“I cannot possibly abet such a scheme,” he said. “What he plans is the blackest treachery against the crown! Yet he holds my life in his hands. God help me!”
As the carriage inched along, a man jumped inside. He wore the shabby clothes of a beggar and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He sat next to the prime minister.
“Sir, this a private carriage,” Lord Russell said in a startled, offended tone.
The intruder removed his cap. It was Mr. Slade. “Thank Heaven!” I exclaimed. “I thought never to see you again!” Tears welled in my eyes as the emotions I’d suppressed during my journey with Hitchman found release.
“I followed you all the way from Cornwall,” Mr. Slade said. “You weren’t alone.”
His manner was businesslike and impersonal, but I could discern that he was glad to see me, too. I felt happy and safe in his presence, even though still under mortal threat from Kuan. How could I have ever divided my loyalty between them?
Lord Russell greeted Mr. Slade without enthusiasm. He obviously had not forgotten the humiliating confession he had made at the ball.
“Kuan is gone,” I told Mr. Slade.
“I know. My men searched his house as soon as you and Hitchman left.” Mr. Slade turned to Lord Russell. “Have you arranged Miss Bronte’s new post?”
“Yes, I have,” Lord Russell replied in a hateful tone. “I’m taking her to Buckingham Palace now. We have an audience with the Queen at one o’clock.”
I cowered at the very idea. How unworthy of the honor I felt! To think that I must meet Her Majesty under such ignoble circumstances! “What will we do?”
“We must tell the Queen everything,” Mr. Slade said.
Lord Russell looked anxious. “Not everything, surely.”
“We’ll keep your connection with Mr. Kuan a secret,” Mr. Slade assured him. “We’ll persuade the Queen to let Miss Bronte stay in her employ long enough for us to find out who Kuan’s agents are and apprehend them and him.”
“How do you propose to persuade Her Majesty?” Lord Russell said, clearly deeming this a futile plan.
“That’s what we must determine before you take Miss Bronte to the palace,” said Slade. “She would probably like some luncheon first. Take her to the Warwick Club. I’ll meet you there.”
Lord Russell shook his head as though in disbelief that any good could come of whatever we did, but he said, “Very well.”
The traffic cleared; the carriage began moving faster. Mr. Slade opened the door. “Where are you going?” I said, loath to lose him.
“To gather our forces,” Mr. Slade said, then jumped from the carriage.
Lord Russell and I dined in a private room, at a table laid with heavy silver, fine linen, and china. Velvet draperies covered the window; with candles burning, it felt like night. We had finished and were sitting in grim silence when Mr. Slade arrived with Lord Unwin and a man I didn’t know. This man was in his sixties and handsome with an elegant figure, wavy grey hair, and a jaunty step. Lord Russell and I both rose.
“Lord Palmerston,” the prime minister said, speaking and bowing stiffly. He barely acknowledged Lord Unwin, whose haughty countenance showed resentment at the snub.
Lord Palmerston returned the greeting with cool civility. Mr. Slade said, “Miss Bronte, may I present the foreign secretary?”
I had recognized his name. This was the man charged with managing England’s relations with foreign kingdoms and protecting the interests of the crown. The newspapers extolled his skill at diplomacy as loudly as they criticized his policies. “It is an honor, sir,” I said, awestruck.
He took my hand and gracefully raised it to his lips. “The honor is all mine.” His smile was shaped like a Cupid’s bow; his eyes sparkled with intelligence and zest. His voice was suave, and I felt the power of his charm. “I had the pleasure of knowing your father long ago. Pat Bronte and I were at Cambridge together.”
“Yes, I know.” I recalled Papa talking about how, in 1804, when Britain was bracing for an invasion by Napoleon’s army, volunteer militias were formed. Papa and other university men had drilled under the command of Henry Temple, the officer in charge. Papa took pride in this connection between himself and the man who was now foreign secretary, but I never expected Lord Palmerston to remember Papa.
“When you see your father, please give him my best regards,” Lord Palmerston said.
“I will, sir.” I could see that his prodigious memory, coupled with his skill at pleasing people, had contributed to his political success.
“If you’ll excuse my haste, time is short,” Lord Palmerston said, and I glimpsed the man of purpose beneath the charm. We all sat at the table. “Mr. Slade has briefed me on the situation, and we are in agreement on what must be done.” He ignored Lord Unwin, who compressed his lips, disgruntled. “Now I shall tell you how I propose to handle Her Majesty.”
His self-confidence was supreme. I envisioned Papa as a university student, marching at a young Lord Palmerston’s orders. Now I was under the same command.
The unpredictability of life astounds me. My adventure had already taken me beyond the limits of where I had ever envisioned going. I had traversed England and crossed the sea; I had found myself among the dregs of society and then among the rich and powerful; I had journeyed into my past. Caught between two men who represented the poles of good and evil, I had done things of which I had never thought myself capable, and enacted dramas more intense than any in my dreams. But even with all that, I would never have imagined meeting Victoria Regina, Queen of England.
We arrived at Buckingham Palace, whose vast grey bulk of Classical architecture dominates the Mall that encompasses Trafalgar Square and Westminster. Red-coated guards armed with rifles stood sentry outside. A flag bearing the royal standard fluttered over the roof, indicating that the Queen was in residence. Mr. Slade, Lord Palmerston, Lord Russell, and Lord Unwin escorted me so quickly through the palace that I had only a blurred impression of marble pillars, wide hallways, grand staircases, hordes of servants, abundant mirrors, ornate furniture, and gilding everywhere. I found it to be as vulgar as it was magnificent. All I remember clearly is the stench of bad drains and stagnant cesspools.
My presentation to the Queen took place in her sitting room. She and her Prince Consort were seated on a brocade-covered divan amidst many figurines, gold-framed portraits, and brass cages of pet birds. Dolls and other toys lay strewn about the floral carpet. Through open windows hung with gold draperies came the noise of children at play outside. The informality of the situation surprised me, although I remembered that I was here as a servant, unworthy of a lavish, ceremonial presentation at court. Trembling and awkward, I didn’t dare look up from the floor until curiosity triumphed over timidity.
This was not the first time I had seen Queen Victoria. While I was at school in Belgium, she had visited Brussels. I’d stood amidst the crowds to watch her procession. When she flashed by in a carriage, I had thought her not beautiful, and I found my impression still valid now, five years later. She was prettily dressed in a summer gown, but even more stout than before, having borne six children, one of them that past spring. She wore her brown hair in a simple knot. She had a florid, heavy-featured face with a pointed nose and receding chin. The Prince Consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was tall, rather stiff, and clad in an elaborate coat, breeches, and boots. He wore a mustache and whiskers in foreign style, and looked far less handsome than his portraits.
Formal greetings were exchanged. The Queen extended her hand to Lord Palmerston, who politely kissed it. She said, “The Queen is delighted that her foreign secretary chooses to grace her with his presence.” Her voice was well bred yet girlish; she was only twenty-nine, very young for a ruler of the Empire. I detected sarcasm in her courteous tone. “His behavior has led her to believe that he preferred to avoid communication with her.”