Chapter 2 #4
“Lady Styles, sitting in a bower, grave and lovely as ever. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you since … when?”
“Last July and then the yachting in August.”
“Of course.”
Susan thought, If the queen only knew. She had left early for Balmoral.
And from her distant Scottish retreat, Her Majesty had no idea Bertie had filled her beloved Osborne House with friends she deplored.
The newspapers had dubbed the prince’s circle the “Marlborough House set.” The queen called them “rogues, roués, and hangers-on.”
Captain Montgomery’s smile vanished. “And now this tragedy. I know Peter is eager for news.”
“Are you staying for dinner?” Susan asked.
“Thank you, no. I’m meeting the chaps at the Yacht Club. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll find the princess.” Montgomery bowed and headed toward the house.
When the captain was out of earshot, FitzGerald said, “Well? What happened?”
“The jury returned an open verdict. It’s a suspicious death, but its cause is unknown. And she was pregnant.”
“Worse and worse. No resolution, just endless speculation. Well.” FitzGerald lifted his shoulders. “It will probably come to nothing. The police won’t trouble themselves over—”
“A pregnant Irish girl,” she said sharply. “Not even a maidservant of the queen?” Susan had thought the same thing, but that shrug rankled.
“I suppose they’ll go through the motions.”
“After the inquest, I pressed Doctor Lewis about the cause of death, but she—”
“She?”
“Yes. Doctor Julia Lewis examined the body and testified before the coroner’s jury.”
“Good Lord, a woman doctor. What next?”
“I had no idea such a person existed,” Susan said, looking down at the card. “I asked if I might consult her.”
FitzGerald hesitated. Then he said, “I trust you are not unwell.”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Then … it’s not about Princess Louise?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. I understood from Sir Charles that she has recovered her spirits, and her headaches are less frequent.” When Susan didn’t reply, the major said, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“It seems so.” But you haven’t heard Louise weeping in her bedroom. Susan tucked away the card. “Princess Louise had made a pet of Lizzie. She’s deeply distressed. At a loss.”
“Yes. I imagine she is.”
“Do you know if the queen’s private secretary has written to the girl’s family?”
FitzGerald looked surprised. “The housekeeper said her parents are dead, and she had no other family in England.”
“There’s a younger sister in Ireland. Brigid Dowling. She’s in service with a family somewhere in County Cork.”
“How do you know that?”
“Princess Louise remembered but couldn’t recall the town’s name. She said Lizzie was very protective of her sister.” Susan stood, brushing the folds from her dress. “I’ll look into finding her address.”
“Lady Styles … Susan.”
“Yes?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Nothing, Susan thought. There was a time when a word from him meant everything.
“The prince and the two princesses leave for London on Monday,” she said. “Are you traveling with the royal party?”
FitzGerald shook his head. “Montgomery will join you, but I must leave tomorrow for Scotland.”
“A sudden change of plan?”
“A telegram from the home secretary arrived while you were at the inquest. The government got wind of an Irish plan to kidnap the queen at Balmoral and—”
“Good God!”
FitzGerald flicked his hand. “Tempest in a teacup. Or a pint glass, as so many Irish plots start in pubs. These so-called ‘Fenian patriots’ can’t get out of their way.”
“What’s being done?”
“The Scottish police swarmed the castle grounds.” FitzGerald chuckled. “They found nothing, but they irritated the life out of Her Majesty.”
“Five assassination attempts, and—”
“Six, as it happens. Victoria has almost as many lives as a cat.”
“It’s not a joke,” Susan said. “The queen is too careless of her safety.”
“These Irish … What do they expect from us, for God’s sake?”
She raised her eyebrow and said, “Their land back?”
“Do they think we’ll just hand it over to them?”
“This from you, Peter FitzGerald? An Irishman with family estates in Kildare?”
“Anglo-Irish, my lady, and British to the core. We landowners prefer to hold on to our property. At least, the little my junior branch of the family has left.”
FitzGerald’s glance drifted over Susan’s shoulder. She turned to see Princess Louise striding toward the stables.
“By the time you return from Balmoral with the queen, Louise will be gone. She travels to London with us for an extended stay at Marlborough House.”
“Good,” he said. “The princess could use time away from her mother.”
The queen had little patience with illness, real or imagined, or with prolonged emotional distress. All but her own, Susan thought.
“Louise asked me to try to trace Lizzie’s sister. I’ll write to the authorities in Dublin. They may know where to find Brigid Dowling.”
FitzGerald frowned. “Do you think it’s necessary to—”
“Wouldn’t you like to know if your sister were dead?”
He started to say something and then looked away. “I must pack.” The major bowed.
Susan watched him stride across the lawn.
A little stiff in the back? She dragged off her bonnet, unclasped the black mourning brooch pinned at her throat, and dropped them on the bench.
Then she walked to the grove’s edge and faced the sea, undoing the hook-and-eye fastening at the top of her bodice.
She opened the black-trimmed fabric at her neck and lifted her face to the breeze, dragging strands of her fair hair away from her face.
Brigid Dowling, where are you? After a moment, Susan thought, Louise …
I wonder. A map might jog the princess’s memory.
Susan strode back to the house, re-hooking her bodice and thinking, An atlas.
That’s what I need. She would look for one in Osborne’s well-stocked library and show it to Louise.
Then she could send a letter to the officials at Dublin Castle, mentioning the name of a town.
Another letter—a dead girl’s letter—had traveled from the pillar box near Osborne House’s gate and by steamer across the strait to Southampton.
From there, it went by train to Bristol and by boat across the Irish Sea.
From the city of Cork, it bumped along in a pony cart to Clonakilty village, and then traveled in a postman’s pack to Lansdowne Hall.
There, a housekeeper set it aside to await the return from Dublin of the mistress of the house and her maid, Brigid Dowling.