Chapter 15 #2
McGrath drove the familiar coach up to the gray stone gate of the Royal Mews, smiling, remembering why the driver was unavailable. Heavy oak doors swung open to admit him after he showed the man the paper with its recognizable signature.
“So, you’re Marcus York,” the head groom said.
“That’s right,” McGrath said. “Where should I stow my guvnor’s carriage?”
The head groom led the horses to the last bay. McGrath jumped from the coachman’s seat and pulled a carpetbag and rifle from the back.
“The guv heard you’re expecting trouble. He’ll arrive by train in a day or two, but he thought you could use an extra hand on the spot.”
“He’s right about that. Stow your gear in the loft.” The head groom eyed the rifle. “You’re handy with that gun?”
“You could say that.”
“More soldiers are on the way from the barracks, but another man with a rifle is welcome.”
“Barracks?”
“The Coldstream Guardsmen quartered in town. They’re changing the guard in an hour. I’ll introduce you to the major in charge.”
“Dead right, mate,” McGrath said, grinning. “Don’t want ’em shooting me dead by mistake.”
An hour later, a sergeant major drew three concentric chalk circles into the brick wall of an outbuilding. Then he marched “Marcus York” fifty paces away.
“Take three shots,” the sergeant major ordered.
The light was fading, but McGrath didn’t need the third. His first two bullets shattered the brick in the center circle.
“That’s enough, York,” the sergeant major said, grinning. “You’ll do.”
Dr. Andrew Lewis drove to the railway station with Julia. She would catch a midmorning train. He handed her down from the carriage while Mr. Ogilvie signaled to a porter.
“Now, Grandfather, you know you can depend on Clemmie to do most things,” Julia said.
“I plan on it,” he said, smiling. “I brought the morning newspapers with me. Just the odd consultation in a pinch.”
“Doctor Barnes will relieve you at three.”
“Stop fussing, my dear. Go, or you’ll miss your train.”
Julia kissed her grandfather’s cheek and followed the porter to the platform.
She settled in her seat, grateful to occupy an empty first-class compartment.
She had an uninterrupted ninety minutes to wonder what the day would bring.
Susan’s three-line telegram had said, “HRM QV requests consultation. If able, take 9:20 a.m. from Waterloo for overnight stay. Bring dark dress for dinner.”
Julia had handed the message to Tennant. He’d read it, frowning. “I wish you weren’t going.”
“To Windsor Castle? Is there a safer place?”
“People keep saying that. There are enough soldiers to repel a small army, but the killer got past the Marlborough House guards disguised as a milkman.”
“Well, it’s only for one night. Packing for an audience with the queen will have Kate in a flutter.”
Tennant hadn’t returned her smile. “I’ll see you in two days,” he said gravely. He took her hand and raised it halfway to his lips. Then he released it abruptly and bowed.
Julia had closed the door behind him and watched through the sidelight window. She’d raised her hand, but he had ducked into the cab without a backward glance.
Julia looked out the train window, wondering about their recent encounters. Sometimes, they left her exhilarated; other times, flattened. She sighed and pulled out a copy of The Lancet.
Lady Styles and a porter were waiting for Julia on the Windsor Station platform. In the carriage, Susan said, “First, let me say that I have no idea what the queen wants of you. I am as astonished as you must be.”
“How did it come about?”
“Lord only knows. Only God and the queen. Somehow, she heard about Alix’s visit to you. I thought I was about to get a royal dressing-down. Or sent packing. Instead, she asked me to telegraph you.”
A short carriage ride brought them up Castle Hill, past the looming Round Tower, and through the double-towered entrance near the visitors’ apartments.
“Your bedroom is two doors down from mine,” Susan said as they mounted the stairs. “The footman will follow with your case.” At the bedroom door, she glanced at the doctor’s medical bag. “You have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Susan opened the door. “I’ll come back for you in half an hour.”
Thirty minutes later, Julia and Susan walked past the glaring “absurd Scotsman in a kilt.” The doctor straightened her shoulders and followed Susan into the queen’s private sitting room, trailed by John Brown.
Julia hadn’t much practice curtsying, but she acquitted herself reasonably well.
Then the queen dismissed Susan and Brown.
Silence followed as the queen surveyed her.
“Pray, be seated, Doctor.”
After some skirt-smoothing and rapid fanning, a perspiring Victoria explained her problem.
What ailed the queen was simple: the change of life, coupled with a lack of sympathy from her male doctors.
Victoria had all the classic symptoms of approaching menopause, a newfangled term that made a natural phase in a woman’s life sound like a disease.
“I trust the royal doctors are not telling the queen that Her Majesty imagines things?”
“That is precisely what they imply. The queen ‘exaggerates.’ The queen needs to ‘calm herself.’ The queen is experiencing ‘climacteric syndrome,’ never explaining what that means. One doctor used the term ‘hysteria’ for my …” The queen fluttered her hand. “For my unruly emotions.”
“The queen’s feelings are real and natural.” Julia thought for a moment. “I wonder if Your Majesty recalls late girlhood, the time on the brink of womanhood and just after. Perhaps the queen remembers those changeable emotions?”
“Yes. I was a trial to my governess. Poor Lehzen,” the queen said sadly. “How I plagued her, yet she loved me all the same.”
Julia smiled. “I remember being quite impossible when I was about thirteen. The two phases are rather like bookends.”
“Are there remedies? Treatments that might ease the discomfort?”
“Sadly, Ma’am, I know none that are effective,” Julia said.
“Patent remedies are plentiful but worthless. But the queen may command that windows stay open and order her subjects to don extra layers if they are cold. Keep the bedroom cool at night and put aside heavy bedclothes. Avoid overly seasoned foods. As for clothing, less constricting—”
“You are advising the queen to dress like Princess Louise?”
“Well, looser gowns might give relief. If I may be blunt, ma’am, tight corseting will not help the queen feel less heated. But symptoms ease with time. Until then, women endure a trying period.”
The queen sighed. “Well, one’s mind is eased by information. And to be listened to without condescension is a relief, even if there is no ready cure.”
Julia nodded to John Brown, guarding the queen’s door, took Susan’s arm, and walked her beyond the Scotsman’s earshot.
“I won’t ask you to betray professional secrets,” Susan said, “but your smile tells me it went well.”
“I think I was able to reassure Her Majesty.”
“What a relief,” Susan said.
“The queen mentioned luncheon. I brought an evening dress, but …” Julia spread her skirt.
“You’re fine as you are. We’ll sit down at one o’clock with the three princesses and Prince Leopold.”
“Dining with the royals.” Julia smiled. “You’re an old hand at it.”
Susan patted Julia’s arm. “It should be lively today with Louise back. And Henry Ponsonby is always amusing company at the table. He’s rumored to be next in line as the queen’s private secretary. I’ll give you a few minutes and come back for you.”
Twenty minutes later, Julia waited inside the dining room for Her Majesty’s arrival. She stood between Colonel Henry Ponsonby and Lady Sarah Winthrop, a lady of the bedchamber. Lady Sarah surprised Julia with a connection.
“I knew your great-aunt quite well when we were young,” she said. “Once upon a time. Caroline and I had tea last spring and reminisced, as the ancient are apt to do.”
“Ancient? Never. I won’t hear of it,” Colonel Ponsonby said.
“My aunt seems ageless to me. And redoubtable.” Julia smiled. “She’s never shy about giving me good advice, although I don’t always admit it. What was she like as a young woman?”
Lady Sarah laughed. “Much the same, and with a wicked sense of humor. She had me in disgraceful stitches at a wedding, whispering about the hideous hats on the bride’s side of the family.” Then Lady Sarah frowned. “But I’m forgetting.”
“Forgetting what?” Henry Ponsonby asked.
“I was thinking of poor Lady Middlebury’s wedding.
Caroline and I were attendants.” She sighed.
“My, those two Fitz-Maurice girls were lovely. The sisters were the beauties of their seasons. They hadn’t a farthing between them, but they were well connected.
Cousins to the Duke of Leinster, if I remember. ”
Ponsonby said, “The Duke of Leinster?” Then he launched into a story about the duke, His Grace’s second cousin, a horse, and a well-known fountain in central London. In telling the anecdote, Ponsonby used the duke’s and his cousin’s full names.
“I apologize, but you must excuse me,” Julia said, turning away. She gripped Susan’s arm and said, “May I speak to you? Quickly, before the queen arrives?”
Susan walked Julia to the door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I must send a telegram at once.”
Just before noon, Sir Lionel strolled into the smoking room of the Army and Navy Club, looking for a drink before luncheon. He cursed his luck and nearly turned on his heels, but he’d been spotted. The club’s biggest bore—and resident sot—weaved his unsteady way toward Dermott.
“Lionel, old chap. Just the fellow. Crimean comrades-in-arms and all that. We were refighting the Battle of Inkerman before you arrived.” He saluted unsteadily. “Come along. I’m buying.”
At least the fellow signed for his share of drinks. Lionel gave him credit for that. He nodded his thanks, and they moved to chairs by the fireside.
“Speaking of the Crimea reminded me. Saw a fellow on the street the other day. Thought he’d be hanged by now. Do you remember … no, you were in the Blues, so you wouldn’t know the chap.”
That didn’t stop the man from boring him with several stories attached to an unfamiliar name. Someone he called the Pale Assassin. While Dermott waited to sign for a second round, he idly asked, “Why was he called the Pale Assassin?”
“Chap looked like a cadaver. Like he had no blood running through him. Beanpole of a man, but strong, with a grip of iron.”
“Really?” Lionel took a sip and a discreet peek at the mantel clock.
“The fellow had a signature way of handling the Ivans. He’d smash a Russian to the ground with the butt of his rifle and drive the bayonet into his throat, just under the chin.
Carved notches on the butt of his rifle.
And he had the coldest, palest blue eyes you ever saw. Got a field promotion to sergeant.”
Dermott spilled his drink and mopped his lapels. “What’s his name?”
“The Pale Assassin.”
“His real name. Damn it, man. Think.”
He screwed up his face and then snapped his fingers. “Flood. Sergeant Simon Flood. That’s the chappie.”
Lionel dashed out the door, passing the waiter without signing for the second round of drinks.