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Victoria loves having Emily Palmerston in town, if only because she’s one of the few women she actually enjoys having an extended conversation with, and because her presence makes dear Lord Pam smile, and he does that so little these days.
She doesn’t, however, quite love discovering the Palmerstons in various nooks around the palace at odd hours, which has also been happening more and more of late, and she’s honestly not quite sure what to do about it.
Victoria remembers, quite fondly, actually, that blush of romance from the first years of her marriage, when she and Albert would often duck out for a few moments alone somewhere, or cancel all their engagements and simply spend the day in bed.
So she understands all of that – after all, she’s a woman with seven children and they just didn’t appear out of thin air.
But Pam, well. He’s not exactly young. Neither is Emily come to that.
And it’s a second marriage!
She’s just really not sure how this is possible.
And yet.
So she’d written it off as a bit too much champagne the first time she’d wandered past the two of them in a semi-secluded alcove chair, Emily in his lap and Palmerston nuzzling her neck.
It had seemed so private, she’d found herself feeling an intruder in her own home and backed away.
Her, Victoria, the queen.
Best to forget all of it, she’d thought.
But it wasn't an isolated incident.
She’s since seen them sprawled together on a blanket in the garden, dancing entirely too close together for propriety at a ball, pressed against a wall in the east wing, lost in kissing one another. (His hand had been up Emily’s skirts!) She even walked in on him brushing her hair once when she’d decided some situation demanded Palmerston’s early morning attention.
(Did they really share a bed every night Emily was here?)
The Palmerstons have always been, well, she supposes she’d call it inappropriate. She remembers blushing furiously the first time she’d seen them kiss one another goodbye. Like something out of a novel. Or as if he was headed off to war.
What she didn’t understand then, but does now, to her great displeasure, is that that is simply how they behave all the time.
And it’s becoming a problem.
She’s not entirely sure why, however, though she suspects there’s something lacking in dignity in having a Foreign Secretary so openly lusting after the woman he’s married to.
But obviously shouldn’t that be better than a Foreign Secretary openly lusting after one of her ladies? Victoria’s not so sure.
It’s certainly not doing anything for those rumors that Emily’s teenage daughter is Pam’s, though it also doesn’t seem as though either of the Palmerstons terribly care about whether people realize it's actually true at this point.
They’re married after all, and it’s all made right again, and what do they care about scandal?
She’s sure they just would have run away on their own if they’d had to, if she hadn’t signed off on the decree that let them wed. It’s what a couple in a Bronte novel would do.
Victoria wonders idly if she’s jealous. It’s a feeling she’s experienced before, about all kinds of things. It wouldn’t surprise her.
But Palmerston is very much not her type, and even if Emily does look enough like her brother to make her wonder a bit, she’s a queen and married.
Besides, it’s not like she wants to have to style her hair specifically to hide love bites behind her ear as Emily very clearly had done the last time she saw her.
It’s…something else.
She’s sure strangers can tell from fifty paces that Emily is Pam’s entire world, no matter how much of an incorrigible flirt he might be otherwise, and though she knows without doubt that Albert loves her, he certainly doesn’t look at her like that any more. If he ever did to begin with.
Is that it? Does she want her husband to steal kisses at public dinners the way Emily’s does? To hold her hand or twine his fingers in the fabric of her skirts whenever they sit near one another?
Victoria makes a face thinking of it. It all seems so stifling, their constant affection. Their need for one another.
She loves Albert, of course she does; but she’s happy to still be her own person. Isn’t she?
Maybe it’s different for people who aren’t queens, and who must make marriages with less power behind them. Who have the illusion of choice.
But Emily Palmerston so clearly made her own choice, chose Pam before she was ever free to do it, waited and plotted and ran to him the moment she had a chance.
Victoria wonders why the rules don’t appear to apply to them.
After all, when she’d done the same, and run to an unsuitable man – and Pam, for all his political abilities, is deeply unsuitable for any woman, and for God’s sake, Emily had been married – he’d turned her down. He’d said something about duty and propriety and the things that were expected of her.
Palmerston, she imagines, had simply held his arms open for Emily, and damned the consequences.
And she hates herself for it a bit, but Victoria wonders sometimes what her life might have been like had Emily’s brother done the same, all those years ago at Brocket Hall.
Would she have run into them?
Victoria hears footsteps clattering on the steps behind her, and knows before she turns around what she will find. It’s Pam and Emily, because of course it is, looking windswept and ridiculous, and obviously fresh from a private turn among the hedges during this garden party, if his mussed hair and the leaves stuck to the back of her skirts are any indication.
Neither of them notices though, because they never do.
Palmerston beams at her. “Your Majesty,” he exclaims in what at least appears to be happy surprise.
He sketches one of the weakest bows she’s ever seen, but at least Emily has the grace to curtsy properly before allowing her husband to reclaim her hand.
“We,” he continues, twirling Emily about with a laugh, “were just out in the gardens, and I really must hand it to the royal gardeners. It’s all terribly lovely.”
“It’s a wonderful party, Your Majesty,” Emily chimes in, smiling. “Spring suits the palace.”
“I’m glad you both could come,” Victoria says, hoping her answering smile isn’t as stiff as it feels. “Lady Palmerston, it’s always a pleasure to see you in London.”
“I am rather hoping to keep her here a bit longer this time,” Palmerston says with a conspiratorial grin at her. “A royal decree wouldn’t go amiss.”
Victoria finds herself grinning back, because Pam’s obvious desire for this outcome is palpable, and she wonders how his wife has held out against him on this issue for so long.
“I find I am a bit tired of raising bees,” Emily says, out of nowhere, and Palmerston’s entire face lights up.
“Really?” he says, arching an eyebrow and smiling at her.
“Really,” she says softly, and the entire tone of the moment changes, and Victoria suddenly feels as though she’s intruding on something again.
These two are honestly insufferable. Can't they just decide to live in the same country as one another without all...this.
“Emily, of course, you’ll have a place among my ladies whenever you wish,” Victoria says, backing away as discreetly as possible.
“It’d be an honor, Ma’am, “ Emily says, but she’s not looking at the queen, she’s looking at her husband, who’s gripping her hand so tightly it looks painful.
She wishes Lord M were still here - for all the usual reasons, of course, but particularly because she'd like to know more about this, the reason Lord Pam and his wife are so very needy together all the time.
It feels familiar to her, and not because of Albert, though she'd never tell anyone that either.
“Let Mrs. Turner know as soon as you’re settled,” Victoria says, turning and swishing off down the hallway as though her exit were a planned one and not the act of a woman desperately attempting to escape another awkward moment in which she's become an unnecessary third wheel.
She glances backward just as Palmerston cradles his wife’s hands in his and kisses her fingers, the pose so familiar that something inside her chest clenches.
Victoria is happy enough with her lot, of course. She’s a queen, with a husband she adores, a growing family, and a thriving nation at peace. She can’t ask for anything more than this.
But she wonders, every now and again, what might have happened, if.
If, If, If.
If she'd pushed a little harder.
If she'd been a little needier.
If she'd been as determined. As sure in her choice. As willing to give her life to getting it.
She doesn't know. Won't ever know.
But she wonders, all the same.