Gregory bought the train ticket at Paddington Station. It wasn’t for Meggie; it was for him. Round-trip.
He spent the day-long trip north, slouched against the itchy horsehair seat. Buried in the dismal gray fog of his own mind, mixed with coal cinders the size of large beetles that swept in through the open windows of the railcar, depositing soot on anything they hit, including him. Miserable, he tried to ignore the filth and slept when he could. Most of the time he brooded about what he would say to encourage Meggie to be patient and keep her mouth shut.
Buying her silence before now had never been a problem. A promise of a someday wedding. A little gift and snuggle. She was spirited and gave of her body freely, but only to him—which was what he liked best about her. They had been sweethearts since childhood. It was her increasingly serious side that might become the issue now. In recent years she’d grown more and more possessive. And now there was this—a child.
A baby made everything different. Would becoming a mother alter her allegiance? Make her less amenable to his desires and plans. Make her more impatient for a ring on her finger.
He had to talk to her and see where her mind lay.
But first he had to go home to assure himself that gossip of Meggie’s condition hadn’t reached his father. If that happened, there would be bloody hell to pay.
Old Jerry from the estate was there to meet him at the tiny station with one of the wagons they used on the farm. No fancy barouche or phaeton now; those had been sold off along with much of the art that had graced the walls of the manse. An hour later Gregory jumped down from the splintery bench-seat. It was almost dark now, the day gone with the long journey. He left Jerry to handle his bag and started toward the main entrance to the house. A figure stepped out through doorway as if the person had been waiting for him.
It wasn’t his father as he’d at first feared.
“Andrew!” Gregory laughed nervously. His eldest brother had made it clear years ago that he wanted little to do with him. Andrew was high-minded, solemn as a preacher, and too proud by half, in Gregory’s estimation. “I’m flattered. Have you been watching for my arrival?”
“I have.” His brother’s cool gaze took him in without revealing any real emotion. “I wanted to speak to you before you saw Father.”
“Is he not well?”
“He’s in good enough health, and I want to keep it that way.”
Gregory eyed him suspiciously. “If you think you need to protect him from me—”
“Come this way,” Andrew said, walking away and toward the library before Gregory could finish his sentence. Maybe this meant their father wasn’t at home. The library was where the old man spent most of his days, immersed in his private studies, or hiding from bill collectors.
Gregory followed along.
As soon as they were inside the dim room lined with shelves of leather-bound volumes, Andrew shut the door. He didn’t, however, move to any of the deep-seated leather club chairs in which Gregory had learned the pleasures of books. Despite his wildness as a youth—and some would argue, later in life—he adored reading and was a decent student.
“I’ve had to step into a situation on your behalf,” Andrew began, “and I don’t mind telling you, I detest the whole business.”
“What situation is that?”
“Your little tart from the other side of the village came a-visiting two weeks ago.”
Gregory’s heart lurched to a stop. “Meggie came here?”
“To see the laird. To tell him he would soon be a grandfather.”
A sharp bark of a laugh burst from Gregory’s throat. “The nerve of the wench.” He waved a dismissive hand. “She can’t prove who the father is.”
“A whore, is that what you’d make her out to be?” Andrew’s eyes flamed with contempt. “Greg, you and I both know you’ve been all that girl has thought about since she was twelve years old. You may treat her like a tramp, but she hangs on your every word and breath, and always has.”
Of course. He knew that. How could he not? He saw it in her eyes every time they were together. Even when she was angry with him, there was tenderness behind her words. She couldn’t pass him by without letting her fingers graze some part of his body.
“True enough, she thinks a good deal of me. But I’ve been gone for months now, and you know how these farm girls are, needing a man and taking their pleasure where they will.”
“That sounds more like a description of my little brother to me.” His brother’s lip lifted in a sneer.
Gregory balled his fists at his sides, wishing for an excuse to crack Andrew’s jaw. The man might be a good six inches taller, but he wasn’t a fighter. It would take a lot to get his older brother to hit him first. “You’ve sown your own wild oats.”
“There’s a time and a place. And you’ve taken chances far too long. Now you’ll have to pay for your carelessness.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means, Meggie came here meaning to tell Father, but I was lucky enough to intercept her.”
Gregory let out a breath of pure relief. So Andrew had somehow talked her out of approaching the laird. Excellent. “What did she say? And you—what did you tell her?”
“She said you had stopped writing. Said she’d asked you to let her come to London but you refused. I expect she’s beginning to panic, to feel desperate.”
Gregory sensed what was coming, felt fate being forced upon him, suffocating him. It was as if his brother was pressing a cushion over his face. His only defense now was a show of fury at the injustice of it all.
“Well, what would you have me do, Andrew? I’m employed by the queen, damn it. I have responsibilities. There’s no place for Meggie in Buckingham Palace or over the stables where I live. Grooms aren’t allowed to keep wives or mistresses on the grounds.”
“You need to
provide
for her,” his brother said, leaning over him as if to drop his words from a height to add weight to them. “And for the baby. I know some men refuse to acknowledge their bastards, but Father has always been of a different mind. And so am I. She’s not a bad girl, and you’re clearly not material for marrying up in aristocratic circles. I think you’d do her just fine.”
“But haven’t you been listening? I can’t marry her.
I can’t
—” What would he tell Wilhelm? The prince would be past furious. He’d challenged men to duels—two that he was aware of—and killed both.
“So you have a London woman too, is that it?” Andrew laughed and shook his head. “You just dig yourself in deeper and deeper, don’t you? Everyone knows you’ve been promising to marry Meggie for years.”
“No!” Gregory protested. “Now just you wait here—”
“Even Father knows you’ve kept on seeing her, despite his telling you, years ago, to leave her be. Now you’ve taken yourself off to London to break it off with her because of the child, is that it?”
“It isn’t. Of course not. I just—“
“Your timing couldn’t be better.”
“I didn’t
know
she was with child before I left!” This was preposterous.
But his brother was right about one thing—the timing was atrocious. If he married Meggie he wouldn’t be free to carry out Wilhelm’s plot. Word would get out that he had a wife. He saw his future plunging down a black, black hole.
Gregory muttered, “I was shocked when she wrote to me. She totally blindsided me. But I came home to make the necessary decisions, you see, to make things right for her.” He tried out a thin, encouraging smile on his brother.
“You did?” Andrew still looked skeptical.
“Yes, of course. I know you think I’m a worthless clod, but I do have a heart. I do care for Meggie.”
Andrew’s shoulders lowered a notch. “Then you intend to marry her after all?”
“I’ll talk to her and see what she wants to do. If we don’t marry, I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” He met his brother’s eyes. “You haven’t told Father yet?”
“No. Of course not.”
Gregory nodded and went to the butler table to pour himself a whisky. Then, as an afterthought, another for his brother. He handed Andrew the glass. “Please don’t tell him just yet. Let me do that—man up, and all that.” He smiled, and actually got a whisper of a smile back for his effort.
It was at that moment he knew exactly what he had to do. He knocked back the whisky, and his stomach immediately settled.
Ponsonby had taken to his bed.
“It is nothing I can’t work through. Just a sniffly cold,” the queen’s dignified, silver-haired secretary told Beatrice earlier that day when she stopped him outside of her mother’s office.
“You may be able to work, but what if the queen catches whatever you have?” Aside from the very real possibility of contagion, Beatrice knew how terrified her mother was of illness of any kind. Hadn’t the doctors assured them that Prince Albert’s fever indicated he had a mild case of the flu? Hadn’t they promised that, with bed rest and fluids, he would be on his feet again in a week?
But he hadn’t recovered. And it wasn’t influenza. It was typhoid fever. When he’d rallied for a few days, seeming to prove the physicians right, then suddenly died—it had been a shock to them all.
“You should go to your bed and stay there, Colonel, until you’re feeling better. I have acted as my mother’s secretary before, and I am capable of doing so again.”
Ponsonby wiped at his swollen, watery eyes and blew his nose. “If she needs me—”
“I will send someone. I promise. Now go.”
She watched him shuffle out of her mother’s outer office, leaving her alone with the day’s schedule. This wasn’t how she had hoped to spend her day. In fact she’d depended upon her mother being so busy and well tended by Ponsonby that she, Beatrice, would be free to go riding with Henry, or perhaps take a carriage into the country for a picnic. She wasn’t even sure that her mother knew Henry was in the city. He had decided it would be more appropriate for him to stay at one of his friends’ clubs in London, instead of asking for a room in the palace.
Of course, sooner or later they would have to make his presence known to the queen. In the meantime, Beatrice relished keeping Henry to herself. Her secret love, here with her in London. The mere thought of his nearness sent ripples of happiness through her. As long as Victoria believed Henry to be miles away across the channel, Beatrice wouldn’t be subjected to her mother’s rants about the dangers of men, childbirth, and anything else the queen dreamt up to stand in the way of her happiness. Victoria’s fantasies of disaster knew no limits.
The first thing Beatrice did after Ponsonby left the office was to write a note to Henry, letting him know that their plans for the day had changed. She suggested she see him that evening. They could go wherever he liked.
La Bohème
was at the Royal Opera House, and the aging but still fabulous Jenny Lind was giving a rare private performance at the Royal College of Music, where she had taught singing during her declining years. Or they could dine at any of the many fine restaurants in the city—
Simpson’s
in The Strand, or
Wilson’s
where the queen acquired her oysters, either would be lovely. She didn’t care what they did or where—as long as she was with Henry.
No sooner had she handed the letter to one of the palace couriers than Mr. Gladstone arrived at Ponsonby’s desk, his own secretary in tow. “Go right in, Prime Minister. The queen’s expecting you.” Beatrice knocked lightly then held the door open for the two men. She couldn’t help staring at the slim valise the secretary carried. She’d never forget that time, years ago, when a man had smuggled terrifying contraband into the palace in a case no larger than that. How vulnerable they all were, even here in a fortress like Buckingham Palace, protected by guardsmen and servants. One could never be sure of one’s safety.
She shook off the sudden chill of fear, scolding herself for falling prey to her mother’s imaginary dangers, and gathered up a stenographer’s pad and pencil.
Victoria had chosen to move from behind her desk to an upholstered chair. Her bad foot rested on a needlepoint-covered stool. Beatrice pulled over a straight-backed wooden chair beside her mother’s plump form and sat down while the PM wished the queen a speedy recovery from her gout.
“Thank you. It comes and goes, you know,” Victoria said. “The pain is less today than many others.” She sighed. “Best we get down to business while I’m still relatively comfortable. Your message yesterday mentioned a most grave situation you wished to discuss. I assume you mean the siege in Khartoum. Have you come to your senses and now agree that we must intervene to rescue dear General Gordon?”
Of course Beatrice had been following news in the
London Times
of the uprisings in both India and the Sudan, and the growing fear for the lives of British citizens in those countries. Her mother had sent one of her most trusted ministers to deal with the situation in India. Some suggested evacuation of the entire country. But India had become home to many British subjects, and the queen considered it one of the most valuable assets of her empire. She would no more order her people out of India than she would suggest they vacate Wales or Scotland.
The prime minister observed the queen solemnly. “Parliament is still against sending men to fight the Sudanese rebels, thus further involving our government in what appears to be a civil war. No, I fear the issues I wish to address are closer to home though no less treacherous.”
“Are we to guess at your meaning, sir, or will you enlighten us?” The queen’s tone was not in the least playful. Beatrice knew she resented having lost Benjamin Disraeli, her previous prime minister, to whom she had become very close. Disraeli would have charmed her; Gladstone was a dour-faced old man who saw humor in nothing.
He coughed into his hand but, to his credit, didn’t otherwise react to the queen’s starchy attitude toward him. “Your Majesty, it has come to our attention that the German Emperor is about to turn over nearly all of his duties to his son, that is to say to your son-in-law, Crown Prince Frederick.”
“Fritz has been quite open about his father’s failing health. This is not unexpected.”
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty. But we have heard from reliable sources in Potsdam that Frederick himself is in poor health.”
“I know all of this!” the queen snapped. “My son-in-law has a throat cancer. Of course he’s not well. Why are you telling me things I already know? Haven’t I worried about Europe’s future every month of my reign? The Continent is a mess—a cesspool of revolt, violence, and corruption. Thank God our country has not succumbed to the same problems.”
“Precisely, Your Majesty.” Gladstone glanced toward his secretary, whose expression remained unreadable. Beatrice thought neither man looked at ease. “We, your ministers, are concerned that, should the unthinkable happen, should both the Emperor and his son Frederick pass from this life within a few months of each other, your grandson will then become Emperor.” He paused to study his clasped hands. “Unless something is done to stop him.”
Beatrice stared at the man, her mouth falling open in shock. Was he suggesting that her mother put pressure on her daughter’s husband to name an heir other than his eldest son? To skip over young Wilhelm, his first born, entirely?
Beatrice turned with an aching heart to her mother.
The Queen stared into the distance. Silent. As if she hadn’t heard a word that had passed Gladstone’s lips. At last, she turned her head to fix the man in her coldest, most disapproving glare. “What you are suggesting is impossible, sir. I will not tamper with the sovereignty of another nation. The line of succession is sacrosanct. If I were to act to keep Willy from his throne, what precedent might that set at the time of my own death? Who might then contrive to wrest the crown from Bertie, from my own son?”
Gladstone shook his head grimly. “There have been rumors—” he drew a deep breath, and Beatrice thought she could see pain in his aging features “—that your grandson might use his position and power to bring about regrettable changes in Europe. That he might even attempt to encourage yet another war to gain territory for his empire, forcing nations on the Continent, and their allies, to take sides. The entire world would likely be thrown into mayhem. We cannot allow this to happen.” He stood up and started to pace. “Wilhelm is young and capricious and unpredictable. Without the wisdom of his father to temper his whims—”
“Capricious? Unpredictable?” Victoria huffed. “You’re being far too diplomatic, sir. Willy is insane. I’ve never doubted it. His temper tantrums, cruelty, and selfishness are dangerous. I won’t argue with you on that point.” The little queen drew herself up in her chair and met the PM’s worried gaze. “But let me be clear—there is very little I can do to stop him from taking up the crown when his father dies, short of murdering my own grandson. And I shan’t participate in such a plot.”
Beatrice was writing as fast as she could. Should she even be copying down this conversation? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. In recent years, Ponsonby had taken over so many of the secretarial duties she hadn’t needed to be included in the most sensitive political meetings. She didn’t mind because, most of the time, they bored her to tears. But this was critical. Not just to Britain but, it seemed, to all of Europe.
“Surely Willy would listen to you, Mama,” Beatrice whispered close to her mother’s ear, “as you’ve ruled for so long and gained so much experience.”
The queen shook her head mournfully. “Your sister gave birth to a tyrant. No one believed me when he was a child. Now the world will see.”
Beatrice’s stomach twisted with worry. She had always felt sorry for her nephew. His crippled arm, his awkward attempts to hide his defect. And yet he was quick witted and often brilliant when it came to his studies. She had told a young Willy how proud she was of him for his mind, and he’d seemed pleased. But he’d rewarded her compliment by tossing her favorite muff out through the carriage window as they rode through muddy London streets.
“We will wait and see what transpires,” Victoria said. “If he comes to the throne within the next year or two, perhaps I will have some influence over him. I will try, God knows. But if Bismarck continues to alienate him from Britain, then we may have a problem.”
Gladstone shook his head. “All of the world will have a problem if his threats and bellicose posturing become a reality.” He paused as if to think through his next words. “Your Majesty might be wise to consider how far she is willing to go, to stop him.”
Beatrice watched her mother’s face. She looked ten years older than she had at breakfast that day. But she also looked ready for a fight. “I assume this morning’s conversation between us shall remain in your confidence.”
“Absolutely,” the PM agreed. “The utmost discretion is called for. In fact, the fewer people who know about this, the better. The foreign office suspects Wilhelm may have planted spies in London. I wouldn’t be surprised if he attempts to infiltrate your Court.”
Beatrice stopped writing. “Should I not even be taking notes on this subject?”
The queen and prime minister exchanged looks.
Her mother said, “These will go into my private files. They are absolutely secure. And none of us in this room will discuss the matter with anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to know.”
Gladstone nodded solemnly. “Even so, think twice before you trust anyone with what is in your heart, Your Majesty. The least sign of weakness on your part, or England’s, might encourage aggression.”