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Though quicker, the trains were not trusted. Too high-profile and disruptable. Napoleon’s agents had but to bend a rail and then what? Instead, whisked away in a Government stagecoach with outriders, they cleaved through London’s smoke and congestion out into open country. The air and sunshine, even that little they smelt and saw of either, was welcome, compensating for the haste and hurried comfort-stops at coaching inns.

Just a few action-packed months before, Frankenstein had moped at a window of the Heathrow Hecatomb and watched the ‘413th regiment of Revived Foot’ march off to war in Germania. Now, somewhat older and wiser he unknowingly followed their route to within sight of Loseley House. There, happily, the re-enactment ended.

The more distance put between them and ‘BABYLONdon’—what the exiled Cobbett and other members of the opposition ‘Golden-age Reactionary Party’ termed ‘the Great Wen’—the greener it got. For, despite centuries of ceaseless demands from the shipyards and cannon-foundries much of the ancient Wealden forest survived. Not only that, but they took a discreet route, off the obvious roads. Dark little villages populated by dark little villagers could be glimpsed to either side as the coach rushed through to Surrey’s more modern-world market towns. Then, several changes of horses later the horizon suddenly broadened. There before them were the North Downs and Loseley House.

The coach turned off the road onto a driveway. There were soldiers, strange soldiers in skirts with few social skills. Once past them Julius dared poke his head out and beheld a gracious dwelling built of old stone recycled from another place. Before its grand frontage labourers were stacking timber into a pyramidal pile.

There was no time to enquire about that or anything else. Even their earlier simple ‘where?’ questions had been only grudgingly and partially answered. Now the coach door was wrenched open the second they halted and its inmates allowed minimal time to stretch their legs (or leg in Foxglove’s case) and stare at the new scene.

The high ridge of the Downs bounded one horizon and a road ran along it, complete with toy horsemen and vehicles. That was the route normal and sensible coaches took. Below in the valley were silent woodland and landscaped gardens. A place of peace.

Normally. Right now it seemed to be nothing but frenzied comings and goings. To the eternal hills who’d seen it all before and would see it all again, such transient fevers were presumably nothing, but short-spanned humans were more easily impressed.

They arrived just as a delegation of high-flying Churchmen fled. Considering that they dealt with matters infinite the men of God should have looked more composed than they did. Red-faced exasperated expressions topped some of the clerical collars.

But at least that supplied a spot of colour, for otherwise the flood of black issuing from Loseley would have been in total contrast to Ada’s scarlet (gown) and white (skin), Frankenstein’s dandy waistcoat and the gay motley of their Highland soldiers escort. With the addition palette of Church of England rage or blushes, a charitable eye might mistake the two groups as the same species.

Except that they were heading in different directions. The two parties intermingled, inter-penetrated and then parted without a word. One had come to supply enlightenment and failed, the other now arrived in hope to receive it.

For Talleyrand was dying. It was common knowledge and the only thing about him all could agree on. There was even a tinge of sadness felt here and there, leading to sporadic acts of kindness. Frankenstein had noticed straw strewn on Loseley’s gravel drive to muffle the rattle of coach wheels, and churchmen had volunteered their time to come and shrive the sinner. Even some French relatives and/or former lovers had travelled on specially issued ‘compassionate passports’ to an enemy realm to say farewell—or something.

All in all, for a departing soul preparing to meet his Maker, Talleyrand had a packed program and Julius envisaged having to await their turn in the queue that snaked up the main staircase to the deathbed.

Far from it. Immediately that news of their arrival reached the Prince they were sent for in no uncertain terms. Frankenstein and co were sped through a portrait festooned Great Hall complete with suits of mismatched armour and a minstrels’ gallery. Then chivvied up the ornate carved stairs past suspected old master paintings without opportunity to study either. Outraged others before them in the queue muttered harsh words but their skirted soldier escort deterred anything worse. Within minutes they were ushered into the presence.

And what a presence—still. It filled the room, along with the scent of death. The Prince was propped up in bed on countless pillows and his cravat had never looked crisper or more carefully confected.

But that was the sum of the good news. Talleyrand no longer needed powder to pale his cheeks. Instead, rouge was now required to de-deathshead his face. His chest heaved for breath that was reluctant to come. His eyes were closed against the world.

Yet somehow he seemed to know they had come. Shut eyelids were not signs of surrender but screens across the intimate process of rallying his remaining force.

They heard a sigh of relief. There was the distinct, if illogical, feeling of being studied without being seen.

They’d not met before, not in the flesh. Frankenstein, Lady Lovelace and Foxglove stood in line abreast like culprits brought before the headmaster and wondered what, if anything, to say. Meanwhile, nurses bustled around justifying their being there, and doctors held conference. A residual prelate lurked in the shadows of the four-poster on the off-chance the Prince would relent and sign the retraction that lay unscrolled on the bedspread.

Suddenly, the Princely pink shutters opened. The painted lips likewise.

Talleyrand tried to speak but was out of practice. Only a cough emerged, horribly liquid. A nurse dabbed at him but was gestured back.

The Prince swallowed, ventured a silent dry-run and then had another go.

‘Welcome,’ he said, gaining confidence. ‘Welcome, welcome! Thank you so much for coming…’

Once, not so long ago, Ada might have said ‘did we have any choice?’ Which would have been honest but inappropriate. Today she just thought it and smiled instead.

Frankenstein also. He’d heard of the man’s famous charm but was still impressed it should remain so persuasive, even teetering at Death’s door. Waves of that warm force washed against all, disarming them of any resentment they might be harbouring.

‘The pleasure is all ours,’ said Julius.

Talleyrand smiled: he wished to husband his strength but could not prevent himself.

‘Liar,’ he said, though without malice. ‘This room reeks of sickness. The Angel of Death peeks through its keyhole. Only a ghoul could take pleasure in such a place. But you mean well, for which I thank you. Yet that is the least of things I should thank you for…’

He had to pause and regroup. His audience mistook that for final exhaustion but it wasn’t so. Instead, the Prince returned to the charge, revived for a sustained offensive. He gulped for air and grasped the bedspread like a drowning man, but at the same time seemed set fair to hurtle down a preconceived path, bearing all before him. Onlookers saw the polished politician he’d once been and was now again— perhaps for the last time.

‘The priests want me to recant,’ he said. ‘To formally repent of my life and actions. And I shall, albeit in my own good time and with certain reservations. It will make them happy and also supply a certain symmetrical form to my saga. However, before all that I must explain some things to you. And ask your pardon…’