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‘Why?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Most royal marriages are arranged for the sake of convenience, or for an alliance. Usually, there’s no more regard between the husband and his wife than between a pin and its pincushion. Why would you think this case is any different?’
In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled something else out of a drawer of his desk. This time, it was a few smaller sheets of paper, filled with neat handwriting. Mr Ambrose cleared his throat.
‘At about half past, I sent for Albert; he came to the Closet where I was alone, and after a few minutes I said to him, that I thought he must be aware why I wished them to come here, and that it would make me too happy if he would consent to what I wished (to marry me)…’
My mouth dropped open. He couldn’t be reading what I thought he was reading, could he?
‘…we embraced each other over and over again, and he was so kind, so affectionate; oh! to feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert-’
‘Mr Ambrose!’
He glanced up. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Ambrose! This isn’t…You can’t be-’
‘If you would let me continue, Mr Linton? The pertinent part is still to come.’ He raised the papers to his eyes again. ‘To feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert was too great delight to describe! He is perfection; perfection in every way, in beauty - in everything! I told him I was quite unworthy of him and kissed his dear hand…’
‘Mr Ambrose! This…how…how in God’s name-’
‘Will you be quiet, Mr Linton? If you keep interrupting me, this will take all day.’ He gave me another one of his cool looks, then returned to his reading. ‘He said he would be very happy, “das Leben mit dir zu zubringen”, and was so kind, and seemed so happy, that I really felt it was the happiest brightest moment in my life, which made up for all that I had suffered and endured. Oh! How I adore and love him, I cannot say!’
Lifting his eyes from the p
aper, Mr Ambrose regarded me for a moment. ‘This material would support the theory that their marriage was in fact not simply a marriage of convenience, wouldn’t you say, Mr Linton?’
‘Um…well…’
‘This entry is from Tuesday, October 15, 1839. But if this is insufficient evidence to convince you, let me read you a passage from November 9.’
He turned over a few pages, and then began to read aloud in his cool, distant voice once more, while I listened with my mouth hanging open. Part of me knew that I should stuff my ears, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
‘He looked down into my face, with such an angelic expression in his dear beautiful face. I laid my head on his chest, and he wiped away my tears with his hand and took me and pressed me in his arms, and kissed me so often, as I did him. We then sat on the sofa together, and dearest Albert put his arm round my waist, and leant quite close to me, and kissed my neck and head, and-’[3]
‘All right, all right!’ I held up both hands protectively. ‘I get the picture!’
‘Satisfactory.’ He leaned back and stowed away the papers, not noticing the glare I was directing at him.
‘Tell me you didn’t!’ I demanded.
‘Didn’t what, Mr Linton?’
‘Tell me you didn’t just read me passages from the Queen of England’s private diary!’
‘I didn’t.’
I sagged with relief. ‘Oh, thank God! I thought-’
‘I read you passages from the transcript of the Queen of England’s private diary with which my agents provided me.’
‘What?’
‘The transcript. Meaning an exact reproduction of material originally presented in another medium. From Latin transcribere.’
‘I know what a transcript is, thank you very much! I’ve only made about two hundred of them for you since starting this infernal job!’
‘Two hundred and thirty-seven.’
‘Let’s get back to the subject, shall we? You stole the Queen of England’s private diary?’
