Page 53 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

V ictoria hated Sir John’s system. She hated his hectoring and his rules, his observations and his lies. She hated his hold over her mother and her.

But of all the ideas he had instituted to shape her life, the one she hated worst was the “tour.”

She hated the endless hours in jolting carriages with Mother rehearsing her fears, her jealousies, and all the disasters she anticipated in every town. She hated the endless parade of strange rooms in strange houses and the continual presence of strange, smiling, fawning people.

If she were allowed to ride horseback sometimes or even to walk out and really see the towns or the country they passed through, perhaps it would be different.

But if anything, she was kept even more closely than she was in the palace.

In addition to the usual list of dangers, Mama feared madmen and revolutionaries roaming the English countryside.

So she made Victoria stay in whatever room had been set aside for her until a specific event required their presence.

Every town they stopped in had their public speeches.

That meant long hours in the blazing heat or freezing cold, sitting on a hastily constructed platform that creaked and swayed whenever anybody moved, while local dignitaries droned and flattered.

When these men were done, it was Sir John’s turn to stand up and smile out at the crowds and give an answer, which everyone pretended was hers.

These were the moments when Sir John was endlessly, entirely happy.

He was constantly busy, consulting with everyone, orchestrating every detail, while Victoria was taken about like a parrot in its cage.

Everyone jumped when he shouted, running this way and that at his slightest word.

Even in the cold, on the platforms, when he sat behind the dignitaries, he seemed filled with energy and excitement.

And when the crowds cheered, his eyes lit up like a child’s on Bonfire Night.

There were tours of local industries to be navigated, bouquets from schoolchildren to be received, fairs to be presided over. Victoria sat. She stood. She waved. She held the bunches of flowers in the crook of her arm and tried not to cry because she missed Dash so badly.

But the worst of it was how exhaustion drained all the enjoyment out of those things she normally relished most. When they did go to some grand house for a dinner, the meal could drag on for hours, until Victoria grew sleepy and stupid.

Then they might go to see a concert or play.

But by the time they reached the theater, Victoria was so tired she could barely sit up straight, and more often than not, her head ached so badly that her eyesight blurred and even the music became painful.

When at last she was allowed to crawl into bed, it could be as late as two in the morning. She hid under the covers, knowing that she would be woken at six so she could be dressed in time to be driven to wherever she was supposed to be next.

But she had been through all this before. She thought herself ready for it. But on this tour, she found, Sir John decided to introduce an entirely new horror.

They had spent the night in the Hotel Splendide, in York in a sprawling suite of rooms on the first floor. Victoria’s bed had been set up next to Mama’s, as usual. She had, it seemed, fallen asleep just minutes before.

“Wake up.”

It was Sir John. Victoria blinked her eyes open, startled by his gruff voice.

He stood beside her bed. He had a folio tucked under his arm. A strange maid stood behind him with the tray of tea and toast.

Victoria struggled to sit upright. Where was Mama? Lehzen? Their beds were already empty. How could that be? Who had let Sir John into the boudoir alone?

Sir John took the tray and dismissed the maid. Instead of putting the tray across her lap, however, he set it on the table by the window. He did, however, pour her a cup and hand it to her.

Victoria drank. “Are you playing lady’s maid now, Sir John?”

“I do whatever is necessary, ma’am. You should know that by now.”

She took another swallow. The night had been dry and cold, and the tea was welcome. “It’s too sweet.”

“It will be a cold day, ma’am. Sweet tea is more warming. Now.” Sir John opened the folio and laid it in front of her.

There was the letter. The one he had written to the king, in which “Victoria” pleaded to be allowed to stay under her mother’s care until she was twenty-one.

The one that designated Sir John her private secretary.

“What is this?” Victoria demanded. “I told you I would not sign that thing.”

“You will.” Sir John brought out an ink bottle and pen. He dipped the pen and held it out to her.

“Why don’t you sign my name for me?” she inquired. “You wrote it for me. Why not finish it?”

He smiled thinly. “Sign and be done. You will in the end.”

“I want some more tea.” She held out the cup.

“You can have it as soon as you sign.”

Victoria closed the folio and shoved it toward him. Sir John shrugged. He collected ink and pen. He picked up the folio. He set them all on the tea tray and took the tray out of the room.

That was the first morning.