renovation, at the expense of more than half a million pounds, until the house had finally been expanded into a palace. When Queen Victoria assumed the throne in 1837, she was the first monarch to use it as a primary residence, but as the number of her children increased, it needed to be enlarged yet again.
Surveying the vast, three-story edifice, De Quincey marveled, “So much has changed. When I last saw London decades ago, the Marble Arch stood here as an entrance. In place of this wing, there was only a wall.”
Commissioner Mayne nodded. “To make room for the east wing, the arch was dismantled eight years ago and eventually rebuilt in Hyde Park.”
“It celebrated our victory over Napoleon,” De Quincey said, “and yet it occupied its original place of honor for only fourteen years before Her Majesty and His Highness took it down. How glory fades.”
“For God’s sake, don’t speak that way inside,” Lord Palmerston warned.
The home secretary walked through the snow and approached a gate. Announcing himself, he told a guard, “Her Majesty expects us.”
The guard snapped to attention and led them to another guard, who took them to a third. Finally they were escorted into a tunnel-like entrance, where an attendant conducted them through a bewildering sequence of corridors.
As if in a laudanum dream, De Quincey peered up at the stunningly high ceilings and their ornate chandeliers. He walked along the soft carpet in a daze, prompting Lord Palmerston to urge him to walk faster. The walls were papered and wainscoted and stuccoed and pillared in a French neoclassical style with pink, blue, and gold highlighting everywhere. There were Chinese patterns also, the strange contrast making De Quincey feel that he was hallucinating.
Lord Palmerston’s urgent request for an audience with Her Majesty must have included the caution that the matter needed to be discussed in utmost confidence, for their escort took them away from the palace’s public areas, guiding them through deserted sections and up a narrow staircase perhaps used only by servants. The deeper they penetrated into the palace, the colder it became.
More stairs, twists, and turns brought them to the largest room that De Quincey had ever seen. It was three times the size of the ballroom in Lord Palmerston’s residence.
De Quincey wasn’t the only person who was amazed.
“The Throne Room?” Lord Palmerston asked the attendant. Confused, he indicated the vast pink-and-gold magnificence. “Are you certain there hasn’t been a mistake? Surely this isn’t Her Majesty’s idea of a place for a confidential meeting.”
“My Lord, the queen was explicit. She said that she and Prince Albert would meet you in the Throne Room. Please be seated.”
As the attendant departed, De Quincey reached to open a curtain.
“Don’t touch anything,” Lord Palmerston warned. “Get over here and sit down.” He pointed toward a line of chairs between French doors. Like almost everything else in the palace, the chairs were neoclassical in style.
Everyone sat.
“I wish my mother and father were still alive so I could describe this to them,” Becker said, awestruck.
At the far end of the massive room, a throne dominated an ornate dais. Pink curtains hung in the background, creating the impression of a theater’s stage.
Emily kept her coat on and pressed her arms to her chest.
“It used to be even colder before the fireplaces were repaired,” Ryan said.
Emily looked confused. “You sound as if you’ve been here before.”
“Often,” Ryan answered. “The first time was in eighteen forty—because of Edward Oxford. The palace had an odor then.”
“Quiet,” Lord Palmerston said. “The queen might hear you.”
“But it’s a compliment to Prince Albert that the odor was removed,” Ryan noted. “Mostly it was caused by the smoke from the poorly designed fireplaces. The maids spent most of their time wiping soot from the furniture. The
Surveying the vast, three-story edifice, De Quincey marveled, “So much has changed. When I last saw London decades ago, the Marble Arch stood here as an entrance. In place of this wing, there was only a wall.”
Commissioner Mayne nodded. “To make room for the east wing, the arch was dismantled eight years ago and eventually rebuilt in Hyde Park.”
“It celebrated our victory over Napoleon,” De Quincey said, “and yet it occupied its original place of honor for only fourteen years before Her Majesty and His Highness took it down. How glory fades.”
“For God’s sake, don’t speak that way inside,” Lord Palmerston warned.
The home secretary walked through the snow and approached a gate. Announcing himself, he told a guard, “Her Majesty expects us.”
The guard snapped to attention and led them to another guard, who took them to a third. Finally they were escorted into a tunnel-like entrance, where an attendant conducted them through a bewildering sequence of corridors.
As if in a laudanum dream, De Quincey peered up at the stunningly high ceilings and their ornate chandeliers. He walked along the soft carpet in a daze, prompting Lord Palmerston to urge him to walk faster. The walls were papered and wainscoted and stuccoed and pillared in a French neoclassical style with pink, blue, and gold highlighting everywhere. There were Chinese patterns also, the strange contrast making De Quincey feel that he was hallucinating.
Lord Palmerston’s urgent request for an audience with Her Majesty must have included the caution that the matter needed to be discussed in utmost confidence, for their escort took them away from the palace’s public areas, guiding them through deserted sections and up a narrow staircase perhaps used only by servants. The deeper they penetrated into the palace, the colder it became.
More stairs, twists, and turns brought them to the largest room that De Quincey had ever seen. It was three times the size of the ballroom in Lord Palmerston’s residence.
De Quincey wasn’t the only person who was amazed.
“The Throne Room?” Lord Palmerston asked the attendant. Confused, he indicated the vast pink-and-gold magnificence. “Are you certain there hasn’t been a mistake? Surely this isn’t Her Majesty’s idea of a place for a confidential meeting.”
“My Lord, the queen was explicit. She said that she and Prince Albert would meet you in the Throne Room. Please be seated.”
As the attendant departed, De Quincey reached to open a curtain.
“Don’t touch anything,” Lord Palmerston warned. “Get over here and sit down.” He pointed toward a line of chairs between French doors. Like almost everything else in the palace, the chairs were neoclassical in style.
Everyone sat.
“I wish my mother and father were still alive so I could describe this to them,” Becker said, awestruck.
At the far end of the massive room, a throne dominated an ornate dais. Pink curtains hung in the background, creating the impression of a theater’s stage.
Emily kept her coat on and pressed her arms to her chest.
“It used to be even colder before the fireplaces were repaired,” Ryan said.
Emily looked confused. “You sound as if you’ve been here before.”
“Often,” Ryan answered. “The first time was in eighteen forty—because of Edward Oxford. The palace had an odor then.”
“Quiet,” Lord Palmerston said. “The queen might hear you.”
“But it’s a compliment to Prince Albert that the odor was removed,” Ryan noted. “Mostly it was caused by the smoke from the poorly designed fireplaces. The maids spent most of their time wiping soot from the furniture. The
Similar Books
