dead.”
Fitzgerald glanced at Lizzie; she'd lost consciousness from the pain. “There's a party of killers in the courtyard below. If they've found you here, Georgie, they've already been to Russell Square.”
Her face was suddenly, sharply, white.
“What?”
He grasped her shoulder, pulled her from the inner room to the window. “
Look
. There. On the paving. A man with a cosh. Probably still stained with Sep's blood.”
She shook her head wildly. “I see nobody!”
Fitzgerald cursed. Heavy boots resounded through the lower entry; the men were already inside.
“Get your cloak and satchel. Quickly!”
She asked him nothing this time, though he could read the disbelief in her face. He seized her hand and pulled her after him, through the hallway.
CHAPTER TEN
T HERE IS NOTHING MORE TRYING to the affections of a mother than the caprice of a daughter. I say this with a rueful appreciation of Fate—having been daughter myself to Victoire, Princess of Leiningen and Duchess of Kent, and mother in turn to five girls of my own. I do not believe there is a woman now living who possesses a finer sense of the emotions that tremble between two such females: one in full-blown rebellion against the maternal efforts of the other to guide, to rear, to direct. I considered of this as I studied my second daughter around the hour of ten o'clock, as she sat with bowed head in St. George's Chapel of a Sunday morning—the holiest place in Windsor. She was weeping for her Papa. The sight of such misery wrung my grieving heart.
“Alice.”
The name floated beneath the Gothic architraves, the leaded windows transmuting the wretched December day to a light more infinite and sublime.
Her head was cradled in her hands, her slight frame already swathed in black—a summer mourning gown she'd last worn for my mother. Alice looked crushed and frail, as though she had been whipped to submission by an overpowering master; it was brutal to disturb such suffering, even by whispering her name.
Alice is eighteen—a good and affectionate soul, although perhaps a little spoilt by dear Albert. She is engaged to marry Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt, and will too soon escape my influence forever. In the short time that is left to me I must endeavour to correct those little flaws that might naturally result from a too-careless indulgence, lest her husband be appalled at her headstrong nature. Albert was undoubtedly appealing to the child, particularly after Vicky went off to her Prussian marriage—but I may say her father delighted perhaps
too much
in their conversations. Alice is clever, you see; and Albert encouraged her to put herself forward to an unbecoming degree.
“Alice!”
She straightened—her head lifted from her black-gloved hands—her crinoline swung, bell-like, as she rose from her knees—eyes trained on the altar. Albert was not yet there, although it seemed as though he ought to be—arranged on a pyre like a barbaric lord of old.
My burnt offering.
My Beloved's body still lay in the Blue Room, where the Royal Valets—MacDonald and Löhlein—were bathing and dressing him like a doll. I would
not think
of the undertakers. Nor of funerals in general. I would make no arrangements. Bertie would, of course, handle everything.
Alice walked slowly by me, her expression blank, her arms stiff at her sides, to the chapel door. She hesitated at the threshold, but did not turn or glance back; she merely quitted the place without a word. Wonderingly, I followed.
“Alice!”
The black figure halted. “You wished to speak to me, Mama?”
“Indeed.”
I longed to take the dear child in my arms, to mourn with her over the loss of her Sainted Papa—but Alice looked as approachable as marble. Impossible to caress. Her fortitude was all that was admirable during the last days of Albert's illness. She haunted his rooms, followed in his steps as he moved sleepless through the Castle at night—played beloved German airs upon the piano to
Fitzgerald glanced at Lizzie; she'd lost consciousness from the pain. “There's a party of killers in the courtyard below. If they've found you here, Georgie, they've already been to Russell Square.”
Her face was suddenly, sharply, white.
“What?”
He grasped her shoulder, pulled her from the inner room to the window. “
Look
. There. On the paving. A man with a cosh. Probably still stained with Sep's blood.”
She shook her head wildly. “I see nobody!”
Fitzgerald cursed. Heavy boots resounded through the lower entry; the men were already inside.
“Get your cloak and satchel. Quickly!”
She asked him nothing this time, though he could read the disbelief in her face. He seized her hand and pulled her after him, through the hallway.
CHAPTER TEN
T HERE IS NOTHING MORE TRYING to the affections of a mother than the caprice of a daughter. I say this with a rueful appreciation of Fate—having been daughter myself to Victoire, Princess of Leiningen and Duchess of Kent, and mother in turn to five girls of my own. I do not believe there is a woman now living who possesses a finer sense of the emotions that tremble between two such females: one in full-blown rebellion against the maternal efforts of the other to guide, to rear, to direct. I considered of this as I studied my second daughter around the hour of ten o'clock, as she sat with bowed head in St. George's Chapel of a Sunday morning—the holiest place in Windsor. She was weeping for her Papa. The sight of such misery wrung my grieving heart.
“Alice.”
The name floated beneath the Gothic architraves, the leaded windows transmuting the wretched December day to a light more infinite and sublime.
Her head was cradled in her hands, her slight frame already swathed in black—a summer mourning gown she'd last worn for my mother. Alice looked crushed and frail, as though she had been whipped to submission by an overpowering master; it was brutal to disturb such suffering, even by whispering her name.
Alice is eighteen—a good and affectionate soul, although perhaps a little spoilt by dear Albert. She is engaged to marry Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt, and will too soon escape my influence forever. In the short time that is left to me I must endeavour to correct those little flaws that might naturally result from a too-careless indulgence, lest her husband be appalled at her headstrong nature. Albert was undoubtedly appealing to the child, particularly after Vicky went off to her Prussian marriage—but I may say her father delighted perhaps
too much
in their conversations. Alice is clever, you see; and Albert encouraged her to put herself forward to an unbecoming degree.
“Alice!”
She straightened—her head lifted from her black-gloved hands—her crinoline swung, bell-like, as she rose from her knees—eyes trained on the altar. Albert was not yet there, although it seemed as though he ought to be—arranged on a pyre like a barbaric lord of old.
My burnt offering.
My Beloved's body still lay in the Blue Room, where the Royal Valets—MacDonald and Löhlein—were bathing and dressing him like a doll. I would
not think
of the undertakers. Nor of funerals in general. I would make no arrangements. Bertie would, of course, handle everything.
Alice walked slowly by me, her expression blank, her arms stiff at her sides, to the chapel door. She hesitated at the threshold, but did not turn or glance back; she merely quitted the place without a word. Wonderingly, I followed.
“Alice!”
The black figure halted. “You wished to speak to me, Mama?”
“Indeed.”
I longed to take the dear child in my arms, to mourn with her over the loss of her Sainted Papa—but Alice looked as approachable as marble. Impossible to caress. Her fortitude was all that was admirable during the last days of Albert's illness. She haunted his rooms, followed in his steps as he moved sleepless through the Castle at night—played beloved German airs upon the piano to
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