Victoria

by Daisy Goodwin

  Cumberland received him in the armoury, a room where every inch of wall was covered in weapons. A shaft of light fell on a row of mounted sabres and bounced around the room, temporarily dazzling Conroy.

  Cumberland stood under a chased silver axe, looking like a man who would not flinch at an execution. As Conroy was announced, the Duke was taking a large pinch of snuff, and proceeded to sneeze violently. When the explosions had finished, he narrowed his eyes at his visitor.

  “There you are, Conroy,” he said.

  Conroy heard the impatience in the other man’s voice and said smoothly, “I came as soon as I got your message, sir. Although I must confess that I was a little surprised to receive it. I am, as you know, very close to the Duchess of Kent, with whom you have not always been on friendly terms.”

  Cumberland sneezed again. “Things have changed, Conroy.” The Duke took a couple of steps towards his visitor and said in a stage whisper, “I am worried about my niece. It seems to me that she has taken leave of her wits.” He paused and then with a pious roll of his eyes said, “Like my poor father.”

  Conroy lowered his eyes while he tried to fathom the Duke’s intention. The Queen was of a nervous disposition, prone to hysteria like all young women, but to question her sanity, likening her to the mad King George III, was premature. But as this was clearly a prelude to something more, he nodded gravely. “I believe you are right, sir. She has been of a nervous disposition ever since she was a child. It is possible that the strain of her position has disordered her senses.”

  “Exactly!” One side of Cumberland’s mouth rose in agreement. “I thought you might agree with me. Papa used to talk to himself and scream at nothing in particular. Does my niece do anything like that?”

  Conroy returned the Duke’s smile. “The Queen’s behaviour has certainly been … erratic. There was the Hastings affair, and now this business of her ladies. Do you know that she actually went to Dover House for a tête-à-tête with Melbourne?”

  “Such behaviour is not becoming in a monarch,” said the Duke, shaking his head. “Of course, no one wants to believe that the head that wears the crown is less than sane, but if that is the case then we must not shirk our duty.”

  Conroy bowed in agreement. “No, indeed, sir.” He waited for the Duke to continue, wondering what cards he intended to play.

  The Duke waved a hand. “I am sure the Duchess must be very concerned about her daughter’s welfare. I worry, of course, about the country. It may be that between us we can come to some arrangement.”

  Conroy looked up. “Regarding a regency, sir?”

  Cumberland nodded. “Of course, as her mother, the Duchess is the obvious choice. But I don’t think Parliament will want another woman in charge, especially as she is a foreigner. If the Duchess had a co-regent, from the British Royal family”—he gave another of his lopsided smiles—“I think there could be no possible objection.”

  Conroy smiled back. “I feel confident that the Duchess would agree, sir.”

  “We will need evidence, though. You would think her recent behaviour would be enough, but Wellington and Peel are damnably cautious.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Some indication that the Queen’s state of mind is disordered.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.” The Duke took out his snuffbox again and tapped a pinch onto his hand and then put it to his nose. Three sneezes later, he looked at Conroy as if surprised to find that he was still there. “Well, I think that is everything I wished to say. You may leave us.”

  Conroy walked silently from the room. The Duke’s arrogance was insufferable. If Conroy had doubted the rumours that Cumberland had murdered his valet, he now thought them entirely credible. Dismissing him as if he were a servant, rather than an invaluable ally. If only he were in a position to act alone; but Conroy knew if the Duchess was to have any hope of obtaining the power and influence that were rightfully hers (and his, of course), they needed Cumberland’s help.

  Of course, when it came to it, Conroy had no intention of supporting a co-regency. The Duchess already had an advisor, but the Duke was the only person at present who could bring the matter of the regency to a head. This exercise in logic made Conroy feel calmer, and by the time he had walked across the Mall to Buckingham Palace and the Duchess’s apartments his serenity was restored.

  He found the Duchess going through her accounts with her dresser, Frau Drexler. When he came in she was sighing. “Oh, Sir John, do you know that Madame Rachel, my dressmaker, will give me no more credit? Soon I will be forced to dress in rags. It is not right that the mother of the Queen should be humiliated in this way.”

  Conroy smiled. “Oh, I don’t think you will have to worry about your bills in the future, Duchess. I have some news that I think will interest you very much.”

  He looked at Drexler, and the Duchess waved her out of the room.

  Conroy sat down on the sofa next to the Duchess. He sat a little closer perhaps than was entirely proper, but he knew the Duchess was a woman who responded to physical proximity. The closer he got to her, the more power he had.

  “I have just come from seeing the Duke of Cumberland.”

  The Duchess turned to him in amazement. “Cumberland! But why? He is my enemy.”

  Conroy put one strong hand on the Duchess’s lace-mittened one. “That may have been true in the past, but now I believe that you have more in common than you realise.”

  The Duchess raised her liquid blue eyes to his. “But what can I have in common with that dreadful man?”

  “The Duke is worried, as we are, about the Queen. He believes that the strain of her position is becoming too much for her wits.”

  The Duchess shook her head. “No, no, Drina may be headstrong and willful, but she is not mad.”

  Conroy took the hand beneath his own and squeezed it. “Not mad exactly, but…” He paused, looking for the right word. “… overtaxed. The Duke feels, and I agree with him, that what she needs is a period of quiet and seclusion where she can regain her strength.”

  The Duchess’s hand trembled in his. “Quiet and seclusion?”

  “Yes. Of course for that to happen a regent would have to be appointed to take care of the business of government.”

  The Duchess looked down at the hand that clasped her own. “A regency. It is what I always hoped for, to be able to guide my daughter instead of being always shut out. But I don’t understand why this … Cumberland would want this.”

  “He imagines that you would need a co-regent.”

  The blonde ringlets shook. “No, Sir John, this cannot be. I cannot betray my daughter to help that man.”

  Conroy berated himself for having gone too fast. “I think that the only person you would be helping, ma’am, would be your daughter. I think she is in danger at the present of losing all credibility with the public. A period of reflection away from the pernicious influence of Lord Melbourne could only be beneficial. And of course, if you are regent when she is fully recovered, you will be able to hand back the throne. If it were left to the Duke—” He paused and looked into the Duchess’s eyes meaningfully. “—well, let us say that the Duke desires the throne very much and I doubt he would give it up once he had got it.”

  He held the hand tightly now and interlaced his fingers through hers. Sensing that she needed more reassurance, he continued, “A short spell as regent would be enough to show your daughter and indeed the country what is due to you as the Queen Mother. You would get the respect that you deserve, and of course all the dresses that you need.”

  The Duchess took her hand away. “You think I would do this for some dresses?”

  Conroy put on a face of deep contrition, and extended his hand in supplication. After a long moment the Duchess gave him hers again.

  “I think that you would only act in your daughter’s best interests, Duchess. But it would give me great pleasure to see you dressed as befits your station. A woman like you should be resplend
ent.” As he said this, he raised the lace-mittened hand to his lips and kissed it.

  The Duchess gave a deep sigh. “I must talk to Drina. She should understand what will happen if she is not sensible.”

  Conroy’s voice was low and urgent. “With respect, ma’am, you must not mention our plan to your daughter. I think she would not understand that our motives are entirely disinterested, and I believe she might use it against you. Much better to say nothing and be prepared to act, if there should be some further sign of mental instability.”

  The Duchess stood up, and Conroy followed suit. “I do not trust Cumberland, Sir John.”

  Conroy stood in front of her and clasped her elbows with his hands. “No, ma’am, neither do I. But it is better I think to act with him, than to let him act alone. That is the only way that we can protect the interests of the Queen.”

  The Duchess looked at him, her face clouded with indecision. Conroy pressed on.

  “Tell me, Duchess, that you know I am right.”

  He tightened his grasp on her elbows until she nodded and then said in a tremulous voice, “We will protect her together.”

  Judging that he had now made his point, Conroy relinquished his grip on the Duchess and made her a deep bow before taking his leave. Once he was outside the apartments he stood leaning his forehead against a marble pillar, the stone cool to his heated flesh.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A week had passed since Melbourne had resigned as Prime Minister, and the country was still without a government. Word had got out that the Queen refused to give up her ladies for Sir Robert Peel, and talk of what was known as the Bedchamber Crisis filled the clubs and corridors. Peel had written to Victoria the day after their interview to tell her that without her cooperation in the matter of her household he would be unable to form an administration. She had replied that she would not give up her friends. Victoria had enjoyed writing that letter, but there had been no word from Melbourne since their last disastrous meeting. She had been so sure that Melbourne would applaud her stratagem, but instead they had quarreled and now she was alone.

  That afternoon she took Emma Portman aside and asked her if she knew why Melbourne did not come to the palace.

  Emma looked embarrassed. “I imagine, ma’am, that he is waiting for you to decide on your prime minister. He does not want to be seen to interfere.”

  Victoria shook her head in disbelief. “But what am I to do? Peel won’t form a government unless I accede to his outrageous demands, and Lord M, who must know how much I depend on you and Harriet and all my ladies for support, says that I must do as Peel wishes. He was quite sharp with me the last time we met, and I have not heard from him since. Tomorrow is my birthday.” Victoria’s face crumpled. “Do you think he will come to my celebration? I do not think I will enjoy it otherwise.”

  “I cannot say, ma’am. But I suspect he will not come to the palace until a prime minister has been appointed.”

  That night, Victoria lay in bed listening to the chimes of the clock in her room as they signaled every passing quarter of an hour. Usually she fell asleep as soon as she laid her head on the pillow, but tonight she could not get her mind to settle. She could not believe that Melbourne could be so hard-hearted. She felt angry and bereft at the same time. Without him at her side, all the little pleasures of being Queen were denied to her. She had looked forward to doing her boxes in the morning with him, but without him there to explain and enlighten, the names were just names and the papers merely chores.

  Imagining what it would be like to go through the appointments with Sir Robert Peel made her shudder. Peel, she sensed, was a man who did not connect amusement or pleasure with the performance of a public duty. From their brief meeting, she knew that he would lecture her instead of trying to educate her without making her feel stupid, as Melbourne did. Peel would not, she thought, care for her feelings. And besides he was a great awkward lump of a man. He was not a man she would ever care to dance with.

  The chimes rang out again: ten, eleven, twelve. Midnight. It was now officially her birthday. Nineteen years old. Victoria decided that she could lie in bed no longer. She got out of bed, pulled on her wrapper, and put on her slippers. She thought about waking Lehzen, who slept in the room behind the interconnecting door, but she knew the Baroness would fuss over her and scold her for wandering about in her nightdress. And besides she could not talk to Lehzen about Lord Melbourne.

  She lit the candle by her bed and wandered out into the long corridor, Dash pattering along at her side. It was a full moon, and as she entered the picture gallery the faces of her regal ancestors gleamed in the silvery light. She looked at the portrait of Elizabeth Tudor, whose mouth was set into a hard line. In the past she had wondered why Elizabeth had chosen to be painted looking so disagreeable, but tonight she thought she understood. Elizabeth, a woman on her own without a husband, didn’t care for being liked; she wanted to be respected, or even feared.

  To the right of Elizabeth was Charles I with his family. Lord Melbourne was very fond of that picture; he said that the painter had done a splendid job of showing how a man could be magnificent and foolish at the same time. “Look at the stubborn set of his mouth,” he would say. “That is the one quality that is unforgiveable in a king. Monarchy is fundamentally absurd and it is a foolish sovereign who forgets that.” Victoria had looked askance at that remark, and Melbourne had laughed at her. “Do you think I am being disrespectful, ma’am? Perhaps I am. There is no greater supporter of a constitutional monarchy than myself, but the structure can only hold if neither side leans on it too heavily.” Victoria looked at the sulky droop of Charles’s lips. She hoped that her portrait, the one in her coronation robes, would not reveal a quality that did not do her credit.

  There was a bark from Dash, and the spaniel chased along the corridor after some unseen prey. Victoria hoped that it wasn’t a mouse; she had had a horror of mice since one had scampered over her face one night when she was sleeping in Kensington Palace. She had woken up screaming with horror. Mama had refused to believe that such a thing could have happened, but Victoria could still feel the tiny claws scrabbling across her chest and the awful soft slide of the tail. Since then she had insisted that Dash sleep on a cushion at the end of her bed. She would rather be disturbed by his snuffling and snoring than that terrible rapid scurry.

  Dash was scratching at the wainscoting underneath the full-length portrait of her grandfather George III. Victoria had a particular dislike for this picture since Conroy had told her she had a look of her grandfather. As the King in this picture had bulbous blue eyes and an expression of bewildered confusion, she had not taken this remark as a compliment. She suddenly felt tired and, deciding that she might at last fall asleep, she bent down to pick up Dash, who she knew would not leave unless forcibly removed.

  Dash was not going to leave his prey without a struggle. Trying to pull him away from the skirting board, Victoria started as a voice behind her said, “But Drina, what are you doing here? All alone in the middle of the night.”

  She looked round and saw her mother, whose hair was tied up in curl papers so that she looked like a porcupine. Her face, lit up by the candle she was carrying, was full of shadows.

  “I couldn’t sleep, Mama.”

  “But you should not be walking around in the middle of the night in your nightgown. You will catch cold, and if the servants should see you there might be some gossiping. I think maybe you are missing having me in your room. You always used to sleep so well when you were in the bed next to mine.” She put her arm round Victoria and squeezed her shoulder.

  “I cannot expect to sleep so well now that I am Queen, Mama. I have so many responsibilities.”

  The Duchess held the candle up to Victoria’s face as if searching for something in it. “I hope they are not too much for you, liebchen. I think it is hard to be so young and to have so many cares.”

  “Not so young, Mama. It is past midnight, so I am nineteen now.”

&
nbsp; The Duchess smiled and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “But you must not catch cold on your birthday. Let me take you back to your room, and I will stay with you until you fall asleep. I don’t think you will worry if your mother is there.”

  Victoria turned to follow the Duchess, when out of the corner of her eye she saw a rapid movement and the flash of something pink, and she gave a little scream of terror. “Did you see that, Mama? I think it was a mouse or even a rat.”

  As if to confirm her words Dash started to whine and bark, his muzzle pressed up against the skirting board.

  The Duchess put her hand on her arm. “You are trembling, Drina. Surely you cannot be so frightened of a little mouse.”

  “But you know how much I hate them, Mama. Since that mouse crept over my face.”

  “That was never happening, Drina. It was just your imagination.”

  The Duchess put her hand to her daughter’s cheek. “You must not start at shadows, Drina. Or people will whisper about you.” She looked up at the white face of George III gleaming above them in the moonlight. “They remember your grandfather.”

  Victoria looked at her in confusion. “My grandfather? What are you saying, Mama?”

  The Duchess shook her head. “It is not what I am saying, Drina. But maybe you are needing some rest and quiet.”

  Victoria looked up again at the bovine face of her grandfather, and her mother’s meaning began to dawn on her.

  The Duchess continued with passionate fervour. “But you mustn’t worry. I will protect you, Drina; I will not let them take it away from you.”

  Victoria shivered, but this time it was with anger, not fear. When she spoke, all trace of her earlier tremors had gone. “There was a time, Mama, when I needed your protection, but instead you allowed Sir John to make you his creature.”