Chapter Text
The repeal of the Corn Laws passed. Sir Robert Peel stood outside the House with Edward Drummond, basking in the cheers. Little did they know, there was one malcontent lurking among the crowd.
“You sure I can’t take you home?” Peel asked his secretary.
“Thank you sir, but I have an engagement.” Drummond responded, a twinkle in his eyes. He was going to Ciro’s, to meet his beloved, his God-intended. He had been angry with Lord Alfred since the first dinner, when he stormed out as inconspicuously as possible.
He loved Alfred, had for quite a while. He knew he needed to meet him this time, to take Alfred up on his offer: an olive branch, a second chance to be together.
“Thank you for stopping me making a fool of myself over Bentinck.” Peel replied lightly, shaking Drummond’s hand.
“Sir Robert Peel, prepare to meet your maker!” came a harsh voice from the crowd.
Drummond knew what was about to happen. In the blink of an eye, he shoved Sir Robert out of the way, the bullet fired from the madman’s gun hitting him in the left shoulder.
Drummond let out an agonizing scream, blood pouring from the wound, staining his coat, as he fell squarely on his knees.
“Quick, get an ambulance!” Peel shouted, his voice brimming with panic and agitation, quite the opposite of the mood just a few seconds ago.
Drummond’s awareness became foggy. People rushing about, containing the madman, Peel bending over him as he knelt in fetal position, moaning and grunting in agony. Alfred! His thoughts immediately went to his love. Alfred! How would he go on if Drummond died? Would he even be told? Would he be comforted? Allowed to mourn as Florence would, when he deserved to so much more?
Just then, he felt himself being lifted off the ground, and carried away.
* * *
Meanwhile, at Ciro’s, Alfred sat and waited pensively. It had been hours and no sign of Edward. His hand had almost unconsciously reached out and touched the petal of the flower on his table. So soft, so delicate, so beautiful. Just like Edward, he thought.
He sat there, nibbling at the oysters, playing with the flower, for another hour. It was getting late, and Alfred needed to go home and get some sleep. He was crushed. Edward, his Edward, had stood him up.
Finally, Alfred decided he should just go back to the Palace and go to bed. It was late, and Edward was definitely not showing up. Alfred left the restaurant in a daze of sadness.
* * *
There was some bustle at the palace when Alfred got back, servants moving about as if they were preparing for a soirée, or an emergency. Great. Just one more thing to worry about. He thought sarcastically. It was then that Brody the hall boy spotted him.
“Lord Alfred! Her Majesty has been asking after you!”
“What is it?” Alfred responded stoically.
“I can’t say. Her Majesty should be the one to inform you. She is waiting for you in her office.” Brody answered.
Alfred made his way to the Queen’s office, where she, the Prince, and the PM were hustling anxiously.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Prime Minister.” Alfred put on his courtier’s mask. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Drummond has been shot.” the Queen replied, bluntly, as was her style when something was troubling her.
Oh my God! Oh MY GOD! Alfred thought as his heart began racing. His breathing quickly shallowed, his hands and feet began to shake so hard that his muscles became jelly. It took every ounce of strength he had to not fall on the floor in a full-blown panic attack.
“Lord Alfred? Are you quite alright?” the Queen asked, concern now flooding her voice where anxiety had once been.
Alfred couldn’t respond. He just stood there, like a life-size tower of wobbly jelly, made from a mold of his physical form. He was unaware of everything at the moment, his superiors looking worriedly on, his own breathing, the beating of his heart, everything.
“Lord Alfred, come with me.” the Queen took his arm and led him out into the hall, for whatever modicum of privacy it could give them.
“I’m not going to reprimand you. I am concerned as your employer, and as your friend.” she continued, as she sat him down on a settee.
“I…didn’t…expect…” Alfred began weakly.
“None of us did” the Queen continued, “But he isn’t dead.”
Alfred perked up a bit. Not dead? “How…bad…is it?” he croaked, trying to hold back his tears.
“Only a flesh wound to the shoulder, as far as I’m told.” the Queen answered soothingly. “Don’t worry, Lord Alfred. I’m more worldly than you think. I know what he means to you. All those months of flirting and stolen glances when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. It’s exactly what I do with Prince Albert sometimes.”
Alfred was silent, tears spilling down his cheeks as the Queen handed him her handkerchief. This was it. His secret was out. Would she report them, have them both locked up, deported, hung?? All were very real, very frightening possibilities. England was indeed very dangerous for men like Alfred Paget and Edward Drummond.
The Queen merely smiled. “I’m not going to report you. You see, while I don’t completely understand it, I do know what it is to love someone, so completely, and to have it requited is the most wonderful thing. You and Drummond have my complete discretion.”
“Ma’am, I…I appear to be at a loss for words.” Alfred croaked through the giant lump in his throat; made of two separate lumps; one of shock and horror, the other of overwhelming relief.
“Well, don’t just sit here and cry. Go and see him. Tonight. Emma will allow you to use her carriage. But be aware, his mother and his fiancée are with him.” the Queen said.
With that, Alfred took off like a racehorse. He needed to see Edward, be with him, and he needed to now.