‘But I tell you I know it, and it is perfect!’ I insisted.
‘You will leave it to me, if you please,’ Albert said firmly, and turned back to Peel, who did not speak German and was politely pretending that we were not. ‘I hope you will be willing to forward some enquiries to Lady Blatchford for me, Sir Robert?’
‘I will be happy to communicate on your behalf with Lady Isabella,’ Peel corrected gently. (Albert was not very good on English titles – he had a very German contempt of the English aristocracy, and I think this was one of his ways of expressing it. It was a great trial to me sometimes at receptions.) ‘You will wish to know the purchase price, of course.’
‘And so much more. The water supply and drainage, the access to the sea, whether or not there are any rights of way across the land – a public footpath through the grounds would be fatal to our privacy. And we had better have an Ordnance map showing the farms and woods and so on – the exact extent and make-up of the estate. I will write a detailed letter about it, and give it to you in a few days.’
Between Albert’s ‘orderly fashion’ and Lady Isabella’s awkwardness, the delay seemed interminable to me. She wanted £30,000 for it, which Peel thought too much; and Albert was not willing to spend money on something that might not completely suit, so when the preliminary enquiries were complete he went down, on the 18th of March 1844, to see it. Between the railway train and the steam ferry, it was by then possible to go to East Cowes and back in a day, with plenty of time between to look round (a far cry from the journeys I had made in my childhood!) and getting up at dawn, Albert was back by the evening with a good report. ‘The house is very good, the estate is excellent, and we shall have all the privacy we want; but there will need to be some alterations to make the house completely comfortable.’
‘What sort of alterations?’ I asked dubiously. I hate a put-off, and I could see one looming.
‘Some extra rooms will be needed. New kitchens are essential, but there is a good site for them in an open yard near the present offices. And a dormitory for the servants can be added over the stables. You see now, my love, how important it is not to rush into things? We shall want time to work out how much needs to be spent on it and whether it is worth the expense. The Privy Purse is not bottomless, you know.’
Disappointment welled up in me. I was by then pregnant again, and longing for a house of our own in which to ‘settle down’. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘Yes, I do. The land is particularly good – fertile farmland, neglected at present, but capable of much improvement. But we must proceed cautiously, my love. I recommend that we propose to Lady Blatchford to rent it only, for a year, with an option to purchase at the end of that time. We might argue to have the rent deducted from the purchase price as well,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘How long will it all take? I had hoped to get there this summer.’
‘We shall see,’ he said, annoyingly. ‘These things cannot be hurried.’
In the end it was not until October that I finally got to visit my new home, and then only as a tenant. How well I remember that first visit! It rained on and off all the way down to Gosport, and even the crossing to East Cowes was attended by violent showers; but as we drove up to the house the sun suddenly came out, lighting the façade so that it was like someone smiling a welcome at us. Such a nice house it was, too! Handsome and plain in the Palladian style, a three-storeyed, rectangular eighteenth-century stone building, with a handsome fanlight over the door and a classical pediment. All houses have a ‘face’, and there was something open and honest and friendly about that one. Handsome tall trees were dotted all about, with a good sweep of lawn surrounding the house, and beyond it gentle rolling parkland and hayfields sloping down to the sea. Taking my hand, Albert led me inside, and we walked together from room to room, discussing and admiring. It reminded me of our wedding night, when we had run like children from room to room of our new suite at Windsor; we did not run now, but we were just as excited – more so, for this would be our own, not the State’s.
Everything was delightful. It was exactly what I wanted. The rooms were smaller than at Windsor or Buckingham Palace, but beautifully proportioned, as they always are in that style of house. It was light, cheerful, dry and warm; and handsomely decorated, if a little shabby with wear in some places. There was a library, a drawing-room and dining-room, two halls and two ante-rooms on the ground floor, and sixteen bedrooms and dressing-rooms above. Nothing could have been more complete and snug! It wanted nothing, from wine-cellar to nursery, from ice-house to piggery, to make it a comfortable residence for a gentleman and his family.
‘It is exactly the thing!’ I cried to Albert. ‘This is true gemütlichkeit!’
We wandered outside, and strolled along the lawn to admire the view. The watery clouds were dispersing and the sun was shining strongly now, and below the wooded slopes the Solent lay sparkling, blue as chicory-flower, dotted with tiny white sails and black steamships. We could see quite clearly across to Spithead, and the bare masts of the warships at anchor there, and beyond in the hazy distance the gentle swelling curves of the Downs. The air came up to meet us, clean and balmy, with an autumnal hint of leafmould and a tang of ozone in it – I have always loved that first, intoxicating smell of the sea! All around us was a riot of birdsong. There was no other sound – no soot or smoke – no other person or building within sight. We might have been Adam and Eve in the Garden. Albert’s fingers locked through mine, and I felt his joy tingling through me.
‘It is like the Bay of Naples, you know,’ he said; and I could hear the lilt of happiness in his voice. ‘The gentle slopes, the colours, the soft air. It is hard to believe we are in England.’
‘We shall be quite, quite private here,’ I exulted. ‘No more jostling and peering. We can walk about and sit and romp just exactly as we please, like ordinary people.’
‘There is a beach, too, did you know? A dear little sandy cove, with sea-shells and rock pools, where the children can bathe.’
‘A private beach of our own?’ It seemed too good to be true. Perhaps I might even learn to swim. I had never been in the sea before – much too public for the Queen of England!
‘All our little ones must learn to swim; and row a boat. And we can build a landing-stage, you know, so that we can embark and disembark for our pleasure cruises from our own grounds, with no one staring at us—’
‘No bands and speeches! No welcoming committees!’ I said, laughing. ‘Oh, Albert, it is perfect, isn’t it?’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘And there is more land adjacent we might be able to buy too, to make sure we are completely private. We can make a proper, working estate of it. I have lots of ideas for rational farming I would like to try out.’
‘The children can grow up here, and play, and be healthy and happy. And it will be something to leave to them when we die.’
‘When we die?’ He turned me round and drew me to him, folding my hands in his against his chest, and smiling down into my face. I gazed up at him, my heart quickening. I had never seen him look so happy; he was so beautiful, he almost stopped my breath. ‘Who talks of dying? I think here we shall live for ever, love of my heart.’
‘I think we may,’ I said, my voice rather faint. He stooped and laid his lips against mine so tenderly, and the touch of them pierced me like a sword of flame.
‘I love you, kleines Frauchen,’ he whispered.
I could not speak, only press my cheek to his in reverence.
And then he straightened up. ‘Shall we walk down to the woods?’ he said cheerfully. ‘It is the wrong time of year now to hear them in daylight, but I think we may find there will be nightingales there.’
Fourteen
13th July, at Windsor
I HAVE not written anything for several days because we have been rather occupé, with a garden party for five thousand at Buckingham Palace on the 11th, amongst other matters, for which we went up from Windsor and found London abom
inably hot! I wore white roses in my bonnet and white feathers, and wore my large pearls and carried a fringed parasol – black and white silk – and thought I looked rather well for such an old lady. Everyone was very kind and attentive. I find I am become a sort of war-hero, which is rather amusing and touching.
One lady talked to me animatedly for some minutes, evidently quite unaware that she had forgotten to take the price ticket off her hat (it was quite small and discreet, but definitely a price ticket, tucked into the band, like the illustrations in the book of the Mad Hatter). It reminded me of that wonderful occasion in the early years of my reign when I attended a ball and was chatting to a duchess, who shall remain nameless. She was showing her young sovereign how tremendously sophisticated and tonnish she was, when a footman came across and bowed to her, holding out a horrid-looking sausage of horsehair and canvas with cotton tapes, one of which was broken. ‘Pardon me, Your Grace, I think you dropped this.’
It was a bustle, of course, what we wore under our skirts in those days to give us interesting shapes behind. The poor woman turned scarlet with embarrassment and hotly denied ownership – I suppose she had felt it fall and had quietly walked away from it, hoping no one would notice. Now she was being confronted with it in the very presence of her Queen! The footman bowed and went away; but returned a few moments later, still dangling the object of shame. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace,’ he said, ‘but I’ve just spoken to Your Grace’s maid, and she says it is certainly yours.’ I was obliged to feign a coughing fit to hide my uncontrollable giggles.
The weather has now turned stiflingly hot even here, which I find very trying. Reid has ordained that I am to rest for an hour after luncheon, which is supposed to be good for me, but loses time. Even at this time of year I am not free from business, and I cannot afford to be put behind. However, I can use the time to go on with my writing. Sleep is out of the question after luncheon as I am rather souffrante these days: my cast-iron digestion seems sadly to be deserting me, and when such an old and faithful friend leaves you, it is thin times indeed! Well, we shall soon be moving to Osborne, and it will revive me to be there, as it always does. My darling always seems closer to me at Osborne.
To resume, then: I sometimes regret that little house, Old Osborne House, as it was when first Albert and I visited it in 1844. It was so perfect and complete in its way, its proportions so satisfying to the eye of the artist – even an amateur like me. Though it is not much admired these days, classical architecture at its best cannot be bettered, both for beauty and comfort. But there was no doubt that the house was too small for a Royal Residence. Though it was a private home we wanted, wherever the Queen goes there is a court, and courtiers and politicians and ambassadors come and have to be housed – and their staff and their servants! And there have to be Privy Council meetings, which means not only an audience room but an ante-room in which the ministers can wait; and they have to be fed, and their secretaries entertained, and sometimes they have to stay overnight which means more beds and more servants.
So from the first we knew Old Osborne House would have to be enlarged, and Albert’s first proposal was to add a new wing. ‘But we will not go through the Office of Works,’ he said.
‘I should think not!’ I laughed. ‘We shall want it finished before the Millennium.’
It was Anson who suggested we approach Thomas Cubitt, the builder. Cubitt was one of the new sort of speculating builders (though he was now so well established it was hardly speculation in his case) who bought up tracts of land and built streets of houses and then rented them out or sold them. Whole areas of London were already bearing his imprint – Belgravia was sometimes called ‘Cubittopolis’ – and his success was certainly deserved, for unlike most builders, he paid attention to two essential points: he built houses that people liked to live in, and he never exceeded his estimates. Anson himself lived in a Cubitt house in Eaton Place, and was full of praise for its arrangements and comfort, and when he effected an introduction between us and the builder, we liked him at once. Cubitt was then in his fifties, a compact, neatly built man with a fine, open face, deep-set, clear eyes, and an impish sense of humour. He was at the zenith of his career and comfortable with his powers and his position in society, which meant he was neither overawed nor overfamiliar – a thoroughly sensible, kindly, likeable man.
We had him down to Osborne, and he and I and Albert walked and talked and measured and sketched, and then I went in and he and Albert walked and talked some more. When we were together again, Cubitt, expressing his admiration for the situation and the fall of the land, said, ‘There is a great opportunity here, which it would be a pity to pass up. I can do the alterations you require, and I can build you a new wing, too, if you like. But it would be infinitely better to pull down the old house altogether and build a new one. Start from “scratch”, and have it exactly as you want it.’
I could see Albert’s eyes kindle at the idea. ‘But such a scheme would be far too expensive. Our resources are not unlimited,’ he said doubtfully.
‘Mr Cubitt is perhaps giving us the advice that best suits his business,’ I remarked drily.
Cubitt turned his honest face to me. ‘I cannot deny, ma’am, that I would relish the chance to build you a new house. It could not but enhance my reputation to be honoured with such a commission; but as to the expense, I believe in the long run a new house would prove less expensive to you than repairs and alterations to this – and would be much more satisfactory.’
‘You must not forget, Mr Cubitt,’ I said, ‘that we have had experience in our family of building schemes that failed. My uncle King George IV had plans for Buckingham Palace that could never be finished for want of time and money.’
Now he smiled, and his eyes twinkled engagingly. ‘Ah, but His Majesty did not employ me! The mistake, if I may be so bold, ma’am, was that His Majesty began with an architect.’
‘You do not approve of architects, Mr Cubitt?’ Albert asked, raising a cool eyebrow. There could be no belittling of one of the learned arts in Albert’s presence.
‘I regard ’em as I do physicians, sir: they are sometimes necessary, but I would sooner do without ’em.’ We had to laugh at this, and Cubitt went on, ‘You see, ma’am, when you employ an architect, he then contracts out all the other parts of the work to a multitude of individuals, and there is no firm hand on the reins. Now my system is different. I like to do the whole job myself. I have my own masons, carpenters, draughtsmen, blacksmiths, glaziers – everything. When a patron is so kind as to employ me, I see to every part, from the digging of the foundations to the painting of the ceilings. That way I control the quality of the materials and the work, the time it takes, and the cost.’
‘Time is another matter of concern,’ Albert said. ‘We came here seeking a peaceful retreat. We would not want to have to go away again, and not be able to return for years and years.’
‘As to that, sir,’ said Cubitt, ‘I do not see why anything you may decide on may not be built in discrete units. That way you would never be without a house to live in.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.
‘Well, ma’am, to begin with I can do the necessary alterations here in a couple of months. Then you can live here in comfort while I build the new house next door. Oh, there would be some inconvenience of noise and dust, but it can be managed so as to upset you as little as possible. A house of, say, equal size to this I can build for you in not much more than a year.’
‘So little time?’ Albert queried.
‘I have my own systems, sir. I manufacture many of the elements in my own workshops and simply assemble them on site, which is much quicker, as you can imagine. And since I use all my own workmen I can ensure they work quickly and well, and that one team is not kept waiting because another has not finished its part of the work.’
‘But you said a house of this size – and we have already said that it is too small,’ I objected.
‘Quite so, ma’am. M
y idea was to build in sections: make the first part complete and habitable while you live here, and then add further wings joining the new house to this, and finally pull this down and build the last section. Another advantage to that scheme,’ he said, with an eye on Albert, ‘would be that the cost would be spread out, and not fall in all at once.’
Albert thought for a moment, and then he declared, ‘Mr Cubitt, you sound to me like a very enlightened man. I think we should talk in more detail about your plan. And if you would permit me, I should like to visit your workshops when we return to London.’
And so the death sentence was pronounced on the old house almost without consulting me. When it was finally pulled down, I felt a pang of sadness; but the whole Osborne scheme was so exciting and pleasurable to Albert that I could not repine, and the new Osborne House is so completely identified with him, so redolent of his spirit and his vision, and so full of happy memories of him, that I have to love it.
So we went ahead and bought Osborne, which passed into our hands in May 1845, after Sir James Clark had visited to give his opinion of the air (very good and wholesome, a thought too relaxing perhaps at some times of the year, but the most bracing in the north of the island, where Osborne is situated, and therefore quite acceptable). And on the 15th of May I said goodbye to the old place as it was, and as I had seen it with Albert that October day; for on the following day they were to cut down the nearest trees to clear the site, and begin digging the foundations.
Osborne was all Albert’s from the start to finish: he and Cubitt discussed and contrived between them, and then Albert would explain to me what he had decided on. I understood quite well why it had to be done this way. Albert was putting right the one thing that had been wrong for him from the beginning of our marriage – his position as my pensioner, living in my houses and by my provision. Now he was doing what men had done for countless generations: providing a home for his bride. He brought me each new addition to the scheme, each idea, each stage finished, as gifts to lay at my feet; and I would have been churlish indeed to object to such chivalry, such care from the man who was my knight and my protector.
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