her innocent ears – and once again wished that he had been present (or, better yet, Albert, who should have already been her proper master as husband and king) to forestall the conversation in its entirety.

The day following, I embarked upon a tour of the forts of Portsea. I was attended by many from the Board of Admirals, whose presences were somewhat intimidating of the utmost interest as they explained the make and muster of our nation’s defenses. I learned so much, and am determined to learn yet more still in furtherance of my reign. Mostly, I merely listened and absorbed what I could – my questions, I waited to convey to Lord M in private, for I have complete trust in his discretion as the foremost advisor to my crown.
​

For being a former soldier under Wellington himself, there was no more peace-mongering a Whig in government than William Lamb, Leopold thought with disdain. He would write once again to apprise his niece of that fact, and instruct her to direct any and all such questions to where they could truly be answered for the best in the future.

That same night, I attended a dinner at the Admiralty House, hosted by Admiral Sir Philip Durham. Many of the admiralty were in attendance, and, much the same as with the Isle of Portland, inquiries were made as to the possibility of new forts & improvements to the current defenses of Portsea. It is within the Crown’s power to recommend such measures to Parliament, but I shan't do so when those measures have no likelihood of passing – which Lord M maintains they do not. They cannot; not yet – or, at least, not to such a degree as the admiralty desires.

The gentlemen were by then freely partaking in port & cigars – which you know I hold as a horrid habit, for I do so detest the smell of smoke. Thank goodness my dear Lord M has no liking for any such supposed indulgences, for I would have to scold him most severely otherwise.​

Leopold, then entire pages into Victoria's letter, could have done entirely without everything dear Lord M did nor did not like, let alone said or thought or did.

So liberal were the libations provided that A. Durham – at one particularly spirited point of discourse, where I yet held with my prime minister to the neutrality of the Crown – quite abruptly asked if I would entertain the men at the piano. He was cordial, and said every complimentary good thing in claiming that he had heard of my skill, and wished to beg my indulgence for his whim, for he is a very great lover of music.​

Yet I was shocked displeased for the rudeness of his request for I doubt a king would be similarly shooed away as a pest, but unsure how to deny him without being seen as querulous which is far more dangerous for a queen than it will ever be for a king. Thankfully, I had no need to answer. The table was very quiet – perhaps I was not the only one who thought the admiral odious, or at least offensive in his clear dismissal of his sovereign – until Lord M belayed the admiral’s command for it had most certainly been a command by saying that he had heard of the admiral’s love of music, and wasn’t he quite proficient at the cello? He'd had so many long years at sea to perfect his art, and, as Her Majesty is a matching such connoisseur, would it not be far better to have the queen entertained by her admiral? A. Durham, he said quite dangerously lowly, should be honored by the opportunity to win the gift of Her Majesty's favor.

Uncle, if you could have seen the admiral’s face in answer to my rescue! Yet A. Durham was quite beholden to acquiesce when I seconded Lord M to say that I do indeed have a great fondness for the cello. The instrument was then fetched straightaway, and the admiral was beholden to play while we carried on with our discussions.

A. Durham did not at all do that poor Haydn concerto justice – yet I applauded him most politely for his efforts, for I had not forgotten my manners in the slightest.​

No matter his niece’s clear sense of triumph, Leopold was left aghast. There was no victory in having the Commander-in-chief of Portsmouth and a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath ousted from a conversation concerning the future of his base of command. Especially to keep a sheltered, genteel young girl in that same conversation when she was so ignorant of the subject to start! The admiral was a decades’ seasoned naval officer, whose long, faithful years of service spanned from the American War of Independence to the darkest days of the Napoleonic Wars themselves. That such an unparalleled fount of knowledge was sidelined so that little Drina could keep her seat at the table out of a misplaced sense of pride and grandiose delusions of the true extent of her authority . . .

Not for the first time, Leopold wished his niece and nephew married already. It had been his desire to have their union formalized the exact moment it became apparent that King William was in declining health. Better would it have been for Albert to have spent those sunset months of the old king's reign in the country whose governance he would soon assume, and come into his rule side by side with his wife as a united front. He could have been crowned at the very same coronation that Victoria just celebrated, and gone on to preside over this naval tour in place of his wife. Albert could have deftly overseen these talks with his fellow men about the business of men, while Victoria entertained the entire room so sweetly with her skills at the piano. What a partnership theirs could – and yet still would – be!

For a moment, he allowed himself to be taken by that vision as he removed the now uncomfortably clammy handkerchief from his neck. He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward to reach into the waiting, gilded ice-chest for a fresh cold handkerchief. The servant wrung the ice-water from the cloth, and then draped it around his neck once more before withdrawing.

Deeply, Leopold sighed – in relief as much as lingering exasperation.

For some reason he yet failed to comprehend, his sister had maintained that she wanted more time for her daughter before she wed – as if a girl of seven and ten wasn't already far old enough to be a wife and mother. Leopold more accurately thought that her reservations were instead Sir John’s reservations – hoping as the man had hoped for a regency to cement his own power as the true force behind the Duchess of Kent, and thus, the Crown.

Now, however, with Sir John gone and Victoria having a year more added to the span of her life . . .

He blew out a breath, and continued to read.

A most interesting conversation then ensued about the furtherance of steam-powered ships within the navy. It is thought that these advancements in the field of engineering will someday change the face of how war is waged on the water. While it's perhaps premature to pass measures for any such vast military investments during a time of peace – we shall revisit the idea in a few years’ time, after the burdens on the average British citizen are eased – it is never premature to invest in the development of progress. As such, more fruitful talks commenced about the possibility of suggesting such exploratory expenditures to Parliament.​

Nowhere in that paragraph, he saw, did his niece inquire of his mind as to what ventures the Crown should and should not support. Instead, she merely informed him of what had already occurred.

The day following, I conducted a review of the active Portsmouth fleet by sea. It was my first time sailing on the HMS Royal Sovereign – a magnificent ship by any measure, I am told. I quite thrilled to the thundering sound of the 21-gun salutes from the ships of the line, which somehow sounded louder than any cannon upon land, and was then honored to watch them perform battle maneuvers before my very eyes! I, admittedly, could not tell – and yet still cannot – what makes for success or failure in such maneuvers, but A. Durham assured me that his men performed admirably, and that I, in turn, could be proud of the Crown's sailors.​

I believe, Uncle, that I made some progress with A. Durham whilst at sea – if only for my enthusiasm & true desire to learn everything there is to learn about these fine ships & their loyal crews. I markedly heard him say to the captain that I was at least more palpable to have at review than my Uncle George – if the admiral would always miss my Uncle William, who was a man of the navy long before he ever thought he would be king.

A. Durham then went so far as to invite me to light one of the swivel guns on deck – for that is the only armament the Royal Sovereign carries – and I watched with much delight as it destroyed its target of a floating crate further out in the waves. I certainly felt as Queen of all the Isles at that moment, and beheld the wreckage with the utmost pride.​

My equerry, Lord Alfred, then mentioned that his elder brother, Captain William Paget, has the honor of commanding another one of the royal yachts – this one a smaller vessel, made more so for speed and comfortable amenities in pleasure sailing than for war – named the Royal Charlotte. I was delighted to learn that both he and the ship are stationed at Portsmouth, and asked for an introduction. Lord M then pointed out that I could do far more than that, for the yacht is in my power to command at will.

It is still such a novelty: my ability as queen to command. I hesitated, however – for Mama would not at all approve of my boarding such a small vessel – or so it seemed compared to the Royal Sovereign – out on the waters of the Channel. She hardly likes crossing to the Isle of Wight on a naval frigate out of concern for my safety, let alone -

But Lord M then said – and he sounded most cross on my behalf, which is always heartening, for when has anyone ever taken such a stand for me, not only in word, but deed? I shall always be thankful to God for his seeing me through these perilous first days as queen, both for the sake of my people and for the sake of my own self – that it was not to the Duchess of Kent to give orders and be obeyed, but me as sovereign. It is to the Queen of England to decide when and where the Queen of England shall sail, and no one else. In this and all things.​

It was Leopold’s first impulse to sigh, and wish anew that Albert was already in a position to reap the benefits of Victoria’s need for a defender – and perhaps would have, if the passage did not instead give him pause.

Great pause.

A chill prickled the back of his neck, one that had nothing to do with the cold of the compress. The feeling was a sense of forewarning that he had learned to trust over the years – from developing a sense of awareness whenever his father was in a fit of temper, to standing before Napoleon Bonaparte's court whilst the emperor held control of Coburg, to charging at the head of the cavalry against that same emperor after he'd defected to join the Russian army. Those tried and true instincts had seen him rise through the English court after the war, until he alone won the honor of wedding England’s sole princess and heir to the throne – even if fate had then seen fit to deny him his rightful destiny of ruling over the British Empire in any sort of actuality.

But now, to further lose what should have rightfully been his by seeing his niece turn away from him – for her to push away the nephew who'd rely on him absolutely – and all due to the interference of one man . . .

It only added insult to injury to know that one man was none other than Lord Melbourne – a second generation viscount whose father had been a mere baron when he first came to the then Prince Regent’s court. Undoubtedly, that elevation came through George IV wishing to honor one of his former mistresses and mother to yet another one of his by-blows in George Lamb, and nothing more. Yet, to even that title, it was commonly known that the current Viscount Melbourne did not truly belong, as he himself was another bastard born to the harlot who was Elizabeth Lamb by the Earl of Egremont.

Lamb. God, but how Leopold hated that name, for George Lamb had been an ever constant thorn in his side during his far too brief marriage to Princess Charlotte. Somehow, Charlotte had been fond of her half-siblings, dozens of whom cluttered the court, regardless of their legitimacy – and George Lamb had held her affections most particularly. It had boggled his every power of understanding when that irreverent buffoon of a man somehow thought him less than worthy of his half-sister – and had no compunction whatsoever when it came to speaking to a true-born prince and his future king in saying so.

“He simply wants the very best for me,” Charlotte ever smiled to sooth his irritations, completely missing the point as to his reasons for offense, “just as you do – do you not, my dearest?”

Even these many years later, it pained him to think about his first wife . . . and their son – and not only for the loss of the future they should have shared together.

Since then, Leopold had watched the eldest Lamb’s ascent through the ranks of Parliament in abject disbelief. Oh, he had nothing against the man in particular, besides his name, but that had not prevented him from observing the scandals that constantly unfolded around him with no small amount of satisfaction . . . only for each and every supposedly career-ending deathblow to fail to drag him back down to where he justly belonged. For lowborn blood, let alone base-born, belonged nowhere but beneath their betters – and certainly leagues down from the lofty heights of his niece.

Yet Victoria was blind to that self-evident truth. She was far too naïve to recognize the wolf at the door for who he was, and, even worse, she had no strong male relation there to step in and force her to see things as they truly were. She was at risk of drifting too far out to sea, pulled by the current of her own frail, feminine heart – and completely unaware of the danger that hovered to ensnare her as such.

It would be bad enough for the Viscount Melbourne to overreach as prime minister to his queen, but for William Lamb to endear himself to Victoria the girl . . .

Leopold tipped back the rest of his drink, and gestured for it to be mulled again. The summer heat continued to press against him, even as laughter drifted up across the beach, punctuating the murmured rhythm of the waves.

As such, we took the Royal Charlotte out for a most invigorating expedition! I thought that the water was a marvel from the Royal Sovereign – yet, from this vessel, it was all the more so. I felt as if I was right there with the waves – I felt like I was one of the waves as we flew with the sails as our wings. Captain Paget was wonderfully informative, explaining how the ship’s rigging worked to harness the wind, and even guided me in tying off one of the lines after we tacked. We explored so many harbors and coves along the Solvent, and even sailed as far out as Nab Tower before turning back from the Channel proper.​

We stopped for quite the pleasant picnic at a small beach that would have been otherwise unreachable by land where I dared went so far as to take off my shoes to feel the water against my feet. On our way back from the beach, we were even so fortunate as to espy a pair of harbor porpoises in the wake of our ship, hunting for herring. If pressed, I could not tell you a happier day in all my life – and it was happier still to spend in the company of such dear friends.
​

He sloshed the ice in his glass, and pursed his lips to stare at the words – as if by doing so he could change their meaning with the heat of his gaze.

Yet their meaning remained as Victoria continued:

There is a large part of me that does not want this trip to end. We leave for Brighton the morning next, where I shall rejoin with Mama’s household. My prime minister shall not be able to stay in Brighton once the Crown’s matters of state are concluded, and then only social appointments remain in my engagement diary to fill my time. I shall miss his advice very much, I already foresee.​

His advice, indeed, Leopold thought sardonically.

Yet my Aunt Adelaide shall join us at Brighton Pavilion, which will be a boon of its own whilst I am contending with Lord M’s loss – and I have welcomed the Earl and Countess of Munster to join her, as her daughter-in-law’s company has been a balm to her throughout her mourning. My aunt's spirits shall be quite lifted by the fine ocean air, of that I am sure.
​

Two bastards more, Leopold snorted to recognize - one King William's and the other again Egremont's. Leopold was shocked that his sister would allow their company, all before he sourly recognized that Marie-Louise had no hand in their presence: Victoria did.

Albert would have much work to do when he finally claimed his court – starting first and foremost with reestablishing proper barriers between his wife and her more unworthy relations.

I cannot think of anything more to comment on, her letter concluded. Let me just say, then, that I remain,

Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom
​

Leopold turned the page over, looking for a postscript, but found none – neither to beseech his wisdom nor to entreat the decisions he had ready for her future as her closest living male relative. (For he counted her English uncles amongst no such rank as either louts or fools.) Albert, he recognized with that same cautionary sense of foredooming, had not been mentioned even once.

. . . and neither was Victoria mentioned in Albert’s letter, he went on to note. For entire pages – succinct as those pages ever were – his nephew spoke of his self-appointed studies that summer, and then his academic plans once he returned to Bonn for his fall session of classes.

Leopold held both letters up at once, one in each hand, and did not need to see the distance between them when he could feel how it spanned.

It seemed that a trip to England would soon be crucial – both for his niece’s sake, to adjust her errant course, as well as to see to the good of their country. For there was a crack in the foundation of all he had spent his life building – and he would see that crack repaired here and now, well before it became a chasm, unbridgeable and deep.

He was lost in thought, his mind awhirl with necessity and possibility, when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, and saw that his wife had joined him in the pavilion. Somehow, he had missed a maid fetching their son inside, for Louise was alone, and her smile was soft with amusement when he blinked to reorient his focus.

“Is all well, husband?” she asked in gently accented French – as Dutch was her fifth language, and she used it only when necessary. As Dutch was his own fourth language, he did not entirely mind, and Louise honored his wishes whenever he chose to speak his birth-tongue of German instead.

"Well enough," he answered in like as she cast a glance over the two letters he still had unfolded. (He was grateful, then, that Arcadie's letter was out of view – his wife was no fool, but he had no desire to pain her with any unnecessary reminders of his second family.)

"You may see for yourself," he waved a hand in welcome. "Victoria undoubtedly says much the same in her letters to you." He did not think that Albert kept correspondence with his aunt unless there was the birth of a child to celebrate or a holiday to note, but then, there was no need for him to.

Louise took a seat in the chair nearest his, and accepted the letter. He allowed her time to read, content to look at her fair visage in favor of the beach. A flush of pink had bloomed across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, showing where she had braved the sun without a parasol. The rash would threaten for red if she was not careful; she already had a smattering of freckles, and her skin took far too easily to tan from her maternal heritage; so much so that he resolved to counsel her again to better attend her health whilst enjoying the sea air. They were, after all, hoping for the conception of yet another child before the season was through.

Eventually, Louise placed the letter down, her countenance pleased. “She seems happy,” she gave her impression. Yet she caught his expression, and amended, "Are you unhappy on her behalf?"

Rather than listing the many reasons why he was most certainly unhappy, he shrugged to say, “She could be happier still.”

A heartbeat passed. Louise's expression flickered – the barest ripple of emotion – before she commented, “I am sure that you will see that she is.”

Leopold was not entirely sure that he cared for whatever thought she had so clearly pushed aside, yet neither did he have any wish to discuss the topic further. Instead, he commented, "I do not know how you are not only tolerating this weather, but enjoying it.”

Perhaps somewhat pointedly, he drew the handkerchief from his neck to dab at his brow. With a huff, he felt the grit of sand irritate the lining of his wig.

This time, Louise allowed herself an amused sound in answer. “There are times I think that you forget," she teased. "I was born in Sicily; I was raised there. The sea is as much in my blood as France is.”

For that, she turned to look back to the water. Her look, he thought, was content as she closed her eyes to the cadence of the waves.

Even so, he could only grimace. “I fail to see the resemblance,” he said – for Oostende was no match for the jeweled Mediterranean in any way.

“But it’s what resemblance I have in my new home,” she neither agreed nor disagreed. "And that is enough."

“I shall find a way for you to spend more time here.” Leopold felt what he thought was a moment's discontent on her behalf before he pushed the feeling aside. "We have two sons now, and your presence is not required at court. Perhaps, after one sone more, you may set up your own household with more freedom, if you wish."

Yet, for the graciousness of his boon, Louise's faint smile faded for an expression as smooth as if she was cast from a painting. Her voice revealed nothing when she said, almost too softly for his ears, "My husband is all kindness.”

He was quiet for a long moment in answer. Unbidden, he thought of Arcadie’s letter, resting on the table between them. He thought of her dark, expressive eyes and easy laughter. He thought of their son, and imagined how much the boy must have grown in the weeks they'd been apart. He thought of the cool forest shadows and the peace of the Ardennes, and knew longing.

But, then and there, Louise turned her gaze back to him, and he refocused his attention on his wife.

“Would you like to walk with me?" at length, she asked. "The water relieves much of the heat – you will melt away up here on the sand.”

He'd rather decidedly not; yet, aloud, he said: “I would like nothing better." He reached out and pressed her hand, even as he appended, "First, though, I have business to attend.”

“Business? They are family," Louise attempted to sway him. "Surely a very short delay would be understandable, even if your niece is also the Queen of England."

“Entirely understandable, perhaps – and yet, this matter,” he stressed, “is most assuredly business. You need not worry how or why, but to know that it is."

“Of course," Louise muttered. "Perhaps another time, then?"

"Certainly, my dear – you have my word."

Louise nodded, and drew her hand away. She did not linger before standing; respectfully, she curtsied, and he waved to award his leave. She then left the pavilion, accompanied by one of her ladies and the ever constant private guard he employed to keep vigil over his queen. His gaze followed her as she returned to where the surf lapped against the sand, and set off to walk the long stretch of the beach alone.

Yet his wife did not hold his attention for long. He finished his drink, and then turned for a fresh sheet of stationary. He picked up his pen, ready to address his niece and repeat his directives for the well-being of her reign with all emphasis.

But, first, he elected to write his nephew – for the throne of England was no finite promise, and that was a truth he’d have Albert learn sooner, rather than later, if he ever wished to claim his kingdom.

So, towards that end, with a brisk flick of his pen, he began:

Nephew,

As much as I enjoy hearing of the life-cycles of Coburg’s elderberry trees, there are greater wheels in motion as the hand of fate turns, and it is to them that I would have you direct both your attention and your will in order to ensure . . .​

TBC


~ MJ