The Captive of Kensington Palace

Chapter II A WEDDING AT KENSINGTON

In the house at Bushy – the favourite residence of Adelaide, Duchess of Clarence – she was preparing for the arrival of the Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg. This was in the nature of a State visit and State visits never made her very happy. She much preferred the rural life at Bushy where she and William could live quietly surrounded by the FitzClarence grandchildren who were growing numerous and whose parents looked upon the mansion as the family home.

Adelaide was delighted that this should be so. She, who had longed for children of her own and been denied them, could find some solace in the children of others. People had ceased to remark on the extraordinary manner in which she had taken her husband’s family by Dorothy Jordan to her heart. It certainly had won William’s. She might be a little dowdy; she was certainly no beauty – she was pale and her skin was often spotty at certain times of the year; people were inclined to ignore her; but those who knew her well loved her. William her husband was delighted with her; he treated her with respect; he even listened to her; and one of his greatest delights was to see her with his grandchildren – behaving as though they were hers too. She, a Princess – albeit of a little German state – could be a fairy godmother to the actress Dorothy Jordan’s grandchildren.

Soon she hoped to have with her her nephew by marriage – young George Cambridge whose father Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, was at present Viceroy of Hanover. George’s mother, Augusta, had written to her saying that it was time her young George came to England to be educated and she would be happy if Adelaide would take him under her wing.

Of course she would. She loved children; she had a way with them too; there was not one of them who did not respond at once to her affection and her gentle discipline. She herself was only happy when the house was full of them; and she gathered together all her young relations and gave parties for them; she was frequently devising new presents for them, something which would delight and enchant them. It was small wonder that they all loved Aunt Adelaide.

Even the Cumberlands’ boy, George, was a frequent visitor. What a dear boy – so different from his parents who rather terrified Adelaide. She could never quite be sure what they were plotting.

There was one absentee from the parties: little Victoria from Kensington. It was a shame. Adelaide often thought of the child – a lively, pretty little creature, bubbling over with affection. But her mother would not allow her to come to Bushy while the FitzClarence grandchildren were there. She implied that Adelaide should banish the youngsters – as if she could! They were William’s grandchildren, and therefore hers. But the Duchess of Kent did not wish her Victoria to be contaminated by what she called the ‘bastidry’. Really, she was a difficult woman! She incensed William who could grow incoherent with rage when he discussed her. The King himself was irritated by her. Adelaide had tried to make harmony in the family, but with a woman such as the Duchess of Kent who had such grand ideas of her position in the country – through her daughter, of course – it was certainly difficult. So dear little Victoria was not allowed to join the gay parties at Bushy and share in the fun. It was wrong. Children were not meant to be so serious – even if there was a possibility of their mounting the throne. Childhood was a carefree time. Poor little Victoria!

Had Adelaide’s own darling Elizabeth lived, this glittering possibility might have been banished from Victoria’s ambitious Mamma’s mind; but all that was left to Adelaide was a stone statue of her reclining baby – so lifelike, so beautiful that often when she was alone she would kneel by it and shed tears of sorrow.

She did not believe that she would ever have a child now. There had been so many disappointments. It was not so much that she desired an heir to the throne; it was a baby of her own that she wanted. Alas, that blessing was denied her and she must console herself with other people’s children.

William never reproached her. He was kind in his rough nautical way. He was devoted to his FitzClarences. They were bastards and could never mount the throne, but William did not really mind that he had no legitimate heir. As long as he himself was King that was all that concerned him.

And there was another worry. He was becoming obsessed by the fact that the Crown could be his.

Adelaide sighed and went to his room.

‘Ah, my dear Adelaide.’ He always seemed genuinely pleased to see her. He was a faithful and affectionate husband; he had not wanted to marry her particularly and had done so from expediency, but he had soon discovered the fine qualities of his dear Adelaide. He often said now in his brash way that if the most beautiful Princess in the world was offered him he would think twice before changing his Adelaide for her. It was meant to be a compliment of course. But unlike his elder brother George, the King, William had no grace of manners.

He came towards her and embraced her. He was shorter than his brothers – red-faced, weatherbeaten and showing his sixty-three years.

‘The Prince will soon be arriving,’ Adelaide reminded him.

‘Oh yes, yes. Why we should be expected to look after the fellow, I don’t know. He’s come to marry that damned Duchess’s daughter, not one of mine.’

Adelaide did not mention that if the young man had been coming to marry one of his daughters there would be no need for him to be received by a member of the royal family.

‘Her girl,’ he grumbled. ‘A pretty creature. I don’t doubt she’s glad to escape from the interfering old woman.’

‘Let us hope she will find happiness in marriage.’

‘Couldn’t be worse than living in Kensington Palace with that woman. And I suppose we’ve got to have a dinner party to entertain the fellow, eh?’

‘We must remember he is a visitor.’

William was further irritated. He was enjoying the domesticity of Bushy to which he had retired in great dudgeon after having been obliged to resign his post of Lord High Admiral. That had been an intensely worrying time, when he had put on a uniform and attempted to command the Navy instead of treating the post as the sinecure Wellington, the Prime Minister, and his brother, the King, had intended it to be.

She had been afraid, for there had been rumours at the time that William was going the way of his father – towards madness. Such rumours had doubtless been circulated by Cumberland, and William’s behaviour did suggest that there might be some truth in them. However, he had come through that difficult period, had given up parading in his uniform, attempting to reform the Navy and making grandiloquent speeches to the sailors. He had come to Bushy, to Adelaide and the children; now he lived quietly there, rising early, breakfasting with Adelaide and some of the children at nine-thirty, playing with the children until midday and after the meal taking a nap and later discussing the gardens with the gardeners or riding or walking and in the evening settling down to a game of Pope Joan with the family, never staking more than a shilling at a time.

In such surroundings he became calmer although he always talked a great deal and excitedly, making speeches at the least provocation even though Adelaide was his only audience.

But there could be no doubt that in the domestic atmosphere of his home his physical and mental health improved and he was his old affectionate and jaunty self. It was the thought of greatness that unnerved him, but its fascination for him was immense.

Since the death of his brother, the Duke of York – which made him next in the succession if the King did not have a child, and it was scarcely likely that that mass of corrupting flesh could beget a child even if he were suitably married – William had thought constantly of the Crown. He dreamed of wearing it as persistently as in her apartments at Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent dreamed of her daughter’s doing so. The thought of what his brother’s death would mean would suddenly occur to him and Adelaide would fearfully watch the enraptured expression dawn in his eyes. Then the excitement would grow; the wildness would develop, and she would be terrified that what he said might be construed as treason.

Even now his eyes gleamed as he came closer to her. ‘He’s failing,’ he said. ‘He’s failing fast …’

No need to ask to whom he referred; the rising note in his voice was enough. She drew away from him, wondering how he could show this near elation at the thought of a beloved brother’s failing grip on life.

‘Seventeen leeches they applied to his leg yesterday. He was rambling badly.’

‘Poor George! He has always been such a good friend to us.’

‘He’s a good fellow, George, But he’s had his day.’

‘He is not so very old … only three years older than you, William.’

She hoped the comparison would have a sobering effect.

‘Ah,’ said William craftily, ‘but think of the life he has led. He has eaten and drunk too well. He’s not a healthy man. Any moment now, Adelaide. He can’t last another year.’

‘We must pray for him,’ she said.

Yes, she thought, pray for him. Pray for him to live because what will happen when William comes to the throne who can say? She shivered to remember his brief period as Lord High Admiral. But how much more he would strut as a King than he had as an Admiral. George must live; she was terrified of what might happen when William became King.

‘It is very pleasant here at Bushy, William. The cosy intimate life we lead here – and the dear, dear children.’

He nodded; like his brothers – with the exception of Cumberland – he was excessively sentimental.

‘Poor sweet Louise,’ she went on, luring him farther away from dreams of kingship, ‘she is so interested in this wedding. Dear child, I fear there will never be a wedding for her.’

He nodded. ‘But she is fortunate,’ he said brightly, ‘to have her Aunt Adelaide looking after her.’

‘I know she is happy here.’

Poor little Louise, indeed she was. She was the daughter of Adelaide’s sister Ida, Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, and had been crippled from birth. Adelaide had more or less adopted her and her brother Edward, the little boy who had been born in England when Ida was visiting her sister. This niece and little nephew formed part of Adelaide’s family of children; they adored her and she did everything she could to make their childhood happy.

‘So she should be. Why, my dear Adelaide, you look after us all … every one of us.’

His calm was restored; he was momentarily the country squire of Bushy, but one word could bring back his dreams of greatness. Adelaide lived in terror of what he would do. He was not only tactless but extremely insensitive. She was never sure when he was going off to the House of Lords to deliver a speech which at best would set the peers yawning and at worst set fire to some inflammatory matter which would set the people raging, the lampoonists and cartoonists jeering and give credence to the rumours that the Duke of Clarence was on the way to becoming as mad as his father. ‘I think,’ said Adelaide, ‘that the bridegroom has arrived.’

‘Then,’ replied William ungraciously, ‘I suppose we should go down to greet him.’

The Duchess’s brother, Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, called at the apartments at Kensington Palace to see his sister. He came regularly every Wednesday afternoon, very dignified, very benign, expecting affection and homage, for the Duchess lived on his bounty and he was one of the few people in England whom she was sure she could trust.

On Wednesday afternoons Victoria was on her best behaviour because that was how dearest Uncle Leopold would wish her to be. She believed that she loved Uncle Leopold more than anyone else in the world. Dearest Feodora she loved tenderly; Lehzen she respected and loved; secretly in her heart she was not altogether sure of her feelings for Mamma except that one must love one’s Mamma because it would be extremely wicked not to do so, but if loving meant being excited and happy to be in the presence of the loved one, that was not always the case with Mamma. But with Uncle Leopold she had no doubt whatsoever. Her other loves were female and Victoria believed that while she could love her sister and her governess deeply she could not feel quite so protected in their company as she did in that of a man; and therefore there was something beyond love in the emotions Uncle Leopold aroused and this set him apart from all others.

‘He is the most beautiful man in the world,’ she told the dolls. ‘He has almost commanded me to love him best. Oh, he has not said so, but there is an understanding between us which does not need words.’

So Wednesday afternoon was the great day of the week.

She would watch from her window for his carriage – usually with Lehzen beside her – and he would look up, knowing she was there. Once she had not been and although he was not reproachful he was very sad.

‘Lehzen,’ she would say, ‘may we not go down to greet him?’

And Lehzen would say, maddeningly: ‘I think we should wait until we are sent for.’

The summons would come quickly; and she would go to Mamma’s drawing-room and she would throw her arms about him and say: ‘Dearest, most beautiful Uncle Leopold.’ And Mamma would say: ‘My child, your uncle will think you have never been taught how to enter a drawing-room.’ ‘Oh, but Mamma, this is dearest Uncle Leopold and I am too happy to have good manners.’

And if Mamma was not pleased, Uncle Leopold was. He would have his dearest Victoria just as she was. He loved her tenderly and he was delighted when she showed him that she loved her uncle with a devotion almost as great as that he felt for her. ‘Oh, more so, dearest Uncle.’ ‘No, my love, that could not be.’ And they would play the delicious game of ‘I love you more than you love me,’ each trying to prove that the other was mistaken.

Then Uncle Leopold would wish her to sit on his knee while he twirled her hair in his fingers and he told Mamma how he suffered with his rheumatic pains and his chest cold for poor darling Uncle Leopold, in spite of his beauty, was often very sick.

Mamma listened and mentioned a few symptoms of her own, and then Uncle Leopold would want to hear about Victoria’s lessons because he was always so interested in what she did. But today was different as everything was with the wedding so close. Victoria was not summoned immediately to the drawing-room because Uncle Leopold wished to talk to Mamma alone.

He now sat in one of the blue-and-white-striped chairs regarding his boots with the high soles to make him look taller. His wig, which he wore not so much for the sake of appearances as to keep his head warm, and prevent his catching cold, gave him an added air of elegance.

‘Soon,’ he was saying, ‘Feodora will be settled. It’s a fair enough match. And Charles will have to be prevented from doing anything foolish.’

‘Charles will never be such a fool,’ said the Duchess.

‘My dear sister, your son has sworn to marry this woman. He’s a ruler in his own right. I doubt he can be prevented … only persuaded.’

‘He shall be persuaded,’ declared the Duchess.

Leopold regarded her with faint irritation. She was a most domineering woman. She needed a man to guide her; all women did. His own wife Charlotte had been a hoyden but she had improved considerably under his guidance. Ah, if only Charlotte had lived, how different everything would have been. Charlotte would have been on the point of becoming Queen – for King George was surely on the point of death – and he would have been her consort, the power behind the throne, the real ruler of England. But his dear hoyden had died in childbed and this most unsatisfactory situation had arisen. The King’s brothers had hastily married and Leopold’s own sister had fallen to the Duke of Kent (he, Leopold, had helped to arrange that marriage) and now they had a child, dear little Victoria who, once George and Clarence were out of the way, would be Queen of England.

Some compensation, but how much better it would have been to have guided his Queen-wife than his Queen-niece.

And his sister, the Duchess Victoria, could be a nuisance. She talked too much; she wished always to be in the centre of the stage and if she was willing to accept Leopold as one of the little Queen’s counsellors, she was determined that her mother should be another.

Leopold shrugged aside the affair of his nephew Charles and Marie Klebelsberg. The important issue was, as always, Victoria.

‘The King has taken a turn for the worse,’ said Leopold giving a little cough and laying his hand delicately over his chest.

‘He will die very soon, I’m sure,’ said the Duchess with blithe optimism.

‘The life he has led!’ Leopold raised his eyes to the ceiling. He had never liked his father-in-law and the feeling was mutual. A sanctimonious fellow who didn’t drink could hardly be to the King’s taste; besides, he had wanted his daughter to marry the Prince of Orange, not link the family with the little house of Saxe-Coburg.

The Duchess shuddered. ‘I can’t understand how he keeps living. It seems as though he does it to spite us.’

Leopold said: ‘You should speak with greater discretion, sister.’

She shook her head, elaborately dressed as usual. The bows and ribbons fussed all over her gown and she glittered as she moved. She was overdressed, thought Leopold painfully. They would say it was bad taste.

‘Everyone knows it,’ she said. ‘Everyone is saying it. And then it will be that fool William’s turn. He can’t last long.’

Leopold put his fingers to his lips. He guessed that Sir John Conroy was not far away. That gentleman would make it his business always to be at hand when Leopold was with his sister, although he doubted not that the Duchess Victoria kept him informed of all that went on. Still, nothing was ever so accurate as that gleaned first-hand.

Should he warn her of Conroy? It was hardly the time. He himself was engaged in an adventure of the heart with Caroline Bauer, a charming actress, who was a niece of his favourite physician and friend, Dr Stockmar. He was not given to such conduct and this was a rare lapse; but he consoled himself that Charlotte would have understood; and being so certain of this he could even entertain Caroline at Claremont where he had lived with Charlotte during those months before she had died.

His sister had learned of this attachment and expressed her stern displeasure. That Leopold should have behaved like the immoral people of the Court was distressing. This was perhaps because he had hinted at her relationship with Conroy.

It was clearly better for them to turn a blind eye on each other in that respect. There were ample excuses for both of them, and neither was promiscuous.

So not a word about Conroy. That could come later.

‘Does Victoria understand the position?’

‘Not exactly. She is aware that some great destiny awaits her but she is not quite sure what.’

‘I daresay she has a shrewd notion,’ Leopold smiled affectionately. ‘She is a clever little minx.’

‘I would not have her talk of the possibility. She is so … frank.’

Leopold nodded. But not so indiscreet as her mother.

‘Everyone should take the utmost care,’ he said pointedly. ‘This is a very delicate matter. And I believe Cumberland has his spies everywhere.’

She shivered. ‘I believe he would stop at nothing.’

‘She is guarded night and day?’

‘She sleeps in the same room as myself. Lehzen sits with her until I come to bed. She is never allowed to be alone. I have even ordered that she is not to walk downstairs unaccompanied.’

‘I suppose it’s necessary.’

‘Necessary. Indeed it’s necessary. You know those stairs. The most dangerous in England, with their corkscrew twists and at the sides they taper away to almost nothing. It would be the most likely place that some harm would come to her.’

‘I have Cumberland watched. He wants the throne for himself first and for that boy of his.’

‘But he can do nothing. He comes after Victoria.’

‘And there is no Salic law in this country as in Hanover. But Cumberland would like to introduce it.’

‘He could not do such a thing.’

‘I do not think the people would wish it, but often laws go against the people’s wishes. You know he is Grand Master of the Orange Lodges. I heard that one of their plans is to bring in a law by which females are excluded from the throne.’

The Duchess put her hand to her be-ribboned bosom.

‘It could never be!’

‘I trust not. But I tell you that we should be watchful. William is an old fool; he’s almost as old as George. His health is no good. He suffers from asthma, and that can be dangerous. Moreover, it is just possible that he’ll follow his father into a strait-jacket. They are taking bets at the Clubs that William will be in a strait-jacket before George dies.’

The Duchess clasped her hands. ‘If that should happen …’

‘A Regency,’ said Leopold, his eyes glittering.

‘A mother should guide her daughter.’

‘Her mother … and her uncle.’

The prospect was breathtakingly exciting.

Leopold said: ‘I have been offered the Greek throne. But I have decided to refuse it.’

His sister smiled at him. Of course he had refused it. What was the governing of Greece compared with that of England? When oh when … ? Just those two old men standing in the way. One on his deathbed – although it must be admitted that he was always rising from it, rouging his cheeks and giving musical parties at the Pavilion – and the other a bumptious old fool tottering on the edge of sanity and who was not free from physical ailments either.

It was small wonder that the marriage of Feodora and the pending indiscretions of her brother Charles were of small moment compared with the glittering possibilities which could come through Victoria.

Sir John Conroy, hovering close to the drawing-room, was disturbed. He was always uneasy when Leopold was in the Palace. Leopold was his great rival, for the Duchess’s brother had marked for his own role that which Conroy had chosen for himself. Adviser to the Duchess. In the Saxe-Coburg family Leopold was regarded as a sort of god; he it was who had married the heiress of England, although a younger son and no very brilliant prospects to attract; he had won not only the hand but also the heart of the Princess of England and would have been to all intents and purposes ruler of that country. The Duchess was completely under the spell of her brother.

Hypochondriac! growled Sir John. But he had to admit that for all his brooding on imaginary illnesses Leopold was a shrewd man. Sir John, who made it his business to be informed on everything that might affect his career, had learned that there was a possibility of Leopold’s accepting the Greek throne. That had been joyous news; and when Leopold had refused no one could have been more sorry than Sir John Conroy. He had to accept the fact that Leopold intended to rule England through Victoria, and that was precisely what Sir John wished to do. But how could he hope to influence the Duchess while her brother was beside her?

A lover should have more influence than a brother; and Sir John had always been able to charm the ladies. Lady Conyngham was prepared to be very agreeable; and the poor old Princess Sophia was always excited when he visited her; as for the Duchess, she was devoted to him. One would have thought, in the circumstances, that all would have been easy; but Leopold was no ordinary brother. And Leopold had shown quite clearly that he did not very much like the friendship between his sister and the Comptroller of her household.

What was Leopold saying now? He, Conroy, had made sure that the Duchess was aware of her brother’s affair with Caroline Bauer. That would make him seem slightly less admirable, more human. Leopold was a sanctimonious humbug and it was not surprising that the King could not bear him.

Still, the Duchess did depend on his bounty. It was shameful the way she was treated. Even the King, who was noted for his chivalrous behaviour towards all women, expressed his dislike of her. As for Clarence, he spoke disparagingly of her publicly. But then no one expected good manners from Clarence.

While he hovered close to the drawing-room the Princess Victoria appeared with Lehzen.

Victoria was saying: ‘I do hope dearest Uncle Leopold will not be too upset because I was not at the window. He has come early. Oh dear, how I wish I had been there.’

‘I daresay His Highness will understand,’ said Lehzen.

This adoration of Leopold was really quite absurd, thought Conroy.

A sneer played about his lips. Victoria noticed it and did not like it. She had come to the conclusion that she did not really like Sir John. There was something about him that disturbed her. It was when he was with Mamma. Sometimes when he was with Aunt Sophia too; and there were times when his eyes would rest on Victoria herself speculatively.

She had never spoken the thought aloud but it was in her mind. She did not like Sir John.

‘Have you something on your mind?’ The sneer was very evident. He never treated her with the same respect as she was accustomed to receive from the Baroness Späth – and Lehzen who, for all her sternness, always conveyed that she was aware of her importance.

‘I did not care to keep my uncle waiting,’ she said coldly.

‘He hasn’t waited long. You were here almost before the summons came.’

‘If I wish to be here, I shall be,’ she said in her most imperious manner.

But Sir John Conroy was not to be intimidated as a music master some years before. Doubtless, she thought, he will report this to Mamma and say that I was arrogant and haughty. But if I wish to be arrogant and haughty, I shall be.

‘Ha,’ laughed Sir John, ‘now you look exactly like the Duke of Gloucester.’

What a dreadful thought! The Duke of Gloucester. Aunt Mary’s old husband and cousin. Silly Billy, they called him in the family; he was looked on as rather stupid and now that he had married the Princess Mary, had become a difficult husband.

‘I have always been told,’ she said coldly, ‘that I resembled my Uncle, the King.’

‘Oh no, no. You’re not a bit like him. You grow more like the Duke of Gloucester every day.’

She swept past, with Lehzen in her wake. Sir John laughed but with some misgiving. It was silly to have upset the child just because he was angry about Leopold. Old Lehzen too! She was no friend of his.

He would get rid of her if possible. But he could see he would have to be careful with Victoria.

Smarting from her encounter with her mother’s Comptroller of Household Victoria went into the drawing-room where the sight of dearest Uncle Leopold seated in his chair, his dear pale face beautiful beneath his curly wig, made her forget everything else.

‘Dearest Uncle …’

She ran to him, throwing ceremony aside. After that horrible encounter with Conroy she needed the protective comfort of Leopold’s arms more than ever.

Feodora, being dressed for her wedding was a little fearful, a little tearful. She was not afraid of her bridegroom; in fact she liked him. Since her match with Augustus d’Este had been frowned on she had faced the fact that she must marry a Prince who was chosen for her; and her Ernest was by no means unattractive. She had compared Ernest with Augustus and now that Augustus was out of reach it seemed to her that Ernest did not suffer too much from the comparison.

All the same she was leaving Kensington which had been home to her for so long; but she had to admit, though, that apart from leaving Victoria and dear old Lehzen and Späth, she would not mind so much. Her recent trip to Germany had made her feel that she could be very happy there. It was leaving her dear little sister that was so upsetting.

She realised that she had not included Mamma in those she would miss. Well, to tell the truth, she would not be sorry to escape from Mamma. There, she had admitted it. But she would not allow herself to say it. Dear little Victoria was condemned to imprisonment … because that was what it was … in a way.

She should therefore be gay and happy; and so she would be if it were not for leaving Victoria.

Victoria had come in to see the bride. Lehzen hovered. Oh, why could we never be alone even for a little while!

‘Dearest Sissy! You look so beautiful.’

‘All brides look beautiful. It’s the dress.’

‘No bride looked as beautiful as you.’

‘Vicky, you always see those you love in a flattering light.’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course you do, you dear Angel. And you look lovely yourself.’

Victoria turned round to show off her white lace dress.

‘I am going to miss you so,’ said Feodora tremulously.

‘It is going to be terrible without you.’

‘But you will have Uncle Leopold, dear Lehzen and Späth … and Mamma.’

‘And you will have Ernest. He is very handsome, Feodora, and Uncle Leopold says he is a good match.’

‘Oh yes, I like Ernest.’

‘But you must love your husband. And just think there will be the darling little children.’

‘Oh, not for a while,’ said Feodora.

‘What a lovely necklace.’

‘It’s diamonds. A present from the King.’

‘He loves you. I think he would have liked to marry you.’

‘Oh, he is an old, old man.’

‘But a very nice one. I think that next to Uncle Leopold he is the nicest man I know. And he is a King.’

‘He is coming to the wedding. He has promised to give me away.’

‘I don’t think he will like that … giving you away to Ernest when he wants you himself.’

‘Oh, Vicky, what extraordinary things you say!’

‘Do I? Perhaps I say too rashly what comes into my mind. Lehzen says I do.’

‘Oh dear, when I think of you here without me, I shall weep, I know I shall.’

‘But you will come to Kensington and perhaps I shall pay a visit to Germany.’

‘I shall have to come to Kensington for they will never let you out of their sight.’

Victoria sighed. ‘I wish they would let me be alone with myself … just for a little while.’

‘I know how you feel, darling. I think I am going to be freer now.’

‘You will have Ernest.’

‘But he will not be a jailer like …’

Silence. She was going to say like Mamma, thought Victoria. And it’s true. Mamma is like a jailer. How I should like to be free too.

Feodora put her arms about her.

‘But I must not spoil your pretty dress. When I go away, Vicky, I want to take your dress with me. I want to take it out and look at it and remember just how you looked today.’

‘Oh, you shall,’ cried Victoria. It was a notion which greatly appealed to her sentimental heart. Then the realization of her loss came back to her and tears filled her eyes.

The bells were ringing all over Kensington to tell people that this was Feodora’s wedding day. There were crowds gathering outside the Palace because people had heard that the King was coming to give the bride away, making this a royal occasion.

The Duchess, overpowering in lace ribbons and feathers, presided noisily in the Grand Hall. Everyone must be in exact order of precedence. There was Victoria, looking very pretty – and what was more important, healthy – in her white dress, her fair hair specially curled for the occasion. Lehzen had spent a long time on it. Everyone, thought the Duchess, must be aware of the child’s blooming looks. There was Clarence – what a ridiculous old fellow! – and Adelaide, her eyes on Victoria with that amused affection she had for all the children. And Victoria was speaking to her, telling her about the dolls, which was most unsuitable. Victoria must be told of this later. But it was really Adelaide’s fault for encouraging her. One would have thought this was a cosy family meeting in some quite inferior country gentleman’s home, instead of a wedding in the royal family with the King due to arrive at any moment.

The wedding was to take place in the Cupola Room – so suitable for such ceremonies. Victoria had been christened here. What an occasion when the King had been so unkind to the baby’s parents and refused to give permission for the child to have the names they had chosen for her. They had wanted Georgiana, Elizabeth. Queen’s names both of them. And the King – Regent he had been then – had insisted on Alexandrina Victoria. But it was amazing how one quickly grew accustomed to names. Victoria now seemed as much like a Queen’s name as any of them.

Oh dear, the King was late. Was he going to humiliate the Duchess of Kent again.

‘It looks to me as though the King is not coming,’ said bluff Clarence. Trust him to put it as crudely as that.

Adelaide as usual tried to disguise her husband’s crudity. ‘I heard that His Majesty had begun to feel unwell again.’

‘He’s always up and down,’ said Clarence. ‘One of these days there’ll be no up.’

A shocked silence, during which Clarence noticeably became more royal. He was waiting for George’s death, thought the Duchess, almost as eagerly as she was waiting for his quickly to follow that of the King.

‘His Majesty’s resilience is wonderful,’ said Adelaide. ‘As we have often seen.’

Clarence, seeing himself as King, decided to take charge of the situation. They weren’t going to hang about any longer. It was clear to him that George wasn’t coming.

He took Feodora’s hand. ‘Come, my dear, your Uncle Clarence will do the King’s job. He’ll give you away to your husband, but you look so pretty that I’d never want to give you away unless it was necessary.’

The Duchess’s chagrin was obvious. An insult! How dared that rouged roué treat her so. No excuses. No apologies. This was the second time the Cupola Room had seen her humiliated.

But everyone was glad for the ceremony to proceed and Clarence – who would soon be King in any case (but not for long, prayed the Duchess) – led the bride to the altar which had been set up and Victoria the bridesmaid followed her sister looking so sweet that many found it difficult to take their eyes from her.

So was Feodora married to Ernest Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg; and afterwards Victoria went among the company carrying a ribbon-trimmed basket from which she gave the guests mementoes of the occasion.

And, as the Duchess later remarked to Sir John, in spite of the discourteous behaviour of that old man who called himself a King, the wedding had been a great success.

The day after the wedding the Duchess of Kent decided to travel to Claremont to see how the newly married couple were getting on.

‘Poor Feodora,’ whispered Charles when they were in the carriage. ‘I’m sure she would like to be alone for a while with her husband, but Mamma must be in charge of everything and everyone.’

Victoria regarded her brother with awe. There was some secret in his life and she wished she knew more of it. Something to do with a lady named Marie Klebelsberg whom he wished to marry but who, like most people members of her family wished to marry, was Most Unsuitable.

How sad, thought Victoria, that both Feodora and Charles had chosen unsuitable people. Not that that affected Feodora now because she was suitably married.

Charles sat staring ahead of him while the Duchess watched him uneasily; Victoria, who loved to go on journeys, forgot Charles’s unsuitable behaviour and enjoyed the countryside; she was delighted at the prospect of seeing Feodora again even though very shortly her sister would be leaving Claremont for Germany.

And there was Claremont – the house she loved to visit because it was the home of dearest Uncle Leopold and there he had been so happy when he was married to Princess Charlotte who was Victoria’s cousin by birth and aunt by marriage with dear Uncle Leopold.

At Claremont she had known the happiest days of her life; and Feodora had agreed that she had enjoyed the same at Claremont. Not only was Uncle Leopold there but also Louisa Lewis who had served Princess Charlotte and stayed on as a sort of chatelaine of Claremont. Louisa declared that the happiest days for her, now that she had lost her beloved Charlotte, were those when Victoria came to Claremont because she saw in Victoria so much of Charlotte.

It was so comforting to give such pleasure to people merely by being oneself and listening to entrancing stories of the mad behaviour of Princess Charlotte.

And there was Louisa waiting to greet them and ready with such a sweeping curtsy for Mamma that even she was satisfied.

‘And how are our young couple today?’ she asked.

‘Your Grace, they have gone for a walk round the gardens. I will have them informed of your arrival.’

Uncle Leopold had appeared, and Victoria noticed with gratification that his first smiles were for her.

‘Welcome, my darling, to Claremont.’

‘Dearest, dearest Uncle.’ How beautiful he was – even more so at Claremont than in Kensington because it was his home and he seemed more comfortable here. Victoria’s heart overflowed with love. She really believed that she did love Uncle Leopold more than anyone else in the world.

They went to the drawing-room which was not large by Kensington or Windsor standards, but homely. She supposed that Bushy was rather like this, although she was never allowed to go there. Mamma would not permit it, which hurt dear Aunt Adelaide; there was some reason why it was not suitable for her to go. Thank Heaven, it was suitable to come to Claremont.

Would dear little Victoria like to take a walk over the lawns with Uncle Leopold. The view of Windsor Castle was better in the winter than in the summer.

Victoria would love to be anywhere alone with Uncle Leopold. So he took her hand, and while Mamma talked to Louisa Lewis about the arrangements she had made for the honeymoon, and Charles went off on his own, Victoria and Uncle Leopold walked in the gardens and assured each other of their undying love, admitting that they could feel no such love for any other. So that was very comforting since she was soon to lose Feodora.

‘You are sad because your dear sister is going away,’ said Leopold, ‘but I am here, my darling. Do you know that I have just refused the offer of a crown … for your sake.’

‘Oh, Uncle Leopold!’

‘Yes, the Greeks wanted me to become their King. That would have meant leaving England. I could not endure that. Not when my dear little love of a niece is here.’

She clung to his hand, tears in her eyes; they stood and embraced; Uncle Leopold wept too; like the King, he wept in a pleasant way without any reddening or swelling of the eyes. It was elegant weeping. I must learn to weep as they do, thought Victoria; because hers was the kindly sentimental nature which demanded much shedding of tears.

But how pleasant it was to walk with Uncle Leopold through the gardens which he had helped to create and which he loved, and to hear him talk of Charlotte and the great tragedy of his life.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I had to guide Charlotte. She was a hoyden, a tomboy, which is not really very becoming for a prospective Queen. I was constantly warning her. Dear Charlotte. Sometimes she would get a little angry with me and accuse me of being over-critical.’

‘Angry with you, Uncle Leopold!’

‘Not really angry. She was devoted to me. The short time we were married was the only time she was ever happy. She said so often. Every criticism was for her own good.’

‘Did she know that?’

‘I think she realised it. She was not always very wise. I think my dear little Victoria may well be wiser than Charlotte.’

He pressed her hand. She would be wise. She would listen. She would not complain at criticism – especially the loving tender criticism such as Uncle Leopold would give her.

‘Dearest Uncle, you will always be near me?’

‘While you need me.’

‘I know I am going to need you all my life.’

It was the answer he wanted.

When they returned to the house Feodora and her bridegroom were there. Feodora looked rather flushed and excited and she whispered to Victoria that she was full of hope that she would be happy.

And while the grown-ups talked, Victoria was allowed to visit Louisa Lewis in her own room which was a part of the ritual at Claremont and when the door shut on them Louisa said as she always did: ‘There now, we can be comfortable.’

And comfortable they were, for it did not matter what one said to Louisa. She thought everything clever and so like Charlotte, which was the highest praise she could bestow. Victoria was growing fast; Louisa was astonished every time she saw her. She was getting more like Charlotte every day.

‘Charlotte was not pretty, was she?’

‘Charlotte had no need of prettiness. She was the most lively, attractive girl I ever saw.’

‘Was she a little like the Duke of Gloucester?’

‘Good gracious me, what a question. The Duke of Gloucester! The Princess Mary’s husband … now what put it into your head that Charlotte could be one little bit like him?’

‘Someone told me that I was like him.’

‘You … a dainty pretty little girl like you! That was nonsense.’

‘I thought it was,’ said Victoria. ‘I think the person who said it was angry with me and wanted to alarm me.’

‘Nobody could be angry with you for long. In any case, my love, don’t you believe it. Oh dear, you’ve torn your dress. Let me mend it. How Charlotte used to tear her things! She kept me and Mrs Gagarin busy, I can tell you. Poor Gagarin, she adored Charlotte; every stitch was put in with loving care.’

Louisa threaded her needle. ‘I’ll mend this so that no one knows you ever tore it. And where did you do it? On the stairs? It wasn’t like that when you set out this morning, I know. The Baroness Lehzen would have seen to that.’

‘I think I caught it on a bramble in the garden.’

‘What a neat clean little girl you are. Now, Charlotte … there was nothing neat about Charlotte. She used to come in sometimes, bounding in so that she would well nigh knock you over; and she would be so excited she wouldn’t be able to get the words out. She’d stutter and grow quite angry with herself. You speak beautifully.’

‘I have to learn how to pronounce my words; I have to read a great deal.’

‘I’m sure you do. And very nice too.’

‘But I think you liked Charlotte’s stutter.’

‘Oh, Charlotte!’ Louisa laughed. ‘She could be a very naughty little girl sometimes … but in a lovable way, if you understand.’

It was rather difficult to understand, thought Victoria, because Louisa somehow managed to convey that Charlotte’s naughtiness was more attractive than other people’s goodness and her stutter far more to be desired than the clearest form of speech.

‘Such a time she had with them all on at her. Her father … her mother. Oh, it wasn’t natural. And then your Uncle Leopold came like Prince Charming in the fairy tale and they were all set to live happy ever after. I never saw Charlotte so happy as on her wedding day. He was the sun, moon and stars to her; he was the whole world. He was the only one she would listen to. She used to comb his hair herself when he came back from riding. She wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. Then she’d take off his boots. Never a cross word between them; and when she knew she was going to have a child she said to me: “There can’t be more happiness in Heaven than this.”’

Louisa released one hand from the mending to search for a handkerchief in her pocket. She wiped her eyes.

‘Poor dear soul. Little did she know that she and her sweet babe would soon be in Heaven.’

Victoria wept. There were always tears at these sessions because Louisa’s accounts were so touching.

Then she finished off the lace and said brightly: ‘What about a nice cup of tea?’ And she made it in her room and Victoria always felt it was an adventure to drink tea with Louisa – just like a grown-up visitor.

But the visit came to an end and the Baroness Lehzen came up to tell her that her presence was required in the drawing-room.

And there was Feodora with her husband and Mamma and Uncle Leopold, and Mamma was saying that she would give a dejeuner at Kensington when the bride and groom would have an opportunity of saying their last farewells to the family before they set out for Dover.

So Victoria took leave of Feodora feeling that she had lost her already, although Feodora whispered that they would write to each other often.

Then she drove back to Kensington seated in between Mamma and Charles.

There was one more trip to Claremont; this was to say goodbye to Feodora.

The sisters clung together.

‘We will write to each other,’ whispered Feodora.

‘I shall wait impatiently for your letters and treasure them always,’ Victoria assured her sister.

Then Feodora’s husband helped her into the carriage which would take her to Dover and across the sea.

Victoria wept and went back to Kensington to tell the dolls that nothing would ever be the same again.