Chapter Text
Lady Portman acute perspicacity and wittiness had served her well in her life, empowering her to easily navigate life within nobility and court. However, her true abilities truly shined in creating a deep understanding of the characters of those around her, what made them tick, their weaknesses and their inclinations. Such understanding had assisted her since she was a young debutante, smitten with William, dear William.
He had been the first subject of her studies, her motives in wanting to gain a deeper understanding of him were clearly selfish, but nonetheless, understanding William has assisted her in being his longest-standing friend. Dear William was reserved and kept his feeling caged behind duty. His only-apparent calm manners and his natural reluctance on acting on anything but a long reasoned and rehearsed impulse had been the result of years spent hiding from scandal and ridicule. She supposed it was understandable, although she longed for him to find happiness, that happiness he had longed for his whole life.
She had spent the last two years at court, in service of her Queen. The study of her countenance and character had been easier as Victoria was impetuous and each feeling she felt were clearly shown on her face as soon as they arose in her; In no time she was confident she knew every quirk and intimate detail of her Queen’s personality and life.
Lady Portman had once been a romantic, dreaming of everlasting love, even marrying for love instead of duty, but such streak in her died when she realised that the men that held her heart, dear William, would never feel the same way about her. She had buried that hope and the dread that came with the death of any such hopes, deep within inside of her, behind a well-built wall of witty remarks, realism and a bit of melancholy for a love that was never meant to be.
While she was indeed fond of Edward, as any woman forced to marry for duty instead of inclination can be, her heart never forgot her William. She had not failed to observe the small changes in William’s countenance since his first meeting with Victoria. Something in the way he walked changed, his remarks and comebacks were somehow wittier, and the burden he carried around for decades seemed significantly less arduous to bear; He seemed younger somehow. She noticed how he was increasingly spending more and more time with the Queen, how his eyes somehow always seemed to find her when entering a room, the small quirks, secret signals and the increasing intimacy shared between the pair.
For all her feelings deep buried in her, she should hate the sight of the man that had her heart beating for him for decades, looking at her young Queen as she has long wished to be looked at by him. And yet all she felt was a refound hope that such love could exist, that the harshness of reality, of marrying for duty, was not to befall the artless and guileless young Queen that was now sulking on the divan in front of her and, most importantly, that her dear William could finally find such love and deep connection whose search had brought him so much scandal and ridicule in his life.
She found herself reminiscing about the years of Caro, the happy (at least for some years) but unstable marriage that ended with William broken-hearted, how he took care of Augustus and William’s despair in face of his son’s ultimate demise. The following years had been spent making sure William stayed alive, despite his bad habits that brought him to seek comfort in alcohol and women. The trial of criminal conversation with Mrs Norton…. the ridicule and shame he had endured!
And then the king had died, and everything changed with Victoria.
She should feel deep jealousy, hate the very sight of her, and yet all she could do was silently support her young Queen and her kinship with William, for she knew how the Queen needed an ally in her own house, one more powerful than one of her ladies could be and, more importantly, she saw how the William that she thought was lost forever somehow came to bloom again, perhaps even more radiant than ever, although such change in him went unremarked by all who did not know him well enough to know any better. She even found herself facilitating the slow and tenuous germination of the deep connection that could only be love between William and Victoria, at first by allowing the Prime minister and the Queen more privacy that was indicated even by the laxer interpretation of decorum and then by assisting her young Queen in visiting her Prime Minister at Brocket Hall.
“...Lady Portman?” Her wool-gathering came to an end as she heard those words.
She was back in the yellow drawing room with the Duchess and Her Majesties’ ladies, having tea. Victoria was seated in front of her, a pillow safely tucked against her stomach and Dash curled at her side, sleeping. Victoria's gaze was focused on the scene through the windows, her eyes rimmed in red; it was clear that her mind was as far as Lady Portman’s had been just moments before.
“Yes, Madam?” She replied hastily.
“I was just expressing my deep longing to see my nephews, Ernst and dear Albert! Drina, I believe you would highly benefit from them visiting! they are close to your age and dear Leopold can scarcely contain his pride in them, they are so well read and their visit would certainly improve your mood….”
Lady Portman sighed silently. Victoria's family had been most persistent on that matter since she returned from Brocket Hall: It was painstakingly obvious that she was not aware her mother had even uttered a word, let alone considered the matter. It fell to her ladies then, to make conversation and to steer the conversation towards a safe topic.
Lady Portman was relieved to be dismissed early that evening, she was hardly of any company as she was too concerned with what came down in Brocket Hall that afternoon. Victoria stayed silent on the topic and pretty much on everything else for the following days. Nothing had transpired of what occurred that afternoon but two things were clear: Victoria was dreadfully sad and William was not to be seen at the palace for days. The couple of days that led to the masquerade ball were dreary and awkward at court, the Queen was clearly out of spirits and her relatives were taking advantage of William’s sudden absence from the palace to push for an invitation for Albert and Ernst.
-----
Her Majesty was seated in her dressing room while Miss Skerrett was arranging her hair; Victoria was hardly conscious of her surroundings, the last days had been a whirl of thoughts, leaving her feeling like she was hardly in her own body.
Her last conversation with Lord M kept playing in her mind day and night, along with each and every conversation that took place since the fateful day they were introduced at Kensington, her coronation ball, and each small talk that was ever uttered between them. Her head was lost in the mixed feeling that arose from such memories, nostalgia, longing, and when her last conversation with Lord M played in her mind shame and humiliation. Her mind was searching for the pieces of conversation or small gestures she had misinterpreted, those that led her to believe that he did indeed feel the same way she did about him, that he longed for her company as much as she did.
But how could he, she sighed resigned.
She was just a silly girl that happened to become queen out of sheer coincidences, had Aunt Charlotte not died, she would be hardly anything more than part of the royal family.
She sighed again. Lord Conroy was right. She was just a silly girl, playing to be Queen, making mistakes as with Lady Flora, and creating issues between Monarchy and the government that serves at her pleasure, while managing to alienate her only true ally in the process.
A silly girl indeed.
----
“…. Ma’am?”
“Ma’am, these arrived today from Brocket Hall for you.” Said Miss Skerrett.
Victoria sighed inwardly, no note accompanied them, just some flowers.
“I was wondering if you would like to wear them tonight at the ball, ma’am”
“No, thank you. I believe they do not go well with my costume; no one wore flowers during Elizabeth’s reign.” Victoria hastily replied.
She lied. She could not care less of what was worn during that time, she did not want to wear the flowers as they belonged to her Lord M, no, not her Lord M, Lord Melbourne.
Her mind drifted to her costume. She chose to dress as Queen Elizabeth as a clear indication to Lord M that she meant it, she did not want anyone else, even if it meant that she was to rein alone, perhaps with companions. She chose him. No, she did not truly. He was chosen for her; he was perhaps made for her.
She had no control over the way she felt, no one else would ever compare, she felt safe in his presence, she felt she could learn how to fly under his unwavering gaze, knowing he would be there to support her, guide and inspire her. She had thought or wished that at least in some ways he might share her feelings, she hoped perhaps that he had no choice about it as much as she did not.
Alas, her costume was another reminder of the burning humiliation she suffered, her unrequited love and desire for him.
She briefly considered not attending the ball, pleading a sudden headache. “That would not do, silly girl. You have a duty to fulfil and a role to act. Your inclinations have no standing” she heard Lord Conroy’s voice chiding her in her mind while staring herself at the mirror.
“How splendid you look ma’am” she heard. She recognised the voice as Lady Portman’s and indeed she was standing at the door.
“Do you really think so?”
“Beautiful flowers! They are orchids! Where did they come from?” Lady Portman continued.
“…Brocket Hall” Victoria turned around; she knew well enough that lady Portman was aware of her feelings for Lord M, but her inclinations, before that fateful afternoon, had been hardly subject of any concern for Victoria, now instead they are a sour spot that filled her with shame and humiliation. She was not to show such feelings to the very perceptive Lady Portman, she could not bear to.
Indeed, Lady Portman would have been studying her countenance if she had not already gauged precisely how hurt Victoria had been by her visit to Brocket Hall.
“But I thought William had closed the greenhouses after Caro……he must have opened them again for you!” She was thinking aloud, she knew such behaviour was not proper in front of the Queen but her mind was racing, trying to piece together what could have transpired.
“I do not believe he would do anything for me”
Oh yes, she was hurt, very hurt indeed. William what have you done to your most devoted Victoria to wound her so deeply...
“Do you know how hard it is to grow orchids? You misjudge him, ma'am.”
You misjudge him and his behaviour, his feelings and his intention.
“He cares only for the memory of his wife”
There was that. That was the sore spot that had Victoria walking around the palace for the past days as a ghost would. No one who has known him, truly known him, could mistake his affection, his devotion. Why! it showed clearly as his gaze never left her, how he seemed to see only her in a crowded palace, how the sole presence of her seemed to lift a weight on his shoulder that had weighed him down for decades.
“Is that what he told you? Then that is what he wants you to believe. These flowers ma’am... well…”.
That was as close as Lady Portman could go to make Victoria see that he did indeed feel the same way as she did.
White orchids.
Pure and innocent love, the most refined love.
William had always loved subtlety and using flowers to convey a message, but Lady Portman hoped that this tendency of his would not end up costing him the woman he loved most.