The Queen and Lord M

by Виктория Холт

  He had tried to reason with her, but who had ever reasoned with Caroline? She was his creature; he had sought to mould her; he had failed; but he could not forget her as he had seen her at thirteen and later when they had married – slim, boyish, with the short golden hair and the enormous wild eyes; she exasperated but she enchanted. She was a tragedy to herself and to him; but he supposed he could never be unmoved by her.

  So he had capitulated and when the lawyers had come with the papers for him to sign they had found them together, she laughing, insisting on feeding him with thin slices of bread and butter.

  ‘The papers are ready for your signature,’ he had been told, and she had watched him, puckish, impudent and pleading all at once.

  ‘Take them away,’ he had said. ‘We have no need of them now.’

  Then she had danced and flung her arms about his neck and had been passionate and gay – and mad of course, always mad.

  But when it transpired that during those nights she had shut herself away she had been writing a novel, this was too much even for him to forgive. For the book told the story of herself, her husband and Lord Byron, highly exaggerated and romanticised. How could she have done this? It seemed as though she had deliberately sought ways and means of humiliating him and destroying them both. He had only learned of the book’s existence when it was on the point of being published and he went to her at once. ‘It can’t be true,’ he had cried. ‘You could not be so foolish.’

  She had given him that puckish look as she retorted: ‘Haven’t you yet learned that there is no end to my foolishness?’

  ‘I have stood by you through great difficulties,’ he had told her then. ‘But if it is true that this novel is published I will never see you again.’

  And he left her sobbing, wildly begging him not to desert her, but the book was published; all their friends, all his political enemies read it. It had indeed been more than any man could endure. Yet once more he had given way.

  He recalled vividly the day when his mother had died; he could feel even at that moment the numbed desolation which had sent him to his books, his only consolation and refuge against the blows with which life was buffeting him. She had left him the stately old mansion of Brocket Hall near Hatfield and there he took Caroline with poor Augustus their son. Lord Melbourne, his mother’s husband, joined them; and in the quiet of the country he had tried to bring some serenity into his life. He had devoted himself to Augustus, trying with great patience to awaken the boy’s intelligence. When his son had uttered an intelligent sentence it had been a good day. His devotion to his son and his passion for the classics he supposed now had been his salvation. If only Caroline could have subdued her wild nature, if only she would have allowed him to be at peace, he could have made a tolerable life for them all. But being Caroline how could she? She grew wilder; she wrote more books; and his friends declared that she was making her husband the laughing stock of the country.

  Then, in the year 1824, she chanced to be out riding when a funeral cortège came into sight. When she asked whose it was and was told ‘Lord Byron’s’ she had burst into hysterical tears, and collapsing with passionate grief had been brought home in a state of raving madness. After that she had been ill for months and when she had recovered a little of her physical health she no longer wished to visit London. She would be a recluse, she had said, and stayed in her own apartments at the Hall, not emerging for days. She had not come down to the dining-room; remains of meals which she would not allow the servants to remove had littered her bedroom; she tore the curtains at her windows and let them hang in rents; she kept bottles of brandy in her room – under the bed, in cupboards, on the mantelpiece, anywhere which would hold them; she would weep all day and then her hysterical laughter would be heard all over the house; and all the time she had been writing her books and diaries and the theme which ran through them all was her relationship with Lord Byron and William Lamb.

  He marvelled at the manner in which he had been able to come through and find his way back into politics. He had seen that his mother was right when she had insisted that if he were going to lead a successful public life there must be a legal separation from Caroline. Caroline, shut in her room, taking liberal doses of laudanum to make her sleep and brandy to make her gay, had listened dully when he told her that it was now inevitable, and had not seemed to understand. When she discovered what had happened she had declared but without vehemence: ‘My heart is broken.’

  Even then he had not deserted her. He was often at Brocket Hall. There had been his son Augustus to be cared for and he had gone on hoping that one day he would find the key to unlock what he believed to be that latent intelligence. At least the boy was gentle, unlike his mother, although the taint she had passed on had affected his brain.

  So, there had been politics which began to absorb him. Canning, the new Prime Minister, had given him his first government post. Chief Secretary for Ireland was a long way from being Prime Minister but at least he was in the Government and that was an indication that the barren years were over. He was not free from Caroline then but the bonds were slackening; down at Brocket Hall she was drinking heavily and taking laudanum to forget her sorrows; and he was not surprised when he was summoned back because she was dying. She was forty-two. ‘Oh God!’ he had cried, ‘what a waste of a life.’

  He was glad that he was in time to see her alive and that her last hours were lucid.

  ‘Oh, William Lamb,’ she had cried while the tears slipped down her cheeks and her sunken hazel eyes were mournful, ‘what have I done to you?’

  She must not fret, he had told her. The past was forgotten and forgiven. He loved her. He always would love her. No woman would mean to him what she had always been.

  And she had smiled, happier perhaps than she had ever been in her frenzied attachments.

  She was buried in Hatfield Church; he could only feel sorrow although he now was free. No longer would there be this force to undermine him, to humiliate him, to shatter his hopes.

  Lord Melbourne had died soon after, and he succeeded to the title. He came home from Ireland and was often at Brocket Hall with Augustus. It had been a peaceful household now that Caroline was dead; the boy had looked forward to his visits, and had been better when he came; and always he had hopes of awakening his intelligence. Sometimes he had dreamed of having a son who could discuss the classics with him – an absurd dream. If Augustus could have read the simplest children’s book and understood it he would have been grateful enough.

  And then scandal again when an Irish peer, Lord Brandon, brought a case against him. It was true he had been rather friendly with Lady Brandon. He had always liked the society of women, and after Caroline’s death had acquired a growing circle of women friends. A member of the Government to be involved in such an affair (‘improper intimacy with Lady Brandon’ was the charge) would almost inevitably be death to his career. In consternation he had employed the best possible lawyer and the case had been dismissed by the Lord Chief Justice who had stated that no one could give a word of proof against Lord Melbourne.

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow at the memory of that affair. But it was nothing of course compared with that which came later. He had been friendly with the Nortons for some time, when in 1830 Lord Grey took office and had offered him the post of Secretary for Home Affairs. The Honourable George Norton was a Tory but he had a beautiful young wife, Caroline (ill-fated name), who was a Whig. Caroline Norton was the granddaughter of the playwright Sheridan and magnificently equipped both mentally and physically. Tall, dark, with enormous luminous eyes, and a voluptuous figure, she had become a well-known personality, and Lord Melbourne had found her very attractive. He had visited the Nortons frequently and was known as a friend of them both.

  George Norton was not very successful and he became so hard pressed for money that his wife had asked Melbourne if he could do something for him. Consequently Melbourne had found him an appointment as a magistra
te with a salary of £1,000 a year, and the friendship between the Home Secretary and the Nortons had grown. Nor had it slackened when in 1834, in spite of his lurid past, Melbourne became Prime Minister.

  What solace he had found at Storey’s Gate, the Nortons’ somewhat humble – by Melbourne’s standards – London home. There he and Caroline had spent hours in spirited discussion; they did not always agree, but what pleasure to be able to discuss art and literature with an intelligent woman; George lacked his wife’s brilliance. Caroline was a poetess; she was also a noted beauty. Of course he had known that her marriage with George was not successful; George Norton was by no means worthy of Caroline. Perhaps he had thought that had she not been a married woman they might have made a match of it. She would have made an excellent wife for a Prime Minister. What a pleasure it had been after a wearying session at the House to call in and be received unceremoniously in her untidy drawing-room where she might be writing or painting. But what a terrible blow when Norton announced that he was going to sue for a divorce and named the Prime Minister as the co-respondent.

  Here was a scandal as bad as anything that had happened with Lady Caroline. At least she had been his wife. The case had been a cause célèbre. He remembered now his acute distaste for the affair, his anxiety for Caroline Norton of whom he was genuinely fond, and his speculation as to what this would mean to his career.

  Resignation seemed inevitable. He remembered the occasion when he had called on the King. He and peppery William had never much liked each other but the King was a firm supporter of justice and he declared that in his opinion this case they were bringing smacked of conspiracy of some sort. If Melbourne said his relations with the Hon. Mrs Norton were platonic, then the King believed him.

  He never wanted to go through that again. The humiliation of listening to the accounts of his and Mrs Norton’s conduct was intense and would have been worse if they had not been so ridiculous as to prejudice the case in his favour. Drunken servants, servants who had been dismissed for stealing, servants with a grievance, they all came along to testify against the Prime Minister and the woman who had employed them. And the case was won as it must have been with any justice; for he was innocent and would never allow Mrs Norton’s innocence to be questioned. Indeed the case had fallen down on the evidence or lack of it; and the King and Wellington both congratulated him and declared it had been brought through jealousy.

  He had had great fortune; for the scandals which had threatened his career and would have finished most men’s had left his unscathed; and when the case was over Melbourne was still Prime Minister.

  But tragedy had not finished with him. This time it was his son who died quietly one evening when they were together. His mad wife was dead; his mentally deficient son was dead; he was fifty-eight years old, and eighteen-year-old Victoria had ascended the throne. So young, so eager to learn, wanting to be good. What a challenge for an ageing man who had failed so bitterly in his marriage. But why must he think of that bitter failure on such a day as this?

  The carriage had come to a halt at Melbourne House.

  ‘Caroline is dead,’ he said to himself. ‘And now … Victoria.’

  Chapter IV

  ‘THE PLEASANTEST SUMMER’

  After a good night’s sleep when Victoria awoke to the second day of her reign, her first thoughts were: ‘I shall see Lord Melbourne today.’ She laughed delightedly to herself. Of course she would see Lord Melbourne today; she would see him every day. He was her chief minister.

  ‘My Prime Minister,’ she said aloud. ‘How exciting!’

  Lehzen hovered while she ate her breakfast, fussing in the most delightful way. She had not seen the Duchess yet. Nor shall I, she thought. In future I shall say whom I shall see and when.

  ‘And not in the least nervous,’ Lehzen was saying. ‘It is quite wonderful.’ Lehzen nibbling at bread and butter sprinkled with caraway seeds regarded her young mistress with admiration.

  ‘I think I enjoy it, Lehzen,’ she said calmly, getting on with her breakfast and reflecting that Lehzen dared not tell her now not to gobble. For gobble I shall if I want to, Victoria told herself. ‘I love the dear people and it will be no more of an ordeal for me to face them than it was my ministers.’

  ‘They will love you,’ said Lehzen. ‘The people love a young queen.’

  ‘That is exactly what Lord Melbourne said,’ replied the Queen; and Lehzen realised that was a compliment. But she was a little uneasy. We don’t want too much Lord Melbourne, she thought.

  After breakfast the Prime Minister called. The Queen was to be proclaimed from a window of St James’s Palace and he wanted to prepare her. He knew of course that she was not nervous.

  ‘Not in the least,’ she told him, which made his eyes glaze over with the tears she had come to expect. Dear Lord Melbourne!

  ‘The right attitude is to smile at the people and make them believe you’re enjoying it all even if you’re not.’

  She loved the way he talked; he was so frank, so natural.

  ‘Oh, but I am enjoying it. And would it be right to pretend if I were not? I have always hated pretence in any form.’

  ‘A queen cannot afford to hate what the people love,’ he told her, ‘even if it entails a little pretence now and then.’

  And she thought: How clever he is! I must remember his sayings and write them in my Journal.

  ‘I remember the Coronation of your Uncle George IV,’ he told her. ‘Ah, there was an occasion!’

  ‘There was trouble with the Queen, I believe.’

  ‘Your Majesty was then a babe in arms.’

  ‘And unable therefore to be present,’ she said with a giggle. How easy it was to laugh with her Prime Minister!

  ‘Which was perhaps a blessing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been well for me to have some experience of coronations since I shall have one of my own?’

  ‘There never was such a coronation as that one, and it would not be possible for Your Majesty’s to resemble it in the least.’

  She laughed. She had heard how her Aunt Caroline of Brunswick had tried to storm the Abbey and had been kept out on Uncle King George’s orders. What exciting relations she had had, and rather wicked too! Lord Melbourne would, of course, know a great deal about them. And exciting things had happened to him. She had heard rumours. That wife of his, those two divorce scandals. The world was waiting to be explored and how comforting to remember that she had her Prime Minister beside her – such a dear, good, experienced man.

  But this was not the time to talk of past scandals. Perhaps they would later. Oh no, that would doubtless be very improper. A queen and her Prime Minister must discuss State matters; but the scandals of King George and Queen Caroline had been a State matter, so State matters could be scandalous too.

  ‘But,’ went on Lord Melbourne, ‘this is not a matter of a coronation but a proclamation. Your Majesty will ride to St James’s and there be proclaimed Queen of England. So that on this occasion all you have to do is smile and look pleasant, which you will accomplish with the greatest ease. You need have no qualms.’

  ‘None at all.’

  His expression was sentimental.

  ‘I know Your Majesty will delight all your subjects as you do this one.’

  So she set out for St James’s; and the dear people lined the streets to see her carriage pass and they showed, in no uncertain way, their delight in the young Queen with her wide blue eyes and ready smile.

  ‘What a little thing she is!’ she heard them say.

  ‘Different from her uncles.’

  It was as Lord Melbourne had said. The nation was delighted with a young attractive girl after the gross old men who had occupied the throne for so many years.

  And from an open window of St James’s Palace she stood while the Proclamation was read and the trumpets sounded and the guns fired their salutes.

  ‘God bless the Queen!’ Those words echoed all round her.

  ‘Oh, God,’ sh
e prayed, ‘help me to do what is right. Help me to be good.’

  * * *

  A letter had arrived from Uncle Leopold.‘My beloved child,Your new dignities will not change or increase my old affection for you. May Heaven assist you and may I have the happiness of being able to be of use to you …’

  Dear Uncle Leopold! She had not thought of him very much since her accession. He was far away and she had dear Lord Melbourne close at hand; and she must not forget, as Lord Melbourne had pointed out, that Uncle Leopold was the head of a foreign power. At the same time she must not forget either the affection she had had for this beloved Uncle during her childhood when he had been a father to her. That reminded her that Lord Melbourne had known her own father. She must ask him to talk to her of him at some time. Oh dear, her thoughts were straying from Uncle Leopold’s letter.

  He went on to congratulate her on how she had conducted herself.Then:‘I have been most happy to hear that the swearing-in of the Council passed so well. The Declaration in the newspapers I find simple and appropriate. The translation in the papers says: “J’ai été éevée en Angleterre.” I should advise you to say as often as possible that you are born in England …’

  She saw the point of this but Lord Melbourne had approved the Declaration and had not mentioned it.

  Uncle Leopold went on to remind her that she could never say too much in praise of her own country and its people.‘Two nations in Europe are really almost ridiculous in their own exaggerated praises of themselves; the English and the French …’

  Was he a little critical of her country and her people?

  How strange that she should begin to criticise to herself – she would never do it openly – that dear good Uncle who had been the god of her childhood.

  But then of course she was growing up; she had become the Queen; and she had Lord Melbourne to advise her. An Englishman like her Prime Minister would naturally understand the English and their affairs better than a foreigner.