The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë (41 page)

“I must beg you to reconsider, Your Majesty,” said Lord Palmerston. “We need Miss Brontë.”

The Queen regarded Palmerston as if he had asked her to take a viper to her bosom. Her eyes blazed with her dislike of his overbearing manner. “Whatever for?”

Lord Palmerston glanced at Mr. Slade, who said, “Kuan has gone into hiding. We don’t know where he is. But he has told Miss Brontë that he’ll be in communication with her as regards kidnapping the children.” The Queen listened, compelled by his personality and the urgency in his voice. “Miss Brontë is a loyal, law-abiding citizen with no intention of abetting Kuan, and she is our only link to him. Unless she is permitted to assume the post of governess, the link will be broken. We’ll lose our chance to catch him.”

“Oh, Albert, what shall we do?” the Queen wailed, on the verge of tears. I recalled that she had just had a baby; perhaps she was in a more excitable state than usual.

After careful deliberation, the Prince Consort said to Slade, “You must find some other way to catch this criminal than by planting Miss Brontë among our children and waiting for him to show himself. Even if she means them no harm, we would prefer some other governess.”

Slade inclined his head. “With all due respect, Your Royal Highness, I must persuade you otherwise. We have good reason to believe that Kuan has accomplices already inside your household. Even should Miss Brontë refuse his bribe, he can enlist others to harm the children.”

“My God!” the Queen exclaimed, looking around as if suddenly surrounded by enemies. “Can no one near me be trusted?”

“Not until Mr. Kuan’s henchmen have been identified and removed,” Slade said. “And the best way to accomplish that is to plant Miss Brontë here among them. I predict that they shall reveal themselves to her when the time comes to carry out the kidnapping.”

The Queen shook her head, too distraught to reply.

“But when will that be?” her husband asked. “How long must we wait?” When no one could furnish an answer, he said, “Here is a better idea: We shall interrogate everybody in the household and determine who are Kuan’s confederates.”

“That’s reasonable, Your Highness,” Mr. Slade said with careful courtesy. “The problem is that Mr. Kuan’s accomplices may be clever enough to escape our detection.”

The Prince Consort conceded with a reluctant nod. “Then I propose dismissing all our servants and attendants. That way, there can be no question that we have rid ourselves of everyone who means us harm. We shall replace them with new persons of impeccable character.”

“That’s quite a good alternative,” said Lord Palmerston.

“Indeed, Your Highness,” said Mr. Slade.

Lord Unwin echoed them. Lord Palmerston and the Prince Consort began discussing people who might fill various posts. I watched the Queen, whose expression turned stormy as she listened. I saw that she didn’t like the men, her subordinates, leaving her out of the conversation and making decisions for her.

“This is impossible!” she exclaimed. “I won’t allow a purge of my entire household!”

“My dearest,” the Prince Consort soothed her while he patted her hand.

“It’s in your best interests, Your Majesty,” Lord Palmerston said gravely.

“Nonsense!” The Queen flung off her husband’s hand and swept away Palmerston’s words with an imperious wave. “My ladies-in-waiting and servants are some of my most loyal, beloved friends in the world. I’ll not throw them all out just because there might be a few bad apples in the barrel! Nor will I tolerate an entire house full of strangers!”

“But you must, for the sake of the children,” her husband coaxed.

“Their safety must be our primary concern,” Mr. Slade said.

The Queen huffed. “I am the mother of the children. I’ll decide what’s best for them!” I wondered how often she’d been pushed around; it was clear she hated it.

“Then what will you have us do, Your Majesty?” Condescension edged Lord Palmerston’s deferential air.

Her eyes darted and rapid breaths fluttered her bosom; she rose from her divan and paced in search of an answer. Her feverish gaze lit on me. “Miss Brontë will take up her post as governess. She will help us to thwart and capture our enemies, as was originally suggested.”

I could see that she liked the plan no better than before, yet was determined to oppose the men and unable to think of an alternative. The Prince Consort rose, put his arm around her, and led her back to her chair, saying, “Calm yourself, or you’ll be ill. Think of the danger to the children.”

The Queen sat with a heavy, graceless thump. “They’re in danger as long as this villain Kuan is at large, whether or not I replace my attendants. He might suborn the new ones as well as the old. Trapping him, with Miss Brontë’s assistance, is the only solution.”

“But the plan is neither that simple nor so foolproof, Your Majesty.” Lord Palmerston’s tone derided her judgment. “Something could go wrong, despite our best endeavors.”

She glowered at him, showing a hint of the formidable old woman she might well become, many years hence. “Your best endeavors must suffice. I’ve made my decision. And you had better not fail me.”

Her tacit threat encompassed Mr. Slade, Lord Russell, and myself. The Queen had spoken.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Palmerston said meekly.

Slade nodded while the Prince Consort sat in glum, troubled defeat. Lord Palmerston hid a smug smile behind his hand, for the Queen had done exactly as he’d predicted when he’d described his strategy beforehand at the club. He had expected that pushing her in one direction would cause her to move the opposite way. By pretending to support the Prince Consort’s idea of replacing her attendants, he had manipulated her into allowing the royal children to be used as bait for the purpose of entrapping Kuan. Such a wily, conniving character was Lord Palmerston! I thanked God that he was working
for
the British Empire and not against it.

The Queen smiled, placated. “Now that this matter is settled, I trust it shan’t interfere with our journey to Scotland.”

Her husband’s expression grew all the more troubled. Mr. Slade frowned. Even Lord Palmerston looked disconcerted as he said, “I’d quite forgotten that Your Majesty and Your Highness were planning to visit your new estate in Balmoral.”

“We are set to depart tomorrow,” said the Prince Consort.

“I must respectfully advise that you postpone the trip,” Lord Palmerston said.

“But we’ve so been looking forward to it,” the Queen protested. “As have the children.” Her gaze hardened. “Why should we disappoint them?”

“You’ll be extremely vulnerable to attack while you’re traveling,” Lord Palmerston answered.

If the Queen and her children should go to Scotland, then so must their governess. Alarm filled me. Things had seemed difficult enough when I thought I would be fulfilling my duty here in London. Traveling with the Queen was far beyond the scope of my experience and capabilities. I desperately hoped that Lord Palmerston would dissuade her.

“Under such conditions, protecting Your Majesty and the children would be difficult,” Slade said.

“Certainly no more than here,” the Queen said. “Your security precautions on my behalf are so lax that intruders can come and go as they please. Need I remind you of that boy named Jones who wandered round inside the palace for days before he was caught and arrested?”

“Yes, well,” Lord Palmerston said, abashed. “But Your Majesty had best stay in London until Kuan is apprehended and the danger is past.”

Her eyes flashed with renewed anger. “Oh, is the Queen of England to be a prisoner in her own home?” She tossed her head. “I will not bow to some foreign criminal, and I refuse to cower inside the palace. I might just as well hand over my kingdom to anyone who threatens me! We shall go to Scotland as planned.”

I saw resignation on the faces around me. The pride of Britain was at issue and the Queen’s cooperation had reached its limit.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” said Lord Palmerston.

Lord Unwin, tired of being ignored, thrust himself into the conversation: “May I at least arrange a special escort to guard the children?”

“Certainly.” Ready to be agreeable again, the Queen turned to me. “Have you ever seen the Highlands, Miss Brontë?”

“No, Your Majesty,” I said.

She gave me a look that said she would endure my presence as a necessary evil, and woe betide me if I did anything to cross her. “What a wonderful experience our holiday will be for you.”

And thus I found myself bound for Scotland with the Queen.

T
HE ROYAL YACHT, CHRISTENED
VICTORIA AND ALBERT
, SAILED from Woolwich on the morning of 5 September 1848. The sun sparkled on the Thames, along whose docks huge, noisy crowds had gathered to admire the magnificent paddle steamer decorated in white and aquamarine blue with richly carved crowns. Spectators cheered as the Queen and Prince Consort boarded the yacht, accompanied by their entourage. Behind them up the gang-plank, I shepherded the Princess Royal, aged eight years, the Prince of Wales, aged seven, and their four-year-old brother. I was glad that the other three children had been left at home, reducing the number of my charges as well as targets for abduction. Looking towards the three ships that would carry the equerries, royal physician, steward of the household, and more court attendants, I glimpsed Lord Unwin strutting on deck, but Mr. Slade was nowhere in sight. Along the river floated the Royal Squadron—four armed warships ready to escort the Queen to Scotland. I felt reassured that Kuan couldn’t possibly breach such heavy defenses, yet I knew that he was biding his time. The journey ahead seemed an undertaking composed of equal parts grandiosity and terror.

When everyone had boarded, the gangplanks lifted; moorings were cast off. The fleet moved up the Thames, while the crowd roared and waved. A band played a rousing, cheerful tune. Streamers, confetti, and flowers fell like colored rain. Pleasure boats filled with more spectators followed the royal fleet. The spectacle dazzled me as I stood watching on the deck. I could hardly believe I was part of it. Yesterday I’d written my family to tell them where I was going, and I doubted they would believe me.

Presently, the river and noise gave way to the sea, and we sailed along the coast. The Queen and Prince Consort retired to the cabin, while I began my duties, for they’d made clear to me that I would not merely pose as their children’s governess; they expected me to earn my keep. Little Prince Alfred stayed constantly with his mother, but I supervised the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales on deck. The Princess Royal, called Vicky, was a perfect little lady, and mature beyond her years. Her manners were courteous and charming, her clothes immaculate.

“Look, Miss Brontë,” she cried. “Those sailors on that ship are saluting us!” She smiled, nodded, and waved at them like the royalty she was.

Her brother Albert—called “Bertie”—was the sort of child that every governess dreads. The heir to the throne had a fair-haired, fair-faced, angelic countenance behind which lurked the very Devil. He raced about, yelling as he bounced a ball along the deck.

“Stop making such a racket, Bertie,” the Princess commanded. “You’ll disturb Mama and Papa.”

Bertie paid no attention to her—nor to me when I warned him that his ball might bounce overboard. “I don’t have to obey you,” he said in a childishly imperious manner. “Someday I’ll be King of England, and everybody will obey me.”

Someday I should like to boast that I’d once administered a thorough paddling to the King of England. But I hesitated to punish him, lest I displease his parents and sink myself further in their esteem. I begged Bertie to quiet himself, but he ignored me. His ball bounced over the railing. He let out a yelp as it bobbed on the waves and the ship moved away from it. He climbed upon the railing.

“No, Bertie!” exclaimed Vicky.

“I must get my ball back,” he said.

“If you jump in the ocean, you’ll drown,” I said, attempting to tug him off the railing. “Come down at once!”

Impervious to common sense, he struggled. He seemed—dare I say?—a rather stupid boy, more intent on getting his way than mindful of danger. It boded ill for the future of the nation when he ascended the throne.

“Let me go!” he shouted.

He struck out at me and kicked me, all the while he kept shouting. Vicky ordered him to stop, but he refused. As I tried to restrain him, he swung his leg over the railing. This was a child I had sworn to protect! Our noise brought the crew and royal entourage running towards us. The Queen and Prince Consort rushed from the cabin.

“What is all this commotion?” the Queen demanded.

“Bertie is trying to jump off the ship,” Vicky said. “Miss Brontë is trying to stop him.”

The annoyance on Her Majesty’s face turned to terror as she beheld her son, who was now dangling overboard while I desperately clung to his ankles. “Bertie!” she shrieked. Turning to her husband, she said, “Don’t just stand there, save our darling boy!”