I have written frankly, in these secret pages, of the intensity of my passion for Albert; how I craved the touch of his hands, the alabaster smoothness of his body—the muscles of his legs, firm and etched like a stallion's. I cannot entirely comprehend that no hand will ever touch me in an intimate way again—that no one will call me Victoria any more. Once our marriage vows sanctioned physical love, I abandoned myself to the enjoyment of his body—little dreaming that Albert regarded my passion as unseemly. Liebchen, he would mutter, face flushed with embarrassment, his erection surging despite his distaste, a little conduct, if you please. Remember who we are.
It became a habit between us: Albert aloof and cold, fastidious as a cat, until my appetites whipped him to heat.
All my life, I have been cursed by fits of despondency—a habit exacerbated by the excesses, so my doctors hint, of childbearing I have endured. When my fits of temper frayed Albert's patience, he would retreat to his study and write long lectures in German. Remote as Zeus upon Olympus, he denied me his sex—and I would fall sobbing on our bed and sulk behind locked doors. Albert treated me as he might an unruly child, sick from greed and sweets.
Your passions will kill you, Albert wrote. They are unbridled. Sinful. Beneath the dignity of a woman, much less a queen.
And worse—Bertie inherited every one of them.
Gradually, I understood that I was wanton, a whore like Mama—that I possessed a flaw in the blood I could not fight. A whore like Mama. The Demon Incarnate in the upstairs room, the low suggestion of Mama's laughter, the coarse Irish hand sliding along the leg and the stink of the semened bed— With the intensity of my love came a jealousy of all Albert touched, all those to whom he spoke. To give to them the attention denied to me was insupportable.
When I learned, perhaps a month before our final visit to Coburg, that he had gone so far as to cultivate that woman—Miss Georgiana Armistead—who could boast of no marriage vow; who threw every outrage in the face of public decency, through her way of life; who had the impertinence to write his Adored Name on a piece of common writing paper—oh, my darling, how could you desert me so?
He is beyond the reach of my sobs now. But Miss Armistead—she might be exposed, she might be made to answer for her crimes before the public view, and know what it is to deprive the frailest of women of that peace and security found only in the arms of her Beloved.
Chapter Sixteen
The boy Davey was exhausted that night as he entered the rookery in St. Giles. It had been a fruitless and dispiriting day—first Lizzie so ill, and the lady doctor butchering her like a side of beef; then the gentleman sending him down to stand watch at the back door, where he'd been cuffed in the head by one of the coves who'd torn through the tenement. Davey had slipped outside, not wanting to be kicked like a ball of India rubber among the lot of them. He realised the fight had moved to the roof only when the gentleman's topper came spinning over the tiles to the street below. Scooping it up, he'd run off immediately to sell it in the Garden.
Three shillings richer, courtesy of a bank clerk with an eye for quality, he spent his largess on a pork pie and a tankard of ale in Bow Street—then wasted several hours in such jobs as boys of his ilk were fitted for: walking horses or sweeping crossings. When customers proved scarce on the ground, he tried cadging pennies in St. Paul's churchyard—with the Consort dead, the nobs' hearts might've softened. But he ended the day only a few coppers richer, and just as hungry.
He was cursing his hard luck as he mounted the stairs of his tenement, fists thrust into his pockets and eyes on the filthy treads. So great was his self-absorption that he failed to see the hand before it snaked out at the landing, grabbing his neck.
“You dirty little frog-spawn,” the man muttered, his black eyes boring into Davey's choking face. “Thought you could nobble Jasper Horan, did ye? Take yer prize villains up the roof and diddle an honest man? A mate o' mine 'as been coshed in the head, and ain't likely to wake this side of Judgment. Murder's a hangin' offence, I'm told. I think I just caught me a murderer.” He swung Davey hard against the cracked plaster wall, stunning him, then released his punishing grip on his throat. “Where've they got to? Yer lady doctor and her fancy man?”
“Dunno.” Davey staggered, gasping.
Horan hunkered down on the landing beside him. “Tell me where they've gone, boy, or by all that's holy, I'll see you swing for my mate.”
“I was never on the roof!”
“Sing it to the magistrate! Yer old whore of a mother might not care if you dance on the nubbing-cheat, but yer sister will. If she lives, that is. Last I saw, she were right poorly. Comes of poking around where ye didn't oughter.”
Davey hurled himself without warning at Horan, his thin fingers clawing at the man's face, and with a cry of pain the watchman teetered back against the banister. Quick as lightning the boy darted down the stairs and out into the foggy dark, making once more for Covent Garden.
Horan let him go. He'd already found Button Nance and her girl—and knew all he needed to.
“Evening, Mr. Fitz—and a pleasure to see you again, miss, if I may be so bold,” Gibbon said as he drew off Georgiana's wraps in Bedford Square. In all the confusion of her ravaged home, she hadn't bothered to change her twilled silk gown. The valet preserved a serene countenance; perhaps he was accustomed to ladies sporting muddy and torn attire.
“Have you anything for us to eat?” Fitzgerald inquired. “We're famished.”
“Couple of nice soles and a brace of partridges in half an hour, with leg o' mutton to follow.”
Fitzgerald glanced about at the tidied rooms. “Well done, lad. A glass of sherry for Miss Armistead, when you have a moment. She's chilled to the bone.”
Georgiana was already standing before the roaring fire in the sitting room, her hands extended to the warmth. It was probable, Fitzgerald thought, that she had not yet accepted the necessity of flight; although she had a satchel of hastily-packed clothes, she had refused to bring her maid. If they were to flee London together, he would have to take care her reputation wasn't ruined.
She's safe enough with you, John Snow barked in his head; you're old enough to be her father. Don't flatter yourself she's fighting shy of your Irish charm.
“I'll need you to run an errand for me, Gibbon, when you've carved the mutton—and tell me: Have any shady characters come nosing about?”
“Couple of coves holding vigil over a nice bit o' fire in an ashcan,” the valet returned promptly, “but they're beyond the square. Happened to clap eyes on 'em when I returned from the butcher.”
“Did ye now?” The gate that barred traffic in Bedford Square was manned by a private watchman, and only known tradesmen and residents were admitted—but such watchmen could be easily suborned, in Fitzgerald's experience. He would have to look to the pair of strangers.
“I won't lie to you, my Gibbon,” he said. “Miss Armistead and I have been set upon. A nasty scrap of it we had, but gave as good as we got. I'm thinking it's possible the same devils attacked Mr. Taylor in chambers this morning.”