Lord Belzen’s terms were surprisingly generous. Even a dunderhead like Sir Lindsey could see that. He could return the money when he wished, with only a small additional payment for all Belzen’s trouble. Sir Lindsey did not bother to question the offer. Money was money, and he needed it. ‘I accept your terms,’ he said to Lord Belzen. ‘Shall we draw up the paperwork?’
‘A gentleman’s agreement,’ Belzen replied. ‘A handshake will do.’ At this Lord Twisted held his breath. Would Sir Lindsey take Lord Belzen’s hand? Lord Belzen reached under his cloak and, removing his glove, held out a long, slim hand. Even on this night of fog and murk, it glowed with a damp opalescent hue, as if never struck by the sun. It was strangely joined, almost webbed, and curved downward. It was a thing of revulsion.
Sir Lindsey hesitated, staring aghast at Belzen’s hand. How much did he need the money? In truth, he was desperate. He did not take off his own glove, but did hold out his hand, touching Belzen’s briefly. A shudder ran through his body. ‘I believe we are done here,’ he said. ‘I will await the funds at my club address.’ Without a bow, he turned to go.
Lord Belzen then spoke. ‘Just one more thing,’ he hissed softly into the night.
Lord Twisted knew this was not a good sign. Sir Lindsey, in his arrogance, had angered Belzen. This ‘one more thing’ was likely to be a large one.
Sir Lindsey had the promise of funds, but as yet no money in his purse. He stopped. ‘If you could be quick,’ he snapped.
Lord Belzen’s head moved forward in that unnatural jerking manner, but his voice stayed even. ‘It has to do with the war.’
‘There is no war,’ Sir Lindsey replied.
‘But there will be,’ Belzen retorted, a new edge to his voice. ‘There will be war declared against Russia, and very soon. We are already gathering troops, they are being shipped out as we speak, travelling to Constantinople and then on through the Black Sea. Only for exploratory purposes, at this point, only to observe, but war there will be.’
Lord Twisted spoke up. ‘But of course. Sir Lindsey knows this. Why else would Napoleon III be visiting at this time? The French will ally with Great Britain to save the Ottoman Empire. We will be partners in war. We will defeat Russia.’
‘But will we?’ Lord Belzen asked. ‘That is a question for another day. I have a great interest in this war brewing in the Crimea. I would be grateful for any information I can receive on this war . . . financially grateful.’
‘I am neither willing, nor equipped for any such exploit,’ Sir Lindsey retorted. ‘I am no longer a part of the military; I have no knowledge.’
‘But you could,’ Belzen insisted in his soft insinuating way. ‘You have a military background, come from a military pedigree; and so does Lord Twisted.’ Underneath his cloak, Belzen rolled his shoulders in excitement. Sir Lindsey stared in shock. Even Lord Twisted felt rising alarm as Belzen continued to unveil his plan. ‘With a letter here, a string pulled there, you could attach yourselves to the highest echelon of the military campaign. Raglan, I believe, will be in command. From there you could inform me. I will set up the line of communication. You will go undetected, but not unrewarded.’
Lord Twisted liked the sound of financial reward, but there were so many questions about Belzen. Which side of this war was he actually on? How dishonest was this activity? And the line of communication, how secure could it be? Underhand deeds did not bother Lord Twisted so much as getting caught.
Sir Lindsey Dimblock had no such questions. He had made up his mind. Belzen was not a lord, not a gentleman, and probably not even British. In short, he was a traitor, and he was asking Sir Lindsey to become a spy. Gambling and gaming debts were one thing, but betraying Queen and country were another.
He’d had enough of the bitter foul night. He’d rather face financial ruin and social disgrace than go any further. Turning to Belzen, he roared into his face. ‘I am no informer, no spy, no traitor. For that is what you are asking. I will pay my gaming debts some other way. Twisted, I suggest you leave with me, immediately. Any further communication with this . . . this . . . creature will only incriminate you further. It is below us to speak to him.’
Belzen darted forward, blocking Sir Lindsey’s way. His soft voice had turned into a high rasping hiss, painful to the ear. ‘You call me a creature,’ he fairly shrieked, ‘below you, when you are the lowest form of man . . . and man himself is so low. My followers would tear you to pieces – you are stupid, arrogant and swollen with false pride, feeding off the world. You think you can leave . . . it is too late . . .’
It was dark and the atmosphere was thick with fog. Lord Twisted could never be certain of what he saw. One moment Belzen stood writhing and hissing before Sir Lindsey Dimblock, the next moment Belzen’s head darted from underneath his hood – but was it his head? The beaked, blunted nose, the striking movement; he seemed more serpent than man. Sir Lindsey could see more. He cried out and backed against the rail of the bridge, flinging his arms up to protect himself. Belzen struck and struck again, his cloak rippling around him, his hissing mixing with Sir Lindsey’s shrieks.
Sickened and terrified, Lord Twisted tried to run, but his legs were too weak. Behind him came the inescapable sound of Belzen, the angry hissing turning into a noxious gagging. Sir Lindsey’s cries grew weaker and weaker – and then all was silent. Almost against his will, Lord Twisted turned to see the aftermath of the assault. Belzen was gone, but Sir Lindsey Dimblock lay slumped against the side of the bridge. His body was slit from groin to chin and his mouth was filled with a strange black tar.
Lord Twisted swayed and staggered as he looked down on his friend’s mutilated body. ‘You were a weak man,’ he muttered, ‘and a foolish one; but you did not deserve this. You must not be found.’ Gathering what strength he could, Lord Twisted grasped Sir Lindsey by the heels and manoeuvred him on to the rails of the bridge. With a final push the body was over, plunging into the River Thames below; the splash of the befouled, lifeless object reverberating through the dead of night. ‘At least you have escaped,’ he said quietly, ‘while I am left tied to this devil of a man. I am to be the spy, the traitor, and I must keep this dreadful secret.’
Twisted had the sinewy stubbornness one often finds in the true coward. Lord Belzen might be Lucifer himself, but to stay alive Twisted would follow his every command. For now, it was best to try and forget all that he had seen. ‘I need a drink,’ he muttered to himself, ‘or something stronger.’ He searched his mind for public houses nearby, but again his strength failed him. Weak and dazed, Lord Twisted leant over the rails of Tower Bridge, and vomited into the dark River Thames below.
The Queen’s Drawing Room
Katie, in her role of Miss Katherine Tappan, sat very straight in a carriage on the Mall, leading up to Buckingham Palace. She had never been more uncomfortable. Her bushy black hair had been temporarily tamed – swept up tight at the back of her head, the curls laboriously tucked and pinned. Atop her hair was a headdress, a strange confection of tulle and flowers and large ostrich feathers, two of them, the middle one over a foot high. For a court presentation, Queen Victoria insisted on feathers, white feathers, very large white feathers. ‘I don’t want any fiddly fluffy things in their hair,’ she was reported to have said. ‘I want to see the feathers, from a long way off, as the girls come towards me to curtsy.’
‘Well, she won’t miss these, that’s for sure,’ Katie muttered. The feathers were so tall that they touched the roof of the carriage. She felt like she had a 30-pound wedding cake planted just above her forehead. She jerked her chin up in defiance and felt the whole thing lunge to one side.
‘Oh, do sit still,’ came a weary voice from the other side of the carriage. It was the Honourable Emma Twisted and she was Katie’s sponsor for the presentation. Usually girls were presented at court by their mothers, but this was not possible for Katie. First of all, Mimi was stuck in another century. Second, Mimi was, well, Mimi. It was bad enough being presented to the Queen, but be
ing presented to the Queen while standing next to Mimi – probably in a black satin ‘body stocking’ – didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, a divorced person couldn’t be presented to the Queen and Mimi was three times divorced. If the Queen had known who Katie’s real mother was, there would be no chance of a presentation at all.
Mimi might not be presentable, but Katie suddenly missed her mother. How did time work between centuries? Would Mimi still be sleeping? And then she thought of Diuman – who might have returned to 23C by now – and was glad to be in another time. ‘It could be worse,’ Katie said.
‘I don’t see how,’ the Honourable Emma replied tartly. ‘You must be the least important person ever to kiss the Queen’s hand. How you appeared on the Lord Chancellor’s list – and how I ended up as your sponsor – is beyond my comprehension.’
Katie could have told the Honourable Emma Twisted how it happened: Bernardo DuQuelle had had a word in the Lord Chamberlain’s ear – that’s how she’d ended up on the list. And Lord Twisted, Emma’s less than honourable father, had accepted a hefty purse in exchange for his daughter’s patronage. Katie looked at Emma Twisted, with her drooping feathers and worn-through velvets. Yes, DuQuelle had bribed her father, but why add to her misery? Katie peered out of the carriage window.
The past nine days had been total agony. Katie had been excited at first, to receive the card from the Lord Chamberlain, requesting her presence at the Queen’s Drawing Room. But then the training began. Princess Alice helped whenever she could slip away from her lessons, and Grace gave advice from her bed. But it quickly became apparent that Katie wasn’t any good at this sort of thing.
‘Walking,’ she thought, reviewing the week as the horses snorted and stamped before her motionless carriage, ‘You’d think I’d know how to walk.’ But walking across a room, towards the Queen, had nothing to do with the heel to toe movement she’d been practising since the age of two. Now, at her advanced age, she was learning to walk all over again.
It was a sort of gliding, mincing movement, mostly around the knees and ankles; the shoulders squared but relaxed, the head held upright but with a sense of modesty. There was certainly no swinging of the hips; and the kind of pelvic thrust Mimi practised on stage might put her in prison. So she’d spent several days in Grace’s pretty sitting room, trying to sail across the carpet with small gliding steps.
This new walking was just the first stage. ‘You are not allowed to turn your back on the Queen,’ Alice informed her. ‘You have to back out of the room.’ So all the mincing and gliding had to take place in reverse. Hard as Katie found the walking, it was nothing to the curtsy. Not just a curtsy, but a curtsy with a bow in the middle of it. Having crossed the room, Katie would stand, one leg in front of the other. Slowly she would bend her legs until her knees were just above, but not touching, the floor. Holding this position, she had to bend the upper part of her body forward, towards the Queen’s hand. Hundreds of women performed this motion every year, but for Katie, with her long lanky legs, it was agony. Tightrope-walking or even lion-taming seemed easier options.
Alice drilled Katie relentlessly. ‘You need to hold the positions,’ Alice explained. ‘Three seconds for each movement.’
‘I can’t hold the positions for three seconds,’ Katie wailed. ‘I can’t hold the positions at all; not quickly, not slowly, not at all.’ But Alice was insistent, three seconds for each movement.
‘DOWN, two, three; BOW, two, three; BACK, two, three; UP, two, three . . .’ Katie brought her knees down with a jerk, and managed to bend her body forward for the bow. But when she tried to right herself the effort was too much. Her ankles began to wobble, her knees to shake, and before she knew it she was sprawled across the floor.
Bernardo DuQuelle and James O’Reilly had been less than helpful. DuQuelle stared in silence, shaking his head from time to time, while James just laughed out loud.
‘I’ve never thought much of the womanly accomplishments,’ James said. ‘I’ve been scornful of the dancing and simpering. But Katie makes it all look so difficult. There must be something to it after all.’
Katie tried to kick James, but this proved impossible. She had bed-sheets tied around her waist doubling as the long skirt she’d have to wear, and a tablecloth attached to her shoulders to replicate the train. Alice had told her the train would be at least three feet long and over fifty inches wide. Katie was used to a school uniform – her short skirt and sweater or, even better, a pair of jeans. All these sheets and tablecloths – it felt like she was being ambushed in the bedding department at Bloomingdale’s.
Every time she moved, the sheet would wrap around her legs. When she bent down to untangle it, the tablecloth flipped over her head. She twisted and struggled, but ended up on the floor. Every single time, she ended up on thefloor.
‘Well done,’ James said. ‘The Queen will be most impressed.’
‘Jamie, really!’ Alice remonstrated.
‘I’d like to see you do better, James O’Reilly,’ Grace chimed in.
Katie continued to sit on the floor. ‘He’s right you know,’ she said, ‘I am hopeless.’ But she was also stubborn. James would not get the better of her. Staggering to her feet, Katie hitched the sheet over one arm and the tablecloth over the other. ‘From the top,’ she said.
So for nine days Katie had glided forward, minced backwards, and curtsied, curtsied, curtsied. A special French dressmaker known to Bernardo DuQuelle was smuggled into the Palace for Katie’s dress fittings. But it wasn’t just a dress she was measured for: Katie now owned several sets of Victorian undergarments – drawers, chemises, petticoats and a corset. The drawers were actually quite airy, the chemise comfortable, and she’d get used to the six petticoats she’d have to wear. It was the corset that drove her mad – a tight panelled thing with ladders of cord in the back. She’d begged not to have to wear one, but Mademoiselle Vernet, the dressmaker, had refused to make the dress unless she was laced into a corset. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed. ‘What kind of girl has the figure of this? Such bulk in one so young. I will not make the dress for court with a waist beyond nineteen inches.’
The corset went over Katie’s chemise, and each day Alice pulled the stays a little bit tighter and measured Katie’s waist. ‘I think I look like a freak’, Katie said, surveying herself in the mirror. ‘I can’t eat in this thing; I can barely breathe in it.’
It turned out she had an ally in James. Though he’d rather die than see Katie in her corset, he had read a great deal about the damage such restrictive garments did to women’s health. ‘It isn’t good for her,’ James told the others, ‘it isn’t good for any of you.’
Grace laughed from her bed. ‘Dear James, you are such a firebrand. Is it rights for women now?’
James shook his head vehemently. ‘Women’s rights, that’s a farce. Women are so silly about everything; clothes are just the beginning.’ Katie started to argue, but doubled over with a stitch in her side. ‘This had better be worth it,’ was all she could gasp.
On the eve of Katie’s presentation, Mademoiselle Vernet arrived with the finished dress. As she laid it out on Grace’s bed, the girls examined it from every angle. It didn’t look like any presentation dress they’d ever seen.
‘It is very simple,’ Grace commented. ‘I thought there would be more flounces and tucks; something to try and counter Katie’s height.’
‘It’s very lovely,’ Alice said, ‘and will suit Katie’s figure to perfection. But it’s terribly bare, even for a court dress.’
Mademoiselle Vernet looked at her own handiwork with complete approval.
‘There was no point in hiding the girl’s great height,’ she explained. ‘We cannot fight it, so we embrace that she is tall and big, and perhaps beautiful in that she is rugged. She is like her country, the Americas, no?’
Katie stared and stared at the dress. She had imagined herself in the flowery, lacy, ruffled dresses of the day, and had known she would look a fool. But this dres
s, with its clean lines and beautiful materials, just might work. It had a thick white satin bodice, which crossed over the breast and ended in small capped sleeves. The white satin skirt wasn’t the huge, flounced, bell-shaped style of the day, and Katie realized, with relief, that she wouldn’t have to wear all six petticoats. Four would suffice to create a soft, billowing movement. The extremely simple design contrasted with a wonderful tulle train, embroidered with thousands of tiny swooping birds.
‘They are eagles,’ Mademoiselle Vernet explained. ‘The bird of your country, a bird of fierceness and freedom. It is a lovely dress, and you will look well in it. Though not in the feathered headdress demanded by la Reine Victoria, bah!’
Alice began to protest, but Mademoiselle Vernet was already saluting Bernardo DuQuelle. With a kiss on each cheek, she was gone.
The nine days had whisked by, and now Katie sat in a carriage actually wearing the lovely dress. She had a fan and gloves; and in her lap was an enormous bouquet of white lilies and roses. A long white satin quilted cloak was wrapped around her shoulders, to keep out the February chill. Emma Twisted looked like she could use a nice, warm cloak, but Katie didn’t dare offer a corner of hers.
‘Do try not to crush your gown,’ Emma Twisted admonished. As if in answer, Katie’s stomach gave an enormous growl. All guests had to arrive in a carriage, so Katie had left the Palace only to circle the park and return. They’d been sitting in the carriage for two hours now, and Katie hadn’t eaten that morning. How could she in that dress?
The carriage finally began to move. They slowly pulled through the gates of Buckingham Palace, and under the wide stone archway, to the internal courtyard. The last time, when she had flown through time and space, it had been 1851. She had often looked out of the windows of the Palace into this very courtyard. Then she’d been an observer, in hiding. Now she was going to be a part of it all.
The Queen at War Page 6