CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
W
e spent the rest of that rainy Sunday installed in the Belvedere, eating sandwiches that Lady Cordelia sent and poking about the collections.
I was highly amused to discover Stoker laughing over a print of Cabanel’s
Fallen Angel—no doubt appreciating the resemblance—and we quarreled happily over the proper arrangement the earl should take for organizing his glorious but haphazard collection.
(I favored chronological order, while Stoker championed a thematic approach.)
When he was not looking, I managed to unearth a color plate of the White-browed purpletuft.
It was an altogether unremarkable bird, but the puffs of violet feathers were so strikingly beautiful that I stared at it for a long time, thoughtfully tracing each tiny plume with a fingertip.
We retired early, and I believe both of us slept poorly, for we were awake and ready to leave far earlier than our errand required.
The packet we had taken from the baron’s study went into Stoker’s pocket for safekeeping.
He had replaced the back of the compass and tinkered with it until it worked again, and this I pinned once more to my bodice.
I had the oddest sense that at last we were embarking upon the final leg of our adventure, and it was with mingled excitement and nostalgia that I took my leave of the Belvedere.
Whatever befell us, our interlude together could not last much longer, and I would miss it.
There were no signs of pursuers as we made our way to Oxford Street, although we took the precaution of a circuitous route.
I was being given a thorough education on London’s various alleys and byways and parks, and although I always preferred countryside or wilderness, there was something arresting about the great city.
Bunting had been hung in honor of the Jubilee, and the streets were teeming with a certain energy I suspected the city had not known before.
There was anticipation, as the royal procession was only a few days away and dignitaries were arriving from the furthest reaches of the globe to fete the queen.
Her image scowled from commemorative plates and flags, from placards and tea towels, Her Majesty, Victoria Regina, the Empress-Queen.
I studied a tooth mug on display in a window near the bank as we waited for that establishment to open.
“She is really not a very attractive woman,” I observed to Stoker.
“All popeyes and lack of chin.”
“The Hanoverian influence,” he said shortly.
“It would take some very strong genes to counter the German strain.”
“Hm.
Perhaps a healthy dose of French blood,” I began, but before I could finish my thought, the door of the bank rattled.
“Ready?”
Stoker asked.
I gave him a brisk nod and set off, knowing that he would be at my heels, faithful as a hound.
The edifice before us was not the main Bank of London; that building was in Threadneedle Street, where it had stood for some two hundred years.
This branch had been opened during the Regency, designed with all the elegant restraint that implied.
Along the way, someone had decided this was no longer sufficiently imposing for a bank and had festooned the symmetrical facade with a succession of neo-Gothic embellishments culminating in a tiny clock tower that chimed out the hour as we approached.
As soon as we were inside, I requested an audience with the bank manager, and within a very few minutes we had been escorted to his office.
He was a cadaverously thin man with great flapping ears, ears that caught all the secrets his clients cared to whisper, I wagered.
I proffered the key.
“This key fits an item that was left in your care by a Miss Harbottle.
I am here to retrieve whatever is in your keeping.”
The careful face gave nothing away.
He did not take the key but merely gave me a long, level look.
“I was told only to release the contents of the box to a Miss Veronica Speedwell.”
“I am she.”
A thin smile touched his lips.
“You will understand that I must necessarily take precautions, Miss Speedwell.
Miss Harbottle requested a proof of your identity.”
“What proof do you require?”
The smile deepened, and there was an unmistakable twinkle in the sad eyes.
“She said that I was not to release the box to you unless you introduced me to Chester.”
“Who the devil is Chester?”
Stoker demanded.
I put up a hand to quell his questions.
I reached into my pocket and drew out the tiny grey velvet mouse.
“May I present Chester?”
The manager bowed.
“Precisely as described to me.
In that case, I will fetch the box.”
Stoker’s brows were still raised when the manager returned a few moments later with a plain strongbox.
“Your key fits this lock, Miss Speedwell.
The box belongs to us, but you are free to remove the contents.
I can offer you a quarter of an hour’s privacy before my first appointment.”
He withdrew with enormous tact while I fitted the key to the lock.
It turned with only a slight protest, yielding almost at once.
Inside the box was a packet similar to the one we had found in the baron’s study.
This one had been wrapped in a single large sheet of foolscap and tied with black tape.
A blob of black sealing wax showed that it had never been opened since it had been placed in the bank for safekeeping.
I lifted my eyes to Stoker.
“What if it is proof that my father murdered my mother?”
I asked.
“What then?”
“Then we will decide what to do with it,” he said firmly.
I broke the seal.
Within the packet were a handful of papers, but these were not like the ones we had taken from the baron’s study.
His collection had been newspaper cuttings and letters and photographs.
These were official documents, stiff with the weight of authority.
“It is my birth certificate,” I breathed.
“It details the birth of a baby girl in Ireland on 21 June 1862—my birthdate.
The mother is Lily Ashbourne.”
I stopped speaking abruptly, the words stuck in my throat.
“And the father?”
Stoker asked.
I could not speak.
I handed him the paper.
“Yes, here is the date and the mother, just as you said, and the father—” He looked at me, nearly dropping the paper.
“This cannot be.”
I swallowed hard.
“But it is.”
“‘Mother, Lily Ashbourne,’” he read slowly.
I held up a hand.
“Don’t,” I commanded, my voice sharp.
But he did not stop.
“‘Father, His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Edward, The Prince of Wales.
’”
I was not aware of intending to sit, but I found myself supported by a small armchair, Stoker kneeling at my side.
“Illegitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales,” I managed finally in a voice very unlike my own.
“Jesus Christ,” Stoker said, and I knew from his tone it was not a blasphemy but a prayer.
“What more?”
I demanded.
His face was pale, his eyes fathomless as he held out a second document to me.
“Not illegitimate.”
“That is not possible,” I said.
But I took the paper from him with trembling fingers and read the words for myself, a simple string of vowels and consonants that, linked together, changed everything I thought I knew in the space of a heartbeat.
Certificate of Marriage
.
All of the details were there—the names of bride and groom, the date, the signature of the priest.
“Surely it was bigamous,” I protested.
“Surely this cannot be authentic.”
“It can and it is,” Stoker said stubbornly.
“And it means Mornaday was correct.
You are in danger, Veronica.
Terrible danger.”
Over the course of our relationship, I had had many reasons to be grateful for Stoker’s presence, but never as much as that day.
I was stunned, unable to think, and it was Stoker who thrust the documents into his pocket, pulled me to my feet, and propelled me from the bank and into the watery sunshine.
The city was the same; the same odors of horse and coal smoke still hung in the air; the same bustle of tradesmen and nannies pushing prams and fashionable carriages jostling with market carts still rang in my ears.
But everything had changed.
He guided me along Oxford Street towards Hyde Park.
We passed a bookshop, and sudden inspiration lit his face.
“Walk on towards the park,” he ordered.
“Give the Marble Arch a wide berth, for God’s sake.
The police have a small station there and the last thing we want is to attract their attention.
Don’t look around.
Just keep walking.
Once you are inside the park, turn left onto the first path.
Take a seat on the first bench you come to.
I shall join you as soon as I can.”
I did not even have the presence of mind to ask what he meant to do.
I merely walked on as he had commanded, nearly getting myself run over as I crossed the teeming street into the park without looking twice.
The curses of the cabmen were still ringing in my ears when I found a bench.
I forced myself to sit calmly, reciting the names of every butterfly I had captured while I waited.
I had just reached
Euchloe cardimines when Stoker appeared, holding his arm somewhat awkwardly against his chest.
“Why did you stop in the bookshop?”
“Because we needed this,” he said, drawing out a slim volume with a green kid cover.
A Brief History of the British Royal Family with Notes Regarding European Connections
.
“I would have preferred Debrett’s but it was too bloody huge to fit under my coat.”
“You stole it?”
“I haven’t any money on me.
Do not scruple—I will send them the price of it in due course, but our necessity was greater than the bookseller’s, I believe.”
He rifled the pages until he came to the entry he was seeking.
“‘HRH, The Prince of Wales, Albert Edward.
Date of birth .
.
.
’” He trailed off, then gave an exclamation of triumph.
“Here it is, ‘Marriage to HRH Princess Alexandra of Denmark, 10 March 1863.
’”
He sat back, the book falling to his lap.
“Ten days before my mother died,” I said tonelessly.
“It fits,” he agreed.
He took the rest of the documents from his coat pocket.
“There is a statement from the priest, signed and witnessed.
He presided over your parents’ marriage and your birth as well as your mother’s death.
The same priest whose obituary we found in the baron’s study.”