by Jean Plaidy
She was so delighted to be back among the beloved hills. But there was this terrible news about Lord Palmerston. She did hope he was not going to be so ill that she would have to return to London. She would write to Lady Palmerston and send her sympathies. How difficult it must be to nurse a man like Lord Palmerston. She was sure he would never do what he was told.
In the meantime she would forget her Prime Minister and enjoy the simple life. What fun it was when Dr Macleod came in and told them about a most horrible murderer with whom he had talked when he visited the prison. Dr Pritchard had murdered his wife and mother-in-law and had been a dreadful character. It was really very distressing to realise that there were such terrible people in the world. But he of course was no longer in it, having been hanged by the neck last July.
Death, she thought. We all came to it. Dear Albert now lay in the mausoleum at Frogmore and how often during the months following his death had she longed to lie there beside him.
Now … She thrust aside the thought, because it was quite a long time since she had wished she were there with him. It was not that she was forgetting, she reminded herself. She was merely reconciled to living out the span allotted to her.
All the same it was very interesting to listen to Dr Macleod and the next day which was Sunday they went to church where prayers were said for the recovery of Lord Palmerston.
Lord Palmerston lay in bed wondering whether he would reach his eighty-first birthday. He had breakfasted off mutton chops and port wine and told Emily that he felt better after such an excellent meal.
Emily came and sat by his bed but refused to allow him to get up. His protests were mild enough for he did not really feel well. But to cheer Emily when the doctor called he told him that he wanted to be up and about and couldn’t think why they were keeping him in bed. ‘You’ll die if you go out in this weather,’ warned the doctor.
‘Die!’ cried Palmerston with the accustomed wit. ‘My dear fellow, that’s the last thing I shall do.’
A few days later he was dead.
He was buried in Westminster Abbey and crowds witnessed the ceremony. They were silent crowds and the spirit of genuine mourning was evident. He had been the people’s darling with his amorous adventures in his youth which had earned him the name Cupid, becoming on his marriage to Emily the reformed rake, his wit, his unruffled good humour, his refusal to bow to royalty, his ability in foreign affairs – all this was remembered at the passing of good old Pam.
The Queen was saddened because she hated death.
‘But,’ she said, ‘I never really liked him.’
The Queen hated these ministerial crises and she was really very perturbed to contemplate that Lord Palmerston was no more. Although she had never liked him, she had to admit that she was feeling his loss deeply. He had been a strong man and that was what the country needed, particularly when it no longer had Albert to lead the way. He had been very courageous, anyone must admit that; and he had been calm; of course he had thought that he was infallible and he had been most disrespectful at times, but the country was going to miss him and apart from his vanity he was a great man. Moreover he had been the Prime Minister and there was nothing to do but summon Lord John Russell and ask him to step into Palmerston’s shoes.
Poor Lord John, he was getting so old, but what alternative was there?
When she considered her ministers nowadays she thought longingly of Sir Robert Peel, that great good man whom she had failed to appreciate until Albert had revealed his virtues to her. There was hardly one man of stature in her government now because she refused to consider Mr Gladstone whom she could never like. But there was one … She smiled tolerantly, thinking of him. Mr Disraeli was such a feeling man, and even his enemies – and he had many – would admit that he was clever. In the first place she had thought him rather odd – so was his wife, a very flamboyant woman, a widow too and she had never believed in widows remarrying. But Mr Disraeli had shown himself to be a charming man. While Mr Gladstone had fulminated against the cost of the Albert Memorial, Mr Disraeli had made such a delightful speech. Nothing was too expensive, in his opinion, to honour the great Prince Consort. She had warmed towards him immediately; and when they had spoken together he had talked of Albert as an Ideal and had so understood her grief that there was an immediate rapport between them.
She had shown her approval by seeing that he and his wife had good seats for Bertie’s wedding; and she thought it was rather touching how devoted he was to Mrs Disraeli who was thirteen years older than he was; and she of course adored him. They reminded her of herself and Albert and that made her warm all the more to Mr Disraeli. He of course was a Tory as dear Sir Robert had been – but he had not been a great friend of Sir Robert; he had as a matter of fact been one of those responsible for the downfall of that great man. But politics were politics and Mr Disraeli had to defend his principles even if it meant going against his leader, which showed of course how honourable Mr Disraeli was.
However, there was no question of Mr Disraeli’s forming a government at this stage. All she could do was write to Lord John Russell.
The melancholy news of Lord Palmerston’s death reached the Queen tonight. This is another link with the past that is broken and the Queen feels deeply in her desolate and isolate condition how, one by one, tried servants and advisers are taken from her. The Queen can turn to no other than Lord Russell, an old and tried friend of hers, to undertake the arduous duties of Prime Minister and carry on the government.
Poor little Johnny Russell – so old and tired. How much better it would have been if she could have sent for that stimulating and exciting personality, Mr Disraeli.
Only two months after the death of Lord Palmerston another tragedy occurred which touched the Queen far more deeply.
Uncle Leopold died.
She had talked of Lord Palmerston’s death as a broken link with the past, how much more so was Leopold’s.
She shut herself in her room and wept thinking of her childhood when he had seemed godlike to her, perfect in every way, the father whom she had sadly missed, the adviser and the friend. Of course as time went on he had sought to rule her, but that was his way; and first Lord Melbourne and then Albert had been beside her to teach her that much as she loved this dear uncle he must not be allowed to rule England. Dear Uncle Leopold who had been first Charlotte’s husband and then Louise’s and had arranged that all his relations should marry throughout Europe most advantageously. He had been a great power in the world and a great influence on her life.
He wished to be buried at Windsor. Of course it should be so. His body should be brought over and there should be a very sad ceremony for this beloved relation.
She was horrified when the Belgian Government refused to allow his body to be sent to England. He was the King of the Belgians, it was said, and England was not his native land.
The Queen was both furious and tearful.
‘You’ll be upsetting yourself, woman,’ said John Brown, ‘for no good at all.’
‘You’re right, of course, Brown, but this was my beloved uncle, the friend of my childhood, and he is dead.’
‘We all have to die when our time comes,’ mumbled Brown.
How right he was.
‘It’s the Catholic Clergy who are raising objections,’ went on the Queen.
Brown’s lips curled; he didn’t think much of any church but that of Scotland.
‘Nasty beggars,’ he said, which made the Queen smile and feel so much better.
It was most unfortunate that with the passing of Lord Palmerston and the premiership of Lord John, Mr Gladstone should have become the Leader of the House while remaining Chancellor of the Exchequer. This meant that the Queen was obliged to see more of him and as she confided to John Brown, she could never take to the man. She would never forgive him for voting against granting the money for the Albert Memorial; he was so different from Mr Disraeli, whom the more she saw the more she liked. She had forgotten that she ha
d once thought him a mountebank; now he was amusing and exciting. The manner in which he kissed her hand was so reverential and he spoke of Albert in hushed tones as though he were speaking of the Deity.
Mr Disraeli understood the Queen’s grief; he never tried to minimise it, he often dwelt on its magnitude; he told her of his devotion to his own dear Mary Anne although it was absurd to compare the strange, quite ugly creature with beautiful Albert; but in Mr Disraeli’s eyes his wife was a beauty which was very touching, particularly after all the unkind things which people said about his marrying her for her money.
She had sent him a copy of the Prince’s speeches bound in white morocco; he replied by letter containing elegant phrases which exuded gratitude and in person he expressed his delight in the gift with tears in his eyes so that she had no doubt of his sincere appreciation.
But of course he was in Opposition, which was very irritating, because while Johnny Russell’s government remained, unfortunately that tiresome Mr Gladstone must be often in her company.
Only one thing could she find in his favour. Mrs Gladstone was devoted to him. She often wondered what it must be like to be married to such an unattractive man. Poor Mrs Gladstone!
She was not sorry when the Russell government was defeated and forced to resign. She had in the past been fond of Little Johnny, but that was in Lord Melbourne’s day and now he was seventy-three and seemed older than Lord Palmerston had been at eighty. Gladstone’s Reform Bill was the reason for the government’s downfall. Clever Mr Disraeli and his leader Lord Derby had put forward more popular measures and as a result Lord John and Mr Gladstone were so badly defeated that they had no recourse but to resign.
Lord Derby came in with his Tories and although he was the Prime Minister the Queen was amused to note that the leading light of the new government was her dear friend Mr Disraeli.
Benjamin Disraeli was jubilant. He could see in the very near future he would achieve the great ambition of his life – to become Prime Minister. And when he did he could be sure of the two women who were most important to him, Mary Anne, his wife, and Victoria the Queen.
Disraeli had always been a favourite with women – particularly those older than himself – but although the Queen was some fifteen years younger than he was, she was a matron, the mother of nine, and since the death of the Prince Consort appeared to be older than her years.
Derby was ailing; there was no doubt of that; Lord John Russell was too old for office; Melbourne was gone, Palmerston was gone. Who was left? The answer was Disraeli, who would tower above them all, his only rival being William Ewart Gladstone whom the Queen disliked more and more as time passed. Poor old Gladstone, he did not know how to treat romantically minded ladies – for the Queen was one no less than Mary Anne.
Disraeli’s great regret was that his sister Sarah was not alive. How she would have enjoyed his triumph. Dear old Sarah who had been so loyal all the years and followed his successes with such glee – how sad that she should die before he had reached the pinnacle.
But it was seven years or so since Sarah had died, and they had buried her in Paddington cemetery. She had never married, although twenty-nine years before her death she had been engaged to William Meredith who had died in Cairo when he and Benjamin were travelling together. Had she married him she would have had a husband and family with whom to concern herself and might not have been so devoted to her brother.
So he had lost Sarah, but he had Mary Anne and nobody could have been more faithful, no one could have lived more for another person than she lived for him.
Returning home late from the House he would always find her waiting up for him; she liked to make sure that there was a snack ready in case he should feel hungry.
On this occasion she would be jubilant, he knew, for she would be fully aware of the situation and what it meant.
‘I’m not clever like you, Dizzy,’ she would often say. ‘I’m a regular dunce.’ But she knew well enough what was good for her Dizzy and she would be fully aware of Lord Derby’s failing powers and that her clever husband was poised waiting to spring into the saddle.
True to custom when he arrived home, there was Mary Anne in a brilliantly coloured peignoir waiting up for him, presiding over a table laid with cold chicken and champagne.
‘Celebrations tonight,’ she greeted him. ‘This is a good day for my dearest Dizzy.’
Dizzy replied with that gallantry which had so delighted the Queen that the best part of it was coming home to Mary Anne.
‘I’ll drink a glass with you,’ she told him. ‘To the next Prime Minister.’
‘A little way to go yet, Mary Anne.’
‘A step or two,’ she admitted.
‘Gladstone’s waiting to spring.’
‘Sanctimonious old devil,’ said Mary Anne.
‘You sound like the Queen.’
‘Is that what she calls him?’
‘Not quite, but she looks really severe when she mentions his name.’
‘And she smiles for my Dizzy.’
‘I know how to treat her. It’s always well to flatter people but where royalty are concerned you lay it on with a trowel.’
Mary Anne giggled; her eyes grew sentimental. ‘Is the chicken good, my dearest? And you were hungry!’ She raised her glass. ‘May you be as good a Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House as you have been a husband to your Mary Anne. And,’ she added, ‘very soon I shall substitute for the first two titles that of Prime Minister.’
‘You go too fast, my dearest wife.’
‘No one goes as fast as my Dizzy.’
‘What should I do without you?’
‘Is that what you asked yourself when you married me for my money?’
‘Not so earnestly as I do now, for you know that if I had to make the choice again I’d marry you for love.’
She smiled at him, eyes glazed with affection.
‘Do you know, Dizzy,’ she said. ‘I believe you mean that.’
‘With all my heart,’ said her husband.
Chapter XI
A ROYAL BIRTH
The Queen was a little worried. She was laughing now and then, usually at some of Brown’s quaint sayings. She found that she was enjoying rides in the country, particularly at Balmoral which would always be nearest to her heart, although she loved Osborne too.
Was she being unfaithful to Albert because she was not thinking of him every hour of the day?
She wrote to Vicky and told her about her feelings. She would never forget that Beloved Papa was a saint and that there could never be anyone like him, but she did find that her grief was less vehement. Of course there were times when she was sunk in melancholy but she did find some solace in the children of course. Baby Beatrice – not such a baby now – had always been so amusing and it was so pleasant to have the children with her, reading together, but she feared sometimes they would go a very long time without mentioning Papa, and she was very ashamed afterwards; it seemed a slight to his memory.
Vicky wrote back that dearest Papa would be watching over her and perhaps it was his will that she should stop brooding.
‘You have your life to lead, Mama, and great duties to perform. I am sure it is Papa’s will that you should remember that, although you long to join him, you must await the call.’
Vicky was a comfort of course; and so was dear Dean Wellesley to whom she also confessed her waning grief.
She still mourned, replied the Dean, and that showed how deep her affection had been. To spend her days in brooding and weeping was not in fact a sign of great grief for a loss as much as pity for oneself.
She was comforted by this and allowed herself to be amused by clever Mr Disraeli and honest John Brown.
Whenever she rode out John Brown would be on the box; wherever she was he was never far away; he looked after her clothes and wrapped her cloak about her; he scolded her for not standing still while he fastened it; when she was feeling unwell he would carry her from her sofa t
o her bed. ‘Where is Brown?’ she would ask if he failed to appear.
One of the most startling facets of the relationship was that the handsome Highlander was more than a little fond of his whisky and there had been occasions when he had been unable to answer the Queen’s summons because he had taken rather too much.
When she demanded an explanation he replied nonchalantly: ‘I was o’er bashful last night, woman.’
Bashful! She knew what he meant. He had drunk too much whisky and had been unable to wait on her. What an amusing word! Bashful, meaning slightly intoxicated – or perhaps not exactly slightly.
She would say roguishly when she saw him helping himself to what he called a wee dram, ‘Now, Brown, pray do not become too bashful!’
‘Nae,’ he would reply, ‘I’ll content myself with a wee dram or two the night.’
The Queen laughed. He did her so much good.
But of course it was hardly likely that the relationship between them should go unnoticed.
It seemed incredible that this imperious Queen who could subdue any one of her ministers with a cold stare or an icy comment should find it amusing that one of her servants should be too intoxicated for his duties. What could it mean?
There seemed to be one construction to put on this – and it was immediately put.
Eyebrows were raised; titters were heard. What is the relationship, it was asked, between the Queen and her Highland servant?
It was a mystery. He was good-looking in his rough way – tall, curly-haired and bearded, with the famous strong chin which she admired; he talked to her as no one had ever talked to her in her life and was allowed to.
Such delicious scandal material could not be allowed to go unrecorded.
The scandal was taken up hilariously not only in England but also on the Continent.
There were cartoons, lampoons, imitation Court Circulars in which the activities of Mr John Brown were recorded. It was inevitable that sooner or later there should be talk of Mrs John Brown.
