Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Виктория Холт

  There he met Princess Helen Frederica Augusta, daughter of the Prince of Waldeck Pyrmont, and decided he wished to marry her.

  When I heard I was horrified—not by the thought of whom he had chosen, but because he was contemplating marriage. I feared he was not strong enough. I had lost my dear Alice and that had made my children who were left to me doubly precious; and because of Leopold's weakness I was afraid.

  I discussed the matter with Bertie who thought that Leopold must marry if he wished to.

  “Do you understand the nature of this terrible thing from which he is suffering?” I demanded.

  “I know that if he bleeds he is in danger. But you have to let him live, Mama. He is just as well married as single.”

  Of course he was right. I was being fatalistic. Whatever was coming I must be prepared for it.

  So Leopold was betrothed and created Duke of Albany.

  * * *

  I WAS ON my way to Windsor Castle and had left the train and taken my place in the carriage, which was waiting for me at the station. The horses were just about to move forward when I heard a loud report, then a scuffle, and Brown, white-faced and anxious, was at the window.

  “A man has just fired at your carriage,” he said.

  I felt quite ill. This was the seventh shock of this nature that I had had in my life. I should be used to it, but one never is.

  “I'm taking ye on to the castle the noo,” said Brown. “I'll soon have ye there.”

  Later I learned exactly what had happened. Two boys from Eton School had been in the little group of people near the carriage. They had seen a man lift his hand with the pistol in it, directed straight at the carriage. One of them had knocked it out of the man's hand with his umbrella while the other had hit the assailant with his. Then they had seized him and clung to him until he was arrested.

  This was a really serious attempt for the pistol had been loaded.

  Mr. Gladstone came down to Windsor, all concern. I must say he did seem very sincere—and indeed, it was hard to imagine Mr. Gladstone ever anything else; but his manner irritated me even when he showed he was upset by the incident.

  “The man is mad,” he said. “All those who have made an attempt on Your Majesty's life have been mad. In other countries rulers are attacked for political reasons. It is gratifying that in this country all assassins are madmen.”

  “The effect is the same on the victim, Mr. Gladstone,” I said coolly.

  “Yes, Ma'am, that is so, but the motive is different; and madmen have not the same power to reason.”

  Now I was going to get a lecture on the motives of madmen and the difference in assassins in England and other countries.

  I cut him short.

  “I shall be relieved to hear more of this matter,” I said.

  He told me then about the bravery of the two boys from Eton who had without doubt averted a tragedy.

  “I should like to let them know how much I appreciate their actions.”

  That, he said, was an excellent idea.

  It was arranged that I should receive the whole school—nine hundred boys—and very moving it was to see them assembled in the quadrangle. I spoke to them, commending the two of their number who had so gallantly come to my rescue. Then the two heroes themselves came forward and received my special thanks.

  My would-be assailant turned out to be a certain Roderick McLean who was brought to trial and found not guilty but insane.

  I was incensed by the verdict. Not guilty when he had aimed a loaded pistol at me, which might have killed me but for the prompt action of two schoolboys with their umbrellas! It seemed to me that people who tried to kill my subjects were guilty of murder, but if they tried to kill me, they were found to be insane.

  “There is no doubt of the man's insanity,” said Mr. Gladstone. “In this country it is always the insane who attempt to assassinate the sovereigns.”

  The man was detained “during Her Majesty's pleasure.”

  It would be my pleasure that he remained as long as I had any say in the matter.

  In his ponderous way Mr. Gladstone did see my point and said that he would take up the matter of such cases and see if he could bring about a change in the law.

  My popularity soared after the attempt. That was always gratifying; and when one had come unscathed out of these incidents they seemed almost worthwhile for the pleasure of enjoying the people's acclaim.

  * * *

  ABOUT A MONTH after the Roderick McLean affair, Leopold was married. There had been the usual distasteful wrangle in Parliament about his allowance. But at length it was agreed that it should be raised to £25,000 a year. There was the expected outcry in the Press about the money the royal family was receiving from the country, the habitual murmuring about my seclusion, “What does she do with it and is she worth it to us?” was renewed, and forty-two members voted against the allowance being raised. However the majority that passed it was substantial enough.

  I attended the ceremony in my black gown and over it I did wear my white wedding lace and veil. I prayed fervently that Leopold would not tax his strength. I greatly feared for him. The blood losses he had suffered all his life had weakened him; and he must realize that such a disease set him apart from normally healthy men. Helen was a very capable young woman, not afraid of stating her own mind—even to me. I had felt a little taken aback at first but soon began to admire her spirit. I was beginning to think she was just the wife for Leopold.

  I was buying Claremont for them as a wedding present. It was a house of which I was particularly fond. Uncle Leopold had left it to me for the duration of my life, but I had thought I should like to own it so that I could give it to the newly married couple.

  I soon began to worry less about Leopold for marriage seemed to suit him, and soon after the wedding Helen was pregnant. Her child was due to be born ten months after her wedding—which was really very prompt.

  I had so many grandchildren that I had to concentrate to count them. But Leopold's would be rather special because I had never thought he would have children.

  I was at Windsor. I had been down to Frogmore to be with Albert and when I came back I was very sad as I always was after these visits. I must have been deep in thought for as I was coming downstairs I slipped and fell.

  There was consternation. Brown came rushing out, sweeping everyone aside. He picked me up looking very angry with me and said, “What have ye done now, woman?” which made me smile in spite of the pain in my leg.

  He carried me to my room. Everyone fussed around, but I said I should be all right in a day or two.

  But the next morning I could not put my foot to the ground without pain. The upset had started my rheumatic pains and they came on more virulently than ever.

  The doctors came and said I must rest.

  It was very tiresome. I hated to be inactive. But I certainly was bruised and my leg was painfully swollen.

  Brown used to carry me from my bed to the sofa and then, because he thought I should get some fresh air, took what he called the wee pony chair and he would drive me around the park.

  What should I do without Brown? I wondered.

  Each morning he would come unceremoniously to my room with a “What'll ye be wanting today?” as though I were a fractious child whose wish must be consulted to keep me quiet. It always amused me and the sight of him cheered me up.

  Just over a week after my fall it was not Brown who came to my room for orders but one of the other servants.

  “Where is Brown?” I asked.

  “He is unable to wait on Your Majesty this morning.”

  Oh, I thought, amused. I supposed he had been a little “bashful” on the previous night.

  “Very well,” I said.

  I would tease him about it when he appeared.

  But Brown did not appear. Later in the morning I sent for him. One of the others came instead.

  “His face is swollen, Your Majesty,” I was told.

  “Fac
e swollen! What has happened? Has he had a fall or something?”

  I had to find out for I could glean nothing from the servant.

  “I want to see him,” I said. “Send him to me.”

  He came and the sight of him shocked me. His face was indeed red and swollen.

  “What on earth has happened, Brown?” I asked. “I dinna ken,” he said shortly. And I could see that he was ill. I told him to go back to bed at once. Then I sent for Dr. Jenner.

  When Jenner had examined Brown he came to me and told me that he was suffering from erysipelas.

  “Is that dangerous?” I asked.

  Dr. Jenner shook his head.

  “I want the best attention for him. You yourself, Dr. Jenner, and Dr. Reid.”

  “That is hardly necessary, Ma'am …” began Dr. Jenner.

  “It is my wish,” I said regally.

  Dr. Jenner bowed. There would be gossip, I guessed, because I had ordered the royal physician to attend John Brown. But I did not care. He was of great importance to me.

  * * *

  ANXIOUS AS I was over John Brown, I was delighted to hear that Helen had been safely delivered of a little girl. So Leopold was a father!

  I must visit the mother and child at once even though I had to be carried out to the carriage. Alas… not by John Brown.

  I found Helen recovering from the birth looking fit and well, but lying on a sofa. Leopold had one of his bleeding bouts and the doctors had warned him to take the utmost care for a while, so he was on another sofa. And because of my indisposition one had been put in for me.

  The three of us reclining on sofas made quite an amusing scene.

  The child was brought in and admired. Leopold was in the highest spirits; and as for Helen she was very proud of herself. It was a happy occasion but when I went back to Windsor I was greeted by alarming news. John Brown had taken a turn for the worse.

  “For the worse!” I cried. “But I thought that from which he was suffering was not very serious.”

  “Your Majesty, he does not seem to be able to throw off the illness.”

  “But he has twice the strength of an ordinary man!”

  “That does not seem to help him, Your Majesty. John Brown is very ill indeed.”

  I was deeply disturbed. I went to see him immediately. He looked quite different and he did not recognize me. He was muttering in delirium.

  Oh no, I thought, this is too much!

  But, alas, what I had begun to fear, happened.

  The next morning they came to tell me that John Brown had died in the night.

  * * *

  I COULD NOT believe it. Not another death. People were dying all around me. Was that part of the pattern of getting old? It seemed only a short time before that I had lost my dear friend Lord Beaconsfield. John Brown had been a comfort to me then…and now he had gone.

  It was such a blow that it stunned me. I could find no solace anywhere. None of the family mourned with me. They had never liked him and deplored my relationship with him. They did not understand, of course. They had called him one of the servants. He had not been a servant. He was something far closer than that.

  I wanted to raise some memorial to him. Sir Henry Ponsonby was very uneasy. He dropped veiled warnings. We did not want to give the Press a field day. No doubt there would be damaging speculations as to my relationship with him if too much attention was paid to his passing.

  I did not care. I was tired of the Press and trying to placate a fickle people. They listened to cruel libels and slander; and then when Bertie had nearly died and I might have been assassinated they found they loved us dearly. What was such shifting affection worth?

  It was one's friends like Lord Beaconsfield and honest John Brown who mattered.

  I had a statue of John Brown set up at Balmoral. I charged Lord Tennyson to write an inscription and he wrote:

  Friend more than servant, loyal, truthful, brave,

  Self less than duty, even to grave.

  I discovered that Brown had kept diaries and thinking what a magnificent job Sir Theodore Martin had made with his Life of the Prince Consort, I asked him to write a life of John Brown. I believe pressure must have been brought to bear on Sir Theodore for he declined on the grounds of his wife's ill health. I guessed that Sir Henry Ponsonby may have had something to do with this. Sir Henry was a dear friend but he had always been uneasy about the scandals concerning John Brown and he did not, I know, want these to be increased, which he believed would be the case if a life of Brown was brought out. But I wanted to show the world what a wonderful person he had been.

  As Theodore Martin would not write the book I engaged a Miss Macgregor to edit the diaries with me.

  To soothe myself I published an addition to Leaves from a Journal with More Leaves from a Journal of Our Life in the Highland.

  With mingling sadness and pleasure I recalled those days with Albert when the children were young. It brought it all back so vividly. I could relive it all, but the sorrow of remembering what was past, was hard to bear.

  I had many congratulations, but the family was shocked.

  I heard that the old Duchess of Cambridge had said that Leaves was vulgar, such bad English, trivial, and boring.

  I never liked the woman!

  Even Bertie raised objections.

  He thought it should not be generally circulated. “It is all right for those of us in the family circle to read it,” he said, “but not beyond that.” He added, “It is rather private.”

  “I think people are interested.”

  “I think people are too interested in our doings.”

  “There is nothing for me to be ashamed of in mine,” I said aiming a direct shaft at Bertie which went home. I added that Lord Beaconsfield had found Leaves enchanting. Perhaps because he was a writer himself and understood such things. He had often referred to us as fellow authors.

  “He was always overeager to flatter. I heard he once said that he believed in flattery for all, but with royalty it had to be laid on with a trowel.”

  I smiled. I could well believe the dear man had said that. But he really meant he had admired my book. He understood how one wanted to write as people like Bertie never would. But then when he was a boy he had shunned the pen—and had many a beating for it. No, Bertie could not be expected to understand.

  I believe there was a conspiracy to prevent Brown's Life being written and I suspected Sir Henry to be at the root of it; and of course he would have plenty of supporters, including the Prince of Wales.

  Sir Henry then said he would consult the Bishop of Ripon, Dr. Cameron Lees of Edinburgh, about the Life of Brown.

  “These are men who know about these things, Your Majesty,” he said. He then brought in Lord Rowton. I wondered what Brown would have thought if he could have known about this. Important people were making such a to-do over his simple writings.

  Dr. Lees thought it would be desirable to postpone the Life for a while. They called in Randall Davison, the Dean of Windsor, who applauded the decision to postpone; and he ventured the opinion that it would be desirable if no more Leaves were published.

  I was very angry with him. Was the wretched Dean implying that the publication was vulgar and unseemly in my position?

  I could not prevent myself showing my anger; and the Dean, realizing how offended I was, sent in his resignation. He said that he had displeased me and was sorry for it; but there was not a word about changing his mind.

  It was true that my anger rose quickly; but it did as speedily depart.

  I began to think about the Dean. It was wrong that he should resign over such a matter. He had offended me and he knew it. Yet he had spoken what he believed to be the truth. I must bear no grudge for that and in my heart I knew that he was right.

  In view of all the scandal attached to my relationship with John Brown, the publication of his journals would only add to that. My life with Albert and the children was private too. I would read my journals; I would rec
all it all. I must accept the truth, and honor those who gave their opinions to me at the risk of their careers.

  I must be wise. No more Leaves then, and the memoirs of my beloved Highland servant must be indefinitely postponed.

  * * *

  IT WAS A year since John Brown had died and I was still mourning. There were memories of him everywhere—especially at Balmoral. Helen was pregnant again and her little Alexandra was still little more than a baby. It was obvious that Helen was going to be fruitful and it was a mercy to know that the dreadful hemophilia was only passed on through the female side to the sons, so Leopold's children would be safe.

  Leopold had one of his bouts of illness and the doctors had suggested he go off to the south of France. I heard from Helen that his health was greatly improved there.

  On the very anniversary of John Brown's death, the twenty-seventh of March, I received a telegram from Cannes to say that Leopold had fallen and injured his knees. Because on that day I had awoken to a cloud of depression thinking of my Highland servant whom I missed so much, I was filled with apprehension. I had a suspicious feeling about dates. My dearest Albert and Alice had actually both died on the 14th December. It was small wonder that I felt this significance. So strong was my premonition that I thought of leaving for Cannes, but before I could make plans to do so another telegram arrived. Leopold had a fit which had resulted in hemorrhage of the brain. Leopold was dead.

  Ever since we had known he was suffering from this fearsome malady we had been expecting this. Many weeks of anxiety I had suffered on Leopold's account. But later I had felt better about him and since his marriage and the birth of his first child I had begun to wonder whether I had been unduly anxious. I had reminded myself that he had so many of those bouts of bleeding but had always recovered from them.

  But Death was all round me. I felt there was no escaping from it. I wondered all the time at whom it would point its finger next.