one.”
Alice measured her brother obliquely, her needle moving in and out of the square of canvas. His gaze was fixed on the coal fire that warmed her private apartments, and one elegant boot rested on the fender. At age twenty—indulged, protected, heir to the greatest Kingdom on earth—Bertie should be the picture of ease. But Alice felt his agitation like a powerful draught sweeping through the room. His pallor was dreadful. Deep shadows welled at his eyes. He hadn't slept since well before Papa's death last night.
“If Eliza treats you thus,” she said, using their private name for Mama, “you owe her nothing now. To be
free,
Bertie!”
“I shall never be free.” He fidgeted with his watch chain. “Never again. I thought, when I was in Curragh—and on my tour of North America—but all that is at an end. We cannot expect her to long survive our father. I must prepare for a higher duty.”
“Mama always defies expectation. Indeed, I believe she
prefers
to dash all one's hopes.”
“Hopes! I did not mean to say I
wished
her in the grave—”
“Of course not. To wish such a thing would be fatal. She would endure another forty years.”
“I think Eliza is terrified of death,” Bertie said unexpectedly, “with a fear that is quite pagan. The Lord Chamberlain took a mask of Papa this morning and Mama refuses to look at it. Of course, she can't bear to have it destroyed—that would do violence to Papa, or perhaps to his memory. So I suppose she'll end by shelving it in a storeroom somewhere, for future Windsorites to discover amidst the rest of the cast-off lumber. Rather pathetic, really.”
“Eliza confused the mask for the man.”
“What do you mean?” His slightly protuberant eyes—so like Mama's—studied her acutely.
“She deals with the surface of things. As though the world went no deeper than her mirror. Papa has been ill for months, Bertie. She would not see it.”
“Months! Surely not! Clark told me he suffered from a low fever—a severe chill, taken when he . . . when
we
walked out together in Cambridge a few weeks ago.”
“And Jenner calls it typhoid. But typhoid is contagious and nobody else in Windsor has contracted it. I nursed Papa myself for much of the past fortnight—and I am perfectly well.”
“Perhaps you're stronger than we guessed. Or he was weaker than I knew.”
Alice raised her head from her needlework and regarded her brother. “You didn't kill him, Bertie.”
He started, as though she'd read his mind. “Of course not. How absurd! I've a few years to go yet, Alice, before I regard myself as God.”
“They blame you for Papa's death—Dr. Clark, that unspeakable Jenner, Eliza. I'm well aware how they've made you suffer. It's nonsense. Papa did not die because you lost your way for hours in the rain, that day in Cambridge. And he did not die because you took an actress to bed and broke his heart.”
The boot was pulled abruptly from the brass fender. “I didn't know you were aware of . . . Miss Clifden.”
“I had the story from Vicky. In strictest confidence, of course. Apparently rumours reached the Berlin newspapers. She says you'll never get a German princess to marry you, now.”
“Thank God for that.” Bertie smiled faintly. “Papa assured me it was only a matter of time before I was notorious throughout Europe. The visions he painted! My bastard children. My appearance in court, to answer the charge of paternity. The sensation in the press. The shame and infamy I would visit upon Mama. He could not speak enough about it, though I begged him to desist—though I assured him I had broken entirely with the lady . . .”
“Is Miss Clifden a lady, Bertie?”
“Not in the least,” he retorted, “but she was very good fun all the same, and a delightful change from tedious old Bruce and my tutors.”
General Bruce served rather ineffectually as Bertie's governor at Cambridge; but the Prince of Wales, deplored by both his parents for laziness,
Alice measured her brother obliquely, her needle moving in and out of the square of canvas. His gaze was fixed on the coal fire that warmed her private apartments, and one elegant boot rested on the fender. At age twenty—indulged, protected, heir to the greatest Kingdom on earth—Bertie should be the picture of ease. But Alice felt his agitation like a powerful draught sweeping through the room. His pallor was dreadful. Deep shadows welled at his eyes. He hadn't slept since well before Papa's death last night.
“If Eliza treats you thus,” she said, using their private name for Mama, “you owe her nothing now. To be
free,
Bertie!”
“I shall never be free.” He fidgeted with his watch chain. “Never again. I thought, when I was in Curragh—and on my tour of North America—but all that is at an end. We cannot expect her to long survive our father. I must prepare for a higher duty.”
“Mama always defies expectation. Indeed, I believe she
prefers
to dash all one's hopes.”
“Hopes! I did not mean to say I
wished
her in the grave—”
“Of course not. To wish such a thing would be fatal. She would endure another forty years.”
“I think Eliza is terrified of death,” Bertie said unexpectedly, “with a fear that is quite pagan. The Lord Chamberlain took a mask of Papa this morning and Mama refuses to look at it. Of course, she can't bear to have it destroyed—that would do violence to Papa, or perhaps to his memory. So I suppose she'll end by shelving it in a storeroom somewhere, for future Windsorites to discover amidst the rest of the cast-off lumber. Rather pathetic, really.”
“Eliza confused the mask for the man.”
“What do you mean?” His slightly protuberant eyes—so like Mama's—studied her acutely.
“She deals with the surface of things. As though the world went no deeper than her mirror. Papa has been ill for months, Bertie. She would not see it.”
“Months! Surely not! Clark told me he suffered from a low fever—a severe chill, taken when he . . . when
we
walked out together in Cambridge a few weeks ago.”
“And Jenner calls it typhoid. But typhoid is contagious and nobody else in Windsor has contracted it. I nursed Papa myself for much of the past fortnight—and I am perfectly well.”
“Perhaps you're stronger than we guessed. Or he was weaker than I knew.”
Alice raised her head from her needlework and regarded her brother. “You didn't kill him, Bertie.”
He started, as though she'd read his mind. “Of course not. How absurd! I've a few years to go yet, Alice, before I regard myself as God.”
“They blame you for Papa's death—Dr. Clark, that unspeakable Jenner, Eliza. I'm well aware how they've made you suffer. It's nonsense. Papa did not die because you lost your way for hours in the rain, that day in Cambridge. And he did not die because you took an actress to bed and broke his heart.”
The boot was pulled abruptly from the brass fender. “I didn't know you were aware of . . . Miss Clifden.”
“I had the story from Vicky. In strictest confidence, of course. Apparently rumours reached the Berlin newspapers. She says you'll never get a German princess to marry you, now.”
“Thank God for that.” Bertie smiled faintly. “Papa assured me it was only a matter of time before I was notorious throughout Europe. The visions he painted! My bastard children. My appearance in court, to answer the charge of paternity. The sensation in the press. The shame and infamy I would visit upon Mama. He could not speak enough about it, though I begged him to desist—though I assured him I had broken entirely with the lady . . .”
“Is Miss Clifden a lady, Bertie?”
“Not in the least,” he retorted, “but she was very good fun all the same, and a delightful change from tedious old Bruce and my tutors.”
General Bruce served rather ineffectually as Bertie's governor at Cambridge; but the Prince of Wales, deplored by both his parents for laziness,
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