by Jean Plaidy
‘Perhaps there will be no more scandals. I shall do my best to see that there are none.’
The Queen said: ‘My heart-felt wishes go with you. But William was always ridiculous.’
They were silent for some time during which the Queen seemed to have forgotten her visitor.
‘I tire you,’ said Adelaide at length. ‘I but came to say goodbye before we leave. I will go now.’
The Queen nodded without opening her eyes and Adelaide kissed her hand and tiptoed from the room.
At the door she took one look round the room and her eyes rested on that little shrunken figure on the bed.
I shall never see her again, thought Adelaide, once more, as she shut the door quietly behind her.
She stood outside the door. How quiet it was! She believed that Death was already in that room, waiting to come forward and say: Follow me.
An irresistible impulse came to her to take one more farewell of the Queen; she opened the door quietly and stood on the threshold.
Queen Charlotte opened her eyes and they looked at each other.
‘You … came back,’ said the Queen.
‘To say goodbye … again.’
‘A last goodbye,’ said the Queen.
Adelaide felt tears on her cheeks.
‘Come here,’ said the Queen; and she went to the bed and stood there.
‘My dear child,’ said Charlotte, ‘God bless you.’
‘God bless Your Majesty,’ whispered Adelaide.
‘Go now, child,’ said Charlotte. ‘I shall remember that you came back. I shall remember that you wept for me.’
Adelaide went out to her carriage, bewildered and yet exhilarated, wondering what had happened between her and the unloving and unloved Queen of England.
The next day Adelaide and William embarked on the Royal Sovereign but despite the elaborate furnishings of the royal cabins on board it was an uncomfortable crossing.
The Duke had no desire to go to Hanover. He had travelled the world, he told Adelaide, when he was a young man and was sent to sea and he had had enough of travelling. He wanted now to settle in England.
‘That’s my home,’ he said, ‘and that’s where my family is.’
He referred constantly to the FitzClarences.
Adelaide tried to tell him of her last meeting with the Queen but he did not listen. William liked to talk rather than listen.
‘My mother?’ he said. ‘Oh, I fear she is a disagreeable old woman. She led the King a nice dance before he was put away.’
So it was useless to try to explain to him. She realized that there would always be things which it was impossible to discuss.
‘And what is it going to be like in Hanover?’ he demanded. ‘Cambridge is Governor-General and you will have to take second place to his Augusta because we shall have no official position there. How shall you like that, eh? And Adolphus is nine years younger than I.’
‘It will be of no importance,’ said Adelaide.
At which he laughed.
‘You know, you are the most easy-going woman I ever ran across.’
That seemed to amuse him.
‘I trust,’ she said timidly, ‘that this does not offend.’
‘Offend. Now what husband is going to be offended by a docile and obedient little wife?’
She smiled with him; he had not yet learned that although she did not fret over details such as this matter of precedence she had a determination of her own.
But perhaps he never would learn this.
They set up house in the Fürsten Hof and here they were plunged into the social life of Hamburg.
Augusta soon realized that Adelaide bore no malice because she must take second place to the wife of the Governor-General and the two became great friends.
Adelaide was enchanted by Augusta’s delicate needlework and they often sat together while working. Augusta loved growing flowers and arranging them in the most artistic fashion; another hobby she shared with her sister-in-law, and the two young women enjoyed each other’s company.
‘Adelaide,’ said Augusta, ‘you are the most reasonable woman I ever met.’
They laughed together over the pomposities of the ceremonies they were forced to attend; but they liked best to talk of their possibilities of having children.
Augusta would whisper to Adelaide that she had really believed she was pregnant only to be disappointed; and she was not going to tell until she was sure.
So as they sewed they were praying for the realization of their dreams.
‘I shall feel like singing the Magnificat,’ said Adelaide.
Augusta was a little shocked, but Adelaide went on: ‘I should really feel that I was blessed.’
‘One day,’ said Augusta, ‘one of us is going to come to the other and tell her of great good fortune. I wonder who will be first.’
Shortly afterwards there was no need to wonder.
Augusta was the fortunate one. She was pregnant.
But a few weeks later Adelaide had equally exciting news. This brought the sisters-in-law even closer together. They could talk of nothing but the child each was to have.
‘I pray for a boy,’ said Augusta.
‘I shall pray for a healthy child,’ said Adelaide. ‘Perhaps my husband would be better pleased with a boy but for myself I shall not mind. I think the greatest blessing a woman can know is to bear a child. I believe I shall experience complete happiness when mine is born.’
And Augusta, her beautiful dark eyes beneath those finely arched brows soft and tremulous, agreed with her.
When the Regent came into her bedroom in Kew Palace Queen Charlotte focused her eyes on him.
‘Dearest Madre!’ He knelt beside her bed.
‘George!’
He kissed her hand – old, wrinkled, misshapen with rheumatism.
‘I wanted to talk to you, George.’
‘It is my pleasure to listen.’
‘George, we have loved each other, you and I.’
He nodded.
‘From the first moment they put you into my arms you were everything to me.’
He put a hand to his eyes.
‘I want you to know that that was how it was … always … Even when we had our differences. I want you to know.’
‘Madre, you tire yourself. Do not speak.’
She nodded and kept her hand in his.
It was affecting. She had not long to live which was sad. His father the King lived out his clouded existence shut away from the world, and it was said that he looked through the windows of his apartment, which was really his prison, and grimaced at any who looked his way. How pitiful! And this was the man who had once governed the nurseries and beaten him and his brothers unmercifully for demanding pastry with their fruit and fat with their meat. He had not known how to rule his family nor his country; and now he was known to be mad. But he still lived and the Queen was close to death. It seemed ironical that this should be.
We are all getting old, he thought. Soon it will be the end for us all. There were times when he believed he himself was close to death and would be the first to go. Fred’s health was poor. So was his Duchess’s, and the Regent’s own wife – the Princess of Wales – went on living scandalously on the Continent, giving him, he was certain, every cause for divorce, but no one seemed to be able to bring him the evidence. If only …
‘Madre,’ he began, but she did not answer.
He stared at her and murmured: ‘The Queen is dead.’
The Queen was buried with great pomp and the Regent went into abject mourning; he shut himself in his apartments at Carlton House and gave himself up to grief.
Adelaide heard the news without surprise and with a deep sadness; she wished that the Queen could have lived long enough to know that both she and Augusta were pregnant. Because of her condition it was impossible to be melancholy. She longed for the child, and she knew that she was intended above everything else to be a mother. It was for this reason that she had bee
n eager to receive the FitzClarence children, and hoped that her relationship with them could be that of a mother.
But a child of her own would fulfil all her longings.
She and Augusta gleefully calculated. Augusta would be first – at the end of March; Adelaide some weeks later.
William was delighted. He had done his duty and like Adelaide he loved children.
‘Wait until our son is born,’ he cried, rubbing his hands with glee.
Frederica, Duchess of Cumberland, heard the news of Queen Charlotte’s death with dismay.
‘I wanted my dear aunt to know that I was to present her with a grandchild. To think that she died before I could give her that pleasure.’
‘She would have done her best to disown him.’
‘She could never have done that. He will be her grandchild and in succession to the throne of England.’
‘What of Adelaide?’
A cloud passed over Frederica’s face. ‘Until children are born one can never be sure of them. Adelaide has not yet given proof that she can bear healthy children. From what I hear she is somewhat frail.’
‘And what of Madam Kent?’
‘Ah! She’s the danger. She has her two already. Plump and full of vitality. Just the type to produce her young like a gipsy at the roadside.’
‘I doubt they will allow it to be born so casually.’
‘I am sure they will not. They are very certain. Kent is putting it about that there has been some prophecy. Oh, Ernest, I have one complaint against you. You are your father’s fifth son – and two are now in the running against you.’
‘You once said the obstacles made it more exciting.’
‘Now I’m not so sure. There are too many to come before us.’
‘Caroline is making herself very well known on the Continent.’
‘With this Bergami of hers. I wonder.’
‘The whole world wonders.’
‘Don’t forget if it’s proved, the Regent could beat us all. What if she went too far?’
‘She has already done that.’
‘What if adultery were proved? What if he married?’
‘Too many ifs, my dearest. No, it is only the Kent child we shall have to fear.’
None could have been more sure of success than the Duke and Duchess of Kent.
Their child was due some time in May.
‘We must go back to England for the birth,’ said Edward.
Victoria had already made up her mind that this must be done and had in fact planted the idea in Edward’s mind.
‘We certainly should,’ she said.
‘There is plenty of time yet.’
She agreed with that also.
‘She must be born in the country she will one day rule,’ said Edward.
‘How certain you are that the child will be a girl. That prophecy, of course.’
‘I have a feeling that it will be so.’
‘Edward! You are the last man for fancies and yet …’
‘And yet of this I am certain.’
‘Feodore was saying only the other day that she wanted a little sister.’
‘She will have one.’
The Duchess of Kent smiled with pleasure. She did not accept the Duke’s certainty that the child would be a girl; but she was certain that the child would rule England.
There was only the offspring of the Clarences in between and she did not believe for one moment that Adelaide would bear healthy children.
In her way she was as sure as her husband that she was going to produce the successful candidate in the race for the throne.
As Augusta’s time grew near William became very excited.
‘You see,’ he announced to Adelaide, herself in a state of advanced pregnancy, ‘this child could be an heir to the throne. If anything should happen to our child and Edward’s and Ernest’s, this child could be a King or Queen of England.’
Adelaide shuddered at the prospect of anything happening to the precious burden she carried but William was notoriously tactless.
‘Strange things happen in royal families when there is a throne at stake.’
‘Strange things?’
‘There have been rumours of babies being smuggled in.’
‘But why should Adolphus and Augusta want to smuggle in a child?’
‘If theirs were still-born …’
‘But why should they want another child?’
‘That they might have the honour of being the parents of the ruler.’
‘You think that of Adolphus and Augusta!’
‘Well, no. But this is an official occasion. I am on the spot. I must be present at the birth of the child.’
‘Do you think Augusta and Adolphus will mind?’
‘Mind. It is not a question of minding. It’s a question of procedure.’
William was, as his mother would have said, making himself ridiculous again.
As soon as Augusta’s pains began William was close at hand; he watched all who went into her bedroom with suspicion. Adolphus was half irritated, half amused. But there was nothing to be done; and if there were going to be unpleasant rumours it was better that William should be watchful to make them an impossibility.
Augusta knew nothing of William’s vigil; and in due course gave birth to a boy. Her delight was overwhelming.
Adelaide was one of the first to congratulate her. She held the child in her arms and marvelled at him.
Oh God, she prayed, let mine be as lusty as this one.
‘We shall call him George,’ said Augusta.
Adelaide smiled. George. A king’s name!
‘It is well,’ said Adelaide’s doctor, a man who had served with Wellington’s army, ‘to take plenty of exercise. It insures an easy birth. No matter what the weather, exercise should be taken.’
Adelaide followed his advice. She walked regularly in the palace grounds, William often with her and even when she tired, as she often did, he insisted on her carrying out the doctor’s suggestions.
During one of these walks the rain was so heavy that Adelaide was wet to the skin for the shower had been sudden and she was unprepared for rain. William, however, was determined that she should walk the prescribed time and the walk was continued.
A few days later Adelaide had a cold which was followed by pleurisy. The doctor immediately ordered bleeding.
This left Adelaide very weak and a few days after the birth of Augusta’s little George her birth pangs began, although they were not due to start for several weeks.
The result was the premature birth of a little girl.
The child should be baptized immediately, advised the doctors; and she was christened Charlotte Augusta Louisa just before she died.
Adelaide was desolate and there was no comforting her. Moreover the bleeding had left her very weak and had robbed her of the stamina she needed to recover from the birth.
William was distraught.
He had lost his child but what most concerned him – somewhat to his surprise – was his fear at the prospect of losing his wife.
They had known each other less than a year; theirs had been entirely a marriage of convenience; yet he found that he would be wretched if he had to face life without her. She was not beautiful. She did not arouse his passionate desire … and yet how he would miss her if he lost her.
It was very strange.
He was constantly in the sickroom; he talked perpetually to the doctors; he made a nuisance of himself as, poor William, he could not help doing. But she was aware of him and she knew it was due to his affection and this did help to sustain her in her great sorrow. But she was unhappy. She knew that she had longed for her child, but only now did she realize how passionately. Those waiting months had been the happiest of her life, because she had so longed for their fulfilment. And now … it was finished. She was delirious and the doctors said she was on the point of death.
William was at her bedside. He would nurse her. Only he! She must get well, he told
her. What would he do if she did not?
Vaguely she was aware of him and his presence, while it encumbered her nurses, did give her comfort.
Augusta longed to visit her but hesitated. How would Adelaide feel if she, the successful mother, appeared to parade her triumph before her? So she did not come to the sickroom and the festivities which had been arranged to celebrate her little George’s birth were cancelled.
But with the coming of April, Adelaide’s condition began to improve.
William stayed at her side and would not leave her.
‘You must not fret,’ he said. ‘That doctor … those walks. That was what brought on your illness. And then the bleeding … and you lost our child. But you’re so young. There’ll be others. My sister, the Queen of Wurtemburg, has written sending affectionate messages to you. She says you will not want to stay in Hanover but will want a change of scene. She suggests that as soon as you are ready to travel we go and pay her a visit. Would you like that, eh? Because if you would not, we shall not go. I am going to take care of you now. Don’t you fret. The next time everything is going to be well. I can’t lose my wife. The children can’t lose their stepmother. Not when they’re beginning to be fond of her, eh?’
It was a little crude – the bluff sailor who spoke his thoughts aloud. But it was genuine and she was comforted.
And because she had lost this child, it did not mean that there would not be others.
Neither the Kents nor the Cumberlands could pretend to feel great grief when they received the news of Adelaide’s tragedy.
They reacted according to their natures.
‘She presents no difficulty,’ said the blunt Frederica. ‘She’s not the child-bearing type.’
‘It’s the will of God,’ said Victoria with the complacent air of one who knows herself to be the elect.
‘I think,’ she went on, ‘that it is time we returned to England.’
And as usual the Duke agreed with her.
They should, of course, have left before; but Victoria had been so anxious to remain in Germany as long as possible so as to have first-hand information of Adelaide’s confinement. It was very convenient that the birth should have been premature; and although she would not go so far as to apply the same adjective to the infant’s demise, it was in her mind.
