Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Jean Plaidy

  That tour was a revelation. Bertie, it seemed, was a good ambassador. Lord Palmerston came to us rubbing his hands with glee. This visit has done diplomatic relations more good than a hundred conferences. They loved the Prince. Everyone wanted to talk to him. He had a smile for everyone. He has a flair for making speeches. The women adored him.

  Of course we were delighted to hear of Bertie's success. Colonel Bruce reported that the Prince's fondness for the opposite sex appeared to have increased rather than diminished. He feared the worst. The Duke of Newcastle had other views. He said the Prince was charming and had delighted all who met him; he had done a great job for the country.

  Albert said, “There must have been an improvement as we are getting praise from every quarter. We owe all this to Colonel Bruce. I think he should be given some honor for the work he has done.”

  “I will speak to Lord Palmerston,” I told him.

  I was quite surprised at Lord Palmerston's reaction.

  “Colonel Bruce, Your Majesty! This was not Colonel Bruce's doing. It was the Prince's. The success of the tour is entirely due to him.”

  “The Prince Consort thinks it is due to the discipline Colonel Bruce has imposed on him that he has improved sufficiently to behave as he did. We thought that the Order of the Bath…”

  Lord Palmerston raised his eyebrows and slowly shook his head.

  “I like people who do good work to be rewarded,” I said.

  “As I do, Ma'am. It is the Prince who should be rewarded. This is his triumph. I do not think Your Majesty's government would consider giving rewards where they are not earned. No, Ma'am, I do not think it would bestow an order on the colonel.”

  There were times when Lord Palmerston could be almost insolent, but in a light-hearted, amused sort of way, so that it was difficult to take offense.

  “Your Majesty must be feeling very proud of the Prince,” he went on. “I am glad he did well.”

  “In spite of Bruce,” he said softly.

  And I could see that look in his eyes. I knew he would be stubborn. There would be no order for Colonel Bruce. I could imagine his having the temerity to go to the country on such a matter.

  I felt only mildly put out. Albert felt it more keenly. But I was glad that Bertie had achieved his success alone.

  BERTIE'S TRIUMPH WAS short-lived. He was soon in trouble again. He had no doubt enjoyed too much freedom on his tour and did not relish settling down to work.

  He was caught in an escapade that greatly disturbed Albert. He had actually escaped from the colonel and decided he would go to stay with some friends he had made when he was at Oxford.

  This meant that first he would come to London and from there go to Oxford. Fortunately the plan was discovered. Colonel Bruce telegraphed to the Palace and when Bertie arrived in London a carriage was waiting to conduct him to the Palace.

  Poor Albert was so distressed. Bertie was too old to be beaten now, but Albert was determined that drastic measures should be adopted.

  There were conferences and a great deal of thought was given to the matter. In due course we decided that he should not return to Cambridge.

  He should have a spell of discipline with the army in Ireland.

  He was sent to Curragh Camp.

  VICKY PAID US a second visit—this time with Fritz. We talked not only about a princess for Bertie but a husband for Alice. Dear placid Alice! I should hate to lose her but I knew I should have to do so. That was the way of the world. Vicky at least was happy with Fritz, although I believed she was not so much at ease with her Prussian relations.

  I felt very well that autumn. Balmoral was a delight and it was always a great joy to escape to it. But I was worried about Albert's health. He would drive himself even when he was feeling ill. But he was better at Balmoral than anywhere else, I believed, and that made the place especially important to me.

  I loved the Highland gatherings on Deeside, and that year I invited two hundred guests to join us. Uncle Leopold visited us and with him came Prince Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt and his brother. I was very interested to see that Prince Louis and Alice were quite interested in each other.

  Vicky wrote that she was pregnant again. Mama and I were in agreement that it was too soon.

  “Oh dear,” I sighed. “I hope she is not going to follow my example. Nine times I underwent that ordeal!”

  Albert was delighted, although of course worried for Vicky.

  “You will never understand what these ordeals are for women,” I told him irritably.

  I was irritable because I was worried—about Vicky's pregnancy, Alice's prospects of marriage, Bertie's troubles, and most of all Albert's health.

  It was a great relief to us when Vicky was safely delivered of a little girl. Charlotte, they called her. Albert said we must go to see her.

  “I have a great desire to see Germany once more,” he said solemnly.

  We took Alice with us. She was such a dear good girl, always so calm and helpful—an ideal daughter. I should miss her when she married.

  Vicky was well and I thought the children were enchanting. Little Wilhelm's deformity was cleverly hidden and he was such a pretty child, sturdy and beautifully fair and very intelligent. The baby was delightful having passed out of the froggy stage.

  Vicky seemed to be happy, and of course Albert was delighted to be in his homeland again. We visited Rosenau and he enjoyed telling Alice about his childhood. He was very sad though, because his stepmother— of whom he had been very fond—had died recently.

  “Well,” said Albert philosophically, “it is something we all come to in time.”

  We met Duke Ernest and Alexandrina. Albert wanted to be alone quite a lot with Ernest. Sometimes, looking back, I feel that Albert had a premonition and wanted to relive every moment of his childhood.

  A terrible incident happened that might have killed him. I was glad I did not hear of it until it was over. I was not with him at the time; he was driving in an open carriage drawn by four horses when they bolted. The coachman could do nothing and the horses went galloping off heading straight for a level crossing. Albert, always cool-headed, saw that action could not be delayed and he jumped out of the rapidly moving carriage just before it crashed into the barrier; the coachman was pinned down and unable to move and Albert lay unconscious on the ground. Fortunately two of the horses had released themselves and came back to the stables—so help reached the spot in time.

  I had been out, and when I came in was immediately told what had happened. In panic I rushed up to Albert's bedroom. His face was bruised and he was in bed looking very shocked.

  Stockmar, with whom we had had a reunion in Saxe-Coburg, was by good luck, with us; he had immediately taken care of Albert and he told me that he was not as badly hurt as he had at first feared. The coachman was more seriously injured and one of the horses had to be shot.

  I was horrified. How easy it was for disaster to overtake us! I thanked God that Albert was safe.

  He made a quick recovery and we were able to go to Rosenau for his birthday, which was a great pleasure.

  Albert and Stockmar spent a great deal of time together; I laughed at them and said they discussed their ailments as fervently as generals planned strategy in a major war.

  Albert looked at me rather sadly. He said, “Dearest child, I hope you will be happy.”

  Which was odd, and later made me feel that he knew.

  WE HAD ANOTHER visit from Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt. I had decided that I wanted him for Alice. She quite clearly liked him. I had noticed that she had had one or two intimate chats with Vicky who would give her a little initiation into the demands of married life; and still Alice seemed prepared to undertake it; she must have been really taken with Louis! I wondered if Vicky had shown her one of my letters to her which I had sent soon after the birth of William.

  I had written:

  The despising of our poor degraded sex—for what else is it, as we poor creatures are born for man's pleasure an
d amusement—is a little in all clever men's natures. Dear Papa even is not quite exempt, though he would not admit it…

  Well, perhaps we know these things and still we go into them just as my dear Alice was preparing to do.

  I prevailed on Albert to sound Louis out and it appeared that the young man was eager for the match.

  “He is sensible and intelligent,” I said. “He is very easy to get along with. He is almost like one of the family already. I rather like that weather-beaten face of his. I like handsome looks and I am glad if they are there, but I do not make them a condition.”

  Albert gave me one of those tender exasperated looks and he said he supposed there would be no objections on either side to the match.

  That evening there were several people present, but I saw Louis and Alice talking very seriously together.

  I went over to them and Alice whispered, “Mama, Louis has asked me to marry him. May I have your blessing?”

  I smiled at her tenderly and murmured that this was hardly the place. We would meet later.

  Albert was with me when I sent for Alice and Louis to come to us. We all embraced and we told the happy couple how delighted we were.

  That was a very happy evening.

  I SHALL NEVER forget that March. Mama had not been well. She had had a very unpleasant abscess under her arm and Sir James thought she would not be better until it was removed.

  This had been done and we thought she was recovering when we heard that she had a very bad cold. Sir James came to tell us that he was very worried about her.

  Albert and I immediately went to Frogmore.

  Mama was not in bed but lying on a sofa rather elaborately dressed in a beautiful negligee. I felt relieved because she looked so well; then I realized that I had thought this because the blinds were drawn.

  “Albert and I came at once when we heard,” I said, and I knelt down, taking her hand and kissing it.

  Mama looked at me vaguely. I glanced at Albert who laid his hand on my shoulder, and the appalling truth struck me that Mama did not know who I was.

  Albert put his arm round me.

  “We will stay here for the night,” he said.

  Sleep was impossible. I knew that she was dying, and I felt a terrible sick remorse. Pictures from the past kept coming into my mind. I could not rest.

  Very early the next morning—it was not yet four o'clock—I rose and went into her room.

  She was lying very still. Her eyes were open but she did not see me.

  In the morning I was at her bedside, but it was all over. She had gone.

  Albert comforted me. “These things must come to pass, my love,” he said.

  I clung to him. He understood my remorse. I was very depressed. I read my journals—all the hard things I had written about Mama. How tragic… that rift between us! All Mama had tried to do was protect me. Lehzen and I had said cruel things about her, but all she wanted was the best for me. Albert had made me understand.

  I wanted to explain to Mama, to tell her that I did not mean the cruel things I had written. I wanted her to know …

  I would not go out. I would see no one. I was sunk in melancholy.

  Albert reasoned with me. People were talking. I was acting strangely. Because of my grandfather I must never act in a manner that could be called strange. People were only waiting to start rumors, to say wicked, untruthful things about me.

  I must stop grieving. I had been wrong, but I recognized my fault and was sorry for it. Those about me had been to blame. I had been only a child.

  So he talked to me and he made me see everything in a reasonable light.

  I must stop mourning for Mama.

  I began to go out again. I was laughing once more. I was quite merry in fact. I began to see things differently. After all, Mama had not become perfect just because she was dead. She had endeavored to bring herself into prominence; she had been rude to Uncle William and unkind to Aunt Adelaide.

  I must be sensible. Whatever I had done wrong I was sorry for. I had been young and innocent. All the same, I wished that I had been able to explain certain things to Mama.

  BERTIE HAD LEFT Ireland and was back at Cambridge. Vicky's efforts to find a princess for him had not met with any success, and our thoughts were turning more and more to Princess Alexandra of Denmark. The Danish royal family was rather insignificant and very low down the list, but Vicky wrote that Alexandra herself was far the most beautiful of the princesses.

  “In that case,” I said, “we shall tell Bertie nothing about her. Let him remain in ignorance of her existence until we find someone more suitable.”

  It was unfortunate that Albert's brother, Ernest who was very much against an alliance between us and Denmark—as no doubt all the German relations were—wrote to Bertie advising him against the marriage. As it was the first Bertie had heard of it, he was most intrigued.

  Albert was very annoyed with Ernest and wrote reprimanding him.

  We discussed it together. Bertie had met the Princess of Meiningen and the daughter of Prince Albrecht of Prussia and had not been in the least attracted by them. The daughter of Frederick of the Netherlands was too ugly. Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt had a sister, but Alice was to marry into that house and we did not want two connections with it.

  It really did seem as though Alexandra of Denmark was the only one; and as there were reports of her dazzling beauty it was very likely that Bertie would have no objection to her.

  Winter had come. Albert was suffering from a cold; his rheumatism was especially painful and he could not sleep at night.

  Then on a gloomy November day the blow fell. I did not know at the time because Albert kept it from me. I should never have known if I had not gone through his papers afterward and found the letter from Stockmar.

  All I knew was that he had become withdrawn, deep in thought, very melancholy and uneasy.

  I knew that he was brooding on something and I asked him what was wrong.

  “Oh nothing… nothing that need concern you, my dear child.”

  I presumed that he was merely not feeling well, and I urged him to rest and above all not go out in the bad weather.

  A few days later he said he must go to Cambridge. He wanted to see Bertie.

  “Not in this weather,” I said. “Bertie can wait.”

  “I would rather go today,” he replied. “No, Albert. Not in this weather, and you know you are not well.”

  “I shall be there and back in a very short time.”

  “I am going to forbid it,” I said.

  “No, my love, this is something I must do. I am going to Cambridge.”

  The firmness of his tone told me that I could not stop him, and against my wishes, he went.

  When he returned he was cold and shivering. Then I did insist that he go to bed at once, and this time he did not protest.

  I sat by his bed scolding him for disobeying my wishes. And just to see Bertie! It was senseless. How was Bertie?

  Bertie was well. They had talked. “As if that could not have waited!” I said.

  He smiled at me and shook his head, and I dropped the matter because I could see how tired he was.

  Albert rallied a little the next day. I was delighted. He would throw off this cold; we would find something which would alleviate his rheumatism. He would be well again.

  In the midst of this a crisis arose that threatened to be of international importance. A war had been raging in America between the north and the south, and the people of the south had sent two envoys to us to plead their cause. These two men, Mason and Slidell, were sailing in the Trent, which was an English ship. The ship was boarded by the enemies of the south and the envoys were taken off. This could not be allowed. No one must interfere with British ships on the high seas; any who did must be made aware of the might of Britain. It looked as though the Americans would be fighting us as well as each other.

  There was a demand from the British government that the envoys must be released at once o
r our ambassador would be recalled from Washington. The government was ready to take firm action and I was behind them. Lord John Russell sent me a draft of the ultimatum he had decided to send.

  I shall never forget the sight of Albert in his padded dressing gown with the scarlet velvet collar and the fierce determination on his poor wan face.

  “This will not do,” he said.

  “Albert,” I chided, “you will go back to bed at once. You are not well enough to concern yourself in these matters.”

  “This is a very dangerous situation,” he replied. “This cannot be sent…as it is.”

  “But it is what we mean. We cannot allow these…ruffians…to board our ships.”

  “These are special circumstances. We do not want war with America. We need peace… peace in this country.”

  “Of course we need peace, but we are not going to allow these people to dictate to us on land or sea.”

  “It is a matter of wording the ultimatum. I am sure the Americans do not want war with us. They have enough to do fighting each other. But you must see that to receive a note like this would give them no alternative. It needs to be redrafted.”

  “You had better tell Russell that. No …you had not. You had better get to bed and rest.”

  “I cannot rest. I shall redraft this. I think we can avoid an ugly situation.”

  “Dear Albert, you are ill.”

  He lighted the little green lamp on his desk and sat down to work.

  When he had finished writing he leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands.

  “Victoria…my love,” he said, “I feel so weak. It is an effort to hold a pen.”

  “I told you you should not have done this. You will not listen to me.”

  He smiled at me wanly.

  I knew later that Albert's action then saved us from a very awkward situation that could have resulted in war. The affair of the Trent has consequently become one of those incidents that are hardly ever referred to in history books and Albert's part in it is forgotten by most; but it is just another example of the good Albert did for this country.

  The next day he was very ill indeed, and Sir James came to me and said he would like a second opinion.