Lady of Ashes (21 page)

God help them all if they lost the prince consort’s sure and steady hand over Queen Victoria.

This required a note to Lord Russell to inform him of the latest developments in the prince’s illness. Palmerston sat at his desk and filled his fountain pen with ink.

On second thought, he should also write to the American minister. Mr. Adams stood to lose greatly without the prince’s support.

Palmerston sighed. May as well pen a note to Mrs. O’Kane. There would be no time for dalliances tonight, and his mistress would not be happy about it.

 

 

 

“Now, now, madam, I’ll not have this sniffling and crying. You must be your husband’s rock of strength.”

Victoria folded her handkerchief. “Of course, Dr. Jenner. You’re right. What were we thinking? We are so grateful you’re here now to help Dr. Clark see the prince consort through this bout of feverish cold.”

In the end, Victoria had been forced to allow Dr. Watson to see Albert, but she permitted him to do so once, instructing the physician
not
to be in the way. Naturally, the man was of no use whatsoever, as she expected. Lord Palmerston’s demand still rankled. She’d deal with him later, once Albert was better and this irritating illness was behind them.

Jenner pulled off his glasses and tapped them against his nose. “Naturally, madam, I defer to the wisdom of Dr. Clark, given his greater experience and knowledge. But I believe I can make a conclusive diagnosis. As you know, the prince presented a plethora of symptoms—insomnia, fever, shivering, stomach pain, nausea, vomiting, and so on—which made a verdict more than difficult.”

Dr. Clark, standing nearby, nodded approvingly.

“However, we must be cognizant of the
feverish
symptoms the prince has. Also, this morning we see that a light rash has appeared, and it is an indication.” He perched his glasses back on the end of his nose.

“A rash? From what? What does it signify?”

“It is my assessment, and Dr. Clark agrees, that he suffers from typhoid fever—”

“Typhoid fever! This is all Bertie’s fault! He must have contracted it when he went to Madingley to talk some sense into that boy. We’ll never forgive him, never.”

“Now, now, madam, you mustn’t fall apart. Stiffen your shoulders. We shall face this head-on and see our dear prince through it, right?”

The queen sniffed but resisted pulling her handkerchief back to her face. “Yes, yes, we shall see him through it.”

“Very good. Now, the rash normally appears between the eighth and twelfth day of typhoid. The overall illness lasts between twenty-one and thirty days, meaning that the prince is already at least a third of the way through these symptoms.”

“So he might be healed in just a short time?”

“That is one outcome. It is certainly possible that once the symptoms fade away, he can make a gradual recovery.”

“Otherwise?”

Jenner hesitated, as though he was fearful to lay out some sort of brutal truth. When he next spoke, it was in a soft and gentle tone. “Otherwise, I’m afraid he will sink further, until he goes to his reward.”

Victoria gasped. “That’s not possible!”

“Madam, God gives no one a permanent residency on this planet. The prince is no exception. However, it is my hope that we can seize the day, so to speak, and offer him appropriate medicines now that he is properly diagnosed. God may choose to leave him here a while longer yet.”

“Does he know?”

“No, madam, I know it is your express wish that he not be informed of any seriousness in his condition. Although I must say, he would certainly take the news far better than you are. Come, come, you can’t go in there with your face blotched and puffed. Pull together so you can offer your husband comfort.” Jenner offered her his arm.

Victoria leaned against him gratefully. “Yes, we must be a sturdy wife for our dear Albert. Ah, can anyone else understand our great anxiety?”

“Your Majesty, I have long admired the prince. He is the finest specimen of intellectual and moral and religious greatness I have ever known. Would that I could lie in his place so that he could continue on his noble undertakings for this nation without being laid so low.”

“Ah, dear Dr. Jenner, you know our dear Albert so well. You are of such comfort to us. As you have always been, Dr. Clark,” she added over her shoulder before they disappeared into the Blue Room to offer Albert encouragement.

 

 

The four physicians—James Clark, William Jenner, Henry Holland, and Thomas Watson—all conferred and came to an identical conclusion: The prince’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. It fell to Sir James to tell the queen, while the others ensured a public bulletin was published for the newspapers, stating that the prince’s “symptoms have assumed an unfavorable character during today.” Vague enough to provide hope, but truthful enough not to deceive.

The Times
printed an editorial after receiving the bulletin, opining that:

England held its breath.

 

 

 

Violet and the rest of England were avidly reading every edition of the paper, seeking details of the prince consort’s condition. She remembered how pale he had looked the day she met him at Admiral Herbert’s home, and was not surprised that he was ailing now. She prayed daily for him, as did everyone else in the country.

Today
The Times
had published three different issues, each with an update on the prince’s condition. She read the article, which indicated that four different physicians were now attending the prince.

Indeed, the article went on to say that he had shown a slight improvement over the past few hours. London went to sleep that night hopeful that Prince Albert’s health would eventually be restored.

 

 

Victoria was certain she might suffocate. The Blue Room was crowded with family members, servants, and government officials, staring at her poor Albert, who lay there so . . . uncomfortably. His breathing was ragged and uneven, and he drifted in and out of sleep. When he was awake, she was gratified that he recognized her, even rising enough to stroke her face and murmur
“liebes Frauchen,” dear woman,
his pet name for her.

Dr. Jenner said it wouldn’t be long now, but she still refused to believe that Albert could be taken from her. It was impossible, really. She herself had contracted typhoid fever in her childhood, and here she was, nearly forty years later, alive and well. What had happened with Albert?

In a moment of clarity, Albert sat up and grasped her hands. “Listen to me,
liebling,
darling, you must never erect any effigies to me. No monuments, no statues, no signs to mark my existence. I shall go as quietly as I came, do you understand?”

She nodded and kissed his clammy forehead. He was delirious, of course. There was no need to worry about such a future event. Besides, all of Great Britain would certainly want to see him memorialized.

 

Bertie had traveled overnight to be at his father’s side. Victoria had uttered less than a dozen words to him since his arrival. The boy now sat on a chair crouched over his father, weeping. Victoria was not impressed by Bertie’s tears, which surely resulted from an accumulation of too many spirits and undesirable women and not from the grief over having been responsible for his father’s condition. A worse future king couldn’t be found.

Their daughters Vicky, Alice, and Helena were also there, while the remainder of the younger children were kept away. Vicky, the Princess Royal, was the oldest and had always been her father’s favorite child. Victoria allowed herself a fleeting smile. Of course Albert doted on Vicky. Who wouldn’t love such a precious girl, so dutiful to her parents and intelligent beyond all imagination? Unlike Bertie, she’d followed her parents’ wishes and married as they wanted, and was now the Crown Princess of Prussia at the mere age of twenty-one. Such a good girl.

The real angel in the room was Alice, already eighteen and needing a husband. If only Albert were well enough to discuss an appropriate alliance for her. Alice had nearly taken permanent residence in the Blue Room, and sat reading to him, feeding him beef tea, and talking whenever he wanted to talk. Alice sat next to her father’s bedside now, holding his hand and talking to him in low tones. Victoria moved closer to listen.

“I should like some music,” Albert said. “A fine chorale, played at a distance.”

“Of course, Father,” Alice replied, and asked that a piano be brought into the room.

Their daughter played “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott,”
A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,
and several others. Victoria wept to see Albert looking upward with such a sweet expression.

So the long day passed into evening, and the queen left the room periodically to compose herself when her combined anxiety and grief threatened to overtake her. Each time she returned to kneel next to Alice by his bedside and take his hand, it was just a little bit colder and his breathing was a little more labored.

As though a gentle hand passed over Albert’s face, his features settled into a calm repose. He drew three long, gentle breaths and then . . . was no more.

Dr. Clark announced the time as ten minutes before the hour of eleven o’clock at night. A servant was summoned to have clocks stopped throughout the palace.

Victoria blinked. It couldn’t be.

Later, she had a vague recollection of the room shifting and moving in a dozen directions around her, then strong hands coming to support her and escort her from Albert’s presence. The doctors were huddled around her darling. She tried to form the words to order them away, to give him air, but her tongue was thick and refused to perform the simplest task. All of a sudden, she was in the Red Room, sitting at the same desk where her beloved Albert had so recently written his missive to Bertie.

Left completely alone, she gave herself over to weeping, as noisily and anguished as her heart could bear. Normally a queen of great decorum, she was grateful to be in private, even if she could be heard from outside the door.

For now, she didn’t care what anyone thought.

Victoria wailed, heaped curses on God, and bitterly declaimed her bleak future. She pulled at her hair, threw an inkwell, and beat her breast. She paced, prayed on her knees, and considered flinging herself from a window.

After hours of unleashed grief, she finally sat down at Albert’s desk, caressing it like an old friend. Albert loved this desk, and they’d spent many an hour here, discussing all manner of things, important and inane.

She sniffled and opened the top drawer, taking out a pen. Ah, Albert always complained about the nib on this pen. It had too fine a point for his taste. She put her lips to the pen and tucked it back inside. Victoria’s hand wandered over the contents of the drawer, seeking connection to her husband.

She touched a card and pulled it out.

It was the
carte-de-visite
from that undertaking woman Albert mentioned after the funeral of Admiral Herbert.

“Graham and Violet Morgan,” it read.
So that is what a woman who plans funerals looks like.
Albert had been impressed with her, hadn’t he? In fact . . . didn’t he ask Victoria to remember Mrs. Morgan when he passed on?

She shuddered at the memory. How could Albert have been so prescient? He was always prognosticating his own death, but she’d never paid attention. The thought sent her into a fresh round of sobbing.

Exhausted, she looked at the clock. No servant had dared enter here to stop its movement. It was nearly six o’clock in the morning. Plans would have to be made to have her darling interred. She picked up the card again.

“Truly?” she whispered. “You actually want a woman in attendance upon you, my love? So unseemly. Ah, but what wouldn’t I do for you, even in death? Very well, I’ll send for her.”

 

 

The bells at St. Paul’s Cathedral tolled intermittently all day, speaking in doleful tones the sad news that Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel, a prince of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha and prince consort to Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, was dead at the age of forty-two.

Streams of citizens crowded outside St. Paul’s, anxious to go in and find spiritual comfort over so great a national loss. Clutching Susanna’s hand, Violet joined the throngs waiting outside to attend one of the church’s daily services.

She felt little comfort afterward as she returned to the shop.

The poor queen.

The front doorbell tinkled as a man wearing Hanoverian livery of scarlet and blue entered Morgan Undertaking.

“Good afternoon, sir, how may I help you?” she asked.