Victoria in the Wings

She Shall be Victoria

ADELAIDE AND WILLIAM could not stay in the inadequate apartments in Stable Yard and William took her down to Bushy House. The grounds delighted her; so did the house itself which she saw as an ideal country residence, not grand enough for ceremonious living and yet spacious enough to exist graciously.

‘It’s enchanting,’ she told William, who was delighted.

‘I always thought so,’ he replied. ‘Some of the happiest years of my life were spent here.’

She smiled. She had learned not to be in the least jealous when he referred nostalgically to his life with Dorothy Jordan. ‘The children always loved it,’ he added wistfully. ‘They made it their home.’

‘I hope they will continue to think of it as such.’

He gave her that dog-like look of gratitude which was often on his face when he regarded her. He wanted to tell her that when he had married her he had seen her just as a vehicle for providing an heir to the throne. Somehow it had become different; and it was due to her. He was well aware of that. He himself was changing. He was no longer the crude sailor he had always fancied himself to be. George had said: ‘William, Adelaide is good for you. You’ve ceased to be a sailor and are becoming a gentleman.’

He felt he must treat her gently – far more so than he had treated Dorothy. There was a fragility about Adelaide; and her pleasant placidity was a great contrast to Dorothy’s vitality and quick temper. It was impossible to quarrel with Adelaide. Of course he could not feel for her the wild passion he had felt for Dorothy; he could not in fact understand his feelings. It was almost as though in spite of himself a sturdy affection was becoming the foundation of his family life. He was proud of this quiet pleasant girl who was his wife. She was no beauty it was true, but she had dignity and her charm of manner served her well.

As he crossed the threshold of Bushy House with her he felt a sudden happiness such as he had not experienced since the death of Dorothy. Those rumours of her not being dead or, worse still, dead and unable to rest had worried him.

Now, oddly enough, with Adelaide beside him in the house which had been Dorothy’s home, he could find peace.

Everywhere there was evidence of Dorothy. He had planned the gardens with her, and he only had to look back into his memory and he could see Dorothy on the lawn surrounded by the children, sitting there laughing with them as she used to on those occasions when she slipped away from her duties at the theatre to come home. He could see her playing pranks such as those she played on the stage in the role of Little Pickle to amuse the children. It was not really so long ago.

Bushy was haunted by memories of Dorothy but with Adelaide beside him strangely enough they were not unhappy memories. He could imagine himself explaining to Adelaide his feelings for Dorothy. He wanted her to understand the strength of that love which had enabled them to live together so cosily for twenty years and bring up ten children. And he had deserted her in the end and she had fled from the country and died with no one but a woman companion beside her. Poor Dorothy, the comic actress whose life had ended in tragedy.

Adelaide seemed to guess his thoughts.

‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘the children must continue to think of this as their home.’

‘I will tell them what you say.’

William was already making plans for the future. They would live here together – all the unmarried ones – and the grandchildren would come and visit them; it would be as he and Dorothy had often planned it should be when she gave up the stage. It had always been a dream of hers to give up the stage and settle down to enjoy domesticity. Only instead of Dorothy presiding over the family, it would be Adelaide, Duchess of Clarence – a title he could never have given Dorothy.

One thing that had distressed Adelaide was the ever-present conflict which existed throughout her new family. She had heard that the Kents had given themselves such airs since the birth of their daughter that they had alienated the Regent himself and that the Cumberlands and the Cambridges were extremely put out by the fuss that was made of the little girl at Kensington Palace who, because her father was the eldest member of the family to have a young child, was being considered as the future Queen.

‘It is not good,’ said Adelaide to William. ‘And what is that poor woman feeling at Kensington – so recently widowed and the family so much against her. I think, if you have no objection, I will call on her.’

William, who was accustomed to Adelaide’s good sense which far exceeded his own, replied that if Adelaide wished to call on Victoria Kent he saw no reason why she should not.

So Adelaide called at Kensington Palace where she was received by a somewhat suspicious Victoria.

‘It is good of you to come,’ said Victoria, asking herself: Has she come to gloat? Is she pregnant? If she should have a son that would be the end of my hopes for Alexandrina.

‘I wanted to come,’ said Adelaide, ‘because I was hoping that we might be friends.’

Did she mean it? wondered Victoria. Could she possibly find a friend among the women of her new family?

‘You have had such a terrible loss,’ said Adelaide, ‘but you have the children. They must be a great comfort to you.’

‘They are my life,’ said Victoria and sensing her sincerity, Adelaide felt at ease.

‘It is a blessing that there are young people in the family. I have heard such stories of little Alexandrina. She seems to be a most unusual child.’

Victoria could not hide her pride.

‘Drina is adorable. I defy anyone to deny it. Such a bright child! Though a little temper now and then.’

‘I should love to see her.’

‘Come to the nursery now.’

Adelaide stood over the cradle of the important child and marvelled at the perfection of her limbs. Wide blue eyes stared up at her and the baby chuckled.

‘She has taken a fancy to you,’ declared her mother. ‘I can assure you she does not to everybody.’

‘Could I hold her?’

‘But of course. Come, my precious. Your Aunt Adelaide wishes to make your acquaintance.’

Adelaide sat with the baby in her arms and thought how happy she would be if she could have a child of her own. She was almost certain that she was pregnant again.

‘I hope you will invite me to come often and see little Drina.’

‘By the look of it she will be delighted to see you, and I am sure I shall. I cannot tell you how pleasant it is not to have to try to speak English. I am sure I shall never master the language.’

‘It is most difficult,’ agreed Adelaide. ‘But you will in time.’

‘We speak German in the nursery, but of course Drina will have to speak English. It will be expected of her.’

Victoria watched for the reaction to those words. It was almost an assumption that Alexandrina was destined to be Queen. She and Edward had been so certain of this that it was only by a special effort that they could avoid conveying their conviction to others.

Adelaide gave no sign that she was aware of the meaning beneath the words. She said: ‘Oh yes, it would be well for her to learn English. But it will be easy for her here.’

Alexandrina was allowed to crawl on the floor under the watchful eye of her mother.

‘I do not care to leave her to the care of nurses,’ she admitted. ‘In fact it is my great pleasure – and solace now – to care for her myself.’

Adelaide nodded sympathetically.

‘You will understand my feelings when you …’

Victoria’s eyes were on Adelaide’s face. If she were pregnant surely she must admit it now.

‘I shall hope to,’ replied Adelaide enigmatically.

‘You have had unhappy experiences … twice,’ said Victoria.

Adelaide admitted this and Victoria asked questions about those sad occasions. Twice! she was thinking. It really seems as if she might have difficulty in bearing children.

Adelaide told her of the indispositions which had preceded her two miscarriages. ‘The next time,’ she said, ‘I shall take very special care.’

‘We must only hope that the next time will soon come,’ replied Victoria insincerely.

Adelaide remained noncommittal and seeing that she would disclose nothing, Victoria suggested that she meet Alexandrina’s sister Feodore which Adelaide was delighted to do.

The thirteen-year-old girl promised to be a beauty; she was charming and modest and adored Alexandrina. It was quite clear that everyone in the household was aware of the importance of the little girl.

When Adelaide took her leave Victoria said: ‘You have cheered me so much.’ And Adelaide promised to come again.

The visit had in truth cheered her for as she remarked to Fräulein Lehzen she was absolutely sure that the Duchess of Clarence was not pregnant; moreover, if she were, she doubted she was meant for motherhood. There was a fragility about her which was a great contrast to the buxom vitality of the Duchess of Kent.

Adelaide was in raptures. There was now no longer any doubt. She told William and he rejoiced with her.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I must take the greatest care. I am sure everything would have been all right before if I had done that. On the first occasion I caught cold and on the second there was that fatiguing journey.’

‘This time you will rest in Bushy; you will sit in the gardens in peace and quiet and the girls will make sure of that.’

The girls, Sophia, Mary, Elizabeth, Augusta and Amelia lost no time in coming to Bushy House, and Adelaide showed such pleasure in their coming that they did not see why they should not regard it as their home. Their brother Augustus, who was the only one of the boys who had not gone into the Army or the Navy, came too. He was only fifteen.

‘It is so pleasant,’ said Adelaide, ‘to have a family. This is too big and beautiful a house not to be full.’

It was clear that she had a talent for motherhood, for in a short time she was presiding over the family as though it were indeed her own. Nothing could have delighted William more. He was at heart, like the King, a very sentimental man.

‘When our son is born,’ he said, ‘I shall be the happiest man in the kingdom. Think, Adelaide, he will be the future King of England.’

‘Suppose the child is a girl?’

‘Then she will be Queen of England. Ha, ha, that will put Madam Kent’s nose out of joint, eh? She is certain that fat baby of hers is going to be the Queen.’

‘Poor Victoria! It is sad that she will be disappointed. What a pity that my triumph will be her disappointment. But little Drina is such an adorable creature. I am sure that to have such a child must in itself be such a joy that a crown cannot be of such great importance.’

‘You don’t know the Duchess Victoria,’ retorted William. ‘If ever I saw an ambitious woman, it’s that one. And she’s got it into her head through some prophecy or other.’

Adelaide felt uneasy. She did not believe in prophecies … at least she thought she did not. It was disconcerting though that the prophecies of glory for that adorably plump blue-eyed child could only mean disaster for her own.

She would not dwell on them. She longed for her baby. Only when she had a healthy child of her own would she be content. Nothing else would matter than that. She longed for a child with an intensity which was new to her quiet nature.

She made plans for Bushy. She refurnished the nursery. Often she thought of the children who had played here – all those little FitzClarences who had been born and bred here.

They talked to her freely. They had little reticence; they were, after all, the children of an actress.

‘We used to look forward to the days when Mamma came,’ Amelia told her. ‘She was always bringing us presents. I don’t remember her as well as the others of course. But she sometimes came at night after the performance, driving down to us without a care for the danger of the roads. Next day she would leave in the early afternoon to do the evening performance at Drury Lane. Sometimes she didn’t bother to take off her stage costume but came down in that.’

Adelaide could picture it all – the wild and beautiful actress, so charming, so volatile, enchanting William and her children.

‘She used to rehearse her parts here,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Do you remember, Mary? How we all had to play with her. It was great fun. Papa used to love to play. He fancied himself as an actor.’

‘He did act on board ship when he was in the Navy,’ Augustus put in. ‘They played The Merry Wives of Windsor and tipped the fat lieutenant who played Falstaff into a load of rubbish. Papa was always telling us about it’

It was so easy to picture it all – that happy-go-lucky unconventional family presided over by a Duke and an actress; and strangely enough she felt grateful to have been allowed to become a member of it. She never tired of hearing stories of the past. If she had been a fanciful woman she might have imagined the presence of Dorothy Jordan presiding over the house now, as benignly glad that Adelaide had come to Bushy House as Adelaide was to be there.

Once when Adelaide went up to the attics she saw a picture there of a lovely woman in a theatrical costume and she guessed at once who it was.

She studied it carefully, looking into the big brown eyes that seemed to speak to her. When she went into the gardens she found Augustus there playing with his dog.

‘There is a picture in the attic,’ she said. ‘It’s rather lovely. I wondered about it.’

‘I expect it’s one of Mamma. People did paint her quite a lot.’

‘Will you come to the attic and tell me if it is.’

Augustus expressed himself willing and they went up together.

‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘that is Mamma. It used to hang over the fireplace in the dining-room. Every day when we came in I used to say “Good morning, Mamma”. It was nice when she was playing somewhere and wasn’t at home.’

‘When was it taken down?’

‘When you were coming, of course. Papa said you wouldn’t want to see our Mamma there. So it was taken down and put up in the attic. I remember the day they did it.’

‘And what did you think then?’

‘Well, I was a little sad because after Mamma went I used to think that she was still there. You see what I mean.’

‘I do see,’ said Adelaide.

William came into the dining-room and stared at the picture hanging in its old place over the fireplace. For the moment he thought he was dreaming. He remembered the day it had been brought home and hung there and how the family had all congregated to admire and criticize it; and how he had made Dorothy stand just beneath it. ‘It’s not quite like you, Mamma,’ one of the children had said, ‘It’s too … quiet. It’s like a dead you.’

He often remembered that and told people of it; he had bored people with a repetition of his children’s sayings.

He sent for the chief footman.

‘Who hung that picture there?’ he demanded.

‘Your Highness, I did.’

William’s face was suddenly purple with rage. ‘How … how dared you? On whose orders?’

The footman inclined his head almost proudly; and he replied: ‘It was on the Duchess’s orders, Your Highness.’

‘The Duchess’s orders!’ Then he said: ‘Oh … I see.’

He could not wait to find her. She was in the gardens with Augustus and Amelia. He did not wish to speak to her of the picture when she was with the children; and it was not until later that they were alone together in that very room in which it hung that she herself explained.

‘I asked them to bring it from the attic and hang it there.’

‘But you know who it is!’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the children’s mother. Augustus told me. They love that picture.’

‘It shall be taken down. We will have a portrait of you hung in its place.’

‘I want you to follow my wishes over this,’ she said. ‘I want that picture to remain.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

She laid her hand gently on his arm. ‘You will … in time,’ she said.

‘But you can’t want her picture there … in this room which we use so much.’

She nodded. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘she was a most unusual woman, a great woman. And she is the mother of the children. They wish it there … and so do I.’

‘You are their mother now,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I can only take the place of the mother they have lost if they need me and it shall be my pleasure to be that. She is their true mother. They will never forget it, nor must we wish them to. So … the picture will hang in its old place?’

He took her hands and kissed them. ‘You are a wonderful wife to me, Adelaide,’ he said. ‘I trust I may deserve you.’

There was no secret now of the fact that Adelaide was pregnant. The Dukes of Cumberland and Cambridge could no longer feel they were in the running while the ‘plump little partridge’ was flourishing in Kensington Palace. But what happened at Bushy was of the utmost importance to the Duchess of Kent.

She could not bear it, she told Fräulein Lehzen, if anything should happen to keep Drina from the throne. She and the Duke had believed so whole-heartedly in the prophecy; and one had already come true. Two deaths in the family, it had said; and they had come, one fast following the other.

Fräulein Lehzen declared that the Duchess of Clarence would never have a healthy child. She knew it. She had a feeling for these things. It was going to be Queen Alexandrina. She felt it in her bones.

‘How I hope and trust you are right, dear Lehzen,’ sighed the Duchess. ‘But we must be watchful. I want to know any news that comes from Bushy. The Duchess is a good woman. I feel for her. She longs to be a mother. It is so sad that if she realized her wish it could be so damaging to our little darling.’

‘It is not like Your Highness to anticipate trouble,’ said Fräulein Lehzen.

‘She has already lost two. Oh dear, and I could quite like the woman if she did not threaten Drina.’

In her cradle Drina slept peacefully, little dreaming that her greatness was menaced.

On a hot June evening of that year a carriage drove into London. In it sat a plump woman with short neck and legs, her face daubed with rouge and white lead, her eyebrows painted deep black and a hat adorned with feathers set on her black curly wig. She was dressed in purple mourning for the late King.

Queen Caroline had returned to England.

‘Long live the Queen,’ shouted the people; and they laughed and whispered together. Now there would be some fun. Elegant George must be fuming with rage because this painted woman – no longer young – had, in spite of all the stories that had been circulating about her, come back to England to share the throne with him.

Caroline put her head out of the carriage window to wave her greetings. ‘God bless you, good people.’

‘God bless you, Queen Caroline,’ was the reply.

Caroline settled herself against the upholstery. She was smiling complacently. She had come back to take her stand against the enemy.

‘There’ll be a coronation,’ she had said, ‘and it’s only right that the Queen should be crowned with the King.’

The King was incensed. He wanted to take to his bed and shut everyone out. He wanted to forget the world which contained Caroline.

She had been a menace to his peace ever since he had first seen her. Oh God, he thought, shall I ever forget Malmesbury presenting her to me – that low vulgar woman in that hideous white dress, the daubed face, that unwashed odour. That they could have done that to me!

‘I must be rid of her. I must, I must, I must,’ he cried hysterically to Lord Castlereagh, his foreign secretary.

‘Your Majesty, there should be enough evidence to rid you of her.’

‘If those who should have served me have done their duty there will be.’

‘I think you will find that they have done that, Your Majesty.’

‘This man Bergami … he was her lover. If we had proof of this I could divorce her immediately.’

‘There will be witnesses, Sir. We are bringing them over here in readiness.’

‘And I suppose Brougham is with her?’

‘He’s a good lawyer, Sir, but he can’t stand out against the truth.’

‘I should think a reasonable court would only have to look at her to know her guilty.’

‘It will be a mighty scandal, Sir. She has powerful supporters and many of the people are with her.’

‘They would be … just to plague me. Oh God, she is so clearly guilty. She was before with that Willie Austin of hers. He’s her child, I’ll swear it. They say he is repulsive enough to be.’

Castlereagh was uneasy. The Queen was going to be put on trial for adultery and such a case was almost certain to become political. The Tories would stand with the King, the Whigs with the Queen, and one of the most capable lawyers in the country was Brougham who had long ago established himself as the Queen’s adviser.

As the weeks passed there was no other topic of conversation throughout the country than the impending trial of Queen Caroline. Before the arrival of the Queen it had been planned that the coronation should take place on the first day of August; quite clearly this would have to be postponed for how could such an event take place when it was not certain whether the Queen, who should take such an important part in it, was on the point of being divorced from the King?

The stands which had been set up in the streets for the spectators of the procession to and from the Abbey, had to be taken down; the people who always enjoyed such ceremonies were not entirely disappointed for the trial was even more of a peep show than a coronation.

They formed themselves into factions – for and against.

‘Are you for George or Caroline?’ was a constant question, sometimes asked good-humouredly; but quite often there were quarrels which ended in fights and even riots.

When the Queen rode out, which she liked to do wearing the most flamboyant clothes, her carriage would be followed by groups of cheering people, who assured her that they were for her. It was obvious who was the more popular of the antagonists. The cartoons and lampoons against the King increased; there were some ridiculing the Queen but that was to be expected.

In Bushy, taking the utmost care not to exert herself, Adelaide heard what was happening and shuddered. She could not help thinking of the days when war had come to Saxe-Meiningen and she and Ida had made bandages for the wounded.

‘Surely a controversy such as this could result in civil war,’ she said to William.

William shrugged off such a suggestion. ‘Not here,’ he replied. ‘Not here.’

‘I shall never forget when the armies came to Meiningen. All was peaceful before and we would have said: “It could not happen here.” But they came and ravaged the land. You can imagine what a town is like when an army has passed through it – hungry for food and excitement. It frightens me … this new feeling in the streets.’

‘No. This is a battle between the King and Queen.’

‘But people take sides. There are riots. Riots can become … worse. I remember hearing of what happened in France. That was not so long ago.’

‘Don’t compare us with the French,’ said William almost fiercely.

But William, she had long since learned, was not the most discerning of men; and she was disturbed.

He became tender. ‘Nothing for you to worry your head about.’ He patted her stomach. ‘All you must concern yourself with is the little one, eh?’

Yes, she thought fiercely, whatever happens, all must be well with the little one.

In Parliament the Bill of Pains and Penalties was introduced. This was to deprive Caroline of the ‘title, prerogatives, rights, privileges and pretensions of Queen Consort and to dissolve the marriage between herself and the King’. The reason for this was her immoral conduct and a court was set up that she might stand on trial against a charge of adultery with an Italian, Bartolomeo Bergami, who had been the majordomo of her household.

Rarely in the history of any British royal family had there been such a scandal. The King’s brothers had been adepts at providing salacious material and two of them had once stood on trial, the Duke of York on suspicion of selling commissions in the Army through his mistress Mary Anne Clarke, and the Duke of Cumberland on suspicion of having murdered his valet. Both of these were scandalous; but for a King – whose own life was scarcely one of moral rectitude – to bring a public charge of adultery with an Italian servant against his Queen, was surely the most scandalous of all.

The King was determined to have his divorce; and the Queen was determined that he should not. Behind both stood some of the ablest men in the country; it was going to be a tremendous battle.

The King did not appear in public. He was overcome with humiliation and anger; but the Queen could not resist showing herself to the people. She rode out in her feathered hats and tastelessly coloured garments waving to all, accepting their acclamation, glorying in the discomfort she caused the King; confident that she was going to win her case and that adultery could not be proved against her.

The trial began and Caroline drove to the House of Lords to appear before her judges; and one by one members of her household who had been with her during her travels came forward to give evidence for or against her. It was not the first time the King had ordered an enquiry into her behaviour; years ago there had been the ‘Delicate Investigation’ which had attempted to discover whether or not Willie Austin was her illegitimate child. She had won then; she was confident that she would win now.

Lawyer Brougham was a genius. Deftly he dismissed the witnesses for the prosecution and with a dexterity which was truly marvellous he turned everything to the Queen’s advantage.

Not only all over England but throughout the world the case against the Queen of England was being discussed.

It seemed incredible that Caroline could not be proved guilty. She had her enemies, but she also had her friends, and the great unpopularity of the King undoubtedly worked against him. Adelaide was not the only one who feared the unrest in the capital which was being aroused by what was called the King’s ill-treatment of his wife.

The Bill of Pains and Penalties was finally passed in the Lords but the majority was the small one of nine. The Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, was uneasy. On the second reading of the bill the majority in favour had been twenty-eight; such a big drop on the third reading showed clearly that the Bill was losing what little support it originally had.

It was a defeat for the King but only stalemate for Caroline. What did she care? Many people might believe her an adulteress, but while adultery could not be proved the King would not get his divorce and she was still Queen of England.

The King was in despair; but Caroline was determined to accept the result as triumph for herself. What did she care if the world thought her guilty; her behaviour on the Continent pointed to the almost certainty of that; all she cared about was that she had humiliated the King and she enjoyed every moment of that. As for him, he had suffered unnecessarily; he had been the centre of a gigantic scandal and had gained nothing from it.

He was still married to Caroline.

The Duke of York had come down to Oatlands in answer to an urgent message. The Duchess was in bed, her animals slinking about the room as though they knew that they were about to lose their friend and benefactress. In the garden the howl of a dog would now and then break the silence.

The Duke sat by her bed. She looked shrunken in spite of the dropsy which was killing her; she had always been a little woman. Never a beauty, he thought, and now, poor soul, she resembled one of her own monkeys. Tenderness overwhelmed him. He had been fond of her – once he had recovered from the disappointments of early marriage; and he had not been so unfortunate as poor George. He had succeeded in making a friend of Frederica.

‘Frederick,’ she said feebly, and held out a hand.

He took it. Like a claw of one of her creatures, he thought. What a menagerie she had made of Oatlands!

‘My dear.’

‘The animals …’

‘They shall be cared for.’

She was contented. They were her first thought – those bright-eyed monkeys, those mournful-eyed dogs, those cats whose indifference on this occasion seemed assumed.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. ‘Frederick.’

‘My dear?’

‘It was not so bad … our life?’

‘We made something good of it,’ he said.

She nodded and he gave her a spoonful of honey because her lips were so parched.

As a marriage it was a failure. They had parted. She could not bear a child – the sole reason for a marriage such as theirs. Yet he would never forget how she had stood by him during the Mary Anne Clarke scandal, and he would always cherish their friendship.

He would miss coming to Oatlands which had been a kind of haven – though a malodorous one. She did not notice the smell of animals. They were her darlings and she preferred them to humans. Poor Frederica, who had failed in her human relationships and had sought the company of her cats, dogs and monkeys. But had she failed? Young Charlotte had loved her; he, her husband, was mourning her now; she had her friends; she had made a life for herself here at Oatlands, an eccentric life perhaps but still one which was pleasing to her.

And now it was coming to a close.

‘Frederica,’ he said, ‘I want to tell you. I grew to love you, you know.’

But it was too late to tell her now.

He sat by her coffin and wept. Now that she was dead he could have explained his feelings towards her as he would never have been able to do in life.

She was buried in Weymouth parish church – a quiet funeral, not in the least royal; and yet those who mourned did so sincerely. The poor of Weymouth would never forget her; she had done so much for them – no one who was poor or old had asked her help in vain. Her servants wept. No longer would she sit on the lawns during summer, her animals around her, while she sewed for the poor; never would she be seen tramping through the grounds by moonlight, her only companions her faithful hounds. Frederica, Duchess of York, was dead, and for those who had served her and depended on her, it was the end of an epoch.

The Duke was unusually thoughtful as he stood by her grave.

So many deaths in the family, he thought. Charlotte – young and vital – had been the first. Then Kent and the King and now Frederica – all in such a short space of time. Who next? he wondered, and shivered. He was feeling his age. George had been so ill at the time of his accession that many had feared he would never live to wear the crown. And if he dies my head will be the one to carry it, thought the Duke.

God forbid! May George live for years yet … until such a time as I shall not be the one to follow. He could not think of a world which did not contain his brilliant brother, friend and companion of a lifetime.

But this fearful scandal with Caroline was ageing George. And when one considered the deaths in the family what could one ask oneself but ‘Who next?’

The King could find solace from his troubles only with Lady Conyngham; and the reason was that she never talked of them. She was the most comforting of companions because she could make him feel that there was no such person in the world as Queen Caroline.

He never saw Lady Hertford privately now; and if they met in company he was courteous – as he was to all women – but he made it quite clear that there was no special relationship between them.

Lady Hertford pretended not to notice the change. She was not like Lady Jersey, who since she had been discarded by the King – Prince of Wales as he had been then – could never forgive him for leaving her and sought every opportunity of intriguing against him.

Lady Hertford had her dignity; she was an extremely unpopular woman; one of the reasons for the King’s disfavour with his subjects was due to her. His carriage had been more frequently pelted with rotting fruit and vegetables when it was outside her house than anywhere else.

Lady Conyngham was not exactly popular but far less disliked than her predecessor. Lady Conyngham was so notoriously stupid that no one could be envious of her.

‘The King is growing old,’ it was said. ‘He needs a brainless creature to look after his comforts. Fat Conyngham fills the bill very well.’

People were amused too to see the haughty Lady Hertford discomfited. Not that she showed it. She pretended to be quite unaware of the fact that there was any change in her relationship with the King.

Her acquaintances could not resist the attempt to plague her.

‘What a foolish and vulgar creature Lady Conyngham is!’ said one. ‘I am surprised that the King seems so interested in her. I saw her in her carriage coming from Ascot. He was quite devoted. I wonder why. Has His Majesty ever discussed the creature with you?’

Lady Hertford opened cold blue eyes very wide and the delicate colour in her cheeks did not change one bit.

‘Why should he?’ she asked lightly. ‘Intimately as I have known him and frankly as we have discussed every subject, he has never discussed his mistresses with me.’

This was considered the most intriguing remark of the day. It was discussed and joked over, for everyone knew that Lady Hertford had since the beginning of the Regency been the King’s mistress.

But it was characteristic of the woman; and much as she was disliked for her cold, hard nature, no one could but admire the adroit manner in which she refused to admit the relationship between herself and the King.

But it was now clear that the King’s devotion to Lady Hertford was at an end and the reigning mistress was Lady Conyngham.

She suited him perfectly in his ageing state.

He could not show his gratitude sufficiently. She might bring all her family to Carlton House or the Pavilion and he would be delighted to see them. Just as previously he had made the Hertfords his great friends, now it was the Conynghams.

Within the peace of Carlton House she sat beside him, plump, handsome and placid.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I think the moment now has come to plan the coronation.’

‘That will be delightful.’

He did not find her inane. She was perfect. She soothed him and he thought: By God, what I need more than anything on earth is to be soothed.

Dear Elizabeth Conyngham! No one had the power to soothe and comfort him that she had – not even Maria. And when he could say those words ‘not even Maria’ he knew that he had indeed cause to be grateful.

All through that summer and autumn, while little was discussed but the trial of Queen Caroline, Adelaide lived quietly at Bushy. All was going well. This was very different from the other pregnancies. She sat for hours in the gardens with one or other of the FitzClarence children talking of her life in Saxe-Meiningen and Ida’s marriage and the two children she had – William her son and little Louise who as she had begun to grow had shown herself to be a cripple and over whom Ida had suffered much anguish.

‘How I long to see them,’ she said.

‘You should invite them to Bushy,’ said Mary.

‘Why not?’ added Elizabeth. ‘You’ll be able to talk babies endlessly together.’

Adelaide smiled at her stepdaughter and wondered whether Elizabeth herself would soon be anxious to talk of babies. She was shortly to marry the Earl of Errol and William was delighted with the match. So was Elizabeth herself.

‘Perhaps when my child is born, I will invite her,’ mused Adelaide.

‘It will be pleasant to have guests,’ said Augusta. ‘We never did when Mamma was here. People didn’t come much, did they Mary?’

Mary agreed that they did not. ‘It was because Mamma was an actress and her friends could not mix with royalty – which Papa is of course; and Papa’s friends did not want to mix with stage folk. Not all of them, of course, but some. Uncle George was always kind to Mamma. He was fond of her because she was so gay and attractive. He liked actresses.’

‘His Majesty would be kind to all women.’

‘They say he’s not very kind to Lady Hertford at the moment,’ said Mary with a giggle. ‘Nor was he to Maria Fitzherbert, nor to Perdita Robinson and a whole crowd of them.’

There was no reticence in the FitzClarence family. William had never stood on ceremony and it was unlikely that their mother would.

Adelaide did not wish the subject to turn to the disastrous matter of the King and Queen so she hastily changed the subject to Ida and discussed plans for inviting her to Bushy.

But the most important topic in the household was of course Elizabeth’s marriage. Adelaide studied her stepdaughter. She was not exactly beautiful but dazzlingly attractive. So must her mother have been. They had with their usual frankness told her that Elizabeth was more like Dorothy Jordan than any of them.

Elizabeth described her wedding dress which had been presented by Aunts Sophia and Augusta, her father’s two unmarried sisters, the royal Princesses.

‘Such a dress!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘A royal dress. Well, we are royal through Papa and no one can deny that. But it was good of the old aunts to present me with the dress. It was a very ceremonious occasion, I can tell you. They sent for me to go to St James’s, and there I must wait until their Highnesses were ready to receive me.’ Elizabeth began to mime the reception of herself by the royal Princesses and then gave a little sketch of their imparting the news that they were presenting her with a wedding dress.

‘A young lady’s wedding day is the most important day in her life,’ mimicked Elizabeth.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ retorted her sister Sophia. ‘It’s what comes after that is important. Don’t you agree, Adelaide?’

‘I am sure you are right.’

How gay they were! How unconscious of the fact that their father had never married their mother. What did they care that she was an actress? They were as proud of her as they were of their royal connections.

I am happy, thought Adelaide. This is the happiest time I have known. And when the child comes, that will be the very height of contentment. I ask nothing more than to have my child … and to live here in this pleasant spot comfortably, at peace, for the rest of my life.

The sound of carriage wheels intruded on the scene.

Augustus jumped up and ran to see who had come. They heard him shouting: ‘It’s George!’

And there was George FitzClarence coming across the lawn surrounded by his sisters who had rushed to meet him, and young Augustus was leaping in front of him like a jester.

George greeted Adelaide affectionately. They shared a special friendship. Hadn’t she spent her honeymoon nursing him!

Like all the FitzClarences he did not stand on ceremony. He sat beside her, asked after her health not in the most delicate manner. He was very knowledgeable about the birth of babies for his first child – a daughter – had just been born.

He had come to talk of the christening. They had chosen the baby’s name.

‘What is it?’ cried Amelia.

George turned to his stepmother. ‘Adelaide,’ he said. ‘With your permission.’

Yes, she thought. I am happy. I’ve never been so happy. They have accepted me.

Her eyes had filled with tears. George leaned forward and kissed her.

‘Permission granted?’ he asked.

And everyone cheered.

She looked across to the flower gardens which they had told her their mother had planned during her brief sojourns between theatrical engagements. She could almost fancy the ghost of Dorothy Jordan looked on, benignly content with the one who had taken her place.

Elizabeth FitzClarence was a handsome bride.

‘The image of her mother,’ it was whispered. ‘The last time I saw her was as Lady Teazel in The School for Scandal. She was magnificent, but they say it was not one of her best parts.’

‘Oh no, you should have seen her when she was young. Miss Hoyden in The Relapse was one of her best. I’ll never forget her. And the new Lady Erroll is the image of what she was at her age.’

‘The Duchess must be near her time. Fancy her coming to the wedding!’

‘No doubt she did so to please the Duke. They say he insists on her receiving his bastards.’

‘Poor creature. She looks meek.’

Adelaide was aware of their whisperings but they did not disturb her. She was happy. She felt well. In two months her baby should be with her; she was longing for the day, and it was pleasant to be at her stepdaughter’s wedding and to see how the bride was aware of her and now and then gave her an understanding look, as though, thought Adelaide, I am indeed her mother.

The Duke was delighted. He made one of his long, rambling speeches which set everyone trying to stifle their yawns; and the Princess Sophia had graced the wedding with her presence.

It was the Princesses’ way of letting the world know that they accepted the FitzClarences as their relations. No one was surprised to see her there. There were whispers about Sophia and always had been. The fact that she had remained unmarried did not mean that she had retained her virginity. The scandals of the family were not made entirely by the boys. No one could be absolutely sure that some twenty years before the Princess Sophia had secretly given birth to a child, but many believed this to be so. So there was no reason why she should not accept the results of her brothers’ indiscretions. However, her presence at the wedding delighted her brother William.

People were beginning to look with new interest at William. He had improved since his marriage. He no longer used the crude oaths he once had; his manners were changing; and instead of making himself ridiculous by offering his hand to impertinent young commoners who refused it, he had a dignified royal wife, who was very properly pregnant and who had undoubtedly brought some dignity into his somewhat disorderly life. But the main point of interest was his nearness to the throne. There were constant rumours of the Regent’s illnesses and the Duke of York did not enjoy good health. If they died, and they were becoming elderly, then this bluff sailor with the pineapple-shaped head and the habit of making endless and entirely boring speeches, would become the King of England, and the insignificant Adelaide the Queen.

There would be a king with ten illegitimate children all of whom were acknowledged by his family – and there would soon be another, legitimate this time and heir to the throne! For there was no doubt that the child the Duchess so proudly and delightedly carried would be the new King or Queen of England.

The Princess Sophia bade Adelaide sit beside her.

‘For you look a little tired, my dear,’ she said.

‘I have been so careful lately,’ replied Adelaide, ‘that I am unused to functions.’

‘You mustn’t overtire yourself, my dear,’ said Sophia. ‘Remember those other two occasions. Women get accustomed to having miscarriages.’

Sophia looked doleful with prophecy but Adelaide refused to be dismayed.

Her child would soon arrive. Only two more months and it would be here.

Sophia was saying: ‘I wonder if it will be a little girl or a little boy?’

Adelaide smiled. What did she care? It would be a child – her own child. That was all that mattered.

‘I believe the Duchess of Kent is taking it badly,’ said Sophia not without a trace of pleasure. ‘I for one am delighted. She was beginning to give herself airs and one heard of nothing but the perfections of her little Drina.’

‘I hope she will not be too put out,’ said Adelaide.

‘My dear Adelaide,’ laughed Sophia, ‘nothing in the world could put her out more. She has already taken on the role of Mother to the Queen, and the child not two years old yet!’

‘It is a pity that what brings so much joy to one should bring pain to others.’

Sophia looked at her shrewdly. ‘Is that not the way of the world, Adelaide?’ she asked.

Adelaide was not sure of this. She tried to dismiss the Duchess of Kent from her mind. This was such a happy occasion; she did not want it spoiled.

A week after Elizabeth’s wedding Adelaide’s pains started.

She was frightened because they had come six weeks too soon. Terrified, she called to her women who quickly sent for the doctors.

The labour had undoubtedly begun and was long and arduous. Adelaide was in agony; but through it all she reminded herself that anything was worth while if the child was alive and well.

The apartments in Stable Yard were scarcely adequate. How much better it would have been if the child could have been born at Bushy where she had arranged it should be; but how could she have known it would arrive six weeks before it was due?

At length the ordeal was over leaving an exhausted Adelaide more dead than alive, but when she heard the cry of a child and knew it was hers her joy was overwhelming.

‘A little girl,’ said the Duke, at her bedside.

‘My own child … at last,’ she murmured.

For some days it was believed that Adelaide could not survive, but so great was her joy in her child that by her very will to live for it she slowly began to recover, and a week after the birth she was out of danger and able to sit up and hold her child in her arms. A little girl – a perfect little girl!

‘I have never believed such happiness was possible,’ she told William.

He assured her that he was as happy. This precious child was the future Queen of England unless they had a boy; but he had suffered so much from her ordeal that he did not want to think of her going through that again.

‘What’s wrong with a queen?’ he asked. ‘They say the English have no objection to them and like them better than kings.’

‘What shall we call her, William?’

‘We’ll have to have the King’s consent to whatever we choose because she is … who she is. It could be Anne or Elizabeth … both great queens.’

‘Anne or Elizabeth,’ murmured Adelaide. ‘I should like Elizabeth.’

The King called to see his little niece.

‘Perfect! Perfect!’ he beamed, as he came to sit down by the bed and study Adelaide. ‘And you, my dear?’

‘I grow better every day, Your Majesty.’

‘Nothing could please me more.’

He looked younger than when she last saw him, Adelaide thought. He wore an unpowdered wig with curls of a subdued nut brown which became him. He excelled on such an occasion as this – benign monarch, loving brother, unselfish in his delight for a brother who had what he had failed to achieve: a loving wife and an heir to the throne.

He leaned over and patted her hand.

‘You must get well.’

‘I am doing so quickly. Happiness is the best healer.’

His eyes filled with tears or perhaps they were not real tears. In any case he flicked his eyes with a scented kerchief.

‘Long may it last,’ he said. ‘Bless you, my dear.’

‘We have thought of our child’s name and want to know if we may have Your Majesty’s consent to it.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that little one can in due course be the Queen.’

‘For that reason we should like to call her Elizabeth.’

He smiled. He remembered that the Kents – somewhat ostentatiously – had wanted a queenly name for their daughter. And he had refused. They had to put up with Alexandrina Victoria instead. And serve them right. That woman was too ready to push herself forward.

‘An excellent choice,’ he said.

Adelaide was delighted. ‘And if you would allow us to call her after you – Georgiana …’

‘On one condition,’ he said, with the utmost charm, ‘that she is also called after her mother.’

‘Elizabeth Georgiana Adelaide.’

‘I can think of nothing that would please me more,’ said the King.

The Duchess of Kent was frustrated. To think that the Duchess of Clarence – that fragile young woman – should have successfully come through her ordeal and the result should be a daughter!

She went into the nursery where Alexandrina was playing with her bricks, so intelligently, already taking an interest in the pictures and saying ‘Mamma’.

To think that that innocent child should be robbed of her birthright! thought the Duchess, and was ready to burst into tempestuous sobs.

‘My Drina, my darling child.’ She picked up the little girl whose wide blue eyes surveyed her mother wonderingly. She was accustomed to passionate embraces and already aware that she was a very precious person.

‘Mamma,’ she said triumphantly.

‘My angel! Oh, it is cruel … cruel!’

Alexandrina’s fingers seized the locket which the Duchess wore about her throat. She tried to open it.

‘It is your dear Papa, my darling. Oh, if only he were here to bear this with me.’

Alexandrina chuckled and began to pull at the locket so there was nothing to do but sit down and open it and show her the picture.

‘Your Papa, Drina.’

‘Papa,’ repeated Alexandrina. ‘Mamma … Papa …’ And she laughed at her own cleverness.

So soft were the flaxen curls, so clear the blue eyes, so soft the pink and white skin; she was the picture of health. What was that other child like, wondered the Duchess. Sickly, she was sure. The bulletins said that the mother and child were progressing well. How well? she wondered.

It would be a great tragedy if anyone stood in Alexandrina’s way. And while the Duchess of Clarence was able to bear children there would always be a danger.

Fräulein Lehzen had come into the nursery and Alexandrina laughed with pleasure. Here was another adorer.

‘Mamma … Papa …’ called Alexandrina.

Fräulein Lehzen’s face was pink with pleasure.

‘She is so forward, Your Highness,’ she said.

The Duchess nodded, while Alexandrina, having displayed her cleverness, imperiously signed that she had had enough of lockets and admiration and wished to be returned to her bricks.

Her mother put her back on to the carpet and said to Fräulein Lehzen: ‘That child is healthy, so they say.’

‘They say these things,’ said Fräulein Lehzen a trifle scornfully.

‘The Duchess is a kindly woman. I daresay she is beside herself with joy. I could be happy for her … but when I think of what this means to our angel …’

Fräulein Lehzen nodded. ‘I heard that His Majesty has called on the Duchess.’

‘He did not call on me. He was most unkind about darling Drina’s name.’

‘He has asked that the child be called after him, so I heard.’

‘Georgiana!’

‘Elizabeth first, they say. Then Georgiana Adelaide.’

‘Elizabeth first! But that is a queen’s name.’

‘I suppose that is what they thought,’ said the Fräulein gloomily.

‘Oh, it is so cruel! I wanted Drina to be called that if she could not be Georgiana and he refused. Yet he has given his consent to this child’s having it.’

‘I never thought the Duchess would bear a living child. She had all the appearance of a woman whose pregnancy was not a healthy one.’

‘Do you think …’

The two women were gazing at the child on the floor, so beautiful, so perfect in every way. Already a little queen, they were both thinking.

‘Alexandrina,’ said the Duchess. ‘It is not the name of an English queen. That was why he wanted her to be called that. And this other child is Elizabeth. She will be Elizabeth the Second … if she lives.’

‘If she lives,’ said Fräulein Lehzen.

‘Queen Alexandrina! No, it won’t do. And what else is there. Victoria.’

‘Queen Victoria,’ said Fräulein Lehzen. ‘It has a ring of dignity.’

‘It sounds more like a queen’s name than Alexandrina. Lehzen, my dear, we will cease to call our darling Alexandrina. From today she shall be Victoria.’

Fräulein Lehzen nodded. ‘Queen Victoria,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, it is not Elizabeth … it is not Georgiana … but Victoria.’

‘Victoria,’ said the Duchess. ‘Victoria, my darling.’

The child, not recognizing her new name, did not look up.

But of course she would soon realize that she was to be Victoria.