by Jean Plaidy
They could be sure that the coronation of George IV would be as lavish as any that had gone before. It was not in his nature to give a second-rate performance and at his own coronation he must excel.
So there were fewer hostile shouts when he drove out and he even heard a cheer or two; he was comforted, although Caroline continued to cause him great anxiety. She was determined, she made it known, to be crowned with him; it was no use trying to exclude her for she would not be excluded. The King had tried to prove a case against her and had failed; therefore she was entitled to be treated as the Queen of England.
She had taken up residence in Brandenburg House close to the river near Hammersmith and she made a point of driving out frequently and in such style that she could not fail to be noticed. Her face bedaubed with rouge and white lead, enormous hats adorned by colourful feathers topping her black wig, she would sit in her carriage nodding and smiling to all those who crowded about her carriage. She enjoyed playing the injured wife and loved to encourage the cheers for herself and hostility towards the King.
‘It’s my coronation as well as his,’ she declared to her women: And she intended to make it so.
The King behaved as though she did not exist. Any communication from her was ignored. He could not prove her guilty of adultery but he firmly believed she was and that only an evil fate kept him bound to her.
The Duchess of York being dead, the Queen ignored, the first lady in the land was Adelaide.
The Duchess of York had not mixed in society but this could not be the case with Adelaide, for she was now the mother of the Princess Elizabeth, who might well be a future sovereign.
‘You see, my dear,’ said the King, ‘it puts you in a more prominent position.’
Adelaide saw this and was eager to do her duty. She was often at Court; she gave parties which the King attended – often with Lady Conyngham; she appeared at all important royal functions.
People were noticing her more now than they ever had. She was far from handsome, was the verdict, but she had a charm of manner which made up for her lack of beauty; and her effect on William was miraculous.
She regretted the need for these ventures into society because they kept her from her baby. She felt she would never be accustomed to the wonder of having a child of her own; every moment she could spare from her duties was spent with the child. Queen Charlotte had had a wax image made of her beloved son George – now the King – and she had kept it on her dressing-table that she might see it every day. Adelaide now ordered a sculptor to model a reclining figure of the little Princess Elizabeth.
‘I want to have her with me always as she is now,’ she told William.
William was ready to indulge her and engaged the sculptor Scoular to carry out the work. The figure of the child was to be depicted lying on a couch, her head on a tasselled cushion; and when Scoular started the work Adelaide occasionally went to his studio to see how it was progressing.
The weather during January and February of coronation year had been mild, but in March it turned suddenly cold; and to Adelaide’s consternation the Princess Elizabeth caught a chill.
Going into the nursery one day she found the child uncomfortably flushed and in panic she immediately sent for the royal doctor, Sir Andrew Halliday.
At first he said that the child had merely taken a chill which he expected she would throw off in a day or so, but within a few hours he grew alarmed and sent for Sir William Knighton and Sir Henry Halford.
Adelaide was terrified. How could this have happened so suddenly? A day or so before the child had been quite well. She sent a message to William, who was with the King, to come to her at once.
When William heard that the child was ill he returned immediately. Adelaide met him at the door and when he saw how white she was and how she trembled he sought to comfort her.
‘Children have these ailments,’ he soothed. ‘Why, there are always alarms when they’re young. I should know … with ten of them.’
But this was not the ten vigorous FitzClarences; this was her precious fragile Elizabeth.
He went with her to the child’s nursery and there he was greeted by Sir Henry Halford, who was grave.
‘I have to tell Your Highnesses that the Princess has fallen into a convulsion and my colleagues feel that she is very gravely ill.’
William said nothing; he turned to Adelaide who looked as though she were about to faint.
‘I will take the Duchess to her room,’ he said; and he led her unresisting away.
She lay down as she was bid. She was praying silently. This could not be. She could not know so much happiness merely to lose it almost as soon as it was hers.
‘Anything, anything, let anything happen to me but let my baby be well again,’ she prayed.
She kept saying the child’s name over and over again and in her own ears her voice sounded mournful as a tolling bell and the fear in her heart would not be dismissed.
She must know what was happening. What was she doing lying here when her baby might be needing her?
She left her bed and went to the nursery.
William was there – looking unlike himself, a look of bleak bewilderment on his face.
She knew as soon as she saw him.
‘Not …’ she began, but she could say no more.
William nodded slowly.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘How could it be!’
She could see the child lying in her cradle … white and still.
‘No,’ she murmured.
William had caught her in his arms.
‘Help me get the Duchess to bed,’ he said.
There could not be such misery. She would not believe it. She did not want to know what was going on about her because everything would be dominated by one tragic fact.
She had learned in these last months that what she wanted more than anything, what she needed, was to be a mother. She was intended for motherhood. Her children would be the very meaning of life to her.
Her little Elizabeth had taught her that, and now she was gone.
She became ill, for she had never fully recovered from Elizabeth’s birth and the shock of her death was more than she could endure.
There was only one thing she wanted in life and that was for someone to come to her and say: ‘You dreamed this. It is not true. See here is your child, alive and well.’
The FitzClarences came to see her; they sat at her bedside and tried to comfort her. They did to a certain extent; but they were not her own children; and she had learned what it meant to hold her own flesh and blood in her arms.
William came. ‘You must get well,’ he said. ‘There will be others.’
But there was a terrible fear in her heart. Three times she had tried and failed. A fearful certainty had come to her that she would never bear a healthy child.
William told her that her sister Ida had written to say she was coming to England to comfort her, and she was bringing little Loulou and Wilhelm to help her in this.
‘You see, my dear, you must not grieve for ever,’ said William.
He was right. She had her duty. She must get up, try to live a normal life, try to pretend to the world that she did not believe that nothing would ever be the same again.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ said William. She tried to show some pleasure because he was so eager to interest her.
He took her into the small room in which she sat when she wished to be alone; sometimes she read there or did a little needlework. In one corner of this room was something covered by a velvet cloth.
William lifted this cloth; and there was the statue of a child – her Elizabeth – reclining on a sofa, with one exquisite little foot exposed; tiny fingers perfectly chiselled, curled about the stuff of the robe. The eyes were closed; the child was sleeping. It was Elizabeth, her child.
She stood staring at it; then she fell on her knees and laid her face against that cold little hand.
She began to sob as she had not
been able to since the loss of her child, and the Duke knelt with her and they wept together.
The enormity of her grief swept over her; but in some strange way the cold marble statue had rekindled the life in her.
She was ready to go on.
Ida arrived in England with her two children and the reunion brought happiness to Adelaide. She admired her niece and nephew and they, sensing her genuine affection, were soon returning it. It was characteristic of Adelaide that in spite of her ever-present grief she bore no envy towards those who were more fortunate than herself.
Being with Ida, giving parties for her and introducing her to society helped her a great deal; but what she most enjoyed were the hours she spent alone with the children. The afflicted little Loulou was her special favourite, perhaps because the child aroused her pity; she even felt that in some way her little niece filled a part of that emptiness which had been created by the loss of Elizabeth.
The Duchess of Kent, now that Victoria’s rival was no more, was anxious to commiserate with her sister-in-law. Whenever she looked at her sturdy Victoria and thought of what had happened to the child’s cousin fear gripped her; and this quickly turned to pity for the Duchess of Clarence for she refused to allow herself to believe – for more than a second or two – that Victoria could possibly be threatened by death. Victoria was the elect, the beloved of the gods; it had been prophesied that she was to be a great queen – therefore fate could not allow it to be otherwise.
‘We were foolish to imagine anything could stand in Victoria’s way,’ she said to Lehzen. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry for poor Adelaide. I have written to her condoling with her and I have told her that I have refrained from bringing little Victoria to see her for fear the sight of the child might upset her.’
‘How thoughtful of Your Highness!’ murmured Fräulein Lehzen.
Adelaide, however, was soon writing back to her sister-in-law thanking her for her letter and declaring that it would give her the greatest pleasure to see little Victoria, so that if the Duchess of Kent would bring her daughter to her she would be delighted.
‘There!’ said the Duchess to John Conroy who had become her chief adviser. ‘The Duchess of Clarence would like to see Victoria.’
‘She will be extremely jealous.’
‘They say she is not of a jealous nature – although having lost her daughter and seeing mine … I shall go of course. There is nothing else to be done and it is well that Victoria should be on good terms with all her uncles – particularly those who might one day wear the crown.’
John Conroy thought this was sound.
‘I shall certainly not take her to Bushy. It would be quite wrong for her to be near Clarence’s illegitimate brood. On no account shall I allow her to see them. So the visit will be paid when the Duchess is at St James’s.’
‘An excellent idea and worthy of Your Highness.’
The Duchess looked at him fondly; they worked so well together and he had been such a comfort to her since Edward’s death. There was always Leopold of course; and he came to Kensington every Wednesday to see her and Victoria; and what she would do without him she did not know. Victoria was so fond of him. The child did seem fond of men. She liked to sit on Leopold’s knee, examining his decorations and call him Uncle in her charming baby way.
‘I shall take Feodore with me. It is time that child was noticed. We shall soon have to concern ourselves with her future. How time flies! She is fourteen, you know.’
‘In a year or so …’ said Conroy.
‘And in the meantime she should appear now and then. A visit to the Duchess of Clarence will be a start – after all she is the first lady now the Duchess of York is dead. One cannot count Caroline. I am sure the Duchess will be enchanted with my daughters … both of them.’
Conroy assured the Duchess that he was of the same opinion and when the Clarences were at St James’s, the Duchess of Kent decided she would pay the call.
Victoria should be dressed in one of her prettiest gowns – soft blue silk with a wide blue sash of a deeper blue and her fair hair curled with especial care. Her little white slippers with the blue bows just showed beneath the draperies of her gown.
‘Angelic!’ murmured the Duchess when the child was brought to her.
And there was Feodore, looking remarkably pretty. Surely two of the loveliest girls in the kingdom!
Feodore curtsied prettily. It should not be difficult to find a husband for her.
Victoria signified her desire to be picked up by Feodore and Feodore immediately complied with this wish. An enchanting picture, thought the gratified Duchess.
‘We are going to see the Duchess of Clarence at St James’s,’ said their mother.
‘Sissi?’ asked Victoria, her eyes on Feodore.
‘Yes. Sissi is coming with us. Now, I believe the carriage is waiting.’
Feodore handed Victoria to her nurse who carried her down to the waiting carriage. All the way from Kensington to St James’s Victoria alternately looked out of the window at the streets through which they passed or bounced up and down on the upholstered seats. Not very decorous behaviour for a future queen, thought the Duchess; and it was quite clear that soon Victoria’s exuberance would have to be curbed, but for the moment the sheer vitality of the child was such a joy to watch that Victoria might continue to amuse herself as she wished.
No one in the streets gave more than a cursory glance at the occupants of the carriage. They seem to be unaware, thought the Duchess, that their future queen is passing by.
When they reached St James’s they were warmly welcomed by Adelaide, who, the Duchess of Kent noticed with pleasure, could not take her eyes from Victoria.
When the children were sent away to play together – poor crippled Louise, her brother William, Feodore and Victoria – Adelaide said to her sister-in-law, ‘Your little daughter quite enchants me.’
The Duchess glowed with pride. ‘I feared to bring her before …’
‘You should not have done. My loss does not prevent my delight in seeing her. She is so full of life; she looks so healthy. I trust you will often allow her to come and see me.’
‘You have only to ask, my dear,’ said Victoria of Kent graciously.
When the children came back Victoria sat on Adelaide’s knee and delighted in her admiration while she herself admired Adelaide’s rings and the locket which she wore round her neck. It was like her Mamma’s; she wanted to see the picture inside which was of the Duke of Clarence.
This delighted her and she spent some time shutting the locket and watching it spring open. Adelaide’s heart overflowed with emotion as she watched those chubby fingers at work.
William, having heard that his sister-in-law was visiting Adelaide, called in to pay his respects and Victoria looked at him with delight and holding her arms to him cried: ‘Papa! Papa!’
William picked her up and held her over his head so that she shrieked with laughter. Oh dear, thought her mother, this is not very decorous – but I suppose it is all right since he could be King if the present King and the Duke of York died soon.
The result of that visit was that all decided it was a great success; and after that Adelaide took a special delight in the little Victoria and they saw each other frequently.
The charm of the child gave her great pleasure; and she believed if she could surround herself with children she could find some happiness, although she would never cease to mourn for her own Elizabeth.
Coronation – and Freedom
THE CORONATION WAS fixed for 19 July, and as plans went forward the excitement arose.
An important event had taken place that May which in the minds of many predicted a peaceful reign for their new King. Napoleon died at St Helena of cancer in the stomach, and there was no longer any fear that he could escape and cause misery and suffering to thousands as he had from Elba. There was great security in the knowledge that he was dead.
The people felt that they could give themselves up to the
pleasure of the grand ceremony and forget wars. It was sure to be a dramatic occasion. They could always trust old George to give them that; and what with the Queen’s saying she would be there and the King’s saying that on no account should she be, the whole thing would seem like something out of a comic opera.
Lady Conyngham was now constantly in the King’s company; she had a house in Marlborough Row and when she wished to ride used a carriage from the King’s stables; each day she dined with the King; her daughters were never far off; and the King treated them as though they were his own family, being far more gracious to them, it was noted, than he ever had been to his own daughter, the Princess Charlotte. They received handsome presents from him, and as it was a custom of his to walk through his apartments after dinner displaying the latest objets d’art he had acquired, he often did this with Lady Conyngham on one arm and one of her daughters on the other.
The story was told that on one occasion Lady Conyngham gave orders that all the candles in the saloon should be lighted – there were hundreds of them – and when the King entered and seemed a little startled by the brilliant light she said to him somewhat apologetically: ‘Sir, I told them to light the saloon as guests were coming.’ To which the King replied, taking her arm with the utmost devotion, ‘Thank you, my dear. You always do what is right. You cannot please me so much as by doing everything you please, everything to show that you are mistress here.’
Many people heard that and they said that they had not seen the King so deeply in love since the days of Maria Fitzherbert. And he was now a man of nearly sixty, though he did not look it in spite of his great bulk and his constant illnesses, for his charm – aided considerably by that unpowdered wig – helped him to throw off the years.
During the weeks which preceded the coronation the King was aware that his popularity was rising a little. He felt confidence in the future. Napoleon was dead, an era of peace lay ahead, the long-awaited crown was his, and the people were perhaps beginning to appreciate that he wished to serve them well. He had Lady Conyngham to be his constant companion, and he was in love – he could never be happy unless he was in love – so the future seemed fair but for one heavy cloud.
