I, Alexandrina Read online

  “Isn’t Victoria marrying Albert?”

  Madame Ural had opened her eyes as well. “Yes,” she said, frowning. “However, I can only tell you what I see.”

  I felt unsettled. The clone Victoria, in her photos and videos and with these big yearning eyes, had affected me right away. But me fall in love with her and marry her? It was ludicrous. At the same time, a smart scam artist would come up with a scenario such as me marrying a generic man in a few years. A tall, dark, handsome stranger. By pairing me with Victoria, maybe Madame Ural was using reverse psychology.

  The thoughts made my brain hurt.

  “I hope Queen Louise is not paying you a lot of money,” I said.

  “I get that a lot,” Madame Ural said. “People often leave unhappy, but I am honest—and very often right.”

  I rose from my seat and extended my hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  II.

  I don't dislike babies, though I think very young ones rather disgusting.

  -Queen Victoria

  On the plane to Marslavia, I waded deep into pools of vodka. Madame Ural had affected me more than I cared to admit. That damn woman! Why did I agree to go with Queen Louise to a fortune teller?

  You are very much in love with her. It was this phrase that bothered me. After my experiences with Philip, I wondered if I had ever known the meaning of love. I was scared to feel again, much less to feel love again. What if I made more awful mistakes, made a fool of myself? Here Madame Ural was, telling me that I was to fall in love with a woman who was destined to marry my brother-in-law and become queen of England. Far from ideal. Yet, the point that I had been told matter of factly that I would be in love again gave me some kind of…not calm. Not peace. Just, some kind of something. I would love again; Madame Ural had gotten in a bit of an identity and gender twist was all.

  And what had I told Queen Louise after I left the good madam? “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know if what she says is credible. I’m sorry.”

  Yes, Louise had not liked that.

  At least of Louise and me, one of us had begun to accept “fate.” With the passage of a few more months and another visit to Madame Ural that foretold a birth, Louise’s first grandchild, a lovely little girl, Albert and Victoria’s daughter, Caroline Alexandrina Elizabeth Louise, a future queen, she mellowed a bit.

  I would give Madame Ural one thing. She had a knack for specificity when it suited her. What a name! Like any royal child would share my moniker.

  It was true, though, that Albert marrying Victoria would solve a lot of problems. Louise realized it too. You see, out of this clone mess, the sole royal who remained good and clean and pure in the eyes of the populace was Albert. His mother and father were tainted because it was partly on their planning that a clone was being brought to Britain for the ungodly sum of $100 million. Philip and I were tainted because we were the ones set to care for the new princess. That in itself expressed our approval for the process. We had released statements saying that it was our duty to follow the sovereign’s wishes and that we were honored with the responsibility.

  Albert, though? Nothing in his life changed. He continued flashing his winsome smile, and female hearts (and many male hearts) swooned. He was not attacked in the media and raked over the coals. He did not have to make hard decisions or take firm stances. Even as the ever-growing, romantically inclined portion of the population explored the extraordinary coincidence of another Albert and Victoria living at the same time, Albert chuckled and laughed it off as a fluke.

  It was the solution, though. It had to be. Albert, Britain’s golden boy, marrying Victoria. It would make both camps, pro-Victoria and anti-Victoria, happy. The pro-Victoria group would see their cherished Victoria on the throne again one day. Her offspring, too, would be part of Albert’s line. No threat of Victoria’s children claiming a stake of the crown for themselves, which would reassure Louise. The anti-Victoria group would likely be irritated at first by the engagement, but Albert had this way of talking to people. He knew how to win people over. Literally everyone loved him. If he said he wanted to marry Victoria, that she was a good person and that he loved her, all of Britain would trust him.

  The task would be difficult. Albert was not interested; I did not have to talk about it with him to know that much. He put even less stock in his mother’s fortune tellers than I did. Louise still did not want Victoria in the picture. She worried about rival courts, about Victoria getting some sort of “mad clone” disease and imploding or exploding, something like that. And me? I did not want to see it happen. A very young woman, an older man, a playboy bachelor. It could not be a marriage of love, but most marriages failed at such anyway, especially after the first two years.

  Albert was kind, if lazy. He and Victoria would work out something mutually satisfying. They would find their path to happiness, and perhaps I would find a path of my own one day.

  What twisted lives the royals lead!

  Remember, these were my thoughts while swimming in vodka. After I sobered up, I had second thoughts but came to the conclusion that marriage between Victoria and Albert was, indeed, the best possible outcome. I finally admitted that a part of me, deep down inside my heart, liked to believe in the concept of soulmates. Yes, it would be romantic beyond words if this Albert and Victoria found love with each other. Improbable but romantic.

  **

  A tiny problem occurred with my secret yearning for soulmates to find each other, and that problem was called Alexandrina Victoria.

  For the first time, Philip and I met with Victoria, who said for us to call her Alexandrina. She captured my affections immediately, and I knew that I must keep her at an emotional distance. She was too needy, vulnerable and young. Too sweet. She had no agenda. No jadedness. I could not let her find a place in my heart. And, if I were a good woman, I would not push her toward Albert, who would break her heart. However, my goodness was very much in doubt.

  She cut a tiny figure as she curtsied, as we shook hands for the first time, her shoulders trembling as she struggled to stay poised. She tried hard to please me by accepting my offer of a drink. She gazed at me, gratitude in her eyes, a little something else in there too, and her breasts rose and fell with her breaths. For lack of anything better to do, I studied her face, her rose-colored lips, the eyes the color of cinnamon. She smelled of new life. Of potential. She made me feel old, tired and ugly. I wanted her for myself. She would make me young and happy again. Why should she be with Albert?

  I had sworn not to drink until I was back at the hotel. On the ride to The Clone Show building, I did have a few sips, but that would be it for the next few hours. Alex’s innocence quickly got to me, though, and I had to drink.

  After being with her for a mere few minutes, I knew that my struggles of the past few years such as deciding to stay married to Philip were worth it. Alex was the first person who made me feel like I could be more than myself. Her shy, light-brown eyes. The sensual young woman just waiting to emerge from a plain, sheltered exterior. Her ability to deflect. For example, part of our conversation:

  “You don’t drink, do you?” I asked.

  “A little,” she 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.” I looked her over. The original Victoria had a reputation of being plain. This young woman, too, could be called plain, but I was drawn to her. I found the extraordinary in the ordinary.

  “You’re a pretty girl, Alex,” I said. “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?”

  No response. Just wide, awed eyes. I was used to this look from people who were expecting a stuffy duchess or a tragic princess.

  “Louise, bless her heart,” I said, “loves her fortune tellers, and she takes what they say very seriously. They say that you and Alb
ert are destined to be together. 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.”

  More processing of information.

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

  Finally, Alex spoke. Was it to ask about Albert? His looks? About where they might get married? No. She asked about me.

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

  She seemed to genuinely want to know. She was not like the typical British woman, losing her head and squealing over Albert.

  **

  Over the next few days, I tested her. I joked with her. I made pointed remarks. I tried to get her drunk. I touched her, and yes, flirted with her. Madame Ural’s prophecies remained in the back of my mind, no matter how hard I tried to argue that they were illogical and wrong. Alex and I bonded, and as much as I tried to stay away from her, I made my fair share of slips.

  I did not talk with her much on the plane back to Marslavia, and after we arrived at Frogmore, I vanished into metaphorical mist. Reports came in. That first night back, Philip took dinner with Alex. Meanwhile, I pored over the documents Queen Louise’s staffer emailed. Security updates. Threat reports. People who had made death threats against Alex were being tracked, but it was the quiet and stealthy people we had to worry about.

  I also talked with Queen Louise.

  “She did not correct the woman who called her ‘Your Majesty,’ ” Louise trilled. “The clone thinks she is queen!”

  “Believe me, she does not. She does not want to be queen. She does not want attention. She is a polite and respectful young woman who is unsure about how to handle herself. That is why I am here. I will guide her.”

  Much later that evening, I invited her to my apartments for a snack. She wore a modest dress wrinkled by hours of sleeping in it. Deep navy blue, inspired by Jackie Onassis. A wide belt, half sleeves, elegant neckline pleats. Alexandrina had beautiful legs. Smooth, rounded knees.

  Yes, I was drawn to her, and she to me. The way she lit up. Her shy giggles. Her quick breaths when I touched her. I had lived for too many years with a cold, disturbing man, and here was this warm, lively, receptive young woman.

  It would be disaster, of course. I could not let anything happen. I had to set her up with Albert soon.

  **

  On to the bathroom at Potsy’s. My body thrummed in sync with the music as I led Alex through the nearly impenetrable crowds. I breathed in the boozy, cigarette-fueled scent of one of my favorite haunts. I had come to Potsy’s for the first time as a nineteen-year-old college student. I had been full of hopes and dreams then. I planned to go into advertising and one day own a large firm. I would solve crises at the blink of an eye. I would win awards left and right.

  Then I met Philip, the man who was too good to be true. The man who married me when I was twenty-one, who loved me and discarded me.

  Being at Potsy’s again made me happy and sad. At the moment, however, my main focus was emptying my bladder. No better place to do it than at Potsy’s. Gorgeous, spacious bathrooms. I led Alex into a mini-suite, sat on the toilet, and let go.

  When I was sober, I was a rather boring person. Alcohol turned me into someone fun, someone I might like to be friends with. I studied Alex as she studied a framed painting on the wall, and pulsations beat in her neck.

  Had she kissed anyone before, man or woman? Fifty youngsters the same age running around, some monkey business was bound to happen. I would have to be gentle in bed. Treat her tenderly, take lovemaking slow. Kiss her everywhere. Make her so wet she had no choice but to give in to her animal nature, to finally, finally stop averting her gaze and—

  Caroline! Stop. You will do no such thing. Lovemaking? Stop it.

  I attempted to imagine Albert taking my place in bed. He could be gentle too, I was sure. But she was not his type, nor was he her type. He liked model-like blondes, and she liked women, from what I could surmise.

  My stream of urine came to a stop, and still Alex stared at the framed painting. “Is the painting that fascinating, Alex?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I wiped and stood. No underwear; I had gone commando. “I make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.” The motion-controlled toilet flushed below me.

  “Don’t be. You are who you are, and I adore you for it,” Alex said.

  A brave statement! Honest, too. Likely alcohol-fuelled. “You adore me? Really?” I stuck my hands under the sink, and water came on, bathing my hands in clean goodness.

  “I adore you. Yes.” Alex stumbled and pressed her palms against the wall to steady herself.

  Oh boy. “Alex, love, you have had too much to drink. My fault. Sorry. No more for you.”

  “Caro? Caroline?”

  “Yes, Alex? I’m here.”

  “How does a woman make another woman pregnant?”

  I blinked. “Say that again, please.”

  Alex did, and I approached her, trying to understand. What did she mean? “A woman doesn’t…a woman can’t…” I had no idea where to start.

  Embarrassment filled her cheeks. “Let’s go,” she said, brushing past me.

  “Wait.” Without thinking, I grabbed hold of her, my breasts pressing into her back. “Alex,” I said, encircling her slim waist with my arms, resting my hands in the hollow of her stomach. Her pulse beat furiously. Her breasts heaved. I stood silent for a minute to give her time to adjust to the feel of me. Meanwhile, heat and more heat collected in my body. In my pussy. I’d not had sex since a last-ditch attempt several years ago to seduce my husband and show him I could be kinky. Now, here Alex was, and here I was.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered into her ear. “I’m sorry if I seemed to…look. A baby is made from a sperm and an egg. Women only have eggs. Men only have sperm.”

  More heavy breaths. A sniffle or two.

  “Alex? Are you okay? You’re breathing hard. Are you crying?”

  “I’m stupid. I’m so stupid. I didn’t know what a TV or a phone was until the plane. I don’t know who Neil Armstrong is!”

  Alex had not known what TV and phones were? Hard to imagine, but it made sense. She lived in Marslavia as if it was the late 1800s, and she had just asked me how a woman could make another woman pregnant.

  Her neck. If I were a vampire craving youth and innocence, I would bite it. Oh, her neck, a ripe peach. A juicy cherry. Her neck, the purest white snow. Her skin, the morsel of it on her neck that I wanted to sample, would taste of salt. It writhed with need and desire. If I said for her to, she would open up for me, bloom for me.

  At this potentially passionate and urgent moment, I found myself frozen. Was I no better than my husband who preyed on girls like Abasa Mehmedovic? Had he so blunted me to human decency that I was preying on Alex while pretending to be her savior? How could I have thought marrying off this sweet soul to the world-wise Albert was a good idea?

  Philip’s sneers: Quit the drinking, Caro. You’ll be queen one day. Act like it.

  My reflection in the mirror after a night of heavy drinking: swollen eyes, pale cheeks, matted hair. Philip tunneling into Abasa Mehmedovic. Abasa waiting for word from me every day at the cafe, word that would never come. I could not do this. I had to save Alex from myself.

  “Alex, love, it’s fine. It really is. Each person has different things to learn.”

  At the base of Alex’s throat, a pulse beat and swelled as if her heart had risen from its usual place. Invisible currents continued to hum between us, alcohol blurring the lines between decency and immorality.

  To hell with it. I fluttered my eyes shut and brought my lips to her neck. The mere light touch of her on my mouth sent my body into overload. “Oh,” I
groaned. “Oh.” Years I had gone without this. How? The feel of her was like honey, making me human. Alive. My skin tingled, and I traced the line of her neck. She moaned and writhed, and then she turned and met my gaze.

  Passion fueled the light in her eyes. What a sexy, sexy woman. What a sexy moment. “I don’t want to marry Albert. I don’t want to be a countess or a princess. I don’t want to be the future queen of England. I want to go to the stars. Do you understand, Caroline? Will you help me?”

  The realization began slowly. A piece here, another piece there, and then a hail of thuds. Things began to make sense. I understood at last why my husband had chosen the dirty and ratty Abasa Mehmedovic when his usual whores were the equivalent of prime rib. I understood how it was possible for Madame Ural’s prophecies to be true.

  It was the way Alex looked at me. The slight cock of her head, the eager desperate need in her gaze. The bangs of the long blond wig falling slightly into her eyes. And, too, my overwhelming drunkenness. I had interacted with Abasa only when I was very drunk. I had seen only grime and years of filth. I had smelled only the rotten smell of a street prostitute. I had given the matter of my husband’s odd selection no further thought. Now I was, and the eyes of Abasa Mehmedovic looked back at me.

  I felt many things in that moment. Lightning-hot anger at my bastard of a husband. Wrath at The Clone Show officials for lying. Excitement for Abasa. But above all, fear. Stomach-clenching, deep swirls of fear because if this was true, if what I was seeing was true, then fortune said I was to fall very much in love with this woman in front of me. I would marry her one day, and the possibility terrified me.

  An excruciating moment. Agonizing tension. “Yes. I will help you,” I said at last, my words coming from a strange new place in my heart. “We need to go home now. Right now. I’m sorry. I am not feeling well.”