I, Alexandrina Read online

  “What do we call you?” the duchess asked as she strode to the table. Her skirt ended mid-thigh, a daring length I rarely witnessed. Her legs were lean and muscular. I admired the curve of her buttocks as she leaned over for a biscuit. As she turned around, I snapped my gaze to her face.

  “Alexandrina,” I stammered. “Call me Alexandrina.”

  “Pretty name.” She nibbled on the biscuit and waved her husband over. “Good for you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your name. Good for you. They said to call you Victoria, but I have never been one to presume.”

  I smiled with pretend nonchalance as the pink tip of Caroline’s tongue darted out to seize a crumb on her lip. That tongue, so pink and lithe! I had helped bake the biscuits; Nanny Flossie insisted. They were a mixture of shortbread fingers, Madeleines and financiers. I was glad to see Caroline enjoying them and yearned for more of her tongue.

  “Regardless, I’m afraid we must call you Victoria,” the man said, his voice stern.

  The duchess shot her husband a look. “Philip!”

  He shrugged. “We must.”

  “Nonsense.” She scoffed and grabbed my hand. “Don’t listen to him. He will come around.” A conspiratorial wink. “Show me your apartments. We’ll let Philip finish the biscuits. He rather adores his digestives.”

  I was used to people, from nannies, tutors and doctors, grabbing my hands. My arms, my hair, my cheeks, my dresses. The duchess’s touch was different. It was not rough, impatient, greedy or demanding but rather the sympathetic touch of an equal. It made my throat go dry and my heart flutter.

  “My apartments,” I echoed stupidly.

  She beamed. “Would you mind terribly, Alexandrina? It’s stuffy in here.”

  **

  The Duchess of York and I left her husband in the visiting room and entered directly into the private sitting room of my apartments. The door snicked closed behind us.

  “Incredible,” the duchess said in a breathy voice.

  In contrast to the previous room, my private sitting room—my entire apartments—were replicas of various Buckingham Palace rooms during Queen Victoria’s lifetime. They were built during my fifteenth year, while Russ and John still had hope of success.

  “I’m dying for a drink,” the duchess said. She drew a silver flask from her purse. “Care for a sip?”

  I had never partaken of alcohol, but I would not admit such to the Duchess of York. Instead of waiting for me to answer, she found a cup on a side table. She sent clear white liquid tinkling into it and handed me the cup. “Let us toast! To what?”

  “To, to, uh…” Already, this woman was unlike any person I had met.

  “To Alexandrina,” she decided. “To you, dear Alexandrina.” She clinked her flask against my cup.

  “To you also,” I responded. “To you, dear Caroline.”

  Gratitude filled her expression. “That is so sweet. Thank you.” She tilted her head back and drank.

  I brought my cup to my lips. The strong smell emanating from therein caused gooseflesh to invade my body.

  “Whoo!” Caroline exclaimed, her eyes giddy. “That’s satisfactory.” She noticed my still-full cup and frowned. “Alex. Pardon me. Alexandrina. Drink up!”

  “You can have it.”

  She shook her head. “Please, enjoy.”

  The liquid roiled down my throat, gagging it, choking it. It roared into my stomach, and I felt like vomiting. Nevertheless, a moment later, my stomach was pleasantly warm and alight. I felt like a butterfly in sunshine. Caroline produced another flask from her purse and poured a second round of drinks. I partook, and her voice came from a long way off.

  “You don’t drink, do you?” she asked.

  “A little,” I lied.

  “I drink too much. You’d find that out eventually, so why hide it? Granted, I’ve done a smashing job keeping the journos in the dark.” She looked me over. “You’re a pretty girl, Alex. You and Albert will look splendid together. The tabloids have married you two off already, do you know that? So have Louise’s fortune tellers. Oh! Do you know what fortune tellers are?”

  Yes. Oh yes. Visions of Heather Rubberstone fluttered through my mind. Many royals all over the world used fortune tellers, and after her husband Albert died, Queen Victoria became obsessed with the occult. Years before that, though, Victoria had been but a young girl nowhere near the throne. A fortune teller told her father, the Duke of Kent, that two members of the family were soon to die. They happened to be the duke himself and his father, the king. Still, Victoria remained a comfortable distance from the throne. Then, in 1830, another of her uncles, the king, died, and another uncle became king. Victoria, then eleven years old, became heir to the throne. Seven years later, this girl, eighteen years old, ascended to the throne of England one month after her birthday.

  “Louise, bless her heart,” Caroline said, “loves her fortune tellers, and she takes what they say very seriously. They say that you and Albert are destined to be together.” Caroline chuckled. “Oh, Louise didn’t like that at first. She even stopped seeing her fortune tellers for a time, but that was last year. She’s warmed more to the idea now. She’s eager to see Albert settled, and pairing you with him resolves the pesky possibility of you setting up court somewhere else.”

  This wealth of information was intriguing. Me, truly with Albert? Me, queen of England one day? Would I retrace Victoria’s footsteps? During the past few days, Nanny Flossie had told me more about the man Caroline spoke of, the man called Albert Bernard Edward Charles, Prince of Wales. He was thirty-one and a good sight more attractive than his year-younger brother. He was unmarried and infamous for leaving a trail of broken female hearts in his wake. He traveled the world and gave rousing, grandiose speeches. His voice was made of gold, his heart pure.

  “He’s a good enough chap,” Caroline said. “If you and he do end up together, it won’t be the worst thing in the world. Age differences…pah.” She made a dismissive gesture. “They won’t matter for you and him.”

  “Do they for you and Philip? Does four years matter?”

  She gave a wolfish grin. “Philip and I are separated. Officially and unofficially.”

  Oh. What did Caroline mean, separated? Why had they come together if they were separated?

  She wagged a finger at me. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  “What? I was not.”

  “I’m teasing. Anyway, do you happen to have alcohol?”

  “No.”

  Caroline bit her lip. “Just as well. I’ve a splitting headache. Tell me about yourself, Alex. Will you be happy to escape this place?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Philip and I got the grand tour this morning. It was…interesting. Is life here fun?”

  “It can be.”

  “Have you got yourself a boyfriend?”

  “A boyfriend?”

  “Ah! You do.” Caroline leaned in, the flame of gossip heating her blue eyes. “Who?”

  “No one. Truly.” I had seen clones such as Mary and John fall passionately in love and make fools of themselves. Much of the same happened in the books I read, so I preferred stories of adventure to tales of romance. I hoped that the romance foolishness would never happen to me, although it was possible that I would end up true to the source of my DNA. Queen Victoria passionately loved her husband and loved sex with him.

  “A girlfriend, then?”

  “A girlfriend? What do you mean?”

  A glimmer of devilry in Caroline’s eyes. “A girlfriend. Being with a woman instead of being with a man.”

  I had never heard of such a thing. “Of course not. That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?” She gazed into my eyes. Her lips were full and pink, her blue eyes searching, and I remembered her muscular thighs. The tip of her wet, searching tongue.

  I needed to change the subject. “What will my life be like out there?”

  “At least for the time being, dreadfully dull, I’m a
fraid. Not much different from here, but your cage will be larger.” Her gaze turned shrewd. “Do you wonder why Philip and I were sent as opposed to someone like Albert or the queen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “Some.”

  A small grin. “Not a person of many words, are you? You will not offend me.” She sunk into a chair covered with floral patterns. “Anyhow, fortune tellers and Albert swoonings aside, you scare the crap out of the government, but we can’t leave you behind. If we do, some other person or entity will snap you up. Best you be under our control, but you can’t be seen as too important. Sure, you might marry Albert eventually and become queen, but matters are delicate and must progress gradually. Who better to send than the semi-black sheep of the family? You may be stuck with me and Philip for a long, long time, Alex. Oops. Alexandrina.”

  “Alex is fine.” I could think of many worse things than being stuck with Caroline, Duchess of York, she of the shapely legs and firm buttocks.

  She gave a theatrical sigh. “You won’t meet the queen for a while. As for Albert, he professes to not be interested. He’s a globetrotter. Savvy. Not one for fortune tellers and messages written in the stars. Tell you something, though. He’s smart and curious. He’ll come knocking sooner or later. He likes to drop in unexpectedly.”

  “The queen—”

  “Ah, yes,” Caroline said. “She is afraid you will bypass Albert altogether, claim a stake of the crown and set up your own court somewhere. A rival court.”

  “I would not do that, Caroline.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “In a few years, you might. Who knows?”

  “I know I would not.”

  “People change. Are you sure you don’t have alcohol?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s not a bad sort, the queen. Just old-fashioned and leery. Her fortune tellers say one thing, that you are the woman who will make her son happy. Her brain, though, still has some buying in to do. This clone business, it’s thrown a lot of people in a tizzy.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “You’ll live with me and Philip at Frogmore. We’ll have tremendous times. Good food, good alcohol, good company.”

  A lump developed in my throat, and my chest squeezed. This building was my home, the only home I had known. Some of my clone brethren were restless and high-spirited. Not me. I was content with books and had made my peace with a limited world. True, gazing at the moon and at stars, hung brightly against the night sky, was one of my favorite activities. Only then did I dream of leaving my confines, but Caroline was wrong when she said I might try to seize the crown in a few years.

  “You won’t be expected to do much. Or be wanted to do much, for that matter. A few functions for now. Moderation and moving gradually are the keys.” Caroline heaved herself up and rubbed nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt. “We should get Philip, eh? He’ll have eaten all the biscuits. I’ll nip back to the kitchen and see if I can rustle up some spirits while you and Philip get acquainted.”

  “Certainly.”

  She spritzed freshener into her mouth. She smiled and took my hand into hers. Her breath smelled of vodka and cherries. I loved it. “I’ll try not to be too bad of an influence, Alex.” She winked, revealing a freckle on her eyelid. “But perhaps you need a bad influence?”

  **

  ‘VICTORIA IS LOVELY, JUST LOVELY,’ SAYS DUKE OF YORK

  Wosnia, MARSLAVIA—Philip, Duke of York, had nothing but glowing words to say about the clone of Queen Victoria following the first official meeting between her and members of the royal family.

  “A charming, lovely young lady. Victoria is lovely, just lovely,” the duke said during a press conference after the meeting. “She is an asset to this country, to the world.”

  The duke and his wife, Caroline, Duchess of York, were chosen to be the front end of British representatives congregating in Wosnia. The British government is expected to finalize an agreement this week with The Clone Show for rights to the queen’s clone, who is 18 years old and known as Alexandrina Victoria. Queen Louise, Nicholas, the Duke of Edinburgh, and Albert, the Prince of Wales, are not expected to travel, but Roger Carter, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, is scheduled to meet with Victoria tomorrow morning.

  In London today, Carter took pains to emphasize that Victoria is free and has chosen of her own will to live with the duke and his wife for the time being.

  “This young woman shares the same DNA as one of our greatest monarchs,” Carter said gravely, “but she is yet little more than a girl new to the ways of the world. Our government has every confidence in the duke and duchess.”

  The royal couple separated last year after four years of marriage but continue to live at the same residence and often carry out royal duties together. It is thought that they have not divorced because Queen Louise hopes they will work out their differences.

  In other news from the press conference, the duke said that Victoria will give a speech in two days at the Ajila Private Airfield before she leaves Marslavia. He also said that she should undertake a couple of public duties this month with the Duchess of York.

  Meanwhile, Queen Louise joined in on the welcome-home events. In what was seen by some royal watchers as a move to dispel rumors of a schism, a statement from Buckingham Palace announced that the queen will bestow the title of Her Royal Highness, the Countess of Lancaster, upon Victoria. It will go into effect once she leaves Marslavia. Meanwhile, sources close to the palace confirm that Victoria is not in line for the throne and has no claim to the queen’s seat.

  “Her Majesty is relieved that young Alexandrina Victoria is coming home,” the statement from Buckingham Palace said.

  Other royal watchers viewed the queen’s move of titling Victoria as a way to keep the newest royal firmly under control. “As Roger Carter said, she’s little more than a girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing. Let her decide for herself later if she wants to be a HRH,” said Julius Brownlee with the University of Edinburgh.

  Dr. Paul Jones, also with the University of Edinburgh, said, “It’s not titles we need to focus on here. Who’s countess of what? That does not matter. The people have something to look forward to again. The economy is leaking jobs left and right, but the people of Britain have the opportunity to shape history from history, to help a young woman who has been sheltered her entire life. They have the opportunity to usher in a new era.”

  Indeed, Britons continue to greet the news of their newest royal with guarded optimism. Poverty numbers are up, aftereffects remain from the riots last month due to police brutality, but criticism is muted about the $100 million the government spent to secure Victoria’s freedom.

  Said Geraldine Montcastle, a baker in London, “Albert needs someone, and God has sent his darling Victoria back to Earth.”

  Today, oddsmakers put the chances of an engagement between the Prince of Wales and the future Countess of Lancaster in the next three years at 5 to 1.

  III.

  “Give my people plenty of beer, good beer, and cheap beer, and you will have no revolution among them.”

  -Queen Victoria

  I disliked Roger Carter right away when I met him. Fortunately, our contact was limited. Later, when I learned about TV and watched movies, he reminded me of Gaston, a character in the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast. Oversized chest, dark hair in a ponytail, underhanded opinions on females. It was just he and I when we met, and I wished that Caroline could have been there. With her around, he would have behaved better, I’m certain of it. Not that he behaved badly, per se. Gaston is more “in your face.” Roger Carter was subtle. He viewed me as a fragile creature, but if I were a male clone, say, the clone of Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, he’d have treated me as an equal.

  Enough. I refused to dwell on him any more than I had to. It was eleven p.m., my last night in Marslavia. I was using thoughts of Roger Carter to avoid the even more depressing thought that I would
never see my fellow clones again. I had shunned the fostering of great intimacy with any of them—it was just in my nature—but many were fun to be around. We had good times.

  I had decided against a goodbye party, instead preferring to just be gone in the morning. I hoped that no clones would come to see me, but a few did. The last was Bobby (DNA source: Robert E. Lee). He gave me a faint smile, perhaps thinking of our first and only kiss. We were nine years old, and the group of clones was rehearsing a song. Even though we wouldn’t become known to the world until we were a few years older, Russ and John made sure there was plenty of footage of us for DVD sales, pictures and the like. Bobby kissed me on a dare behind the curtains. His breath smelled of garlic.

  “How about that,” Bobby said now, not quite meeting my gaze. His eyes were pretty, soulful, timeless. “You will be gone tomorrow.”

  “Yes. How about that?”

  Our conversation did not continue because Nanny Flossie came in. “Victoria,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I have news. We have a lot to prepare for.”

  **

  Nanny Flossie said I was to read a speech at the airport the next day and pose for pictures. Under no circumstances should I answer questions from the press. By lunchtime the next day, I would be flying high, literally and figuratively. I would be British royalty in blood and in name. Her Royal Highness, the Countess of Lancaster. A far cry from Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India.

  I was happy being plain Alex. I really was.

  “What shall happen to you?” I asked Nanny Flossie.

  “Oh, Victoria,” she said. “Please don’t ask me that.”

  “Surely you won’t be confined to Marslavia like Russ and John are?”

  Nanny Flossie looked away. “I did not know what they had done. I did not know you children were clones until the time you found out. I was simply told to take care of the baby who was to be called Victoria and to not ask questions. I followed orders.”