I easily found my own name. The chart made it clear: After Uncle William, I was next in line. There was no one else. When King George died, Uncle William would become king. And after he died, I almost certainly would become queen. Not for a long time, perhaps, but someday. I was just two steps away from the throne.
If Mamma believed the secret had been kept from me until now, she was mistaken. It is not a secret when everyone knows it, even if no one actually speaks of it. And Fidi did speak of it. Baroness Späth had hinted at it. But now I saw with my own eyes the size and shape of my future. I considered this for a moment. Daisy was waiting for me to say something.
I did NOT say the first thing that came into my head: When I am queen, I will send Sir John far, far away.
I said the next thing I thought of. “I will be good,” I told her.
I was not speaking of practicing the piano or attending to my studies, or even behaving faultlessly as was expected of a royal young lady. I was not sure precisely what I did mean, only that I wished to assure her that I understood the enormity of the challenge.
“Yes, I will be good.”
“Of course you will, Victoria,” Daisy replied, with tears shining in her eyes. She turned away and quietly folded the chart. Her shoulders were heaving.
Then I realized that nothing would ever be the same, and I too began to cry. I crawled onto her lap as though I were once again a little child. But I knew that I had said the proper thing.
Chapter 5
HEIR TO THE THRONE, 1830
In June of 1830, King George IV died. Uncle William, duke of Clarence, was declared King William IV. I was eleven years old and just one step away from becoming queen.
The day after Uncle King’s death, with the whole court in mourning, Mamma wrote to Parliament, asking that I be named heir to the throne with herself as regent. If King William should die before I turned eighteen, Mamma would govern in my place until I was of age. But I knew it was not Mamma who would have the real power. It would be Sir John. Mamma could barely conceal her satisfaction when Parliament approved, and Sir John strutted about with his usual arrogant air and his chest puffed out.
I truly loved Uncle William, as he wished me to call him, and not “Uncle King.” He and his dear wife, Queen Adelaide, invited me to come to court quite often, and it was my greatest wish to spend time with them. But Mamma disliked my uncle and nearly always refused, if she could think of an excuse. Something unpleasant was brewing; I could sense it.
Mamma and Sir John had determined that the time had come for the English people to become acquainted with the girl who would someday be their queen. Sir John arranged a carriage trip, and in late summer we left Kensington to visit places he believed I would find informative, such as the manufactory where steam engines were made, and to meet interesting people, like the man who invented the gaslight.
Victoire Conroy was my traveling companion. It was not that I disliked her, but I did wish there were other girls with whom to spend my time. Someone not so tedious! My favorite game was battledore and shuttlecock, played with a racket and a little feathered cork batted back and forth across a net. Victoire complained that it made her perspire to chase the shuttlecock. Victoire did not like to perspire, but I minded not at all. She did seem to enjoy card games, but one could endure only so much of that!
Before returning to Kensington, we traveled by steamer from Brighton to visit the Isle of Wight. Every evening after dinner the ladies gathered in the parlor and played games. My favorite was The Hen and Her Chickens, in which I loved to play the role of the Fox, and Mamma or Daisy agreed to be the Hen. Fox sat down in the center of a circle, looking sly and hungry, and Hen and her Chickens gathered round. “What are you doing, Fox?” asked Hen, and I replied in a foxy voice, “I am making a fire.”
“A fire?” Hen asked. “What for, Fox?”
And Fox replied, “To boil some water, Hen.”
“Pray, what is the water for, Fox?”
Fox, in his slyest manner: “To cook a chicken.”
Whereupon all the Chickens gasped, and Hen asked, “And where will you get a chicken, Fox?”
Fox cried, “Out of your flock, Hen!” and pounced on one of the hapless Chickens, creating a great deal of make-believe squawking and laughter.
The game went on until someone observed that Sir John and the other gentlemen would soon rejoin the ladies. This was the signal that my bedtime had come and I must say good night to the company. Sir John was perfectly suited to play the role of Fox without any need to pretend to be sly and hungry, and I felt like Chicken, unable to squawk or run away.
In February of 1831 I made my first public appearance at court. The occasion was the Queen’s Drawing Room, Aunt Adelaide’s reception for a very large number of people, held at St. James’s. I loved my gown, English blonde lace over white satin, and Mamma allowed me to wear a pearl necklace and a diamond ornament in my hair. Mamma’s gown had a pink velvet train trimmed with ermine and a headdress made of feathers and diamonds. Mamma and I rode in state in a carriage sent by the king; with us were the unavoidable Sir John and Lady Conroy and Miss Victoire Conroy, and my dearest Daisy. The gentlemen were all in black evening dress, and the ladies wore white satin gowns, all of British manufacture, with a profusion of feathered headdresses and glittering diamonds. Everyone said it was the most magnificent since the drawing-room presentation of Princess Charlotte when she married dear Uncle Leopold.
Dear Aunt Adelaide was seated on her throne, and it was my duty to stand on her left. King William, on her right, spoke to me very kindly from time to time, but Mamma had advised me to remain quiet and dignified. We were present because we had to be. I knew that Mamma disliked the king because she felt he did not give her her due, and the king disliked Mamma for demanding more than her due. King William later complained that I had looked at him stonily, and I realized that my silence and my attempt to appear dignified had succeeded only in offending him.
Matters grew especially tense when Mamma decided that I was not to attend Uncle William’s coronation in September. She forbade it, and for what I considered an utterly ridiculous reason: She had been informed that my other uncles—monstrously ugly Cumberland, eccentric Sussex, and harmless Cambridge—were to take precedence over me in the coronation procession through Westminster Abbey. They would walk ahead of me, signaling to everyone that they ranked higher than I did.
This angered Mamma. “Parliament has recognized that you are the heir apparent, Victoria, and you should walk ahead of the dukes, not behind them. I find this insulting, and I will not allow you to be insulted.”
There was scarcely anything on which King William and Mamma agreed, and this was just one more sticking point. I blamed Sir John for much of it; he had convinced Mamma to stand firm when it would have been better to compromise. But there was one subject on which I did think Mamma was in the right: King William wished me to change my name. He did not like either of my names, Alexandrina or Victoria!
“Too foreign-sounding for an English princess,” he informed Mamma. “The child would do much better to have a proper English name. I propose that she take the name of Elizabeth. And if not Elizabeth, then certainly Charlotte.”
Elizabeth! I did not like the name very much, and I did not wish to be named for a queen who treated her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, so cruelly. Further, I could not imagine now being called Charlotte.
“You have been given my name!” Mamma cried, outraged by the king’s proposal. “Now King William wishes to change it to something he likes better! Well, I will not give in to that! You are Victoria, a very high-sounding name, and Victoria you shall remain.”
Then there was the matter of my title. I was always to be referred to as “Her Royal Highness.” When some person in the king’s household mistakenly left off the “Royal” in writing to Mamma, my mother became extremely upset. It took only one word to upset her. It may have been because Mamma always made such a fuss about everything that King William de
cided not to give me precedence in his procession. Whatever the reason, it so infuriated Mamma that she decided I would not be in the procession at all. And I would not attend the coronation.
I was not consulted about any of this. I learned of it only after Mamma had sent word to the king. Surely, I thought, she would get over her temper and allow it. She must! I didn’t mind if I walked behind my three uncles—I simply wanted to be part of the coronation.
“But why, dearest Mamma? How I should love to be there!” I pleaded. “I adore Aunt Adelaide and I love Uncle William, and I know they’ll be disappointed if their dear niece does not attend. They are always so very kind to me!”
Mamma refused to listen. She was unmoved by my tears or my pleading.
“I really cannot afford the expense, Victoria,” she told me. I could not argue with that, for I knew nothing of money matters. “Besides, my dear child, your health is much too delicate for such an undertaking. I have written to King William that your attendance is out of the question. Now, let us speak no more of it.”
My health was not delicate! Mamma was simply inventing that as an excuse. I suspected the real reason, besides my being shunted to a place in the procession behind the dukes, was that Mamma did not approve of King William, because of les bâtards. All of his illegitimate FitzClarence children actually lived at Windsor Castle with him and Aunt Adelaide. I had visited Windsor only a very few times, though I loved going there and would have happily accepted every invitation. But if any of the young FitzClarences happened to enter the room where we were sitting, Mamma rose, seized my hand, and led me away, always making sure everyone saw her. It was most horribly embarrassing. Les bâtards were the cause of my rarely being allowed to visit Windsor. I couldn’t imagine what harm could come to me if I happened to glimpse them accidentally, or even if one of them spoke to me.
“If Aunt Adelaide doesn’t object to the king’s children, why does Mamma object?” I asked dear Daisy. I did not dare ask Mamma.
“Your mother’s moral standards are much higher than Queen Adelaide’s,” Daisy explained. “The duchess believes that if you are allowed to associate with children born to the king’s shameful relationship with an actress, Mrs. Jordan, it will not be possible to teach you the difference between vice and virtue.”
“But I do know the difference!” I protested.
“I am sure you do, Victoria.”
I said nothing to Mamma, or she would have been “shocked” that I opposed her. Dear Daisy advised me to be patient.
King William did not go out of his way to pretend to care for Mamma, but he did not even try to conceal his complete disdain for Sir John. For his part, Sir John loathed the king. It was like the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I was somewhere in the middle, caught between opposing armies—King William and Queen Adelaide on one side, Mamma and Sir John on the other. I was always on pins and needles, and I hated it.
Chapter 6
BEHAVIOR, GOOD AND BAD, 1831
My mother had the distressing habit of writing me a letter whenever I somehow displeased her, and that seemed to happen VERY often. I wished everyone had not found it necessary to report to her every little thing I said or did, which then burdened Mamma with the duty of writing to chastise me, and me with the duty of writing an apology.
There was the episode of the piano shortly before my twelfth birthday. I disliked practicing my piano exercises. “Even a princess must practice,” my teacher gently reminded me. But I felt I had done quite enough scales and arpeggios and little etudes by some young Polish composer—Chopin, I think.
“I do not wish to practice any more,” I informed the teacher, and shut the lid over the keys quite firmly, perhaps a little too firmly.
This minor incident was reported to Mamma, who then wrote a letter reprimanding me. As if I did not see her several times a day! It was not enough for me simply to say, “I am truly sorry,” but now had to sit down and write her a letter in my most careful penmanship.
Dearest Mamma, I thank you for all your many kindnesses to me, and I hope to repay it by being your good and obedient child. I hope never any more to hear my dearest Mamma say “I am shocked” but rather, “I am pleased.”
I wrote many such letters, and there were times when I sincerely believed that my dearest Mamma should be writing such letters to me.
On the twenty-fourth of May at the dinner in honor of my birthday, my health was drunk and everyone assured me that this, my twelfth year, would be a year of great promise. I very much wanted to believe them, but only a month later I received news that was deeply distressing: Dearest Uncle Leopold had been elected king of the Belgians and would soon leave England. My uncle was like a father to me, always kind and affectionate, listening carefully to what I had to say and offering wise advice when I asked for it. I could not bear to have him go so far away!
Mamma and I traveled with Daisy to Claremont House, half a day’s journey from Kensington, to spend time with my dear uncle before he left for Brussels. For once the Conroy family did not accompany us. Sir John did not trust Uncle Leopold, and I felt sure Uncle Leopold heartily disliked Sir John, perhaps even as much as I did. Though Uncle Leopold had been a great help to Mamma after my papa died, he often disagreed with her, which meant that he also disagreed with Sir John. Sir John was no doubt happy to see him go.
The visit at Claremont was a misery for me. Signs of my uncle’s coming departure were everywhere. Portraits of poor Princess Charlotte had been packed for shipment, including my favorite, the two of them on their wedding day—Charlotte in her elegant gown of silver lamé embroidered with shells and flowers, and Uncle Leopold with all of his military decorations pinned in rows on his coat. Now, in just a fortnight, he would be on his way to Belgium by steamer. Claremont House already felt deserted.
Uncle Leopold and I walked for the last time through the gardens, then in full summer bloom. My uncle cut a red rose with a little silver knife, trimmed off the thorns, and knelt beside me, offering me the flower. “Look at me, Victoria,” he said, lifting my chin. “You must promise to write to me very often. I expect I shall be very busy with my duties as king, but I promise that I shall write to you often as well.”
“And will you come to visit, too, dear uncle?” I asked, trying not to sound overly demanding.
“Of course I shall!” he said, just as Fidi had promised when she married and went away to Germany. But Fidi had not come to Kensington, because she was either expecting a baby or had just had a baby and in any case could not travel. She did write to me, but not as often as I wished. I knew it would likely be the same with my beloved uncle Leopold.
After one last kiss, I struggled to hold back tears as our carriage drove away.
A few weeks later Mamma and I went on another visit, this one to the Conroys’ home to celebrate Victoire’s birthday. Visits to Campden Hill were somewhat enjoyable, because the Conroys had a paddock with several ponies and a kennel full of yelping, frolicking dogs. We presented Victoire with lovely gifts of jewelry, and I had made her a little box in which to keep her most important trinkets. After dinner, Jane Conroy, who was often ill and spent much time in bed, was feeling better. She played the harp, I played the piano, and everyone sang. Lady Conroy had a voice like a frog, but that did not inspire her to sing as softly as she ought. Then Mamma took a turn at the piano, and Jane and Victoire and their brother Edward and I danced a quadrille. Edward was a tiresome prig, but at least he danced well.
Mamma decided—or, more likely, Sir John decided for her—that I must now have a proper English governess, not a foreigner, especially not a German.
“I have invited Lady Charlotte Percy, duchess of Northumberland, to be your new governess,” Mamma announced, as easily as if she were telling me that a new groom had been hired to look after my ponies. Was dear Daisy to be sent back to Germany, as Baroness Späth had been? I felt as though I had been struck by a thunderbolt and left entirely speechless. I stood before Mamma, my mouth opened and closed, but no w
ords came out. My mother guessed what I was thinking. “No, Victoria, I would not dream of sending Baroness Lehzen away,” Mamma assured me.
But I had reached an age when I often questioned my mother’s sincerity. I never uttered my doubts aloud, of course—that would have been unthinkable—but the notion often entered my mind that I could not entirely believe her or accept her judgment without question. The doubts had begun the day I witnessed my mother in Sir John’s embrace and had increased as I grew older. I felt sure that if Sir John decreed it, my dearest Daisy would be gone in a fortnight.
“Our Lehzen will stay with us as your lady-in-waiting,” Mamma was saying. “She will continue to strive to improve your behavior,” she said, adding pointedly, “and to curb your regrettable tendency to rebelliousness.”
I lowered my eyes and murmured, “Yes, Mamma.”
Mamma was not finished. “I must tell you that Lehzen’s table manners are not of the very best, and you seem to have picked up some of her unfortunate habits.”
I stared at Mamma. “What habits?” I asked, in what must have been a very surly tone that my mother chose at that moment to ignore.
“You have been observed eating your soup with your dessert spoon,” she said. “Have you forgotten that fish must be eaten with the proper fish-knife and fish-fork? And I was appalled to notice just the other evening that you neglected to remove your gloves before you began to eat! That simply will not do, Victoria. I’m sure the duchess of Northumberland will be helpful in correcting these serious flaws.”
Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) Page 3
