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Chapter Text

The letter came just as her youngest was persuaded to take her midday nap.

The footman who delivered the letter most wisely held off from approaching while she yet stood at the nursery door, looking inside to ensure that her daughter truly slept. Anna Feodora, Princess Consort of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, was hardly beholden to attend this particular task herself, but she found a sense of fulfillment in caring for her children in a way that made her hesitant to surrender her mother’s prerogative to Nurse Rosel in any sort of entirety. Especially now, when baby Adelheid – newly two years of age – was quite vocally of the opinion that she no longer required naps, and thus saw fit to turn their once amicable routine into a battlefield of wills. Her daughter only had so many words available to her, but managed to express her discontent most insistently with what vocabulary she did have – and, failing her attempts at speech, was easily reduced to frustrated tears and outright hiccupping sobs. (Which was exactly why the dear girl had need of her naps to begin with.)

Patience ever proved the ultimate victor, even if Feodora often conceded to holding her daughter and rocking her through the worst of her tears, all until she calmed and submitted to sleep with heavy eyes and a last few errant sniffles. Now, it was that tenuous peace that had the footman carefully, quietly treading across the hall to join her when she stepped away from the nursery door.

“Compliments of the Queen of England, Your Highness,” the footman said in little more than a whisper, still wary of disturbing the silence, as he presented the letter.

Pride crested within Feodora for the nascent glory of her sister’s hard-won title, and she accepted the letter gladly. “If His Highness inquires," she advised, "inform him that I have gone to read this in the gardens.”

“As Your Highness pleases,” the footman acknowledged, and bowed to take his leave.

Feodora tilted her head, listening for her daughter one last time, and then turned down the corridor once she was satisfied. Here, the surplus of windows let in a pleasant spill of sunlight, hushing over the parqueted floors and shining off the intricate plaster moldings that framed the vast cove ceilings above. She slowed as she came upon the schoolroom, looking inside as she passed. Here, her oldest four attended their lessons with varying degrees of diligence. Little Victor was only just old enough to join in with his siblings, and he was currently scribbling most contentedly underneath the rows where he'd practiced writing his name until his attention lapsed – no matter how Hermann tried to instruct him to the contrary. Ignoring her brothers in that practiced way of an elder sibling, Elise worked her multiplication tables with determined intensity, muttering the numbers under her breath to ensure that she ordered them correctly.

Carl, her oldest, was the only one of her children who noticed her in return, and he mimed an exaggeratedly gagging expression upon catching her eye. In spite of herself, Feodora found her own mouth quirking in amusement – all before she pointedly glanced back at the tutor, who had indeed noticed his pupil’s untimely comedic display. Instantly, Carl snapped back to focus on the book held open before him, and dutifully resumed his studies.

From the family rooms, the walk through the halls of Schloss Langenburg to the eastern entrance was substantial – even when she made to expedite her route by cutting through the central courtyard. The castle, which had been in her husband’s family for over five hundred years, was impressive in its majesty – unquestionably so – yet it had since become a relic of a now distant age, and turned all the more so with each passing year. Her husband was the first Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg to have no domain to accompany his title, following the ceding of his ancestral lands to the larger Kingdom of Württemberg. Though her Ernst maintained his position as a courtier to King William I, and even shared His Majesty's visions of progress for the region, that honor was hardly as lucrative as what the House of Hohenlohe-Langenburg had enjoyed previously. That loss of revenue, when combined with the horrible economic depression that had scourged the southern German states since their wars both for and against Napoleon, made for meager coffers and even tighter purse strings.

They could not afford to maintain such a vast estate – which, in its glory, could have housed two hundred souls, not counting the now empty soldier's barracks beyond the castle proper – was the stark truth of the matter; yet neither could they abandon Schloss Langenburg for the history it represented and the inheritance it promised for future generations. With the current peace, and renewed interest in agriculture, manufacturing, and trade – all augmented by the advent of the railways to connect Württemberg to the northern German states and Europe beyond (an endeavor that absorbed a great deal of her husband’s time in service to the king, and, more importantly, to the people he yet served in fulfillment of his title) – perhaps that future was bright. Yet, for the time being, the castle had entire wings that were unsuitable for habitation due to their state of disrepair. Feodora habitually turned a blind eye to the chips in the plaster and the dull gleam of the neglected portraits – the frigid drafts in the winter and the damp, moldering smells in the summer; the smoking hearth and the leaks staining the ceiling in her once favorite sitting room – and held her head up high.

Yet, no matter the comforts her home may have lacked in any supposed grandeur, it would always hold an unrivaled majesty for where it sat so happily cradled in the indomitable embrace of nature. She drew in a breath as she walked through the garden doors, inhaling the sweetness of the summer flowers and the thick, spicy scent of the fir and larch and leafy hardwoods that blanketed the slopes leading down into the valley. For this was where the true grandeur of her home would ever lie.

Feodora walked past the ornamental shrubs and underneath the rose arbors, heavily crowned with full pink blossoms, and approached the balustrade that ran the length of the gardens. She peered over the timeworn stone ledge, and there to greet her was . . .

The castle itself dominated a high granite spur in a landscape of vast, rolling hills and farmlands tucked into the fertile mountain plains, standing proud before the town of Langenburg to the east. Here, the steep drop from the face of the gardens plunged into a sea of dense green forests that undulated to meet the curving embrace of the Jagst river in a sculpt of gentle waves. The river itself was even now a glittering ribbon of light, with its waters cheerfully saluting the high face of the sun above. There were times – when the mists rose from the valley and obscured even the tallest treetops, and the heavens pressed down from above – that she felt close enough to touch the sky; while, on clear days such as this one, she imagined that she could fly on the strong winds that sang between the hills, and never come down again.

It was there that she took her seat on her favorite bench, and eagerly broke the seal on the letter to read:

The easy affection with which Victoria wrote was as heartening then as it ever was – as were the sentiments she conveyed. Her letter, sharing news of her ascension and initial removal from Kensington, had been such a relief that Feodora had sank to her knees in this very same spot and thanked God for his mercy through her tears. She had so long prayed to have her sister safely settled on the throne of England, unshackled by a regency and in a place to better deny the likes of him any further power than he'd already machinated to presume. The long-awaited answer to that prayer had been sweet indeed upon its arrival.

Would that Kensington could be leveled and forgotten entirely, Feodora yet tasted the rise of an old, acrid pain to agree. She would happily tear that palace down her own hands, brick by painstaking brick, if it meant that blight on their shared past no longer stood. There had been a reason, after all, that she’d been so eager to leave her mother’s household (Sir John’s household) in the first place. Although it had pained her (guilted her, to the point where she still had restless nights full of unanswered worries) to abandon her much younger sister to such a nest of vipers, when Queen Adelaide herself had offered a way out . . .

Feodora had accepted Ernst’s hand after meeting him only once – grateful as she was for any escape, and even cautiously hopeful that they could build a relationship of mutual understanding together – and she’d never turned back but to look behind for her.

Yet she shook off the heavy (smothering) mantle of that thought, and continued to read.

There, Feodora paused, and reread the entire paragraph a second time through again. Though she did not quite frown – how could she, in the face of her sister’s happiness and her own relief that she had such a champion for her reign? – she nonetheless turned a pondering gaze out to the river far below. There, a man lead a herd of sheep over the bridge, or so she assumed from such a distance. She watched them until they made it to the other side, her thoughts still turning, one over another, in careful consideration.

Then, she resumed her reading.

Again, that old twinge of guilt made itself known, and she accepted its presence only through the long force of aching familiarity. When she lifted her gaze, having absorbed what she could of its sting, the timeless branches of the forested slope rippled and swayed in the strong summer breeze.

Feodora drew in a sharp breath, and almost dropped the letter outright, so great was her surprise – her relief. She reread the sentence twice and then a third time, making sure that she had not misunderstood its meaning through the sheer force of wishing, for so very long . . .

Yet those same words remained, stark from her sister's pen, and she felt tears fill her eyes as she allowed herself to breathe once more.

Feeling her sister’s grief as a matching throb in her own spirit, Feodora touched her fingertips to those words, as if by doing so, somewhere so many miles away, Victoria would feel the touch as a distant whisper, and take comfort from her presence.

Again, Feodora took the time to study the passage, sifting through each sentence for any hidden meaning tucked away as words between words. Yet she ultimately decided to interpret them just as her sister had written, and found herself agreeing with their sentiment wholeheartedly.

She would gladly and most fervently thank Viscount Melbourne herself if she made it back to England whilst he was yet in office – and, until she could do so in any earthly manner, she thanked God once more for his foresight in providing for her sister in this most vital of ways.

Feodora read the entire letter a second time through, happiness and pride (and an ever present, lingering concern that had nothing to do with the yet distant sense of misgiving that loitered at the edge of her mind) filling her until she felt almost buoyant with emotion. After so many years of apprehension and worry (and such futile rage) on her sister's behalf, she allowed the edges of that constant vigil to temper, if ever just slightly.

Deeply, she inhaled, and let her breath out slow.

Yet, before she could turn back to the first page anew, there was a flurry of movement at the garden gate, accompanied by that cheerful ruckus of chattering sound that only five excited children could so uniquely create. She looked up in time to see Carl and Elise chase after each other in a burst of ebullient energy, as if shot from the mouth of a cannon after being confined to the schoolroom. Following close behind them was Hermann, running with dogged determination to keep up with the much longer strides of his elder siblings.

Only Victor held back with his father by his own choice, watching the commotion with wide, observant eyes. Contrarily, a very awake Adelheid squirmed in Ernst's arms, as if her waddling steps would certainly be enough to allow her to join in their game, if only through a sheer force of will.

Feodora stood from the bench as they approached, and accepted her husband's kiss on the cheek in greeting. Somewhat dryly, Ernst informed her, "This one decided that she'd napped long enough, and was quite vocal in ensuring that anyone and everyone who could hear was left in no doubt of her displeasure."

"Oh, my little cacophony," Feodora sighed, but the sound was fond as she reached to kiss her daughter's head and ruffle her curls – which prompted Adelheid to twist and wiggle in an endeavor to escape the affection.

"Down, Papa, down," Adelheid insisted, and Feodora watched with a knowing expression as Ernst, perhaps somewhat predictably, yielded to their daughter. (He never could deny any wish of hers for long.) He lowered the little girl to the ground, where she promptly pushed away from his arms and toddled after her siblings as fast as her little legs could carry her.

"The children were all distracted from their studies," Ernst explained, somewhat sheepishly yet hardly remorseful, "so I thought it best to take them outdoors for a reprieve."

"I see; it was the children who were distracted?" she could not hold back from teasing.

"Well," Ernst gave, his eyes twinkling, "like father, like sons and daughters? It was impossible to attend the latest proposal from Baden with all the noise – yet, admittedly, I may have been in want of a distraction to begin."

By that point, Victor had gone as long as he could in waiting for his mother's attention – he was now old enough to understand the concept of interrupting, and they were actively practicing against it, to varying degrees of success – and he did not allow her to make reply. His patience broke in a burst, and he tugged at her skirts most insistently to say, "Mama, Mama, look – I made this for you."

"A present? How very kind," Feodora knelt to her son's level as bade, and was rewarded with a broad sheaf of thick pressed paper. She looked, and saw an abstract watercolor painting composed of bold – and surprisingly harmonious – lines and bursts of color. It was easy for her to properly exclaim over his achievement and promise to treasure the gift. They would have to have this painting framed, she thought, so that she could display it in her private sitting room.

Only then was Victor content to run off and join his siblings, and Feodora was equally content to watch them play.

A long moment passed, filled with easy tranquility, before Ernst asked, "It was a good letter from England, then?"

"Yes, it was a very good letter," she confirmed. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him exactly why it was – but Ernst had never quite understood the animosity she bore for the likes of Sir John, and she had no desire to revisit a topic that would only lead to a quarrel anew.

"If you wish," he said – kindly so, in that gentle manner that made her regret her moment's discontent for the few ways in which their very amicable partnership did not quite align, "you may start your reply – I am happy to mind the children on my own."

"Ah," Feodora recovered in time to tease, "for this continued distraction promises to be far preferable than returning to the proposals from Baden, I take it?"

"Oh, infinitely so," Ernst confirmed with mock severity. "It's always propitious when pleasure and duty can be one and the same."

That, she understood entirely – and it was with a most sincere affection that she made to kiss her husband properly before she left him with the children, and returned inside the castle.

There, once settled at her writing desk, she picked up her pen, and began her own letter:

Chapter Text

The blue-green waters of Lake Geneva glittered in the cradling embrace of the Alps.

The day could be called overcast, if in a manner that made the play of the heavens against the distant mountains dramatic rather than oppressive. The clouds whipped across the peaks in a swirling frenzy of might and haze, obscuring the highest summits, while fragmented breaks of blue sky illuminated the high crests of the storm clouds with golden light. However, here on the north side of the lake, they were quite safe from the rains that yet dominated in the distance.

Taking advantage of the weather's relative calm, Susan Cuénod took her children out to walk the promenade. Liam could only take a few toddling steps of his own before requiring assistance, but he was a gentle, even-tempered babe who enjoyed outings in his pram without fuss. Lina, at four years of age, wasn’t quite old enough to push the pram by herself, but she was certainly old enough to assist – which she then did so most assiduously. Susan walked behind her all the while, ready to offer a steady hand when necessary.

Together, they made their way down the sloping streets to the lakefront, where many were taking the air and enjoying the ambient beauty of their surroundings. It was never truly hot in Vevey, not even nigh upon August, but a cool breeze blew into the valley from the distant storms, pleasantly offsetting the relative warmth of the summer season. The chestnut trees bordering the promenade swayed with new green pods, while the maple and plane trees lifted their proud, leafy arms to the sky. Raised beds of gold-hearted poppies (peace and remembrance, she’d never forgotten her lessons) and hardy alpine roses (resilience and survival), framed by hedges of cascading candytuft (endurance through all seasons), rippled in the summer breeze and filled the air with their scent. It was a felicific scene – and made all the more so when she caught sight of Cecelia, waiting at their usual spot on the corner of the Rue du Château.

Cecelia – Madame Ansermet as she now was – was also a mother of two, and her daughters were near an age with her own children. The other woman – who’d been her first true friend in Ireland, and sister of her heart following their removal from England's scores – waved to catch their notice, whereupon Lina promptly abandoned her endeavors with the pram in favor of dashing across the cobblestones to greet her aunt.

Cecelia knelt to intercept the girl, peppering her face with exaggerated kisses intended to make Lina laugh – for which she most certainly succeeded. Chloé, Cecelia’s eldest, was then just as eager to welcome her friend, and they chatted excitedly as Lady Elizabeth came up behind them, pushing a pram that held Cecelia’s youngest daughter.

“Grandmama!” Lina exclaimed, and Susan filled with contentment for how Lady Elizabeth greeted the girl with a matching familial affection.

. . . for family was of the heart as much as the blood, was it not? That truth, Susan knew better than most. It had taken her some time, living under Lady Elizabeth's guardianship, to shyly ask for the privilege of calling her mama, but she’d done so ever since she was answered by daughter in return. Now, her children embraced their extended relations just the same, with no idea of the supposed lack of true blood ties between them.

(Her own flesh-and-blood had made the conscious decision to forsake her as a mistake, after all – and so, she was determined to pick her own family in return. Ultimately, she thought that she had the better of that blessing.)

After exchanging her own welcomes, Susan fell into step next to Elizabeth, pushing the prams, while Cecelia walked ahead with the girls, swinging their arms from where she held each of their hands in her own. They proceeded happily as such, trading pleasantries until they reached the park at the end of the promenade. There, the girls were eager to purchase a snack of pastries from a most strategically placed vendor, and they took their prizes of honey bread down to where the deep blue waters of the lake rippled in gentle waves to greet a grey-pebbled shore.

With the prams hardly as appreciative of the park’s rough terrain as the children, Susan held back with Elizabeth to find seats at the white-painted, wrought-iron tables that stood at the boundary of the park’s gardens. There, their vantage was framed by both the storm-shrouded mountains across the lake and Vevey behind them, with its steep hills, adorned in lush vineyards, rising to meet the great green face of Mount Pèlerin above.

Once the younger children were settled with their own pastries, Susan watched as Lina and Chloé attracted the attention of the swans. The girls generously threw bits of bread, and giggled loudly when one of the former cygnets of the season – now fully fledged with white feathers of its own – fought its elders for the choicest pieces. There was a loud squabble as a span of snowy wings flapped in annoyance, and then the overreaching youngster took further out to the lake when chastised by a larger, fully mature adult. The action sent up a dramatic spray of water, delighting the girls even further.

It was a pang that was as bitter as it was sweet, watching the children play with the waterfowl. Their joy was ever her own, and she was grateful for the making of new traditions, new memories, even as she could not help but remember . . .

Susan had purposefully written her former guardian near the end of June, hoping to ensure that her letter would arrive in England on or near that day. It had been her hope to provide some comfort on the anniversary of Augustus’ (her brother’s) death, but she had yet to hear reply. She did not like thinking of that empty house on Dover Street, with its ghosting memories and the one revenant who had yet to join . . .

The wind blew, carrying a chill down into the valley, and she fought a shiver.

It was not only that letter that had gone unanswered, but every letter since. As a whole, she received few and fewer letters as the years passed, and she frowned to consider just why that could be.

With those thoughts at the forefront of her mind, Susan found her courage to ask Elizabeth outright: “Have you heard from England as of late?”

She had no need to clarify; Elizabeth understood.

“Not recently,” was her answer. “Our correspondence has been intermittent these last few years.” Since she herself had wed, Susan understood, thus giving Elizabeth less to report on as her surrogate guardian. “And it slowed even further with the Norton debacle. My name was mentioned in that case, as you know, as was the fact that we have since continued to maintain our acquaintance.”

Susan felt her hands clench, before she consciously relaxed her grip.

“Yet I would not worry overmuch for any delay in writing,” Elizabeth addressed the heart of her fears. “Not every prime minister has the privilege of attending a monarch's ascension – let alone one so singular as Her Majesty. I imagine that his time is quite occupied, well and beyond his usual duties.”

Her words rang true, and yet . . .

“Aimé says much the same,” Susan acknowledged. “If the both of you agree, you must be right.”

“There you have it,” Elizabeth approved. “You have no choice but to yield to our superior wisdom.”

Susan summoned what a smile she could, but she still felt inexplicably restless. Rather than being lulled by the tranquility of the day, she had an unfocused desire for movement – for miles of movement, even. She had, admittedly, been keen to visit England for quite some time now. For her part, she wanted to return to the land of her birth in order to share what she loved best about her first home with her children. She would like nothing better than to show them the glasshouses at Brocket Hall; the great ballroom where Lady Caroline had taught her to dance; the old ash tree where she'd once been convinced the fair-folk lived . . . and the duck pond in Hyde Park. Her memories were their legacy to inherit, and she wished to share this fundamental part of herself with them.

Then, she was self-aware enough to admit, there was a deep-seated part of her – the part that had been angry for so long, ever since she first understood exactly who she was and why she'd been abandoned – that wished to return to England as a statement. She – perhaps somewhat vengefully – wanted to stand by her guardian’s (true father’s) side and turn her chin up to anyone and everyone who’d sneered to believe the worst of him in regards to her, if only because the name Melbourne was one already smeared in scandal, and thus easy to assume as morally corrupt in every possible manner as a result.

So few guarded him when he so quietly stood strong for so many, and she was now of an age and place in life where she could raise her own shield high.

“I have been much inclined to visit England, I must admit.” To make sure for myself, she thought but did not say. “We’ve discussed the idea, but our plans always seem to be pushed to next season and then the next. Now, with Aimé’s work with the bank, and Liam being so young for such a journey . . .” she sighed, once again frustrated with the distance (both great and small) that spanned between them

“A slight delay may prove to be beneficial,” Elizabeth replied after a moment. “Lord Melbourne will undoubtedly be able to better host you once he retires his premiership.”

Even these many years later, Lord Melbourne remained foreign to her ears. Lord Melbourne had always meant Grandfather Melbourne to her heart, while Lord William was just that, and entirely more approachable for being so. So much had changed over the years – for the best, even, as she would not give up her current circumstances and the family those circumstances had afforded her for anything, and yet . . .

“Perhaps that’s true,” Susan muttered, taken by her ruminations. “I understand why he's remained in office, to attend the passing of the crown. Now, though, I am not sure what he intends. I will have to write Aunt Emily on the matter – for she always seems to know more than what he reveals in his letters.”

(When he did write, at that.)

Her Aunt Emily, after all, was just as determined for her brother to find a new interest in life beyond public service. (No matter that her efforts as a matchmaker had – oftentimes humorously, if also frustratingly – been for naught over the years.) Susan agreed with her endeavors entirely, and was grateful for their continued correspondence for the insight it afforded.

A bright peal of laughter then sounded on the air, punctuating her thoughts, and she looked up to see one of the swans trumpet rather loudly at Cecelia – she’d missed the initial impetus – all the while pointedly flapping its great white wings. Yet, no matter her family's high spirits, she felt ill-inclined towards a matching good cheer for herself.

Elizabeth, who’d continued to observe her unspoken struggles, then softly remarked, “He always did fear that you felt yourself more guardian than ward. You already had far too many cares to wrest with, and at such a tender age, to assume his as well.”

That did sound like something Lord William would say – and perhaps rightly so – but aloud she replied: “I would not have to fret so if he did not give me so much to fret over. It’s his fault entirely for leading wholly by example.”

Elizabeth laughed to concede, “You are not entirely wrong.” Still, she reached over to take her hand, and pressed comfortingly. “Allow me, then, to encourage you to live in the moment as best you may. There will be trials enough in the future without granting them a place in the here and now.”

She was right – of course she was right - and so, Susan endeavored to let the time to come be just that. Towards that end, they turned to speak of pleasant things until Cecilia approached with the girls. Both of the children had splashed too far into the water, and now had sodden boots and hems to show for their play; thus, it was declared time to start for home. They parted ways with promises to meet again upon the morrow, should the threat of rain continue to hold, and, soon enough, Susan was back at the yellow townhouse on the Rue du Conseil, ushering her children inside.

Within, her husband was just where she had left him, bowed over his desk in the library – if with an emptied carafe of coffee, and discarded sheets of crumpled paper at his feet. Yet he gladly put his work aside when Lina bounded in (still with wet stockings, even if she'd removed her shoes), eager to tell her father about their encounter with the swans.

Susan followed, holding a drowsy Liam in her arms, who roused for the sound of his father’s voice. Sure enough, Liam held out his hands most expectantly for Aimé, and Aimé was more than happy to oblige.

“You are a far better sight than any ledger,” he greeted at his first opportunity – with Lina momentarily distracted by Miss Elda's arrival with clean stockings.

“I should hope so,” Susan teased in return, glancing down at the open book and its corresponding papers spread across the desk. It was no small thing, their endeavors – and neither were the numbers that such a venture generated.

“I may help, if you would like to rest your eyes?” she offered – for numbers had always made sense to her, even when so much else about life had not. As such, she rather enjoyed applying her mind to the structured order of the challenge they presented until solved.

Aimé needed no further coaxing. He pushed the ledger aside – which also served to move it beyond Liam’s curious reach – and slumped in an exaggerated show of relief. “Yes, please – I would be eternally grateful.”

Affection filled her, brightening her spirits, and those spirits rose yet further when Aimé said: “I received a letter from the viscount while you were out.” He gestured to a stack of pages besides the coffee carafe, where she espied a familiar hand. “Lord Melbourne was most industrious in providing a list of potential English investors, all of whom expressed interest when he made his queries – Georg and I will be quite busy with our correspondence in the weeks to come, but happily so.”

“That is wonderful news,” she agreed – and it was, both for the future of their business (for a private bank, catering to English expatriates would be well served by English investors), as well as for the promise of . . .

Aimé was hardly blind to the way her eyes searched the desk, looking for a similar seal amidst the sea of papers. “At the risk of distracting you from the assistance you so kindly offered,” his eyes twinkled to reveal, “that parcel there is for you.”

He nodded his head – then unable to gesture with his hands for how Liam was very interested in pulling at his neck-tie – towards the side table, which she eagerly approached.

Susan pulled back the string securing the brown packing paper to the mailing crate, and found neatly wrapped gifts within, decorated with colored papers and ribbons. The two largest were marked for the children, although she noticed a smaller box for herself, and a trio of tall, slim packages for Aimé – which she assumed was some spirit or another, as the two enjoyed trading Lavaux wines and Obstler brandies for the Isles’ scotch and whiskies.

Most importantly, though, was the letter tucked in amongst the shredded newsprint that further protected the gifts. It was a thick packet, with the seal straining against its surplus of pages, much to her delight. She opened the cover letter with impatient hands, and noticed that the subsequent page dated as far back as the sixth of June. Thumbing through at a glance, she found a multitude of starts and stops, as if he could never managed to bring the letter to a natural conclusion before adding more in whatever bits and pieces came to mind when he did find the time to write.

“Silly man,” Susan huffed as she sank down onto the nearest sofa – half addressing herself as much as Aimé. “It seems that he kept adding to his letters without ever breaking to post.”

From there, she turned back to the cover letter, and read:

Susan sighed, not for the first time, for the formality of the introduction, before her eyes flicked to the next line.

How could she not smile for those words – able as she was to imagine the wry look and easy, self-deprecating tone that would have accompanied their speaking in person?

Her smile only grew for his casual irreverence, even as she shook her head. Aimé, she noticed, had been watching her until that point, but he turned his attention in full upon the children once he was satisfied that it was a happy letter.

And happy it was - there was page upon page containing anecdotes leading up to the coronation, and then concerning the coronation itself. She knew that some of the lines were exaggerated for her benefit, while others she considered more thoughtfully for all that they may not have said. There was an entire paragraph, for example, detailing a squabble between the Duke of Wellington and the Duke of Norfolk concerning the bunting on the parade route that very nearly led to a duel. This, she suspected, may have been somewhat embellished – while a line written with tight letters only briefly mentioned how ridiculous the Marquess of Chandos was for arguing against a coronation parade in whole, fearing that Her Majesty would succumb to a swoon for being so unnaturally put on display before such a multitude. There, she read anger, and there, his words did not linger.

A line concerning the American minister and his attempts to lodge an official complaint against the queen’s conduct at a state luncheon was scratched out entirely – and it was far from the only line, which was curious when Lord William usually wrote so cleanly and concisely in expressing his thoughts.

She read through the events of the coronation with relish, imagining the glittering majesty of such a spectacle – and took note of the queen’s reaction to Lord Rolle’s fall, in particular. Lord William’s pen was then most praiseworthy, but not, Susan concluded, with any false sincerity for her benefit.

There, the letter continued:

There, Susan saw how the ink uncharacteristically blotted, so much so that she suspected the letter had momentarily been abandoned and then later resumed.

For the impetus of that paragraph, she felt an old blade, long left to rust in her chest, turn once more. She closed her eyes, and breathed; then, she resumed her reading.

Again, that blade twisted; deeply, she breathed.

Yet that was all he wrote concerning the memory of Augustus’ passing – not that she'd expected anything more.

Instead, the letter returned to matters concerning the queen. The weeks following her coronation had been most contentious – that, even Susan knew from the headlines in Switzerland. She'd suspected that there was more to the story, so much so that Aimé had been treated to an instance or two of her furious pacing as she maligned the British press (and all those international editors beyond) in the strongest language (if not always the most genteel) possible.

Although there was much that Lord William did not say – or, perhaps, rightly could not say without breaking confidence with his sovereign – she felt vindicated to read his view on the matter. There was more to the story – there always was.

Out of all the pages she'd read – Lina, by then, had expressed her intention to paint the swans on the lake with her watercolors, while Liam was playing quietly on the floor as Aimé returned to his work – it was this one that gave her the most pause. She reread it more than once, parsing through the words as fondness and joy sparked in her to join a most contented sense of relief. (Many years had passed since Lord William wrote so positively of the future, after all.)

And yet . . .

Susan was torn between gratitude for this young queen and the devotion she inspired, even as she couldn’t help but worry for the many ways that devotion could serve as a forewarning of its own. At length, she relaxed her grip about the pages – for it was merely in her nature to unduly concern herself where there was no true cause for concern. She was sure that this was one of those times. (Wasn’t it?)

Yet that was nothing as to how she felt when she read:

Surprise was too slight a word to explain the emotion that filled her. She could still remember the greenhouses in their glory from her girlhood, down to their every detail. It had always saddened her to think of that veritable Eden left alone and abandoned over the years, with only the estate's cultivators to care for and enjoy.

Susan swallowed against the sudden thickness in her throat, and continued:

Yellow buttercups, she still remembered, for filial love, happiness, and new beginnings . . . and white for ardent admiration.

Not that, she glanced at the paragraph again, the meanings themselves had any bearing on this particular decision, and yet, there they remained.

From his desk, Aimé noticed her shift in demeanor. He put down his pen, and gave her his full attention.

“Bad news?” he asked, concerned.

Was it? she wondered, even as: “Oh, there always is,” she said, only somewhat sardonically. (The slight rise of her shoulders and quirk of her mouth was all his in origin, she'd long recognized about herself.) “But not expressly this time . . . or, not exactly, I don't think.”

To further convey what she couldn't wholly put into words, she handed Aimé the pages she'd already read. He looked at her, a brow raised, before he curiously turned his attention to the letter. It took him some time to catch up as she went on to read her own concluding pages, which spoke of general plans for the rest of the summer. Some pages he merely skimmed over, while, with others, he lingered.

“I see,” he finally murmured. He held a hand to his chin, as he often did when deeply considering a matter, before he asked, “Do you think he knows?"

So her concerns were not unfounded.

“There is a stark difference between knowing and acknowledging,” she pointed out with a sigh. “Where he falls on that score, I cannot say. Instead, I can only . . . ”

But she bit her lip for the surge of frustration that swelled within her (with foreboding and happiness and preemptive sorrow, all), and said no more.

Seeing the clear rise of her emotions, Aimé stood and came over to join her on the settee. He opened his arms, and she leaned against him with a sigh. For a long moment, he merely held her, letting her recover what she could of her peace as he stroked a comforting hand over her back. “Your heart is far too big for your chest," he muttered against her hair.

“How can I not worry?" she returned, her hands tightening against him. "I feel as if my heart is not big enough to hold all the worry that there's cause to feel."

She felt Aimé's chest move with a fond exhalation of breath. “I never said it was a bad thing – only a good thing that may nonetheless cause you pain, which, in turn, pains me." He was quiet for a moment, and then said, "I would like the viscount to be happy, too – not only for your happiness, but my joy for the gift of you."

Her heart then filled with far more than pain. She lifted her head in order to meet his eyes and say: “And I am happy here. I never mean to suggest otherwise."

“Oh, I never doubted," he assured. "Even though I suspect that you wish to visit England now, more than ever, do you not?"

She did not answer – but then, she had no need to as Aimé continued, "Let us see how this next year goes – mayhap, before long, we can even call it a business trip to secure connections with our English investors."

“I would like that very much," she confessed – and then, how could she not kiss her husband for how warmly he smiled? She felt herself sooth all the more so, drawn back towards equilibrium once more.

“Now, write your reply," Aimé encouraged. "I can brave the ledgers in the meantime."

“My knight," she said affectionately, and followed him back to the desk for the neighboring escritoire that she had for her use. There, she brought out a fresh sheaf of stationary, and picked up her pen.

It was still an instinct for her to write father, these many years later – but she had never assumed that privilege, and then, after Ireland . . .

Nothing had ever been the same again.

Yet she shook that maudlin thought aside as she instead began to write:

Chapter Text

It was an unseasonably hot day, even for summer in Coburg.

The weather had everyone in foul tempers – or, at least, it did one particular denizen of Schloss Rosenau, who, as lord of the castle, had the ability to inflict a matching ill humor on all those around him and no inclination for restraint against doing so.

As was his habit whenever the duke seemed poised to vent his spleen, Franz Albert, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, chose the preemptive measure of a retreat. In his youth, such routs had been accompanied by thundering heartbeats and shaking hands; now, he simply regarded the man who was nominally his father with quiet contempt, and refused to allow him any further power over his mind.

Invariably, he'd found the best place to weather the storm in the north-western corner of the uppermost attic. The duke would never lower himself to search a space so beneath him – or so Albert had assumed as a child, before he realized that only the servants were ever sent to find him – and that one benefit outweighed its every disadvantage in comfort. The air was invariably close and stale, while the sweltering heat stuck his clothes to his skin and caused his hair to fall limply over his forehead. The crowded space had always felt small, even as a youth, without his adult self's full height, yet it was comfortable in a way that superseded the mere physical. Here, between the shield of an old, baroque chest of drawers and an upright brace of cloth-covered paintings, he had his sanctuary.

Years ago, with a child's curiosity, he’d pulled back the flaxen cloth and crate paper to analyze the visages of his stern-faced ancestors. Most unexpectedly, he'd found a portrait of his mother hidden away amongst the forgotten works, depicting her as a very young woman, perhaps only newly married. Somehow, this painting had survived the duke's scourge of ordering every last remnant of Princess Louise expunged from the castle upon his exiling her from Coburg. Aware of the portrait's great value for its singularity, Albert was always careful to tuck the cloth back around the dull bronze frame whenever he pulled it out to examine. (Whenever he found his own memory of her fading at the edges, and wished to strengthen her presence.) In the worst moments of his childhood, he’d even gone so far as to talk to his mother's likeness – though he'd since grown beyond the need to indulge in such a pointless puerility.

Instead, he sat perfectly still, his head resting back against the chest, and watched the dust motes float in the too-bright sunshine streaming in from the windows.

“Sweet Christ, Albert, but I'd hoped against finding you here – this hole hardly felt spacious as a child, let alone now.”

At the sound of his brother's voice, Albert looked to see Ernst, hunched at an awkward angle in an effort to avoid the low, steep slant of the roof. Carefully, he brother picked a path between the furniture and crates and other such miscellanea, all the while muttering intermittent oaths in consternation. For his part, Albert said nothing aloud – which, as ever, deterred Ernst but little as he claimed his usual spot on an old scarlet footstool with torn velvet upholstery.

Dramatically, he sighed.

“I would have thought you much too old to hide from Father like this – yet here you are, proving me a fool.”

Albert recognized his brother's intent to raise him from his brewing choler for what it was. Even so, his intention to hold his silence – for boring Ernst ever proved the most effective way to ensure he’d take his leave sooner rather than later – faded to naught when he replied:

“I am not hiding.”

He placed not the slightest stress on a single syllable; still, Ernst heard how they bristled.

“Father thinks you are,” Ernst returned, and Albert caught the warning disguised by his own seemingly untouchable good cheer in answer.

For that, he leaned his head back against the chest without a word.

And he reflected.

That morning, he’d awakened early, as was his habit. He had no inclination to indulge in mindless revelry through the small hours of the morning, and his retiring early at night usually had the added benefit that the duke was rarely about to catch him before he stole away in pursuit of his own interests for the day.

Usually, that was.

Yet, that morning, when he'd alighted from his quarters, the duke unfortunately caught him in the corridor. (And Albert refused to think about which room he was coming from, as always.) The duke was currently making a grand affair of hosting Lord and Lady von Bernau, and it seemed that even the morning meal was to be another study in garishly overweening decadence. As such, in no uncertain terms, Albert was required by his father to attend.

There, once the table finally sat (well past ten o'clock), Albert was present merely in body. He poked at his boiled egg with little appetite, and made no effort to attend the conversation at the table, let alone contribute. Yet, somehow, no matter his every indication of disinterest, Lady von Bernau saw fit to address him directly and inquire of his studies at Bonn.

Even for a subject that he could usually bring himself to discuss in a stranger's company, Albert could only stare, uncertain why his father’s latest mistress thought that he’d have anything to say to her when her lawful husband sat just there by her side - and, to all reports, was complacent in her sin.

The moment could have been called uncomfortable – little as Albert thought his manners lacking towards a woman who'd already so grossly shamed herself by her own doing – had it not been for Ernst, who answered on his behalf.

“My brother excels in studying the sciences.”

“Oh,” the lady’s brow had furrowed, as if she could not understand having such an inclination, let alone pursuing its advancement. “How singular.”

“Entirely,” the duke had agreed, his voice tight. Albert, despite himself, went still in his chair for the timbre. “Little as his playing at a scholar will ultimately matter once England calls.”

It had been on the tip of his tongue to challenge those words – yet the duke maintained the opinion that his continued education was an expense they could ill-afford, and Albert had no desire to stoke that argument anew. Following the scourge of Napoleon, Coburg and Gotha were little more than bankrupt states, yes - but the duke ever found ways to scam his creditors in order to pour obscene amounts of guldens into opulent improvements both here at Schloss Rosenau and the seat of the duchy in Schloss Ehrenburg. Yet, somehow, financing his youngest son’s studies was a strain too far on the royal coffers.

Besides, Albert heard all too regularly, what use would he have for science and art and philosophy, when he was instead intended for . . .

So Albert had stood, and left the table without a word.

Needless to say, the duke had been in high dungeon ever since.

“Ah, well,” Ernst shrugged, breaking into his ruminations, “Cousin Marie deflected your departure with all the graciousness that you failed to show – much as you must know how I admire your intrepidity otherwise.”

(The neither of them could ever bring themselves to call their father’s second wife mother – and Marie had never pressed. The duke, for his part, had no care what his sons called their stepmother, so long as it was Duchess Marie in company.)

“Of course, it is Lady von Bernau who will truly distract him,” Ernst blithely continued. “It’s utterly intolerable indoors – even you must be in want of some relief. In pursuit of such, that good lady is currently suggesting an expedition to Goldbergsee.”

Albert tensed for the idea, little as he had any desire to be trapped in their company if the outing was agreed upon, and utterly unwilling to -

“If you go out through the west door now, you shouldn’t be seen.”

- but Ernst seemingly plucked his thoughts from the air, much as he ever did, and addressed them at their heart.

“I’d make my way with haste, that said. I was supposed to be looking for you, yet if one of the servants finds you, I doubt they’ll be as . . . forgetful as I am when reporting to Father.”

Albert smiled in answer – a small smile, but true – and said simply: “Thank you.”

It was a trick, unfolding himself from the cramped space, but he managed. Still crouched against the roof, he picked up his satchel – not that he’d accomplished any of his intended reading – and carefully slung the bag over his shoulder so as to avoid knocking the paintings askew.

Yet it was not until he made to pass Ernst that his brother snapped his fingers.

“Ah, yes; I almost forgot!” Ernst epiphanized – if in a tone that suggested no such lapse in memory. “This came from Her Majesty, just after you sulked from the table. It is Father's command that you have a reply ready to send with the next post.”

Annoyance danced across his skin with prickling intensity. “I will answer our cousin in my own time, much as I ever do.”

Even so, Albert well knew the boundaries that he could not push against, and accepted the letter thusly. He slipped it into his pack without looking, and was then content to forget about its presence as he left the attic behind.

It was, by then, a familiar route to his feet – following one of the servants’ passages down the curling staircases, and pausing for sign of either footsteps or voices. It was slower going than he would have liked, yet he found himself outside soon enough. The heat of the day rippled over him once he stepped through the doors, reinforcing its presence after the relative relief of the cool stone passageways, and he stopped only long enough to shrug off his frock coat and roll up his shirtsleeves. Already, the sun felt as a brand against his face.

The gardens spanned before him, but he ignored their cultivated orderliness in favor of turning for the ruins of the ancient stone wall, which had once stood as part of the castle’s fortifications in times bygone. Without slowing his stride, he cut through the deteriorating archway, and allowed the shade of the trees to swallow him.

He made quick time, picking out the nearly invisible path that led down the exposed shale and lydite outcroppings that formed the great hills of the region. Moss grew over the dominant boulders that framed the deep gorges, where small cascades and streams flowed down to the Itz river below. Only when the descent began to level, and he heard the sound of shallow rapids rushing over river-stones, did he allow his pace to slow. Finally, he breathed.

Here, the ancient beech forest was thick and dense, blocking out the worst of the sun's rays. He walked deeper and deeper into the wood, as much out of his own inclination as to increase the distance between himself and the castle. At his feet, wood-rush thrived in the shadows, while the second crop of that season’s heather prepared to bloom where the sunlight filtered down through the canopy. Closer to the water, elderberry trees thrived, with their branches bearing the new green berries of the season. He followed one particular stand down to the river itself – where a most favored stone outcropping provided an ideal spot for respite.

There was, at the summit of the buff, one particularly old tree with a wide, gnarled base of a trunk. Its massive expanse of branches was vast enough to both join the retreat of the forest before the water’s edge and bow over the river itself. The bark provided a natural support at its roots, and it was there that Albert found his seat. He spent some time motionless, doing nothing but breathe as he absorbed the nature-quiet of his surroundings. The babbling of the water, the breeze soughing through the leaves, the birdsong far above . . . together, their harmony soothed him, until, finally, he felt that he could open his eyes again.

With his newfound composure thus secured, he took a book out from his satchel with the intent to sketch. He’d already drawn an exact replica of the flowering elderberry, and now he wished to capture its life cycle with new berries; in a month’s time, he would draw its fruit again, ripe for the harvest.

Elderberry trees were not so common in the north, closer to the sea – and Otto (who studied agricultural advancements in the form of hybrid crops to grow in the less hospitable saline soils of that region) had expressed his interest in the flora of the Thuringian states. Towards that end, Albert was happy to provide what examples he could – especially when he didn't have the option of hosting his schoolmates at Schloss Rosenau during the summer. It would have been a very pleasant thing . . . to have Otto and Lukas and Theodore here to visit. He could imagine no better company, yet neither would he ever inflict his father upon that same company – little as the duke would have welcomed the second sons of the minor nobility who'd decided to turn to employment in order to advance their prospects in the first place.

(As if their fate wouldn't have been his own, if he didn't also share ties of blood with the august House of Hanover in England.)

That thought bit at him as he applied himself to his task – which was perhaps why each drawing was just slightly off so as to convey the truth of the specimen. After a fourth failed attempt, he gave up, frustrated by his lack of discipline.

Albert tapped his pencil against the leather binding of his sketchbook, and allowed himself the indulgence of a sigh.

With growing discontent, he replaced the book in his satchel. There, his hand brushed against the letter he'd forgotten about (ignored) just as quickly as it had been imposed upon him. He took it out, slowly turning the weighted paper over between his fingers before conceding to the inevitable. His mood was already nettlesome; better would it be to add to that distemper now, rather than when he was in a more favorable state of mind.

So he broke the seal, and looked to where the letter began, much as it ever did, with a single word:

The lack of formality was Victoria's prerogative, of course – he ever called her Cousin Drina in return, as she was no sovereign over him. (Yet that did not wholly explain why he felt his mouth tighten, all before he consciously eased his expression for neutrality.)

He skimmed the first paragraph, which contained the expected inquiries as to the health of her uncle and aunt (as always, for the title, his fingers pressed against the page) and dearest Cousin Ernst, who always makes me laugh – as if he didn’t already well know that she regularly communicated with his elder brother with far more enthusiasm than he, if the length of her letters was any indication.

That line, he knew, was merely a petty jab from an equally immature girl; thus, he resolved to pay it no heed.

(And yet, to this girl, he was expected to submit?)

From there, her letter delved into perfunctory reports on the events surrounding her coronation, which momentarily gave him pause – had it truly been so long since she last wrote? He hadn’t paid much attention to the news from England at the beginning of the summer but to recall that Uncle Leopold had been in arms over his nephew's lack of an invitation to the event. For his part, Albert understood why he'd not been welcome to attend – even if the rest of his family refused to accept that apparent logic for themselves – and was instead more befuddled for why his father did not attend when he was so invited.

There were an even greater number of whores to fornicate with in England, after all – Albert would have assumed that he’d appreciate the variety.

(Better, though, did he know that the duke liked to think himself more a king over his humble dutchy. Ernst I had no desire to be reminded of his true insignificance in the Court of St. James', where he wouldn't carry anything near a matching prominence with Victoria's English uncles.)

From there, he noticed that his cousin made scant mention of the initial weeks following her coronation – as if he wasn't aware of the great embarrassment she’d already inflicted upon the Crown with her cruelty towards Lady Flora. Albert had said his own prayers for the maligned woman when the headlines first reached Germany – along with entreaties that the Almighty help temper his cousin's wildness for a more befitting feminine grace and Christian modesty – even while fighting his own unbecoming sense of vindication (satisfaction) for the criticisms her blunders garnered from her own people and beyond.

It was best that she learn the error of her ways now, in a relatively personal fashion, he'd reasoned, before she faltered in a matter any more vital to her realm and the subjects she ruled.

His expressing those thoughts to Ernst, however, had afforded him a rare moment of actual temper from his brother – in a way that Albert still did not like to recall.

“Have you been completely blind these years past?" he'd been incredulous to challenge. "There is far more churning beneath these surface headlines. You must have observed it for yourself when we were last in England, or at least you would have, if you but opened your eyes to see.”

“You mean the nonsense of her claims against Sir John?” Albert failed to understand – for, in England, he'd seen nothing but a headstrong girl grossly disrespecting her elders. For the way she presumed to know her own course, and how disgracefully she treated her mother in conjunction with the man who only sought to kindly advise her . . .

After all, a mother alive and well and present was a blessing – little as she could see the value of that gift for what it was.

Victoria needed a strong hand, had been his conclusion – and would benefit and flourish from one, if she ever allowed herself to be so guided. The friction that resulted at Kensington and beyond was entirely due to her stubborn intransigence in refusing to yield.

“Nonsense?” Ernst had repeated, as if he couldn't fathom the word. “Sometimes, brother, for all the time you spend thinking, I pity you for your utter lack of comprehension.”

Ernst's rebuke had stung – for he did place a very great value on his brother’s opinion – and, out of respect, he'd taken the time to further consider his arguments. Ultimately, however, he'd maintained his own conclusions.

Albert glanced through the next passage, summarizing her time at Bushy Park with the dowager queen and her many cousins. (Bastards all, born from her uncle’s myriad sins – shameful acquaintances which he would not allow to continue if her household ever became his own.) He had little interest in the few details she chose to share, all until she continued with her recent-most arrival in the south of England:

The Isle of Portland is as charming as an island can be – it may not compare with the Isle of Wight, but it's entirely lovely in a way that is stark in majesty. I suppose that there are no equal wonders in Coburg, locked by land as you so sadly are on every side. The entire coastline is similarly to be marveled over with its dramatic cliffs and quiet coves. We were even fortunate enough to have found fossils on the beach, as this region is rife with such treasures. I found a fossil etched in a chip of stone – a perfectly preserved dragonfly, I've since learned after inquiry, from eons past. I thought you would like that, as you are always collecting such things from the natural world, are you not?​

As ever, he was bemused by her changeable disposition – vacillating between pique one moment and kindness the next, and with each emotion as genuine as the last. (He did not at all find her demeanor intriguing so much as aggravating, of course.)

Yet, instead of dwelling overlong on that thought, he continued to read:

There are the queerest birds on the shores here, who walk on stilted legs – at first, Dash did not quite know how to conduct himself before instinct held sway and he gave chase. As such, he was rather surprised when the ocean surf caught up with him in one particularly violent wave. He was drenched with saltwater and grit, and I was forced to put off meeting with the First Sea Lord in order to give him a bath.​

More of the same frivolous generalities then continued – what monarch postponed a meeting concerning their realm’s defenses for the sake of a dog? He could not understand his cousin, and he found his mind drifting.

(He wondered what Otto was doing then. It had been a fortnight since his last letter, and he rather knew that he'd find a better match for his mind in any correspondence he sent.)

The points offered by both sides were quite sensible, and when I suggested the possibility of a compromise, I half expected that I was to be laughed at. The VA looked at me in such a way, at least – but Lord M’s smile was more approving than amused, which quite calmed my own temper. The VA expressed that we should never compromise on security for the realm, whereas Lord M countered that, with a little compromise, a great many necessary things for the realm could be accomplished – this proposed naval base included. As such, he most pointedly called my wisdom refreshing, right to the First Sea Lord, me, wise? which, I must admit, heartened me dearly.​

For a long moment, Albert stared at the page, assessing her words. In the absence of Sir John, his uncle had pressed upon him to establish his own influence in the vacuum that was naturally left in his wake. He’d warned that Victoria was relying on dangerous advisors – advisors who played their own games by manipulating such a young, easily impressionable girl for their own ends. Amongst those advisors, Leopold had cautioned, her prime minister was the most egregious offender. Yet, for his part, Albert saw but little opportunity for himself, not when it seemed that need was already filled – nor would he press himself to infringe, not when he'd already vowed that he would never lower himself to court (entreat) her attention as if he was some fawning lapdog, desperate for treats. His pride necessitated as much.

His uncle had since expressed his frustration that he had not already been invited (summoned) to England to present his suit, yet Albert was in no hurry to bind himself in matrimony. He had school to return to in a mere month's time, and a tour of Italy planned the spring following, headed by his long favored mentor, Florschütz, and a selection of his closest schoolmates. Albert infinitely preferred that course to being immediately chained to the throne of England as an ornamental dead-weight.

That bleak future was an ill thought – and one he hardly intended to allow pass, if and when he was beholden to do his duty for his country. He would never be ruled by his wife; somehow, he would take his place ruling – and so, he pushed those considerations aside for another time.

Instead, he continued reading:

It was, Albert thought, entirely perplexing that his cousin thought herself colonel-in-chief in anything more than name to begin with.

Those paragraphs where the longest she'd kept to a single subject throughout her missive. Perhaps somewhat unkindly, Albert suspected that the letter would have already been concluded if Victoria refrained from any mention of what Lord M did or did not do or say.

For that sudden perturbation of thought, he wondered at himself. He frowned, his eyes turning unseeing to her words as he distantly took in the dappled sunlight that skipped over the water and danced across the stone face of the outcropping. He let his thoughts flow much the same, examining them one by one.

He was not, Albert concluded, jealous – for that emotion would have to be antecedent to any claim to feel infringed upon, or an attachment, at the very least. He had no understanding with his cousin except that which was implied by the wishes of their families, and he himself was begrudging to fulfill that unspoken promise . . . was he not?

"You could do great things as king," Otto had pointed out, one of the rare times that he'd expressed his thoughts on so personal a matter. "You’d be in a place to make the kind of progress that the rest of us can only dream about an actuality. Why wouldn’t you want to assume such a role?"

"I would hardly be king – merely the queen’s consort."

"Yet will you not be the queen’s husband? Ultimately, the diktats of nature will ensure that she yields to you; some things are impossible to circumvent, crown or not."

"You have never met Victoria, then," Albert had neither smiled nor sighed for that truth – but merely stated it aloud. (There was no small part of him that was already weary to consider the battle of wills that he suspected would define their relationship where the matter of power was concerned, at that.)

Restlessly, he drummed his fingers against his knee, before consciously ceasing the aimless gesture. Was it familial concern that he felt, then? Perhaps he merely worried on behalf of his cousin, and feared that she was being taken advantage of by a far older politician who was commonly known to be disreputable? No; neither did that ring quite true. He would have to consider this matter further in order to better know his own mind.

(He was uncertain of so many things as of late, it seemed, and that uncertainty maddened him.)

As always, she did not refrain from the (most pointed) use of her full title. Equally so, Albert felt a spike of amusement (irritation) for the sight, even as he refolded the letter. Loosely, he held it, considering all that he head read within.

He supposed that he should go about composing his reply – as that would be one less thing to try his father’s disapproval. Yet he found himself slow to do so, and it was only with an effort that he reached into his pack for fresh paper and a pen.

Dutifully, he set himself to his task:

(He did not at all feel a certain amount of satisfaction to begin his letter as such.)

(Yet, was he?)

(He supposed that was true.)

(It may have been beholden upon him to say.)

(And that was far too true, was it not?)

None of those lines would do. Frustrated, he considered the page before setting it aside, and leaned his head back against the tree with a dull thud. For a time, he simply stared at the light-seared canopy far above him, watching the leaves as they communed with the sun. Deeply, he breathed. He simply had to subject his errant mind to his will, he concluded – and thus, he would. So, towards that end:

- he applied himself anew. Yet his pen merely hovered over the page, and there it remained, silent and still. He felt an unwitting frown turn at his mouth, at a loss for how to proceed.

Yet, perhaps it was understandable, he lowered his hand to acknowledge – he merely needed to consider her letter further before he could form a suitable answer. That was only natural, and thus, acceptable for being so.

Instead, he turned over for a new sheet, and began to write:

Quite heartened, he continued, his pen flying easily over the page as the great boughs above continued their timeless dance.

Chapter Text

His favorite view of the estate was in the morning, just as the sun began to rise.

For decades, it had been his habit to quit the manor-house when it was still dark, and walk down to the lake. There was no better spot than on its far shore to watch the dawn alight the morn, stretching its glowing hands across the sloping hills and cresting the trees with gold. The lake gleamed as molten as a mirror when the angle of the sun struck just right – or, on days like this one, heavy with mist and dew, the entire scene turned aglow as the land seemingly absorbed the dawn from within and reflected it as its own.

George Wyndham, 3rd Earl of Egremont, did not typically enjoy silence, nor could he keep overlong to stillness; to the contrary, he strove quite actively against each. A full house, overflowing with life, was where he was most content – with his children and grandchildren and extended family, along with a host of friends and colleagues and protégés alike. Beyond the family wings, Petworth abounded with resident artists, authors, engineers, scientists, and other forward thinkers who both required patronage to pursue their craft and a comfortable seat from which to see those pursuits accomplished. What else were these vast manor houses for, he held, but to fill and be filled by such excellent company in return?

Admittedly, that mixed company did not always lend itself to tranquility – especially amongst the mothers of his children, if in years past, more so than now. Yet he’d always felt most at ease in the din that came with life and its living, with all of its foibles, than he did otherwise. It was only recently, when his life had fewer sunrises left than not, that he found true contentment in these moments of quiet and contemplation.

The park itself was hushed this early in the day, with the still of the lake broken only where Mr. Thomas led the estate’s fishermen in securing a haul of carp, destined for Petworth’s table. Yet, here, the waters murmured in gentle undulations as they reflected the dawn's growing brilliance. Only a scant few years ago, he may have elected for a swim in order to offset the humidity of the summer's morn, but his old bones were now quite content to stay put on one of the stone benches lining the shore. There, he considered the length and breadth of his days as they waned.

George was not naturally given to maudlin reflections, but they seemingly came unbidden more often than not as of late. For the most part, he thought (worried) about his children – both those with whom he'd cultivated what a relationship he could over the years, and those, out of necessity, he could not. He knew his good fortune for the bonds he had maintained, just as he would ever hold regrets for those he only knew through the monetary support he invested in their futures. He had outlived far too many, at that, (he knew the names of each and every child lost, and remembered them still) while others were untouchable in distance as they pursued fortunes of their own, far and beyond England’s shores. Many more, as so happened with such spans of long acquaintance, had simply lost contact with the man they could not properly claim a filial connection with as their own families grew and they lived their own lives.

For that thought, there were times – and in growing number – when he wondered how things would have changed if he'd sworn himself to one woman alone. What would his life look like now, if he'd married Elizabeth Lamb when she was still just that Irish baronet’s intrepid daughter, all those years ago; if he would have gone through with his engagement to Maria Walpole; or honored his short-lived attempt at the wedded state with his Eliza . . . and reaped the reward of being a true father to whatever children they may have had together – all before he pushed his ruminations aside for their impossibility to bear on the here and now. Ultimately, all he could do with the choices he’d made was to cherish the bonds he still had, and strive to maintain them as best he could.

Towards that end, there were few of his progeny who gave him as much cause for concern as William Lamb.

William, he thought with a sigh – his lungs filling and then emptying so completely that his shoulders rose and fell with the gesture. George had always been particularly close with the two Lambs who were rather Wyndhams instead. So much had been different about the strictures of their society at the time – with Peniston Lamb maintaining his claim on his wife only as his partner and helpmate, so long as she was as discreet in seeking out any further affections as he was his own. They had developed their bonds in an unorthodox manner – one that spurned traditional values, perhaps – but in a way that best served their particular circumstances for each party involved. (Even if it had torn at George, in a way he ever told himself was unreasonable, whenever the viscount came to collect his wife and children as the family he could lawfully claim as his own, in every way that truly mattered.)

Yet, since Peniston had passed – a loss that had strangely saddened George as well – and Liz far too soon thereafter . . .

Well, he now thought it his duty as much as his privilege to look after their family (their family) to the best of his ability.

As such, he was a constant presence for Emily as a supposedly honorary grandfather for her children, just as he had attended her second marriage to the Viscount Palmerston and blessed her union as a father would – all when they could not. With William, however, it often seemed that there were far more defeats to weather than there were victories to celebrate – from that damnable mess with Lady Branden and the loss of Susan . . . to the ugly façade of justice in the Caroline Norton case . . . to the night the buildings of Parliament had burned. Although years had passed, George could still remember – he would never forget – how his heart had turned in terror when he first realized the source of the inferno on the Thames. He'd never felt so intense a fear before, all until he'd found his son – his son – amongst those who’d endeavored to save what they could of their nation’s history from the fire, blistered and coughing and soot-faced but alive, God be praised for his mercy.

Yet, for the victories he had attended: watching William be sworn into their highest office of civil service possible by the king; attending the first opening of Parliament that William oversaw as prime minister, and every session since . . . knowing of the good he had done for the realm, even in all the ways that would go long unpraised . . . and now, to be the prime minister who attended Queen Victoria through her ascension and ensured that she embarked upon her rule from the security of a firm foundation . . .

Liz, George had thought more than once, that most auspicious of days in Westminster Abbey, would have been so very proud of her son – and he'd been happy to be proud enough for their entire triad as he cheered God save the queen louder than any of his peers.

And yet . . .

Well, wasn’t there always such a caveat in life? It was with elation as much as foreboding that he now considered all that he had observed in London – from that which was to be expected between a new monarch and her prime minister, perhaps . . . and all that was decidedly unexpected.

At first, George hadn't thought anything of William’s letters that season but to be pleased by his renewed zeal for his premiership. In his own way, George had found his own interest in the monarchy renewed, if not quite faith restored – as he ever held that it was the deepest pockets in the land who more effectively saw to governance, let alone change, which he ever fought to promote with his own fortune for the better – and he came to anticipate the gems that William had to share from the palace.

As the summer days lengthened, however, George was not sure exactly when the tone of that admiration had shifted – deepened – except to realize that it had at Her Majesty’s coronation ball.

George held that thought closely, examining it from every facet as he once again looked over the water. The mists had begun to recede, if ever so slightly, and they burned with a rosy heart of gold to mirror the sun's hidden brilliance above. They would not hold for much longer, he knew, before they gave way completely for the day.

William, it was with as much fondness and exasperation as a considerable amount of worry that he wondered: what is there to be done with you?

For that thought, George brought out the letter that had rested in his pocket since its arrival the day before. He turned the folded paper over in his hands and stared at the now broken seal, absorbing the peace of the morn for but a moment longer before he unfolded its contents anew.

And there, he began to read:

It was, as ever, a very old pang that glanced within him for the formal greeting – little as it could have been addressed otherwise.

That it most certainly did. George already anticipated teasing him quite heartily in his own reply (and once again advising less brandy and nights spent sleeping in that damnable chair – God, but when had he become such a nagging ninny?), but, for the moment, that answer would have to wait.

Even more so than the admiration that exuded from the paper, there was something else that colored these words. It had taken George more than one reread to identify that emotion as happiness. Had it really been so long since William last wrote in such a state, for him to near fail in recognizing its presence entirely?

It was a thought that lingered with him as he read once more:

George let out a chuckle, as much amused for the easy inhibitions of their new queen – truly innocent as those inhibitions were at heart – as he was on behalf of William’s discomfiture. George would wager that this boldness was not at all a byproduct the Duchess of Kent had first anticipated when she chose to raise her daughter in isolation, yet it was hardly surprising. Her Majesty's curiosity for the world was entirely sincere, and she saw no need to temper her thoughts and opinions for being raised away from the same society that would've instilled in her that there should be shame. Their queen was very much aware of the constraints of her age and gender, and yet separate from those constrictions all at once – which was, admittedly, a most singular combination.

He lowered the page again, and looked beyond the water, out to the green hills as the mists softened to reveal their verdant crowns, taken by his thoughts. George had enjoyed the privilege of dancing with Her Majesty at her coronation ball – an honor, to be sure, given the list of illustrious guests from which she had to choose. Even in those few minutes, she'd met his eyes boldly and brightly, without any of the coyness and false modesty that usually marked a daughter of high society. She spoke openly and freely in a way that, he suspected, was quite herself, no matter how many glasses of wine she may have consumed otherwise.

Then, wine or no wine, there was how she'd looked at his son with such adoration from the very first moment she’d espied him across the ballroom . . . not to mention how easily she'd moved with him during their waltz.

George would perhaps, with caution, call Her Majesty's admiration entirely understandable as that of a sheltered young woman towards the very first man – and an entirely handsome and urbane man, at that – she’d known beyond the nunnery of Kensington, had it not been for . . .

. . . well, had it not been for the way his son looked at her in return, and held her as if she was something infinitely precious.

Deeply, George exhaled. This time, he was slow to turn his attention back to the letter.

For those words, his old father's heart ached – with happiness and pride and concern, all – and he lingered over the paragraph before reading further.

The letter then continued to discuss the highlights of Weymouth away from the sea, including the royal residence at Gloucester House. More words were spent on the First Sea Lord’s proposals for improvements to both the Isle defenses and the mainland harbor, and the vice admiral's interactions with the queen concerning such – all of which was intelligence that George appreciated in its own right. There were more details concerning the somewhat unorthodox opening of the new Royal Infirmary, and the patronage the queen paid to the various vocational and charitable institutions in the area, all before the letter wound down to its natural conclusion.

The simplicity of the signature, at least, was a boon in its own right. It was with no small amount of feeling that George looked over the familiar slant of letters before he refolded the sheets and returned them to the inner pocket of his coat. By the time he looked up again, the orb of the sun was fully over the horizon, and the colors of the estate had begun to sharpen from the pastel hues of the dawn to their full saturation in welcome. With the day thus marked, George stood from the bench, and began his trek back to the house.

By the time he returned indoors, a fair number of his guests were up and about, and he stopped in the breakfast room to partake in their company. He chatted with the half-dozen of his children and grandchildren present – great-nephews and nieces and cousins so many times removed that their relation all blurred together but to call them his – regarding their plans for the day, just as Mr. Fisher proposed an experiment on the west-lawn that he’d later be interested in attending, and Mrs. O’Neal welcomed any who were interested to join her excursion to sketch the full-blooming gardens in watercolor.

Yet, for the most part, the conversations at the table washed over and around him, and George rose to take his leave before overlong. His thoughts were still many as they vacillated between such opposing poles, and they continued to agitate him like restless currents lapping against a rocky shore.

From the breakfast room, he passed through the second dining hall, which had long since been turned into a great shared studio. Most of the drawing horses and painter’s easels and sculptor’s plinths were empty but for half-finished projects, although there were a few artists making the most of the relative stillness of the morning in order to pursue their own inspirations. The whole space hummed with color and light and line, yet he felt like a discordant note to match, even as a mere observer. Restless, he continued on.

Instead of turning for his study and applying himself to his duties for the day – he left more and more such particulars to his stewards with each passing year – George turned for the private rooms of the manor. Here, he passed yet more souls – traded smiles and pleasantries as were appropriate – before deciding against his usual favored morning room. Instead, he made for the small library on the third floor, the one where . . .

Here, the great, north-facing windows dominating the foremost wall – an expanse of indirect light that was once thought perfectly essential for reading – had turned this space into a preferred refuge for perhaps the most famed artist in residence. (A distinction that now filled George with pride, given how so many of his peers had mocked him – some in good humor, while others decidedly not – for investing in such a modern style that was once considered gouache in its originality.) This studio – for that was truly what it was, the books on the shelves and the comfortable reading chairs notwithstanding – was now entirely Mr. Joseph Mallord William Turner’s domain, and ever remained as thus, even when the artist himself was absent from Petworth.

Turner had never much been one for company – or, at least, company was never much one for Turner – and that disposition had only increased over time. Yet George had patience and wit enough to withstand even the most rapacious of souls; for decades now, Turner had yet to do more than merely amuse him with his grousing, which, in turn, won him a grudging respect and certain amount of forbearance in return. (He knew that the other man appreciated him, more so than merely tolerated him – liked him for his own sake, even, as much as for his patronage – but he’d never force Will to admit half as much aloud.)

George now presumed upon that tolerance in order to enter the library, and take his usual seat in one of the comfortable old leather armchairs. Turner was, as expected, already at the easel – he hardly left whenever he grappled with the advent of creation that was the struggle between artist and canvas and muse – and did not pause but to give a short nod in acknowledgment of his presence. All in silence, George helped himself to the coffee service that was out, and, for a moment, was quite content to watch the master work at his craft.

And what a craft it was. George had seen the study for this piece last year – a faint impression of a ship against a nebulous atmosphere of color that seemed to dominate Turner’s work these days as he endeavored to explore the ambiance of space even more so than an exact focal subject. That study had since evolved into a composition depicting a great, ivory tall-ship being tugged by an ugly, smoke-chugging steamboat to her final berth to be broken down for kindling. The famed HMS Temeraire, Turner had since identified – that glorious marvel of English naval supremacy and as heroic a warrior of the Napoleonic Wars as any of their soldiers of flesh and bone. Turner was currently hazing out the mesmerizing expanse of sunset sky with tongues of rust-fire and ash-black from the smoke, both marring the work of God with the work of man . . . and obscuring the former wisdom of the old ways with the advent of the industrious new.

It was indeed a sunset he painted, in more ways than one. George, for his part, empathized with the picture; he could see a reflection of himself in the painting – just as all great works of art communed between eyes and picture and heart with their audience, each in their own turn.

It was there, as Turner endeavored to strike a balance between clear blue sky and miring clouds, that he took out William’s letter, and read it through once more. He considered each word thoughtfully – and even went so far as to retrieve the stationary that waited in the nearby writing desk, intent on composing his reply. Yet, over the fresh clean sheet, his pen lingered, unsure of where to begin.

(For he had so very much to say – too much, even – to manage a word at all.)

It was then, perhaps noticing his hesitation, that Turner said: “One of your children?”

Turner had backed away from the easel, almost to the boundary of the windows by which George sat, critically observing his painting from a distance to grant his eye a fresh perspective. George glanced up at him, and then down at the pages of William's letter once more.

“Who else?” his voice was dry in answer – well aware that the lines of care on his face had undoubtedly revealed just that.

Turner merely continued to stare at his own work, rather than venturing into any further a distracting remark. George joined him in his scrutiny, and wondered what the artist saw in the glittering white ship as she was pulled away from the horizon.

“When was the last you heard from yours?” George murmured quietly – so quietly that Turner could choose to ignore him completely if he so chose. Turner’s family, after all, along with any and all such personal matters, was a subject rarely ventured upon. Even a scant year ago, George would have known better than to even try.

Yet, with such a painting upon the easel and a letter in hand . . .

“I do not,” Turner thus surprised him utterly by saying – even if the words were, sadly, the anticipated answer. “They have their father now, in every way that matters; I have long been but a distant name to Sarah's girls.”

A floorboard flexed as Turner shifted his weight. He crouched, seeking a new vantage, and then stood up high. Finally, with a muttered word underneath his breath, he stepped forward, and added another blot of violet-grey against the heavens.

The tall-ship all but shimmered in contrast.

Time passed as the long-case clock continued to tick out the minutes – so much so that George thought the equally ghosting interlude concluded and returned his attention back to the letter – before Turner continued: “Which one?”

George blinked, and found that his answer came reflexively, rather than by any conscious command of his tongue: “William.”

Turner snorted – a far more characteristic gesture from the man that nonetheless signified amusement in its own right – and grumbled, “That narrows it down.”

George tipped his head in acknowledgment of the hit, even as he was nonplussed to elucidate: “Lamb.”

“Ah.”

Turner took another step back; a minute later, he returned to blight the canvas.

This time, the smoke burned against the sun.

Silence returned as Turner continued to push the light into the distance with another thin wash of color. Restlessly, George thumbed between the pages of the letter in his hand.

“Do you ever wonder . . .” at length, he attempted to give voice to an entirely abstract thought, “if, at some point – or, any of several points, even . . . if you had chosen differently . . .” but he faltered, and merely ended with a sigh. Usually, words came easily to him, yet then, they failed.

“Show me an old man alive who has not considered such questions," Turner muttered, if more to the canvas as he held his face close enough to see the individual woven fibers of the linen, "and I'll show you a liar – or, at the very least, a fool.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to quip that he was far from old – yet George felt his age most acutely in that moment. He felt it down to his bones.

Instead, he asked, "Have you found your own answers, then?”

“Only futile ones,” Turner murmured. "Always futile."

Another stain deepened the smog; brilliantly, the white beams of the ship burned in answer.

And George thought that, perhaps, he understood completely.

“In the end, we're all old ships destined for kindling – what matters, I suppose, is where we’ve sailed before the axe falls.”

Where one has sailed, and through which storms – and those that they harbored and anchored and journeyed with along the way.

Yet those were more unfocused thoughts that George could hardly venture aloud, content as he was to leave such ideational expressions for the poets and the artists. Instead, he gave a very physical shrug. He filled his lungs deeply, and then emptied them again.

“Your legacy is already a lasting one,” he commented aloud – knowing that Turner would hardly suffer any further praise. “And you have time to secure it yet further.”

A grunt of sound was his answer, before: “As do we all, while we are yet upon the water.”

Turner pointedly flicked his brush towards the unanswered letter, and George loosed a grin – quite sincerely – to agree, “Quite right you are.”

Yet he was unsure if his words words were even heard. Turner's attention was then fully committed to the painting – he worked quickly now, with sweeping washes of color over the vast expanse of sky, pushing and pulling the height and depth of chroma and tone to better fit his vision – and George knew that the artist would be insensible to the world around him for quite some time, absorbed as he was in his own nebula of creation.

So George let him be, and turned his own attention back to his paper once more. Again, he picked up his pen.

He had never presumed upon the privilege of calling William my son aloud – just as he could not for so many. Instead:

- his pen greeted, assuming what familiarity he could, before he continued on to say:

Chapter Text

The heat of Oostende was intolerable as the summer gasped in its first death throes of the season.

The seaside town – normally pleasantly warm through the midyear, but no more – baked in the sun, turning the deep, steel-blue waters of the North Sea into a harsh grey mirror, blinding with reflected light. Leopold Georg Christian Frederick, King of the Belgians, could think of nowhere he’d less like to be. Even sitting in the shade of the pavilion, where the breeze off the shore ruffled the gauzy drapes adorning the Grecian columns, with an iced drink in hand and a cold handkerchief draped around his neck, the scene was utterly unbearable. It was only worse indoors, where the heat seemingly pressed down from the ceilings and the heavy air threatened to close in and suffocate its occupants. At least there was a breeze here, no matter how maddening it was when the wind blew in salt and sand from the sea.

Fruitlessly, Leopold glowered up at the cloudless heavens; resolutely, the sun glared back.

Yet, somehow, his wife took joy in the insufferable tableau. Louise so rarely smiled – or, at least, she ever did so softly – but here, her smiles were wide and easily given. She’d spend her time exclusively at the seaside if she could, far and away from landlocked Laeken. Now, with two sons born, the nascent royal line of their country was somewhat secure; perhaps, after another son, he could generously allow her the indulgence of such freedoms more often. His wife favored solitude, after all; since the onset of their marriage, her preference was to be away from the pressures of court life, and he ever ensured to keep the onus of ruling separate from her gentle constitution and tender sensibilities.

Even now, she paid no heed to the empty beach as it spanned untouched before her, content as she was to exist solely in the space of her own little world. He'd ordered the shore cleared as soon as they'd arrived in residence as a matter of privacy and security – for he’d not have the public gawking at his queen, not when her disposition was so frail. No matter what accusations the insensible Belgians liked to hurl at him, he did put her health and happiness above all else, and he knew best what her well-being required.

Now, sheltered from the intrusion of her subjects, Louise guided their eldest son (eldest now, Leopold’s heart twisted to remember) to seek out seashells from the sand before the waves could rush back in and obscure the treasures. At not yet three years of age, the marvel of the sea was as much a wonder as everything it held within, and Leopold watched as the boy gave a delighted giggle to bat at the water, trying to push the frothy surf away to find the hidden prizes concealed within.

Soon, he decided, he’d have his young family turn back indoors – this weather couldn’t be healthy for either mother or child – but, for now, Leopold was content to let Louise do as she pleased. For his own part, he closed his eyes against the glare of the day and leaned back in his wicker chair, mopping the sweat from his brow yet once more as he sought the indulgence of the wind. When that passed, he swallowed the last dregs of his cognac, and gestured for fresh ice – a command which was promptly obeyed, and satisfyingly so.

Then, he set himself to his correspondence. He made a point to push aside the letter from his father-in-law – for King Louis Philippe of France wished to have Louise visit Paris so that he and his queen could meet their newest grandchild, which Leopold did not at favor. Having his wife but a few miles away on the coast was one thing; out of the country was another thing entirely – just as he had no inclination to accompany her on any such a journey. (For how could he leave her behind, when their own son was still so tenderly young?) He would have the French king travel north, instead, and use Philippe’s infancy as a reason – which would surely be understood.

Towards that thought, he was well aware of the letter awaiting him from Arcadie, burning like an ember for his notice at the very bottom of the pilled missives. She had newly arrived in the Ardennes, he knew – his preferred summer residence, little as he could invite her to Oostende – and undoubtedly wrote to hasten his arrival. He’d leave that very day if he could – the weather be damned – but, with his wife having spent so long in her confinement with Philippe and only just now able to rejoin his company, the strictures of honor demanded that he attend her, if only for the time being.

Leopold sighed, and took a long draw of the freshly iced smash. It rankled at times: the obligations of duty; but he was nothing if not a most dutiful man, and he’d continue to be so, even in defiance of his own self.

As such, he pushed all thoughts of his wife and mistress aside in order to look at the trio of letters spread before him. Together, their contents vexed him more sorely than the heat of the day – with one being from his sister; another, his niece; and the last, his nephew. In totality, they told a story that sorely tried his patience for their discordance in deviating from the future that had been so long scripted beyond mere possibility so as to be irrefutable fact, instead.

It was more of the same from his sister: complaints of her current finances and accommodations; grousing for the English court and her place within it; aspersions against her daughter, who ever failed to pay her the proper respect and so on and so forth; and, most irritatingly, denigrations cast against her new comptroller, Sir Walter, who was not and would never be her dearest Sir John.

Good riddance to the snake, Leopold had thought from the first – the one and only time he would ever raise his glass to Lord Melbourne’s name – all before writing his sister to say that he would exert none of his influence to see that leech restored to his proper place. For all that he was concerned, Sir John's proper place had and always would be far down with the vermin he'd connived to rise from amongst. He was lucky to slither away as a mere baronet; Leopold wouldn't have been half so kind.

A greater cause for concern, however, was how Marie-Louise expressed her wish to visit him on the Continent, both to meet her nephews and better acquaint herself with his wife. Leopold had no desire to indulge her request for his own sake, as he did not need to hear his elder sister’s oftentimes vocal chastisements regarding his personal affairs. It was not her place to question how a man spent his time or controlled his household; it was already bad enough that he had to endure her unsolicited harping in written form, let alone inviting her to screech straight into his ear.

Yet, most irksomely, was how his sister was currently content to summer in Brighton . . . all the while her daughter was off playing monarch with no one but her prime minister present to guide her fledgling reign.

Damn it all to Hades, but he needed Marie-Louise there, in person, to be the queen mother she quite styled herself as and demand that her daughter, in turn, heed his orders for how to exert the powers of her station. This was not something that Drina could do alone, and it was utter vanity – nay, hubris – for her to ever think that she could.

God save him from the overreaching delusions of a brazen-faced woman. Leopold raised his eyes heavenwards, and took another long swallow of his drink.

With that thought, he picked up Victoria's letter. This was only her second time writing him following their correspondence concerning Albert’s lack of an invitation to her coronation. That particular matter was still one that grated upon him; for, to have his authority so defiantly ignored when each and every thing he advised was for her benefit was not to be borne. Her first letter had been an exercise in brevity – hardly even a full page as she reported on the success of her coronation and inquired as to the health of her aunt and cousins. There had been no mention of any matters of state, as if the several communiqués he had sent regarding the imperatives of her rule had simply been lost to the ether, for ether was all that she wrote in reply – impertinent, headstrong girl as she was proving to be!

In this letter, at least, Victoria gave him some clue as to her recent most regnal duties. He read with interest of the First Sea Lord’s proposals concerning the Isle of Portland and Weymouth Bay, even if the length of those paragraphs was eclipsed by talk of flowers and seashells and shorebirds – girlish and unnecessary prattling that only betrayed his niece’s true immaturity of age, and served to fortify his certainty that his presence was most certainly needed for her to avoid making an absolute fool of herself on the throne of England.

(A throne that had so nearly been his as king consort – a fate which, had it come to pass, would have allowed Princess Drina the freedom to remark over the beauties of the seaside to her heart’s content.)

Eventually, Victoria's report turned to her time in Portsmouth: the seat of the United Kingdom’s naval supremacy over the seas since times bygone. At least then, her commentary was primarily focused on the marvels of the old Roman fort at Portchester Castle, and current wonders like the Hillsea Lines and a tour of Nelson’s own HMS Victory at the dockyards.

There, she wrote:

Leopold loosed a sigh for his niece finding entertainment in such violence – tales of a man’s war, fought by men, that had no place in her innocent ears – and once again wished that he had been present (or, better yet, Albert, who should have already been her proper master as husband and king) to forestall the conversation in its entirety.

The day following, I embarked upon a tour of the forts of Portsea. I was attended by many from the Board of Admirals, whose presences were somewhat intimidating of the utmost interest as they explained the make and muster of our nation’s defenses. I learned so much, and am determined to learn yet more still in furtherance of my reign. Mostly, I merely listened and absorbed what I could – my questions, I waited to convey to Lord M in private, for I have complete trust in his discretion as the foremost advisor to my crown.​

For being a former soldier under Wellington himself, there was no more peace-mongering a Whig in government than William Lamb, Leopold thought with disdain. He would write once again to apprise his niece of that fact, and instruct her to direct any and all such questions to where they could truly be answered for the best in the future.

That same night, I attended a dinner at the Admiralty House, hosted by Admiral Sir Philip Durham. Many of the admiralty were in attendance, and, much the same as with the Isle of Portland, inquiries were made as to the possibility of new forts & improvements to the current defenses of Portsea. It is within the Crown’s power to recommend such measures to Parliament, but I shan't do so when those measures have no likelihood of passing – which Lord M maintains they do not. They cannot; not yet – or, at least, not to such a degree as the admiralty desires.

The gentlemen were by then freely partaking in port & cigars – which you know I hold as a horrid habit, for I do so detest the smell of smoke. Thank goodness my dear Lord M has no liking for any such supposed indulgences, for I would have to scold him most severely otherwise.​

Leopold, then entire pages into Victoria's letter, could have done entirely without everything dear Lord M did nor did not like, let alone said or thought or did.

So liberal were the libations provided that A. Durham – at one particularly spirited point of discourse, where I yet held with my prime minister to the neutrality of the Crown – quite abruptly asked if I would entertain the men at the piano. He was cordial, and said every complimentary good thing in claiming that he had heard of my skill, and wished to beg my indulgence for his whim, for he is a very great lover of music.

Yet I was shocked displeased for the rudeness of his request for I doubt a king would be similarly shooed away as a pest, but unsure how to deny him without being seen as querulous which is far more dangerous for a queen than it will ever be for a king. Thankfully, I had no need to answer. The table was very quiet – perhaps I was not the only one who thought the admiral odious, or at least offensive in his clear dismissal of his sovereign – until Lord M belayed the admiral’s command for it had most certainly been a command by saying that he had heard of the admiral’s love of music, and wasn’t he quite proficient at the cello? He'd had so many long years at sea to perfect his art, and, as Her Majesty is a matching such connoisseur, would it not be far better to have the queen entertained by her admiral? A. Durham, he said quite dangerously lowly, should be honored by the opportunity to win the gift of Her Majesty's favor.

Uncle, if you could have seen the admiral’s face in answer to my rescue! Yet A. Durham was quite beholden to acquiesce when I seconded Lord M to say that I do indeed have a great fondness for the cello. The instrument was then fetched straightaway, and the admiral was beholden to play while we carried on with our discussions.

A. Durham did not at all do that poor Haydn concerto justice – yet I applauded him most politely for his efforts, for I had not forgotten my manners in the slightest.​

No matter his niece’s clear sense of triumph, Leopold was left aghast. There was no victory in having the Commander-in-chief of Portsmouth and a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Bath ousted from a conversation concerning the future of his base of command. Especially to keep a sheltered, genteel young girl in that same conversation when she was so ignorant of the subject to start! The admiral was a decades’ seasoned naval officer, whose long, faithful years of service spanned from the American War of Independence to the darkest days of the Napoleonic Wars themselves. That such an unparalleled fount of knowledge was sidelined so that little Drina could keep her seat at the table out of a misplaced sense of pride and grandiose delusions of the true extent of her authority . . .

Not for the first time, Leopold wished his niece and nephew married already. It had been his desire to have their union formalized the exact moment it became apparent that King William was in declining health. Better would it have been for Albert to have spent those sunset months of the old king's reign in the country whose governance he would soon assume, and come into his rule side by side with his wife as a united front. He could have been crowned at the very same coronation that Victoria just celebrated, and gone on to preside over this naval tour in place of his wife. Albert could have deftly overseen these talks with his fellow men about the business of men, while Victoria entertained the entire room so sweetly with her skills at the piano. What a partnership theirs could – and yet still would – be!

For a moment, he allowed himself to be taken by that vision as he removed the now uncomfortably clammy handkerchief from his neck. He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward to reach into the waiting, gilded ice-chest for a fresh cold handkerchief. The servant wrung the ice-water from the cloth, and then draped it around his neck once more before withdrawing.

Deeply, Leopold sighed – in relief as much as lingering exasperation.

For some reason he yet failed to comprehend, his sister had maintained that she wanted more time for her daughter before she wed – as if a girl of seven and ten wasn't already far old enough to be a wife and mother. Leopold more accurately thought that her reservations were instead Sir John’s reservations – hoping as the man had hoped for a regency to cement his own power as the true force behind the Duchess of Kent, and thus, the Crown.

Now, however, with Sir John gone and Victoria having a year more added to the span of her life . . .

He blew out a breath, and continued to read.

A most interesting conversation then ensued about the furtherance of steam-powered ships within the navy. It is thought that these advancements in the field of engineering will someday change the face of how war is waged on the water. While it's perhaps premature to pass measures for any such vast military investments during a time of peace – we shall revisit the idea in a few years’ time, after the burdens on the average British citizen are eased – it is never premature to invest in the development of progress. As such, more fruitful talks commenced about the possibility of suggesting such exploratory expenditures to Parliament.​

Nowhere in that paragraph, he saw, did his niece inquire of his mind as to what ventures the Crown should and should not support. Instead, she merely informed him of what had already occurred.

The day following, I conducted a review of the active Portsmouth fleet by sea. It was my first time sailing on the HMS Royal Sovereign – a magnificent ship by any measure, I am told. I quite thrilled to the thundering sound of the 21-gun salutes from the ships of the line, which somehow sounded louder than any cannon upon land, and was then honored to watch them perform battle maneuvers before my very eyes! I, admittedly, could not tell – and yet still cannot – what makes for success or failure in such maneuvers, but A. Durham assured me that his men performed admirably, and that I, in turn, could be proud of the Crown's sailors.

I believe, Uncle, that I made some progress with A. Durham whilst at sea – if only for my enthusiasm & true desire to learn everything there is to learn about these fine ships & their loyal crews. I markedly heard him say to the captain that I was at least more palpable to have at review than my Uncle George – if the admiral would always miss my Uncle William, who was a man of the navy long before he ever thought he would be king.

A. Durham then went so far as to invite me to light one of the swivel guns on deck – for that is the only armament the Royal Sovereign carries – and I watched with much delight as it destroyed its target of a floating crate further out in the waves. I certainly felt as Queen of all the Isles at that moment, and beheld the wreckage with the utmost pride.

My equerry, Lord Alfred, then mentioned that his elder brother, Captain William Paget, has the honor of commanding another one of the royal yachts – this one a smaller vessel, made more so for speed and comfortable amenities in pleasure sailing than for war – named the Royal Charlotte. I was delighted to learn that both he and the ship are stationed at Portsmouth, and asked for an introduction. Lord M then pointed out that I could do far more than that, for the yacht is in my power to command at will.

It is still such a novelty: my ability as queen to command. I hesitated, however – for Mama would not at all approve of my boarding such a small vessel – or so it seemed compared to the Royal Sovereign – out on the waters of the Channel. She hardly likes crossing to the Isle of Wight on a naval frigate out of concern for my safety, let alone -

But Lord M then said – and he sounded most cross on my behalf, which is always heartening, for when has anyone ever taken such a stand for me, not only in word, but deed? I shall always be thankful to God for his seeing me through these perilous first days as queen, both for the sake of my people and for the sake of my own self – that it was not to the Duchess of Kent to give orders and be obeyed, but me as sovereign. It is to the Queen of England to decide when and where the Queen of England shall sail, and no one else. In this and all things.​

It was Leopold’s first impulse to sigh, and wish anew that Albert was already in a position to reap the benefits of Victoria’s need for a defender – and perhaps would have, if the passage did not instead give him pause.

Great pause.

A chill prickled the back of his neck, one that had nothing to do with the cold of the compress. The feeling was a sense of forewarning that he had learned to trust over the years – from developing a sense of awareness whenever his father was in a fit of temper, to standing before Napoleon Bonaparte's court whilst the emperor held control of Coburg, to charging at the head of the cavalry against that same emperor after he'd defected to join the Russian army. Those tried and true instincts had seen him rise through the English court after the war, until he alone won the honor of wedding England’s sole princess and heir to the throne – even if fate had then seen fit to deny him his rightful destiny of ruling over the British Empire in any sort of actuality.

But now, to further lose what should have rightfully been his by seeing his niece turn away from him – for her to push away the nephew who'd rely on him absolutely – and all due to the interference of one man . . .

It only added insult to injury to know that one man was none other than Lord Melbourne – a second generation viscount whose father had been a mere baron when he first came to the then Prince Regent’s court. Undoubtedly, that elevation came through George IV wishing to honor one of his former mistresses and mother to yet another one of his by-blows in George Lamb, and nothing more. Yet, to even that title, it was commonly known that the current Viscount Melbourne did not truly belong, as he himself was another bastard born to the harlot who was Elizabeth Lamb by the Earl of Egremont.

Lamb. God, but how Leopold hated that name, for George Lamb had been an ever constant thorn in his side during his far too brief marriage to Princess Charlotte. Somehow, Charlotte had been fond of her half-siblings, dozens of whom cluttered the court, regardless of their legitimacy – and George Lamb had held her affections most particularly. It had boggled his every power of understanding when that irreverent buffoon of a man somehow thought him less than worthy of his half-sister – and had no compunction whatsoever when it came to speaking to a true-born prince and his future king in saying so.

“He simply wants the very best for me,” Charlotte ever smiled to sooth his irritations, completely missing the point as to his reasons for offense, “just as you do – do you not, my dearest?”

Even these many years later, it pained him to think about his first wife . . . and their son – and not only for the loss of the future they should have shared together.

Since then, Leopold had watched the eldest Lamb’s ascent through the ranks of Parliament in abject disbelief. Oh, he had nothing against the man in particular, besides his name, but that had not prevented him from observing the scandals that constantly unfolded around him with no small amount of satisfaction . . . only for each and every supposedly career-ending deathblow to fail to drag him back down to where he justly belonged. For lowborn blood, let alone base-born, belonged nowhere but beneath their betters – and certainly leagues down from the lofty heights of his niece.

Yet Victoria was blind to that self-evident truth. She was far too naïve to recognize the wolf at the door for who he was, and, even worse, she had no strong male relation there to step in and force her to see things as they truly were. She was at risk of drifting too far out to sea, pulled by the current of her own frail, feminine heart – and completely unaware of the danger that hovered to ensnare her as such.

It would be bad enough for the Viscount Melbourne to overreach as prime minister to his queen, but for William Lamb to endear himself to Victoria the girl . . .

Leopold tipped back the rest of his drink, and gestured for it to be mulled again. The summer heat continued to press against him, even as laughter drifted up across the beach, punctuating the murmured rhythm of the waves.

As such, we took the Royal Charlotte out for a most invigorating expedition! I thought that the water was a marvel from the Royal Sovereign – yet, from this vessel, it was all the more so. I felt as if I was right there with the waves – I felt like I was one of the waves as we flew with the sails as our wings. Captain Paget was wonderfully informative, explaining how the ship’s rigging worked to harness the wind, and even guided me in tying off one of the lines after we tacked. We explored so many harbors and coves along the Solvent, and even sailed as far out as Nab Tower before turning back from the Channel proper.

We stopped for quite the pleasant picnic at a small beach that would have been otherwise unreachable by land where I dared went so far as to take off my shoes to feel the water against my feet. On our way back from the beach, we were even so fortunate as to espy a pair of harbor porpoises in the wake of our ship, hunting for herring. If pressed, I could not tell you a happier day in all my life – and it was happier still to spend in the company of such dear friends.​

He sloshed the ice in his glass, and pursed his lips to stare at the words – as if by doing so he could change their meaning with the heat of his gaze.

Yet their meaning remained as Victoria continued:

There is a large part of me that does not want this trip to end. We leave for Brighton the morning next, where I shall rejoin with Mama’s household. My prime minister shall not be able to stay in Brighton once the Crown’s matters of state are concluded, and then only social appointments remain in my engagement diary to fill my time. I shall miss his advice very much, I already foresee.​

His advice, indeed, Leopold thought sardonically.

Two bastards more, Leopold snorted to recognize - one King William's and the other again Egremont's. Leopold was shocked that his sister would allow their company, all before he sourly recognized that Marie-Louise had no hand in their presence: Victoria did.

Albert would have much work to do when he finally claimed his court – starting first and foremost with reestablishing proper barriers between his wife and her more unworthy relations.

Leopold turned the page over, looking for a postscript, but found none – neither to beseech his wisdom nor to entreat the decisions he had ready for her future as her closest living male relative. (For he counted her English uncles amongst no such rank as either louts or fools.) Albert, he recognized with that same cautionary sense of foredooming, had not been mentioned even once.

. . . and neither was Victoria mentioned in Albert’s letter, he went on to note. For entire pages – succinct as those pages ever were – his nephew spoke of his self-appointed studies that summer, and then his academic plans once he returned to Bonn for his fall session of classes.

Leopold held both letters up at once, one in each hand, and did not need to see the distance between them when he could feel how it spanned.

It seemed that a trip to England would soon be crucial – both for his niece’s sake, to adjust her errant course, as well as to see to the good of their country. For there was a crack in the foundation of all he had spent his life building – and he would see that crack repaired here and now, well before it became a chasm, unbridgeable and deep.

He was lost in thought, his mind awhirl with necessity and possibility, when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, and saw that his wife had joined him in the pavilion. Somehow, he had missed a maid fetching their son inside, for Louise was alone, and her smile was soft with amusement when he blinked to reorient his focus.

“Is all well, husband?” she asked in gently accented French – as Dutch was her fifth language, and she used it only when necessary. As Dutch was his own fourth language, he did not entirely mind, and Louise honored his wishes whenever he chose to speak his birth-tongue of German instead.

"Well enough," he answered in like as she cast a glance over the two letters he still had unfolded. (He was grateful, then, that Arcadie's letter was out of view – his wife was no fool, but he had no desire to pain her with any unnecessary reminders of his second family.)

"You may see for yourself," he waved a hand in welcome. "Victoria undoubtedly says much the same in her letters to you." He did not think that Albert kept correspondence with his aunt unless there was the birth of a child to celebrate or a holiday to note, but then, there was no need for him to.

Louise took a seat in the chair nearest his, and accepted the letter. He allowed her time to read, content to look at her fair visage in favor of the beach. A flush of pink had bloomed across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, showing where she had braved the sun without a parasol. The rash would threaten for red if she was not careful; she already had a smattering of freckles, and her skin took far too easily to tan from her maternal heritage; so much so that he resolved to counsel her again to better attend her health whilst enjoying the sea air. They were, after all, hoping for the conception of yet another child before the season was through.

Eventually, Louise placed the letter down, her countenance pleased. “She seems happy,” she gave her impression. Yet she caught his expression, and amended, "Are you unhappy on her behalf?"

Rather than listing the many reasons why he was most certainly unhappy, he shrugged to say, “She could be happier still.”

A heartbeat passed. Louise's expression flickered – the barest ripple of emotion – before she commented, “I am sure that you will see that she is.”

Leopold was not entirely sure that he cared for whatever thought she had so clearly pushed aside, yet neither did he have any wish to discuss the topic further. Instead, he commented, "I do not know how you are not only tolerating this weather, but enjoying it.”

Perhaps somewhat pointedly, he drew the handkerchief from his neck to dab at his brow. With a huff, he felt the grit of sand irritate the lining of his wig.

This time, Louise allowed herself an amused sound in answer. “There are times I think that you forget," she teased. "I was born in Sicily; I was raised there. The sea is as much in my blood as France is.”

For that, she turned to look back to the water. Her look, he thought, was content as she closed her eyes to the cadence of the waves.

Even so, he could only grimace. “I fail to see the resemblance,” he said – for Oostende was no match for the jeweled Mediterranean in any way.

“But it’s what resemblance I have in my new home,” she neither agreed nor disagreed. "And that is enough."

“I shall find a way for you to spend more time here.” Leopold felt what he thought was a moment's discontent on her behalf before he pushed the feeling aside. "We have two sons now, and your presence is not required at court. Perhaps, after one sone more, you may set up your own household with more freedom, if you wish."

Yet, for the graciousness of his boon, Louise's faint smile faded for an expression as smooth as if she was cast from a painting. Her voice revealed nothing when she said, almost too softly for his ears, "My husband is all kindness.”

He was quiet for a long moment in answer. Unbidden, he thought of Arcadie’s letter, resting on the table between them. He thought of her dark, expressive eyes and easy laughter. He thought of their son, and imagined how much the boy must have grown in the weeks they'd been apart. He thought of the cool forest shadows and the peace of the Ardennes, and knew longing.

But, then and there, Louise turned her gaze back to him, and he refocused his attention on his wife.

“Would you like to walk with me?" at length, she asked. "The water relieves much of the heat – you will melt away up here on the sand.”

He'd rather decidedly not; yet, aloud, he said: “I would like nothing better." He reached out and pressed her hand, even as he appended, "First, though, I have business to attend.”

“Business? They are family," Louise attempted to sway him. "Surely a very short delay would be understandable, even if your niece is also the Queen of England."

“Entirely understandable, perhaps – and yet, this matter,” he stressed, “is most assuredly business. You need not worry how or why, but to know that it is."

“Of course," Louise muttered. "Perhaps another time, then?"

"Certainly, my dear – you have my word."

Louise nodded, and drew her hand away. She did not linger before standing; respectfully, she curtsied, and he waved to award his leave. She then left the pavilion, accompanied by one of her ladies and the ever constant private guard he employed to keep vigil over his queen. His gaze followed her as she returned to where the surf lapped against the sand, and set off to walk the long stretch of the beach alone.

Yet his wife did not hold his attention for long. He finished his drink, and then turned for a fresh sheet of stationary. He picked up his pen, ready to address his niece and repeat his directives for the well-being of her reign with all emphasis.

But, first, he elected to write his nephew – for the throne of England was no finite promise, and that was a truth he’d have Albert learn sooner, rather than later, if he ever wished to claim his kingdom.

So, towards that end, with a brisk flick of his pen, he began:

Chapter Text

I could tolerate LM on that point alone, were it not for every further point regarding his relationship with HM that I cannot so easily accept. I know; now I am speaking in circles, for circles is the inevitable shape of my thoughts where the PM and HM are concerned.

I will say that the PM is HM's staunchest supporter and defender of her claim to the throne, and for that I am grateful. He can protect her where I cannot, in such a way that I would never be able to similarly achieve as a woman – and a woman in service, at that.

Little as HM needs protecting, of course. Victoria is very much her own self, and she makes her own way, just the same as Elizabeth before her. Still, it is a very good thing, to have a champion; I may even go so far to dub it a blessing for Victoria to have such a PM when her reign is yet so new.

Yet, also to consider is the way her eyes light up whenever he enters a room, and how she remains in constant awareness of his presence in a crowd. There is how she wants to share every good thing with him when they are apart, and how he is the one to whom she turns when there are defeats to confide. It aches in its own way, that I am no longer first in her heart. I am not ready to surrender my place in her affections, even as I tell myself that I shall always have a dwelling there all my own. Holding one love close hardly precludes love existing for another – yet it is that very word that troubles me so greatly. For, love – 

I do not think any other monarch and prime minister have ever had such a connection. Their bond is unusual, and highly so. Yet so much of HM’s reign is unusual; it challenges the entire concept of what is or yet should be in matters of governance, let alone trying the preconceptions of what a woman is capable of when allowed the chance to pursue the same possibilities for advancement that are so easily assumed by men. I understand the foundation that established their present relationship; I can hardly begrudge its inception any more than I can now prevent its growth.

And yet, it is their bond's continued growth which I yet misbode –

HM’s spirits have been low since the PM’s departure. She began writing him nearly as soon as he left – as if she wished her letter to forereach his destination. Any pain she experiences, I quite feel as my own. Yet, this pain –

You know that I have always encouraged HM towards independence. She has a strong will, and it is that indomitable spirit which shall see her succeed in any venture she pursues – up to and including her own rule. That rule, however, is one I have always envisioned her undertaking alone. It fills me with a feeling that I cannot describe – the dread that she may someday share her rule with a man. For it is a fear that may all too easily become reality: the possibility that she may wed a man who does not see fit to merely support her reign, but rather, to supersede it. Victoria alone is Queen of England. Anyone she honors with the privilege of sitting at the right hand of her throne may endeavor to act as the fist of that hand in carrying out her will, but it is her will that must control, and her will only.

How many men do you know who would suffer such supremacy from their wives? If HM decides to marry, the question of to whom shall require an extraordinarily unique perhaps impossibly so bridegroom in answer – a man who carries equal measures of humility and strength; a man who shall be as comfortable kneeling in subservience as he is ready to stand as her partner in support and knight in defense. If you only knew the spoiled, arrogant princelings that have been paraded before her – vainglorious, empty young men who view her birthright as a prize they can steal so blithely assume, simply by the supposed superiority of their sex -

France and the Netherlands and Russia have all since failed in their suits, while Spain and Austria and Prussia have no prince of suitably high rank worth considering. Her English cousins are just as abhorrent to countenance as that insufferable little King of Greece who was thankfully only briefly mentioned. The American president's offer of marriage was more in jest than sincerely intended – or, at least, I fervently hope. Then there is, of course, her Coburg cousin, to whom many already consider her all but wed, but in Albert too there is a strong sense of ambition, already festering with resentment. I have no such faith that he shall endeavor to support and uphold, but rather -

No, sister: I never wish Victoria to wed, for I trust no man to put her entire self before his own. There was a reason, after all, that Queen Elizabeth never took a consort; she quite knew the danger she would have risked, empowering a would-be king by her side, and chose to hold her crown close in place of a husband and children. I pray, most fervently, for HM to follow the path of her forebearer and do much the same.

Look how my words have since rambled. How did I reach this point? I can hardly trace the progress of my own mind. Suffice it to say that it misgives me to see Victoria made so despondent over any man – and especially one who is not and can never be -

HM's current depression of spirits may have as much to do with her mother as her PM, that I grant. The duchess was initially set to attend each stage of her daughter's tour, but she ultimately decided to remain in Brighton on account of her health. Since our own arrival in Brighton, TD has shown no softening in her demeanor – which is something I believe that HM did not even consciously realize she'd anticipated until it was denied to her.

Yes; matters on this score remain the same since my last letter. TD has hardly spoken two words together to her daughter since Lady Flora’s death Sir John’s dismissal. For seeing to the demise of that godless snake alone, I am and shall ever be grateful to LM. Once, I would have considered such silence from TD a blessing. Victoria has endured far too much of that woman’s venom over the years, and deserves every possible reprieve if outright reparations are non-forthcoming. Yet, for TD to continually wound HM through withholding every possible part of herself is a fresh agony, compounding every previous pain inflicted twice over anew.

I have many sins to lay at the feet of TD, but each and every day that Victoria’s countenance steels in her mother's presence is another crime that I doubt I'll be able to ever fully forgive.

Thankfully, the arrival of the queen dowager has restored some small part of HM's spirits. Queen Adelaide is a credit to our sex, and remains such even since the crown has passed to her niece. She is a woman who takes quite naturally to nurturing, and her empathy is as sincere as her wisdom is shrewd. Her gentle guidance is what the duchess should have provided all along exactly what Victoria needs, and HM has only benefited from her aunt’s compassion and support.

Yet Brighton itself is unlike any of our previous dwellings along the coast. The Royal Pavilion – George IV’s own Babel of decadence – is nearly obscene in its opulence, and the town itself far too crowded for my taste. It is quite nearly London upon the sea, and in the worst of ways. Victoria has been agitated since arriving; she says that she feels put on display, like a bird in a cage, even when walking the open expanse of the promenade. The beaches are constantly congested and the clamor from the entitled curious masses never-ending.

It seems that her late uncle had a similar distaste for the Brighton proper – for all that he adored the sea, and spent many summers in Sussex. QA, as such, suggested a day of sailing in order to show her niece all of King William’s favorite spots. They should have long been able to show their niece this much together, and that Victoria was deprived of every possibility for advancement and development beyond Kensington is another strike against her mother and Sir John that only God may ultimately judge.

To our surprise, QA then proceeded to command the vessel herself – an even smaller yacht than the Royal Charlotte, but just as finely wrought a craft. KW, it seemed, taught her how to sail very early in their marriage, and the recreation remained a favorite for them to partake in together. Adelaide considered it her honor to instruct her niece in place of her uncle, and expressed as much. Victoria, I think, understood QA's depth of sentiment, and declared herself delighted to build upon the skills she'd newly gained in Portsmouth.

From Brighton, we sailed east, and were treated to a magnificent view of the Seven Sisters from the water. We were almost to Beachy Head when QA had us stop in a cove – one of KW’s favorites, it would seem – where we partook in refreshments together. Then, she suggested a swim.

It was first reflexive of Victoria to protest, I believe. She has never learned how to swim – our use of bathing machines throughout the summer was hardly conducive to such a pursuit, and the Channel itself is as intimidating a body a water to learn in as any. Was it proper, even, to do so? For we had not the usual amenities available to us for swimming.

Yet Adelaide persevered – there were no eyes present to take offense, and the only men in our party were Colonel Hampson and two marines who doubled as guardsmen and sailors, whom she quite trusted to avert their eyes in an honorable fashion. Chemises could serve as well as bathing gowns, and would dry quickly in the sun. For her aunt's encouragement, Victoria at last acquiesced, as I suspect she desired all along to do.

What then passed was a lesson that was as endearing as it was exhilarating, which I suspect will remain foremost as one of my most treasured memories. Adelaide took the lion’s share in tutelage, while I provided what encouragement I could in support. It has been many long years since I myself last swam, after all – not since I was home in Hanover, as far back as when we were still children together. Has it truly been that long? I, admittedly, cannot recall.

Once Victoria mastered the trick of moving with the sea currents, she took easily to the pursuit. QA dubbed her a natural, and quite proudly declared that she was not at all surprised by the speed of her advancement. For some time, I even went so far as to turn my attention away from Victoria. I simply allowed myself to exist with the waves, and breathe to match their rhythm. It was a most serene experience, and its peace has yet continued to linger. I'd hardly realized how scarce a commodity peace has been for myself until that moment – these last twenty years, I have known so very much of war instead.

By the time we finally returned to the Pavilion, it was full dark. The whole of our party was in high spirits, if somewhat fatigued. We all bore matching, sun-flushed cheeks, and from our hair and the state of our dress, it was perhaps apparent that we had been partaking in every joy the sea had to offer. Our merriment, however, was not one shared by the Duchess of Kent. She looked at her daughter in such a way with frustration with anger in jealousy in regret that I thought she would at last break her silence in order to express the censure that she so clearly felt aloud.

Instead, she only looked HM up and down, and then loudly turned without a word.

I felt Victoria’s hurt dismay most acutely, for her face is ever expressive to my eye, and she quite openly betrayed her every feeling before she regained her composure. Instead of advancing, as I first thought she would, Victoria turned in the opposite direction with a determined stride. I was left for but a moment with the queen dowager, who was rather visibly perturbed. We exchanged glances, but said nothing. Adelaide then followed after the duchess with every intent, I suspect, of speaking her peace. Yet I could think no more of the duchess and queen dowager when I had my own sovereign to attend.

I did not catch Victoria before she reached her chambers, whereupon she stated that she wished to write her PM straightaway – even before her ladies could tend to the abused state of her hair and dress for the night. It perhaps goes without saying, but I do not think that the pages she filled had much at all to do with matters of state. Yet what could I say? What could I have done? What should I have done or may I yet still do? I do not know, and my indecision on this matter troubles me greatly.

None of this is quite my place. Yet, isn't it my place? It is my place. Her well-being will always be my place. Victoria is more my daughter in heart than she has ever been that wicked woman’s in blood, and I alone wish to ensure that she -

We leave Brighton first thing upon the morrow. As much as I am happy to return to Windsor, I know that I will miss the time we have spent here. I will miss the ocean and the cliffs and how large the sun and moon always seem over the water. I may even go so far as to miss the Pavilion itself, if only for the salt spas. These great heated pools are indeed most restorative. George IV was a hedonistic devil in more ways than I care to number, yet he certainly knew what he was doing in designing the Pavilion's amenities.

What I shall miss most of all is how happy Victoria has been whilst on holiday. The year to come promises trials and challenges aplenty as she truly makes the throne her own. Yet she shall persevere through whatever fate has next in store – more so than merely persevering, she shall thrive; of that, I have no doubt – yet her fortitude may indeed be tried. Though there shall be joys in the weeks and months to come, those joys may not be as simple as those she has just recently indulged.

As such, I am determined to do my best to remind her of life’s pleasures and rewards – to ensure that she cares for her own self, even as she turns her attention outwards to her entire realm. I will endeavor to strengthen the hand that holds the scepter, even as she holds that scepter high. I feel that, for this, above all else, God has placed me on this earth.

I look forward to hearing your thoughts in reply to all I have written – your wisdom and your counsel and your beloved reminders of home. Until then, I remain yours, with every possible affection,

Louise