Realms of Fire

by Sharon K Gilbert

“A pleasant day to you, Duke Charles. I hear we have more snow coming.”

  “We do, but our engineers are experienced men, and the Lord is our champion. Have no fear. Enjoy the trip, everyone. See you all at Branham station!”

  The group waved in return, and Charles left the car, running into his uncle and Baxter as he headed back to shed seven. Cornelius held Cordelia Wychwright’s arm with all the tenderness of a father.

  “Aren’t you riding with me?” asked Sinclair.

  “I’ve convinced Baxter to escort our guest, son. Four of my men are on your train along with the usual guards. They’ll all be bunking at the porter’s lodge at Branham. It has plenty of space, and they’ll keep watch on the gates whilst we’re there. All’s in hand, son.”

  “Thank you, James. Is there a sleeper on this train as well?”

  Baxter answered as he helped Delia up the steps. “I’m told there are two of them, my lord. Here now,” he told the girl sweetly. “Not too quickly. We’ll find the room you like, and get you situated. Mrs. Alcorn will look after you once we get to the hall.”

  “Mrs. Alcorn?” asked the girl sleepily.

  “She’s a lovely woman. You’ll like her.”

  Delia turned to look at Charles. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Haimsbury kissed her cheek with brotherly affection. “Not on this train, but I’ll see you again soon. Paul’s waiting for you at Branham.”

  “Paul. Yes, he’s waiting. Thank you. Goodbye, Paul.”

  “It’s Charles, dear,” he whispered.

  “Yes, that’s right. Charles. Goodbye.”

  James pulled up his coat collar, squinting into the swirling snowfall. “It’s starting to come down hammer and tongs. We’d best be leaving, son.”

  “Thank you, James. For everything.”

  The Scotsman laughed. “It tickles me no end to see you happy, Charles. But the trains are for work as well as pleasure. You and Paul will put thousands of miles on these in the coming years. I’m off to see Riga. He owes me a chess match.”

  The two men embraced, and Charles returned to the Captain Nemo Special. He found Gabberfield standing beside the engine, chatting with a burly man in a grey uniform, bearing the Haimsbury crest.

  “Are we ready to leave the shed and connect with the line to Kent?” Charles asked.

  “We’re waiting on the signalman, sir,” answered Gabberfield. “This is your engineer, my lord. Mr. Blevins. He’s run trains for thirty years. You’re in good hands.”

  “It’s an honour, Mr. Blevins,” said the duke, shaking the man’s hand.

  “No, sir, it’s my honour to serve aboard this train. Duke James says I’m to mention my membership in a certain circle of agents, sir. I have six men on board; all competent in a crisis.”

  “That’s a very great relief, Mr. Blevins, but hardly a surprise. My uncle is a man of vision and preparation, after all. May I board?”

  “You may, my lord. Larson’s the electrics man. He runs the generator engine. If you have any trouble, just talk to him. We’re told there’s snow drifts in Kent, but we’ll go slow and steady.”

  “Proceed as you think best, Mr. Blevins. And thank you.”

  Sinclair turned to Gabberfield. “I take it your company creates these beautiful trains?”

  “It’s a family business, sir. We all proudly serve the inner circle. I’ve been one of the duke’s agents since I turned fifteen. Handed down from my father, and his father before him. We’re loyal to the Stuarts, sir. Always have been. And now we’re pleased to pledge our loyalty to the Sinclairs, as well. Go with God, sir.”

  Charles boarded the train, finding a steaming cup of coffee waiting on his desk, white with two sugars, just as he liked it. A plate of freshly baked almond biscuits sat to the right of the coffee, and an elderly woman sipped tea from one of the club chairs.

  “I believe your train is nicer than any of mine,” the queen told the young duke. “Do you like it?”

  “It lacked one thing; but with your presence, it is now complete, Your Majesty,” he said with a bow.

  “Do stop that, Charles. It’s Drina, and bowing to me is hardly necessary in private. Baxter prepared your coffee and my tea, but thought we might prefer to travel in private. Cornelius is a charming man, isn’t he? You’re very lucky to have him. Now, do sit, my dear. We have a great deal to discuss.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Branham Hall

  The day had grown colder with each passing hour, and as dusk fell, snow began to drift across the peaceful gardens and graceful statuary of Branham Hall’s park. It was one of those elegant, picturesque snowfalls, with fat flakes of purest white that quickly gather into swirls of icing sugar glory, burying twigs and trees and gravel turnings with great sweeps of glittering, pristine beauty. The first crystal descended from on high at precisely 3:01 pm, and by half the hour of five, the entire south lawn lay sleeping beneath a thick blanket of frozen wonder.

  Inside the hall, the main drawing rooms now boasted an evergreen tree, either fir, pine, or juniper; each decorated with festive garlands, beeswax candles, and elegant ornaments to enhance that room’s individual decor. The largest tree, a majestic Nordmann Fir, rose forty feet in height and took centre stage within the hall’s grand foyer; its highest tip a mere fifteen inches from the bottom arm of the main chandelier. The next largest, a Scots Pine, was only twenty feet in height and placed into its water-filled planter near the northeast corner of the red drawing room, as was tradition. This would be the family tree, and beneath its supple green arms, piles of gaily wrapped gifts had already begun to accumulate, like the drifting snow upon the lawn.

  The hall’s smallest tree, a mere ten feet tall, proudly occupied the private drawing room of the master apartment: a fragrant juniper, delicately formed and painstakingly grown in the conservatory, but left uncut. Rather, it remained rooted within its clay pot and would be transplanted into the hall’s ten-acre Christmas copse as soon as the ground grew warm enough in March. For nearly thirty years, rooted evergreens of many varieties had served as master apartment guardians during the holiday season, and Mr. Kay, the new butler, insisted the tradition remain unbroken. In fact, he had chosen this tree himself.

  That wintry day commenced with a tizzy of last-minute activity. Some of the footmen unpacked boxes of ornaments, whilst others carried down still more decorations from the attics; each filled with an assortment of candle rings, tinsel and garland, hand-made keepsakes (some made by a young Beth Stuart), souvenirs, photograph albums, and even collections of wooden toys and games. The constant flow of traffic kept the lift so busy, that the drive’s chains required an extra coat of grease by midday.

  Everyone on staff had known for days that a special guest would arrive that evening from London: Lady Alexandrina Stuart, a distant cousin and close friend to the Duke of Drummond. Whispers ran through the warm kitchens and round the servants’ dining hall like smoke through a hot chimney regarding the Scottish duke and his mysterious ‘friend’. Many speculated the mystery woman might be a future bride; after all, Duke James had been a widower for twenty-two years. It made sense that an energetic man of such a handsome countenance might want to end his years with a trusted female companion.

  Of all the Branham servants, only Kay and Mrs. Stephens knew the truth of the matter: that the lady’s name had been altered to conceal her true name, a legendary and most regal name which, if spoken aloud, would instantly bring every reporter, well-wisher, and ambitious courtier to Branham Hall. Instead, Lady Stuart would be welcomed no differently than any other guest.

  Six soft chimes had just rung the hour, and Lady Adele, dressed in a blue satin dress trimmed with cream lace, was helping Priest and Troughton decorate the red room tree.

  “I think it needs more colour, don’t you, Mr. Priest?” the eleven-year-old asked as she sorted through a small crate of ornaments. “And stars.
Lots of lovely little stars. Have we any more stars, Mr. Troughton?”

  The shorter man stepped off the wooden ladder and began searching through a large, silk-lined, velvet case. This box had been removed from the duchess’s jewellery safe, for it contained dozens of jewelled and valuable ornaments, used only during Christmas. The footman very carefully removed each of the tissue-wrapped items, setting them out on a trolley for close examination.

  “I see gold and silver bells, Lady Della. A ruby-encrusted toy soldier. No stars, though. But there are some quite nice eggs.”

  “Eggs?” she asked, laughing. “Eggs are for Easter! It is Christmas, Mr. Troughton. Shall we put eggs on a Christmas tree?”

  The underbutler, Stephen Priest, a handsome lad of twenty-six with golden hair and an easy manner, stood balanced upon the top step of the high ladder. Priest was five years older and three inches taller than Jack Troughton, but even he had to stretch to reach the evergreen’s top branches.

  “Those are quite expensive eggs, actually, Lady Adele,” the underbutler explained, glancing down from his lofty perch. “Each Christmas Eve, the duchess receives a new one from the Russian tsar; probably as enticement.”

  “Enticement for what?” asked Della, busily unwrapping a box of tatted-lace snowflakes.

  “I believe the tsar once hoped for a marriage twixt the duchess and his son, but of course our little duchess chose a far better match.”

  “She certainly did,” agreed the girl. “My Cousin Charles is the perfect match. Handsome and very kind, and he laughs a lot, which makes Cousin Beth smile. How many eggs are there?”

  “I’m not sure. Five, I believe,” Priest answered. “You should look at them, Lady Della. They’re covered in all manner of gems, and each has a surprise inside.”

  She peered at the tray. Within the red silk, nestled five gold eggs, each engraved in a guilloché pattern and overlaid in brightly coloured enamel. Adele lifted the first and set it against her lap. “These are so very beautiful! This one has ruby-studded doors with a great pearl on top. I can see why the tsar thought them an enticement.”

  “Open it,” a soft voice spoke from the doorway.

  Della turned about, her eyes widening with wonder. Just inside the doorway, stood her cousins, Elizabeth and Charles, the latter holding the arm of a distinctive and quite lovely old lady. She wore a deep blue velvet dress, trimmed in Battenberg lace, and a simple cameo brooch sat just below her short throat. Her silver hair was braided and then twisted into a chic knot behind her head, adorned with a glittering headband cap in the same rich velvet. Soft netting in black lace edged with small stars framed her face, just covering the lady’s eyes. The loose weave of the lace allowed the twinkling blue of each iris to shine forth like mischievous robin’s eggs.

  Adele set the Russian ornament aside and stood to curtsy. “Lady Stuart,” she said politely, remembering the strict rule never to reveal the queen’s identity before servants.

  The visitor reached for the girl’s hand, pressing it twixt her own. “You’re Lady Adele, aren’t you? Come, give your Auntie Drina a kiss, dear.” Della did, and it caused the queen to laugh merrily. “My darling girl, you’ve grown very tall since I saw you five years ago. You’ll pass me by before the holiday’s over, I shouldn’t wonder. How old are you now, my dear? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  “Not quite, Lady Stuart. Eleven-and-a-half.”

  “You must call me Auntie Drina, and may I say, you’re a very mature eleven-and-a-half.”

  “Thank you, Auntie Drina,” Della said, curtsying once more.

  “How well-mannered you are! Now, Della, I’ve brought you a little present. I believe one of those nice footmen is bringing it in, along with all the other items, including my dog, I think. He is bringing her, isn’t he, Charles?”

  The duke led the queen to a soft chair near the crackling fire. “He is indeed, Lady Stuart.”

  “It’s Auntie Drina, remember? We are family, after all.”

  Elizabeth kissed the disguised sovereign’s cheek. “Della, did you know that Lady Stuart is my godmother? I’ve called her Auntie Drina for all my life, haven’t I, darling?”

  Queen Victoria laughed softly, her ageing eyes crowfooting at the corners. She patted the duchess’s hand. “Oh, yes, my dear, you have. And I’ve called you my Little Princess for just as long. Come now, Della, tell me all about yourself. When will you be twelve?”

  Adele sat on a round, tufted stool near Lady Stuart’s chair. “Next June, Auntie Drina. The twelfth. When is your birthday?”

  “I don’t talk about birthdays any longer, Della, though mine comes in May. Next June, you say? Isn’t your Cousin Charles’s birthday also in June?”

  “It is. His is the tenth,” Adele answered quickly, looking up at Sinclair. “Perhaps June is a month that leads to tall people! Which means the new babies will be tall as well, doesn’t it?”

  Lady Stuart smiled and reached for the young duke’s hand. “You may just be right on that, my dear. Now, I wonder if I might have a spot of tea? It’s dreadfully cold, despite the cheerful fire. My old bones find it harder and harder to warm up these days. Charles, would you be kind enough to ring for some?”

  “No need, Your Grace,” offered the shorter footman. “Allow me to fetch it.”

  “Thank you, Troughton,” the duke answered. “Also, if you’d enquire as to when supper will be served, we’d appreciate it.”

  Jack bowed and left the room to fulfil the request, passing through the foyer just as two liveried footmen entered the main doors. A whirlwind of snow swirled behind them as they carried the queen’s leather cases and hat boxes. A third trailed behind, carrying a small dog and a handled basket. As he set both down, Bella, the female Labrador, gave the new dog a quick sniff, making sure the newcomer was friendly. She then turned her attention to the basket, nosing at the curving willow and whining softly.

  “Bring the basket in here,” the duke told the footman. Bella kept her eyes on the servant as he delivered the basket to Haimsbury. The queen’s dog ignored the mysterious basket entirely, choosing instead to greet her mistress.

  “Here’s my girl!” Lady Stuart cried happily at seeing her pet. The animal had black and white markings with a dapple of tan, and a feathery tail curled upwards and wagged continually. Her long black ears stood high upon the head, perked up nicely, with similar dapples of tan near the skull.

  “What kind of dog is she?” asked Adele as she reached out to scratch the animal’s back. “What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Dumpling, and she’s a bit of a mongrel, actually. Somewhat like myself. I come from all sorts of heritages, as you’re probably aware, and this sweet little darling is the same. I found her in Scotland last year, running free through one of the fells near an old cow shed. She was half-starved, poor thing, and we took her in. As you can see, she’s fattened up considerably, and her coat is sleek and lovely now. My vet thinks she’s border collie and rat terrier with a smattering of spaniel. She has a habit of herding people, which makes sense for a collie. She’ll likely try to keep an eye on you, my dear. Dumpling loves young people. It’s your energy, I think. Oh, look, she likes you!”

  The dog’s tail swept the air like a feathery fan, and she licked Della’s hands, offering special kisses. “She’s very sweet. Bella seems to like her.” she told the older woman.

  “Oh, I do love dogs, don’t you, Della?”

  “We all love them,” the girl replied. “Do you have very many dogs, Auntie Drina?”

  “Oh, yes, lots! But I generally travel with just Dumpling these days. It makes it easier. Do sit, Elizabeth, you make me nervous standing so long in your condition. You need to rest your ankles. Children play havoc with one’s ankles. Mine used to be trim, but no longer. They grew evermore fat with each new baby. I cannot imagine carrying two at a time!”

  The duchess complied by taking a seat upon
a buttoned leather divan that spread out over broad mahogany arms. The duke sat beside his wife, placing an arm round her slender shoulders. “Drina’s not the only one who’s chilled,” he said. “You’re shivering, Beth. Shall I find a quilt?”

  “I’ll warm up soon now that you’re home,” she said, leaning against him lovingly. “But shouldn’t we open that basket before Bella does?”

  The Lab was fascinated with the willow container, and had begun to paw at the lid. Charles looked at the queen. “May I?”

  “It’s Della’s gift. Perhaps, she should open it.”

  “Mine?” asked the girl. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see,” the queen replied.

  Adele knelt down beside the mysterious present. Three leather buckles secured the lid, and she unfastened each. “Is it alive?” she asked, seeing the basket wiggle a bit.

  “I certainly hope so!” Drina exclaimed.

  The last buckle gave way, and Adele lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in a thick tartan blanket, lay a nine-week old puppy, just rousing from a deep sleep. The black and white animal looked up at her new mistress.

  “It’s a little dog!” Della cried as she lifted the puppy out of the basket. “He’s so very cute! Thank you! Thank you so very much, Auntie Drina!”

  “She, not he,” the queen corrected. “And you’re welcome, my dear. This is the last female of the litter, and the most darling in my opinion. She’s a Cavalier King Charles, descended from a line developed by the 4th Duke of Marlborough. I thought it a perfect gift, for it honours your Cousin Charles as new master of the hall—and a duke at that! I’ve also given a puppy to Winston Churchill for Christmas, as it’s descended from his ancestor’s kennels. Winny’s puppy is male, of course.”

  “Winston has this one’s brother?”

  “He does. I had it delivered yesterday to his Aunt Maisie’s home. You’ll find she sleeps a great deal of the time, but is very healthy. These spaniels are wonderful companions. I had one as a girl. A perfect little dog named Dash. But they’re working dogs, you know. They’ll hunt woodcock and pheasant; most any bird. Do you shoot, Charles?”