The words hung in the air between them. Thinking that her mother might break through them and touch her, Victoria found herself longing to feel her mother’s arms around her. The Duchess quivered, as if resonating to an invisible chord that held them together. But then she dropped her gaze and slowly, as if sleepwalking, left the room.
Victoria wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There were crowds lining the route for Lady Flora’s cortège: the sort of crowds that usually marked the passing of a statesman or a minor member of the royal family, not the funeral of the spinster daughter of a Tory peer. The men removed their hats and the women bowed their heads as the hearse went by, pulled by six black horses whose plumes fluttered in the breeze.
Behind the hearse came the line of carriages sent by mourners. There were ragged cheers as the crowd recognised the crest of the Duke of Wellington, and a more muted acknowledgement of the arms of the Duke of Cumberland. This was a solemn crowd, here to pay their respects to a woman they had barely heard of a week before, but whose passing they now felt most deeply.
As the long line of carriages sent by Tory grandees clattered past, there was a murmur of expectation. This crowd was waiting, and as the last carriage came into view, they got what they wanted. A low boo began swelling in volume as it passed from one end of the crowd to the other. There were no jeers, no shouts—after all, this was a crowd in mourning—but as the carriage sent by the Queen rolled past, the royal arms clearly visible on the door, there was no doubt as to how the crowd viewed this belated gesture of contrition.
Victoria had stayed in the palace on the day of the funeral. She had tried to visit the Duchess in her apartments, but the Duchess had sent word that she was indisposed.
The next day Victoria had gone riding in the park with Melbourne, and had noticed that the bystanders did not wave and smile as they usually did. When she remarked on this, Melbourne shook his head. “Oh, there is no accounting for people in the park, ma’am. Shall we have one last gallop?” But as she thundered past a knot of men, she heard one of them shout something that sounded like “fame.” This puzzled her all the way back to the palace.
She had hoped that Melbourne would stay to dine, but he said that he had business to attend to at the House.
That night as Victoria lay in bed, she heard the wind rattling the windows and thought of the shout she had heard that morning in the park. Fame, lame, game, and then the blood flooded to her face as she realised that the word the men had dared to shout had been “shame.” She lay in the dark with her eyes open. Perhaps she had been mistaken; perhaps the men had been arguing with each other. But in her heart she knew that they were shouting at her, despising her for what she had done.
The following day Victoria noticed that there were no newspapers in her sitting room. When she asked Penge where they were, he said in a stilted way that he believed that they had not yet been delivered. Victoria frowned and decided to find Lehzen, who would know what was going on.
As she walked down the picture gallery to Lehzen’s closet, a door opened beside the portrait of George III. To her dismay Sir John Conroy walked out in front of her. She stopped dead, wondering whether to turn on her heel and walk away. She had not seen Conroy, except at a distance, since the night of the Coronation Ball. His long white face was lit up by a smile that added to Victoria’s sense of unease. He was carrying a paper in his left hand. From where Victoria was standing it looked like some kind of cartoon.
She acknowledged his presence with the curtest of nods, and made to walk straight past him. But Conroy, whose smile did not falter, took a step in front of her.
“Good day…” He paused just long enough for it to be insolent. “… ma’am.”
Victoria said nothing. She knew from long experience that he had something to say, and unless she actually pushed past him there was no way to avoid it. If only Lord M had come early. Conroy would not dare attempt anything in his presence.
Still with that odious smile pasted across his features, Conroy held out the paper in his hand, using his other hand to hold it taut so that she could see exactly what was on it. She looked at it silently. It was a vulgar cartoon of a woman naked from the waist down, lying on the bed with her legs in the air. Peering between them were three figures, two men and a woman. From the set of his sideburns she was pretty sure one of the men was Lord Melbourne; from the profile she guessed the other was Conroy. Behind them, the figure of a small, plump girl with a rapacious grin stood on her tiptoes trying to see what was going on. From the tiny coronet perched on her head, she realised the girl was meant to represent Victoria herself. The caption read, Lady Flora’s Distress.
Victoria looked away quickly and tried to keep her face as still as possible.
“The press can be so cruel, ma’am.” Conroy’s smile got even wider. “Shall I leave this with you? So that you can peruse it at your leisure?”
Summoning up every vestige of self-control she possessed, Victoria kept her face completely still as she swept past Conroy. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
* * *
When the messenger came, Melbourne was in the library at Dover House reading one of St. John Chrysostom’s homilies. Ever since he had first come across the Cappadocian saint during the nadir of his marriage to Caro, he had found a perverse consolation in the certainties of a man who had never had an unfaithful wife or an unruly party to govern. The fourth-century saint preached against extravagance of any kind, urging his followers to heed Christ’s example by spreading their bounty among the poor. There was a phrase that always made him smile: “How can you bear to relieve yourself in a silver chamber pot, when the poor go hungry?”
Melbourne looked at the magnificent walnut paneling of his library, the tapestry of Solomon meeting the Queen of Sheba hanging on the opposite wall, and the Lawrence portrait of Caro hanging above the mantelpiece. He sighed at his own hypocrisy. He had done very little for anyone. He had failed to protect the Queen from the consequences of her own folly over Flora Hastings. The gossips had it that he was too indulgent with his monarch, and in this case he knew that they were right. He should have insisted that Flora Hastings, that crucifix-wielding virgin, was the last person in the world to have an illicit liaison, and that the blackguard Conroy was far too calculating and self-serving to risk a scandal by seducing his mistress’s lady-in-waiting. But Melbourne had been, as ever, too squeamish. Just as he had averted his eyes when Caro had thrown herself at Byron in public, he had drawn back from risking his friendship with Victoria by telling her that she was wrong.
Caro and Victoria were alike in that impulsive need to assert themselves without thinking of the consequences, and he could not resist either of them. Melbourne smiled wryly as he recalled how he had tried to comfort Victoria by telling her that everyone was capable of making a mistake, but he was the fool who had made the same mistake twice. The Queen was now the eye of a storm of scandal and conjecture, just as Caroline had been. And he had failed to prevent it both times.
Melbourne took another long draught from the schooner of brandy beside him. He tried to concentrate on the convictions of his stern mentor, but for once he found no comfort in applying his mind to one so different from his own.
The butler brought in the letter on a silver salver. “From the palace, my lord.”
To his surprise the note was not from the Queen but from Emma Portman.
William,
The Queen has locked herself in her bedroom and refuses to speak to anyone. But she will, I suspect, talk to you. There is the Inspection of the Troops this afternoon and I am concerned she will not appear. Please come.
Your friend, Emma
Melbourne finished the brandy in his glass and stood up, feeling the ache in his bones. As he walked towards the door, he caught sight of himself in the looking glass. The face that looked back at him, unshaven and crumpled, looked like that of an old man. Melbourne straightened his shoulders and pulled his stom
ach in.
“Tell Bugler to fetch the shaving water. I must get ready to go to the palace.”
The butler was too well trained to smile, but there was a slight twitch to his lips and he nodded. “Certainly, my lord.”
The clocks were striking eleven as Melbourne’s carriage turned into the Mall. The trees along the route were hung with flags, and stands had gone up for spectators in Horse Guards Parade. He could see knots of people lining the route that the Queen would take that afternoon to inspect the troops but, Melbourne noted with unease, there were not many bonnets among them. Bonnets were the difference between loyal subjects turning out to cheer their Queen and a querulous mob that could be rented by anyone with deep enough pockets.
Melbourne wondered if any of the Tories would really stoop so low, and then he thought sadly that perhaps they didn’t have to. After the funeral, Lord Hastings had published in The Times the letter from his sister that outlined her treatment at the hands of the Queen. Lady Flora had asked that the Queen be treated with the spirit of Christian forgiveness as she was too young to be wholly responsible for her youthful folly, but Melbourne doubted whether there would be much sympathy for Victoria. Flora Hastings, dour and sanctimonious in life, in death had become a martyr sacrificed on the whim of a spiteful young queen. To send doctors to ascertain whether Flora was a virgin was bad enough, but to humiliate a dying woman was, to the public mind, unforgiveable.
Of course, it would pass, Melbourne thought—in the end every scandal lost its piquancy—but for now the people were feasting on the carrion of the young Queen’s reputation. There was much talk of her youth and inexperience. He had been told that Hastings had described her as a spiteful chit; there had even been hints in the Tory press that the Queen was not of sound mind and a regent should be appointed.
Melbourne hoped that people would see the hand of the Duke of Cumberland behind this; nothing would suit the Duke better than to be appointed regent while his niece was declared mad. But people still remembered what had happened to the Queen’s grandfather, George III, and there was the general belief that young unmarried women were susceptible to hysteria, which could only be cured by marriage and motherhood.
Although Melbourne reflected that no one who had ever met Victoria could be in any doubt as to her sanity, there was no easy way to make that clear to her subjects. All too many of them would be willing to believe that the Queen was mad. The important thing now was not to stoke the fire. The Queen must carry on as normal.
Emma Portman was waiting for him at the entrance to the palace. “Oh, William, thank goodness you’re here! We have all tried to speak to her, but she has locked the door and won’t come out. The only sound from her bedroom is Dash barking.” She stopped and put her hand on Melbourne’s arm, her usual expression of worldly detachment transfigured with alarm.
“You don’t think, do you, that she could have done something … foolish?” She lowered her voice. “I keep thinking of Caro.”
Melbourne frowned. The long gallery through which they were walking had footmen posted at both ends, and while they looked impassive, he had no doubt they were listening to every word. He did not want servants’ gossip to fuel the rumours of the Queen’s instability. Caro, of course, had tried to kill herself several times, but in this respect he knew that his sovereign and his late wife had nothing in common.
“I am sure the Queen is simply fatigued after the strain of the last few weeks.”
“I hope you are right, William.”
“Of course I am right,” said Melbourne with a touch of impatience.
As they climbed the staircase to the Queen’s apartments, the Duchess appeared on the landing, accompanied by Conroy. They were both wearing full mourning. Melbourne bowed to the Duchess and gave Conroy the barest possible nod.
“I suppose you are on your way to see the Queen, Lord Melbourne. Well, I wish you luck.” Conroy showed his teeth in his most awful smile.
The Duchess’s ringlets fluttered beside him. “She would not see me this morning, her own mother. She left me standing at the door like a creditor.”
Conroy continued, “I hope her … indisposition does not last. It would be such a pity if she were to miss the inspection. People might think there was something … wrong.”
The Duchess shook her head. “This is not what I am bringing her up for all those years. To hide in her bedroom. Refusing even her mother.” Melbourne found himself surprised to hear a note of real distress in the Duchess’s voice.
Emma said soothingly, “The Queen has refused everyone, ma’am. Harriet and myself, Baroness Lehzen—no one has been admitted.”
The Duchess flinched. “Why would she want to see any of you if she would not be seeing her own mother?” Then she looked at Melbourne, and a look of distaste crossed her face. “But I suppose she will be seeing you, her precious Lord M.”
Melbourne gave her a smile almost as wide as Conroy’s. “I sincerely hope so, ma’am. But I suspect that it will be hunger rather than my presence that will open her doors. It is getting on for noon, and I have never known the Queen to miss a meal.”
The Duchess looked at him blankly and walked on, Conroy at her elbow.
“That was nicely done, William,” Emma said approvingly. “I could have bitten my tongue out for mentioning Lehzen. They hate each other, of course.”
“I think the Duchess is genuinely worried about her daughter. Conroy, of course, is another matter.”
“I think we both know what he wants,” said Emma, “an incapacitated queen with the Duchess as regent.”
Melbourne shuddered. “What a thought! Lead on, Lady Portman. It is time that the Queen showed herself to her people.”
In the anteroom outside Victoria’s bedroom, the ladies-in-waiting were huddled in an anxious group. They looked up in relief on seeing Melbourne. Only Lehzen looked less than pleased. She shook her head at him. “It is all a great fuss for nothing. Just some nerves.”
Melbourne gave her a special bow. “I am sure you are right, Baroness. You know the Queen better than any of us, but I should like to try my luck if you are in agreement.”
Looking a little mollified, Lehzen gestured for him to go ahead.
Melbourne knocked firmly on the double doors. “Your Majesty, may I have a word?”
There was a long moment, and then the door opened. Lehzen sniffed loudly as Melbourne walked through the door and closed it behind him.
Victoria had pulled a paisley shawl over the lacy froth of her nightdress. Her hair was down, streaming over her shoulders. She looked pale, and her eyes had dark shadows beneath them. She looked very young, but there was a dullness in her eyes he had not seen before. She went to sit on the window seat with Dash by her side.
“I am sorry you are indisposed, ma’am. But I think you will be revived by your regiments. The Household Cavalry in full fig is a sight for sore eyes.” Victoria said nothing. Her hand was convulsively smoothing Dash’s long, silky ear. Melbourne took a step forward. “Come now, ma’am. You don’t want to keep your troops waiting.”
Victoria looked up at him, her voice low and expressionless. “I can’t go anywhere. Have you seen that?” She pointed at the cartoon of Lady Flora’s distress that was lying on her dressing table. “How can I go out?”
Melbourne glanced at it. “I hadn’t seen it, but it makes no difference.”
Victoria let go of Dash’s ear, and the spaniel jumped gratefully to the floor. This time when the Queen spoke, her voice had a bit more spirit. “How can you say that? I am the object of public ridicule.”
Melbourne laughed. “If I had stayed in my room every time I was mocked in the press, I would not have seen daylight for the last thirty years.” He moved another step closer to her. “When I took Caro back, somebody—Gillray, I think—drew her as a shepherdess leading me as a lamb on a ribbon. My surname was Lamb then, and I suppose it was irresistible. It caused me pain at the time, but I have survived it, as you see.”
He smil
ed at her, willing her to smile back, but Victoria looked at the floor. Then she whispered so low that he could hardly hear it, “It’s all my fault. Everything is ruined.”
Melbourne saw that attempts to laugh Victoria out of her depression would be in vain. Victoria’s distress was more than injured pride. She was afflicted with remorse. He gestured to the space on the window seat beside her. “May I, ma’am?”
At her nod, he sat down next to her. He wanted very much to put his arm around her shoulders, to comfort her, but knew that was the line he could not cross. It was already against all the rules of protocol that he was alone with her in her bedroom. To touch her was tantamount to treason, and, of course, there were all the other reasons why he should not touch her as he would another woman.
“I can’t go on, Lord M, not anymore.” The words were a young girl’s, but there was a desperation behind them that was adult.
Melbourne took a deep breath. A lock of Victoria’s hair was brushing his hand; he longed to wind it round his finger as once he had with …
“I don’t think I ever told you why I was late for the Coronation Ball.” Victoria turned her head to look at him, surprised. Melbourne continued, “Did you know that I had a son, ma’am? His name was Augustus, and that day was his birthday. I suppose he was what the world calls feebleminded, but I found him sensible enough.”
Victoria turned her whole body to face him now. Melbourne felt her gaze as directly as a candle flame. “After Caro died he became very afraid of the dark, and he could not go to bed unless I was there holding his hand.” He paused, and Victoria leant forward as if afraid of losing a single word. “You know I think I was never happier than in those moments, watching my poor son drift off into sleep.”
Melbourne made himself continue. “When he died three years ago, I thought that there was no longer any point to my existence.”
Victoria’s lips trembled. “Oh, Lord M, how can you say that?”
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