Page 57 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

S omeone was shouting.

“Wake up! Wake up, you spoiled brat!”

Sir John. It must be morning. Victoria needed to sit up. But she couldn’t sit up. Her head hurt too much. She tried to roll over, and pain lanced up her back.

She tried to remember where they were. Ramsgate. Yes. In the cottage. At the seaside. She could smell the salt air. They were to rest now. She was promised rest.

Why can’t I rest?

Her throat was aching and painfully raw. Her tongue felt like wet flannel clogging her mouth.

“Water,” she whispered.

“You will have nothing until you cease your shamming and do as you are told!”

He grabbed her shoulders, and she shrieked as he hauled her upright. She tried to open her eyes, but the light was far too bright. She screwed them shut again, and even that hurt.

Anger washed through her, a weak tide, but it gave her just enough strength to lift her head.

“Is this how you killed Dr. Maton?” she whispered. “Did you poison his tea? Or was it his drink? I understand he drank to excess.”

Sir John’s face went utterly blank. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You killed Dr. Maton,” she said. “You poisoned him, and now you are poisoning me.”

“Is that what you think?” Sir John crouched down, bringing his face close to hers.

“Is that the nonsense you’ve been relishing while you’ve run about with my daughter?

Well, now, you deluded little creature.” Her head sagged, and he put his hand under her chin to force her to look at him.

“It’s possible, I suppose, that one of Dr. Maton’s victims may have done for him, but I don’t really care.

The man is proving more of a nuisance dead than alive.

Now.” He grabbed her hand and fumbled with her fingers.

What are you doing? Stop it! But she had no strength left to protest.

It was only slowly that she realized he was wrapping her fingers around the pen.

“You will sign what I give you to sign, and you will speak to me with respect, or you will lie here and burn to ashes for all that I care. Do you understand, you stupid little girl? Do you?”

The pen was in her hand. Sir John was shouting. The whole world shifted and blurred. She was hot. She could not see clearly. Her hand was being moved. She didn’t understand.

She did know there was something important she must do, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

I must . . .

I must . . .

I . . .

With a shuddering effort, she loosened her fingers. The pen slipped free and clattered onto the floor.

Darkness swallowed the world.

* * *

It took two days for Jane and Liza to get to Ramsgate.

Betty drove a hard bargain but agreed to go along as their maid.

The sisters pooled their money, what there was of it, to hire a carriage and horses.

Jane sent a letter to Mr. Saddler at the palace, and Mr. Saddler, in turn, sent Clyde Hornsby to act as their driver and manservant.

Liza had suggested that Ned could drive them and that it might keep him away from fresh trouble.

Jane had countered that they did not need a driver who might drink himself into a stupor at the coaching inn or gamble away their limited store of money in some tavern once they reached the town.

Liza shrugged and admitted Jane had a point.

Mother probably would have protested the entire enterprise if they’d bothered to consult her. As it was, they simply left before she was awake, instructing Meg to say that they were visiting friends (which was true, after a fashion) and that they would write when they were safely arrived.

The journey was delayed only slightly by Jane’s insisting they stop at the post office.

“I need to be sure this goes into the next post, Mrs. Carey,” she told the postmistress as she handed over her letter.

“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Carey squinted at the direction. “Your Miss Kent’s in Ramsgate, then?”

Jane nodded. “It’s to be left at the post office there until called for.”

Because Lehzen or the princess might check, and she wanted the princess to know that she had kept her promise and that she was on her way.

* * *

Someone was talking.

“Please, ma’am. Let me send for Dr. Clarke.”

Lehzen.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s shamming. She warned us herself that she would, and now she is.”

Mama.

“You would be of more use, Lehzen, if you exerted your influence over her and made sure she signed the letter.”

“She’s shamming? You truly believe with that fever and that cough, she’s shamming?”

“Yes!”

Don’t cry, Mama. You mustn’t cry.

“She must be shamming! She cannot be so very ill. She is a naughty child who does not want to listen to what’s best for her. Sir John has said—”

“Was his grace the duke shamming when—”

There was a short, sharp sound. Victoria winced.

Someone has been slapped.

She wanted to open her eyes, to ask for water, to see what had happened.

But she couldn’t, and after a bit, the world went away again.

* * *

It was raining when Jane and Liza reached Ramsgate.

This was not the steady southern-county rain they were used to.

This was solid sheets of salt-laced water lashed by a wind strong enough to set the carriage rocking.

They could progress only in fits and starts because Hornsby had to maneuver around puddles that had begun to blend into lakes.

The horses balked, and in the end, he had to get off the box, take hold of the harness, and lead them on at a walking pace.

Jane, Liza, and Betty all huddled together, trying to keep each other warm. They could see nothing out the windows and didn’t even know they’d reached the inn until Hornsby came round to open the door and let down the step.

Thankfully, the inn was a reputable place, and they were given a room with a clean bed and a private parlor.

Jane handed over half the money remaining to them as a deposit and told herself they’d find a way to make up any shortfall when the time came.

Surely the princess or Lehzen would loan them something.

She did not even consider asking Father.

The landlady brought hot water so they could scrub the travel mud off themselves. Betty helped them into dry things. Jane was exhausted, but she found she couldn’t settle down. She went to the windows and peered out, trying to see up to the sky.

“Jane, for heaven’s sake, come away,” snapped Liza.

“I just wanted to see if it was clearing.”

“It’s not.”

“I was hoping to go to the post office.”

“Well, you’ll have to hope we don’t catch our deaths instead. Come back to the fire and let me brush your hair before we have to cut it short to get the snarls out. Betty, you go see if the landlady has any tea or if there is anything hot on the fire.”

“Yes, Miss Conroy.” Betty scuttled out.

“You and the princess can wait one more day, Jane,” said Liza. “Everything will be fine.”

* * *

It was the creaking step that gave Lehzen away. Phillips, who had been dozing by the kitchen door, shook himself and rose to his feet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Sir John said you’re not to leave.”

“But—” began Lehzen.

Phillips was already shaking his head. “He was very clear, ma’am. It’s as much as my position’s worth.”

“Perhaps—” She reached into her bag.

But Phillips shook his head again. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

There was nothing left to do but to beg. “Please, Phillips. The princess is ill. She needs a doctor at once.”

“I know, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t. He’ll sack me. I’m all the support my family’s got.”

I will not cry , Lehzen told herself. I will not fall at this man’s feet. I will think. There must be something. There must be . . .

She looked around the darkened kitchen, saw the clock, saw the keys hanging on their hooks, saw the calendar on the wall, with the date circled.

Remembered the princess’s whispered plans, and her heart squeezed painfully.

“If I cannot leave, perhaps you could send the boy with a letter? It’s for a friend of mine. I just need it left at the post office. What harm can that do?”

Phillips met her gaze. Lehzen did not permit herself to so much as blink.

“Right,” he said. “A note to the post office. I’m sure that would be fine. Give it to me, and I’ll see the boy’s sent just as soon as the rain clears a bit.”

It was the slimmest possible hope. It was almost certainly no hope at all. But it was all that she had.

* * *

“Oh, do sit down , Jane,” cried Liza.

It was morning, although outside it was still nearly dark as midnight. The remains of breakfast sat on the table. The fire had been built up fresh, and the rain still poured down. Liza had joked about the necessity of building an ark, or perhaps they could simply trade the horses for dolphins.

Jane craned her neck, trying to see past the eaves, in case the clouds had begun to clear. “I can’t.” She squinted. Was that perhaps a tiny bit of blue?

“Why not?” Liza spread her toast with the landlady’s surprisingly good marmalade.

“I don’t know.” Jane turned to face her sister. “I just . . . I feel like something’s wrong.”

“What could be wrong?”

“She didn’t write, Liza.” Jane’s voice broke. She hadn’t realized quite how that neglect had affected her until this moment. “She’s always writing letters. But it’s gone on three weeks, and there’s been nothing.”

Clearly, Liza wanted to snap back some bit of sarcasm, but something in Jane’s face stopped her.

“Jane, you said yourself Father would be watching her particularly closely. She probably just didn’t find a way to slip the net. That’s all.”

I’ve spent half my life finding the cracks . . . Jane turned back to the windows.

Behind her, Liza sighed. In the next moment, she tossed her napkin aside and yanked on the bell rope.

Betty appeared from the parlor. “Yes, miss?”

“Betty, get your stout boots on,” said Liza. “It seems Miss Jane has decided we’re going for a little walk.”

* * *

The room was well lit. A good fire burned. The rain slammed against the windows, as if angry at being denied admittance.