Matriarch

by Anne Edwards

  In May 1923, Princess Nicholas of Greece (the daughter-in-law of Queen Alexandra’s brother, George I of Greece) was a guest at Windsor with her daughter, Princess Marina, one of the few remaining princesses who would qualify as a bride for the Prince of Wales. Princess Marina was extraordinarily striking; dark hair and eyes and marvellous fair skin, a lithe figure, and naturally elegant taste. She was also young (seventeen at the time), intelligent, and charming. David had returned from his eight-month tour and resumed his relationship with Freda Dudley Ward. Queen Mary arranged that he meet Princess Marina. The Prince of Wales could not have been less impressed. Prince George, however, was quite taken with the lovely Princess Marina, who departed with her mother before anything could come of it. For weeks, Georgie, only twenty-one at the time, was inconsolable, and Queen Mary was never again to attempt to play matchmaker in her son David’s life.

  Footnotes

  *The Prince of Wales, Prince Albert, Princess Mary, and Prince Henry. Prince George was sixteen in 1920.

  †Emily Alcock, a friend of Queen Mary’s since their meeting in Vienna in 1884.

  *Viscount Lascelles (1882–1947) succeeded as 6th Earl of Harewood, 1929.

  *Frances Stevenson (1888–1972) became Lady Frances Lloyd-George upon her marriage to Lloyd George after the death of his first wife, Margaret.

  *Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (b. 1900–). Fourth daughter and ninth child of the 14th Earl of Strathmore. She became Queen Consort in 1936 on the Duke of York’s accession to the Throne, and since his death in February 1952 has been known as Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.

  *Andrew Bonar Law (1858–1923).

  †Stanley Baldwin, 1st Earl of Baldwin Bewdley (1867–1947).

  ‡Lady Bertha Dawkins.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Of his four surviving sons, only Bertie had the basic qualities of character the King respected: sticktoedness and a strong sense of duty. David remained an insoluble enigma to him. Harry’s frequent illness had separated rather than drawn father and son together. Georgie’s interests in aviation and the social scene were of little consequence to the King. Nonetheless, the King treated Bertie in a tutorial manner that never gave credit to his years. In truth, though Bertie had suffered many physical vicissitudes and had seen active duty, his emotional maturity was far behind that of other young men of his age. Not as smooth-faced as David and considerably more masculine in physique; still, an air of pubescence marked his personality.

  On June 5, 1920, King George had created Bertie Duke of York, Earl of Inverness, and Baron Killarney. “I must write and thank you again ever so very much for having made me Duke of York,” Bertie had written to his father. “I am very proud to bear the name that you did for many years, and I hope I shall live up to it in every way.”

  The King had replied:

  Dearest Bertie,

  I was delighted to get your letter this morning, & to know that you appreciate that I have given you that fine old title of Duke of York which I bore for more than 9 years & is the oldest Dukedom in this country. I know that you have behaved very well in a difficult situation for a young man & that you have done what I asked you to do. I feel that this splendid old title will be safe in your hands & that you will never do anything which could tarnish it. I hope you will always look upon me as yr. best friend & always tell me everything & you will find me ever ready to help you & give you good advice.

  Ever my dear boy.

  Yr. very devoted Papa

  GRI

  This approving letter notwithstanding, King George was not a father easy to please, and Bertie’s attempts to do so frequently failed and sent him into a state of melancholia. Those close to him were alarmed at these times at how much whisky he drank. His stuttering was worse than ever. In view of these obstacles and his painful shyness, his pursuit of Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon was a stressful affair.

  With Mary married, David so often abroad and living at York House when he was not, Harry in the Army, and Georgie at sea, it was Bertie who had to spend the most time at home with his parents. His mother’s aloofness and his father’s stern criticisms were not easy to endure. He had been his father’s representative in October 1922 at the coronation of King Ferdinand and Queen Marie of Rumania. For reasons not altogether clear, the King was not wholly appreciative of Bertie’s diplomatic achievements, even though Lord Stamfordham, who had accompanied him, spoke with high praise of his actions. Bertie fell into an acute state of depression, and his drinking intensified. Lord Stamfordham, much concerned and feeling empathy for the Duke of York, wrote a letter to Queen Mary with the hope that her understanding might somehow redress the balance of injustice.

  “I venture to trouble Your Majesty,” he wrote, “in case you may not quite realise what an unqualified success the Duke of York was in Rumania.

  “I happened to be in the King’s room when His Majesty was talking on this subject to Your Majesty ... and I felt that His Majesty’s praise was quite inadequate. For Colonel Waterhouse [Private Secretary and Equerry to the Duke of York] said he could not exaggerate how admirably in every way [the Duke of York] had done—and that once he got away ‘on his own’ he was a different being and never failing to ‘rise to the occasion,’ and proved himself to be far away the most important foreign visitor at the Coronation.”

  Queen Mary did not respond to this letter. Despite Lord Stamfordham’s praise, observers had noted Bertie’s despondency and excessive drinking at the Rumanian coronation. The Queen was strong in her conviction that personal disappointment must necessarily be a private and concealed emotion in Royal emissaries. The problem was felt to be Bertie’s great dilemma over Lady Bowes-Lyon and her elusive affections. He had visited her at Glamis Castle just before his trip to Rumania and once again proposed—to be gently but nonetheless rejected.

  Bertie was deeply in love, and Queen Mary, ordinarily not a meddler in her children’s lives to the extent that her mother had been, did enlist Lady Airlie’s assistance. Lady Airlie spoke to her friend and neighbor, Lady Strathmore, Elizabeth’s mother. The two older women applied some small pressure on the young woman, discussing Bertie’s good qualities and her opportunities should she agree to marry him. Lady Strathmore was aware of her daughter’s “perturbed and abstracted air” and later wrote, “that winter was the first time I have ever known Elizabeth really worried. I think she was torn between her longing to make Bertie happy and her reluctance to take on the big responsibilities this marriage must bring.”

  Previous Royal historians have also attributed Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon’s early rejection and later hesitancy in accepting the Duke of York’s proposal to her fear of the heavy duties a Royal marriage would bring. However, the Duke of York was not the Heir-Apparent, and at the time there was no reason not to believe the Prince of Wales would marry and supply numerous heirs who would supplant Bertie from the direct line of succession. Also, Lady Elizabeth doted on responsibility. She was next to the youngest of eleven children; still, she was the one to nurse her father when he was ill and to understudy her mother as hostess at Glamis. She also loved London society, and her greatest friends were among the young members of these families. Her resistance to Bertie had much more to do with the young man himself. Apart from his extreme moodiness, Bertie was not of a strong constitution, and he was disconcertingly nervous. He had a serious speech impediment and numerous twitches, sometimes blinking his eyes with too much frequency and unable to control the muscles around his mouth. In addition, his drinking problem, though thought to be kept secret, had grown worse and had been observed by members of the Court, who talked about it among themselves. Nonetheless, the Duke of York’s position and wealth were to be considered. And he was a sensitive young man with considerable disarming vulnerability and a strong need for the kind of warmth and affection his mother had never given him.

  The desperate suitor was in a shocking state of depression over the 1922 Christmas holidays. He kept much to himself, whether walking the dismal winter paths of
Sandringham or going shooting alone—the latter to his mother’s consternation. Lady Airlie was consulted again, and shortly after New Year’s Day 1923, she had Lady Bowes-Lyon to tea and regaled her with stories of her own marriage, how she had not known for sure in the beginning if she had loved her future husband, how she had hated the idea of an Army life and only tolerated it after her marriage for her husband’s sake, and how she had grown to love him deeply and Army life as well.

  Bertie arrived at Glamis Castle a few days later. Often accompanied by her brothers, Michael and David,* Lady Bowes-Lyon walked the hills and bogs of Glamis with Bertie. She was a good shot with a gun and rifle, and her keen enthusiasm and sense of adventure quickly buoyed the Duke of York’s spirits. Evenings were spent in the romantic atmosphere of a candlelit drawing room, with the young people gathered about the piano singing. The Strathmores were an affectionate, closely knit family with an easy badinage, and Bertie, at ease with them, was able to allow his own personality to surface.

  Queen Mary, who supported Bertie’s determination to marry Lady Bowes-Lyon, remained at Sandringham, anxious for word. On Saturday, January 13, it finally came in the form of a terse telegram, “ALL RIGHT BERTIE.”

  To Lady Airlie, the Duke of York wrote of his gratitude to her and confided that his “... dream has at last been realised. It seems so marvellous to me to know that my darling Elizabeth will one day be my wife ...”

  The King’s consent to the marriage was given on February 12. Bertie was to be the first English Prince to marry a commoner with consent since James, Duke of York, married Anne Hyde in 1660. He was also the first King’s son to be married in Westminster Abbey since 1382, when Richard II exchanged vows with Anne of Bohemia.

  The sun broke through the rain clouds when Lady Elizabeth, in elegant bridal dress, entered the Abbey the morning of April 26. She was attended by six bridesmaids, the bridegroom by his brothers David and Harry. There was even more of a display of public enthusiasm over this Royal Wedding than had been exercised at Princess Mary’s marriage to Lord Lascelles. Still, the Times pointed out editorially, there was “one wedding to which the people look forward with still deeper interest—the wedding which will give a wife to the Heir to the Throne and in the course of nature, a future Queen of England to the British peoples.” The article ended sympathetically that “whilst the Princes of Wales have almost invariably been compelled to accept the brides that State policy selected, the Dukes of York have nearly always obeyed the dictates of their hearts.”

  Bertie looked radiantly happy, and the two of them were enormously appealing to the public. They spent the first part of their honeymoon at Polesden Lacy, near Dorking, in Surrey, the home of Mrs. Ronald Greville,* and then went to Glamis, where the new Duchess of York came down with whooping cough. “So unromantic ... on your honeymoon,” Bertie wrote Queen Mary, adding, “I do hope you will not miss me very much though I believe you will as I have stayed with you so much longer really than the brothers.”

  To Bertie’s surprise, his father was the one who replied to this. “I miss you very much,” he wrote. “You have always been so sensible & easy to work with & you have always been ready to listen to any advice & to agree with my opinion about people & things, that I feel that we have always got on very well together (very different to dear David).”

  The newly married Yorks were given White Lodge, Richmond, as their first home and moved into it with great delight. For the first time, that old house had a jaunty, youthful air. Bright floral chintzes and pastel paints replaced its former heavy Victorian decoration, a change that Queen Mary approved and helped to accomplish.

  Queen Mary and her first daughter-in-law had a rapport that the older woman would have wished to have had with her own mother-in-law. But then, Queen Mary never had the need to substitute the affections of a son for a husband’s neglect, as had Queen Alexandra.

  The Duchess of York had great warmth and charm. An incident that occurred while the Yorks were on an Empire tour a few years after their marriage illustrates her charisma. A local Communist leader in Canada was so bewitched by the “little Duchess” that he said in a press interview, “I’ve done with Communism! She looked at me—and waved—and smiled!”

  The Duchess of York had no desire to compete with Queen Mary and never pushed herself or her opinions forward with her Royal in-laws. After all, she had not married the son who would one day make his wife Queen.

  “It is hard to see that beautiful woman Queen Alexandra come to this,” Queen Mary told Lady Airlie in the winter of 1924. Nine months had elapsed since the Queen had seen her mother-in-law, who had just celebrated her eightieth birthday. By now not only was she deaf, her eyesight was failing as well, and the combination had so upset her nerves that her will to live had been greatly impaired. In March 1925, she wrote to Queen Mary, “I feel completely collapsed—I shall soon go.”

  Month after month, Queen Alexandra, with Charlotte Knollys and Toria as her lone companions, remained cloistered at Sandringham.* The gay ambiance that had once pervaded Sandringham had long ago disappeared. The footmen and door-keepers were now all white-haired, the halls hushed. With Charlotte Knollys almost ninety, wasted and sallow, and Toria an old maid nearing sixty, the atmosphere was aromatic of illness and age, and the fustiness so disturbed Queen Mary that she could hardly bear it. Seven more months were to pass before she ventured up to see Motherdear again. “Went to tea with Mama whom I had not seen since Feb.,” she wrote in her diary in October 1925; “she looked well in the face but it is difficult to understand what she says.” Queen Mary’s Lady-in-Waiting, Lady Cynthia Colville, recalls that tea much more vividly.

  Although she had frequently visited Sandringham with Queen Mary, Lady Colville had never had tea at the Big House. Usually, Queen Mary wore tweed dresses and coats in the country. Still, Lady Colville was in something of a quandary about the correct attire to be worn for tea at Queen Alexandra’s home. Assuming that they would walk the couple of hundred yards between York Cottage and the Big House, and taking into consideration her knowledge of Queen Alexandra’s love of clothes, Lady Colville compromised on a dark green fur-trimmed mid-calf dress with coat and hat to match, an outfit that she deemed her “country Sunday best.”

  To Lady Colville’s dismay, when she met Queen Mary at the appointed hour in the small downstairs waiting room, the Queen was dressed in a floor-length silver gown, and hatless. The poor Lady-in-Waiting had no time to do more than remove her hat, for a grand old carriage drawn by two of Sandringham’s finest horses was waiting outside. Moments later, they were met by Queen Alexandra in a magnificent tea gown, her face perfectly but heavily made up, looking almost waxen. Her emaciated wren like hands, overburdened with rings and bracelets, shook the fragile gold-crested cup and saucer she held as she sipped her tea. Lady Colville had not often been in the company of the two Queens together, and she noted that “their attitude to each other ... was entirely correct but there was no natural sympathy or instinctive understanding between them.”

  Queen Alexandra no longer even made an effort to read lips. She had suffered a small stroke a year before this meeting, and her speech was somewhat slurred. Nonetheless, an underlying warmth and understanding passed between her and Charlotte Knollys that was most touching to observe. The air of bored distraction on Queen Alexandra’s part toward her daughter-in-law created a strong contrast.

  In her letters to her son (in a most unsteady hand), Queen Alexandra complained of “everlasting pain & noises in my wretched old head,” and signed herself “your poor old blind & deaf old Motherdear.” She still took a great pride in “precious” David (“May God grant him a perfect wife!”) and “beloved” Bertie. Memories of the past were her most frequent visitors. To Bertie, she wrote of the time she and her other “beloved Bertie ... were walking together in the pretty garden ... when he suddenly proposed to me! My surprise was great & I accepted him with greatest delight!”

  In the afternoons, she sometimes was taken for a sho
rt ride around the estate. In the evenings, conversation was almost impossible because of her bad hearing.

  “Did you know, Ma’am, that His Majesty has a new car?” a member of her dwindling Court asked her one night.

  “A new cow?”

  “No, Ma’am, a new car.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said emphatically, “I hear you, I understand; the old one has calved.”

  She spent the last weeks of October and the first half of November paying daily visits to her kennels and stables, amusing herself with jigsaw puzzles and feeding the sea gulls. She remained regular in her attendance at Sandringham Church. She never left the house without being heavily veiled. “Think of me as I used to be, now I am breaking up,” she wrote to an old friend in July 1925.*

  An early snow arrived on the morning of November 19. At noon, as she was readying her arduous toilette for lunch, Queen Alexandra suffered a heart attack. The King and Queen hurried to Sandringham and remained by her bedside all through that night and the next day.

  In a room nearby to the one where she had once sat vigil during Prince Eddy’s last hours, Queen Mary sat holding Queen Alexandra’s pathetically frail hand. Occasionally, the old lady inclined her head in one direction or the other, or almost imperceptibly pressed the hand that held her own. She never spoke or uttered a cry, and the silence in the room—so cluttered with memorabilia that there was hardly a space for chairs for Toria and Charlotte Knollys—was almost unendurable.