‘Shove over,’ Katie said. ‘I’m absolutely starving.’ As the young man turned around, Katie realized he was taller than James, and broader in the shoulders. It wasn’t James at all, but his older brother, Jack.
‘Uh, yeah, not James, not good, sorry, gotta go,’ she muttered. Jack stared for a moment, one cake-filled hand still in his pocket, and then they both burst out laughing.
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I am Jack O’Reilly. And you are,
I believe, MISS KATHERINE TAPPAN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.’ His imitation of the Lord Chamberlain was very good, and they began to laugh again.
‘Otherwise known as the giraffe,’ Katie said, sticking out her hand to shake his. But Jack’s hands were sticky with cake and Katie wasn’t sure if Victorian girls would or could actually touch a boy. They both blushed.
‘You have been the talk of the presentations,’ he admitted. ‘And you are tall, but not as tall as I am,’ he squared his broad shoulders, while his blue eyes danced with merriment. ‘I believe you to be the boon companion of my sister Grace. She says you’ve cheered her up tremendously since your arrival from the Continent. And James holds you in admiration, though he’s usually so tight-mouthed and pompous about girls.’
They laughed at his accurate, if unkind description of James. ‘Do you think I could have some of that cake before you stuff it all in your pockets? I’m dying of hunger,’ Katie said.
Jack tried to wipe the crumbs from his hands. ‘Please don’t think I’m a glutton,’ he apologized. ‘The cake is for my little brother Riordan. The Palace is swirling with excitement and he’s stuck in the nursery. I thought something sweet might cheer him up, especially since I leave for the East tomorrow.’
Katie cut herself a generous slice of cake. She had seen Jack before, at a cricket match in 1851. But she’d been dressed as a kitchen maid at the time, and now she was supposed to be a grand American traveller. ‘So this war is coming and you’re going with the army?’ she asked.
‘Yes, with the Light Brigade. It’s a marvellous commission. My father pulled out all the stops to get it.’
The Light Brigade. Katie felt a twinge. She didn’t know why, but the Light Brigade sounded bad to her. She looked uneasily at her new friend.
‘Do you have to go? I mean, can’t you get out of it?’
‘Get out of it?’ Jack was astounded. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted – a commission with the nation’s top cavalry brigade. Every cadet in my class envies me. It is a wonderful posting for someone of my position in society. Only an idiot would abandon it!’ He looked at Katie’s downcast face. Perhaps he’d spoken too naturally, but he did feel very natural, very normal, with this American girl.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You’re so tall, why don’t you don a soldier’s uniform and come with us? You’d make a fetching cavalry officer.’
Now this was flirting. If it had happened at Neuman Hubris School, Katie would have kicked him in the shin, or elbowed him in the ribs. But here, in full court dress, she did what any Victorian girl would do. She blushed, again. Changing the subject seemed a good idea, otherwise she’d spend the entire conversation looking like a tomato. ‘So what do you think of your new commander?’ she asked.
Jack O’Reilly paused, pushing cake crumbs around the table. ‘In some ways he’s top drawer,’ he said. ‘Lord Raglan has been in the army since he was fifteen. He was one of us, the cavalry. He’s brave, that’s for certain. As a young man he cut a dash serving with the Black Watch at Talavera. The Duke of Wellington rated him; he was the duke’s military secretary for seventeen years. And they were close. He’s married to the duke’s niece. Raglan’s industrious, unflappable, tactful, decent . . . the cadets like him, admire him . . .’
‘What happened to his arm?’ Katie asked.
‘Waterloo,’ Jack said. ‘A musket ball shattered his right elbow. The surgeons had to amputate.’
An amputation like that, on the battlefield; Katie winced, knowing there’d be no anaesthetic, nothing to ease the pain, perhaps a shot of whisky if Raglan was lucky.
Jack seemed to read her face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was awful. But Lord Raglan showed great bravery, even humour. He endured the operation in silence. It was only when the surgeon tossed his severed arm into a pile of sawn-off limbs, he shouted out “Hey, bring back my arm. I need that ring on my index finger. It was a gift from my wife.”’
Katie laughed, and then shook her head. ‘Yeah, he sounds really brave. I mean, to still be funny at a time like that. But you don’t think he’s that good, do you?’
Jack gave her a long stare. ‘You’re a funny girl, to be so interested in such things. Yes, I do doubt him. I am ashamed to question a man of such standing. I’m only a cadet with the Royal Military College; a cadet with his first commission. But Lord Raglan has not been in active service for many years. And most of his experience is as a second-in-command. He’s used to acting on orders, not giving them.’
Jack rolled some cake between his fingers. ‘It’s almost treason to speak like this. I’m certain to be wrong. I don’t know why I should tell you such things,’ he said, his merry eyes now solemn.
‘I think it’s a shame, to put you on a battlefeld,’ Katie said. ‘You seem to really understand things. Wouldn’t you rather be in the Foreign Office? Or working as a diplomat?’
Jack looked astonished. ‘Are you crazy? Every boy my age dreams of war: the cannons, the charge, the glory of battle.’
‘We don’t feel that way about war. We think war’s really bad,’ Katie started to explain, and then stopped, flustered. The ‘we’ she was discussing was 150 years away.
‘You are a strange one,’ he repeated. ‘And we’ll disagree on this to the end. But I would like to know more about you, Miss Katherine Tappan. If I have your permission, I will write to you of the pleasures of the campfire, and the exhilaration of battle. And you can write back to me about the peaceful comforts of court life.’
He was flirting again. Katie suspected that corresponding with a boy she barely knew would be highly improper. The rules had changed over 150 years. She thought about Neuman Hubris School, and the note she’d passed to Michael Fester just days ago: ‘You stink,’ it had said, with a couple of other pithy comments. And now she couldn’t even write a polite letter to a boy. She had to put a stop to this flirtation. What would Princess Alice do?
‘I’m afraid I cannot allow the correspondence,’ she began in a prim imitation of her royal friend. ‘I am surprised and disappointed that you would suggest such an action. It shows a lack of delicacy . . .’ Jack looked crestfallen, and Katie suddenly realized that she didn’t want to follow Alice’s imaginary advice. She wanted to hear about the war, and she wanted to hear from Jack. She began again. ‘Perhaps if you write to your sister Grace, then she might be kind enough to read your letters to me. Only sections which cover the colour and tone of military camp life, you know, what you do in the campaign. I’d really enjoy that, and like, it would be, like nice . . .’ she ended lamely.
Jack eyes lit up. ‘Can’t I just write to you?’
‘It would be improper.’ Katie gave him a nudge, and he began to pelt her with cake crumbs. They were on their way to a full-blown food fight when Bernardo DuQuelle entered the room.
‘Jack O’Reilly, your brigade is retiring to barracks. Your commanding officer is looking for you,’ DuQuelle said sternly.
‘Oh bloody, oh sorry . . .’ He pulled the much-mauled cake out of his pockets and threw it to Katie. ‘Can you pass this on to Riordan for me?’ he asked. ‘Give him a hug. Tell him he’s my little man, and I’ll bring him a Russian sabre from the East.’ He ducked his head and with a sheepish grin ran from the room.
DuQuelle looked at Katie with great disapproval, but she could only nod and laugh.
‘You’re supposed to be timeless,’ she said to him, ‘but you’ve certainly picked up Victorian morals. I’m glad to see you, though. There are a bunch of things you need to expl
ain.’ She peppered him with questions, but he only responded with a lecture on female decorum. DuQuelle practically pushed her through the door, and then, with a curt nod, he stalked away.
In all the excitement of the day, she’d almost forgotten – she was still wearing her presentation dress. When she looked in the mirror, she stepped back in dismay – the figure reflected was so different from the young lady who had set out that morning. She was, truly, a mess. The headdress had settled into the crook of her neck, with the feathers sticking out sideways. Her hair was springing from its pins, waving about her head like disco-dancing caterpillars. Her cloak was soiled, her train was torn and the seams of the lovely dress were already giving way. She had no idea where she’d left the gloves or the bouquet.
Getting the dress off was nearly impossible. Grace was sleeping, Alice gone, and she certainly had no lady’s maid. She didn’t want to rip the thing, but she couldn’t go to sleep in it. After what seemed like hours, she shrugged the dress off her shoulders, bunched it down, and turned it back to front to detach the elaborate train. Then she had to undo every single tiny pearl button. There were 115 of them. It must have been one in the morning by the time she was done. When she finally got the corset unstrapped she looked at herself in horror. There were red welts coming up all over her where the tight clothes had rubbed. ‘I wouldn’t call this beautiful,’ she thought. ‘I’d call it barbaric.’
Luckily, a loose-fitting white muslin nightgown had been left out for her. She put it over her head and clambered into bed, exhausted. The bed was wonderfully comfortable, with a big goose down mattress. But she couldn’t sleep. All the excitement and tension and uncertainty were bubbling within her. Between the presentation, the unanswered questions and Jack, her nerves were a mess. She didn’t have anything to read, and besides, there was only about a half an hour left of her final candle.
A noise outside her room arrested her attention: the drawn-out creak of a door opening slowly, then footsteps. Slowly, almost rhythmically, the unknown person put one foot in front of the other. There was a remorseless quality to this tread – far away at first, but coming nearer and nearer. Katie held her breath and stared at the latch to her door. The footsteps continued, the latch did not lift. Whoever walked the corridor at the dead of night, they were not looking for Katie.
‘This is silly,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s just a busy hallway. Palace traffic. See, there are more footsteps passing by.’ This time they stopped at her room. She sat up in bed and grabbed the brass candlestick. It was large and heavy, a good weapon, just in case.
‘Katie?’ the voice in the corridor called quietly. It was DuQuelle.
‘Yes?’
‘Lock your door, Katie.’ Her candle spluttered, flared and died.
The Soldier’s Goodbye
She’d stumbled through the dark and turned the key firmly in the latch. Things were happening around her that she did not understand. Sleep would never come. And yet the next moment it was morning, and DuQuelle was standing over her bed.
‘What about your Victorian morals?’ she mumbled, hiding her head under the pillows. ‘Don’t they forbid entering a lady’s bedroom?’ And then she remembered the night before. ‘More than that, how did you get in? I locked the door. You were the one who told me to.’ She peered out of the window. ‘It’s the crack of dawn. Let’s just say goodbye now, and I’ll stay in bed – maybe until lunch.’
DuQuelle sighed – Katie had noticed he did this rather a lot. ‘Bed! There will be no more bed for you,’ he replied. ‘Didn’t you hear the Queen yesterday? Our glorious soldiers are off to the East. Grace has been invited to wave goodbye to her brother Jack, and you are to be at her side, tending to her. Isn’t that why you are here?’
‘I just want to sleep!’
‘Well, you are going to appear on the Royal balcony. But first you have to be bathed and groomed. Really Katie, we all spend far too much time and energy making you look presentable.’
By the time Katie was ready, the Royal Family was assembled on the balcony. Queen Victoria looked as round as a Christmas pudding, her short frame muffled in cloak, shawl and bonnet. Her tiny plump hands were tucked snugly in a fur muff. Beside her was Prince Albert, who hated the cold, but he had no cloak. It was important for the soldiers below to see him in his Field Marshal’s uniform. Bertie, much grown and also in uniform, bellowed with enthusiasm.
Beside him Vicky, the Princess Royal, smiled gamely. Her fiancé Frederick William was the heir to the Prussian throne, but Prussia had already declared itself neutral in this coming war. Vicky was in an uncomfortable position, but for now family was family, and she would stand shoulder to shoulder with her mama and Britain. With dismay, Katie noticed Felix at Vicky’s side. He was the most beautiful of youths, his pale creamy skin and silken blond curls further highlighted by his military uniform, donned especially for this occasion. Katie shuddered.
Along the balcony, Katie could see Princess Alice standing with her two younger sisters: Louise, highly strung and ‘artistic’, and Lenchen, large and placid. As was often the case, the girls were dressed in identical frocks. They were horrendous – magenta and sea-green tartan with heavy purple cloaks trimmed in black and mauve ribbons. ‘The Royal Family, are they colour blind?’ Katie wondered. Alice spotted Katie and tried to reach her, but the balcony was so crowded. Lenchen, in particular, was too bulky a figure to squeeze past.
The O’Reilly family was out in force to see Jack off. Dr O’Reilly was passing Princess Louise a bottle of smelling salts while he smiled and bowed. Katie could just imagine the elaborate compliments he was paying her. James, at his father’s elbow, had not inherited such courtly charms. He scowled at Katie and pointedly looked at his pocket watch. ‘Yes, I’m late,’ Katie thought, ‘but it’s so much easier for you James, it’s not like you’re in these ridiculous clothes . . . now where is Grace?’
Katie sidled over to the clustered royals, looking for her new charge. She tripped over Prince Leopold, in his bath chair. His eyes were on stalks with the excitement of the occasion. When he saw Katie, he gave a little jump. ‘Miss Katherine Tappan . . . my foot!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you, Katie Berger-Jones-Burg. I know it’s you! Why have you come back when we went to so much trouble to get rid of you . . . you must tell me. You know how helpful I am. You know I saved the day the last time . . .’
Leopold’s tutor, the Reverend Robinson Duckworth, did not greet Katie with such enthusiasm. He glanced sideways from Leopold to Katie to Bernardo DuQuelle. For a few long seconds Robinson Duckworth mulled things over and then turned to Katie with a smile. ‘The Prince is mistaken in your identity,’ he said, ‘please accept our apology.’ When Leopold began to protest, Katie saw Duckworth lean forward and hiss in his ear, ‘We will discuss this later.’
DuQuelle looked straight ahead, humming softly to himself. ‘Miss Tappan,’ he said. ‘You are certain to be searching for Miss O’Reilly. You will find her in the corner of the balcony. I don’t think she should be out at all, but she’s well wrapped against this bitter February cold.’
The Reverend Robinson Duckworth shot DuQuelle a look full of distrust.
But now the march past was about to begin and Katie took her place beside Grace. Despite her furs and blankets, she shivered with the cold. Spread before them was London, and the entire city seemed to have taken to the streets. The Mall was a heaving mass of people. They spilled down the avenues into the Royal Parks, screaming, waving and singing. The soldiers were still their heroes of fifty years past, the unbeatable victors of Waterloo. According to the great British public, the ‘Rooshians’ didn’t stand a chance.
Katie could hear the steady tramp of columns of men making their way from Wellington Barracks and down Birdcage Walk until they marched past the balcony of Buckingham Palace. The first to be seen were the Scots Fusilier Guards in their brilliant scarlet tunics, bearskin helmets and tartan trousers. The crowds went wild, a sea of handkerchiefs and hats waving in the air. Grace stoppe
d shivering, her cheeks were pink with excitement, and she managed to get up to wave with the rest of the crowd. ‘Everyone is so joyful,’ she exclaimed.
‘Not everyone,’ Katie thought. Hidden within the triumph ant crowd lay the exceptions: tired-looking, anxious women, clutching the hands of small children and crying out to the men; these were the wives of soldiers, and they were being left behind. Some held their children high for a last look at their fathers, some whispered prayers for their men. Lord only knew when they would see them again.
The crowds had been shouting and singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Rule Britannia’. But now the regimental band struck up ‘The British Grenadiers’ march and the streets heaved with song.
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row,
To the British Grenadiers!
They cheered on the soldiers, as the sun rose over the park.
The Queen was not just on her feet, she was on tip-toes, clutching Prince Albert’s arm and waving her fur muff in the air. She was herself the daughter of a soldier; and she felt there was a sacred bond between herself and these men. She was filled with a mix of excitement and dread. As a queen, she applauded her soldiers; but as a wife and mother, her heart ached as well. She knew sorrow lay ahead for some.
The tramp of feet was replaced by the clip of horses’ hooves. The Heavy Brigade loomed into sight: the Scots Greys, the Royal Irish and the Inniskilling 6th Dragoons. Column after column of mounted cavalry trooped past the Queen. Leaning heavily on Katie, Grace strained her eyes for the one face she wished to see. ‘There he is!’ she cried. ‘There is Jack!’
Dr O’Reilly’s sons had been brought up within the Royal Household and many of the occupants of the balcony now pushed forward to get a glimpse of Jack, straight-backed and bursting with pride, as he rode amongst the 17th Lancers, the Hussars, and the Light Dragoons. These were the divisions that made up the Light Brigade under the command of Lord Cardigan – one of the smartest units in the entire army. Jack was resplendent in his dress uniform, a deep blue jacket with a high collar – at least three inches high – encrusted with gold lace. Enormous gold-fringed epaulettes swung out from his broad shoulders and black feather plumes waved from his distinctive lance cap.
The Queen at War Page 8