Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  But the Duchess was disturbed by her daughter’s misadventures in childbirth. ‘Dearest child,’ she asked, ‘do you take the greatest care?’

  ‘The utmost, Mamma,’ replied Adelaide.

  ‘You were always a little delicate,’ sighed the Duchess. ‘Not like Ida and …’

  She did not add that Ida’s husband was young and vigorous and that the Duke of Clarence was scarcely that. What a pity that the Duke of Saxe-Weimar was not the Duke of Clarence and vice versa. It was far more important for Adelaide to have children than for Ida; and yet ironically – one might say mischievously – it was the younger daughter who was productive when the elder one could have given birth to a monarch.

  But what concerned Duchess Eleanor as a mother was the health and happiness of her daughters. She need have no fears for Ida – but Adelaide. Adelaide so deserved happiness; and there was a haunting sadness about her which the Duchess knew was due to frustrated motherhood.

  Still, she was having her effect on William. He was far less crude than he had been at the time of their marriage. When they parted the Duchess Eleanor gave her daughter injunctions to come again soon and declared what happiness it was to her to know that she could see all her family from time to time.

  And after that followed a brief visit to the Queen of Würtemburg who welcomed her brother and sister-in-law with great warmth. They were shocked by the sight of her, for her body had become not only gross but oddly shaped. She had the family tendency to grow fat and unlike her brother, King George IV, she had never corseted. Her face had grown so large that eyes had sunk into flesh; she was an extraordinary sight and scarcely human, but she was kind and felt very friendly towards Adelaide and was full of commiseration over the loss of her children. Adelaide was sorry to leave her sister-in-law but she was beginning to feel an eagerness to be back in the peace of Bushy with her younger stepchildren where the elder ones called frequently bringing the children which they knew made them exceptionally welcome.

  Back in England, settling happily at Bushy, visiting Kensington Palace, seeing how the little Victoria had grown, was certainly very pleasant.

  The Duchess of Kent though was decidedly jealous, for on Adelaide’s first call after the return to England, Victoria so far forgot her good manners as to fly at her aunt and put her chubby arms about her knees and bury her face into Aunt Adelaide’s gown in an excess of affection.

  ‘Victoria!’ cried the Duchess of Kent in an angry voice.

  And Victoria, flushing with shame, withdrew herself and curtsied to Aunt Adelaide in the manner laid down in the nursery.

  Adelaide laughed and picked up the child in her arms.

  ‘Oh, we are too good friends for ceremony, my precious.’

  At which Victoria chuckled with relief and putting her arms about Adelaide’s neck gave her a resounding kiss.

  We must put a stop to this, thought the Duchess of Kent.

  ‘I must apologize for my daughter’s behaviour,’ she said to Adelaide.

  ‘I like it,’ was the reply.

  ‘So,’ complained the Duchess of Kent afterwards to John Conroy, ‘shattering all the good sense I have been trying to instil into the child. But what can you expect of a woman who receives those dreadful FitzClarence bastards as though they are her stepchildren.’

  ‘And how is the Big Doll?’ Adelaide wanted to know.

  ‘She is very well, Aunt Adelaide. And she will be pleased to see you. She has missed you. She told me so.’

  Victoria must be taught not to tell lies, thought the Duchess of Kent.

  ‘And may I see her?’

  ‘Oh, please come, Aunt Adelaide. And I have some more dolls. Aunt Augusta gave me one dressed like Queen Elizabeth. And Aunt Mary has promised me another.’

  ‘That is a lovely idea. Perhaps you will make a collection.’

  ‘What is a collection?’

  The Duchess of Kent watched in exasperation while they looked at the dolls and the Duchess of Clarence behaved in what she could only call a most infantile manner.

  Now, she thought, she will be calling often; Victoria will be visiting St James’s – but not Bushy, never Bushy, that is something I will never allow – and Victoria is growing up. She is advanced for her years. She picks up things quickly … sometimes, I think, too quickly. We shall have to be very watchful.

  Adelaide was telling Victoria about the dolls she had seen on the Continent and she must look about and see what were to be had here. They must really start their collection.

  Really, thought the Duchess of Kent, I would say it was time that woman had a child of her own – if it would not be so disastrous if she did.

  A glorious thing had happened. Adelaide was once again pregnant.

  This time, she told herself as she had on every other occasion, I shall succeed.

  When Adelaide wrote and told Ida of her hopes Ida wrote that Mamma had suggested she come over to England and look after Adelaide during her pregnancy. Did Adelaide feel it would be a good idea? Adelaide’s reply was that little could delight her more and Ida said she would prepare to leave at once bringing the children with her.

  ‘It would be pleasant,’ Adelaide said to William, ‘if when we entertained we could do so in London as well as at Bushy.’

  ‘The apartments at St James’s are hardly big enough for that. We should need a bigger house. Really it is ridiculous that we have no place in London but these dismal rooms. I’ll choose a moment to speak to George about it. He is constantly adding to Carlton House and the Pavilion; and now he has notions for Buckingham House. He was telling me about them the other day. I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a house of our own.’

  ‘It must either be that or we shall have to refurbish these St James’s rooms,’ said Adelaide. ‘But there is always Bushy. Ida and the children will stay there of course. But it would be convenient if we could be in London now and then.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said William.

  It was a great joy to see Ida very pleased with herself, and looking extremely well.

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Adelaide.

  ‘It’s not to be wondered at,’ retorted Ida. ‘There will be two of us.’

  ‘You … again.’

  ‘Oh, come, I only have my two. Three will be a pleasant number.’

  ‘Ida … when?’

  ‘October.’

  ‘I’m so pleased that we shall have our children together.’

  ‘That’s what I thought and that’s why I came. I’m to take the greatest care of you. Make sure you don’t tax your strength. I have orders from Mamma.’

  ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to be together again.’

  ‘The children think so. Loulou adores you, you know.’

  ‘As I do her.’

  ‘When she heard we were coming to stay with you her face lit up with joy. Poor darling, I fear life will not be very good for her. She looks so sad sometimes when she sees other children running about.’

  ‘We must try to make her happy.’

  ‘You do, Adelaide. You always do. You have a way with children. They all seem to love you.’

  Adelaide sighed and Ida wished that she had not said that for she had reminded her sister of her losses.

  But this time it was going to be different.

  Alas, this was not to be.

  It was the familiar pattern. Weeks before the child was due, Adelaide felt the warning pains; and all the attention of the royal physicians and her sister Ida’s care could not save her from the inevitable miscarriage.

  With each one she grew more and more desperate. It seemed to her that she was incapable of bearing a child that could live. And the fact that there were ten healthy FitzClarences to prove that the fault did not lie with William made her all the more depressed.

  ‘Our marriage is pointless,’ she told Ida, ‘for it was solely to provide a child that it was arranged.’

  ‘That may have been,’ retorted Ida, ‘but it is not so now. William relies on
you. He was quite distracted when you were so ill. Whatever the original reason for the marriage, now it is based on true affection. He relies on you. He needs you. That has to be your consolation.’

  There was some consolation in the thought.

  In October Ida gave birth to a son – a healthy boy who was christened Edward and in caring for him Adelaide found much comfort.

  William went down to see the King at the Pavilion, whither he had gone after his very successful tour of the Continent which had followed that of Ireland.

  The King was not in good health and William was shocked at the sight of him. The coronation and the State visits which had followed had given him an interest which had temporarily rejuvenated him but now he was back in England and his people showed quite clearly that they had recovered from the excitement of the coronation. They did not like their King now that it was over any more than they had before it had taken place. The spate of lampoons was growing and they were getting more and more unpleasant.

  By God, he has changed! thought William; and remembered how awkward he had always felt in glittering George’s presence. The King still retained his charm and when he displayed it one forgot his unwieldy body, but he felt that unless he were firmly corseted he could not possibly appear in public and to be firmly corseted had become an agony.

  He was pleased to see William as he always was to see any of his brothers, and commiserated with him immediately about the loss of the child.

  ‘How I would have delighted if all had gone well! Not only for dear Adelaide’s sake and yours, William, but to put an end to the vanities of that absurd woman at Kensington Palace. I hear that infant thrives.’

  ‘Adelaide tells me so. She is very fond of her. She is embroidering a dress for her now.’

  ‘Adelaide is a saint.’

  ‘I know.’

  The King looked as though he were about to launch into an account of his own matrimonial disasters from which release had come too late. So William said: ‘Adelaide feels we should have a place in London. Those St James’s quarters are cramped and uncomfortable.’

  ‘So you should,’ said the King. ‘Why don’t you get a London house?’

  ‘For the usual reasons,’ said William. ‘Money.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I am sure that could be arranged.’

  So that was settled, and now the King could talk of his own troubles.

  He had felt damned ill when he returned from his travels and had had to be bled even more than usual.

  ‘And those damned scribblers! By God, if this is not a libel I don’t know what it is. You know what they were suggesting, William? That my illness was mysterious. That I had to be shut away from my subjects. And the reason because I was suffering from the same trouble as our father did.’

  ‘What rubbish!’

  ‘That is how it is, William. It will never be forgotten that our father was mad. They are going to watch us very closely and if we show the slightest sign of eccentricity there will be those to whisper against us.’

  ‘It’s monstrous.’

  ‘I thought so, William, and that is why I wished to sue for libel. But you know what happened when Peel raised the matter. The Attorney-General was against it. It would have meant one of those interminable cases and so, I was told, whatever the verdict, the rumours would remain. You see what I have to suffer, William.’

  ‘I am glad that you have dear Lady Conyngham to make life easier for you.’

  The King looked sad, but decided not to make a confidant of William.

  The truth was that he was discovering he had no great confidence in Lady Conyngham. He was not such a fool as not to know that her affection was rather for the King than for the man. She was no Maria Fitzherbert. How he wished that Maria were with him now. But it was many years since they had been together. He wondered whether she ever thought of him now. It was when he had become Regent that they had parted and she would have grown accustomed to being without him; she had devoted herself to her adopted daughter Mary Seymour and he had heard from time to time that she had derived great happiness from the girl. He could recall times when Mary Seymour had been a very little girl and used to climb on his knee and call him Prinney – and they had been like a happy family – the three of them. That was how it should have remained.

  But he had left Maria. No, no, he would not have that. Maria had left him. But it was due to his friendship with Lady Hertford. And what happiness had that brought him? And now Lady Hertford had gone and Lady Conyngham was the companion on whom he relied.

  But she was weary of him. He knew it. She did not want to be a nurse to a tired, sick old man. She wanted a king who could give her diamonds and sapphires and at whose side she could appear on glittering occasions.

  But he was ill and tired – mad, his enemies tried to say, like his father; and life had not gone well for him because he was lonely and he must cling to Lady Conyngham because there must be some woman in his life. She did not want him and through his own folly he had lost the one whom he had truly loved and who had truly loved him.

  She was not very far away in distance but too many years, too many quarrels, too many humiliations separated them.

  So, tired, old and ill, he must be lonely too.

  And while Lady Conyngham continued to be with him and he bribed her with his kingship and the jewels she so loved and the honours she demanded for her family, he knew that he did not care for her; he only wanted not to be lonely.

  And the name that most constantly was in his mind was Maria.

  When Ida said she should return to Ghent to join her husband, Adelaide was melancholy.

  ‘I can never tell you,’ she said to William, ‘what it has meant to me to have my sister and the children with me at this time.’

  ‘You’ve grown fond of the little ones,’ said William. ‘Particularly Louise.’

  ‘I am so sorry for the dear child. She is a brave little thing for I know she suffers pain.’

  ‘I sometimes think she cares for you more than she does her own mother.’

  ‘That’s not true. But Ida is so gay and full of life. Perhaps her mother makes her realize more fully what she has missed than I do.’

  William was thoughtful and later that day he went to Ida’s room and asked if he could have a word with her.

  ‘You’ll be leaving soon,’ he said. ‘Adelaide is going to miss you very much.’

  ‘As I shall miss her.’

  ‘You will go back to the gay life of Ghent. You have your husband and your children …’

  ‘Oh dear, how I wish Adelaide’s child had lived.’

  ‘And how I wish there was something I could do to make her see this is not quite so important as she thinks. If we cannot have a child there is no use brooding on it. We should forget it and enjoy life. A trip on the Continent, I always say – and go on hoping. But one thing did strike me. You have to go but why shouldn’t Loulou and the baby remain?’

  ‘My children!’ cried Ida.

  ‘It would comfort her. Let them stay on. She’ll have little Louise to care for and that will comfort her for the loss of her own. Ask Louise if she will stay and if she wishes to, let her. And the baby too. That is what Adelaide needs at this time – a baby to care for.’

  Ida looked in astonishment at William. How he had changed since his marriage! He was developing a little imagination and had grown thoughtful. He did indeed love Adelaide.

  Of course, this was Adelaide’s influence on him. She was thought to be quiet and perhaps insignificant. It had always been so; but this was not true. It was people like Adelaide who had a stronger influence than frivolous people like herself.

  And Louise? She had to admit that there were times when she was impatient with Louise, when she could not suppress her irritation with the child, when the sight of a crippled daughter depressed her; and she saw now that Louise, perhaps made more sensitive by her affliction, was aware of this.

  But Adelaide would feel only love for Louise and the lo
ve would be greater because of the child’s disability. Adelaide would never flare into sudden temper; she would be equable, able to bring Louise out of her fits of depression; she would make her believe that there were compensations in not being able to dance and play games that other children could.

  ‘You see what I mean,’ persisted William. ‘Think about it, Ida. And if you agree, tell Adelaide.’

  Thus it was that when Ida left for Ghent she left behind her baby and the crippled Louise. The latter, when questioned by her mother, had admitted that she would prefer to stay in England with Aunt Adelaide than return with her mother to Ghent.

  That was enough for Ida who told Adelaide that Louise wished to stay.

  Adelaide could not disguise her pleasure in the fact that although her sister must go she was not going to lose her little niece and nephew.

  Could Ida bear to part with them?

  Ida said she could and since the baby had been born Adelaide had done far more for him than his mother had.

  ‘He would be lost without you,’ said Ida. ‘Let them stay on until I have settled in; and then I will come again and take them home.’

  So Ida left and the parting was not so desolate as it might have been: for Adelaide had the children to look after and if they were not her own – well, they were the next best thing.

  William was in excellent spirits for he had chosen a site for his new House which was to be built in St James’s.

  ‘I shall call it Clarence House,’ he said, and Adelaide agreed that it was as good a name as anyone could wish.

  With the approach of Christmas came an invitation to join the King at Brighton.

  Adelaide was a little uneasy as the death of the Queen and the Duchess of York had put her in the position of first lady, which meant at Brighton where the Court was she would be constantly called upon to do her duty in that role, for where the King was there must be a certain amount of ceremony and she would be often at the King’s side.