Traitor and the Tunnel (34 page)

She was conducted not to one of the formal drawing rooms but to Her Majesty’s private parlour –

a room she knew wel , although she’d never before approached it without a tea tray in her hands. The lady-in-waiting stopped outside the door. “A few words of advice as to conduct, Miss Quinn. One approaches Her Majesty with eyes lowered, and prostrates oneself at the edge of the Turkish carpet.

One does not rise until permitted to do so. One addresses the Queen as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Ma’am’.

And on leaving, one does not turn one’s back; instead, one backs out of the room.”

Mary resisted the temptation to say, One thanks one for one’s advice. A moment later, the door swung open and she was doing precisely as instructed. When she reached the edge of the specified carpet and sank low, the Queen said,

“Come closer, Miss Quinn.”

She advanced to the chair indicated. A quick glance up revealed the presence of both Queen Victoria and Prince Bertie, while a thin, prim-lipped man hovered in the background: the secretary. He was not introduced.

The Queen’s formal manner offered no suggestion that she had ever seen Mary before this morning.

“How do you do, Miss Quinn.”

“Very wel , I thank Your Majesty.” She hesitated.

Did one ask the Queen how she did? Or ought she al ude to yesterday’s excitements? The fishwife hadn’t covered that.

“We have asked you here today for two reasons.

The first shal be explained to you by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.” At the glance the Queen gave her son, it wasn’t at al clear that this was his initiative.

But, obediently enough, he drew breath. “I first wish to apologize, Miss Quinn, for the – altercation –

that took place yesterday. I behaved in a less-than-gentlemanly fashion and beg your forgiveness for my actions.”

Mary glanced hastily at Her Majesty, whose composed expression betrayed nothing. The Prince must

have

confessed

everything,

and

that

knowledge made her flush with anger and humiliation. It was an unreserved apology, however –

much more than she’d ever expected. Whatever good it might do. But clearly, some response was due. “Of course, sir,” she mumbled.

A hideous pause. Then, at some silent signal from his mother, Prince Bertie plunged on. “The memories that were triggered yesterday – although it is too late for the late prisoner’s benefit, I shal be giving my memory of events in a statement, in case the – the Beaulieu-Buckworth family should pursue a civil case.” He swal owed. “That wil , of course, cause much unhappiness. On – on advice, I shal undertake a tour of some sort – perhaps to the colonies – while the case is heard.”

Mary heard this with mingled pity and exasperation, as seemed ever the case with the Prince. Doing the right thing, then running away from the consequences. Yet at least he’d ultimately been persuaded to behave correctly. “I wish you a safe journey, sir.”

Prince Bertie blushed again and shifted in his seat. “Oh – thanks.” His eyes were trained on his mother, awaiting her signal. And, at a glance from her, he stood hastily. “Wel , I must go. It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Quinn, and I wish you wel .”

As the door closed behind him, the Queen turned to Mary. “Rest assured, Miss Quinn,” she said, “the Prince of Wales knows nothing of your real employment.”

Mary stared at Queen Victoria’s impassive features. “I – I’m very grateful for your circumspect manner, Your Majesty.”

She sniffed. “Nonsense. One can’t employ secret operatives, then go about exposing them to al and sundry – even to a person who is the future King. But we are straying from the subject at hand.

“The last reason we asked you here today, Miss Quinn, is to thank you for your exemplary actions throughout the confusions of yesterday. We are most grateful for your prompt, loyal and clear-headed actions. In your absence, there might have been a genuine tragedy.”

“Your Majesty is extremely kind, but the real hero of the day is Mr Easton,” said Mary promptly. “He first saw the crates of guncotton and sounded the alarm. I was only the messenger, Ma’am.”

The Queen looked at her with reproof. “We had, of course, considered Mr Easton’s role. But this is a conversation about you, Miss Quinn.”

Mary subsided.

“We remain grateful not only for the swift and effective delivery of the message, but also for your return underground to neutralize the guncotton. We wish to recognize your acts of bravery and loyalty in an official fashion.”

Mary’s ears began to buzz – partly a result of fatigue, as she’d not slept the previous night, but mostly because the conversation, strange to begin with, had taken flight into the realm of outright fantasy.

“We have consulted with our advisers – in confidence, of course – and it appears there is no appropriate public honour to offer you. We presume that in your line of work, you would in any case prefer to avoid the sort of notice such an award would attract.”

Mary bowed her head. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“We wish, therefore, to make you a present that wil enable you to continue your work with an eye to cases that best deserve your attentions; a gift that wil free you from some of the petty concerns of life as a remarkably independent female.” At a signal from Her Majesty, the secretary glided forward, proffering a silver salver. On it lay a paper rectangle addressed to Miss M. Quinn.

Mary picked up the envelope as though it might scorch her fingers. Held it for a moment, wondering what preposterous three-volume novel she’d fal en into. Eventual y, as the Queen seemed to be waiting for her, fumbled it open. And found a cheque.

She nearly dropped the slip of paper – signed, so improbably, “Victoria R” – from suddenly trembling fingers. “My – Your Majesty?”

Not even the faintest of smiles. “We should, perhaps, explain the logic behind the sum. It is a block of capital that, wel invested, wil create for you a modest annual income.”

Mary simply stared. She knew it was impolite. A breach of etiquette. And yet for the longest time, she gaped at the Queen of England, unable to summon anything like speech. When she final y spoke, eloquence escaped her. “Your Majesty, this is beyond generous. I can only thank you, and say that I do not deserve your gift.”

“That is for us to determine, Miss Quinn.” A hint of reproof, there. “Do you intend giving up your interesting and unusual work?”

“Oh no, Ma’am.” She couldn’t imagine sitting at home over a circle of needlepoint al day – no shape to her days, no purpose in life. She’d found a different vocation, briefly, in her father. Couldn’t have imagined the void his departure would leave after such a fleeting presence.

“It is not ladylike.”

Oh dear. “No, Ma’am.”

“And unsuitable for a married woman.”

Mary’s pulse accelerated at the unspoken question. She said in firm tones, “There is no conflict there, Ma’am: I shal never marry.” This was to keep herself from fancy as much as anything.

A lifting of eyebrows. “Never? You are too young to make such a definitive statement, Miss Quinn.

Marriage and motherhood are among the highest expressions of a woman’s abilities.”

What on earth could she say in reply? Did one ever disagree with the Queen? Fatigue combined with curiosity made Mary reckless. “Your Majesty, you yourself are a shining example of the ability to combine domestic duties with much broader responsibilities. You must believe it possible for other females?”

Queen Victoria looked startled – it was unlikely her pronouncements had ever been chal enged like this since she ascended the throne – and then, after an agonizingly long moment, nodded. “A point wel taken, Miss Quinn. But you said that you would never marry.”

It was time for a mutual concession. “Perhaps I spoke in haste, Ma’am. But I shal not marry in the near future.”

The Queen nodded. “A wise decision. Marriage is a blessed state not to be entered into lightly.” She paused. “Is there anything you wish to ask of me, Miss Quinn?”

This was pure formality; Queen Victoria no more expected Mary to say yes than to dance a vigorous polka. And yet Mary said, quite calmly, “Yes, please, Ma’am.”

She blinked twice. “And what is that?”

“I – I believe His Highness, the Prince of Wales, explained to you the matter of the missing ornaments.”

Her Majesty’s expression congealed. “The matter for which you were first engaged. Yes.”

“One of the parlour-maids working under Mrs Shaw, a young woman named Amy Tranter, was dismissed under suspicion of having carried out the thefts.”

One regal eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Yes?”

“It’s a terrible thing to be falsely accused and dismissed without a letter of character. She has no chance of finding work in service in those circumstances. I should be extremely grateful, Your Majesty, if you could see her restored to her place.”

The Queen looked surprised. “Your request does you credit, Miss Quinn. It shal be done.” She touched a bel . The interview was over. “We wish you wel in your future endeavours, Miss Quinn. It has been a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Your Majesty is, once again, too kind. I shal always be grateful for your generosity.”

For the first time, the merest hint of a smile. “And we to you.”

Thirty-five

Ten minutes later, Mary stood outside the gates of Buckingham Palace feeling curiously benumbed. It was her predominant condition of late – a not unreasonable response to the violent revolutions her life had undergone in the past day and night. Secret agent. Daughter. Gaol-breaker. Fugitive. She was none of these things, now.

Instead, she was bewildered, flattered, humbled by Her Majesty’s gift. Rich, too – she’d suddenly stumbled into an independence, the significance of which could not be overestimated. It relieved the necessity of choosing, and choosing swiftly, between Anne Treleaven’s and Felicity Frame’s visions of the Agency. It meant she need never work again, if she were frugal and practical and so inclined. It also changed her social status, in curious but tangible ways. If she didn’t need to work, she could have different expectations. It meant that although not born a lady, she could be one al the same. It meant, too, that she would bring a dowry to any marriage she contracted. She might, in her own smal way, become a target for middle-class fortune-hunters if they knew of her windfal .

It also created new questions. Whom could she trust with her money? Where ought she invest it?

Should she rent a little cottage somewhere, or would rooms suit her better? Where did she even want to live? If she lived on her own, she could employ a charwoman or a maid. Did she want to do that? Did she want the money, and its ensuing complications, at al ? Had her father lived even a little longer, her decisions would have been clearer, more focused.

But now, it would be simpler to give it away. She’d never had money in her life. She’d not miss its absence if she didn’t become accustomed to it.

Final y, it created a terrible sense of guilty liberation. No employer, no father, nobody to whom she had to explain her windfal . No one to naysay her choices. She was freer and more powerful than she’d ever been, and lonelier as wel .

Mary felt dizzy – something not difficult to comprehend, with grief, exhaustion and hunger feeding her confusion – and sat down on a bench in the park. Ladies didn’t do that, of course. Not alone, and especial y not on a frigid winter morning when the world was coated in a layer of ice and grime. But she wasn’t a lady yet. She did, however, regret sitting when a few moments later, a gentleman in a rumpled suit plopped down beside her in skin-crawlingly familiar fashion.

“Let me guess: you were sacked.”

She took a deep breath and a firm grip on her temper. “Perhaps,” she said. “It’s none of your concern, though.”

“You’re so unfriendly,” said Octavius Jones, in injured tones. “Is a little civility too much to ask?”

She ignored this. “Amy Tranter’s got her job again. I don’t think she’l trouble you now.”

His show of surprise was genuine, and then extravagant. “And how did you manage that, missy?

Let me guess: you took the blame on yourself, like an old-fashioned heroine, and begged the hard-hearted housekeeper to have Amy back.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. Don’t put a stop on that cheque you gave me, though – I’l be giving her the money. Every girl needs a bit of capital.”

“And I’m to believe you’l pass on the blunt?”

“As long as Amy doesn’t come after you, isn’t it money wel spent?” She meant to sound defiant, but the words came out thin and weak.

He frowned, then peered at her. Poked his nose so close that he nearly touched her face. “My word

… you look rough. Crushed.”

She swatted him away. “Thank you.”

“Truly, though,” he persisted, not at al put off by shoving. “You look as though you’ve not slept for days. And when was the last time you ate?”

She closed her eyes. Perhaps when she opened them, he’d be gone.

Instead, he sighed gustily and began a rummaging sound. “You’re so melodramatic, starving yourself into a pale and interesting state.

Here.”

She felt something bump against her hand. “Al I want is for you to go away.”