by Anna Kirwan
But, as to O’Hum (my name for Captain Conroy) working for my Duke Papa in the army to begin with, and managing Mamma’s budget now and not just the horses, and ordering Cook, and all – they all think I am too young to understand what they are discussing. I think Charles and O’Hum both are dull to Mamma’s feelings as a lady and a princess born, and as a duchess, and twice a widow, too, always to have to bring up the subject of the cost of everything. Any enjoyment she might have in meeting with my Father’s family is always overshadowed by this matter of the budget. It is not elegant.
Besides, O’Hum is always telling Mamma how spiteful my uncles are, and how jealous they were of my Father. I think Mamma is afraid to vex them with complaints of what things cost, but she is afraid to displease O’Hum by not writing the letters as he thinks she ought. He even makes disapproving remarks about dear Uncle Leopold, Mamma’s own brother, who is always so kind to us and so generous. O’Hum says Uncle Leopold does everything little by little and does not know how to get his horse over a hedge. This is not true. Uncle Leopold rides well.
3 April
Rain this morning, and fog. At half past nine the Reverend Mr Davys came to the drawing room for my morning Bible lesson. We have been reading about Jacob’s sons, and how abominably they treated their half brother Joseph. I must say, I am glad Feo and Charles never behaved to me that way! Well, Feo never did. When Charles is around, he does always take sides with a Certain Person. He calls the rest of us “hens”. We are not amused by that.
I asked Mr Davys why all the older brothers were so jealous of Joseph’s coat. Would not the older sons inherit so much more of their father’s fortune that one nice coat to wear would not be too much for little Joseph?
But he said, “I believe they … ahh … they wanted to be the ones to receive their father’s blessing.”
Then he rustled around in his chair the way he does. It often takes him a while to phrase his answers, and his hair looks like jackstraws by that time. Even Uncle Leopold says he is a lesson in patience.
By and by, Mr Davys said, “But, perhaps, you know, it was not so easy for Jacob to love the ones who were only eager to have what he’d leave them? Perhaps, not so easy as to love the one who … ahh … loved him for himself. Expecting no preference, you know.”
His hair was sticking out like little bird wings around his ears. I fancied he looked something like Mercury in his winged cap. But even so, he looked very meaningful when he said that. I think he wants me to understand why my Uncle King is so fond of me and so perfectly, stylishly polite and utterly selfish toward Uncle Billy and Aunt Adelaide, and Uncle Sussex, and Uncle Cambridge, and Uncle Cumberland, and His Lordship the Duke of Wellington, and Uncle Leopold, and all.
Of course, Mamma enjoys a degree of almost sisterly affection with my Aunt Sophia, as she does live here in Kensington Palace with us and Uncle Sussex. Mamma says my Papa was sorry for his princess sisters who were never permitted to marry. The whole of Grandfather George III’s immediate family is not hostile to us, even though Mamma is a trifle more German in her habits. After all, the Royal Family of England also holds the Throne of Hanover, and that means we are all somewhat German.
But some of Papa’s relations are no more fond of O’Hum than I am, I can tell. (Uncle Sussex calls him “that Irishman” – I heard him.) But Mamma is inclined to trust Aunt Sophia’s sympathies, because before Papa died, he advised Aunt to entrust matters of her household purse to the Captain. It is unfortunate that Aunt Soap (she doesn’t mind my calling her that) tells the Captain everything that is going on.
Uncle Leopold says Papa put “that devil” in charge of his affairs because O’Hum always saw to it that the horses were well kept, at least. And, for Papa, His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent, Uncle says, it was decent logic, because my Papa’s military planning was one of his studied strengths.
So, all in all, O’Hum treats Princess Sophia just as sparsely as the rest of us, though she is a princess whose own father was King. But we do have nice horses and carriages. I would be very sorry not to have my mare, Rosa, I know.
I just wish O’Hum would allow Mamma to speak to me in German. I don’t know so many words in French, and she is never quite sure what she’s saying in English. This may seem an exaggeration, but I constantly feel that if I would like her to hug me, I must be prepared to stand before her and explain what “a hug” is. By that time, some visitor will have sent a calling card in, and there won’t be time for her to attend to my request.
By the way – there was soft bread again today at teatime. Toire was probably making it all up, about the poison. I expect she has been reading about the wicked emperors of Rome. I believe their families were treacherous.
Later
Night light not quite guttered, Lehzen snoring delicately in her chair. I crept to the maids’ closet and got a piece of rushlight to put in the candleholder, to keep the last of the wax burning. I am in the mood to write more about my day, lest I forget.
After lessons and before luncheon, Lehzen and I played dolls. I was going to make the two Dutch peg dolls we bought last week into opera characters – von Weber’s Oberon, perhaps, and Beethoven’s Leonore. But instead, we made them into Duke Omar and Duke Zepho. They are in the Bible. They were Joseph’s cousins.
Omar had a sort of dressing gown of dark red plush, and Zepho, of Roman-striped ribbon, blue, red, green, and white. (I made Zepho.) We made sashes of gilt soutache trim, and cunning little white head-cloths tied on with black buttonhole thread. I drew Duke Zepho’s face with brown ink, and one eyebrow goes up so he looks comical, though I didn’t plan that. Lehzen drew Omar in black ink. She says her hand slipped, and he looks like an Italian dandy. But I think he looks more like Mr Punch in the puppet show at Uncle York’s when I was eight.
Katherine is still my favourite doll, though. I tuck her in by my pillow every night.
5 April
Finally! A fair day, warm and pleasant! Mr Westall, my art tutor, and Aunt Soap and I went outside to sketch in watercolours. The footman, Grampion, went back and forth four times and brought out three India rattan chairs and two easels which, however, we did not use after all, it was so breezy. It turned out to be much easier to work with the drawing board on one’s lap, so one could hover over the painting and keep the colours from drying too fast and streaky.
I painted a charming clump of ferns, with a VERY real-looking heartsease next to it, purple and gold with a saffron centre like a pheasant’s eye. Mr Westall painted the vista overlooking the lime walk, with the yellow jasmine just opening. He painted it so quickly, but he captures so much perspective with the littlest quirk of his brush! I fear I will always be awkward, compared to his genius.
But the heartsease has a look to it.
Aunt Soap fiddled constantly with the lumpy brooch holding her shawl. She only wears it because my Uncle King gave it to her, not because it’s well suited for the task. Other than that, she read the whole time. She does not turn pages very often. I think she is a slow reader. I am a fast reader. She says when she takes me to visit Uncle Sussex in his library, since it is practically on the other corner of the palace, she does not like to hurry right back to our apartments. I can read a good deal in his books without having to bring them back here – and without Aunt Soap catching on that I read so much. It’s almost the only way I manage to read any novels for myself.
Mama and Lehzen don’t approve of my reading novels. It’s not part of the Kensington System of Education. They say I am too young for most fictions, except Mrs Trimmer. Mrs Trimmer supposedly writes “improving” stories that will make one a wise child. I think they could use much improving, themselves.
Here’s a secret, Feo: Uncle Billy says so, too. He gave me The Last of the Mohicans last winter on a Sunday carriage ride, and advised me to keep it hidden in my fisher-fur muff. Sometimes he calls himself Good Old Hawkeye (like one of the heroes in
the book), and then he laughs.
“Read now,” he said. “Presently, it’ll all be nothing but dispatches and newspapers.”
I said, “Aye, aye, sir.” He liked that. But I wish I could have Mamma’s permission to read novels. I want to be good, but I must read stories.
I hope Mamma does invite Lady Northumberland to be my English governess, as she says she might, by and by. Lady N will be on my side sometimes, I expect. She thinks I am an advanced scholar for one my age. Imagine!
I am afraid I am too lazy ever to be a really scholarly sort.
6 April
Splendid ride this morning! Rosa just about flew!
Currant pudding with wine custard sauce at tea – a rare surprise!
7 April
Not just the post, but a messenger from Windsor Palace arrived this morning! He delivered with pomp a great, thick letter with gilded seals, Uncle King’s invitation to go to his ball next month! It came after lessons. Toire and I were playing “actress,” dressing up in Grandma’am’s old amber-coloured gown de deux jupes. (That’s French, and it means of two skirts. I must say, Grandma’am’s is so vast, it would make two whole gowns for me, but Toire was clever with some ribbons and made it pleat so nicely so I wasn’t absolutely swimming in it.)
She took the mauve Spitalfields silk with the dove-grey farthingale and rose-coloured frill. Toire always chooses that one, because I once said I thought it used to be blue, but it faded. She pretends it is blue. I am afraid I cannot pretend about colours. I have no such imagination – to me, a thing either is or is not blue, and one cannot always have one’s favourite colour, but why pretend?
While I was in the room, Mamma did not open the invitation. I believe she was put out with Grampion that he brought it in to her while I was not at my studies. I suppose she would have liked to surprise me with the news. Toire said Mamma most likely wanted to read the invitation first, to see who has been invited, before she decides if I am to be allowed to attend. On my word, it is His Majesty’s special invitation! I must attend! They shan’t keep me away this year! Surely they shan’t! Mamma says she will decide by and by.
I said, “Please, Mamma, decide soon enough so I can have a new dress. I am ever so much taller than I was.”
Mamma smiled when I said that. Baroness de Spaeth laughed. “Oh, yes,” she teased me, “you’ve grown the better part of an eighth of an inch!” But I am taller! Quite up to Mr Westall’s waistcoat pocket!
8 April
Everyone here is commanded to attend. I think it is very kind and gracious of my Uncle King to entertain such a large assembly when he has been in such pain. I am told he can scarcely stand, some days. Aunt Soap says no one is more courteous and refined than His Majesty. She says he always found it embarrassing when Grandfather went into one of his peculiar fits. Uncle is consequently exceedingly proper in his own manners.
But Mamma is put out about something, I can tell. She does not think all of His Majesty’s friends are quite good.
She would not say as much to Aunt Soap, but I believe she thinks my Uncle King, himself, lacks proper behaviour. De Spaeth, bless her, said (I didn’t hear it, Toire did) that my own innocence will be adequate protection against any coarse or unseemly impressions. I don’t know exactly what it means. I am sure my innocence has not protected me from noting a Certain Person’s nose hairs want attention, and that is a coarse impression, I think.
I know Lehzen is passionately eager for me to go to the ball. As she is my governess, I believe she wants me to behave to her credit, and I will certainly try to do so.
Lehzen also said to de Spaeth, “Ivory peau d’ange silk for a May evening?” I think that is French for “angel skin” silk – it sounds lovely. And de Spaeth said, “With Honiton lace.” They were talking about my dress!
But Mamma still hasn’t said yes.
Later
I am being as good as I can be. I am so cooperative, I am quite a changed little vixen, Lehzen said. That is because it was rather breezy on our ride this morning – my hat blew right off, and my hair was all in knots. Mamma’s dresser, Mrs MacLeod, brushed and brushed my hair before luncheon to get out the tangles. Even though she pulled so hard I thought I should end up bald, I never cried out once. (I am quite ashamed of how I behaved only a few years ago, flinging my boots about, kicking our poor old nurse, Brocky, in her knees if I was even a bit tired when she brushed my hair before bedtime. I was ever so beastly, and she was ever so kind to forgive me.)
I know my dancing instructor, Madame Bourdin, will want me to go to the party. She will want me to be allowed to stay up late and to dance with my cousins, and so to demonstrate how well she has taught me.
As to that, I am of two minds. I do love dancing. And I may say here, in this private journal – think it not conceit, dear Feo! – I am a very fair dancer. No ballerina, of course. But I am not terribly awkward. If only my limbs were a trifle longer and more aerial in their look, I should do quite well. I believe I am sufficiently lively.
But my cousin Georgie will be at the ball. I find him an impossible pig of a boy. He is rude to old ladies with ear trumpets and old gentlemen with ill-fitting wigs. AND he is mean to dogs AND both mean and cowardly toward parrots. AND he says BEASTLY things when the adults can’t hear him, and his accent is quite as if he is speaking with his mouth full of tough meat he is still chewing. I should not like to have to spend any part of my magical evening at Court dancing with Georgie!
If only I thought Mamma’s concern with WHO will be present were about whether I shall have to dance with Horrid Georgie, I should entirely understand her taking her time making up her mind.
Here are more cows:
1815
Lily, heifer of Livia
Penny, heifer of Pet
Sukie, heifer of Dolly by Bartlet’s Bull
Diamond, heifer of Rose
Irene, heifer of Rose
Zubadayah, heifer of Vashti by Bartlet’s Bull
9 April
Jellied eels at dinner. Most unspeakable! I begged to be excused. Was not allowed to leave the table. Ate nothing but blancmange and mulberries in syrup. Still had to smell the eels of those sitting near me. Lehzen put caraway seeds on hers, so she will not suffer wind. She puts caraway seeds on her cabbage and her black bread pudding and her cucumbers in cream and her potato dumplings – she puts caraway seeds on everything. She has such a horror of windiness and dyspeptic stomach.
Mamma has not yet said yes about the ball. But my dear Baroness de Spaeth is working at persuading her that it may be good for my position in His Majesty’s favour. She let slip a pertinent bit of information, one that must bode well for my wishes, and it is this: The guest of honour at the ball is to be Queen Maria da Gloria of Portugal! She is just my age, so of course I ought to be able to meet her!
This is how the conversation went. The Baroness was sitting with Lehzen and me in the yellow drawing room before dinner. Lehzen was reading a volume of Schiller’s poems. De Spaeth and I were decorating little round cardboard powder boxes, cutting bits of fabric to fit, gluing the edges down, then trimming them with gold braid and velvet florets from old bonnets.
I did mine with pale peach-blossom Shantung silk (leftover from Aunt Adelaide’s new dressing room drapery. She brought me a little scrap bag full of lovely little snippets of it. She is so thoughtful.)
The Baroness was doing hers in lilac moiré. Somehow, old ladies always seem to choose lilac or lavender for everything. Mourning colours, I say. I suppose by the time one is advanced in age past forty or so, one’s whole life is demi-mourning. “One peg in the grave,” is what Uncle Billy says, but he is rather older than that and is perfectly spry.
However that may be, the Baroness had just showed me how to pull a puff of cotton quilt batting thin across the top of the box and paste it down to provide a nice padding under the silk. T
he effect is quite elegant.
I said to her, “I do so love pink! If only Mamma would let me wear a pink frock in company sometimes, not always white!” Truly, I was not thinking particularly of Uncle’s party, only making a general comment.
My good de Spaeth, though, spoke with great seriousness.
“Your Highness must realize it would not be suitable for you to dress in the same fashion as Her Majesty Doña Maria. You are an English princess.”
“Why, who is Doña Maria?” I said. “How does she dress? As I don’t know her, I had hardly thought of mimicking her!”
And the Baroness de Spaeth said (as she daintily wiped a bit of paste off her fingertips – she is so much neater than I!), “Well, you know who Her Majesty is, of course, the little Queen who is coming to His Majesty’s feast! But she is a Queen, though she is a little maiden like yourself. And Portuguese, as well – quite Brazilian, they say – you know, southern taste is quite elaborate. But white frocks suit the little English May Blossom, still.”
She is just like my Grandmamma Coburg, calling me “May Blossom” and “May Flower” all the time. I liked it better before Horrid Cousin Georgie told me it was the name of a leaky traitor ship that went to America. I don’t think that rude boy knows what he is talking about, but just the fact that I think of him now every time anyone says “May Flower” rather spoils it for me!
But when I was thinking it over later, it occurred to me that I am the most suitable person to keep Doña Maria company. Even if she is a Queen and I am only a daughter of a duke who has already passed away and can never be King. My birthday is so close to hers. It must be nice to be turning ten years old and have the Monarch of England give a birthday party for one! Perhaps some year there will be no important Visitors of State at hand in May, and my Uncle King might choose to give me a party. I am sure I would be grateful if he did.
