A Curious Beginning

“I have no doubt you will surpass your own expectations,” I said, feeling a rush of sudden sympathy for this gentle man. “Your instincts are excellent. You have proven that by trusting Stoker and me rather than exposing us to the police.”


“I can only quote Xenocrates, dear lady. ‘I have often regretted my speech, never my silence.’”

“A worthy philosophy, my lord. Let us drink to Xenocrates.”

We lifted our cups of tea and toasted Xenocrates, and in that moment, I felt Inspiration whisper in my ear. The plan came to me as fully formed as Athena sprung from the brow of Zeus, and I outlined it for his lordship in detail. There was no chance to think twice about the propriety of what I was asking. I must cast the dice and see how they fell, I told myself. I had not thought the thing through, but for every question Lord Rosemorran put to me, I had a ready response, and when I finally fell silent, leaving him to deliberate upon my question, he stared at me with mingled awe and disbelief.

“My dear Miss Speedwell,” he began. “I hardly know how to reply.”

“Say ‘yes,’” I commanded. And to his credit, he laughed.

“Very well. One can hardly say ‘no’ to a force of nature. I accept your proposal.”

And we toasted that as well.

? ? ?

After another revivifying cup of tea, I made my toilette and left Bishop’s Folly without meeting Stoker or Huxley or any of the Beauclerks. Even Betony seemed to have something better to do that morning. I had taken pains with my appearance, wearing my black silk and pinning on my large black hat with the luscious roses. I collected more than a few admiring glances as I made my way into the heart of a euphoric London. It was Jubilee Day, and the bunting swung gaily overhead—ropes of flowers and banners of blue, white, and red proclaiming VICTORIA OUR QUEEN. The crowds were thick with spectators and hawkers crying their wares, selling food and lemonade and Jubilee memorabilia. The snorting of horses, the smell of hot grease, the chants of the crowd—all mingled to riotous effect as all of London had turned out to wish her well upon the anniversary of her accession.

I found a lamppost and by means of a tuppence bribe persuaded the youth ensconced there to give up his place to me. I stood on the base, one arm holding fast to the lamp as I watched the procession roll past. First, the soldiers, resplendent in brass-buttoned scarlet tunics, and marching in step to the bands that played with sharp precision. The sober dignitaries came next in their carriages, foreign heads of state—from the European sons-in-law who had married into the family to the maharajas who had conceded their kingdoms to its matriarch. The Europeans sat stiffly correct in their morning suits and chivalric orders, but the Indians were resplendent in vibrant silks and gems that glittered in the sunlight. Then came the Court, various officials and ladies-in-waiting, each decked in their finest, the duchesses blazing with jewels as feathers bobbed from their plumed hats, the gentlemen laden with various orders. They waved and nodded and smiled at the crowds, whipping them into a frenzy of anticipation. I saw Sir Hugo, riding discreetly, dressed in sober black and keeping a weather eye upon the crowd as the cheers rose higher and louder.

And then they came—the family. Carriage after carriage rolled past with them, her children and grandchildren, a family occasion that happened to be a matter of state. There were the children of the Prince of Wales, my half siblings, clustered together in their privilege, and I expected a pang at the thought that we should never know each other. But there was nothing in my heart save silence.

Next came the Prince of Wales himself, beautifully tailored and genial, lifting a manicured hand as he smiled to the crowd. This was the man Lily Ashbourne had loved and lost and died for heartbreak over. I wondered what she would have thought of him. Would she have recognized the boy she once knew in the greying man he now was? And I wondered, too, if he ever thought of her. Was she a passing fancy? A fevered dream? Or was she a regret he would carry to the end of his days? I could read no answers in his serenely satisfied expression, and in an instant he was gone, borne away in his golden carriage amidst the patriotic cheers.