Page 122 of The Heir
Mama laid down her pen. “Sir John was out of his mind with concern for you,” she said. “You know the Irish tendency toward sentiment and emotion. They are nearly as bad as the English. He shouted at the doctors.Thatis what you heard.”
“You’re lying!”
“You were delirious, Victoria. You do not know what you really saw or heard, and you cannot pretend that you do.”
Victoria knew then that she was too late. She could see how it was that Mama had already reworked the scene in her mind, how she had erased or torn or burned the facts that were not useful and written in others that were more to her liking.
“Why are you doing this, Mama?” Victoria asked. “Why are you letting him have his way?”
Mama shrugged. “The English have a saying about the devil you know. Sir John is the devil we know. Now, go lie down, Victoria. We do not want you making yourself ill again.”
But Victoria did not move.
“Do you know what I truly don’t understand?” she said. “You spend so much time wailing about how weak I am, about all your fears that I’ll fall ill. Then it happens. I am ill. And you did not believe me. You did nothing.”
Mama picked up her pen and dipped it in the ink. “I can only pray that one day you will understand exactly what I have done.”
“Then we have the same prayer.”
And Victoria turned, and she walked away. But instead of the way in front of her, she saw the words from Mama’s letter shining in front of her eyes.
Dearest Brother, she had written in German.
Some pleasantries. Inquiries after his health and that of his wife. Inquiries on how he found the Belgians and the work of building his still new kingdom. And then . . . and then . . .
She had paused, letting the words shape themselves in her mind before committing them to paper.
It seems to me the time has come when we must begin to turn our thoughts to a proper marriage for our Victoria. It would not do to have a repetition of the sort of mad, jockeying scramble that afflicted my late husband’s family not so very long ago. Nor should I wish for any great mismatch of age or temperament. Neither, of course, would I wish for a stranger who may not understand—or care for—our family’s interests.
I understand via Baron Stockmar that you have been training up our young cousins Ernst and Albert with an eye to the match.
How soon, do you think, will you be able to bring them to us?
Now, sitting in the carriage with Lehzen and Jane, Victoria shook this memory off. She could not, she would not, let despair take her. If Mama thought she would tamely submit to her choice of a match, she was very much mistaken.
“You’re doing it, aren’t you?” said Jane abruptly.
Victoria blinked. “Doing what?”
“Finding the cracks. Right here, this minute. You’re finding the way to slip the net.”
“It is the devil I know,” Victoria said lightly. “And look what we have done with that knowledge, Jane, you and I together.” She took her governess’s hand. “And you, Lehzen.”
“And Miss Liza,” said Lehzen.
“And Susan,” added Jane. “And Betty.”
Victoria laughed. “Oh, yes, definitely Betty. We must hold on to that.”
“But you do think we’ll find out then?” asked Jane. “What it was Dr. Maton was holding over Father’s head?”
“I think we will,” said Victoria. “You and me, and Lehzen and Liza, too. Indeed, I expect we can do whatever we want.” She smiled. “And then I think the devil might discover he does not know us at all.”
Epilogue
SIDMOUTH
1820
