FumblingMusings (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fumblingmusings) wrote2023-07-16 06:00 pm
fumblingmusings) wrote2023-07-16 06:00 pm
A Slow Paced Envy (7/15)
A study of a potential Female England characterisation. Snapshots through the years showing how and where her attempts at parenthood and romance run dissonant to the reality of being the motherland of the world's largest empire. There's a lot of people in her head who don't belong there, and it soon becomes everyone else's problem.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Seven: 1851, or the Great Exhibition
London, England
“Is she old enough to support her own weight?”
“Under all this lace? Just about. Poor wee lamb.”
The painter nodded, inspecting the group sitting before him. It was a large commission, normally family portraits were for the ennobled only, or the very rich. The three men, one woman and two children was an unusual grouping. The two older men were in dress uniform, the dark haired in a dark coat and kilt - likely a Highlander regiment - the blonde in a dark blue uniform - likely Royal Navy. The two young children were all in white, the baby girl held loosely on the woman’s lap. The little boy was being held upright on the back of the sofa, the final man ensuring he didn’t fall backwards onto the hard wooden flooring behind the seat. This man wore plaid trousers and a cream waistcoat. He did not stand out against the uniforms of his elders, especially standing behind and off centre as he was, but the suit was of such quality that you could tell he was well looked after.
The woman was wearing an evening gown, hair parted in the middle with curls. She wore little jewellery, only pearls around her neck and one golden ring. Flowers decorated her hair, white and red, matching the dress which took up most of the space on the seat. Crinoline these days were reaching ridiculous widths. It was not particularly light in the room, what with all the heavy and dark furnishings, but the woman’s pupils were pinprick small, showing off the unusual green.
The smallest boy, aged around four, tugged on the woman’s curls.
“Aunt Erin isn’t here yet.”
“Who?” the woman replied distantly, staring at nothing in particular.
“Auntie Erin,” the boy repeated, thinking she hadn't caught his question.
“Oh. She said she did not want to.”
The woman did not speak again for the rest of the session.
The boy opened his mouth to complain, but the man holding him whispered something quickly that the painter was not party to, and the young lad settled, pouting but accepting.
Meanwhile the baby girl sighed, falling back against the woman’s chest. She was already bored, and the man had barely begun to sketch out an outline. The Scotsman smiled, pinching her cheeks.
“Aye, it’s a wee bit wearing, ain't it?”
“‘A wee bit’?” and with that, the other man was identified as Welsh. “It… No. Sorry sir. It must be harder for you, having to paint such a large group, that is.”
The artist shrugged. “So long as I am paid.”
The three adults seated had vastly differing reactions to the joke. The Scotsman found such honesty hilarious, and laughed uproariously. The woman twitched, but otherwise did not move. The Welshman smiled, tensely, but it was a genuine smile nonetheless, and stated,
“You’ll be paid. You can take it up with the Queen if not.”
A question hung on the artist’s lips. A riddle as such. An Englishwoman of unknown origin (he had been unable to place her accent, she had spoken so little during the session that all he could determine was that she was not of London), a Welshman (Southern, rather than the Valleys or Northern, and yet not of Cardiff or Swansea), and a Scotsman (somewhere from the Central Lowlands surely) being familiar enough to have a painting made of the three of them was odd enough, but how did a baby from Wellington, one boy from Sydney and another from… somewhere in Canada factor in?
And there was supposed to be another woman too? What had brought them together?
He assumed it was something to do with the Empire, but he had not been asked to paint anything allegorical, and these people knew each other, to the point of overt familiarity.
Again, so long as he was paid, the painter tried not to care.
The session ended when the baby began to cry.
“That is fine,” he announced, beginning to put away his utensils. “We can work some more later with you each individually.”
The baby wailed louder, to the point that the woman flinched and the little boy slipped off the back of the sofa to curl on the woman’s wide spreading lap. He tried to comfort the baby, making noises and pinching her, but it did no good.
“Mama, she’s hungry.”
“Oh,” replied the woman. She bounced the baby on her lap. “Food. Food…”
“Evelyn,” the Scotsman snipped. “You need to go and feed Maia?”
“Uh.” She blinked, looking very lost. “Um.”
The baby continued to cry. Evelyn looked very close to joining her, keeling over and whispering to her, trying to hush her daughter.
“She hasn’t eaten,” she stated, repeating the conversation. “Ali, she’s hungry…”
“I can take her,” Alasdair muttered, warily watching the painter pack his things for the day.
“I’m so tired,” Evelyn murmured. “I’m so tired.”
Everyone noted the crack in her tone as she spoke, and Alasdair snatched the girl away, yanking Jack off her lap as he did so.
“Back to the nursery, both of you. Your mother needs rest.”
Jack protested, but his uncle lifted him in one arm, holding him like a rugby ball on his hip, baby in the other arm. He juggled them quite skillfully, carting them off with little care. Jack, distracted by being half upside down, laughed beautifully.
“Eva,” Rhys grabbed his sister’s chin, making him look at him. “How much did the doctor prescribe you?”
She held her tongue until the artist left, Matthew seeing him out the building.
“Too much,” she admitted, breathing shallowly. “What time is it?”
“Let me see,” Wales replied, not answering her. He stood up, going up the building to find her dressing room. It did not take long for him to come back down the stairs, meeting Matthew’s eyes as he returned indoors. “Just wait here,” he commanded.
Matthew did as told, waiting in the hall, but that did not stop him standing by the drawing room door, listening in.
“It’s beyond too much. How mad would you be if I poured the entire stock into the sewers?”
Matthew’s mother laughed, slowly. “Would that help or worsen the cholera outbreak?”
“Would probably help the diarrhoea.”
She laughed again, but it was a deeply unhappy sound. “I need it, Rhys.”
“I don’t think you do. Not anymore.” Wales tapped his fingers against her temple, noting how slow she was to react. “All in your brain.”
“Broken brain…” she sighed, pushing herself into sitting more upright. When she spoke, it was slowly, each word coming to her after the previous had left her lips. “I need more and more for the same effect and… we’re fighting wars over it. And I love that little boy, I do but I… I cannot look at him without…”
She trailed off, head lolling back and gazing at the ceiling. Wales nodded, thinking of Hong Kong.
“All the more reason to be kinder to him?” he said.
“I am kind. Why does everyone think I’m a monster?” she pouted, sounding very much like a petulant child. She twitched, and hurriedly whispered to herself, “Because you are one. Right.”
“That war was over China’s addiction, not yours.”
“It is a monster and we are feeding it all the same. Christ, you know, I haven’t been able to shit in days…”
Rhys snorted a laugh, noting the sweat on his sister’s neck. “I’ll get you some dried plums.”
“I cannot go to the Exhibition like this,” Evelyn admitted. “Do not make me.”
Rhys had learned long ago not to be moved by her pleading. “Oh dear, little Lloegyr, you have to. Half the world is going to be there.”
“God, no. Please.”
“One month,” Rhys repeated.
“It is not that sim”-
Matthew entered, wringing his hands but knowing he would get no worse than a glare from his uncle. His mother trailed off, looking ashamed.
“Do you need help going upstairs?” Canada asked.
England looked relieved for an escape. “Yes, please. This skirt is just ridiculous, I cannot carry its weight.”
Wales frowned. “It’s cotton, there’s no weight at all.”
She ignored him, wrapping her arm around Matthew’s neck. He heaved her up with significant effort. Patting Canada’s chest, England said in a dreamy and distant tone, “I need to rest for a while. Mm? Keep Jack and Maia busy for me. I just need a month. Then you can… pump me full of gin and laudanum if you so wish and I will be nothing but lovely.”
“No more opioids Eva,” Rhys argued as the pair left the room. “I mean it.”
“I am not locking you away in your room, not again,” Matthew also stated as they made their way upstairs.
“I think I will need to be kept hidden as it is not a pretty sight, withdrawal. Maybe an asylum might be best…Hanwell is supposed to be nice.”
“Is it?” was his flat retort.
“For an asylum.”
“You’re not mad,” Matthew pushed. “Just sick.”
“...No difference.”
“You’ll stay here, it’ll be nicer than any hospital.”
The townhouse was a middle section of a terrace in Mayfair. They had only recently acquired it last year. Prior to that, the London house had been in Islington. They did not often visit and stay in London if Evelyn could help it, but even so, Matthew had watched as over the decades their neighbourhood had morphed from a thoroughly middle class merchant street to just another set of slums outside of the City of London and Westminster. When cholera had decided to make itself known, that had been the breaking point. They’d moved (once England had stopped appearing blue) west, beyond the city, beyond Westminster itself, to a street and house where poverty was only seen in newspapers.
Matthew had still been in Quebec celebrating the gift of responsible government whilst his mother - in her own words - was shitting herself to death.
They still spent as little time in London as feasible, but this upcoming grand exhibition had resulted in the entirety of the family being forced to attend. There were many dinners to be had, many people to meet. Many countries that Matthew had only heard about were attending. Alfred was coming, which had Matthew up at night chewing on his fingers.
It could not go well.
Matthew got Evelyn up the two flights of stairs, and opened the bedroom door. Immediately, and with little care that he was watching, she scrambled to unlace her bodice, yanking off the flowers. She left her pearls alone.
“Maman,” Matthew argued. He was getting better at it - arguing - since the late 1840s. He thought England respected him for it. “You will go to the Exhibition.”
“Will I?” she asked, genuinely confused, as if she couldn’t even remember what an exhibition was.
“It’s everyone’s gift to you!”
She fell over, collapsing in a heap at the foot of the bed. Matthew immediately was on the ground next to her, holding an arm and ready to hoist her to her feet. She waved him off, bent over with a hand pressed against her throat.
“I just… I took too much. It is just a bad week. Please go look after the babies.”
Matthew retook her hand. “They’re fine, you are not.”
“I will be if you -”
“Just do as you're told!”
The yelling was unexpected, for both of them. Matthew turned very pale, shocked at himself. Evelyn’s fingers twitched around his hand. She shook her head, suppressing a sneer, and looked down.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Matthew immediately said.
“All you do is worry about me, and I am sorry for it.”
Unsure of what to say, Matthew pulled her to her feet long enough to get her sitting on the bed. “I’ll call for Rebecca,” he settled on, thinking of her ladies maid. “She’ll get you into bed.”
“You must be so disappointed in me. I am supposed to take care of you and I can’t even…”
She would not let the point go.
“You’re unwell,” was all he could say.
“God,” England sighed as Matthew hovered. “Promise me you will not let them lock me up.”
“What? But you just said-”
“In fucking Colney Hatch or… or Bedlam - Bethlam. Don't throw me away.”
Matthew did not understand until she stumbled over the last name. England was not known for its kindness to those mentally unwell. Only five years ago had the government actually considered them patients rather than inmates.
“No-one is locking you away. Don't think so lowly of us.” He spoke softly, getting down on his knees in front of her. Stubbornly, she refused to meet his eyes. “Maman, we need you too much.”
She nodded. “Yes. Need.”
“If anyone tries to take you away they will need to put me into one of those hospitals with you.”
Expression quizzical, still a little confused, England asked, “Because you will…?”
“Lose my temper?”
“Oh. Oh no dearest. That's not proper.”
She smiled, gentle sarcasm breaking the tension, and Matthew knew she would be fine. One day.
Reaching up, Evelyn took out her pins that held the braids in place. Her hair was awfully long, reaching past her waist. A rather straw-like blonde, she did not allow anyone to touch it. Patting the sheets, Evelyn asked Mathew to sit next to her.
“Tell me about yourself. Please. I missed you dreadfully these past few months. Letters aren’t enough and I like to hear of what you have been up to.”
Matthew stared as she took his hands, curling their fingers together. He racked his brains for something to say. Not about the rebuilding of Montreal's parliament building - too sensitive. Not about more responsible government - she’d think he was pulling away.
“I um… They maybe found gold, on the West Coast”-
Evelyn groaned, cutting him off. “No darling, I cannot stand hearing about politics and nations and…” she sighed, collapsing against his shoulder. “You. Tell me about you.”
“Oh.” Surprisingly, it was easier to find topics to talk about. “I got my hands on the Tenant of Wildfell last month.”
He felt her smile against his shoulder. “What did you think?”
“Hard to read, but in a different way to the other two. You say it's the same family who wrote Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights?”
“Yes, they all use a pen name, but they’re sisters.”
“This one isn’t as Romantic. The way she wrote the husband’s death; I liked that it does not hide what addiction does, not just to those who are sick, but those who are left behind once it takes its course.”
“Yes,” agreed England, sighing mournfully. “I think that is why I like it best...”
*****
“A fire engine?”
“What?”
“Mattie… you sent a fire engine?”
Canada shoved his brother, who laughed joyously, tripping over his own feet.
“It’s just as good as… as your locksmith!”
Alfred sniffed, trying to get his laughter under control. “Sure sure.”
The pair moved on, looking at whatever else other nations had brought in. The building, glass and a third of a mile long, needed no lights. May in England could be quite lovely, and the sight was living up to its name as a crystal palace.
The brothers walked along the ground floor, moving through displays of the West Indies, moving down to items from Australasia. To his brother’s credit, Matthew was pleased that Alfred was taking the time to look at everything, even if it did have nothing to do with him.
“Seriously though Alfred, you got the third largest space after Britain and France, and it’s half empty,” Matthew said. Punch magazine had made fun of them for it, saying that the space could have been used as a hotel, not to mention the statue of the slave…
Alfred shrugged, indifferent. “We sent nearly six hundred pieces! It’s not that I have nothing to show, maybe I just don’t feel like sharing with her.”
“They paid for you to come. Not many others can say that.”
Alfred frowned, twisting around and chiding, “Don’t paint her out to be doing me a kindness. This is just a huge ego project, right?”
Matthew pouted. “The Prince said it was to give hope.”
“Hope?”
“All the European nobility rejected the invitation to come. Revolutions everywhere, instability and fighting.”
Alfred nodded. “And yet these machines and industries can make the world a better place. The key to a better future.”
“Right.”
“She doesn’t believe that,” America smiled patronisingly, and Matthew swallowed his temper. “They can say it all they like, but she only means her technology, her Empire. And yet, whose reaper outperformed every Brit one? Mine.”
Matthew slumped. “Your ego…”
“I’m not wrong.”
There was too much to see in a day, and Matthew had met more people than names he could remember. However he had spent most of it attached at the hip to Alfred. Alfred, who despite all his blustering, needed his brother’s help navigating London. So much had changed in the city since he had last visited, and even then it was not as if England had ever allowed him to travel alone.
The sound of Australia yelping made Canada turn. He was clapping, holding New Zealand under his arms to hold her upright, as the two looked at some woven baskets in their section. England, he noted, was very close. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the children and Matthew and his brother, unsure if she wanted Alfred's attention. Unsure of what she would do if she got it.
She looked… better and yet worse. Despite the purging her body had undergone, she still looked exhausted. It was suspected that no human body would have survived or been nearly as functioning following so abruptly quitting the drug. England was strong, certainly, but it was no easy task. And still, with every growing border, she grew smaller. But her eyes were alert, emerald sharp once again. For the moment.
Dressed in dark red, with her bonnet hiding her face, she knelt next to the children, skirt pillowing out in a wide circle. Keeping her voice low, she explained the baskets that had been sent, the way weaving worked.
Jack grew bored quickly, he did not have the patience of Matthew, nor even of Alfred, but he lit up when he saw his older brother across the space.
“Matthew!” he yelled, taking off.
Alfred blanched, backing away a few steps as the child approached. Jack didn't notice, oblivious as any young boy tended to be.
“Mattie, I liked your canoe, but mama screamed when I tried to climb in. She's so silly. We're hiding from someone. Palm tree.”
“Palmerston?”
“That's it.” Jack laughed, finally noting the other man. “Morning!”
Alfred looked a little strangled as he beheld the child who, for all intents and purposes, had been his replacement. Matthew elbowed him sharply in the gut. Whatever he believed about England, it was not the little colonies fault.
“Why is Evelyn hiding from her foreign secretary?” Alfred asked, nosiness getting the better of him. Matthew refrained from making a comment on how America apparently knew who held what offices in England’s government.
“He's beastly rude. She called him a fu-”
“Eh,” Matthew interrupted. “Maybe don't use any colourful language?”
Jack laughed, then looked at Alfred again. The little boy grew curious, and Alfred bit his tongue. For some reason, being under scrutiny from the colony was disarming.
“You're the one mama gets sad about if you come up in the newspapers, aren't ya?” Jack asked.
Deceptively perceptive came to mind as a descriptor for Jack. Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Sad? Or angry?”
Jack blinked owlishly. “She doesn't get angry,” he incredulously replied.
“Told you,” Matthew muttered. Alfred gave him a look.
Evelyn watched the interaction from afar, speaking to her little girl distractedly.
Alfred was fully grown, as beautiful as ever. As strong as ever. The pride of seeing him as such was tempered by a dissatisfaction that she could not talk to him. Or rather, would not. She had nothing to say to him.
Thank you for the exhibition pieces, but that statue is in poor taste and you should have known better. Thank you for the wheat; it saved so many. You look well. Are you well? You keep adding territories and states, is it enough yet? Do you think me a hypocrite for asking? Do you even approve of what your government does? Do you care that I am proud? I read that Scarlet Letter book - have you? Does it mean anything to you, do you even remember that time? Where do you live now? What happened to our home in Providence? Do you hate me? I hate you. I think I do.
Please don’t hate me.
Maia grumbled and blew raspberries, toddling on her tiny feet. Evelyn held her carefully. She could just about walk, but not particularly well unaided.
“These came from the people that gave you your name,” England explained. “Aren't they pretty?”
Maia cooed, reaching up to touch them.
Evelyn would not have chosen that name for her, if she had the chance. But it had been decided without her knowledge. Her child, she had mused, her first and only daughter, and she had not been allowed to choose her name.
She did not hate it though, nor dislike it even. Human names were funny things. Some kept the same name for centuries, others changed it on a whim. Evelyn had kept hers for pushing seven hundred years. Matthew had kept his name, despite Evelyn’s offer in the past to have it changed, to completely leave behind Francis’ influence. He had rejected the offer, and England had not believed his excuse of it not being worth the fuss.
Alfred had kept his name.
Maia would keep her name for as long as she wanted too. But England had made a request when the little girl had been placed in her arms.
No more. Three boys and this little girl had been enough.
Before they had found Maia, there was talk of what was to be done with the Cape Colony. The Netherlands had not exactly been the father type, nor did that boy want such a thing. He was eleven years old now, old enough to have his own opinions.
Leave him be, England had begged. She only wanted to take in those that had known no-one else, that would not be torn in two. Matthew had been such a struggle with a still uncertain payoff, taken when she had no compunction or hesitations about her right to motherhood.
The offer was there, if the southern tip of Africa wanted it. Evelyn sent what money she was allowed, trying to at least provide stability. He had not wanted it, and the money was returned. Evelyn understood. His life would not be easy, no matter what option was presented to him. She was not so deluded as to think all colonies were equal.
She knew she did not have the right to be wanted anymore, if she had ever had it. Not with any African colony, nor with Hong Kong, Singapore, or any of the others. Those that had existed long before her arrival needed no mother.
Alfred had accused her of living in fantasy, and it was true that the lustre had begun to fade, although seemingly the opposite effect on the international narrative. Still. No more settlers colonies. She told herself it was as much to protect them as it was her own heart.
They deserved better than what she could give; her mind could not bear the burden of the colonies existences, her pain was their pain, their pain was her grief.
The events that required them to be put on display were increasing. The perfect little family, prodded and picked at and judged. The children's growth and success was used only as a measure for the usefulness of the colony. England could choose very little in her life, so she had begged for the choice in who she allowed close to her. Just the two boys. One cunning and calming boy, another sunny and sweet son. Matthew was increasingly spending time away from home - rather, he was increasingly spending time in his home. Jack still stayed close. If spending weeks at sea was only made worth it by months in America or Canada, months at sea for Australia was only worthwhile in the rarest of circumstances.
But when they'd brought her a girl, England was once again reminded of how weak her willpower was. An intelligent and inquisitive daughter, all for her to keep. Evelyn had taken her, withdrawing further and further away from any city or polite society. She would do what she could to keep the children away from the humans' criticisms.
Evelyn had hoped for a girl, secretly. She wanted to prove that she could be better than what her own maternal relationship had been.
She had often thought about her own mother, how Britannia had not wanted to hold her, or speak to her, or look at her. The boys were adored, Erin trusted with stories and myths and histories now long forgotten, the favoured daughter by a country mile. Meanwhile Evelyn would watch, stinking of envy and relying on her siblings for kindness when their mother's back was turned. Evelyn was a withdrawn and moody baby, obsessing over a loneliness which turned self perpetuating, and couldn't even watch a chicken be killed without bursting into tears. Where she came from, she remembered Britannia had muttered once, was a mystery. Little Albion. Britannia would have lived a lot longer if England were not born. If Rome had not come.
How desperate she had been, when that tall dark man had arrived, to be something he could be proud of. He was a funny man, full of humour, but with his own family to spoil and love. Evelyn had never quite matched up, but he was kind enough when he wasn't being cruel. She liked it when he came to visit sometimes; it meant someone was looking at her.
But then mother had burned Colchester and London and killed thousands of her own people, just to make a point, dragging her daughters along to watch. And yet the day she got up and left, the day she never returned, Evelyn had cried and cried, wanting her back, until her siblings could no longer stand the sound, and they too went their separate ways.
It was all rather miserable.
The little New Zealand was nothing like her mother, happy and chubby and always curious. She had a little temper, stomping feet and writhing when things didn't quite go her way. It was rather cute, coming from an infant. England adored her. Little firework. There was something different about having a daughter - in Evelyn was hope that Maia would understand and empathise, more than the boys ever could. Evelyn did not want Maia to suffer on account of her gender, but at this point it felt inevitable. Yet another reason for the family to stay secluded and in isolation from Europe. Her politicians, Canning and Castlereagh, had been right, there was nothing for her there. Europe was a pit, and she was exhausted from them. London exhausted her, more so than Paris did Francis or Lisbon Gabriel.
“Evelyn,” said a voice she was not expecting.
Turning around, she saw the legs of a certain Prussian. Not exactly where her mind had been lingering. Funny little man.
She glanced once back to Matthew and Alfred. Alfred was looking anywhere except her, Matthew had picked up Jack, and was chatting away to the little boy.
“I need to talk business with you,” Gilbert pushed. His German was sometimes hard for her to understand, faster than Hanover and less polite.“Keep the small one with you, she won't understand.”
“Business?” England asked, rising to her feet. Her German was good enough, northern and neutral and safe. High German, Hanover had told her last century. “Scotland deals with economics, you know he has an ear for it.”
Gilbert glanced around. “Not that kind of business.”
Evelyn's expression became pinched. “What on -”
“Come for a walk with me. I want you to promise me something.”
Always standing so stiffly, like he was still in a column amongst soldiers, he marched off. She followed reluctantly, adjusting her hold on Maia. Jack saw she was leaving, wriggled out of Matt’s hold, chasing after his mother. She took his hand immediately, looking picture perfect with Gilbert as they made their way out into the gardens.
Alfred watched them leave.
“Will she speak to me this month?”
Matthew did not lie. “No. Probably not.”
Alfred scoffed, and pretended his heart did not hurt.
“Typical.”
Matthew observed his brother carefully. “Do you want her to? Maybe I can-”
“I would really rather die of dysentery.”
*****
England did not have much interest in Prussia. He had been far away for most of her existence, and an unreliable nation these past one hundred and fifty years. Having forever found him fanatical and too easy at finding comfort in authority, she never truly felt at ease with his presence. Church or military, it made little difference to England. None was to be trusted.
“Everyone says motherhood suits you,” Prussia began. “I think you look rather ill.”
England snorted, rocking Jack's arm back and forth and the group slowly walked along. She let go for just a moment, pulling out a boiled sweet for him to crunch on. He hummed happily, enjoying the pear drop, making his mother smile.
“You remember what it was like, being a child in a world that did not understand us. If I can make it a little easier for them, all the better.”
“Is that all? I have my doubts that you are so selfless.”
Evelyn shot him a dangerous look, squeezing Jack's hand in a reassurance. “I do what is required of me. I happen to love them dearly. What is wrong with that.”
There was no query in her tone, just a dangerous warning to back down. Gilbert took it.
“Nothing. That's just it. I feel you and I are in a similar situation. Or soon will be.”
Evelyn paused by a park bench, lowering herself and Maia to be seated. Jack climbed up next to them, swinging his legs merrily. England stared at Gilbert, mouth in a thin line.
“A unified Germany, I suppose you speak of. I thought the concept was to be paused whilst you all had your failed revolutions,” she grimly stated, superior in the fact that, unlike most of Europe, a revolution was not necessary here.
Gilbert chewed his lip, biting on any harsh snapback that she had no right to comment on such matters, but knowing he had to be diplomatic. He then perched himself next to the woman in the large crinoline skirt.
“It is either going to be myself or Austria that leads the way. France will hate it, Russia will see it as a challenge to its sphere of influence. Your neutrality may be useful. By not acting against it, the cause has legitimacy, no?”
“I would want a counterweight to French and Russian influence, yes. But Gilbert, be serious; Brunswick, Bavaria, Baden, Hesse, Saxony… if you subsume all of them into one state, a state you spearhead, then you hope to be Germany's representative no? They'll die. Maybe not immediately but someday. I am not close to any of them, but I know some will not take that lying down.”
“I will not be Germany.”
“...Oh? You intend to set up your own demise?” she asked, genuinely and morbidly curious.
“I won’t die. I simply refuse to.”
She thought through the statement, then sighed. “That little boy, the Holy Roman Empire, he will not come back. Francis ended him. For good.”
Gilbert huffed, rocking back before standing tall once again. He dodged her statement.
“It won't be a small child, young adult, more likely. This isn't one of your pet -”
He cut himself off following a very wild look from England. The children were ignorant, New Zealand having taken to shoving her fingers into Australia's nose and mouth.
Gilbert tried again. “Am I or Austria preferable to lead for a united Germany?”
“Honestly neither, you are both far too dictatorial for my tastes.”
“England…”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. You. If only for the fact that I can barely trust a Catholic and it’s easier to do business with you. But I won’t step in - I care not one whit what happens to all of you.”
Gilbert laughed, he had always found her funny. Sometimes in a genuine way, sometimes in a baffled way, often in an infuriating way. “So long as you get your goods, so long as the money flows, why should you? I would be the same, if I were in your shoes. You want to be a mother… Let's say, I want to be an elder brother.”
She pondered the thought. Prussia did not seem the fraternal type. Perhaps he would surprise her. Her mind remained jammed on one particular aspect of his declarations. A dreadful thought wormed its way into her mind. It was not everyday that a new - powerful - European country was born.
“You say that it will be a new nation? But one fully grown?”
“I suspect so. This is a unification of an idea that has existed for a long time; not a migrant people settling in a new home.”
“...A fresh start nonetheless.”
“What?” Prussia asked, confused at England's pursed lips and thoughtful expression.
Jack tugged on the ribbons on Evelyn’s bonnet, bored. “Mama, can we go back inside?”
“Yes sweetheart. One more moment.” She looked up at Gilbert in the sunlight. His pale hair seemed more grey than ever. “I want a promise from you, in return, Prussia. Two, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“One is your way to pay me back for housing your miserable royals last decade. My princess, Vicky. If she does marry your Frederick, you must promise to look out for her. My princesses tend not to do well in Europe. They all marry brutes or the insane. Or both.”
Prussia grew sober, not taking kindly to the implication. “Frederick is neither.”
“No but… please. She is smart and precocious and liberal . I fear she will not be welcome.”
“ If they marry, then yes. We both know a Russian marriage would be better. What’s the other promise?”
Evelyn stood, satisfied, switching Maia to her right arm and taking her left into Jack’s tight squeezing grip. She smiled, though it was not particularly warming to look at. In the sun, under her bonnet, Gilbert pondered how very skeletal she appeared, like she was dying from some great sickness. He’d heard she had caught cholera, but was surprised she did not seem entirely recovered.
She looked rather mad, Gilbert concluded.
“When you find your new Germany, big brother Prussia,” England asked, voice near a purr, “I would very much like to be the first foreign nation to meet them.”
*****
History Notes:
- Ireland is not present because of the Famine, which is only starting to ease at this point in time. There’s a huge internal and external migration of people going on, thanks to the famine and the impact of the repeal of the Corn Laws, which brought down the cost of grain but at the expense of protection for British (and Canadian) suppliers. This also contributed to Responsible Government for bits of Canada.
- The Opioid Epidemic was getting worse in the UK; its supply came from a different place than what the British were pumping into China (Turkey versus India). The First Opium War was how the UK got ownership of Hong Kong. Gin, whilst nowhere as nearly destructive as it had been in the 18th century, was still widely drunk and had a sordid reputation.
- Wales’ accent is that of Carmarthen - one of, if not the, oldest settlements in modern Wales. I personally headcanon Scotland to have a Perth accent since Perthshire is called the heart of the country. England… Shrug. Having said that, I imagine all nations are able to shift their accents depending on what is most useful to them at the time.
- The late 1840s and early 50s had England going through a cholera epidemic and it would not be sorted out until a couple of years later. The East End of London, really went through it due to slum conditions (because of the said mass emigration to cities). Mayfair in West London is the most expensive tile on the Monopoly board by contrast and is stupid posh.
- In 1845 Parliament passed Lunacy Laws in attempts to reform a massively corrupt mental health system. Some hospitals achieved this better than others. Bethlem Royal Hospital - nicknamed Bedlam with its awful reputation - made itself an exemption to the changes brought about and would not allow external inspections until 1853. Many women were dumped in these hospitals, ill or not, due to being an inconvenience to husbands and family members for not conforming.
- The Great Exhibition! Prince Albert’s brainchild, it was to show off British ingenuity with other countries contributing exhibits, as a way to promote progress after the 1848 unrest. The money made from the show went on to fund London’s Science, Natural History, and V&A museums, the Royal Albert Concert Hall and the Imperial College of London. Not bad…
- England is lying through her teeth regarding what happened during Roman Britain to justify Empire as a good thing. Although, the Boudican Revolt was a particularly nasty moment in the Roman Empire’s history, and she was only a wee thing when it happened.
- The unification of Germany during the mid part of the 19th century underwent a bit of a lull - the 1848 revolutions across Europe had caused much uncertainty. Britain was passively for unification; having a third counterweight to French and Russian shenanigans seemed a good idea. There were concerns about Prussian absolutism which would end up pushing Britain away, but we’ll get to that. Victoria and Albert’s eldest daughter, Vicky, would indeed marry the Prussian Crown Prince. She had a rough time of it.
- Lord Palmerston, the UK's Foreign Minister and later PM, is possibly my least favourite Brit to have ever existed.
Link to Chapter Eight.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Seven: 1851, or the Great Exhibition
London, England
“Is she old enough to support her own weight?”
“Under all this lace? Just about. Poor wee lamb.”
The painter nodded, inspecting the group sitting before him. It was a large commission, normally family portraits were for the ennobled only, or the very rich. The three men, one woman and two children was an unusual grouping. The two older men were in dress uniform, the dark haired in a dark coat and kilt - likely a Highlander regiment - the blonde in a dark blue uniform - likely Royal Navy. The two young children were all in white, the baby girl held loosely on the woman’s lap. The little boy was being held upright on the back of the sofa, the final man ensuring he didn’t fall backwards onto the hard wooden flooring behind the seat. This man wore plaid trousers and a cream waistcoat. He did not stand out against the uniforms of his elders, especially standing behind and off centre as he was, but the suit was of such quality that you could tell he was well looked after.
The woman was wearing an evening gown, hair parted in the middle with curls. She wore little jewellery, only pearls around her neck and one golden ring. Flowers decorated her hair, white and red, matching the dress which took up most of the space on the seat. Crinoline these days were reaching ridiculous widths. It was not particularly light in the room, what with all the heavy and dark furnishings, but the woman’s pupils were pinprick small, showing off the unusual green.
The smallest boy, aged around four, tugged on the woman’s curls.
“Aunt Erin isn’t here yet.”
“Who?” the woman replied distantly, staring at nothing in particular.
“Auntie Erin,” the boy repeated, thinking she hadn't caught his question.
“Oh. She said she did not want to.”
The woman did not speak again for the rest of the session.
The boy opened his mouth to complain, but the man holding him whispered something quickly that the painter was not party to, and the young lad settled, pouting but accepting.
Meanwhile the baby girl sighed, falling back against the woman’s chest. She was already bored, and the man had barely begun to sketch out an outline. The Scotsman smiled, pinching her cheeks.
“Aye, it’s a wee bit wearing, ain't it?”
“‘A wee bit’?” and with that, the other man was identified as Welsh. “It… No. Sorry sir. It must be harder for you, having to paint such a large group, that is.”
The artist shrugged. “So long as I am paid.”
The three adults seated had vastly differing reactions to the joke. The Scotsman found such honesty hilarious, and laughed uproariously. The woman twitched, but otherwise did not move. The Welshman smiled, tensely, but it was a genuine smile nonetheless, and stated,
“You’ll be paid. You can take it up with the Queen if not.”
A question hung on the artist’s lips. A riddle as such. An Englishwoman of unknown origin (he had been unable to place her accent, she had spoken so little during the session that all he could determine was that she was not of London), a Welshman (Southern, rather than the Valleys or Northern, and yet not of Cardiff or Swansea), and a Scotsman (somewhere from the Central Lowlands surely) being familiar enough to have a painting made of the three of them was odd enough, but how did a baby from Wellington, one boy from Sydney and another from… somewhere in Canada factor in?
And there was supposed to be another woman too? What had brought them together?
He assumed it was something to do with the Empire, but he had not been asked to paint anything allegorical, and these people knew each other, to the point of overt familiarity.
Again, so long as he was paid, the painter tried not to care.
The session ended when the baby began to cry.
“That is fine,” he announced, beginning to put away his utensils. “We can work some more later with you each individually.”
The baby wailed louder, to the point that the woman flinched and the little boy slipped off the back of the sofa to curl on the woman’s wide spreading lap. He tried to comfort the baby, making noises and pinching her, but it did no good.
“Mama, she’s hungry.”
“Oh,” replied the woman. She bounced the baby on her lap. “Food. Food…”
“Evelyn,” the Scotsman snipped. “You need to go and feed Maia?”
“Uh.” She blinked, looking very lost. “Um.”
The baby continued to cry. Evelyn looked very close to joining her, keeling over and whispering to her, trying to hush her daughter.
“She hasn’t eaten,” she stated, repeating the conversation. “Ali, she’s hungry…”
“I can take her,” Alasdair muttered, warily watching the painter pack his things for the day.
“I’m so tired,” Evelyn murmured. “I’m so tired.”
Everyone noted the crack in her tone as she spoke, and Alasdair snatched the girl away, yanking Jack off her lap as he did so.
“Back to the nursery, both of you. Your mother needs rest.”
Jack protested, but his uncle lifted him in one arm, holding him like a rugby ball on his hip, baby in the other arm. He juggled them quite skillfully, carting them off with little care. Jack, distracted by being half upside down, laughed beautifully.
“Eva,” Rhys grabbed his sister’s chin, making him look at him. “How much did the doctor prescribe you?”
She held her tongue until the artist left, Matthew seeing him out the building.
“Too much,” she admitted, breathing shallowly. “What time is it?”
“Let me see,” Wales replied, not answering her. He stood up, going up the building to find her dressing room. It did not take long for him to come back down the stairs, meeting Matthew’s eyes as he returned indoors. “Just wait here,” he commanded.
Matthew did as told, waiting in the hall, but that did not stop him standing by the drawing room door, listening in.
“It’s beyond too much. How mad would you be if I poured the entire stock into the sewers?”
Matthew’s mother laughed, slowly. “Would that help or worsen the cholera outbreak?”
“Would probably help the diarrhoea.”
She laughed again, but it was a deeply unhappy sound. “I need it, Rhys.”
“I don’t think you do. Not anymore.” Wales tapped his fingers against her temple, noting how slow she was to react. “All in your brain.”
“Broken brain…” she sighed, pushing herself into sitting more upright. When she spoke, it was slowly, each word coming to her after the previous had left her lips. “I need more and more for the same effect and… we’re fighting wars over it. And I love that little boy, I do but I… I cannot look at him without…”
She trailed off, head lolling back and gazing at the ceiling. Wales nodded, thinking of Hong Kong.
“All the more reason to be kinder to him?” he said.
“I am kind. Why does everyone think I’m a monster?” she pouted, sounding very much like a petulant child. She twitched, and hurriedly whispered to herself, “Because you are one. Right.”
“That war was over China’s addiction, not yours.”
“It is a monster and we are feeding it all the same. Christ, you know, I haven’t been able to shit in days…”
Rhys snorted a laugh, noting the sweat on his sister’s neck. “I’ll get you some dried plums.”
“I cannot go to the Exhibition like this,” Evelyn admitted. “Do not make me.”
Rhys had learned long ago not to be moved by her pleading. “Oh dear, little Lloegyr, you have to. Half the world is going to be there.”
“God, no. Please.”
“One month,” Rhys repeated.
“It is not that sim”-
Matthew entered, wringing his hands but knowing he would get no worse than a glare from his uncle. His mother trailed off, looking ashamed.
“Do you need help going upstairs?” Canada asked.
England looked relieved for an escape. “Yes, please. This skirt is just ridiculous, I cannot carry its weight.”
Wales frowned. “It’s cotton, there’s no weight at all.”
She ignored him, wrapping her arm around Matthew’s neck. He heaved her up with significant effort. Patting Canada’s chest, England said in a dreamy and distant tone, “I need to rest for a while. Mm? Keep Jack and Maia busy for me. I just need a month. Then you can… pump me full of gin and laudanum if you so wish and I will be nothing but lovely.”
“No more opioids Eva,” Rhys argued as the pair left the room. “I mean it.”
“I am not locking you away in your room, not again,” Matthew also stated as they made their way upstairs.
“I think I will need to be kept hidden as it is not a pretty sight, withdrawal. Maybe an asylum might be best…Hanwell is supposed to be nice.”
“Is it?” was his flat retort.
“For an asylum.”
“You’re not mad,” Matthew pushed. “Just sick.”
“...No difference.”
“You’ll stay here, it’ll be nicer than any hospital.”
The townhouse was a middle section of a terrace in Mayfair. They had only recently acquired it last year. Prior to that, the London house had been in Islington. They did not often visit and stay in London if Evelyn could help it, but even so, Matthew had watched as over the decades their neighbourhood had morphed from a thoroughly middle class merchant street to just another set of slums outside of the City of London and Westminster. When cholera had decided to make itself known, that had been the breaking point. They’d moved (once England had stopped appearing blue) west, beyond the city, beyond Westminster itself, to a street and house where poverty was only seen in newspapers.
Matthew had still been in Quebec celebrating the gift of responsible government whilst his mother - in her own words - was shitting herself to death.
They still spent as little time in London as feasible, but this upcoming grand exhibition had resulted in the entirety of the family being forced to attend. There were many dinners to be had, many people to meet. Many countries that Matthew had only heard about were attending. Alfred was coming, which had Matthew up at night chewing on his fingers.
It could not go well.
Matthew got Evelyn up the two flights of stairs, and opened the bedroom door. Immediately, and with little care that he was watching, she scrambled to unlace her bodice, yanking off the flowers. She left her pearls alone.
“Maman,” Matthew argued. He was getting better at it - arguing - since the late 1840s. He thought England respected him for it. “You will go to the Exhibition.”
“Will I?” she asked, genuinely confused, as if she couldn’t even remember what an exhibition was.
“It’s everyone’s gift to you!”
She fell over, collapsing in a heap at the foot of the bed. Matthew immediately was on the ground next to her, holding an arm and ready to hoist her to her feet. She waved him off, bent over with a hand pressed against her throat.
“I just… I took too much. It is just a bad week. Please go look after the babies.”
Matthew retook her hand. “They’re fine, you are not.”
“I will be if you -”
“Just do as you're told!”
The yelling was unexpected, for both of them. Matthew turned very pale, shocked at himself. Evelyn’s fingers twitched around his hand. She shook her head, suppressing a sneer, and looked down.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Matthew immediately said.
“All you do is worry about me, and I am sorry for it.”
Unsure of what to say, Matthew pulled her to her feet long enough to get her sitting on the bed. “I’ll call for Rebecca,” he settled on, thinking of her ladies maid. “She’ll get you into bed.”
“You must be so disappointed in me. I am supposed to take care of you and I can’t even…”
She would not let the point go.
“You’re unwell,” was all he could say.
“God,” England sighed as Matthew hovered. “Promise me you will not let them lock me up.”
“What? But you just said-”
“In fucking Colney Hatch or… or Bedlam - Bethlam. Don't throw me away.”
Matthew did not understand until she stumbled over the last name. England was not known for its kindness to those mentally unwell. Only five years ago had the government actually considered them patients rather than inmates.
“No-one is locking you away. Don't think so lowly of us.” He spoke softly, getting down on his knees in front of her. Stubbornly, she refused to meet his eyes. “Maman, we need you too much.”
She nodded. “Yes. Need.”
“If anyone tries to take you away they will need to put me into one of those hospitals with you.”
Expression quizzical, still a little confused, England asked, “Because you will…?”
“Lose my temper?”
“Oh. Oh no dearest. That's not proper.”
She smiled, gentle sarcasm breaking the tension, and Matthew knew she would be fine. One day.
Reaching up, Evelyn took out her pins that held the braids in place. Her hair was awfully long, reaching past her waist. A rather straw-like blonde, she did not allow anyone to touch it. Patting the sheets, Evelyn asked Mathew to sit next to her.
“Tell me about yourself. Please. I missed you dreadfully these past few months. Letters aren’t enough and I like to hear of what you have been up to.”
Matthew stared as she took his hands, curling their fingers together. He racked his brains for something to say. Not about the rebuilding of Montreal's parliament building - too sensitive. Not about more responsible government - she’d think he was pulling away.
“I um… They maybe found gold, on the West Coast”-
Evelyn groaned, cutting him off. “No darling, I cannot stand hearing about politics and nations and…” she sighed, collapsing against his shoulder. “You. Tell me about you.”
“Oh.” Surprisingly, it was easier to find topics to talk about. “I got my hands on the Tenant of Wildfell last month.”
He felt her smile against his shoulder. “What did you think?”
“Hard to read, but in a different way to the other two. You say it's the same family who wrote Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights?”
“Yes, they all use a pen name, but they’re sisters.”
“This one isn’t as Romantic. The way she wrote the husband’s death; I liked that it does not hide what addiction does, not just to those who are sick, but those who are left behind once it takes its course.”
“Yes,” agreed England, sighing mournfully. “I think that is why I like it best...”
*****
“A fire engine?”
“What?”
“Mattie… you sent a fire engine?”
Canada shoved his brother, who laughed joyously, tripping over his own feet.
“It’s just as good as… as your locksmith!”
Alfred sniffed, trying to get his laughter under control. “Sure sure.”
The pair moved on, looking at whatever else other nations had brought in. The building, glass and a third of a mile long, needed no lights. May in England could be quite lovely, and the sight was living up to its name as a crystal palace.
The brothers walked along the ground floor, moving through displays of the West Indies, moving down to items from Australasia. To his brother’s credit, Matthew was pleased that Alfred was taking the time to look at everything, even if it did have nothing to do with him.
“Seriously though Alfred, you got the third largest space after Britain and France, and it’s half empty,” Matthew said. Punch magazine had made fun of them for it, saying that the space could have been used as a hotel, not to mention the statue of the slave…
Alfred shrugged, indifferent. “We sent nearly six hundred pieces! It’s not that I have nothing to show, maybe I just don’t feel like sharing with her.”
“They paid for you to come. Not many others can say that.”
Alfred frowned, twisting around and chiding, “Don’t paint her out to be doing me a kindness. This is just a huge ego project, right?”
Matthew pouted. “The Prince said it was to give hope.”
“Hope?”
“All the European nobility rejected the invitation to come. Revolutions everywhere, instability and fighting.”
Alfred nodded. “And yet these machines and industries can make the world a better place. The key to a better future.”
“Right.”
“She doesn’t believe that,” America smiled patronisingly, and Matthew swallowed his temper. “They can say it all they like, but she only means her technology, her Empire. And yet, whose reaper outperformed every Brit one? Mine.”
Matthew slumped. “Your ego…”
“I’m not wrong.”
There was too much to see in a day, and Matthew had met more people than names he could remember. However he had spent most of it attached at the hip to Alfred. Alfred, who despite all his blustering, needed his brother’s help navigating London. So much had changed in the city since he had last visited, and even then it was not as if England had ever allowed him to travel alone.
The sound of Australia yelping made Canada turn. He was clapping, holding New Zealand under his arms to hold her upright, as the two looked at some woven baskets in their section. England, he noted, was very close. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the children and Matthew and his brother, unsure if she wanted Alfred's attention. Unsure of what she would do if she got it.
She looked… better and yet worse. Despite the purging her body had undergone, she still looked exhausted. It was suspected that no human body would have survived or been nearly as functioning following so abruptly quitting the drug. England was strong, certainly, but it was no easy task. And still, with every growing border, she grew smaller. But her eyes were alert, emerald sharp once again. For the moment.
Dressed in dark red, with her bonnet hiding her face, she knelt next to the children, skirt pillowing out in a wide circle. Keeping her voice low, she explained the baskets that had been sent, the way weaving worked.
Jack grew bored quickly, he did not have the patience of Matthew, nor even of Alfred, but he lit up when he saw his older brother across the space.
“Matthew!” he yelled, taking off.
Alfred blanched, backing away a few steps as the child approached. Jack didn't notice, oblivious as any young boy tended to be.
“Mattie, I liked your canoe, but mama screamed when I tried to climb in. She's so silly. We're hiding from someone. Palm tree.”
“Palmerston?”
“That's it.” Jack laughed, finally noting the other man. “Morning!”
Alfred looked a little strangled as he beheld the child who, for all intents and purposes, had been his replacement. Matthew elbowed him sharply in the gut. Whatever he believed about England, it was not the little colonies fault.
“Why is Evelyn hiding from her foreign secretary?” Alfred asked, nosiness getting the better of him. Matthew refrained from making a comment on how America apparently knew who held what offices in England’s government.
“He's beastly rude. She called him a fu-”
“Eh,” Matthew interrupted. “Maybe don't use any colourful language?”
Jack laughed, then looked at Alfred again. The little boy grew curious, and Alfred bit his tongue. For some reason, being under scrutiny from the colony was disarming.
“You're the one mama gets sad about if you come up in the newspapers, aren't ya?” Jack asked.
Deceptively perceptive came to mind as a descriptor for Jack. Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Sad? Or angry?”
Jack blinked owlishly. “She doesn't get angry,” he incredulously replied.
“Told you,” Matthew muttered. Alfred gave him a look.
Evelyn watched the interaction from afar, speaking to her little girl distractedly.
Alfred was fully grown, as beautiful as ever. As strong as ever. The pride of seeing him as such was tempered by a dissatisfaction that she could not talk to him. Or rather, would not. She had nothing to say to him.
Thank you for the exhibition pieces, but that statue is in poor taste and you should have known better. Thank you for the wheat; it saved so many. You look well. Are you well? You keep adding territories and states, is it enough yet? Do you think me a hypocrite for asking? Do you even approve of what your government does? Do you care that I am proud? I read that Scarlet Letter book - have you? Does it mean anything to you, do you even remember that time? Where do you live now? What happened to our home in Providence? Do you hate me? I hate you. I think I do.
Please don’t hate me.
Maia grumbled and blew raspberries, toddling on her tiny feet. Evelyn held her carefully. She could just about walk, but not particularly well unaided.
“These came from the people that gave you your name,” England explained. “Aren't they pretty?”
Maia cooed, reaching up to touch them.
Evelyn would not have chosen that name for her, if she had the chance. But it had been decided without her knowledge. Her child, she had mused, her first and only daughter, and she had not been allowed to choose her name.
She did not hate it though, nor dislike it even. Human names were funny things. Some kept the same name for centuries, others changed it on a whim. Evelyn had kept hers for pushing seven hundred years. Matthew had kept his name, despite Evelyn’s offer in the past to have it changed, to completely leave behind Francis’ influence. He had rejected the offer, and England had not believed his excuse of it not being worth the fuss.
Alfred had kept his name.
Maia would keep her name for as long as she wanted too. But England had made a request when the little girl had been placed in her arms.
No more. Three boys and this little girl had been enough.
Before they had found Maia, there was talk of what was to be done with the Cape Colony. The Netherlands had not exactly been the father type, nor did that boy want such a thing. He was eleven years old now, old enough to have his own opinions.
Leave him be, England had begged. She only wanted to take in those that had known no-one else, that would not be torn in two. Matthew had been such a struggle with a still uncertain payoff, taken when she had no compunction or hesitations about her right to motherhood.
The offer was there, if the southern tip of Africa wanted it. Evelyn sent what money she was allowed, trying to at least provide stability. He had not wanted it, and the money was returned. Evelyn understood. His life would not be easy, no matter what option was presented to him. She was not so deluded as to think all colonies were equal.
She knew she did not have the right to be wanted anymore, if she had ever had it. Not with any African colony, nor with Hong Kong, Singapore, or any of the others. Those that had existed long before her arrival needed no mother.
Alfred had accused her of living in fantasy, and it was true that the lustre had begun to fade, although seemingly the opposite effect on the international narrative. Still. No more settlers colonies. She told herself it was as much to protect them as it was her own heart.
They deserved better than what she could give; her mind could not bear the burden of the colonies existences, her pain was their pain, their pain was her grief.
The events that required them to be put on display were increasing. The perfect little family, prodded and picked at and judged. The children's growth and success was used only as a measure for the usefulness of the colony. England could choose very little in her life, so she had begged for the choice in who she allowed close to her. Just the two boys. One cunning and calming boy, another sunny and sweet son. Matthew was increasingly spending time away from home - rather, he was increasingly spending time in his home. Jack still stayed close. If spending weeks at sea was only made worth it by months in America or Canada, months at sea for Australia was only worthwhile in the rarest of circumstances.
But when they'd brought her a girl, England was once again reminded of how weak her willpower was. An intelligent and inquisitive daughter, all for her to keep. Evelyn had taken her, withdrawing further and further away from any city or polite society. She would do what she could to keep the children away from the humans' criticisms.
Evelyn had hoped for a girl, secretly. She wanted to prove that she could be better than what her own maternal relationship had been.
She had often thought about her own mother, how Britannia had not wanted to hold her, or speak to her, or look at her. The boys were adored, Erin trusted with stories and myths and histories now long forgotten, the favoured daughter by a country mile. Meanwhile Evelyn would watch, stinking of envy and relying on her siblings for kindness when their mother's back was turned. Evelyn was a withdrawn and moody baby, obsessing over a loneliness which turned self perpetuating, and couldn't even watch a chicken be killed without bursting into tears. Where she came from, she remembered Britannia had muttered once, was a mystery. Little Albion. Britannia would have lived a lot longer if England were not born. If Rome had not come.
How desperate she had been, when that tall dark man had arrived, to be something he could be proud of. He was a funny man, full of humour, but with his own family to spoil and love. Evelyn had never quite matched up, but he was kind enough when he wasn't being cruel. She liked it when he came to visit sometimes; it meant someone was looking at her.
But then mother had burned Colchester and London and killed thousands of her own people, just to make a point, dragging her daughters along to watch. And yet the day she got up and left, the day she never returned, Evelyn had cried and cried, wanting her back, until her siblings could no longer stand the sound, and they too went their separate ways.
It was all rather miserable.
The little New Zealand was nothing like her mother, happy and chubby and always curious. She had a little temper, stomping feet and writhing when things didn't quite go her way. It was rather cute, coming from an infant. England adored her. Little firework. There was something different about having a daughter - in Evelyn was hope that Maia would understand and empathise, more than the boys ever could. Evelyn did not want Maia to suffer on account of her gender, but at this point it felt inevitable. Yet another reason for the family to stay secluded and in isolation from Europe. Her politicians, Canning and Castlereagh, had been right, there was nothing for her there. Europe was a pit, and she was exhausted from them. London exhausted her, more so than Paris did Francis or Lisbon Gabriel.
“Evelyn,” said a voice she was not expecting.
Turning around, she saw the legs of a certain Prussian. Not exactly where her mind had been lingering. Funny little man.
She glanced once back to Matthew and Alfred. Alfred was looking anywhere except her, Matthew had picked up Jack, and was chatting away to the little boy.
“I need to talk business with you,” Gilbert pushed. His German was sometimes hard for her to understand, faster than Hanover and less polite.“Keep the small one with you, she won't understand.”
“Business?” England asked, rising to her feet. Her German was good enough, northern and neutral and safe. High German, Hanover had told her last century. “Scotland deals with economics, you know he has an ear for it.”
Gilbert glanced around. “Not that kind of business.”
Evelyn's expression became pinched. “What on -”
“Come for a walk with me. I want you to promise me something.”
Always standing so stiffly, like he was still in a column amongst soldiers, he marched off. She followed reluctantly, adjusting her hold on Maia. Jack saw she was leaving, wriggled out of Matt’s hold, chasing after his mother. She took his hand immediately, looking picture perfect with Gilbert as they made their way out into the gardens.
Alfred watched them leave.
“Will she speak to me this month?”
Matthew did not lie. “No. Probably not.”
Alfred scoffed, and pretended his heart did not hurt.
“Typical.”
Matthew observed his brother carefully. “Do you want her to? Maybe I can-”
“I would really rather die of dysentery.”
*****
England did not have much interest in Prussia. He had been far away for most of her existence, and an unreliable nation these past one hundred and fifty years. Having forever found him fanatical and too easy at finding comfort in authority, she never truly felt at ease with his presence. Church or military, it made little difference to England. None was to be trusted.
“Everyone says motherhood suits you,” Prussia began. “I think you look rather ill.”
England snorted, rocking Jack's arm back and forth and the group slowly walked along. She let go for just a moment, pulling out a boiled sweet for him to crunch on. He hummed happily, enjoying the pear drop, making his mother smile.
“You remember what it was like, being a child in a world that did not understand us. If I can make it a little easier for them, all the better.”
“Is that all? I have my doubts that you are so selfless.”
Evelyn shot him a dangerous look, squeezing Jack's hand in a reassurance. “I do what is required of me. I happen to love them dearly. What is wrong with that.”
There was no query in her tone, just a dangerous warning to back down. Gilbert took it.
“Nothing. That's just it. I feel you and I are in a similar situation. Or soon will be.”
Evelyn paused by a park bench, lowering herself and Maia to be seated. Jack climbed up next to them, swinging his legs merrily. England stared at Gilbert, mouth in a thin line.
“A unified Germany, I suppose you speak of. I thought the concept was to be paused whilst you all had your failed revolutions,” she grimly stated, superior in the fact that, unlike most of Europe, a revolution was not necessary here.
Gilbert chewed his lip, biting on any harsh snapback that she had no right to comment on such matters, but knowing he had to be diplomatic. He then perched himself next to the woman in the large crinoline skirt.
“It is either going to be myself or Austria that leads the way. France will hate it, Russia will see it as a challenge to its sphere of influence. Your neutrality may be useful. By not acting against it, the cause has legitimacy, no?”
“I would want a counterweight to French and Russian influence, yes. But Gilbert, be serious; Brunswick, Bavaria, Baden, Hesse, Saxony… if you subsume all of them into one state, a state you spearhead, then you hope to be Germany's representative no? They'll die. Maybe not immediately but someday. I am not close to any of them, but I know some will not take that lying down.”
“I will not be Germany.”
“...Oh? You intend to set up your own demise?” she asked, genuinely and morbidly curious.
“I won’t die. I simply refuse to.”
She thought through the statement, then sighed. “That little boy, the Holy Roman Empire, he will not come back. Francis ended him. For good.”
Gilbert huffed, rocking back before standing tall once again. He dodged her statement.
“It won't be a small child, young adult, more likely. This isn't one of your pet -”
He cut himself off following a very wild look from England. The children were ignorant, New Zealand having taken to shoving her fingers into Australia's nose and mouth.
Gilbert tried again. “Am I or Austria preferable to lead for a united Germany?”
“Honestly neither, you are both far too dictatorial for my tastes.”
“England…”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. You. If only for the fact that I can barely trust a Catholic and it’s easier to do business with you. But I won’t step in - I care not one whit what happens to all of you.”
Gilbert laughed, he had always found her funny. Sometimes in a genuine way, sometimes in a baffled way, often in an infuriating way. “So long as you get your goods, so long as the money flows, why should you? I would be the same, if I were in your shoes. You want to be a mother… Let's say, I want to be an elder brother.”
She pondered the thought. Prussia did not seem the fraternal type. Perhaps he would surprise her. Her mind remained jammed on one particular aspect of his declarations. A dreadful thought wormed its way into her mind. It was not everyday that a new - powerful - European country was born.
“You say that it will be a new nation? But one fully grown?”
“I suspect so. This is a unification of an idea that has existed for a long time; not a migrant people settling in a new home.”
“...A fresh start nonetheless.”
“What?” Prussia asked, confused at England's pursed lips and thoughtful expression.
Jack tugged on the ribbons on Evelyn’s bonnet, bored. “Mama, can we go back inside?”
“Yes sweetheart. One more moment.” She looked up at Gilbert in the sunlight. His pale hair seemed more grey than ever. “I want a promise from you, in return, Prussia. Two, in fact.”
“Oh?”
“One is your way to pay me back for housing your miserable royals last decade. My princess, Vicky. If she does marry your Frederick, you must promise to look out for her. My princesses tend not to do well in Europe. They all marry brutes or the insane. Or both.”
Prussia grew sober, not taking kindly to the implication. “Frederick is neither.”
“No but… please. She is smart and precocious and liberal . I fear she will not be welcome.”
“ If they marry, then yes. We both know a Russian marriage would be better. What’s the other promise?”
Evelyn stood, satisfied, switching Maia to her right arm and taking her left into Jack’s tight squeezing grip. She smiled, though it was not particularly warming to look at. In the sun, under her bonnet, Gilbert pondered how very skeletal she appeared, like she was dying from some great sickness. He’d heard she had caught cholera, but was surprised she did not seem entirely recovered.
She looked rather mad, Gilbert concluded.
“When you find your new Germany, big brother Prussia,” England asked, voice near a purr, “I would very much like to be the first foreign nation to meet them.”
*****
History Notes:
- Ireland is not present because of the Famine, which is only starting to ease at this point in time. There’s a huge internal and external migration of people going on, thanks to the famine and the impact of the repeal of the Corn Laws, which brought down the cost of grain but at the expense of protection for British (and Canadian) suppliers. This also contributed to Responsible Government for bits of Canada.
- The Opioid Epidemic was getting worse in the UK; its supply came from a different place than what the British were pumping into China (Turkey versus India). The First Opium War was how the UK got ownership of Hong Kong. Gin, whilst nowhere as nearly destructive as it had been in the 18th century, was still widely drunk and had a sordid reputation.
- Wales’ accent is that of Carmarthen - one of, if not the, oldest settlements in modern Wales. I personally headcanon Scotland to have a Perth accent since Perthshire is called the heart of the country. England… Shrug. Having said that, I imagine all nations are able to shift their accents depending on what is most useful to them at the time.
- The late 1840s and early 50s had England going through a cholera epidemic and it would not be sorted out until a couple of years later. The East End of London, really went through it due to slum conditions (because of the said mass emigration to cities). Mayfair in West London is the most expensive tile on the Monopoly board by contrast and is stupid posh.
- In 1845 Parliament passed Lunacy Laws in attempts to reform a massively corrupt mental health system. Some hospitals achieved this better than others. Bethlem Royal Hospital - nicknamed Bedlam with its awful reputation - made itself an exemption to the changes brought about and would not allow external inspections until 1853. Many women were dumped in these hospitals, ill or not, due to being an inconvenience to husbands and family members for not conforming.
- The Great Exhibition! Prince Albert’s brainchild, it was to show off British ingenuity with other countries contributing exhibits, as a way to promote progress after the 1848 unrest. The money made from the show went on to fund London’s Science, Natural History, and V&A museums, the Royal Albert Concert Hall and the Imperial College of London. Not bad…
- England is lying through her teeth regarding what happened during Roman Britain to justify Empire as a good thing. Although, the Boudican Revolt was a particularly nasty moment in the Roman Empire’s history, and she was only a wee thing when it happened.
- The unification of Germany during the mid part of the 19th century underwent a bit of a lull - the 1848 revolutions across Europe had caused much uncertainty. Britain was passively for unification; having a third counterweight to French and Russian shenanigans seemed a good idea. There were concerns about Prussian absolutism which would end up pushing Britain away, but we’ll get to that. Victoria and Albert’s eldest daughter, Vicky, would indeed marry the Prussian Crown Prince. She had a rough time of it.
- Lord Palmerston, the UK's Foreign Minister and later PM, is possibly my least favourite Brit to have ever existed.
Link to Chapter Eight.