The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  ‘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 being 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 dress, 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 excitement surged through Katie and she gave a little skip as she descended the carriage steps. The skip turned into a stumble, and a liveried footman bounded forward to catch her. Righting herself, she followed Emma through broad double doors into a large red and gold room, one of the most opulent public rooms in the Palace. To date, Katie had spent her time in attic rooms, nurseries and secret passages. She looked around her at the red walls and gilt detail. ‘It’s really gorgeous,’ she said.

  ‘Try not to expose yourself,’ the Honourable Emma Twisted hissed. ‘The less you say the better off we will be.’

  Taking Katie by the arm, she led her up the grand staircase. It was extremely tall and wide, giving an unending sense of parade and pageantry. Katie was just beginning to feel terribly important when they reached the top, made a sharp left and found themselves in a crowded corridor, literally crammed with girls. The stark hall was awash with white dresses, huge bouquets, fans, gloves and feathers. Everywhere Katie looked she could see hundreds of twitching, trembling white feathers. ‘It’s a debutante migration,’ she joked; though she knew by now that the Honourable Emma Twisted was immune to her sense of humour.

  Some of the girls stood very straight, as if already in the presence of the Queen; others leaned against the wall, fanning themselves in resignation. A few continued to practise their curtsies. The noise was ear-splitting, the particular high-pitched clip and drawl of the British upper class.

  Katie felt stiff and awkward at the back of the crowd. She was a good head taller than the rest. Emma Twisted looked at her with distaste. ‘I was hoping to get through this unnoticed, but that will not be possible. With your extremely peculiar dress and your bizarre height . . . do you know, they have a name for you already? You’re referred to as the giraffe up and down the Palace halls . . .’

  The giraffe. Katie looked down at her bouquet. Red splotches were appearing on her arms, just above her long white gloves. She had thought, just this once, that she looked beautiful. But the Honourable Emma Twisted was right, she was a freak.

  ‘I don’t believe giraffe is the correct term at all,’ a quiet but imperious voice spoke behind her. Katie turned to see Princess Alice, smiling brightly, but the smile faded when she turned to the Honourable Emma Twisted. ‘I am acquainted with Miss Katherine Tappan,’ she continued, ‘and I have always considered her to be one of the finest looking girls of my acquaintance. She is statuesque, yes. Don’t you think this gives her a classical Grecian appeal?’

  The Honourable Emma Twisted blushed. She worked in Buckingham Palace, as Riordan O’Reilly’s nursemaid. Despite her grand pedigree, she was nothing more than an impoverished gentlewoman, taking charity from the Royal Family. Mocking this gawky American, Miss Katherine Tappan, might have been a mistake . . .

  Word had rippled along the corridor that the Queen’s young daughter, Princess Alice, was already there amongst them. One by one the girls sank into deep curtsies, wave after wave of rustling tulle and silk. The deepest curtsy of all came from Emma Twisted. Katie looked at Princess Alice and slowly bent her knees – DOWN, two, three . . .

  Alice helped her up. ‘See’, she whispered encouragingly, ‘you did that beautifully.’

  All eyes were on Katie, and whispers went up and down the line of girls. Who was this Miss Katherine Tappan? Perhaps she should be invited to their ball next week, or to a country-house weekend? They turned to consult their mamas. Katie gave Alice a shaky smile. ‘One word from you and I’m a hit,’ she said. ‘Now I just have to get through the curtsy without landing on my – ’ Alice laughed and placed her gloved hand against Katie’s lips.

  ‘Your language,’ she admonished, ‘is far worse than your curtsy. It will all go well, I know it. And I will be standing directly behind the Queen, willing you on. I promise.’ Giving Katie’s hand a squeeze, she made her way through the crowds of girls, all bobbing their salutation to the daughter of the Queen.

  The line began to move and the girls broke off their inquisition. Katherine Tappan might be of interest, but they had a date with destiny, an engagement with the Queen. It took hours, and with each passing moment, the tension mounted. The girl in front of Katie was muttering under her breath, ‘Your Royal Highness, your Highness, ma’am . . .’

  ‘These interlopers can’t even manage the correct address . . .’ Emma Twisted sniffed. ‘It’s not as if they’ll ever see the Queen again . . . not like us . . .’ Us! Katie’s lips twitched, but she was finally at the door.

  To curtsy before loyal Alice was one thing, but to curtsy before the Queen and court – Grace’s prettily papered sitting room had not prepared her for this. It had to be the longest room she had ever seen, filled with ornate columns and statues, dripping in gilt detail. The courtiers were five deep down either side of the room: ladies-in-waiting, gentlemen of the court, the crème of the diplomatic corps, the heroes of the military, titled politicians and a scattering of archbishops. Tired of standing and bored by now, they were talking amongst themselves. The new stars of court life had come and gone, all that was left were some dreary daughters of the clergy and a few foreign stragglers. A footman spread out Katie’s beautiful embroidered train as she handed her card to the Lord Chamberlain. ‘MISS KATHERINE TAPPAN OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,’ he announced.

  Katie knew the drill. She had to walk down the central aisle of the room, curtsy to the Queen, perform the ceremonial kiss of the Queen’s hand, curtsy to all the other royalty in the room, then walk back up the aisle – backwards of course. There was one slight problem. She wasn’t moving at all. Mentally, she was telling her legs to go, but physically nothing was happening. She was glued to the spot. She could imagine two of the footmen picking her up by the elbows and carrying her out by
a side door, like a statue being removed from the Great Exhibition. At the very end of the room she could see Princess Alice, looking worried even from this great distance. Then suddenly she was on the go, flung forward into the room. Someone had given her a big push from behind. Had she really been kicked in the . . .?

  Staggering, she rebalanced and, looking straight towards the end of the room, put one foot in front of the other. Alice was nodding with each step, as if to will her down the aisle. Next to Alice was Bertie, the Prince of Wales, staring at Katie and her great height with some astonishment. On Alice’s other side was her older sister Vicky, the Princess Royal. Vicky was paying no attention to the presentation, but was fussing over a boy with blond curls. As the boy turned his gaze to Katie, she recognized the disagreeable child with bright ringlets, now grown to youth. He tossed back his curls and laughed out loud. This was Vicky’s young nephew Felix.

  Felix’s laugh was picked up by the courtiers, a whisper of a snigger rippling down the room. Katie held her head high, careful not to overbalance the awkward headdress. She recognized a handful of people. She had met them before, on her first foray into times past. Alice’s younger brother, Prince Leopold, was seated, because of his illness. When he saw Katie, he opened his mouth and nudged his tutor, the Reverend Robinson Duckworth. ‘So Duckworth is still employed,’ Katie thought, ‘even after all the trouble we gave him last time.’ James’s father, Dr O’Reilly, was there, delighting in such a pompous occasion. Alice’s governess, the Baroness Lehzen, was standing near the Queen, sallow and snaggle-toothed as ever.

  And finally, there in front of Katie, was the Queen, seated on a gothic-style throne with her husband Prince Albert at her side. She had grown stouter since Katie’s last visit, her nose sharper, her eyes more prominent. The handsome Prince Albert had also aged. There were circles under his eyes, and his hairline was fast receding. The Queen pursed her lips. She was above class herself, and disliked the twittering snobbery of the courtiers, sniggering at this extraordinarily tall girl. She gave Katie an encouraging look.