CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE #2
But with the loss of this sole intermediary to remind him of his hapless youth, the prince could put it behind him, leaving the uncomfortable knowledge of my existence to Special Branch to mind for him—perhaps with an annual report he might skim and then toss aside before he settled to a good roast beef dinner and a game of whist.
But above all this was the knowledge that my time with Stoker was finished too, and that realization burned the rest to ash.
Unsolved puzzles abounded at present, and Stoker himself was not the least of these.
I still had not yet divined the cause of his friendship with Lady Cordelia or his antipathy for his family.
I had not discovered his wife’s fate or heard the story of the man he had murdered.
I was convinced he carried within him a thousand fathoms, and I had plumbed so few.
I wanted to know everything about him, but I felt like Schliemann standing upon the buried walls of Troy.
The truth was there, waiting to be unearthed.
If only I had time .
.
.
We were free to go our separate ways, no longer bound by investigation or curiosity or whatever strange sympathy had held us together.
We were free, but this liberty felt like the bitterest imprisonment.
The thought of living the rest of my life without his irascible temper to challenge me, his idle verses to cheer me, his pockets full of sweets and his mind full of secrets and sorrows .
.
.
but it would profit me nothing to dwell upon these.
And so I sat down to dinner and made polite chat with the Beauclerks.
Stoker and I exchanged glances, both of us keenly aware that our time at Bishop’s Folly must be at an end.
I waited for him to explain that the investigation into the baron’s murder was in abeyance—some prevarication would be required here—and that we no longer required their hospitality.
But he said nothing, and the words stuck in my throat as well.
His lordship had just received a mummy he was tremendously enthused about, and he was happy to carry the weight of conversation, but Stoker could bear no more company.
He excused himself as soon as the sweet was served, and Lady Cordelia rose as well.
“I ought to look in on the children,” she said vaguely, taking herself upstairs and leaving me alone with his lordship.
He shoved the decanter of port in my direction.
“I may not be very good with people, Miss Speedwell, but even I could sense an atmosphere tonight.
Tell me your troubles, if you like.”
Before I could stop myself, the words began to pour out of me, a trickle at first, then a torrent, aided by a sympathetic ear and quantities of a very excellent port.
Naturally, I did not relate the most dangerous details of our adventure, but I told him enough for him to understand we had been in peril of our lives and that the peril seemed to have passed, at least for now.
I told him of Stoker’s losses and my own dullness of feeling now that the escapade was finished, of my lowness of spirit and my horror at having large ambitions and not a generous enough purse to fund them.
To my astonishment, his lordship proved an excellent listener, and when I had concluded, he ordered strong tea for us both.
It had grown late—or early, I realized, as the streaks of dawn had begun to gild the sky.
Morning came early at midsummer, and we had talked through the night.
But I felt cleansed now, purged of my worries, and as light as ether.
“It was very good of you not to give us away to the police,” I told him.
“You are a true friend to Stoker.”
He looked uncomfortable, as all Englishmen do when complimented.
“He has been a good friend to me.
Or rather, my sister.
The precise nature of their relationship eludes me, but Cordelia has informed me Stoker offered her friendship and succor at a time when she was most in need of it.
Whatever that means,” he added with a rueful smile.
If I had hoped to hear revelations concerning the origin of their relationship, I was doomed to disappointment.
His lordship was not a man to pry—as I had just learned to my own advantage.
He had been a restful companion and a good listener as well as kindly.
As if intuiting my questions about why Lady Cordelia had not confided in him, he shook his head.
“I am no good with ladies’ troubles.”
“You have done remarkably well with mine,” I pointed out.
He flushed a little, the same becoming rose shade as his sister when something excited her emotions.
“I find listening to you to be very interesting.
I have not much experience with ladies, you know.
My sister, of course.
And my aunt.
My wife.
But they were all calm, unruffled.
Very capable women.
None of them has had need of me to solve their problems, so I have little skill with it.
I only hope I can learn before my children require me,” he added with a furrowed brow.
I saw then that I had judged him a little harshly.
It was not his intention to burden his sister with the care of his children, any more than it had been his intention to leave his offspring too often to their own devices.
He lacked the skills to communicate with them, but not the will, and with the will, all else could be made right.
“I have no doubt you will surpass your own expectations,” I said, feeling a rush of sudden sympathy for this gentle man.
“Your instincts are excellent.
You have proven that by trusting Stoker and me rather than exposing us to the police.”
“I can only quote Xenocrates, dear lady.
‘I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.
’”
“A worthy philosophy, my lord.
Let us drink to Xenocrates.”
We lifted our cups of tea and toasted Xenocrates, and in that moment, I felt Inspiration whisper in my ear.
The plan came to me as fully formed as Athena sprung from the brow of Zeus, and I outlined it for his lordship in detail.
There was no chance to think twice about the propriety of what I was asking.
I must cast the dice and see how they fell, I told myself.
I had not thought the thing through, but for every question Lord Rosemorran put to me, I had a ready response, and when I finally fell silent, leaving him to deliberate upon my question, he stared at me with mingled awe and disbelief.
“My dear Miss Speedwell,” he began.
“I hardly know how to reply.”
“Say ‘yes,’” I commanded.
And to his credit, he laughed.
“Very well.
One can hardly say ‘no’ to a force of nature.
I accept your proposal.”
And we toasted that as well.
· · ·
After another revivifying cup of tea, I made my toilette and left Bishop’s Folly without meeting Stoker or Huxley or any of the Beauclerks.
Even Betony seemed to have something better to do that morning.
I had taken pains with my appearance, wearing my black silk and pinning on my large black hat with the luscious roses.
I collected more than a few admiring glances as I made my way into the heart of a euphoric London.
It was Jubilee Day, and the bunting swung gaily overhead—ropes of flowers and banners of blue, white, and red proclaiming
VICTORIA OUR QUEEN.
The crowds were thick with spectators and hawkers crying their wares, selling food and lemonade and Jubilee memorabilia.
The snorting of horses, the smell of hot grease, the chants of the crowd—all mingled to riotous effect as all of London had turned out to wish her well upon the anniversary of her accession.
I found a lamppost and by means of a tuppence bribe persuaded the youth ensconced there to give up his place to me.
I stood on the base, one arm holding fast to the lamp as I watched the procession roll past.
First, the soldiers, resplendent in brass-buttoned scarlet tunics, and marching in step to the bands that played with sharp precision.
The sober dignitaries came next in their carriages, foreign heads of state—from the European sons-in-law who had married into the family to the maharajas who had conceded their kingdoms to its matriarch.
The Europeans sat stiffly correct in their morning suits and chivalric orders, but the Indians were resplendent in vibrant silks and gems that glittered in the sunlight.
Then came the Court, various officials and ladies-in-waiting, each decked in their finest, the duchesses blazing with jewels as feathers bobbed from their plumed hats, the gentlemen laden with various orders.
They waved and nodded and smiled at the crowds, whipping them into a frenzy of anticipation.
I saw Sir Hugo, riding discreetly, dressed in sober black and keeping a weather eye upon the crowd as the cheers rose higher and louder.
And then they came—the family.
Carriage after carriage rolled past with them,
her children and grandchildren, a family occasion that happened to be a matter of state.
There were the children of the Prince of Wales, my half siblings, clustered together in their privilege, and I expected a pang at the thought that we should never know each other.
But there was nothing in my heart save silence.
Next came the Prince of Wales himself, beautifully tailored and genial, lifting a manicured hand as he smiled to the crowd.
This was the man Lily Ashbourne had loved and lost and died for heartbreak over.
I wondered what she would have thought of him.
Would she have recognized the boy she once knew in the greying man he now was?
And I wondered, too, if he ever thought of her.
Was she a passing fancy?
A fevered dream?
Or was she a regret he would carry to the end of his days?
I could read no answers in his serenely satisfied expression, and in an instant he was gone, borne away in his golden carriage amidst the patriotic cheers.
Finally, she came, in the grandest carriage of all.
The equipage was pulled by half a dozen cream horses, perfectly matched.
She was smaller than I had expected—and plumper, like an autumn pigeon with its feathers fluffed out against the coming winter.
She wore an unapologetically ugly black bonnet and carried a bouquet of roses.
I had only ever seen her in profile, on coins and stamps, and it astonished me to find she was smiling.