I, Alexandrina

I, ALEXANDRINA

Q. Kelly

Copyright 2016 © Q. Kelly

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Blurb

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Credits

Check Out The Girl Prince and Her Princess

Blurb for I, Alexandrina

The year is 2018, and fifty famous people from history were cloned nearly two decades ago to star in a sort of circus show. When the extravaganza folds before it can truly begin, its founders sell rights to the clones. Amid much controversy, the British government picks up the clone called Alexandrina Victoria, a.k.a. Queen Victoria. They designate the current queen’s second son, Philip, Duke of York, and his estranged wife, Caroline, Duchess of York, as stewards of the royal family’s newest addition.

Alexandrina, as Victoria has come to call herself, is instantly attracted to the duchess, who is a much-needed breath of fresh air. As Alex spends more time with the duchess, their feelings deepen into love. Do Caroline and Alex have a future, or could Alex end up with the queen’s dashing elder son, Albert, Prince of Wales, for the match that much of the public is already calling the second coming of Albert and Victoria?

Part One

I, Alexandrina

Today is my eighteenth birthday! How old! And yet how far am I from being what I should be.

–Princess Victoria

My birth on 1 January 2000 began with the birth on 24 May 1819 of a certain Alexandrina Victoria, later queen of many realms. Nanny Flossie said I came into the world an obedient and cooperative girl, patient and slow to cry. However, my first memory is not of her, but of Russ Brendel and John Jameson. While the roots of my life are entwined with Queen Victoria, it was Russ and John who dared perform wicked and dastardly deeds.

It was they who paid undisclosed sums of money to scores of thieves and grave robbers to plunder the resting places of 50 famous people for their DNA. It was Russ and John who announced to a shocked world that they had cloned people from history and were opening a sort of zoo/circus in the former Soviet republic of Marslavia. They urged visitors from all over the globe to pay $2,000 daily for events such as watching the exact DNA replicas of Mary Todd Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth and Abraham Lincoln re-enact Lincoln’s assassination. (Popcorn and soda would cost extra.)

So, this first memory. I expect I was about four years old. The memory is hazy, like the pollution that renders much of Wosnia, the capital city of Marslavia, an ugly brown. I remember a huge looming door opening seemingly on its own. I walked into a whitewashed, robotic room. Two men greeted me. One possessed a wild beard and friendly brown eyes, and the other was nearly hairless. He wore heavy glasses.

Victoria, said the bearded man. I’m Russ, and this is John. Please have a seat.

That is much of what I recall, although at the end of the meeting, Russ sneaked me a biscuit. I also remember that one of the men smelled of strawberries. My next memory is of Nanny Flossie, quite some time later. I was perhaps seven years old. Now, Victoria, she said frowningly, you really must listen to Mr. Burkus when he tells you to study your maths instead of writing stories about going to the stars. I, of course, threw a fit, and Nanny Flossie spanked me so hard I cried.

I was ten years old when I discovered some of the truth about my life. Imagine growing up in an orphanage with forty-nine other children. We had women and a few men who tended to us. No one we called Mother or Father. We knew about these titles in an abstract manner from the books we read. We never really wondered about our own mothers and fathers, though. We were in an orphanage, well taken care of, and that was that. At least to me. Life to me was normal; I knew nothing else.

A woman with a severe gray bun came to meet with me on a fateful day that changed my life. Other women and men had come to meet with the rest of the children. Some of the women had quick smiles and pretty flowing hair. Some of the men laughed easily and heartily, and shook hands warmly. Unfortunately, my visitor was of the severe bun and thin, pinched lips.

Well, she said, peering at me over thin spectacles. Her eyes were a flint gray. I’m Mrs. Rubberstone. I’m from England. She sounded like Nanny Flossie, who too was from England. We clones were supposed to copy our nannies’ accents. As a result, many of us sounded different.

Hello, Mrs. Rubberstone, I said dutifully. I’m Victoria. Pleased to meet you. Nanny Flossie had tutored me in the art of greeting people. The art of manners.

Mrs. Rubberstone narrowed her eyes, her dislike of me evident. I don’t want to be here, she muttered. "I really don’t. This is sorcery!" She craned her neck as if she wanted to get out. To escape. We were in my study room where I did homework and the like. No escape possible, but what Nanny Flossie called magic eyes monitored us from several angles.

Bollocks, Mrs. Rubberstone said finally, and she leaned in. It’s my son, she said in a confidential whisper. His gambling problems. They knew I wouldn’t be able to say no.

Something about her words and the intensity in her eyes sent a thrill up my spine. Something bad, something illicit was going on. What was gambling? Who was they? How fortunate I was that Mrs. Rubberstone was choosing to trust me with a secret!

What is your son’s name? I asked eagerly.

Mrs. Rubberstone’s lip curled. The moment of shared suffering had passed. Never you mind that, she snapped. She brought out a thick book. QUEEN VICTORIA, it said in curling gold letters. It smelled of weighty matters. It also carried my name, and I had never met or known of anyone also named Victoria. The circular photo on the cover showed a dowdy, sour-looking woman. An unhappy woman. I assumed she was Victoria and wondered at the cause of her unhappiness. At the bottom of the cover were the words, By Heather Rubberstone.

Oh, I said, you wrote this book.

Don’t touch it, Mrs. Rubberstone cautioned. But look at the woman here. Does she seem familiar? Do you feel strange inside as you look at her?

I tried. The woman wore a small crown or tiara-type thing on her head, and ribbons adorned her dress. Could she be one of the nannies who no longer worked here, someone who had been here when I was very young?

Well? Mrs. Rubberstone prompted. Anything?

I wanted to please her. She expected something from me, but I abhorred lying. I was trying to determine the best way to balance my competing interests when Mrs. Rubberstone exhaled a heavy sigh. I’m here to teach you about her. About this woman.

Why?

Mrs. Rubberstone massaged her temples. Because you’re her. You’re the second coming of Queen Victoria.

That afternoon, I learned about DNA, about biological mothers and fathers, about biological sons and daughters. I learned about reproduction and cloning. I learned that growing up in orphanages was not normal. I learned that my biological mother and father were named Victoria and Edward, and that they had lived in the 1800s. Some of this Mrs. Rubberstone told me face to face, matter of factly. Some of it, especially the science material, she recited from densely packed pages with incomprehensible illustrations. All the while, Mrs. Rubberstone’s face grew longer and longer.

I learned that when I and the other clones turned sixteen years old, we were expected to put on plays for thousands of people. They would come see us because we were these other people, people like Queen Victoria and Mary Todd Lincoln and Lucrezia Borgia. We had to know everything about the life of our DNA source. We must sound alike, share the same mannerisms, look the same way and so on.

I suppose that shock dulled many of these blows because I do not remember how I felt that day. I only remember the mountains of information and the hard grayness of Mrs. Rubberstone’s eyes.

Tomorrow, Mrs. Rubberstone said at last. We shall meet again. Tonight, read this article on the geography of England. She handed over a staple of pages, the same unflattering photo of Queen Victoria fronting them.

I thought, I do not want to look like that dowdy woman when I grow up! I do not want to!

**

We clones’ sixteenth birthdays came and went. We had labored for weeks, months and years to do what was expected of us. But there would be no plays, not yet, we were told. Later, I realized it was because the world was horrified to find out about us. Russ Brendel and John Jameson had taken a huge gamble, and it backfired. On the Internet, Russ and John posted still photos of us. Videos. They posted clips of Mary, Abe and John re-enacting the assassination. They posted clips of me re-enacting the moment Victoria received the news of her accession to the throne. They posted a lot. (Only in a few years’ time would I learn what the Internet and these other mediums were.) Russ and John went into minute detail about DNA matching, DNA profiles. They wanted there to be no doubt. They allowed men and women dressed in white to visit us and poke needles into us, to swab our cheeks. They talked about how criminals crept into graves and stole DNA.

On our seventeenth birthdays, Russ and John, both grim-faced, addressed us. We will open next month, they said. You must be strong. You must be tough. People say you are blights on God’s creation, that you are monsters. You are not. You are our children. Russ’s face softened. "Do you understand? You are our children. We gave you life. We are your fathers."

I was not sure I understood.

That evening, as I readied for the bedchamber, Nanny Flossie reassured me that I was no blight on God’s creation. God knows you, Victoria, she said. Your sweetness, your goodness, your obedience. So do the people of Britain. They want to meet you.

Why have they waited so long to come, then?

In the next few minutes, Nanny Flossie was uncharacteristically open. Maybe she felt sorry for me, or she realized that we had entered the beginning of the end and that a slight shift in loyalties was called for.

Many reasons, Nanny Flossie said. "Many reasons. I shall be honest. Yes, the clones in general are seen as blights. But not you, Victoria. Britain does love