The Widow of Windsor

Chapter XXII THE QUEEN LEFT LONELY ONCE MORE

The Queen had arrived from London and left the train and stepped into the waiting carriage which was to take her to Windsor Castle. As she sat there waiting for the horses to start up, John Brown suddenly leaped down from the box and putting a white, worried face through the window, said: ‘A man’s just fired at Your Majesty’s carriage.’

The Queen sat back against the upholstery feeling slightly faint. This was the seventh attempt at assassination. The last time she had been saved by good faithful John Brown. She wondered what had happened this time to avert the hand of death.

She was soon to learn. Two boys from Eton who had watched her arrival had seen the man lift his pistol; one of them had knocked it out of his hand with his umbrella before he could fire it; the other had hit him with his umbrella, clinging to him and holding him until he could be arrested.

The carriage took her off to Windsor where her faithful servants, under the command of John Brown, fussed over her and made her comfortable and insisted on her resting – which made her smile since she was the Queen, yet comforted her to realise what faithful servants she had.

It was all very distressing for the pistol which had been aimed at her had this time been loaded; but the public indignation was so great and there were so many demonstrations of loyalty that it seemed the Queen had never been so popular.

She was touched by all this concern; and when it was proved that the man – a certain Roderick McLean – was mad, she felt that it was worth while being shot at to realise how much her people loved her.

Mr Gladstone arrived, all concern and displaying the humility he never failed to show in her presence but which for some odd reason irritated her, to congratulate her on her escape and to, as she told Brown afterwards, address her as a public meeting as usual.

‘It is a great consolation to realise, M’am,’ said Mr Gladstone, ‘that whereas rulers of other countries are attacked for political motives, in the case of Your Majesty those who have raised their hands against you have all been lunatics.’

Yes, there was some comfort in that. There would always be lunatics and sovereigns would often be the targets of their lunacy, she supposed.

‘I should like to show my appreciation to those two brave boys.’

‘An excellent idea, Your Majesty.’ ‘The Grand Old Man’ as the people ridiculously called him, was rubbing his hands with glee, she noted. His great aim seemed to be to get her before the public through any reason whatsoever. As if she did not see through him! How different from dear Lord Beaconsfield!

‘I could send for the boys,’ she said.

‘Excellent, Your Majesty. It would be even better to honour the school for the bravery of these two. Perhaps if Your Majesty could have the entire school assembled in the quadrangle and address them yourself, telling them of your gratitude and then personally speak to the two brave boys, that would give great pleasure to so many people and public acclaim for such an action would be great.’

The idea appealed to her, even though it was Mr Gladstone’s; and she decided this was what she would do.

So nine hundred Eton scholars visited Windsor and the two boys received the Queen’s personal thanks for their actions.

As for Roderick McLean, he was sent for trial on a charge of High Treason. He was judged not guilty but insane and sent to an asylum ‘during her Majesty’s pleasure’.

When the Queen heard the verdict she was indignant.

‘Not guilty!’ she cried. ‘A man holds a loaded pistol at his Queen and would have fired if a brave boy had not knocked it out of his hand with his umbrella, and he is not guilty!’

Mr Gladstone explained that this was the law.

‘Then,’ said the Queen with asperity, ‘it is time the law was altered.’

Mr Gladstone pointed out that no alteration in the law could change the future of McLean. He was only fit to be in a lunatic asylum.

‘Not Guilty!’ cried the Queen. ‘That is what I object to. Any man can raise his hand against me and plead not guilty even though he has been seen to shoot.’

Mr Gladstone promised to look into the matter. The Queen felt very strongly that anyone who had attempted to kill her should not get off lightly for fear others would be led to follow the example.

The Queen’s ministers saw the reason for the Queen’s anxiety; and soon afterwards an Act was passed introducing a new form of verdict for cases like those of Roderick McLean.

The Queen would not allow the assassination attempt to interfere with Leopold’s marriage which was due to take place the following month. Mr Gladstone had, she must admit, worked hard to get Parliament to raise Leopold’s allowance to £25,000 a year, though there had been the usual dissenters which was so humiliating. Forty-two members had, in a most uncouth manner, voted against it but fortunately it was passed with a majority of 345.

So Leopold was married to Princess Helen, that rather forceful young woman whom the Queen had regarded at first with some horror because she dared to disagree with her formidable mama-in-law, but she was surprised that she found this attitude refreshing and very soon she became fond of the young woman, particularly as she was quite good-looking and she believed that she would be good for Leopold – who was a bit of a rebel himself.

She decided to buy Claremont outright. It had been left her for the duration of her life on the death of her Uncle Leopold, who had lived there with his wife, Princess Charlotte; but she wished it to be entirely hers so that she could give it as a wedding gift to Leopold and his wife.

So on that April day she even went so far as to put on the white wedding veil and the lace she had worn at her own wedding over her black dress to attend the ceremony in St George’s Chapel.

There she prayed fervently that marriage would not prove too much for delicate Leopold; but she felt confident that the forthright Helen would know how to look after him.

Nobody was more delighted than Bertie at the success Lillie Langtry was having. Ours had been a triumph; and although at first its leading actress had clearly been an amateur she proved herself to be highly intelligent and above all ambitious. Those who had believed she had nothing but her outstanding beauty were amazed; Lillie had talent and what was most extraordinary, business ability. Not only was she interested in the stage but acquaintance with Bertie had given her some knowledge of the Turf. She now began to display a most extraordinary ability and she used all her business acumen to put this to advantage. She had been aware of what it was like to be obscure and poor and she determined that never again should that happen to her.

The famous actress had become a considerable figure in racing circles. Bertie could not restrain his delight.

He became very friendly with people in the theatrical profession because he was pleased with them for giving Lillie her chance.

With the coming of that winter Lillie left England for America and there her great success continued.

In the space of a very short time she had become a rich woman and she would be the first to admit that this had been made possible for her by the staunch friendship of the Prince of Wales.

Princess Helen was almost immediately pregnant.

‘The idea of Leopold as a father is very amusing,’ said the Queen.

‘Why, Mama?’ demanded Bertie. ‘Leopold’s a man after all.’

‘Poor Leopold. He did inherit dearest Papa’s brains but his health has been a constant source of anxiety.’

‘You worry too much about him, Mama.’

The Queen shivered, remembering those ominous illnesses, the fear of haemorrhages and the dreadful knowledge that the disease had been passed on through several of her daughters. Alice’s little ‘Frittie’ who had fallen from the window had suffered from haemophilia, and so had one of Vicky’s boys. It was terrifying not knowing when the fearful thing was going to show itself.

And now Leopold was to be a father!

It was a pleasure to be at Windsor; here she felt a certain seclusion – not the same as she enjoyed at Balmoral or even Osborne, but it was so pleasant here. She often thought of how Albert had loved Windsor. Here she felt closer to Albert than anywhere else because she could go frequently to the mausoleum; she would often sit in the Blue Room and brood on the past. She could even go for drives and rides in the Park and remember so much.

One day after she had been in the Blue Room she was thinking of the past when going upstairs she missed a stair and fell.

The consternation there was! Brown was called to pick her up. He scolded her: ‘And what did ye think ye were doing, woman!’

She could smile and be grateful for his care.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

‘I’ll get ye a wee drop of the right medicine,’ he told her.

She drank the whisky while he sat drinking too; she watched him tenderly. Dear honest Brown.

The fall had brought on her old rheumaticky pains and the next morning she was bruised and suffered considerable pain, unable to move.

Jenner was worried. He thought Her Majesty should try to walk a little. She tried but the effort was too painful.

‘Rest is what you need,’ said Jenner. ‘Let us see how Your Majesty feels after a day or so of complete rest.’

Each day Brown carried her from her bed to her sofa. He thought that it wasn’t good for her to spend so much time indoors; he would get out the wee pony chair so that she could drive round in that but he wasn’t going to trust her by herself. He thought he – and only he – should drive her.

The Queen listened to the masterful Brown and gave way to his suggestions. ‘His one thought,’ she told Jenner, ‘is for my comfort.’

One morning she had a shock when a servant came in to take her orders for the day.

‘But where is Brown?’ she demanded.

‘Brown, Your Majesty, is unable to attend you this morning. His face is swollen.’

‘Brown’s face swollen.’ The Queen smiled. Oh dear, did this mean that Brown was ‘bashful’ again? Perhaps the previous night there had been a celebration of some sort in the servants’ quarters. And if there had been he would have to be there. No celebration would be complete without Brown.

The Queen said nothing. At midday she sent for news of Brown. Brown’s face was still swollen; it was red and inflamed and he appeared to be quite sick.

The Queen sent for Jenner. ‘Pray go at once and see what ails John Brown,’ she said.

When the doctor came back she was alarmed. ‘Brown has caught a chill. I’m afraid that he is suffering from erysipelas.’

‘Is that a very serious illness, Sir William?’

‘It need not be fatal,’ was the reply.

Need not be fatal! Big strong John Brown seriously ill. It was unthinkable.

‘Sir William you must attend him yourself and get Dr Reid.’

Sir William was a little surprised. After all he and Dr Reid were the royal physicians and although everyone knew of the Queen’s regard for Brown, he was only her Highland servant.

But this was not the time to argue about such a matter.

Sir William called in Dr Reid and they both set about the task of bringing back John Brown to health and the Queen’s service.

In the midst of this Princess Helen’s daughter was born.

Leopold with a child! This was wonderful.

‘I must go and see the child,’ she said.

It was very sad that John Brown was unable to take her and carry her in as she was still unable to put her foot to the ground.

She tried not to worry too much about Brown. After all he was not old and he was vital and full of health. He would scorn this erysipelas as he did everything else he didn’t like. John Brown would soon be well again.

She was carried into the bedchamber. Leopold had had one of his bouts and the doctors would not allow him to move, so he had to receive her lying on a sofa; the birth of the child was so recent that Helen was on a sofa also; and when the Queen was carried in she found that a sofa had been prepared for her.

She could not help laughing. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘it is quite ludicrous. Here are we all unable to stand on our feet!’

Helen said she was delighted that the Queen had come and the baby was proudly shown. A lovely little girl, commented the Queen; but the real significance of the occasion was of course that Leopold had been able to beget a child.

How pleased Albert would have been.

At Windsor she was growing really anxious. Brown’s condition was not improving.

Each day she sent for Sir William and Dr Reid and demanded that she be given a full account.

‘It has somehow taken a hold of him, Your Majesty.’

‘But Brown is not old. He’s so strong.’

‘That’s true,’ said Sir William. ‘But it is often people who have never been ill who are suddenly stricken down. Illness bewilders them. They have never had it before. It seems to take them by surprise.’

‘I don’t think anything would take Brown by surprise.’

She herself was getting better. The rest had done her good and the pain and stiffness of her joints was disappearing.

And then on that dreadful March day the news was brought to her. John Brown was dead.

She was prostrate with grief. She could not believe it.

‘I have lost my best and truest friend,’ she protested. How could life be so cruel? It seemed that she only had to love and the loved one was taken from her. Perhaps love was the wrong word to use when speaking of a servant, but Brown was no ordinary servant. Dearest Albert, her great love, her reason for living, had been snatched from her at a comparatively early age; Lord Beaconsfield had been taken, true he was a very old man; and now John Brown … It was senseless. It was cruel.

She was desolate. It was no use the family’s trying to console her, for she was inconsolable.

‘He was part of my life,’ she said. ‘Now I have to start again. This is the second time. It is asking too much.’

She was oblivious to the comments her attitude set in motion.

The question was being asked everywhere. What had been the relationship between the Queen and John Brown? Had he been her lover? Had she been secretly married to him? Had he some peculiar psychic power over her? Was he the medium through whom she was in touch with Albert?

Nobody understood the Queen. She was a lonely woman; her children – though she loved them – could never mean to her what the strong figure of a man beside her could mean. She was essentially feminine; she needed a man to care for her, to look after her, to lean on; and although as Queen she would never give up one tiny bit of her sovereignty, even to Albert, as the woman she wished to exploit her frail femininity. Albert had supplied the perfect prop; and afterwards there had been Lord Beaconsfield to give her what she needed in her public life. But it was her private life that was most important and in that she had good faithful honest John Brown.

And now he had been taken from her.

What could she do? She must start again. It was almost as it had been in that dreadful desolate December more than twenty years ago.

Once more she was alone.

What could she do to show her sorrow? Of one thing she was certain, she would make no secret of it. The whole of England must mourn for the death of good faithful Brown.

She herself wrote an account of his virtues for the Court Circular. Her secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, trembled for what he called her indiscretions concerning John Brown. He was horrified when she decided that there should be a life of him. She had discovered that he had kept diaries. Sir Theodore Martin had, under her guidance, written what she called an excellent life of the Prince Consort which meant that Albert had been presented to the public as almost a saint. Now she would like him to do the same for that other man in her life. Sir Theodore was a little horrified as to what effect this would have and tactfully replied that because of his wife’s physical condition he feared that he must spend too much time with her to be able to do justice to the work, so the Queen decided she would find another biographer. Those about her trembled at what revelations this would bring forth, but the Queen gave herself up to considering memorials. There should be a statue which should be placed at Balmoral; and at Osborne she would have a granite seat set up in memory of him.

She became a little irritable with those about her.

‘How I miss John Brown’s strong arm!’ she was often heard to say.

She talked about him a great deal; his ‘bashfulness’; his quaint sayings; everything that he had been to her. Often she would lie on her sofa and think of those days when he had carried her to her room.

Then she would weep silently and think of the past and would be so lost in it that she would wake startled and think she heard a voice thick with bashfulness and yet lilting with his Highland accent demanding to know ‘Why ye’re sitting in the dark greeting, woman?’

Once more, she said to herself, I am left lonely.