I, Alexandrina Read online

  III.

  “We will not have failure - only success and new learning.”

  -Queen Victoria

  Thankfully, Alex kept her distance on the way back to Frogmore. She knew that something had changed, something so important that I was reassessing everything.

  “Caroline,” she said as the car neared Frogmore. “Caroline. I’m sorry. We don’t have to do it again.”

  “Can we talk about this later?” I asked. My stomach continued to burn as if I had been punched, and it was a miracle that I had not thrown up.

  Shame filled Alex’s expression. “Of course.”

  No. No. She thought that I did not want—oh hell. I was not sure what I thought or wanted, but I needed to see my husband immediately. At Frogmore, Alex followed me. I did not realize this until I was nearly to Philip’s suites, and she called out, “Where are you going?”

  I whirled around. “Alex,” I said, trying to choose my words carefully amid my pounding heart. “Alex. Please go to your apartments.”

  “You’re going to see him.” Her face fell. “You want to be with him.”

  “I don’t. I promise, but I do need to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Can we talk in the morning?”

  The defeated look in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Certainly.” She turned and walked away, and I could have gone after her. Fear of what would happen if I did stopped me—as did the incredible need to talk with Philip.

  I knocked on his door. “Philip!”

  No answer.

  I intensified my knocking, and he finally answered, a shiny blonde with tousled hair behind him. Both were naked and making no attempt to conceal it. Oh, but they were not alone. A brunette sidled up behind the blonde.

  “Party of four?” the brunette asked.

  “Philip, we need to talk.”

  He winked. “Think about it. Party of four.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Philip told his companions to wait in the bedroom. They sulked but glided away, closing the bedroom door behind them. My husband sat on the sofa and spread his legs wide. His penis stood half-erect.

  I threw him a pillow. “Cover up.”

  He did. Thank goodness for small breaks. “Abasa Mehmedovic,” I said.

  He chortled. “Ha ha! Are you drunk, Caroline?”

  “Why did you pick Abasa Mehmedovic? She was filthy and right off the streets. She smelled of…never mind. Maybe you couldn’t have found better in Marslavia, but you would have waited until we got home. You picked her for a reason.”

  “If you think you know, why are you asking me?”

  “Is it true?”

  Philip scratched his head. It used to be full of light honey-brown hair. Now he was balding gracelessly. “Not sure why I picked her up, to be honest,” my husband said. “I mean, I did know who she was right away.”

  “You did?”

  He scoffed. “ ‘Course I did! You were in the room drinking your ass off, and I went out for a walk. There were hundreds of people everywhere trying to touch me and talk with me. It was fun. And then I saw her. Way back in the crowds.”

  I believed it. His knack of recall was uncanny. As I had told Alex, Philip could meet someone for a minute, and ten years later, be able to recall the person’s name and details even though the person had entirely changed his or her looks.

  “It was another Victoria clone,” Philip said simply.

  “How does…how does a Victoria clone come to be running around Wosnia?”

  He shrugged. “Could be that the woman pregnant with her got off the grounds somehow and had the baby in an alley. Maybe someone kidnapped the kid. Maybe the girl ran off. Maybe there were twins. How the hell do I know, Caro?”

  I ignored his rebuke. “Do you think she’s the only other Victoria clone?”

  Philip stretched, and the pillow fell to his side. Penis time. “Again, how the hell do I know?”

  “She seemed to have no idea about her origins.”

  “Clueless. She hasn’t had a proper shower in years. People in Wosnia don’t get much exposure to what’s happening with The Clone Show. Did you notice that the TV in our room got only a state-run channel?”

  No, I had not noticed, being terribly drunk.

  “Were you going to tell anyone? How do we know it’s not a girl who happens to look very similar?”

  Philip smirked. “I got her DNA. Sent it off the first moment I could along with DNA from our Alex. Results came back tonight. DNA lab thinks they’re the same person.”

  “What were you planning to do with the information?”

  Low chuckle. “At first, I was curious to see if you were alert enough to notice who she was. You always argue that you’re not affected when you’re drunk. Bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit! Only you would have noticed her.”

  He yawned. “Be that as it may, you did not notice, and I have rather enjoyed an ace up my sleeve.”

  “For what?” As I asked, the answer became clear. To be king. Philip had high hopes of Albert never marrying and dying in a reckless accident. He had been in several, the most recent the previous year when he flipped the car he was driving and ended up with a mild concussion. If Albert and Alex became engaged, Philip could grind the proceedings to a halt by showing that there could be zillions of Victoria clones in existence.

  “I don’t know for what,” he said, his lip curling. “Don’t you enjoy knowing something that absolutely no one else does?” A smile. “Now it is our secret.”

  “Our secret.”

  Philip rose, his penis dangling between his legs. “I must return to my guests. Don’t make any hasty decisions, hmm, Caroline?”

  “Is she here already?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Have you hidden her? Is she out of Marslavia?”

  He snorted. “What an imagination you have, dear wife!”

  **

  I waited until the morning. I acted in a not hasty manner and researched and researched. I discovered that a person could fly to Ukraine and from there, take a train into Marslavia. It would then be a bus ride of a few hours to Wosnia. If I timed everything well, I could make a round trip in a long weekend.

  Many problems existed. How would I be given permission to enter Marslavia? Could I, the wife of the man who was second in line to the British throne, travel undetected? How would I explain my absence from public engagements? What happened if I did not find Abasa? How would I get her out of Marslavia and into Britain? How could the monarchy not crumble from the existence of at least two Victoria clones? And, most importantly, what would Abasa and Alex do with their lives?

  “I would love to be queen of England one day,” Abasa had said. She had acting skills. She was attracted to Albert in a way that Alex was not. Alex did not want to be queen. She wanted to explore the stars. But in order to be that person, she would have to disguise herself every day for at least the next few years. She would have to be sent somewhere. Maybe America, under the care of my parents.

  Could it work? It was an odd The Prince and the Pauper situation, and I was too afraid to think about it overmuch because no matter which way I looked at it, it was a huge mess. Each route showed no positive outcome.

  I thought about contacting The Clone Show but decided against it. I did not want goons to go after Abasa and for other terrible consequences to occur. I did know I had to get her and probably soon. Philip was likely plotting his own “rescue mission.” That is, if Abasa was not already out of Marslavia.

  I am ashamed to say it, but I drank and partook of much alcohol as I researched. I needed help getting into Marslavia, and I called Roger Carter at seven a.m. “Get someone to hack into the computers in Marslavia,” I said. “Make a document appear that shows a person under my alias is allowed a visa into the country.”

  Roger laughed. “Why?”

  “Trust me.”

  “You’re a drunk. Damn, I can barely understand you. I trust you as much as I’d trust a th
ief.”

  Fine. I remained undeterred, and the prospect of adventure sent butterflies fluttering around my insides. I was no longer dead inside, and the feeling was exhilarating. I had lied in a way when I told Alex that I donned disguises often and got out from Frogmore. The truthful part: Philip and I both disguised ourselves while we were dating and during the period soon after we were married. We went to dance clubs galore and had grand old times. After I found out his true nature, I stopped going out with him. Instead, I stayed home and drank to escape. The previous night with Alex had been my first time in disguise and out in four years. The taste of freedom after four years of being trapped was addictive.

  I needed to be free again. I needed to be my own woman again.

  I dug through the boxes that I packed several years ago when I planned to divorce Philip. Some of the boxes were from my high school days, and ah…yes. There they were, false identity cards that got me into bars back home in America when I was under twenty-one. My old cards would not get me on a plane, but they’d do for trains and buses.

  I made train reservations before I could change my mind. I’d bring money and jewels to bribe the guards at the borders of each country. Oh! Oh, how alive I felt. The fact that my plan was doomed did not bother me because, inside, I somehow knew it would work. I would get into Marslavia, and Britain would get its Victoria.

  But what would I tell Alex, she who drew me in with her huge, yearning eyes? I constantly replayed the press of my lips to her neck, her moans and groans, and the ache in my heart intensified. How to tell her that her life was about to change yet again?

  I had to ask, not tell. I had to make the decision to get Abasa Mehmedovic hers.

  **

  My sole engagement of the day was at one p.m. I was to help plant a tree at a library outside London, and because Philip would not be with me, it was the perfect opportunity to make my break for Marslavia. So, I had to ask Alex soon.

  At eight o’clock, I knocked at her door and realized that I must look a fright. I had not slept all night, and I had kept drinking. I turned to scurry away to freshen up, but Alex opened the door.

  “Caroline,” she said, the relief in her gaze evident. “You’re here.” She looked like she may not have slept much, but the dark circles under her eyes made her more beautiful.

  “Hi. Can I come in?”

  Alex still wore the red dress that I chose for Potsy’s. Her breasts tempted me. Oh, they did. Both of her nipples strained through the thin red fabric, and I remembered Philip’s women from last night. They had been physically perfect. Curvy, hips made for fucking and for childbearing, proud breasts. I wanted to explore Alex. I wanted to take one of her nipples into my mouth, swirl my tongue around it, nibble it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, aware that I was staring at Alex’s chest.

  She blushed. “It’s fine.”

  “I look terrible. I have not slept.”

  “What happened last night?”

  It would have been easy to sit with Alex on the couch and kiss her. To go ahead and make love to her. To pretend that Abasa Mehmedovic never existed. Alex would marry Albert, and they would be happy enough. I would move out of Frogmore, officially begin divorce proceedings and put this chapter of my life behind me. Oh, I was tempted. Very tempted.

  “Do you remember telling me that you want to go to the stars?” I asked.

  Alex nodded.

  “It can start today, if you want, with a girl called Abasa Mehmedovic.”

  Part Three

  May 23, 2059

  EXCERPT FROM QUEEN LOUISE’S DIARY ON CRITICAL DAY

  THE WASHINGTON STANDARD

  By Ralph Smith, STAFF WRITER

  When Queen Louise died last year, she left behind a treasure trove of documents and diaries. Here is an excerpt from one of her recollections. She wrote it on one of the most important days of her life, a day in which she chose honesty and transparency over secrets.

  **

  On December 1, 1990, my father died, and I became queen of England. My elder son, Albert, was four years old when I ascended to the throne, and his younger brother, Philip, was three.

  Oh, my hopes used to be high. My nation loved me, and I loved the people. My children were beautiful boys, but they came out of puberty markedly different than the youngsters they were previously. I missed my innocent young lads, and part of me was disappointed when one got married.

  It was Philip. He married an American called Caroline when he was twenty-five and she twenty-one. She was in love, and the veiled hints I dropped about my younger son’s proclivities were not enough to dissuade her. In hindsight, I should have been more direct. I have the utmost respect for this woman, this Caroline. When she called me with a dilemma one morning in early June 2018, I listened. And listened. The tale she told me was horrifying, and that was with her trying to sanitize it as much as possible.

  But I get ahead of myself. As of June 2018, unrest surrounded Britain, and I wanted Albert to become engaged. Many things scared me. The fear of an assassin, for example, because I had bought rights to a clone. The fear of Victoria saying she was the people’s queen, my power diminishing. She could establish a court at Frogmore if she so wished. On one hand, I understood her appeal. She was young and alluring in her modesty and shyness. And her background! What mystique.

  My fortune tellers said that Albert would marry her, and I decided everyone must meet. My husband and I, along with Albert, made a surprise visit to Frogmore. Caroline was a vision in blue, and Alexandrina a feast in yellow. She would be trouble. I could tell right away. She was too innocent, too pure. People would lap her up and call her queen.

  Albert must become engaged as soon as possible.

  My official photographer took pictures of us—everyone. Mostly me and Alexandrina, though. For example, in one photo, I stand and smile benevolently at her as she kneels and pets Charlie, one of my dachshunds. It was a candid photo of Caroline and Alexandrina that most fascinated me, however. One I took myself. I am a sneaky queen, and in the photo, they look like they are falling in love. They stand next to each other in front of Queen Victoria’s tea house. Alexandrina’s cheeks are aglow, and Caroline has a new softness about her.

  I watched my son and potential future daughter-in-law interact and pose for pictures. They had an easy rapport, but it was one of cousins or longtime friends. It was not the electricity I saw between Caroline and Alexandrina.

  I was fifty-six years old. I had dealt with cancer twice—quietly. Only Nicholas knew of my cancer. For now, I was healthy, but I wanted to live my years out in peace. I wanted to see my Albert married. I wanted the succession settled. Albert needed a child, and I wanted to meet my grandchild. According to Madame Ural, her name would be Caroline Alexandrina Elizabeth Louise.

  “Your Majesty, His Royal Highness is here.”

  I rose from the sofa and embraced my son. “Albert!”

  My boy, my lovely lad. We chatted pleasantly over tea and biscuits. Finally, he got to the point. “Mummy, what do you want?”

  “My dear, I want to see you married.”

  He let out a belly laugh. “This again, Mum?”

  I ran through my reasons. Age. Health. Wanting a grandchild. And, most importantly, Albert’s happiness.

  “I love you, Mum,” Albert said.

  “I know.”

  “I can’t do it. I won’t marry Alexandrina. If it’s really come to this...” He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps it is time to be done with the monarchy.”

  I had a feeling he would suggest this. Albert took part in engagements very reluctantly. He did the least work of us all. He rarely extolled the monarchy and past kings and queens in his speeches.

  The words were out of his mouth. More than mere hints. They could not be taken back. I stared at my son, his declaration festering like a cancer in my brain. Worse than the other cancers I fought.

  “I don’t say this to hurt you, Mum.” He spoke quietly. “I like Alex. I do, but I don’t want her t
o be my wife. Besides, we’ve seen over the past year that science has outsmarted tradition and rendered the monarchy an impossibility.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He ran a hand through his rakish dark hair. “You know what I mean. How many Victoria clones are out there? Maybe there is one in each country. Maybe there is a Victoria working at McDonald’s in Liverpool. Maybe there is a baby Victoria being born in Wosnia as we speak. What happens if DNA replicas of Elizabeth I or Richard III show up?”

  “The monarchy will continue, Albert.”

  “Okay.” My son’s eyes grew large. “But, Mum, I’m not marrying Alexandrina. I take marriage seriously. I do. You may think the opposite, that I take it carelessly. The truth is, I want to marry one time. Once. For life. To a woman I love passionately and who loves me back passionately. I have yet to find her. I am not closed to the idea of marriage. I am more than open.”

  “It does my heart good to hear that. There is a woman I want you to meet. She is here in the palace.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have lunch with her, will you? Give her a chance to see if a spark exists.”

  “Mum, no.”

  Albert said nothing for a while. He dipped a biscuit into his tea and nibbled at the delicacy.

  Fury welled inside me. “What kind of king do you plan to be? If I died tomorrow, what would you do as king? You barely do anything as Prince of Wales.”

  He blinked. My words stung. Good!

  Silence hung heavy in the air. He did not plan to answer. Maybe his plan was to abdicate. Get handed the crown and toss it over like a hot potato to Philip, never mind the danger of the crown in Philip’s hands.

  Albert stood. “I’m leaving, Mum.”

  I lunged for the tea and the biscuits and swept them off the table. Crash, crash, crash! Carpet dulled much of the blow from the teaware, so maybe the crashes took place in my heart.

  “You will meet with this woman,” I hissed. “Her name is Abasa Mehmedovic.”

  **

  Thirty minutes later. Sunshine. The scent of lilac. It was a joy to be outside with my dachshunds barking and frolicking around me. My heart leapt. Signs looked good so far. My son and Abasa had electricity. Albert would marry! I would be a grandmother.