Page 18 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

T hat morning, Mama was in a foul mood.

Victoria was not surprised by this any more than she was surprised by the appearance of her ghosts the night before.

It was, after all, her fault for being caught out in the stairway when she should have been safe in the boudoir.

And she acknowledged that. To make up for it, she attempted to be a model of obedience.

She held perfectly still while being dressed and having her hair done.

She ate only a tiny bit at breakfast. She made a decorously sentimental sketch of Dash in his basket, nothing that could be even mildly construed as rebellious.

Or interesting. She then felt obliged to ruffle Dash’s ears to show that she did not mean he was not interesting.

When Sir John arrived, with Jane trailing nervously in his wake, Victoria smiled politely.

“Good morning, Sir John. Good morning, Jane. What have you there?”

Jane clutched the book she was carrying like it was the only thing holding her upright. Sir John beamed down at his daughter. Victoria shivered at the power and the poison in his expression.

“A . . . book, ma’am,” Jane stammered. “Some etchings of Ireland. I thought—”

Lord. She’ll look at her father now to see if it is all right to think anything at all.

But this once Victoria saw she was mistaken. Jane did not look to Sir John. She met Victoria’s own gaze. In fact, Jane was staring hard, as if willing her to understand . . . something.

“Jane thought that as you are reading Irish history, ma’am, you would be interested in seeing something of the country.” Sir John sounded for all the world as if he was describing a dog who had just done a particularly clever trick.

“How very thoughtful,” said Mama. “Is it not, Victoria?”

Victoria kept her gaze on Jane’s. “I look forward to seeing what she’s brought.”

Jane let out a long breath, and her father shooed her to her usual corner.

An unfamiliar and distracting curiosity bubbled up inside Victoria. But, of course, it was not possible to talk with Jane now. It was time for lessons, and the system demanded she attend only to her tutors.

It will turn out to be nothing , she assured herself as she opened her grammar book. Jane has always been her father’s puppet. What could she possibly have to say that he hasn’t put into her mouth?

But Jane had never looked at Victoria in such a way before, and Victoria found herself itching to know what it meant.

The clock ticked. The morning’s lessons dragged. Victoria read her passages; she spoke her answers and wrote her essays. She exerted herself to keep from glancing at Jane. But when she did look, she saw Jane scowling at her fancywork, the book and, oddly, her pink reticule.

What does she have that for? Her maid should have taken it away with her coat and bonnet.

“Victoria! You do not attend!” snapped Mama.

Some days Mama was content to sit through Victoria’s lessons at her desk, working with her own correspondence.

Not today. Today Mama sat directly behind her, sniping at the tutors, finding fault with Victoria’s posture, and berating her if she so much as took a breath to think.

This, of course, made every lesson take twice as long as it should have.

The ache in her head and back returned. Victoria’s temper strained.

In contrast, Sir John had settled himself contentedly at his own desk to read and write his letters, exuding warm satisfaction like some great cat.

Victoria tried to keep her thoughts where they should be.

But they kept straying back to yesterday’s ride, to Sir John’s assertions—first, that she had lied, then that she had come across some unfortunate gardener.

From there they skittered to Mama catching her out in the palace’s dark spaces and that furious recitation of all her fears as she dragged Victoria back to their bright, safe rooms.

Aunt Sophia going from insisting she would have known if a gardener had died to whispering secrets with Uncle Sussex.

Jane Conroy, stabbing pointlessly at her crumpled fancywork and trying to hide the fact that she finally had something of her own to say.

The rumors sent by Lehzen’s friend that Victoria was finally to be given her own household.

It was a random, ramshackle collection of things. Victoria felt herself piling them all together like a bored child trying to make up a new game from broken toys.

And yet she could not make herself stop. She wanted too badly to make these jolts and jots into something—something that was hers alone and owed nothing to Mama and Sir John or even to Lehzen.

Something that came into being despite all of them.

Even with all these thoughts boiling beneath the surface, Victoria managed to keep most of her mind on her tasks, and her temper largely under control, until the time came for Mama to inspect her journal.

Victoria’s first journal had been a gift from Mama herself for her twelfth birthday.

She’d been so excited. She had mistakenly thought that this lovely book with its creamy blank pages could be a kind of friend.

She could pour out confidences here, and no one would censure her for what she thought or wondered or doubted.

It would be like listening to music—a moment when it would be safe to be herself.

That had lasted all of one day.

The next morning Mama had demanded to see the book and what she had written.

“Shame on you,” cried Mama when Victoria burst into tears. “To say you want to keep secrets from the one who loves you most in the world!” And she, too, started to cry.

Left with no choice, Victoria had surrendered the journal. Once Mama had read her writing, she made Victoria erase it all and replace her thoughts and feelings with several simple sentences detailing what she’d done that day.

Instead of a friend, Victoria found the journal was a new front in her war with Mama and Sir John.

Today, when the time came, she stepped smartly up to Mama’s desk, laid the journal down, and folded her hands behind her back as Mama flipped the pages to her most recent entry.

April 2, 1835

I awoke at seven and got up at eight. Breakfasted with Mama and the dean. Lessons. Practice. Went riding with Jane Conroy and found dead man on the green. Prince startled and shied. . . .

Mama took up her pencil and crossed out the lines.

“Erase that,” she said. “Start again.”

Victoria did not move.

“It is the truth. Even Sir John said it was the truth.” She felt, rather than saw, him raise his head at the sound of his name. “I wrote down exactly what he said last night at—”

“It is not a subject for you to write upon!” Mama shouted. “You are to know nothing of such things! What will people think when—”

“I’m to know nothing of death?” Victoria snapped back. “How many funerals have I attended? How many lectures have I endured about what must happen when my uncle king dies?” She paused. “Or perhaps you are worried because you do not wish me to write honestly about what you and Sir John—”

Sir John stood up. Mama’s face went hard as stone. In one abrupt motion, she tore out the page and crumpled it in her fist. Victoria stared, mute, her fists clenching around the empty air.

“Begin again.” Mama snapped the book shut and pushed it back at Victoria. “And this time remember who you are.”

There was a cough. Everyone jumped. The footman stood beside the door, and Dr. Clarke stood with him.

“Your Highness. Your grace. Lady Charlotte. Sir John.” The doctor bowed. “How does Her Highness today?”

“She should be bled,” said Mama. “Her brow felt distinctly warm this morning, and her spirits are unusually heightened.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “we shall see about that.”

In the privacy of her boudoir, Dr. Clarke settled into the business of taking Victoria’s pulse, examining her eyes and the back of her head, and asking her about her pains and blurred or double vision. When it was through, he once again pronounced her sound.

“She should be bled,” insisted Mama again. “At least an ounce. She barely slept at all last night.”

“I see no occasion for such interference,” replied Dr. Clarke. “Should the aches become too severe, I recommend a warm compress and two tablespoons of brandy.” He packed his bag.

The doors were opened. Dr. Clarke paused in the sitting room to bow to Sir John and Lady Flora. Jane had not moved, but Victoria was certain she was attending to every detail. She wondered what Sir John had said and how Flora had answered.

Victoria found herself reluctant to let Dr. Clarke leave so soon. While he was here, Mama had to show at least some modicum of courtesy.

“Dr. Clarke, do convey my best wishes to Dr. Maton,” she said. “How is he doing?”

Dr. Clarke paused. Dr. Clarke looked at Mama and at Sir John. He cleared his throat.

“Ah. There we have very sad news, ma’am. Unfortunately, Dr. Maton has succumbed to his ailments.”

For a moment, Victoria felt as dizzy as she had when Prince shied.

“That is very sad news,” she said slowly. “Is it not, Mama?”

Mama’s face remained stony. Her attention, however, was focused not upon the doctor but upon Sir John.

“Indeed it is.” Her voice was low and steady.

Victoria’s sensibility—trained by hours at dinners and in drawing rooms, where there was nothing to do but watch the adults in the room—leapt up. Pay attention to this , it told her. Pay attention to how she looks at Sir John right now.

“Did Dr. Maton have family?” inquired Victoria. Jane was watching them now, too, frowning and listening hard. She did not know Dr. Maton had died. And from the displeasure in her expression, neither did Mama.

Did Sir John?

Pay attention!

“Dr. Maton has left a wife and three sons,” said Dr. Clarke. “All the boys have followed him into the medical profession. A fact of which he was very proud, you may be sure.”

“Well,” said the duchess, “we shall be sending our condolences to his family.”

“I know that will be most appreciated, ma’am.” Dr. Clarke bowed. “I shall return again tomorrow, but as ever, do not hesitate to call me if there are any changes.”

And he bustled away.

Victoria turned on her toes to face Mama, her head cocked, her eyebrows raised.

Which, it seemed, was more than Mama was prepared to stand.

“You are a ridiculous child! Your imagination has done enough damage, and if you are not able to properly command your thoughts, I will order Dr. Clarke to bleed you to bring down this fever. Now you have your journal to write, Victoria,” she said. “I expect to see you busy.”

Victoria folded her arms around the book. “I will go to the—”

“You will stay here!” snapped Mama. “You have more than fully demonstrated your judgment is not to be trusted.”

“I may not go to the next room?”

“You may not.”

“Not even if I take Jane and Lehzen?” Victoria blinked her eyes in a great show of innocence. “Not even if I leave the door open? That way I will remain safely under your watchful gaze.”

This was a dangerous game, and she knew it. She was pricking Mama just to provoke her. It was childish and disobedient and would create a scene, and she could not stop.

You will hear me. I will make you. You will admit he lied to you, just like he did to me.