Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 03]

by Victoria Victorious

I then told Louise how glad I was that she had come, and how dearly I loved my daughter-in-law. And because she knew I was speaking the truth, we liked each other a little better.

  Alexandra had given birth to a little girl—Louise, Victoria, Alexandra; I was so relieved that she had come through that ordeal; but she was still in pain.

  The doctors said she had rheumatic fever and that and the pregnancy had impaired her health considerably. She hobbled about on sticks, poor child, and still suffered a lot of pain. I told Bertie that it was due to the life they led and that Alexandra needed more peace. “Your Papa and I liked nothing better than to be alone, to read to each other and play duets. That was so restful. Papa did not care for dancing—ever—and he would not have been so foolish as to gamble.”

  “It is impossible for everyone to be like Papa,” he said.

  “That is true,” I retorted. “Least of all, it seems, you, Bertie. You are his son. You should be proud of that and try to be like him.”

  Bertie had a way of appearing to listen when I guessed his thoughts were far away.

  In time, Alexandra improved a little, but she walked with a limp. She was so pretty and dressed so charmingly and had such a natural air of elegance that nothing could deter from her attractiveness. Some of the ladies copied her walk. They thought it was very charming.

  They called it the Alexandra Limp.

  THERE WAS FURTHER trouble in Europe.

  Although I was still on very friendly terms with Louis Napoleon, I did wonder what he was secretly planning. Napoleon’s family were natural fighters; and he was hinting that owing to the new Prussian supremacy in Europe his frontiers were threatened by the Duchy of Luxembourg, which the Prussians were fortifying right on his border. He was in conference with the King of Holland suggesting that the Duchy should now be part of France—or Belgium might have it if they gave him a strip of territory in exchange for it.

  Prussia, flushed with victory, was not in the mood to agree.

  We must keep the peace, I declared.

  As a result there was a meeting in London and it was decided that the independence of Luxembourg should be guaranteed and the fortress dismantled.

  Napoleon was then a little cool toward me. He wanted territory and he thought that, in my efforts to avert war by calling a conference, I had thwarted him.

  I was appearing in public a little more at this time. I had laid the foundations of the Albert Hall, which was to be built in honor of Albert; that ceremony had been very moving. But I had to do it for it would not have been seemly for anyone else to.

  There were still scurrilous comments about my relationship with John Brown and I was not going to let myself be persuaded to send him back to Scotland, which I think some of them would have liked.

  I had given way to pleadings for me to review the troops in Hyde Park. I would ride in my carriage, and naturally John Brown would be on the box. In view of all the publicity John Brown had received, the crowd would, no doubt, turn out to see him and me together.

  Lord Derby called on me and told me that it would be unwise for John Brown to be present.

  “But why?” I demanded. “His place is there. He is my Highland servant.”

  “Ma’am, as you know there have been a number of scurrilous cartoons and articles in the papers.”

  “Destined to destroy the character of a good and honest man …and their Queen. I know. I have no respect for such people. They should be punished severely.”

  “There has to be freedom of the Press, Your Majesty, and sometimes that can be unfortunate. But I think it would be wise in the circumstances if John Brown did not appear at the review.”

  But I was not going to give way. That would be weakness and I should despise myself if I did. My relationship with John Brown was that of a queen and her servant—a respected servant, it was true, but nevertheless a servant. And I would not give way to sensation-seeking scandalmongers.

  I said firmly, “John Brown shall go to the review.”

  But it came about in a strange way that he did not.

  A few years before, Napoleon had persuaded the Austrian Emperor’s brother, the Archduke Maximilian, to accept the Imperial Crown of Mexico, which the French were setting up in that republic. There was a close connection between the Archduke and myself because he had married Charlotte, Uncle Leopold’s daughter, so it was another of those family affairs. The Mexicans, however, would not accept the Archduke as their Emperor and Napoleon was asked to withdraw his troops and the Archduke to resign his title. Charlotte came to Europe to rally help for her husband; but meanwhile the Mexicans restored the republic and the Archduke was shot by order of a court-martial.

  I was very angry with Napoleon who had set up the Archduke and failed to support him. But the fact of the Archduke’s assassination meant that the Court was in mourning, and there was no review in Hyde Park. I think Lord Derby was secretly relieved. He had been afraid that if John Brown had gone to the review the mob might have become dangerous.

  While all this was happening, Napoleon was holding a great exhibition in Paris and heads of various states were invited there—Bertie among them.

  Bertie was his usual gregarious self and his visit was considered to be a great success. When he was there he met the Sultan of Turkey and invited him to pay a visit to England sometime, to which invitation the Sultan responded with alacrity, and decided to come immediately.

  I was not at all pleased because I could not remain in retirement while such visitors were in the country.

  Alice and Louis were with me. Poor darlings, they were very sad, and still resentful over the Prussian War—such a disaster for them. However, I was glad to have Alice with me; she understood me better than any of the others did.

  “The Prince of Wales invited the Sultan,” I said. “He is Bertie’s responsibility and he must do the honors.”

  That would be an excellent idea, said Lord Derby; but there would be occasions when it would be necessary for me to be present. We did not want to offend the Sultan.

  So Bertie did the entertaining and, knowing Bertie, I hoped it was not too disreputable.

  I went to Osborne and received the visitors there. The Sultan was charming, and as I had been warned that I must be friendly toward him, I offered to bestow the Order of the Garter upon him.

  He was delighted when Bertie explained what a great honor it was and told him that it was rarely bestowed. Bertie’s sense of the theatrical prevailed and it was decided that the Sultan should receive the Order on board the royal yacht.

  Alice and her husband naturally must be present on such an occasion. It was July but the sea was choppy and it soon became clear that the Sultan was not feeling very well. Bertie said that perhaps it had not been such a good idea to have the presentation at sea—even so close to land and in July—and it would be as well to proceed as quickly as possible with the ceremony.

  I had John Brown with me. He stood close beside me as always with that amused expression on his rugged honest face, which suggested that if anyone attacked me it would be the worse for them. I had often reproached him, told him I was in no danger, and that although I appreciated his care, on some occasions it was not necessary to show such bellicosity.

  Bertie was right. We must get on with the ceremony as quickly as possible before the Sultan was ill.

  I held out my hand for the ribbon—and then it became quite farcical. The first equerry turned to the second and said in a loud whisper, “The ribbon.” The second equerry whispered back in agitation that he thought the first equerry had it. I could see that someone had forgotten to bring it.

  Prince Louis was standing close to me, and he was wearing the ribbon I had bestowed on him. Then I heard John Brown, “Stop mithering. Ye’ve nae brought the ribbon. This one will have to do.”

  I saw his strong hand stretching out to take the ribbon Louis was wearing.

  “Give him this one,” said Brown to me. “He’ll nae ken the difference.”

  I hesi
tated for half a second. Then I took it and gave it to the Sultan. Poor man, he was feeling too queasy to notice the little hitch.

  I almost laughed aloud…something I rarely did then; and whenever I did it was usually due to something John Brown had said or done.

  And so thanks to the ingenuity of my Highland servant, that little matter was satisfactorily concluded.

  LORD DERBY WAS getting very old and I had noticed for some time that he was looking far from well, so I was not surprised when he came to me and told me he could no longer continue.

  I understood perfectly, I said. The office of Prime Minister was scarcely a rest cure. He told me that he thought I should send for Benjamin Disraeli.

  I did so with pleasure. So Mr. Disraeli came to Osborne to kiss my hand in the formal way and take on the Premiership. I felt an immediate response to him. There was something in his manner that appealed to me; he behaved as though he were spellbound, enchanted, not only by my position but by me personally. He was so gracious that he made me feel young again.

  I knew certain things about him because I had made it my business to find out. I could not help comparing him with Lord Melbourne. Lord Melbourne had been an exceptionally handsome man and that had made him immediately attractive to me. I am afraid that in those days I was rather frivolous and impressed by a little wickedness. That was before Albert had changed me.

  Benjamin Disraeli was different. One could scarcely call him handsome. His skin was sallow, his eyes heavy-lidded, his nose prominent. I had always thought big noses were a sign of strength until Lord Melbourne had assured me that they were not. Disraeli had rather greasy hair that some said was dyed. What was so attractive about him was his manner, his way of expressing himself. He knew how to use words; he was gallant. Perhaps that was it. He made me feel that I was attractive, which I fear at that time of my life I was not. He knew just how to say the words that would make me feel that I was rather clever as well as attractive. It was a gift and Benjamin Disraeli certainly had it.

  He was a good deal older than I. He had been born in ‘04—so that would make him some fifteen years my senior. He told me later that he was the second child of Isaac d’Israeli—Jewish, of course, and in comfortable circumstances—whose father had been an Italian Jew who had owned a prosperous business making straw bonnets. He said his family had been expelled from Spain by the Inquisition in 1492.

  All this he told me as though he were unfolding a dramatic story; and I must confess I found it enthralling.

  His father Isaac was, he told me, a Voltairean Freethinker, and he broke with Judaism, which meant that all his children were baptized into the Church of England.

  “It was important to me, Ma’am,” he said, “though I did not realize it at the time. If I had remained a Jew, I could not have become a Member of Parliament at the time when I took my seat. It was not until ‘58, when I had been a Member for more than twenty years, that Jews were permitted into the House.”

  That was what made conversation with him so absorbing. He introduced facts like that in such a way that one remembered them.

  “I have always been impatient, Ma’am. I did not want to wait for fortune to come to me. I wanted to reach out and snatch it. When I was twenty years old I was appalled by my lack of success. I constantly reminded myself that Pitt was Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four. ‘And where is Disraeli?’ I would demand of myself. ‘Nowhere.’ ”

  “But your success was inevitable, Mr. Disraeli,” I said.

  “Your Majesty is gracious. I tried to make a fortune on the Stock Exchange and all went well for a time. Then I tried publishing a newspaper. That was a disaster. Then I decided to be a novelist. Vivian Grey, my first, had a fair success. But I offended a lot of people with that book.”

  “People are always ready to be offended. I think they were probably jealous of your success.”

  That was how our conversation ran. It was so much more interesting than that of most of my Prime Ministers had been. It reminded me so much of the chats I had with Lord Melbourne.

  I knew Disraeli had mistresses before his marriage; but, of course, we did not discuss that side of his life, though he did tell me about his friendship with Wyndham Lewis and how when he had been his protégé, he had become friendly with Wyndham Lewis’s wife.

  “It was not love at first sight,” he said, “but it grew to deep love. Mary Anne once said that although I married her for her money, now I would marry her for love.”

  “And did you marry her for her money, Mr. Disraeli?”

  “I confess I considered her fortune.”

  “Oh, how mercenary!” I found myself laughing. Since Albert’s death I laughed so rarely. John Brown could make me smile; but I was actually laughing with Mr. Disraeli.

  He loved to talk of Mary Anne and I began to feel that I knew her well. He told me how devoted she was and how she sat up when he was late at the House and had a cold supper waiting for him, no matter what time he came in.

  They were friends as well as lovers.

  “I understand so well,” I said sadly.

  “Ma’am we have had something very rare in common—a happy marriage.”

  How right he was!

  He gave me a copy of Sybil, which I thought was very good indeed. I gave him a signed copy of Leaves.

  He was constantly referring to me as a fellow author, which I had to admit I quite liked. I looked forward to his visits. It was like going back in time. I was remembering more and more of the days when I used to anticipate Lord Melbourne’s visits with such pleasure. Now I looked forward to those of Benjamin Disraeli.

  A certain savor had returned to life. I would not admit it but in my heart I knew it was there.

  SUCH A HAPPY state of affairs could not be expected to last. William Gladstone—whom I could not like—was making a great deal of fuss about the disestablishment of the Irish Church. The government was against the measure and was heavily defeated by a majority of sixty-five.

  I was at Windsor and when Disraeli called on me I was delighted as ever to see him, not realizing what news he brought.

  He quickly told me how things had gone in the Commons. “And, Ma’am,” he added, “I have no alternative but to offer Your Majesty my resignation.”

  “Resignation!” I cried. “Does that mean I shall have that dreadful man Gladstone here lecturing me?”

  Disraeli lifted his shoulders and looked woeful.

  “What is this nonsense about the Irish Church?” I demanded. “The Church throughout the Kingdom is associated with the Crown.”

  “Mr. Gladstone thinks otherwise, Ma’am. And so do others since we have been so heavily defeated.”

  “If I accept your resignation,” I said, “I shall be compelled to give your office to Mr. Gladstone and then the government would bring in the disestablishment. I think people should have plenty of time to think about such a step. No measure should be rushed through the House, which is what would happen if you resigned and I called in Gladstone.”

  “Your Majesty could, of course, refuse to accept my resignation and dissolve Parliament.”

  “That is what I will do. It will be some time before there can be an election and your government will remain in office until there is one.”

  “That means, Ma’am, that I remain in office and we go to the country… say in six months’ time.”

  I had to be content with that. Six months is a long time in politics, and one never knows what will happen to affect fickle public opinion; and there was a possibility that in six months’ time the government might be returned.

  Mr. Disraeli had somehow persuaded me that it might be a good idea to show myself a little. I had not held a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace since Albert died, but I decided to, and later I reviewed twenty thousand volunteers at Windsor Park and a few days later gave a party in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

  But I did not wish people to think that I was ready to undertake a round of engagements. In August I paid a visi
t to Switzerland, and to emphasize the fact that I wanted no fuss I traveled as the Duchess of Kent. Napoleon was most courteous and offered me his imperial train for my journey through France and in Paris I had a meeting with the Empress Eugénie. In Lucerne, however, I rented a villa near the lake, and there I enjoyed a very private holiday, which was very pleasant.

  All the same I was glad to return to Balmoral; and it was particularly interesting to go back because I had asked Brown to look out for a little house for me…a simple homely little house. Balmoral was really a castle, and what I wanted was a house where I could live with the utmost simplicity.

  I could trust Brown to choose the right place. With great sensitivity he had selected a spot that had particularly impressed Albert. It was Glassalt Shiel, which meant Darkness and Sorrow. How better interpret my mood! It was set among wildly beautiful scenery of almost forbidding grandeur where the Glassalt Burn tumbled down the mountainside into Loch Muick.

  I called it my Widow’s House for it was the only one that had not had the touch of Albert’s hand. Osborne and Balmoral were his creations. Not so Glassalt Shiel.

  Louise was with me and accompanied by one of the ladies—I think it was Jane Churchill—we set out for the place. The air was clear with a touch of frost—chilly for the first of October. We stopped for tea at Birkhill and John Grant joined us there with Arthur who had come from Geneva and had arrived in Ballater only a few hours before. Arthur got into the carriage with us and Grant joined Brown on the box.

  I was so excited when we arrived at Glassalt Shiel. There were lights in the house as we were expected and the servants wanted to give us a good welcome.

  It was such a compact little house and there seemed plenty of room in it for it was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. There was one staircase leading to the upper floor where there were several bedrooms—enough to accommodate the servants. On the ground floor were my sitting room, bedroom and the maids’ room; and on the other side of the hall the dining room, a kitchen, steward’s room, store closet, and another room for the menservants to sleep in. There were good stables and keeper’s cottage where the gillies slept.