A Flaw in the Blood

by the by. Why have you come all this way to talk to me?”

“Because the Prince Consort is dead,” Georgiana said. “And because we cannot believe it was typhoid that killed him.”

They had agreed, that morning at the hotel, that no word of the Queen's pursuit would pass their lips. It was essential that Stockmar know nothing of their true position; his being Albert's confidant did not necessarily make him theirs.

“Typhoid.” The baron began to hunt among the papers on his desk, his palsied hands touching and discarding things with the frustration of age. “I disregarded the bulletins from Windsor—they were pure nonsense—and telegraphed directly to Squires, the Royal apothecary. They told me which medicines the Consort's doctors prescribed. I, too, am a doctor, you realise.”

“You diagnosed his illness from their prescriptions,” Georgie concluded. “And what was Prince Albert given?”

“Almost nothing but tea and brandy, at the end,” Stockmar returned sardonically. “Old women, all of them —Holland. Watson. Sir James Clark. They got him drunk in his final hours, so he wouldn't feel the pain. For years Albert complained of gastric disorders, Dr. Armistead—a perpetual weakness brought on by the cares of his station—but the inclination took a morbid turn as lately as November. The Prince lost the will to fight. Let me read you something.”

He settled his spectacles once more, and licked his forefinger to aid in thumbing the pages. “This is from Albert—the very last letter I received of him, dated the fourteenth of November last. I am fearfully in want of a true friend and counsellor, and that you are the friend and counsellor I want, you will readily understand. You see in what despair he was.”

Georgiana glanced at Fitzgerald. “Are you suggesting, sir, that he died of unhappiness?”

“Unhappiness—overwork—disappointment—doubt. A year ago I told his brother, Duke Ernest, that if anything happened to Albert—he would die. His mind was so given over to melancholy, he had not the resources to survive. But surely you cannot have come so far to learn what you already know? Having been acquainted with the Consort, Dr. Armistead, surely you observed his decline over the past twelvemonth?”

“To a degree,” she replied guardedly. “But what can have occurred in November to make him lose all hope?”

Stockmar shrugged. “I have had a letter from his wife, the Queen. She blames some trifling indiscretion of the Prince of Wales's. As though Albert had not grown up in the Rosenau! Where every kind of vice was encouraged and displayed— Bah! It is nonsense, again.”

“You knew him better than anyone alive, I think,” Georgiana said gently. “Surely you must have an idea.”

“Love is no protection against death, my dear.” Stockmar rubbed at his eyes fretfully. “One can see what is best for another soul—one can fear for him—offer counsel . . . and in the end: One is powerless to save him. That is the agony of being human.”

Theo, Fitzgerald thought. He rose from his chair and turned restlessly about the room, his agony so physical he could not contain himself. Had he even tried to save his son? Or had he thrown him to the dogs without a second thought? He deserved this Divine retribution. This ripping of his soul in half. He wanted to drown his pain in drink so stupefying he would feel nothing of love or sorrow until he died; but he would not do it with Georgie watching.

She had fallen silent. Stockmar waited without a word, his eyes following Fitzgerald's jerky course about the room. Fitzgerald stuttered, “Sure and I beg your pardon—a brief indisposition only. Pray continue.”

Stockmar inclined his head austerely.

“Might the Prince have been anxious about his youngest son, rather than the eldest?” Georgiana suggested. “We understood he sought your opinion regarding Prince Leopold. That you recommended a man of your acquaintance—one Dr. Gunther—to care for the boy in Cannes.”

“I did,” the baron answered impatiently. “But what of Leopold? He was absent for the whole of his father's final illness. He can have had no effect on Albert whatsoever.”

Fitzgerald had the strong impression that the baron was surprised—that the conversation had taken an unexpected turn. Stockmar was unsure how to meet their questions. He stared at them frowningly.

“Leopold's disorder is generally regarded as a family one,” Georgiana observed. “The Prince asked me, more than a year ago, whether any cure was possible—and required me to examine the child. In some wise, I feel responsible for him—my inability to reassure the Consort . . .”

She smiled at Stockmar faintly. “As a medical man, you will no doubt understand. Leopold's condition demonstrated the limits of my science; his fate has haunted me. I suggested that the Consort search for the illness among ancestors of his own line, or the Queen's, to understand the progression of his son's disorder. It appears to be a disease manifested only in males, but passed most often through females.”

“Victoria,” Stockmar said.

“Yes. Her mother being a Coburg—can you tell us anything at all about the family, sir? Whether Leopold's illness, or something like it, is known among its various branches? Is it possible that the Duchess of Kent, Victoire —”

Stockmar rose. He took off his glasses. His mouth had set in a forbidding line. “There is nothing I can tell you, Dr. Armistead. My service to the august family of Saxe-Coburg was limited to two men—Leopold, King of Belgium, and his nephew Albert. The women interest me not at all. And now I believe I must bid you both good day—I am an old man, worn down by grief, and I guard my privacy closely.”

“We understand, of course,” Georgiana murmured, “and are grateful for your time. Perhaps tomorrow —”

“I travel to Erfurt tomorrow, on a matter of business,” he said with finality. “It has been the greatest pleasure. Mr. Fitzgerald—”

The baron clicked his heels together, bowed, and reached for the bellpull beside his desk.

The mahogany doors opened so swiftly, Fitzgerald was certain the baroness had been waiting just outside, in readiness for this summons. She stood as still as a statue on the threshold, her aged hands folded over her skirts. Had she listened to their conversation? Did she understand English? She watched impassively as Georgiana curtseyed to Stockmar. Then she turned and swept to the front door.

It was only as they said goodbye that the baroness spoke at last.

“He thinks I see nothing, understand nothing. He thinks I am only a woman. Pah!” She spat venomously at their feet. “It is to Amorbach you must go, natürlich. Inquire of the equerry's frau.”

And the heavy door shut with the softest of thuds behind them.

Chapter Forty-Three

Later, Fitzgerald would realise that their decision to push on to Amorbach that same afternoon—it was New Year's Day, 1862—was one of the odd turns of Fate that kept them from encountering von Stühlen. And blind to the fact that he was on their trail.

“Amorbach,” Georgie muttered. “Where in heaven is that?”

“And why should we care?” Fitzgerald added bitterly. He was weary and dispirited; their days of hard travel had ended in a closed door. If either of them was ever to return to England, they needed the truth in their pockets. Nothing else would help them survive.

“Let's find out,” Georgiana suggested. “May I buy you a tankard of ale?”

“If you change your dress for trousers, first. Ladies never drink in public taverns.”

It was the innkeeper who told them, in broken French, that Amorbach was the seat of the Princes of Leiningen. The town sat in the northwest corner of Bavaria—an appendage once belonging to Hesse, and tacked on to the region by happenstance. Leiningen's ancient princedom had lain west of the Rhine, where Napoleon seized it for his Empire; after his fall, it had been “mediatized”—absorbed into the Rhineland—though the Prince was allowed to keep his hereditary title. His new home was in the Miltenberg district of Bavaria, southwest of Coburg, not far at