A Crowned Queen: The Romance of a Minister of State

The carriage from Llandiarmid Castle had been waiting for a quarter of an hour at the little country station, and the horses were beginning to toss their heads and paw the ground restlessly, to the great scandal of the coachman.

“This ’ere train of yours is late again, Mr Prodger,” he grumbled to the station-master, who was combining business with pleasure by perusing a grimy copy of a Welsh newspaper at the same time that he kept an eye on the porter who was engaged in weeding the platform flower-beds. Mr Prodger took up the challenge promptly.

“I wass sooner believe you do be early nor the train late, Mr Wright,” he responded. “’Deed and I wass.”

“Me early!” was the wrathful answer; “when ’er ladyship come round to the stables ’erself, and tell me to ’urry, because there wasn’t but barely time to meet the train, the notice was that short! No, Mr Prodger, it’s my belief as there’s been a haccident somewhere on this bloomin’ line, and a nice tale I’ll ’ave to go back and tell the Markiss and my lady.”

“There goes the signals,” put in the footman. “The train’ll be ’ere in a minute.”

“Iss, sure,” said the station-master, “the train do be oll right. She wass not have you for driver, Mr Wright, see you?”

Chuckling over this Parthian shot, Mr Prodger retired to his own domains, and Wright turned upon the footman, who had interfered so unwarrantably in the discussion.

“What are you a-doin’ of ’ere, Robert? Why ain’t you on the platform waitin’ to take ’is lordship’s things?”

“I ain’t never seen ’is lordship,” pleaded Robert. “I was waitin’ to arst you what ’e was like.”

“Oh, yes, there’s so many passengers stops ’ere,” returned his superior, with a terrific sneer. “’E’ll be lost in the crowd, ’e will.”

“But do ’e favour the Markiss?” persisted the footman.

“Well, they both ’as fair ’air and blue eyes, if you go for to call that a likeness. But you look out for a under-sized gentleman, with a ’aughty voice, and a slave-driver kind of a way with ’im. That’s Lord Cyril.”

With this graphic description to guide him, Robert ventured upon the platform, and succeeded in identifying the traveller of whom he was in search. Wright’s lips settled themselves into a peculiarly grim smile when his subordinate returned escorting a small fair man enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat--a garment which excited the somewhat derisive wonder of the loiterers around. They touched their caps as Lord Cyril passed, it is true--it was an attention they were bound to pay to the brother of “the Markiss,” but behind his back they asked one another with ill-concealed grins whether “oll the chentlemen wass wear ladies’ clooks in the furrin parts he did come from?” If Lord Cyril noticed their amusement, he heeded it no more than did the stolid German valet who followed with his bag, and it was with a pleasant smile that he looked up at Wright.

“Glad to see you again, Wright. You look as fit as ever. So you are coachman now, are you?”

“Yes, my lord--this five year.”

“Your shadow has not grown less, I see?” remarked Lord Cyril lazily.

“Well, my lord, we ain’t none of us no younger nor we used to be,” was the somewhat aggressive answer, for Wright had caught sight of a faint smile on Robert’s face. Discipline must be maintained, even in social intercourse of this kind, and the coachman bethought himself hastily of his duties. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but ’er ladyship bid me tell you as she ’ad some ladies comin’ as she couldn’t put off, and ’is lordship and Lady Philippa was gone out ridin’ before your telegram come, so she ’oped you wouldn’t take it unkind not bein’ met by none of the family.”

“Not at all. I quite understand,” said the visitor cheerfully, with his foot on the carriage-step. “It’s a pleasure to see your friendly face again, Wright. I must come and have a talk with you about old times in the harness-room one of these days.”

“Much honnered, my lord, I’m sure,” was Wright’s response, but his face betrayed small appreciation of the prospective pleasure. Robert looked at him with some timidity as he climbed to his place, and it was not until they were fairly on the road to the Castle that the question he was burning to ask escaped the footman’s lips.

“I say, Mr Wright, was that true as they was all sayin’ in the servants’-’all the night I come--about the Markiss ’avin’ been a king once, somewhere in furrin parts, I mean?”

“It’s as true as you’re settin’ there,” responded Wright solemnly, “that seven year back or thereabouts ’is lordship was as much a king as Queen Victorier is queen.” This was stretching the truth a little, but Wright paused to allow the information to sink in before he added, “I was ’is Majesty’s--I mean ’is lordship’s--’ead groom then, so I know.”

“You ain’t jokin’?” asked the bewildered Robert.

“Jokin’? Look ’ere, my lad--you ’ave cool cheek enough for the job--you ask ’is lordship ’imself whether ’e wasn’t King of Thracia for three months, and if ’e didn’t set on a throne and ’ave all the swells a-bowin’ down to ’im. ’E might ’ave married a real Princess if ’e’d liked, but she were a bad lot, and ’e knew it. Oh, there ain’t no doubt about ’is ’avin’ been King, though you mayn’t choose to believe it.”

“I ain’t a-goin’ for to contradick you, Mr Wright,” said Robert penitently. “And did Lord Cyril take on the kingdom after ’im?”

Wright snorted. “No; Lord Cyril ain’t never been King, nor won’t be,” he said. “’E was in Thracia with the Markiss, and made ’imself useful about the place--sort of general ’andy man, as you might say. Then when me and the Markiss gave up the job and come ’ome, ’e stayed on and done the same sort of business for the new King--Hotter George ’is name is.”

“But why did ’is lordship give up the job?” asked Robert, deeply interested. Wright looked mysterious.

“That were about the time as ’is lordship got married, my lad; and when there’s a lady concerned it ain’t for you nor yet for me to say why or wherefore in such a case.” This explanation did not explain much, and the impression it was calculated to convey was not by any means the correct one; but wild horses could not have dragged from Wright the confession that Lord Caerleon had left his Balkan kingdom as a prisoner, dethroned by a counterrevolution to that which had resulted in his being offered the crown. While Robert was meditating on his oracular utterance, Wright was looking ahead, and, just in time to prevent a further question which was trembling on the footman’s lips, he exclaimed--

“Why, there’s ’is lordship and Lady Phil comin’ along! You get down and ask Lord Cyril if ’e’d like to stop for them, Robert. They’ll be up with us before we get past the lodge.”

Robert obeyed, and Lord Cyril ordered him at once to wait. Stepping out of the carriage, the visitor stood watching the approaching riders, a tall man on a large chestnut horse, and a fair-haired little girl on a Shetland pony. They quickened their pace when they saw him.

“Why, Cyril, old man!” cried Lord Caerleon, “how did you get here? I thought we were not to expect you for a month or so yet?”

“I was able to get off earlier, after all. I’ll explain presently. Just now I should like to be introduced to my niece.”

“That won’t take very long. Phil, this is your uncle Cyril.”

“Do you think I’m like father, Uncle Cyril?” inquired Lady Philippa breathlessly, after bestowing a kiss on her newly found relative.

“His very image,” responded her uncle.

“Oh, I am so glad. Usk is just like mother, and it’s so much nicer to be different. Nurse is always saying we shall grow out of it, but I don’t believe we ever shall.”

“Let us walk up to the house together, Cyril,” said Lord Caerleon. “I want to ask you any number of things. Robert can lead my horse. Phil, you might ride on and tell your mother we are all right, in case she should be worrying about us.”

“Oh yes, we mustn’t let mother get worried,” said Philippa sedately, trotting her pony through the lodge-gate as she spoke.

“Has Nadia started nerves?” asked Cyril of his brother.

“Not exactly, but she gets fearfully anxious about the children and me when we are out of her sight. She does her best to hide it, but even Phil has found it out, as you see. Do you know that when that child was thrown one day when she was out riding with me, she mounted again and we rode on to Aberkerran to get her head plastered up by the doctor there, rather than frighten her mother by coming in with blood on her face? Plucky, wasn’t it?”

“Phil is a chip of the old block, I see. You look pretty flourishing, Caerleon. Any regrets for the lost kingdom?”