‘The lieutenant who fixed your great aunt’s umbrella. I happened upon him at St Columba’s one afternoon. I planted flowers on Mr Brodie’s grave. It’s pretty in the graveyard now the blossom’s out. Did you sort out your business, ma’am?’
Araminta pauses. This is difficult to explain. The queen’s crown has been reported in the newspapers, said to have been found walled up in a castle in Northumberland. At present it resides in the Tower of London but there’s been a request for it to be returned to Edinburgh where it would join the rest of the Honours of Scotland at the castle. It’s been named the princess’s crown, which is curious, for all the evidence points to it being made for a queen. In their almost daily correspondence, Sister Winifred explained to her great niece that while successful in the crown’s recovery, and having struck a deal on how the crown is to be termed, the Church hasn’t managed to uncover the whereabouts of Harry Thom.Where’s the justice in that?Winifred scrawled.For Mr Brodie.James McLevy turned up information that Thom had fled to the Baltic. Then he turned up some more that indicated the Americas.He mustn’t get away with it,Winifred repeated in another letter.I just hope he turns up eventually.It’s plain to Araminta that Winifred might be aware of only some of the terms around the crown’s recovery. Something she did make mention of is that while the Bishop of Edinburgh is respectful of books, he recently required the removal of all items in the Forres Street library that relate to the Order of the Hermit. What did he get for that, Araminta wonders.
In any case, now, she’s more concerned with the business in hand. ‘Mr Moore’s succeeded in procuring an audience with the Princess of Kent,’ she says at length. ‘But her uncle the king is sick and it’s been postponed.’
Eleanor does not question further. She finishes the pie and licks her fingers.
‘Will we ever go back to Scotland, ma’am?’
‘So you can see your soldier?’ Araminta laughs. ‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘Next summer. I should like to see Edinburgh in better weather.’
‘I’m glad to be back. You look well,’ the maid says. ‘The undermaid must be looking after you.’
‘She’s competent to dress me, certainly, but I feel dreadful,’ Araminta admits. ‘Quite bilious. Johnathan thinks it’s the stress of waiting for a reply from Kensington Palace but I swear I can smell the breakfast tray as far as the landing when the girl brings it up.’
Both women stop, the understanding coming to them simultaneously now they are together. Eleanor has always kept track of her mistress’s courses but events in Scotland have meant that she’s not done so for months. The last time Araminta bled must be January, just after the new year.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ Eleanor lets out. ‘Congratulations. When do you think you might be due?’
Epilogue
Friday 30 June 1837.
Her Majesty has had the crown brought from the Tower; an indication that she knows it was never walled up in Northumberland or anywhere else. Araminta considers this a good sign as she waits in an unexpectedly dowdy day room at Buckingham House. Her eye is drawn through the window towards the sun-dappled garden. Eleanor has altered her day dresses in the last weeks, taking them out as her pregnancy is beginning to show. Johnathan is pleased as punch. ‘We’ve never made it this far before,’ he said cheerily this morning, as he watched her moving about their bedroom in her negligee. The sickness has dissipated and she feels stronger; powerful even. She’s changed and everything has changed with her.
The queen is late, though a queen of course can never be late. She is in fact writing an angry note to her mother who’s trying to impose her opinion on her daughter’s actions. It’s a fight Victoria cannot afford to lose. ‘A vexation’ as she terms it to her ladies-in-waiting. Nonetheless, she has decided to meet with the Scottish lady. She tried on the crown only this morning for the fun of it, when it arrived. Once the note’s dispatched, she makes it known that she’ll go to the requisite withdrawing room.
Araminta bobs a low curtsey when Victoria enters. The first thing apparent is that the queen is very young. No more than a girl. Still, she has poise.
‘Mrs Moore, we understand this treasure is returned thanks to your good offices,’ she says, her words formal but her tonewarm. ‘It’s beautiful but we don’t suppose we’ll ever have reason to wear it.’
‘Really, Your Majesty?’ Araminta says. ‘Not even in Scotland?’
Victoria’s eyes dance. ‘We’ve never been to Scotland,’ she replies. ‘Perhaps one day. Your family is Scottish?’
‘From the Highlands,’ Araminta clarifies. ‘They served the Stuart queens. On my mother’s side.’
‘I have Stuart blood,’ the young queen chimes enthusiastically. She’s related to many European royal families, of course. That is the way of it.
Araminta pauses. She’s here to assess what to do. To find out whether this young woman is a worthy queen. She has to admit, she hoped Her Majesty might feel like more of a warrior, but then Araminta was timid at the start of her own adventure.
‘Mary Queen of Scots was a heroine, I think. She’s much admired in Edinburgh,’ she says.
Victoria shrugs. ‘She was beautiful, but not a successful monarch. She was beheaded by her cousin.’
‘She was. But she sought to change the world. To make things better for women, I think. In Scots law women have more rights to property.’
Victoria raises a solitary eyebrow. Many at court would like it if she did something like that. Many at court are waiting to brand her too naive to rule. She pictures her prime minister Lord Melbourne’s face were she to ask him to shepherd such a measure through the chamber. The queen has little interest in the rights of women, except her own right to the throne, which she’s painfully aware is currently widely questioned. They say she’s too young and foolish. She has no intention of proving them right.
Araminta continues. ‘I brought you something.’
Victoria looks delighted. ‘A gift?’
Araminta pulls out a copy of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s book on the rights of women.
Victoria looks disappointed. Araminta wonders if the queen hoped for another medieval jewel. However, Her Majesty rallies. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It shall be added to the library.’
The queen’s attention turns once more to the crown. ‘The emeralds are magnificent,’ she smiles.
