by Jean Plaidy
“Oh,” I cried, “that is wicked.”
Lehzen looked at me, nodding.
I tore the paper in half and threw it from me.
“It is what the people are thinking,” said Lehzen.
“It is not,” I contradicted. “It is what those wicked people do to sell their papers.”
“Oh, Kindchen …”
“Daisy, dearest Daisy, you must not be so jealous. I have lots of loving in me, enough for you both.”
But I was apprehensive because they appeared to dislike each other so much, and I had a notion that there would be no peace while they were both under the same roof. Albert was my husband and we were bound together for life, but how could I bear to lose Lehzen?
ALBERT WAS GETTING more and more involved in the affairs of the country. Often if I found something tedious I would pass it over to him. He was very disturbed about the unrest. There was a great deal of unemployment; there was trouble in Afghanistan; there were disputes with China. We were not on the best of terms with France. Louis Napoleon had made an attempt to return and had landed at Boulogne in a British steamer; but there were more serious troubles in the East.
Albert talked of this a great deal. England with Prussia, Austria, and Russia were trying to force Mehemet Ali to leave North Syria. France stood against this and at one time it looked as though France would side with Mehemet Ali against the allies.
“Fortunately,” said Albert, “this has been avoided. We did not want war with France.”
Albert became quite animated about these matters and discussed them at length with Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston.
They both said he had a good grasp of affairs.
In August I had to attend the Prorogation of Parliament, and I told Lord Melbourne that it was absurd that Albert could not come with me.
“He may be present,” said Lord Melbourne, “but it would not be considered right for him to ride in the royal coach.”
“What nonsense,” I said. “Albert knows a great deal about what is going on. He is a great help to me. It seems ridiculous.”
“So much in life does,” said Lord Melbourne sympathetically.
Albert was really quite hurt about it. No matter what he did, he said, he was still treated as though he were of no account.
I was at luncheon a few days later when a letter came from Lord Melbourne. Albert watched me while I opened it, read it, and turned pink with pleasure.
“Oh dear Lord M,” I cried. “He works so hard to make me happy. Listen to this, Albert. Lord Melbourne has found out that Prince George of Denmark once accompanied Queen Anne to the Prorogation in the royal carriage—so that makes a precedent. He says that as it was done once he sees no reason why it should not be done again. He thinks, dearest Albert, that you should ride with me to the Prorogation.”
It was wonderful to see the pleasure dawn in that dear face.
Lehzen was less pleased. I thought how different she was from dear Lord M who did everything he could to make Albert comfortable in our relationship and so make me—and him—happy.
Lehzen's devotion could be a little tiresome at times.
So Albert rode with me in the carriage and I was so pleased to hear the cheers.
I read my speech perfectly because I was so delighted.
What a happy day that was!
OLD AUNT AUGUSTA was dying. I had always been very sorry for her. Her lot had been even harder than that of the other sisters. At least Aunt Sophia had had her brief love affair from which a son had resulted, and I supposed that even a scandal was better than nothing happening at all. Aunt Augusta might have been quite clever if her father had allowed her to be. She could paint well and was quite a musician. She had actually composed in her youth, but her efforts had been scoffed at. Music was not a profession for ladies, said her father. Men like Handel did it so much better. Poor Aunt Augusta—always so gentle and loving—she had had no life outside waiting on her mother, filling snuff boxes and looking after dogs. And now she was dying.
She had always been fond of me and looked forward to my visits, so I went often.
It was no great surprise to us when she died.
Albert said I had tired myself visiting her. He was so concerned for me that he was going to take me to Claremont where we could live quietly for a while.
“No late nights,” he said. “Early to bed and in the freshness of the morning we will walk out under the trees and you will tell me how much more beautiful they seem to you now that you know a little—a very little—about them. You were so very ignorant of such things, my dear, before I took you in hand.”
“I was ignorant of so much,” I muttered.
And he was pleased. That was the remark of a meek little wife who had forgotten for a while that she was a queen.
There were so many memories at Claremont. I could imagine I was right back in my childhood when I used to come here to see Uncle Leopold. How he had loved the place where he had lived with Charlotte! He was happily married now to dear Aunt Louise and he had his children of whom he was so proud. I wondered if he ever thought of Charlotte now and the child she had lost.
They were lazy days, walking a little, the dogs barking round us, a little music and chess in the evening, or perhaps Albert reading aloud to me.
“It is so good for you,” said Albert.
It was wonderful to be together alone…or almost. I thought a lot about Louisa Lewis, now dead. I hoped she was with Charlotte and her baby. How Louisa had adored Charlotte! She had loved me too. But Charlotte had been her very special one. I could only be a second.
I used to go to Charlotte's bedroom—that one Louisa had kept as a sacred shrine, just as it had been when Charlotte had slept—and died— there.
Dear Charlotte, bouncing her merry way through life. “Right up to the last,” Louisa had said. “You would never have dreamed…”
I could not get Charlotte out of my mind. I was becoming fanciful. It was due to my condition, I supposed. I imagined Charlotte was there, watching me, her merry eyes suddenly sad.
How similar our positions were! So much hung on her getting an heir…as it did with me. She had merely been heiress to the throne. I was the Queen. But old Uncle George had scarcely been in the best of health even then and the heir to the throne was most important. And she had died… her baby with her.
Childbearing was so hazardous.
A terrible fear came to me. I thought: It is going to be the same with me. History is going to repeat itself.
I became obsessed with the idea. I would have my baby at Claremont. I would die…as Charlotte had died.
I considered having Charlotte's bedroom, Charlotte's death chamber, redecorated… made in readiness for me.
I cannot think what came over me. I was usually so full of life, so eager to enjoy it. I had everything to live for. Why did I have those morbid thoughts? Sheer panic, I supposed.
Where such ideas would have led me, I do not know, but for the good sense of Albert.
One day when I sat in Charlotte's room I heard a noise outside. I whispered, “Charlotte…”
The door handle turned slowly. It is an indication of the state I was in that I expected to see her there.
It was Albert who came in. “My love, you look startled. What are you doing here?”
“Oh Albert.” I ran into his outstretched arms.
“What ails you? Why are you sitting here alone?”
“I was thinking of Charlotte. She died in this room.”
He was looking at me in horror.
“She was well before …” I went on. “They were all surprised. It is a terrible ordeal. Albert, I am frightened.”
He comforted me and quickly led me out of the room.
He said, “You will not go there alone again. If you want to go there, I shall go with you.”
I don't know why I found such relief in those words. I felt it meant that whatever happened, we would be together.
He took me into our bright su
nny bedroom.
“There is nothing to fear,” he said.
I shook my head. “Childbearing is dangerous,” I said. “People die.”
“Not you. Not the Queen.”
I laughed. “Oh Albert, I can be a little arrogant sometimes.”
He did not deny it, but stroked my cheeks.
“All will be well,” he said. “There is nothing to fear. You will be well…I shall be here beside you.”
“Oh yes, Albert.”
“And always shall be. Do you not know that I am always right?”
I smiled. “Yes, Albert,” I said.
“Then I will tell you something. Tomorrow we are leaving Claremont.”
“Yes, Albert,” I said again and felt floods of relief coming over me.
Albert was looking after me. All would be well.
THE BIRTH WAS due in December, but in November, three weeks before the appointed time, my pains began. Fortunately the doctors, the midwife, Mrs. Lilly, with the nurse, were in the Palace in readiness. Sir James Clark was one of them. Poor Sir James, he had never quite recovered from the Flora Hastings scandal. There were two others with him— Dr. Locock and Dr. Blagdon. Albert, who felt that a German doctor must be more efficient than English ones, had insisted that Dr. Stockmar hold himself in readiness in case he should be needed.
I had dreaded the ordeal—and not without reason. I suffered acutely for twelve hours and never never again did I want to go through such an ordeal. All the time I was conscious that waiting in the room next to the lying-in chamber were several members of the government, including Lord Melbourne, Lord Palmerston, and the Archbishop of Canterbury. I felt that was most undignified. At least it helped me in some way to resist my impulse to scream aloud in my agony.
Everything must come to an end and I thanked God when that did and I could lie back, quite exhausted, and listen to the crying of the child.
Albert was beside me.
“A perfect child,” he said.
“A prince?”
“No, Liebchen, a little girl.”
“Oh.”
“It is wonderful,” said Albert. “This little girl could be the Queen of England.”
They put the child in my arms. I am afraid I was not maternal and my first thought was: What an ugly little creature! for she resembled nothing so much as a little frog.
Albert did not think so. He kept saying she was perfect.
What a comfort he was!
Mrs. Lilly was bustling about, taking a proprietorial attitude about the child as though she had produced it; and when I was rested I received one or two people, including Lord Melbourne. He looked at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, “God bless you, Ma'am…you and the child.”
I found that very moving.
Mama came. She was so different from what she had been in the old days. She was so anxious to be part of the family. I began to think I had been rather hard on her. She adored Albert; she thought he was quite wonderful, and this endeared her to me. Of course, Albert had been responsible for bringing her back into the household so naturally she thought a great deal of him. He was, also, of her family and they understood each other, for Mama had never reconciled herself to the English any more than they had to her. I suppose she felt that Albert was like one of her very own family. In any case, I was pleased to see amity between them; and I was not averse to forgetting the enmity of the past. Besides, my being on better terms with Mama pleased Albert.
Albert wanted the child named Victoria—after me; and as that was also Mama's name, she could believe the little girl was named after her.
I wanted to add Adelaide, after my very good friend the Queen Dowager who loved all children—particularly so because, poor lady, she had none of her own. I knew that would delight her and show her that I remembered her kindnesses to me during my childhood. So it was Victoria Adelaide and to that we added Mary Louisa.
I recovered quickly. The baby changed every day, losing that frog-like look and becoming more like a human being. We engaged a wet nurse— a very pleasant creature, a Mrs. Southey who was the sister-in-law of the well-known poet. I made a point of seeing the child twice a day to make sure that all was well with her.
I had many congratulations from all sides but one from Uncle Leopold irritated me a little:
I can well understand that you feel astonished at finding yourself within a year of your marriage, a very respectable mother of a nice little girl, but let us thank Heaven that it is so.
Thank Heaven! I thought. Have you any notion, Uncle Leopold what a woman has to go through to produce a child?
…I flatter myself, therefore, that you will be a delighted and delightful Maman au milieu d'une belle et nombreuse famille…
I felt incensed and took up my pen at once:
I think, dearest Uncle, that you cannot really wish me to be the mother d'une nombreuse famille. Men never think—at least seldom think—what a hard task it is for us women to go through very often.
How far I had grown from Uncle Leopold since the adoring days of childhood!
Lehzen, of course, was delighted with the baby. She was critical of Mrs. Lilly and Mrs. Southey. But then she naturally would be. She would have liked to drive them out of the nursery and to have taken sole charge of the baby.
On those occasions when the baby was brought to me Albert would be there.
He marveled at the child and agreed with me that her looks improved every day.
“Little Victoria,” he murmured.
“It is what you call me sometimes.”
“It is rather a big name for such a little person.”
“She is like a little kitten.”
“Little Pussy,” said Albert; and then we took to calling her Pussy. It seemed to suit her better than Victoria, which had, since my accession, acquired rather a royal ring. So Pussy—or Pussette—she became; and as the days passed my affection for the child grew and I looked forward to our meetings—particularly if Albert was there. It was such a happy family picture—myself, my husband, and our baby.
I noticed that Dash was a little jealous of the baby. He would stand watching me while I was with her; and then he would give a little bark as though to say, “Remember Dash.”
But he was not nearly so lively as he used to be.
“He is getting old,” said Albert. “Never mind. You have the others.”
“There is only one Dash,” I reminded him.
A FEW WEEKS after the baby was born something very strange happened, which was to have a great effect on Lehzen, and therefore on me.
It happened in the night—at about one-thirty in the morning, actually—when the household had retired.
Mrs. Lilly, the nurse, was startled out of her sleep by the sound of a door opening. She sprang up and called, “Who's there?”
There was no answer. She went out into the corridor and saw the door of my dressing room being slowly opened from the inside. Then it shut abruptly. Mrs. Lilly had the presence of mind to run to the door and lock it on the outside. Then she summoned one of the pages who was on night duty.
By this time Lehzen had come out.
“What is all this about? What are you doing? You will awaken the Queen.”
“There is someone in there,” said Mrs. Lilly. “I saw, with my own eyes, the door opening.”
Lehzen cried, “It's the Queen's dressing room. Someone is trying to murder the Queen.”
She told me all this afterward. Her one thought had been for me, and after that wicked man had shot at me she feared the worst.
Lehzen went in, so she told me, boldly, with the page who was shivering with fright thinking, quite naturally, that he might encounter an assassin. And there cowering behind a sofa was a small boy.
By this time Albert and I were awake and Albert took over with his usual efficiency.
We remembered the boy. His name was Jones and a few years before he had broken into the Palace.
“I like it here,” he said. “It's nice
. I can't help it. I have to come in. I don't mean no harm to no one. I love the Queen. I heard the little baby cry. I don't mean no harm.”
Albert said, “Take the boy away. I will see him in the morning. Search the rooms.”
“There was no one with me,” said the boy. “I climbed the wall. I come in on my own.”
Albert was magnificent on such occasions. Calm, quiet, and very authoritative.
We went back to our bedroom.
I was laughing. “Such a scare… about nothing. That boy came in before. Jones. That's right. The papers called him In-I-Go Jones.”
Albert said, “It is not a matter for laughter. It was a harmless boy. But it might not have been a boy and it might not have been harmless. This is a matter which requires attention.”
The papers had the story, of course. It was served up in various forms—embellished and garnished to suit public taste and made a good story. In-I-Go Jones was the young hero of the day. He said he had been under a sofa and had heard Albert and me talking together.
“I am now going to consider this matter of Palace security very carefully,” said Albert; and as in everything he did, he set about the task with thoroughness. He went through the household asking questions and uncovered quite a lot of discrepancies. The extravagance was great, a number of servants entertained their friends lavishly at Palace expense, jobs were created for friends, but worst of all, security was lax, and windows and locks were proved to be faulty.
Albert said, “That shall all be put in order, and I fancy we shall find greater efficiency, with a possibly decreased budget.”
Of course, there was murmuring in the kitchens and talk of German interference.
The Press heard of it. “The German invasion” they called it.
It was so disheartening. Everything Albert did was for the best—and he was never given any credit for it.
But the one who was most angry was Lehzen. Albert had come into her domain with his criticism and suggestions for improvements. She was tight-lipped and angry.
“I never heard anything like princes going into kitchens,” she said. “It's people like that who are not used to being in royal circles.”
