Epilogue
Her Majesty has had the crown brought from the Tower; an indication that she knows it was never walled up in Northumberland or anywhere else.
Araminta considers this a good sign as she waits in an unexpectedly dowdy day room at Buckingham House.
Her eye is drawn through the window towards the sun-dappled garden.
Eleanor has altered her day dresses in the last weeks, taking them out as her pregnancy is beginning to show.
Johnathan is pleased as punch. ‘We’ve never made it this far before,’ he said cheerily this morning, as he watched her moving about their bedroom in her negligee.
The sickness has dissipated and she feels stronger; powerful even.
She’s changed and everything has changed with her.
The queen is late, though a queen of course can never be late.
She is in fact writing an angry note to her mother who’s trying to impose her opinion on her daughter’s actions.
It’s a fight Victoria cannot afford to lose.
‘A vexation’ as she terms it to her ladies-in-waiting.
Nonetheless, she has decided to meet with the Scottish lady.
She tried on the crown only this morning for the fun of it, when it arrived.
Once the note’s dispatched, she makes it known that she’ll go to the requisite withdrawing room.
Araminta bobs a low curtsey when Victoria enters. The first thing apparent is that the queen is very young. No more than a girl. Still, she has poise.
‘Mrs Moore, we understand this treasure is returned thanks to your good offices,’ she says, her words formal but her tone warm. ‘It’s beautiful but we don’t suppose we’ll ever have reason to wear it.’
‘Really, Your Majesty?’ Araminta says. ‘Not even in Scotland?’
Victoria’s eyes dance. ‘We’ve never been to Scotland,’ she replies. ‘Perhaps one day. Your family is Scottish?’
‘From the Highlands,’ Araminta clarifies. ‘They served the Stuart queens. On my mother’s side.’
‘I have Stuart blood,’ the young queen chimes enthusiastically. She’s related to many European royal families, of course. That is the way of it.
Araminta pauses. She’s here to assess what to do. To find out whether this young woman is a worthy queen. She has to admit, she hoped Her Majesty might feel like more of a warrior, but then Araminta was timid at the start of her own adventure.
‘Mary Queen of Scots was a heroine, I think. She’s much admired in Edinburgh,’ she says.
Victoria shrugs. ‘She was beautiful, but not a successful monarch. She was beheaded by her cousin.’
‘She was. But she sought to change the world. To make things better for women, I think. In Scots law women have more rights to property.’
Victoria raises a solitary eyebrow. Many at court would like it if she did something like that.
Many at court are waiting to brand her too naive to rule.
She pictures her prime minister Lord Melbourne’s face were she to ask him to shepherd such a measure through the chamber.
The queen has little interest in the rights of women, except her own right to the throne, which she’s painfully aware is currently widely questioned.
They say she’s too young and foolish. She has no intention of proving them right.
Araminta continues. ‘I brought you something.’
Victoria looks delighted. ‘A gift?’
Araminta pulls out a copy of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s book on the rights of women.
Victoria looks disappointed. Araminta wonders if the queen hoped for another medieval jewel. However, Her Majesty rallies. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It shall be added to the library.’
The queen’s attention turns once more to the crown. ‘The emeralds are magnificent,’ she smiles.
‘My great aunt considers them her favourite stone,’ Araminta gets out. ‘She hunted this crown before I did.’
‘You’ve done us a great service, Mrs Moore,’ the queen says. ‘We really are most grateful.’
*
Johnathan waits in the velvet chair by the fireplace, eager for the carriage to return.
Today, the long windows are open and he can hear birds singing in the trees.
Beside him, a bottle of champagne is ready for the celebration.
He’s ensured there’s adequate ink on the desk for, no doubt, his wife will want to write to her great aunt.
Araminta’s face is streaked with tears when she comes in.
‘Darling,’ he says, ‘did Her Majesty not see you?’
‘Worse,’ Araminta replies. ‘She didn’t care.
I didn’t even tell her. There’s no point.
’ She flings herself into the other chair.
‘My mother died, her mother before her. Brodie sacrificed everything, and that child has no interest. She isn’t the worthy queen we’ve waited for all this time. What was the point of risking so much?’
Johnathan crouches next to his wife. He places his hand on her stomach. ‘It’s frustrating but you must stay calm. The doctor says it’s bound to be a boy.’
Araminta knows different. A smile curls at the edge of her mouth. ‘It certainly is not. I can feel it’s a girl. First things first, Johnny,’ she smiles. ‘A McKenzie.’
‘Something to fight for then.’ Johnathan observes. ‘A new name in that family bible of yours.’ Araminta squeezes his hand. Johnathan has been a rock these last months.
She considers what she’s learned over the course of this year about duty and goodness.
She thinks about Winifred and Eilidh and Mr Brodie.
She feels grateful to have a good husband; a man who’s on her side.
Someone she loves to the bones, as she’s read now from the Gaelic, though only in translation.
The Highland way. But edicts and crowns and promises don’t matter if there’s no power behind them.
The ancient velum sits in a walnut box on the desk. They may have to keep it hidden.
Johnathan gets up. The sunlight through the window brings out the auburn undertone in Araminta’s hair.
It reminds him of the day he first kissed her, in his cousin’s garden on a sunny day just like this many years ago.
He knew then there was more to Araminta than the schoolgirl she was – the wife she might become, a mother to his children.
‘The world changes when people make it change,’ he says.
‘Slavery’s over. That took time and determination.
Like the movement of tectonic plates. Like the formation of calcium carbonate into marble.
You know, you don’t need an edict,’ he says.
‘Not really. If this is something you want to do.’
Araminta feels more urgency than that. This is something she can’t not do. But the world has changed since Mary secretly slipped the velum into her crown and trusted it to the McKenzies.
‘You think we can make a case?’ she ponders.
‘I think we can certainly try,’ Johnathan replies.
‘I’m sure Mrs Wollstonecraft’s book has supporters.
We must find them. The edict mentions an older law.
We must speak to scholars about that. Perhaps you’ll write about it.
Speak about it too. Maybe we must work towards what’s right in a different way. No chases. No guns.’
Araminta considers this. ‘Perhaps we will,’ she says. ‘Both of us. Not for me or for what’s past, but for the future. Her future.’ She lays her hand on her stomach.
Johnathan opens the bottle of wine. Veuve Cliquot. All these years later.
‘It’s not the celebration we’d hoped for.
’ He pours the frothing liquid into the thistle-engraved glasses from Glenfinlas Street and raises a toast. ‘I think we might manage though. Here’s to the McKenzies and their traditions.
We’ll hold the legacy through thick and thin. We’ll bring it on, my darling.’
‘Yes. The McKenzies,’ Araminta says with quiet determination, letting this sink in. Then she adds, ‘Towards freedom. Always,’ clinking her glass against his as they toast.