by Anne Edwards
†Princess Hélène (b. 1871) married the Duke of Aosta in 1895, d. Naples January 20, 1951, daughter of Louis Philippe Albert d’Orléans, Comte de Paris (1838–94). (See footnote, page 57)
‡Lady Sybil St. Clair-Erskine (b. 1871) was the second daughter of the 4th Earl of Rosslyn; married the 13th Earl of Westmorland May 28, 1892; died 1910, leaving two sons and two daughters.
TWO
The next day Princess May wrote her mother: “Reached Aberdeen at 8, red carpet & the station master to meet us, felt rather shy, he took us to the hotel close by where we washed & breakfasted. Miss Cochrane [a member of the Queen’s Household] joined us for breakfast & we left again by the 9:30 train (we kept our saloon carriage for Ballater).”
Princess May and her party were met by a royal carriage for the last leg of the journey, a ten-mile drive to Balmoral. The young woman’s first view of the castle (designed for Queen Victoria by Prince Albert) was breathtaking. Set in the valley of the Dee in Aberdeenshire, and surrounded by the wild mountains of Cairngorms, it emerged in a light, snowy mist with a fanfare of turrets and towers, round and square, and rippling crenellations.
The Queen’s life at Balmoral was deliberately isolated. There were fewer servants than at any of the other Royal residences, and the Queen was attended by the controversial John Brown, a Scotsman who had been with her since Prince Albert’s death. Except for her daughter, Princess Beatrice, and her daughter’s husband, Prince Henry of Battenberg, and their nursery full of children—three boys and a girl all under the age of five—who lived with the Queen, few guests were ever invited. The Castle of Abergeldie, which was several miles along the Dee, was occupied during early autumn by the Prince and Princess of Wales. The Queen’s eldest granddaughter (and Prince Eddy’s eldest sister), Princess Louise, spent the season with her much older husband, the Duke of Fife,* at Mar Lodge, beyond Braemar, a half hour’s ride in good weather. The Queen remained at Balmoral from August until late November, relishing and protecting her privacy, making it difficult for her Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury,† whom she was obliged to see, to manage an audience. Since she passionately disliked the Liberal Party leader who had fought long and hard for Home Rule for Ireland, she was not terribly concerned about his comfort.
The proud, imperious old lady who would rule England longer than any other monarch remained in her heart as sentimental as the young girl she had been at the start of her reign in 1837. She was not an intellectual. She never thought of inviting to her table any of the galaxy of brilliant thinkers and writers who flourished during her reign—Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, Darwin, Livingstone, Thackeray, Dickens, Trollope, Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, and Robert Louis Stevenson, to name a few.
Still, the Queen was a fiery English patriot and in English politics a fierce partisan. She was indefatigably industrious and carried a unique authority to her judgement, which perhaps only Elizabeth I, and then in her later years, possessed. The Oxford movement, the socialist movement, the rationalist movement, and the feminist movement were all abhorrent to her plain and steadfast Conservatism. Yet, her Teutonic simplicity, her maternal qualities, her capacity for entering into the common griefs and joys of her ordinary subjects evoked the people’s loyalty. Her Court (unlike that of her son, the Prince of Wales) was dull. So far as the public knew, no personal profligacy or scandal touched it. Ironically, the Prince of Wales’s excesses and the censurable behaviour of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale brought her the esteem of the nation for her majestic forebearance.
The Queen possessed a strong mind and a stubborn nature. Her loyal servant, John Brown, might have been a bone of contention with her Cabinet, but she refused to dismiss him. Balmoral was a most difficult and far-removed location from which to rule a nation that in turn ruled about one-quarter of the world, but she still came there five months of the year to refresh the memories of her beloved Albert. A disgruntled Gladstone came as well, and her dispatch boxes containing all new matters of state business arrived. She often sat up late in the night to go through their contents to make up for the lost time of the long journey they must make back to London. She ruled her family with dedication and unswerving attention, and overlooked their faults with the same devoted blindness that kept her from seeing the faults of her nation.
As Princess May stepped down from the carriage before the front door of Balmoral, she could well have considered the importance of her visit for the Queen to have interrupted her much cherished privacy. Scotland was bitterly cold in November and the Queen would move shortly to Windsor, which would have made a meeting much easier. Quite obviously the woman Princess May called Aunt Queen felt their discussion could not be delayed.
None of what was happening came as a complete surprise to Princess May. There had been “rumblings” that had reached her ears. Her name had been linked with Prince Eddy’s. They had seen each other once, recently, at a large family gathering, but her cousin had been almost unaware of her presence. At the time she had been concerned that she had not tried sufficiently hard to draw him out. Conversation of the purely social kind had never been easy for her, partly because her mother’s loquaciousness gave her little opportunity to slip in a word, and partly because she was not one for small talk.
The next ten days were to be a “test,” and she held up admirably in face of it. She possessed a great sense of the special circumstances of being born a royal personage, understanding that this gave her certain privileges, yet she was conscious that it also carried with it the weight of dedication and duty. Sir Francis Knollys need not have worried. No matter what Princess May’s personal feelings about Prince Eddy (and she entertained no romantic thoughts about her Wales cousin as had Princess Hélène), if Queen Victoria decided she should marry the Duke of Clarence, Princess May would do so.
The visit to Balmoral then was a call to duty, and Princess May entered the great house with majesty, her brother a few steps, almost deferentially, behind her. Outside, the beautiful pale-coloured stone of the façade had given the castle a softness, but the interior was formidably dark and dismal, Prince Albert’s heavy Germanic tastes dominating everything. Woodwork and panelling were painted a murky amber. Rugs were a deep green tartan, as were many of the upholstery fabrics and the window drapes. There was a masculine odour in the hall, “a smell of wood fire, stags’ heads [three of them shot by Prince Albert], rugs and leather ...”
Upon her arrival at noon, Princess May was met by stout, fluttery Princess Beatrice, who, despite her matronly appearance, was at thirty-four the youngest of the Queen’s nine children. A nervous woman of good nature, Princess Beatrice often functioned as secretary-companion to her mother, and the relationship between them bore some similarity to that of Princess May and the Duchess of Teck. Princess May had last seen Princess Beatrice and the Queen in the Spring of 1889 at the funeral of her grandmother (the ninety-one-year-old Duchess of Cambridge).* A short time later she was escorted through the winding corridors for her first audience at Balmoral with the Queen.
Upon being presented to Queen Victoria when she had been a small child, Princess May had burst into tears from fear. Through the years she had visited Windsor Castle quite often with her mother. The Queen had always enjoyed the company of children and, though she had numerous grandchildren of her own, frequently entertained the small Royal cousins. The quiet, serious Princess May had made a good impression.
Recollections of her previous royal visits were mainly as a child, and then always in the company of her Wales cousins or her brothers. Never alone. After tea, at which—according to one of the Queen’s grandchildren—“the children would squabble over a particular curly biscuit amongst all other biscuits,” they could go to Grandmama’s or Aunt Queen’s (whichever the case might have been) room to play while she sat writing at a diminutive table. As in Balmoral and all of the Queen’s homes, the Queen’s boudoir was crowded with commemorative statuettes, miniatures, gold lockets containing strands of hair, and letter weights o
f bronze and marble hands modelled after death, for the Queen liked to surround herself with countless memorials to her beloved dead.
Princess May’s tremendous awe towards her Aunt Queen continued throughout her childhood. “Mind you curtsy at the door,” the children’s nanny would admonish before they were allowed to enter. “Kiss Aunt Queen’s hand, and don’t make a noise, and mind you are good.”
Now, in the cluttered sitting room at Balmoral with its clashing tartans and heavy furniture, she kissed her Aunt Queen’s chubby hand and was rewarded with a fond, maternal smile.
Despite certain criticisms from her advisors, the Queen refused to abandon her mourning attire. Such a mark of respect to the dear departed was de rigeur at that time. But Albert, the Prince Consort, had been dead thirty years. The Queen was dressed as usual in black silk, with a very full skirt, the bodice buttoned down the front, and a square décolletage which was filled in with a dainty chemisette of white lisse (similar to tulle). The sleeves were wide, reaching to just below the elbow, and to them were attached full sleeves of white lisse—much like those of a bishop—fastened at the wrists with small buttons and loops. On her feet she wore flat-heeled silk-satin sandals with ribbons crossed over the instep. Her black stockings, the soles of which were white, were of the finest silk.
Over her wispy grey hair, which was caught back in a tiny bun, she wore a crisp, tulle cap with streamers.* When she withdrew her hand, her bracelets—which were gold chains hung with a jumble of lockets containing strands of hair from her children and grandchildren—jangled. About her neck was a larger gold locket holding miniatures of two of her children. The Queen was at least seven inches shorter than Princess May, and, though not as fat as Princess Mary Adelaide, a considerable woman with several chins. At seventy-two years of age, her posture was as correct as that of the young woman whom she faced, and her eyes were quick to take in every detail of her visitor’s appearance. Princess May regarded her Aunt Queen with no less awe than she had had for her as a child. She managed a few comments on her journey and then was relieved when, after a few minutes, lunch was announced. Dolly was seated to the left and she to the right of the Queen at the round mahogany table in the dining room. Stationed behind them, ready to serve the Queen, were two of her famous Indian servants in their crimson costumes and winding turbans. A rare glint of winter sun shone through the huge arched windows of the otherwise dark wood-panelled room.
To Princess May’s surprise (and moderate disapproval), the Battenbergs’ two eldest children, Prince Alexander and Princess Ena, five and four years old respectively, joined the luncheon group, little Ena, her long blond hair held back by a starched bow, perched on two pillows to reach the table.
“Your dear children arrived safely after 12, looking very well,” the Queen telegraphed to Princess Mary Adelaide. “Fine day. Very pleased to see them here.”
In answer to which the Duchess of Teck wrote her daughter: “Most dear & kind & thoughtful of her! I feel sure you are already quite sous son charme & becoming very devoted to ‘Aunt Queen.’ ”
Balmoral was a mystical experience for Princess May. In early morning the winter hoarfrost was so thick one could not see beyond the great arched windows. By noon visibility returned, but Balmoral remained a world unto itself since the castle was so isolated.
Never before had Princess May been in daily contact with monarchial power. The Queen’s unrelenting majesty greatly impressed her. Upon hearing the rustle of her voluminous black silk skirts in the dim corridors of the castle, footmen and maids instantly drew to attention. Not even with Princess Beatrice did the Queen abandon Royal protocol; only with the children did she relax her stiff household laws.
Despite her age and weight, and in the face of the bracing and often bitter Scottish weather, the Queen went out daily. The satin slippers would be replaced by sturdy boots, her black silk dress hidden beneath heavy woollen outer garments. Snow fell during much of Princess May’s stay at Balmoral. Nonetheless, she accompanied the Queen on her daily outings, often walking long distances around the grounds where every turn of a path brought one face to face with a statue, erect or recumbent; an inscribed granite drinking fountain; or a seat dedicated to the memory of a relation or a faithful retainer, or even a pet dog. During these country walks, the Queen came to know Princess May a grown woman, and Princess May came to understand the heavy duties, the total dedication that were required of a monarch. The Queen was surprised by Princess May’s maturity, her superior intelligence, and—most of all—her intuitive grasp of situations. Educated far better than her Wales cousins, including Prince Eddy, Princess May was also fluent in French and German, the latter ability—because it recalled Albert’s Teutonic cadences—greatly pleasing to the Queen.
By the time Princess May left Balmoral, the Queen’s tacit approval to the plan for her and Prince Eddy to marry was certain. In fact, on November 18, just a few days after Princess May’s departure, the Queen wrote the Empress Frederick: “You speak of May Teck. I think & hope that Eddy will try & marry her for I think she is a superior girl. Quiet & reserved till you know her well, but she is the reverse of oberflächlich. She has no frivolous tastes, has been very carefully brought up & is well informed & always occupied.”
Princess Mary Adelaide had never had too many loyal admirers in the Royal circle. Members of the aristocracy were sometimes as critical. One of these Court detractors was Lady Geraldine Somerset (“Podge’s” mother),* a woman of violent temper and great charm in combination. On her part, Princess Mary Adelaide had always admired Lady Geraldine’s ability to speak French, Italian, and German correctly and fluently, and to write in a fine hand. In fact, Lady Geraldine had been a model for the kind of daughter Princess Mary Adelaide wanted to bring up. Neither mother nor daughter ever realised what a false friend Lady Geraldine was, and yet, in a curious way, Princess May might well have owed her education to her.
The day of Princess May’s return from Balmoral, the Teck family, all except Princess May, called upon Lady Geraldine. After they had departed, Lady Geraldine recorded in her Journal, “Presently the rest of the party came P[rincess] M[ary Adelaide], P[rince] T[eck] and Dolly just returned (this morning only) from Balmoral!—Evidentally that is to be!!! P[rincess] M[ary Adelaide] informed me ‘the Queen has fallen in love with my children! specially May!!!’ She thinks her ... so amusing (the very last thing in the world I should say she is!!!) ... The Duke talking of May’s prospects!! enchanted at them!!”
The betrothal was almost certain when the Prince of Wales wrote to his mother, the Queen: “You may, I think, make your mind quite easy about Eddy—& that he has made up his mind to propose to May but we thought it best ‘de pas brusque les choses’ & as she is coming to us with her Parents after Xmas to Sandringham everything will I am sure be satisfactorily settled then.”
The day this was written, however, the plans were suddenly changed. The Wales family decided not to wait until Christmas. Princess May was that day leaving for a visit to Luton Hoo, the Bedfordshire home of the Tecks’ good friends, Mr. Christian de Falbe, the Danish Minister at the Court of St. James, and his rich English wife, Eleanor; and, since the Princess of Wales was Danish, their home was the ideal place for the two young people to come together and for Prince Eddy, if so inclined, to propose.
The young man whom Princess May knew could soon be her husband and about whom she had heard the most terrible of rumours looked thin and stiff, somewhat like a tailor’s dummy in his clothes. His brown wavy hair had already begun to recede, and his fair moustache was so heavily waxed and so sharply turned up at the ends that it looked artificial. Though oddly doe-shaped, his eyes were a soft brown and his profile aquiline. He was, indeed, awkward in appearance, a fact emphasised more by his astonishingly long neck, the high white starched collar he still insisted upon wearing, his almost simian arms cuffed at his knobby wrists, and his stiff gait caused by gout—a most unusual complaint for one so young. Despite these distractions, his slow, languid mann
er and the way he had of smiling slyly and glancing out of the sides of his eyes gave Prince Eddy a sensual quality. Yet it is hard to imagine that Princess May, who had found him disagreeable as a child, could suddenly have fallen in love with him, dismissing all gossip, his far inferior mind, immaturity, and strangeness.
The sun was shining when on December 2, 1891, Princess May left for Luton Hoo in a large party of over twenty invited guests which included Prince Eddy and Lord Arthur Somerset—the same infamous “Podge” who had been involved in the Cleveland Street scandal. Two years had passed since “Podge” had gone abroad to avoid prosecution, and he had only recently returned and reestablished his close association with Prince Eddy. The conversation while en route centered on the recently published and heatedly discussed The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Prince Eddy had not read it, unlike “Podge,” who described its shocking contents in colourful detail.
Luton Hoo was a luxurious country house and the de Falbes were superb hosts. Little free time was afforded their guests. During the day they played tennis, went boating on the estate’s small, gemlike lake, took drives through the surrounding woods, visited the church in the neighbouring town of Hatfield, and did some shooting. The Danish minister and his wife loved tropical plants, and card games of whist, halma, and bezique were played in the conservatory (a large glass-domed room filled with potted palms, exotic climbing plants, camellias, begonias, sweet geraniums spilling out of wicker wheelbarrows, and brilliantly feathered birds flapping about in ornate cages). The one difficulty about all this tropical splendour was that, as Princess May had written on a previous visit, “... the heat was so terrific that we nearly all died of it, it was like being shut up in a hot house.”
Thursday, December 3, the day following her arrival at Luton Hoo, Princess May lunched with the shooting party (including Prince Eddy) and took a walk with them in the afternoon through the thick, dark woods behind the estate. The sport of shooting had always distressed her, and the constant report of the guns and the sight of the day’s bag, bloodied feathered creatures piled high, left her feeling depressed. Her spirits were, however, lifted that evening, for the de Falbes were the patrons of a county ball held in their gaily decorated ballroom. Princess May loved dancing, and she dressed for the gala affair with great relish in a mauve-and-deep-rose, lavishly beaded ball gown, one of her mother’s most extravagant purchases, which had shocked the more conservative members of her circle (“... over 40 pounds for one gown! most probably torn to shreds the very first night she wears it!—it is monstrous!” the capricious Lady Geraldine Somerset commented).
