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Portia expressed her relief to find the queen safe, if not entirely well. It was obvious that Victoria’s anger was sustaining her. The queen had shown her the bonnet that took the brunt of the blow from Pate’s cane, and admitted that she was suffering from a headache.
“If these creatures had some plan they wished to carry out, some plot that we could discover and tear apart, so that this did not happen again,” Albert said. “But they seem to be disturbed in their minds, and any plot they have is a fantasy of their own making.”
“So Pate acted alone in this?”
“He has given his name and the fact that he was a soldier but no more. He will not tell us why he did what he did. Some imagined slight to himself or his family…?” Albert pulled a face. “His mind is deranged, or that is what he wants us to think.”
“If dear Lord Ellerslie were still here, Portia, he would have rushed instantly to my side,” Victoria said with quiet venom.
“Your Majesty, I apologize. I was—”
The queen waved her hand. “It does not matter. You will never have to suffer such attempts on your life as I do. You cannot comprehend such matters, but your dear husband would have understood. He risked his life every day for me.”
“Your Majesty—”
“I think I will go and lie down now. That is all, Lady Ellerslie.”
Portia curtsied, telling herself that Victoria didn’t mean to be cruel—she was upset, and rightly so—but still it stung. She caught Albert’s eye as she said her farewell to him, and he shook his head slightly, as if to assure her the words were not meant. He understood Portia’s position better than anyone; his own life was also lived in the shadow of his spouse.
But there was a difference. Victoria was alive, breathing and warm and loving him. Portia was alone, and right now she felt it more than ever.
Arnold made his way up the carpeted stairs of a nondescript house in Hackney. There was a closed door at the top and he knocked in a particular m
anner before opening it. Four faces turned to him silently, the room full of cigar smoke.
Food had been served, and the remains of that, and half-drunk bottles of wine, littered the table.
“He was arrested,” one of the men said quietly as Arnold took his seat at the head of the table. “Should we worry?”
“Why? Already I am hearing he is simply some wretched soldier with scrambled brains. And we know he will not tell the truth. He will not break the oath.”
“How can you be sure?”
Arnold poured himself some of the wine and took a gulp, pulling a face. “I am sure. I know Robert well. He believes as we do. He has been watching the queen for some weeks now in preparation for our attack. I can only think that, seeing her so close before him, he lost control. He struck out at the thing he hated the most. But he will not talk.” He took another sip of the sour wine. “It’s inconvenient, though, that this has happened now.”
“Inconvenient?” one of his companions snorted. “I would call it more than that!”
“I don’t think it is as serious as you imagine. There will be increased nervousness for a time, but that will pass. In fact it may work in our favor. No one will be expecting another attempt so quickly.”
The men exchanged glances. He knew they had been discussing the plan before he arrived, perhaps doubting his right to lead them, but he pretended not to notice. His confidence was supreme.
“So you still intend to go on with it?”
“Of course.” Arnold raised a surprised brow. “Robert would want us to continue with our work. We will succeed.” He raised his glass, and in the candlelight, his pale eyes held the glitter of a fanatic. “The queen must die!”
With a shout, his companions raised their own glasses in response.
Arnold nodded, looking to each one, testing each man’s resolve, and then he leaned forward. “That is our goal, my friends, and we must never forget it. For when I deal her the death blow, our cause will become more important than all of us. The country will finally begin to take notice. The people, the true English people, will realize the justice of what we have done. England for the English!”
Again the shouts of response as his companions stood and stamped their feet. Soon, Arnold thought, dizzy with triumph. Very soon.
When Marcus finally returned home, it was to be greeted by Minnie with the news that there had been yet another assassination attempt on the queen. The butcher’s boy had just called with the latest. Marcus listened to his aunt’s expressions of outrage and bewilderment in silence, but in his heart he knew that this would affect Portia deeply.
She would see it as a failing on her part that she was not there when it happened, even though she could have done nothing. She would see him as a conflict to her duty, and although she might wish to see him again, the duty would win.
Even if he approached her again, begged for another meeting, she would take this opportunity to end it between them. Utterly and irrefutably.
Their temporary affair was over.
