Katie didn’t mind that James was laughing at her – at least he was laughing. ‘No, I’m not the good one,’ she said. ‘That’s definitely the Little Angel. And we pretty much know who the evil one is.’
‘But of course, it is Felix!’ breathed Alice. ‘He is the Tempus Occidit – the child who falls through time to bring the war to end the world. Yes, I see now; that means you are all here, as in the prediction.’
Katie shuddered. She’d been wondering about this. ‘The three are here, and we’ve met in the field of battle,’ she said slowly. ‘But we’re still all alive. Does that mean we still have to fight to the death?’
They all looked to Florence Nightingale for answers, even William Howard Russell. ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘I’ve never thought so, and now I am certain. Katie, you have seen Lucia?’ Katie nodded. Florence Nightingale smiled drily. ‘There is much to admire in Lucia, but she has a purity of purpose that at times clouds her reason.’
‘A woman too purposeful for Miss Florence Nightingale,’ Russell muttered. ‘Now that’s a woman I’d like to meet.’
Miss Nightingale ignored him. ‘The Tempus – all three of you have gathered on the field of battle. In this Lucia was correct. But Katie, Lucia could not control you in the end. You chose for yourself. You chose not to kill, but to save.’
Katie was sitting on the floor and felt the tears pouring down her face. She had suffered greatly, seen things girls of her age should not have to witness, and she grieved for Jack, for all the fallen men. Sometimes she thought she was made out of tears. But this was different. It was as if an enormous stone had been lifted from her chest. She was weeping with relief.
Princess Alice clapped her hands. ‘I knew it!’ she cried. ‘I knew that Katie could only do good.’ She caught James’s eye and they smiled at each other.
‘In this case, you are correct,’ Florence Nightingale continued. ‘Katie, have you noticed there is a difference between you and the other two Tempus?’
Katie brushed the tears from her face. ‘Well, they’re both a lot better looking,’ she said rather lamely. James groaned and Katie pulled herself together. ‘When I sailed with the Little Angel, she was suffering from delirium,’ she added. ‘She talked of living through so many times. Yet I only remember my own time – New York City, in the twenty-first century.’
James’s scientific mind kicked in. ‘And Felix isn’t really a child at all. It is Felix’s body, but it’s been taken over by Belzen.’
‘But there is some part of Felix that’s still a child,’ Katie told him. ‘That’s the only way I was able to defeat him.’
‘If it is the Great Experiment, then it’s a flawed experiment,’ James said. ‘If the children are not the same, then any conclusions will not be valid . . .’
‘Really,’ Katie said indignantly. ‘I’m not a guinea pig.’
Billy Russell’s eyebrows shot up. Florence Nightingale looked as if she might break into a laugh. ‘Well, you are actually,’ she said. ‘But James is right. To a certain extent, you have freed yourself. The Great Experiment is a failure. Katie, if you had not saved the Little Angel, we would be heading towards destruction. You have acted as an individual, with your own voice. You made an independent decision. You chose peace.’
William Russell still wasn’t certain he believed this story; to him it sounded too fantastical. He knew he would never commit it to paper, and The Times would never print it. The readers of The Times would swallow many untruths, but this was going too far. He looked down at Katie; they all looked at Katie.
She could feel Alice’s gentle love and total belief, James’s loyalty and friendship – and finally, the approval, the commendation of Florence Nightingale. ‘I chose,’ Katie said to herself. ‘I have a voice. I count. I matter.’
A brisk knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and the Reverend Mother entered. ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said, ‘but the entire world seems to be looking for William Howard Russell. I have several messages marked “urgent” and a telegram from London.’
Russell raced through the messages, and then ripped opened the telegram. He read it through three times, stopping each time to look at Florence Nightingale and Princess Alice. Shaking his head, he let out a hearty laugh. ‘Well, here are several stories I could write up,’ he said. ‘The first has to do with treachery. A traitor has been caught. Lord Twisted, young Felix’s guardian in the Crimea, has been picked up leaving the Russian camp. It seems he has been selling military secrets. A spy – now that is a story our readers will attend to! Strange, my source says Twisted looked almost relieved when they arrested him.’
‘And Felix?’ Katie asked.
‘He’s in the field hospital,’ Russell replied. ‘He claims to be suffering from “Crimea fever” – and has agreed to disclose all the information he has on Lord Twisted in exchange for his own removal from the case.’
‘The hospital is a good place for Felix,’ Florence Nightingale commented. ‘If there’s one thing we know about, it’s hospital conditions in the Crimea. Let us hope for an infection. I’d recommend a bout of cholera for that young man!’ Miss Nightingale had a way with black humour. ‘Mr Russell, you said there were several stories. What more do you find in your correspondence?’
Russell read through the telegram one last time. ‘It is with pleasure that I learn of the birth of another royal child.’ He bowed his head, more of an impudent bob, and handed the telegram to Princess Alice. ‘Sister Agnes, I congratulate you. You have a little sister. Her name is Beatrice.’ Alice turned bright red, and James moved protectively to shield her.
Florence Nightingale sized up the situation. ‘What do they know in London?’ she asked. ‘This could be a major scandal.’
Russell smiled with satisfaction. ‘They know little, as did I, until this moment. But my hunch has proved correct.’ He bowed his head again to Princess Alice. ‘I did wonder that such a young novice could project such great dignity. And then Master O’Reilly here would keep getting your name wrong.’
James was furious. ‘You can’t destroy her life like this,’ he shouted. ‘Exposure would mean the end of her prospects. There would be no future as a member of the Royal Family. You might as well lock her up in a real convent!’
‘It was a deception, but the motives were pure,’ Florence Nightingale added. ‘Princess Alice wished to learn about nursing; I was on my way to the Crimea. Why can a woman not pursue worthy goals?’
Katie took William Howard Russell’s arm. ‘You can’t do this to Alice,’ she begged him. ‘Not only is she my best friend, but she’s really got talent as a nurse. She can help the world, but only if you let her get away with this.’
Princess Alice looked up into William Howard Russell’s eyes. His face softened – she had that effect on people.
‘I repeat, little is known in London yet,’ he said gruffly. ‘The Queen gave birth in the Highlands. She is convalescing at Balmoral. My editor telegraphs that she is asking that her entire family join her, and they are having trouble locating certain members.’
‘But where am I supposed to be?’ Alice asked.
William Howard Russell read through the telegram again. ‘Well, let’s see . . . ah, that great panjandrum of the Palace, Bernardo DuQuelle, has played a part in this. It says here . . . DuQuelle insists you are taking the air in the Alps with your governess, the Baroness Lehzen. Yet there are rumours that the Baroness Lehzen is actually in Baden-Baden, the worse for wear from fortified wines and gambling.’
Alice too clutched Russell’s arm. Both she and Katie had him in a stronghold of pleading. ‘Will you tell?’ she asked. ‘Please . . .’ They all held their breath.
He looked, for a very long time, into each face. A good journalist could read character, and he read the same thing in all four faces. With a sigh, Russell folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. ‘The treason story is more immediate,’ he replied. ‘I’m right here, at the scene of the crime. I should return to Sebastopol
and try and finagle an interview with Lord Twisted. The man has always been a scoundrel. Indeed, I have some choice bits of information about his past . . . I just might choose to share these with Lord Raglan. This is a story that will run and run. And by the time I’m done with it, I assume Princess Alice will have joined her family in the Highlands . . .’
He examined the sole of his thick leather boot, and shook his head. ‘Perhaps I am in the wrong profession after all. What kind of newspaper man am I? To let my best leads slip through my fingers. The Verus and the Malum, the war to end the world – you’ve given me a story so fantastical that no one would believe me. Then there’s Princes Alice, smuggled out to the Crimea as Sister Agnes, nursing her mother’s soldiers back to health. Inspiring, yes, but a story so scandalous, it would destroy not just the princess but the entire Royal Family. I don’t want that burden on my back. So I am left with Lord Twisted. The facts are plain enough there: debt, greed and arrogance led him to treachery. I’ll write such a story; he’ll rue the day he betrayed his country. As for his young ward, Felix, God help him. Miss Nightingale is rarely wrong. He might just come down with cholera.’
The Journey Home
The sea was smooth as silk. It had been agony on the outward voyage; now it was over in a flash. The Little Angel was too weak to leave her bed and stayed behind with Florence Nightingale, while Katie travelled with James and Alice. Katie longed to speak to the Little Angel – to talk over the recent events and delve into their shared secrets – but time was against her. ‘I’ve only just found you,’ Katie said, ‘and now I am leaving you. Am I ever going to learn anything?’
The Little Angel smiled, and did manage to say a few words. ‘Don’t worry, we will meet again. You’ll be surprised who you might be meeting again. But there’s someone who needs you more right now. Katie, find a way to return to your mother.’
Florence Nightingale booked them on the fastest steamship possible. She knew that a scandal about Princess Alice would not only ruin her life and damage the Royal Family – it would also destroy the nursing profession for decades to come. Bringing Alice to the Crimea had seemed a gamble worth taking, but she was close to losing the bet. Everything was done to ensure the three reached England safely – and in secrecy. Bernardo DuQuelle’s servants met them in Marseilles, and whisked them through France and across the Channel. They had a private train compartment to cross England, and a heavily curtained carriage met them at London Bridge.
At last the three rattled across the cobblestones to Half Moon Street, and were bustled, unceremoniously, through the servants’ basement entrance, then up to DuQuelle’s dark study. There had been no time to rest or wash or change. Princess Alice was still in her nun’s habit, now a dull grey. James’s clothes were stained with the gore of the operating table, and Katie’s grey tweed gown was encrusted with the dirt of the battlefield.
DuQuelle shuddered at the sight of them and held a handkerchief to his nose. His sense of smell was painfully acute. ‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Grubby,’ he added. ‘It is one of the adverse side effects of your civilization. Personally I bathe three times a day, but still the residue clings.’
‘That’s great,’ Katie retorted. ‘It’s like we’ve gone through all this, only to get a report on your personal hygiene.’
James’s mouth twitched and Katie noticed that Alice did not seem too shocked. Scutari had rubbed that out of her.
DuQuelle looked at the tattered trio before him. ‘Do excuse me. You are correct, Katie,’ he said. ‘You have gone through a great deal.’ His eyes rested on James O’Reilly. ‘And you have suffered terrible losses. If I am sharp-tongued or mocking it is only as a release. Katie, you always say I have no emotions. Well, I do. I am relieved that you have arrived safely. And now, we must return Princess Alice to the Palace, as if nothing had ever happened.’
‘As if nothing had happened!’ Katie cried. ‘That’s impossible. Alice can’t go back. She’s learned a lifetime in these weeks. She’s a brilliant nurse. You’ve got to let her use her abilities. And James, he can’t just return to his old life, helping his father in the Palace. The government, the officials, the army – they’re making a mess of this war in the Crimea. James can expose the blunders. I mean, he knows what happened at the Charge of the Light Brigade. I’ve told him everything. He needs to do something about it. He owes this to Jack. And Jack, I mean, I feel . . . there was the battle, no, two battles, the Verus and the Malum . . . have the Malum been defeated? I’ve found the Little Angel. She’s safe for now, but will she stay safe? . . . and Jack is gone . . . and none of us will ever, ever forget that . . .’
Alice had tears in her eyes, and even James looked as if he might cry.
DuQuelle realized he had pushed them too far. ‘I know, I know. Sit down, sit down . . .’ he soothed them. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Jack was a fine young man, and will be again. I believe Mary Seacole was on the battlefield? Tempus fugit, libertati viam facere . . . Jack has taken the road to freedom. Will he live again?’ DuQuelle’s comments were baffling and the three still looked miserable. ‘What was I thinking,’ he continued. ‘There is only one thing to comfort the English . . .’ He rang for his footman. ‘Tea,’ he ordered. ‘Strong and hot; and I believe cook has baked some little cakes.’
It was always a mystery to Katie, this thing about tea. But when the tea arrived, it was a comfort. She even ate three little cakes.
‘And now,’ DuQuelle continued after a long silence, ‘we need to marshal our thoughts and act. Princess Alice, the Baroness Lehzen has returned from Baden-Baden, where she was gambling under an assumed name.’
‘Gambling?’ Alice looked puzzled. ‘I cannot believe this. The Baroness Lehzen is not a particularly nice person, but she is not a gambler.’
DuQuelle’s eyebrow went up. ‘Well, someone has lured her into gambling.’
Katie shot him a sideways glance. She could guess who that someone was.
‘She has lost a great deal of money,’ DuQuelle continued. ‘I have agreed to cover her debts and shield her identity. In exchange she will write to the Queen saying you have been in the Alps for your health, and are now on your way to Balmoral. She will accompany you, and swear to that story. As you know, the Queen has great faith in the Baroness Lehzen. She is a great Queen, but at times . . .’
James snorted, but looked at Alice with fond concern. ‘The Princess does not look as if she’s been walking in the Swiss mountains,’ he said. ‘She looks very pale and tired.’
DuQuelle glanced from Alice to James, and then caught Katie’s eye. He seemed to understand. ‘Nevertheless, that is the story,’ he said, a crisp note returning to his voice. ‘The Princess can stick her head out of the train window on the way to Scotland, and then I’ll order an open carriage for the rest of the journey. The Queen’s beloved fresh air – that should put some roses in Princess Alice’s cheeks.’
Alice didn’t respond for a long time. ‘So we will be separated,’ she said finally. ‘It is a hard bond to break.’
Katie noticed a flicker of alarm in DuQuelle’s eyes. ‘But break it you must,’ he said, ‘and the sooner, the better. It will need to be quite a lengthy separation. The Queen will convalesce at Balmoral for many months.’ Alice sipped her tea and sighed.
‘I’m certain my father will be at Balmoral,’ James said encouragingly. ‘I will be able to join him, as soon as I sort things out about this war. First I’ll contact the War Office, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll turn to the newspapers.’ He shot Alice a half-fearful, half-defiant look. They did not agree on the war, but they had agreed to disagree.
‘You will not need to contact anyone,’ DuQuelle told him. ‘It is all in hand. William Howard Russell’s account of the Charge of the Light Brigade appeared in The Times three days ago.’ He took a newspaper from a pile and passed it to them. James seized the paper, and read aloud:
‘They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and splendour of war . . . with coura
ge too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way through the columns which enveloped them . . . to our delight we saw them returning, after breaking through a column of Russian infantry, and scattering them like chaff . . .’
James was stormy-faced, furious. ‘This simply cannot be,’ he spluttered. ‘Russell’s written complete rubbish. He’s made it read like a victory, as if we should applaud the Light Brigade for throwing themselves in front of the Russian guns.’
Princess Alice tried to placate him. ‘These words are not the truth as you see it,’ she said; ‘but there is truth in them. Jack did die a hero, and he is honoured in these words by Russell.’
Bernardo DuQuelle turned to Katie. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.
Katie thought of her own time. Mimi was, after all, a celebrity. Sometimes the newspapers were kind – writing about her charity projects or her New Age enthusiasms. At other times they were cruel – telling all about her string of failed marriages, ridiculing her attempts to stay a pop star despite her age. Katie remembered one particularly harsh photo of Mimi staggering out of a nightclub at 3 a.m.; the headlines shrieked ‘MIMI AT DEATH’S DOOR: AGE SERUM FAILS’. Mimi had cried for weeks, and then had a facelift. Katie felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of her mother. ‘Well, I mean, newspapers are a business,’ she said. ‘They have to sell copies, so they need to make it entertaining.’
‘Entertaining,’ James spoke through gritted teeth. ‘How can you, of all people, call the death of my brother entertaining.’
Katie looked miserable. ‘James, I saw the whole thing. I know it didn’t happen like this. But Billy Russell isn’t doing a really awful thing. He’s putting a spin on it. And yes, he’s making it exciting for the readers. But, like Alice said, he’s creating a bunch of new heroes. And Jack was a hero – he was terrific. He . . .’ Katie felt as if she might cry again, but this did stem James’s fury.
DuQuelle watched them. His face was unreadable, but his silence spelled sympathy. Finally he broke the silence. ‘Katie is right. Her flights through time sometimes give her the edge of experience. There is no point fighting the press. Even when they are wrong – and they are often wrong – they will still win.’
The Queen at War Page 22