Usually Princess Alice would have laughed at this. But she’d tried so hard that evening and wanted some acknowledgement, especially by James. Her wounded pride meant she would not relent.
‘There is Grace O’Reilly, just coming up the Grand Staircase,’ Alice said, changing the subject. ‘I suggest you enter with her, as I must join my sisters now.’
Alice seemed in a hurry to get away and Katie was left standing alone. It was a large party, a real crush, and she couldn’t possibly reach Grace on the other side of the staircase. Courtiers were hurrying from their rooms or ducking through the low doors leading from the many towers. Other guests had made the long walk from the Henry VIII Gateway, to the Middle Ward and then through the narrow Norman Gateway. Katie watched them throng up the Grand Staircase to the State Apartments. They were excited, but cold, and discreetly shook the melting snow from their coiffures onto the thick red carpets.
She fell into step with the crowd, and found herself in the Queen’s Ballroom. Princess Alice might call it a ‘relaxed’ occasion, but to Katie this was the epitome of grandeur. The room was alight with hundreds of candles. The enormous glass chandeliers sparkled above, reflecting gilt and silver furnishings. The walls were swagged with evergreen garlands and abundant red ribbons – the first decorations of the Christmas season. Through the feathered heads and powdered shoulders Katie could just glimpse the ornate paintings of kings and queens past and their numerous children.
‘The paintings, they are van Dycks,’ a voice next to her said. ‘Some of them are spectacularly good. There is a triple portrait of Charles I. Strange that; so many heads in a single painting, yet he couldn’t keep even one on his shoulders. Ah, the transience, the mortality of kings. I will never forget the day of his execution. It was bitterly cold . . . the King wore two shirts to protect himself from the weather. He didn’t want the waiting crowds to think he shivered from fear.’ The dappled glitter of the chandeliers made DuQuelle look stranger than usual. His hair was so black, his skin so white; he looked more dead than alive. Only his eyes glowed with that unsettling, vibrant green. Had he really been there, at the beheading of Charles I?
Katie shivered. ‘This really is a large crowd,’ she said, trying to shake off the spell of DuQuelle.
‘It’s an absolute bun fight,’ James O’Reilly said, joining them. ‘I hate this kind of thing.’
‘As do the Queen and Prince Albert,’ DuQuelle replied. ‘All they really want are charades and tableaux with the family. The Queen loved grand balls as a young woman. But Prince Albert has always hated them. So now she declares they are as one and she wishes only for the gemütlich – what is friendly, homely.
‘Not exactly homely, this,’ Katie muttered as someone in the crowd stabbed her instep with their heel. James’s sister Grace had finally found them, and even in a room filled with beauty, her looks stood out. James was handsome, his father also, to the point of vanity, but Grace was extraordinary. It must be her hair, Katie thought. It was a deep dark red and curled wonderfully. Grace had no need for flowers and feathers; that hair, abundantly plaited and rolled, was ornament enough.
‘This room is hot and very crowded, are you certain you are well enough to dance, Grace?’ James asked. For years now Grace’s health had faltered. But she was young, and still hopeful.
‘Nonsense, James,’ she said, tapping his nose with her fan. ‘A party such as this is exactly what I need; a perfect tonic against the damp and cold. I have never felt better.’ A slight cough belied this statement. Yet her eyes danced with a joy that comes from a love of life. James opened his mouth to object – her dress was too thin, the atmosphere too close, the excitement too high for an invalid like Grace – but at that moment the Lord Chamberlain stepped into the room.
‘THE QUEEN,’ he announced, and behind him stood a tiny plump woman. Victoria was in mourning for her mother, who had died in March. For the Christmas ball, though, she had consented to wear a bit of colour, a deep purple watered moiré silk draped over an enormous crinoline. The dress was ornamented with heavy gold tassels, which attached at the sleeves and fell down to her wrists. Her thin hair was pulled into a bun and circled at the back with a diadem of diamonds and emeralds, interwoven with live holly and carnations. Her round arms were covered in diamond bracelets and her dimpled fingers glistened with jewelled rings. On her bodice she wore half a dozen brooches and portrait miniatures. ‘She’s quite the show stopper,’ Katie thought. ‘She might say she prefers a simple home life, but she’s not going for simplicity tonight.’
Queen Victoria might be a middle-aged, dumpy woman, made more so by her acres of silk and diamonds. Yet she held the room in her power. With great dignity, she turned to her husband and, resting her hand on his, skimmed through the crowd with a surprisingly light step. They bowed and curtsied as she made her way; wave after wave of respect for their monarch. Somewhere, an orchestra struck up. The crowds parted. The Queen and Prince Albert began to dance. A murmur went up. Many were surprised the Queen danced at all, and especially a waltz. This mainstay of the ballroom was still considered slightly racy. The Queen’s rather ponderous cheeks grew pink and she looked up adoringly at Prince Albert. She would never pass up the opportunity to dance with him. After twenty-one years of marriage and nine children, she still loved her prince with the intensity of their wedding day.
At the end of the waltz, the Queen and Prince Albert left the dance floor and the orchestra struck up a spritely redowa. With amusement, Katie saw a trail of men all making a beeline for Grace O’Reilly. Her father, seizing his opportunity, stepped forward and made the selection for her, deciding who would be her most profitable dance partner.
James looked even gloomier. ‘Poor Grace, it’s like watching a cattle market, she deserves better,’ he muttered as Grace was led to the dance floor by a young, chinless lord. ‘You don’t want to dance, Katie, do you?’ Even for James, that was one insult too far.
‘Really James, I mean, why not?’ she began, getting ready to hit him with a barrage of abuse. But then someone coughed quietly behind her. When Katie turned around she was rendered speechless.
Chapter Nine
The Surprise Guests
Sonny stood before Katie, resplendent in full evening dress, complete with pristine kid gloves, his thick dark hair brushed back neatly. Of course she’d only ever seen him once before, that very afternoon in a dark cellar. Under the dazzling chandeliers she realized he was very handsome. She gawped and Bernardo DuQuelle almost smiled.
‘Miss Katherine Tappan, Mr John Reillson. However, I believe you two have already met, though Miss Katherine here was most reticent to reveal anything . . . such becoming modesty . . .’
Katie was still staring, mouth open. Catching James’s eye, she shut it and gulped. ‘John?’ she inquired. The young man smiled and bowed.
‘My father was named John, as am I,’ he said. ‘Fond mothers, they will give their children pet names. So I was always called Sonny. Sonny-John or even Sonny-Jack. Silly, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ James said, still scowling. Didn’t James see the resemblance? And then there was the name: Sonny, or Sonny-John, but also Sonny-Jack. He looked so much like James’s brother, yet another Jack, killed in the Crimean War. Katie knew that James thought of his lost brother every day of his life, yet he seemed oblivious to the likeness. He simply repeated. ‘Very silly indeed.’
It turned out the American had finer manners than his British counterpart. ‘Then you must call me John,’ he said politely to James, ‘as we have a mutual friend. Indeed, I am acquainted with Miss Katherine Tappan – through her father, the admirable Mr. Lewis Tappan.’ Everyone in the tiny group knew this could not be true. Yet Bernardo DuQuelle nodded agreeably. ‘But of course,’ he said, ‘I should have remembered. Mr John Reillson is a member of the Unionists delegation, attending the Queen on behalf of President Abraham Lincoln. He is here tonight with the American Ambassador, Mr Charles Francis Adams. Yes, you must have known Miss Tappan in New Y
ork City, or perhaps made her acquaintance in Boston . . . or was it Washington? In any case, you are certain to be very well acquainted. No need to make introductions here!’
James gave Katie a questioning look. She avoided his eye and fanned herself rather furiously.
‘May I have this dance?’ John Reillson asked her, as the spritely redowa gave way to a gentler waltz.
‘No,’ James interrupted, ‘Katie doesn’t dance. She’d be sure to stumble.’
‘All she will have to do is follow my lead,’ John Reillson said, ignoring James’s bad temper. ‘I have a feeling we are very well partnered. Come along, Miss Katherine Tappan. You were not meant to be a wallflower.’
‘One dance,’ James practically shouted after her, ‘and then I will collect you.’
‘That young man seems to think he’s your father, or at least your brother,’ John Reillson commented as he took Katie by the hand and led her through the revolving couples.
Katie thought for a moment about how this John had such a striking resemblance to James’s older brother. Why was she the only person who could see this? John placed his hand around Katie’s waist, and she was glad, for once, about the corset. At least he wasn’t grabbing onto too much flesh.
‘So where are your friends?’ she asked. ‘I’m a disaster in a ballroom, but Jeb Lawson would be even worse.’
John Reillson laughed. He was a great one for laughing. ‘Your close friend Bernardo DuQuelle would agree. He gave explicit instructions on tonight’s attendance.’ Katie was silent. So DuQuelle was behind this, orchestrating the guest list. But to what purpose? Only he would know, forever the enigma. She stumbled in the swirling dance and John had to catch her.
‘Whatever weighs upon your mind, put it aside tonight,’ he said. ‘At midnight the Christmas season begins, and we shall have some fun. I hear there’s going to be a theatrical performance later. In a break from protocol, the finest acts from the West End music halls will be performing. Have you been to the music halls?’
‘No . . .’ Katie muttered. She wasn’t really paying attention. The waltz was harder than it looked and she was bobbing and slipping like a moose on a frozen lake. People were beginning to stare.
John Reillson, in his enthusiasm for Katie and music halls, didn’t notice. ‘They are the most splendid entertainment,’ he said. ‘The best acts in Europe, in the world, can be seen in London. You should see Alex Kinch. They call him Little Kinch. Oh, but he’s funny. He does this dance, in huge boots, twenty-five inches long. Picking up his top hat with his toes, shuffling and tripping and balancing on the points of those boots. He’s the best paid performer in the West End. Worth every penny. He makes me roar with laughter.’
‘Ummmm,’ said Katie. She was busy with her own shuffling and tripping.
‘And Harry Cheng. He must be the greatest magician of our time! That man can make an entire horse and carriage disappear from the stage. But if it’s pathos you’re after,’ John continued, ‘no one can beat the Little Angel.’
Katie came to an abrupt halt, bumping sharply into another couple. ‘The Little Angel!’
‘Yes,’ John Reillson tried to move her back into the dance. ‘She’s splendid. She sings at the Alhambra in Leicester Square. You should hear her rendition of “The Girl Time Forgot”. There’s not a dry eye in the house.’
Katie couldn’t believe it. The Little Angel. The room swirled around her and it wasn’t just the waltz. How could she have forgotten? The Little Angel was the closest link Katie had to the elite group of time travellers, the Tempus. She was joined to Katie through history and time. But the Little Angel had much more experience than Katie and far greater knowledge. She seemed to understand the Tempus Fugit. If anyone knew why Katie was there, it would be the Little Angel.
‘You say the performers will be here tonight?’ Katie asked.
‘Some of them, I’m not sure which ones,’ John replied. ‘But if they’re not here, I’d be honoured to take you to see them perform some other time. On Thursdays they have a ladies night when it’s most respectable.’
The Little Angel had a lovely voice, Katie knew that. But she didn’t need to hear her sing. She needed to talk with her, and soon. There were too many questions about Katie’s presence here, and those strange, unhappy feelings surging through her. She needed the Little Angel more than ever.
The waltz came to an end. Katie curtsied and John bowed. ‘I’m embarrassed by this afternoon,’ he said, his bright eyes growing serious. ‘It was an unforgivable way to treat a lady. I cannot apologize enough. Jeb Lawson and I have had more than words on the topic. I’ve half a mind to inform our Ambassador, Charles Francis Adams. Though he is troubled enough, working night and day to keep Britain from declaring for the South.’ He took Katie by the elbow. ‘That’s why we need you so desperately. Have you had time to think about what we discussed? Is there any chance that we can count upon your help?’
James appeared at her shoulder before she could answer. ‘I believe this is my dance,’ he announced stiffly. James was quick to lead Katie away, but slower on the uptake when it came to the actual dance. It was a quadrille, stately and complicated, and she had learned it for her presentation.
‘Come on, James,’ she finally snapped, leading him out. ‘The dance has already begun.’
In the old-fashioned quadrille, the couples walked forwards and backwards, bowed and curtsied and circled each other. Katie had to concentrate on the dance, but eventually she noticed that James was paying no attention to her or his dancing. All of his focus was on a corner of the room, where Princess Alice stood, deep in conversation with a young man.
Katie had never seen him before. He was tall and slender, his figure accentuated by a cutaway evening jacket nipped in at the waist and tight-fitting trousers. He had wavy brown hair and ornate side whiskers. His moustache alone was a work of art. ‘Who is that?’ she asked. James’s bad mood was becoming even worse.
‘That is Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt.’
‘Hesse what?’
‘Darmstadt,’ James replied through gritted teeth. ‘The Langraviate of Hesse-Darmstadt. It’s one of those tiny German states the Queen admires so.’
‘Isn’t Prince Albert from one of those tiny German states – from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha?’
‘Exactly. Pathetic little countries overrun with royalty.’ James was blunt, but rarely critical of the Royal Family, particularly Prince Albert, whom he admired. Katie thought he must be very annoyed by this Louis of Hesse-whatever.
‘He’s just talking to her,’ Katie said. As she promenaded with James though the dancers, she watched Princess Alice too. Louis of Hesse bent protectively over her and she looked up at him, talking animatedly. He nodded again and again, all the while examining Alice, taking note of her dress, her bearing and her voice.
‘He is kind of checking her out,’ Katie admitted. ‘I wouldn’t worry though. Isn’t he like, her cousin or something. I mean, you can’t date – no wrong word – I mean, court your cousin.’
‘Why not?’ James asked. ‘The Queen and Prince Albert are first cousins.’
Sometimes Katie forgot just how much they didn’t know about medicine and science, even James.
‘But to answer your question – no, they are not closely related. I have a feeling the Queen is hoping they might be, some day.’
Katie squinted at the young man with Alice. He was probably four, five or six years older than she was. And yes, he was handsome in that foreign old-fashioned German way, very like Prince Albert. To Katie, he looked like a stiff, coiffed man-doll. By the animated expression on Alice’s face, Katie could guess their conversation. Alice wasn’t flirting, but simply expounding her mission: food and care for the poor, hygienic living quarters and proper medical attention. Katie could also tell that this Louis wasn’t listening to a word of it. He’s just looking at a pretty girl whose serious grey eyes glowed with purpose, a slender girl in a becoming white dress, leaning forward to make a point.
‘He doesn’t look intelligent to me,’ Katie said.
‘He’s an idiot,’ James snapped. ‘So stupid, he can’t begin to imagine the intelligence of Princess Alice. All he knows about is drilling his military troops and combing his moustache. What can Alice see in him?’
‘I don’t think she sees anything, but, well, he is kind of gorgeous, if a bit bizarre – that moustache!’ Katie conceded as she and James joined together, hand in hand for the final figure of the dance. He squeezed her hand so hard, it hurt.
As they re-formed the set with three other couples, James’s sister Grace joined them. She was not happy. At her side was the debauched Lord Twisted. He held her gloved hand lightly. He looked as if he might devour her.
The ball had been a night of surprises. ‘Lord Twisted!’ Katie exclaimed. ‘I thought he was locked up for treason. After his betrayals in Crimea, his spying for the Russians; how can he show his face in Britain, much less at Windsor Castle?’
James looked even more furious. ‘It is the Queen,’ he said. ‘She could not believe that someone of Lord Twisted’s rank and ancient pedigree could commit such a crime. The Queen pardoned him very publically and insisted he attend Court functions. She has been equally lenient on the failings of her military leaders . . . Lucan, Cardigan . . . all pardoned, and everything smoothed over. Young Felix has returned to Prussia, where he continues to make trouble. All that death and grief for nothing.’ Katie gave James’s hand a squeeze. She knew he was thinking of his brother Jack’s death, and that is was in vain.
Thankfully the dance ended. With an abrupt bow, James was gone from Katie’s side. With a look of challenge, he claimed the next dance with his sister. This was dangerous ground. Lord Twisted, on top of his other sins, had once fought James in a duel. Lord Twisted now began to protest and James looked ready to fight again.
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 53