As the weeks went by Rose grew tiresome, pacing the creaking oak floorboards she had formerly tried so hard to evade. The clothes and shoes she had previously admired she knew to be shallow, a petty bribe to make her attentive to their views. Through constant scolding, Rose begrudgingly reformed her cockney accent to a more refined upper-class drawl. She recognised nothing of herself and while her captors were ecstatic with their accomplishments, Rose privately mourned for her former self, the Rose Taylor who struggled through life, selling flowers for food, the Rose Taylor who would have hated this spoilt, facile sham of a girl!
Rose had long understood that the indulgence her hosts had shown her would need repayment, though Rose, having been brought up in Whitechapel thought it would be a rather more sleazy affair. Yet, she could not, would not comprehend what she was expected to do. However, as her guard pulled the woollen mask from his face she felt a strange admiration for the dark-haired fiend who dared to do what most would never think of, a man who dared to dream of change, who dared to challenge the very foundation of British society. He wished to rule the world and Rose knew that he alone could tread where so many before him had failed. But he needed Rose; he needed dear, sweet simple Rose with her new found elegance and shiny shoes to replace the queen of England.
“You want me to do what?” Rose shrieked across the dusty mahogany table, outraged that she should be in a position to be forced to commit such blatant treason, that she should be forced to betray the revered Queen Victoria and not bat an eyelid. And she pondered what should happen to her when his sordid scheme inevitably failed, would anyone even care? Certainly not this impertinent young man sat so arrogantly on his plush, dining room chair. Rose knew she was just a pawn in his cut-throat game of chess and she resented how expendable she was.
“Rose, calm yourself, it is not ladylike for you to be so...” he paused, searching for an appropriate word which would not anger her more “...flustered. You must compose yourself immediately or I shall be forced to have you removed from the table. It is hardly like I am asking for the moon, I merely wish for you to repay my kindness, all I want is for you is to sit on a throne and be Queen. After all doesn’t every little girl wish to be a princess?” A piece of chestnut hair fell over his piercing green eyes, melting Rose’s heart like the truffles sitting in the ostentatious box before her.
“And pray tell me this:” Rose stuttered, trying and failing to emulate the confident tone of her mystifying captor. “Tell me why I should trust a man I know so little about, I do not even recall you even telling me your name!”
He coughed, regretting deeply that he had found a girl so headstrong, he was not prepared to bring himself into whole situation. He knew anonymity was vital to the plan but so was Rose; surely she could know a little about him. So, for a longer pause than was strictly suitable he spoke. “Technically, I was born the honourable Master James Ford, due to take my father’s title when he died but unfortunately I was involved in some particularly unpleasant business. It seems that when I was tried, no-one quite dared to punish me so I was stripped of everything: my title, my assets, everything- except this place,” he spread his arms wide, gesturing around at his portentous surroundings, “Don’t be fooled,” he advised “this place is falling apart. Surely you noticed the leak in your room?”
Overwhelmed with compassion, Rose felt compelled to lie- she had indeed noticed the drip coming from the antique ceiling yet she refused to be distracted from the topic at hand.
“You mean I am to be sacrificed?”
James snorted, “Well, when you state anything quite so bluntly anything could sound vulgar but rest assured Rose, I do not plan for anyone to die, certainly not you. So please, for both our sakes, do refrain from being so melodramatic. Now Wednesday night her highness will hold her annual masquerade: the perfect opportunity for you to slip in- though the guest list is very exclusive, few know the queen personally, it is not of my belief that you will be noticed. Charlotte, your maid, is in London now collecting your dress.”
“Bu...” Rose started to speak.
“No.” James stopped Rose abruptly, “There is nothing more you can do, unless of course your prerogative is to be hung for treason.” He raised an eyebrow, “Well, do you?”
“No James.” Rose hung her head; she saw no obvious way to escape her fate.
“Then I suggest you return to your bedroom.”
Rose turned to leave, heading for the heavy oak door and determined to escape by starlight but still James insisted on talking.
“And I feel I should warn you Rose, the doors will be guarded tonight, just as a precaution- nothing to worry about.”
And so it was settled, with no chance to flee Rose allowed herself to be bustled into a carriage, patiently waiting to arrive in London. Though with James, Rose wondered if even a Saint could be patient with James. He had convinced himself that Rose would be wearing the crown by morning; nonetheless she could not share his blind optimism, or ignorance. Rose feared for her life, his usual clinical manor gave Rose hope; the thought that with his disregard for emotion, mistakes would not be made was comforting. In his current disposition he was unpredictable, anything could happen and that thought frightened Rose very much more than what she was about to face.
That night Rose was smuggled up to the Queen’s chamber, unaware that within an hour she would be a murderess, because without doubt, she would take a life.
The Queen soon returned to her bedroom, tired and weary. Instinctively the guard waited outside; sure that no-one could possibly be so stupid as to wait in the room of the most heavily protect woman in the world. James had predicted the guards move ahead of time and through the thick walls only murmurs (which could be attributed to the party downstairs) were heard and as James held a glimmering knife to her throat it was obvious she would not scream.
As soon as Sally was safely through the door James dropped the knife, awed at the power of life and death that had burned his hand and his soul, kneeling he looked up to see he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
“My dear,” the queen spoke, a voice so sure of itself, so steeped in an ancient history, still even she could not warrant killing an unarmed man, “Do you really believe that after four attempts on my life I am unprepared?” And with that a voracious bullet sped at James’ heart.
Immediately after, the queen returned to the party, dismayed to find that no guard was waiting outside the door, she was arrested as an impostor- though there was a rumour that she was eventually given a royal pardon. No-one involved could be quite sure who ruled England after that date, though it is said that the queen developed haemophilia, a rare blood disorder. Dubbed the royal disease by the media at the time neither her mother nor father suffered it and no one is quite sure how she contracted it. Still, only as the reporter of this woeful tale I will leave you to make your own conclusions.
