The Queen of England: Coronation

Chapter 1

London, England

June 1840

"And who exactly are you supposed to be, the Queen of England?" The tone, a patrician blend of haughty and distantly respectful wasn't at all dissimilar to the many other voices I'd heard in the past few weeks. The query was intended to not only question my existence, but also my right to the throne. I knew Victoria; God rest her and Albert's poor souls, most likely did not have work against such a lack of politeness.

"Yes. And Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, if we're being specific. Actually, if you include the rest of the various colonies and protectorates, my domain is quite extensive," I answered, then nodded my head in what I hoped was a regal manner and moved on, not particularly caring whether or not I left another open-mouthed subject in my wake.

Of course, there was always a remote chance he truly did not know who I was. Therefore, the gentleman was not ultimately at fault for his query. My reign as Queen was barely a month old. My kingdom was still reeling from the deaths of our monarch and Prince Consort, along with a significant percentage of the peerage and senior leadership. After the shock of the May Massacre had worn off, in one of my first acts as regent, I had formally established a year of mourning for the United Kingdom – ushering in a trend of blacks, grays and somber colors in the world of fashion. I knew these colors would not bring back anyone from the realm of death, but I thought it was appropriate as a nation that we bore our memory in unison.

I was born Her Grace, Juliette Rosamund Collingwood, seventh Duchess of Battle, suo jore, with a direct line back to the time of the Magna Carta. The title of queen regnant was only recently bestowed upon my person. Approximately two weeks and two days after I turned eighteen, the royal family and many other prestigious members of the realm were invited to test out the latest in airship technology. As a mere debutante only recently formally introduced to society, I barely made the invitation list. At the last minute, I claimed feminine issues and stayed home. The reality was I wanted some time alone to work on my experiments – a most un-royal and un-feminine activity and furthermore, I already had a private tour of the new conveyance and saw no reason to get dressed up and spend the day not being allowed to speak with the aether mechanics.

Over the Thames, on an unseasonably warm day in May, the dirigible exploded in a horrible rain of flame and debris. Newspapers and telegraphs around the world ran with news of the May Monarchy Massacre. When it became apparent there were no survivors, after the wreckage was cleared, and important men got together, the unanimous decision left me next in line for the throne – a title and station I never expected and had no idea what to do with. I did hear rumors of the monarchy being abandoned altogether, but those were quickly shut down by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the newly minted Lord Chamberlain, who showed up at my townhouse the morning following the tragedy.

Trust me, I was never meant to be this person.

So, why me? Why not some elder (more responsible) of appropriate Hanoverian descendent?

My journey to the throne is unprecedented in British history. Yes, our monarchy has been filled with scandal and plotting and a murder here and there, but individuals tend to know whether or not they will have a chance as being even remotely destined for the throne. And, as with anything royal in the United Kingdom, everyone seemed to have an opinion. I could share a rather detailed history and family tree, but suffice to say, after reviewing all the documentation, I am the correct individual to have such a prestigious title thrust upon them. Naturally, there are those who disagree most thoroughly. Although never spoken of in polite company, I am the product of a most unseemly, but still recognized union. My mother, Lady Rosamund, was the only daughter of the aforementioned family of irrefutable descent. She fell in love with my father, Peter Collingwood, owner and found of the exceedingly successful Malay Maritime Trading Company, a man who made his considerable wealth in a most unsuitable way – through trade. Their marriage shocked many, but stood firm .