by Jean Plaidy
Vicky said: ‘Mama, pray do not distress yourself so …’
‘Pray refrain from giving me your unwanted advice. I wish to be alone.’
‘Mama …’
The Queen regarded her daughter stonily. ‘Surely you heard me express my wish?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ said Vicky with resignation.
‘And send Brown. I will take a little whisky. And then I shall rest.’
There was no way of warning Mama, thought Vicky. This absurd situation with Brown was growing worse rather than improving. He seemed now to be more important than the Queen’s own family.
But there was nothing to be done. That was the way the Queen wanted it and the Queen’s words were law, at least in the family.
Was there no end to trouble? What Does She Do With It? was being circulated all over the place. Royal popularity was at its lowest when one of the more radical members of Parliament, Sir Charles Dilke, made a speech which was a direct attack on the Queen. She failed in her duty, he pointed out; she lived in seclusion at Windsor, Balmoral or Osborne; she only appeared in public at times when she wanted Parliament to vote money for her family; she had a vast income and on what did she spend it? Was she hoarding it? Wasn’t it meant to be spent on ceremonies and State occasions? What was the point of having a Queen who never appeared in public? It would be much less expensive and more to the point to replace royalty by a republic.
The Queen was fuming with rage when she read the report of the speech.
Who was this man Dilke? He should be ostracised. She hoped she would never be asked to meet him. He was obviously a scoundrel.
Mr Gladstone was upset. He was soon on with the old theme. If she would only come out of retirement … if she would be seen in London … it would make all the difference. It was true that she was in communication with her ministers, that she worked on state papers, but a Queen must not only do her duty, she must be seen to do it.
‘I shall do as I wish,’ she said. ‘Those who think that I shall be frightened by this man Dilke have made a very grave mistake.’
She refused to brood on it. It was getting near the end of the year and there was one day which she dreaded more than any other, the 14th of December, the day when Albert had died. Ever since that day ten years ago his memory had been kept fresh; every year when the 14th came round she stayed alone in her room and thought of him and then went to the mausoleum and meditated on his virtues and the great loss his going had brought her.
She was brooding on this when a letter arrived from Alice who was staying with her children at Sandringham with Bertie and Alix.
Sandringham, thought the Queen. Bertie and Alix were too often there, and by all accounts giving very gay parties. Bertie liked to entertain and the entertainments there were said to be lavish. She was concerned by his love of the gay life and Alix could not like it either. She believed, though, that Bertie had a little to vex him in Alix’s way of never being at a place on time. Bertie had ordered that all the clocks at Sandringham should be half an hour fast so that Alix should be helped to keep her appointments. How ridiculous! Alix would soon discover that the clocks were fast and be as late as ever. The Queen disliked clocks to be fast. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘it is a lie.’
She was glad that Alice was at Sandringham. There was something very gentle about Alice and she and Alix had become such good friends.
‘It’s the first time in eleven years that I have spent Bertie’s birthday with him,’ wrote Alice. ‘Bertie and Alix are so kind and give us such a warm welcome showing how they like having us …’
Oh yes, it was good for the children to be together and although the girls had married abroad they could come home fairly frequently. It must be very pleasant for Alice to be in England for that poor Louis of hers was not so comfortably off as one would have liked.
I hope I was right to agree to the marriage. What would Albert have done? This was the Albert season and she sat brooding on that terrible time when he had gone to Cambridge in dreadful weather and come home to her so ill.
There was no one like him. There never would be, Blessed Angel that he was. How fortunate she had been to have twenty years of her life with him – but having known such perfection it was harder to bear his loss.
She heard that Bertie had gone up to Scarborough to Lord Londesborough’s place accompanied by Lord Chesterfield. Alix had stayed behind. The Queen could imagine what gay parties there would be up there. Oh dear, how different he was from Dearest Albert!
A week or so later there was disturbing news. The Prince of Wales had left Scarborough and was at Marlborough House and Lord Chesterfield had been taken very ill. A few days later the Prince was ill.
Bertie left London because he had desired to be at Sandringham and when he arrived there his illness had been diagnosed as typhoid fever.
The Queen could not believe it. Bertie stricken with typhoid fever, the disease which had killed his father ten years ago and at precisely the same time!
It was like a horrible pattern – a judgement.
She felt that the train would never arrive; it was snowing; she sat brooding, thinking of that terrible time ten years ago.
Brown was beside her. ‘We’re there,’ he said gruffly. He fastened the cloak about her. ‘Can’t you stand still, woman?’ he demanded, and she smiled faintly; poor Brown, he was upset because he knew she was.
The carriage was waiting. Brown helped her in and off they went to Sandringham.
The place looked gloomy. She glanced up at it; she did not like it – fast clocks and fast parties. But he was ill now – her eldest son, sick as his father had been.
Lady Macclesfield, that good faithful woman on whom Alix relied, came forward to curtsey.
‘My dear,’ said the Queen, ‘what is the news?’
‘Very bad, I fear, Your Majesty.’
‘And the Princess?’
‘She is with the Prince.’
The Queen nodded.
‘It cannot be typhoid.’
‘I fear so, Your Majesty. And Blegge the groom who accompanied His Highness to Scarborough is suffering from the same disease. They must have caught it there.’
‘You had better take me straight to him.’
Lady Macclesfield inclined her head.
‘And the Princess, how is she taking it?’ asked the Queen.
‘The Princess is wonderful,’ said Lady Macclesfield fervently.
Alix had come to the door of the sickroom with Alice.
‘My dearest children,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes, ‘what a blessing that you are together at this time.’
She kissed them both and they took her in to see Bertie. He looked unlike himself with the strange glazed look in his eyes and the unnatural flush on his cheeks.
Oh dear God, she thought, it is so like that other nightmare. And it is soon to be the 14th of December.
The very best doctors were attending him – not only the Queen’s favourite William Jenner but Dr William Gull, Dr Clayton and Dr Lowe. The whole country waited for news as the fever soared. Bertie’s failings were forgotten; he had become ‘Good Old Teddy’. He was a jolly good fellow; he liked women; he had a mistress or two, that only showed how human he was. He was a good sport; he was the sort of man they wanted to be King – and he was sick with the typhoid fever.
Forgotten were the grudges against the royal family. The Queen was with her son who was dying of the dreaded fever which had killed his father, and in the streets crowds waited eagerly for bulletins of his progress to be issued. The question on everyone’s lips was ‘How is he?’ He was better; then he was worse; there was some hope; there was no hope. Everything was forgotten but the dramatic illness of the Prince of Wales. The fact that the 14th of December was fast approaching seemed significant. It was more than that – it was uncanny.
During one of the more hopeful periods Alix went to St Mary Magdalene’s Church at Sandringham, having first sent a note to the vicar to tell him she woul
d be there. She wanted him to pray for the Prince that she might join in but she would not be able to wait until the service was over for she must get back to his bedside.
The church was crowded and there was a hushed silence when the Princess, wan with sleepless nights and anxiety, appeared. All joined fervently in the prayers. But, commented the Press, Death played with the Prince of Wales like a panther with its victim. But while the Prince lived there was still hope. Alfred Austin, the poet, wrote the lines by which he was afterwards to be remembered:
‘Flashed from his bed, the electric tidings came,
He is not better; he is much the same.’
Alix, with Alice and the Queen, were constantly in the sickroom but Alix did not forget poor Blegge and made sure that he had every care and attention. Alice was a great help; quiet and efficient and having had some practice in nursing during the wars, she devoted herself to her brother and gave that little more than even a professional nurse could have given. Alix thought she would never forget what she owed her sister-in-law. The Queen, in times of real adversity, was always at her best. She would sit quietly behind a screen in Bertie’s bedroom, not attempting to interfere, only to be there in case she could be of use.
It was the 13th of December – the day before the dreaded 14th – and Bertie had taken a turn for the worse. It was a repetition so close that it was eerie.
The doctors were despondent; it was clear that they thought there was no hope. Bertie often lay as though in a coma; at other times he would throw himself about and utter incoherent ravings.
Alix said: ‘Dear Mama, you must get some sleep.’
‘Not yet,’ said the Queen. ‘After … tomorrow.’
‘Mama, it is all over,’ said Alix.
‘Oh no, my dear child,’ replied the Queen firmly. ‘When my dearest Albert was so ill I never gave up hope.’
‘But it was no use, Mama. He died. Blegge has died, Lord Chesterfield has died. And now …’
‘My dear Alix, you must be brave. He is still with us.’
She tried to comfort Alix. The poor child was almost at breaking point. It was the 13th – and everyone seemed certain that Bertie was going to die on the anniversary of his father’s death.
‘Oh God, spare my beloved child,’ prayed the Queen.
Through the night of the 13th she waited and when the 14th dawned she was filled with a terrible apprehension.
Everywhere the tension was felt; it was as though the whole nation held its breath.
The 14th. Ten years to the day. There she had sat by his bedside and he had said: ‘Es ist das kleine Frauchen’ and she had asked him to kiss her. She remembered how his lips had moved so that she knew he had heard what she said.
She had sat there while everything that was worth while in life had slipped away from her; and she had plunged then into such utter desolation that she had not before known existed.
And now their son was dying. Poor wayward Bertie whom she had never loved as she should have. He had been a backward child and a disappointment to Albert who had so wanted a clever son. Albert used to worry so much about Bertie’s coming to the throne and not being fit for the heavy responsibilities. Had they always been fair, always kind to Bertie?
It was too late for such thoughts now. In any case Bertie was a man and he had grown far from his mother; the way of life he chose was alien to her, as hers was to him.
But she remembered that there had been moments in his childhood when she had loved him; and he had been so popular with his brothers and sisters, and usually good-tempered. She thought of his pushing his little wheelbarrow in the gardens at Buckingham Palace and Windsor; playing with his bucket and spade at Osborne, or riding his pony at Balmoral.
Alix loved him; his children adored him; there would be many to grieve for poor Bertie.
Dr Gull came to her; there was complete despair in his face. She could not bear to ask how Bertie was; she could not bear to go to his bedside, for there she could not help but see that other face; she could not shut out the echo of his words, ‘Gutes Frauchen.’
Oh, beloved Albert, dead for ten years. Am I to lose our son on the anniversary of the darkest day in my life?
A miracle had happened. On the fatal 14th Bertie had come as close to death as it was possible for anyone to do and live. All day long he had seemed to be sinking fast and even the doctors had lost hope.
The Queen implored Dr Gull to tell her the worst but he only shook his head because he could not bring himself to say, ‘The Prince is dying,’ which was what he believed to be the truth.
He left the sickroom and paced up and down the terrace. Only a short while now, he thought; and even he felt himself caught up in that fatalism which had been accepted by almost everyone else. The Prince was going to die on the 14th.
One of the nurses came running out on to the terrace.
‘Doctor,’ she cried, ‘please come at once. I think he is dying.’
The doctor hurried into the sickroom. He looked down at the patient who was lying very still; he was pale and as the doctor took his wrist to feel his pulse he realised at once that the fever had passed.
He turned to the nurse. ‘I believe there is hope,’ he said. ‘The crisis has passed.’
Alix came to the bedside. ‘There is hope …’ she began.
Dr Gull answered: ‘The fever is passed. I think a miracle has happened.’
The Queen embraced Alix; then she turned to Alice. ‘It’s a miracle, no less. He was on the verge of the grave,’ she cried. ‘Very few people have been known to recover who have been as ill as he has been.’
Dr Gull, who had been keeping visitors from the sickroom during the last day, said that the Queen might go and sit at her son’s bedside for a short while, though not to tire him.
Bertie looked at her and the sweetness of the smile on that pathetically pale face touched her deeply.
‘Dear Mama,’ he said, ‘I am so glad to see you. Have you been here all the time?’
She could have wept. ‘I have been watching over you, my darling child,’ she told him.
He smiled faintly and said: ‘Where is Alix?’
Alix came to the bed and she took his hand.
‘No one could have shown you greater love and care,’ said the Queen brokenly. ‘Such tenderness!’
Alix knelt by the bed and her tears fell on to the coverlet.
Dear sweet Alix, thought the Prince. When he was well he would try to make amends. He would live more quietly, the sort of life that she wanted. He would spend more time with her and the children.
The children? His spirits lifted at the thought of them. He longed to be with them, play the old games with them.
There was so much to live for.
Chapter XVI
THE WOULD-BE ASSASSIN
It was a happy Christmas after all. Although for the Queen it was the mourning season she could not but rejoice at Bertie’s recovery. He was still very ill, and although he was on the road to recovery he must not be allowed to overstrain himself.
Alix wanted to show her gratitude for his recovery so she presented a brass lectern to the parish church on which was inscribed:
To the glory of God
A Thanksgiving-offering for his mercy,
14th December 1871
Alexandra
It was a miracle, said the Queen. On the anniversary of the very day on which Albert had died Bertie had come face to face with death and been allowed to return to life. The Queen believed that Albert had been caring for her son and that it was a sign from him. She was sure that the spirit of Albert was not far away. In fact, as she said to Alice, it was this knowledge which enabled her to go on.
Careful nursing was still necessary and Alix was determined that no one but herself should look after her husband. This was the happiest time of her marriage for Bertie relied on her. He had no wish now to be with those brilliant witty friends; he was quite happy to sit and talk with Alix and have the children to see him and tal
k to him, being as quiet as they could be, for they had been warned not to tire Papa. Never had Alix felt so close to her little family. This intimacy was what she had always longed for; and the fact that Bertie enjoyed it made her very happy.
The Queen was pleased. ‘They are hardly out of each other’s sight,’ she wrote to Vicky. ‘They are like a pair of young lovers.’
She was pleased. Alix was a good sweet girl, though her unpunctuality was tiresome. As for Bertie, he had always had a sweet nature and now that he was not racketing about with a lot of fast friends, he was really very charming. As for the children, although not disciplined as much as the Queen would have liked them to be, they were so devoted to their parents that they obeyed without being forced to do so. They referred to Alix always as ‘Mother dear’, which was rather charming. She would hear young Georgie saying ‘Where is Mother dear?’ Or ‘Mother dear told me this or that.’ And to see those two boys vying for her favour … well, it was quite touching.
Of course Alix was not clever – she hardly ever read a book, nor did Bertie for that matter – and she could never understand politics as a Queen should and she was apt to become over-emotional when these matters touched her family (as she had been over the Danish–Prussian war) and that was not a good thing, but she was a good homely woman, an excellent wife and mother; and after all that was important.
The Queen decided that William Jenner and Dr Gull should be rewarded for their services and Mr Gladstone agreed. It would please the people and Mr Gladstone was relieved because the people had changed their attitude towards the royal family since Bertie’s illness. Royalty had become popular and to see the crowds waiting for the bulletins even in January was astonishing when such a short time before people like Dilke had appeared to have quite a following.
The Prince had come close to death and there was nothing like death for enhancing popularity and as Mr Disraeli commented: ‘To have come closer to death and lived was an even greater achievement than to have died.’
