Victoria in the Wings

Other People’s Children

VICTORIA WAS GROWING up. She was almost three. She chattered constantly, mostly in German; but as Uncle Leopold said, it was essential that she speak English equally well.

Victoria was intelligent and was already aware that she was important not because of her charm and beauty but because of Another Reason, which was most intriguing. Mamma did not speak of this Other Reason. It was something she must not know of yet because she might in a moment of indiscretion betray that she knew to someone like Uncle Frederick, Uncle William or Aunt Adelaide, which would make them very cross – although she could not believe that Aunt Adelaide could ever be cross; and Uncles Frederick and William were most benevolent whenever she saw them.

There was another uncle – the most important of all: Uncle King. She saw very little of him, although sometimes she had been held up to see him pass by in his carriage. He was an enormous, glittering being who thrilled Victoria merely to look at him. She respected Uncle Leopold, of course; she adored Aunt Adelaide and she loved Mamma, Sissi and Charles dearly, but for Uncle King she had a feeling of reverence. It would be a glorious day when he joined the band of Victoria worshippers. But he never came to Kensington Palace, nor was she invited to Carlton House. The oddest thing about Uncle King – in Victoria’s opinion – was that he seemed unaware of Victoria.

Sometimes she forgot him when she was playing with her dolls. She loved her dolls. People knew this and were constantly giving them to her. Sissi helped her dress them and knew all their names. Aunt Adelaide, dear gentle Aunt Adelaide, had just sent her a beautiful big one – the biggest she had ever seen, almost as big as Victoria herself and dressed in a blue silk dress with a sash, like Victoria’s.

‘She could be called Victoria,’ she had told Sissi, ‘but then who would know whether she was being called or I was.’

Sissi covered her with kisses and said she was the cleverest little girl in the world and thought of the most sensible things.

Of course she must be sensible because of That Reason; and there could not be three Victorias in the family; there were already Mamma and herself.

As it was a Wednesday afternoon Uncle Leopold left his beautiful house at Esher – Claremont which Victoria and her Mamma visited now and then – to come to Kensington Palace where he spent a long time talking to Mamma; and Victoria could not help knowing that she was often the subject of their conversation. She would be brought in to stand before Uncle Leopold and answer his questions while Mamma looked on, never missing any little lapse of good conduct, of which Victoria would be told afterwards. She must always be careful to behave as one in her position should. One in her position! It was a phrase she was constantly hearing; and she did not fully understand it except that it was involved with That Reason.

Uncle Leopold was asking her questions – in English, which he spoke differently from the people of the household, and she answered in English, now and then bringing in a German word, which made him frown.

‘She has not started lessons yet?’ he asked Mamma.

‘A little. She is learning to read. But she is only three.’

‘So young,’ said Uncle Leopold tenderly picking up one of her curls in his hand and twirling it.

She leaned against his knee examining his odd boots; they had thick soles so that when he took his boots off – she had once seen him do this at Claremont when he had come in on a very wet day – he sank down and became a much smaller man.

Uncle Leopold liked to talk of his ailments.

‘My rheumatism has been more painful even than usual this last week. It’s the damp weather.’

Sometimes it was the hot weather that did not agree with him and gave him headaches; the cold got ‘on to his chest’ and made him suffer ‘agonies’. Poor Uncle Leopold, and he was so good looking that she liked to watch his face while he talked. His hair was a magnificent mass of curls. Victoria, watching it, touched her own smooth locks, which Fräulein Lehzen spent a long time inducing to curl. They all said she had pretty hair, but it was not grand and glorious like Uncle Leopold’s. His was not always the same either – the colour varied, which made it even more interesting.

When she asked Sissi about it and Sissi whispered: ‘It’s a wig,’ that seemed even more clever – to have hair that came off and could be put on a stand at night.

Of course, she had been very young when she thought that. Now she knew lots of people had wigs. Uncle King’s mass of nut-brown curls might well be one, she supposed. But perhaps a King could command hair to grow. She had asked Sissi this and Sissi had laughed and said she thought of the funniest things.

But here was Uncle Leopold, studying her intently, asking her questions and telling Mamma what she should do.

Then he lifted her up on his knee. How were the dolls? Would she show them to him? And was she speaking English more than German? Yes was the answer to the two last questions.

‘Now,’ she told him; and he went with her to the nursery where the dolls all sat obediently awaiting their orders from her.

‘They obey your orders, I hope,’ said Uncle Leopold jocularly.

‘Oh yes, you see I am the Queen.’

Uncle Leopold and Mamma exchanged a somewhat odd glance – as though she had said something alarming.

While they were looking at the dolls Aunt Adelaide arrived and they went back to the drawing-room to receive her. She often called and Victoria knew why. It was to see her.

‘Do you wish I were your little girl?’ Victoria had asked her.

And the answer had been a fierce hug which had been very gratifying. And the big doll was from Aunt Adelaide – her favourite among them all. There had never been such a doll. How I wish she could be named Victoria, thought Victoria. That was the only name for such a big fine doll.

Aunt Adelaide had a look of happiness about her. Victoria presumed it was because she had come to see her. She threw herself at her aunt – forgetting Mamma’s instructions but Aunt Adelaide did not mind at all; she picked her up and kissed her many times and Victoria put her arms round Aunt Adelaide’s neck.

‘And how is my dear little Victoria?’

‘Victoria is well … and so is the Big Doll.’

‘She has no teething troubles that Big Doll?’ asked Aunt Adelaide.

Victoria laughed gleefully. ‘No, they have all come through now.’

The Duchess and Leopold looked on in some exasperation. Adelaide seemed to forget decorum in the presence of the child. She was so besotted about Victoria that she behaved like … The Duchess sought for words but could only think of A Common Person. Of course life with Clarence might be responsible for that. And where had she come from? A little dukedom! She would not pursue that because Meiningen was very similar to Leiningen – both small insignificant principalities. But at least the Duchess of Kent was aware of her position. To think that if two very likely events took place this Adelaide might be Queen of England.

Two Queens! thought the Duchess, good humour restored as she looked at the Duchess of Clarence talking animatedly to Victoria. The only occasions when she seemed animated were when she was with the child.

Victoria wanting to show Aunt Adelaide how the Big Doll was settling in with the others, had taken her hand and was attempting to drag her across the room. Really, Victoria! thought the Duchess of Kent. But perhaps since Adelaide could well be a queen it was permissible. Two queens! What a pleasant thought.

‘Victoria,’ she said in a tone of mild reproof, ‘I daresay your Aunt Adelaide would wish to stay here and talk with Mamma and Uncle Leopold.’

Adelaide would clearly greatly have preferred to go with Victoria but there was nothing to do but remain and talk to the adults. So she inquired politely after Leopold’s health and as this was one of his favourite topics he kept it going for some time.

When they talked of the King’s State visits, Victoria listened avidly. She loved hearing anything about Uncle King. She would keep so quiet that Mamma would forget she was here. It was the best way of learning that which they might not wish her to know.

‘I believe the Irish visit was a great success,’ said the Duchess of Kent.

‘William has heard from His Majesty that he enjoyed it. The Irish adored him.’

‘And of course he is feeling his freedom,’ said the Duchess of Kent who, in all matters not connected with her daughter’s accession to the throne, could be a little indiscreet.

‘It was a trying situation,’ admitted Adelaide.

Leopold looked a little supercilious. He had never been on easy terms with his father-in-law and in fact the King made no secret of his mild contempt for Leopold. He had never wanted Charlotte to marry him and would have much preferred the Prince of Orange as a son-in-law. Leopold’s abstemious habits and his somewhat pompous manners made him in the King’s view a dull fellow.

‘Rarely could a man have been so relieved to be free from the bonds of matrimony,’ said Leopold.

Victoria wished they would not use such long words. But she remained very still watching Mamma’s glorious curls bobbing up and down as she spoke and all the frills and ribbons on her gown; and Uncle Leopold’s thick soles and curly wig and Aunt Adelaide who looked so simple beside them, but so kind. And I love her, thought Victoria.

‘Heaven alone knew what she would have done next … if she had lived.’ The Duchess of Kent shuddered. ‘And it would serve His Majesty right after the way he has treated her. The investigation … the trial …’

Leopold threw her a warning look.

‘It is all over now,’ said Adelaide. ‘William is relieved, of course.’

‘And now,’ went on the irrepressible Duchess, ‘he is on the Continent and I hear he is making a great impression everywhere he goes. Of course he could always talk people into admiring him.’

‘He has great charm,’ said Adelaide.

‘If his own people made as much of him as the foreigners do he would be a contented king, I doubt not,’ added the Duchess of Kent.

Leopold thought: I must impress on her the need to curb her tongue. The King already dislikes her. Heaven knows what he might do. What if he made some law which would enable them to pass over Victoria?

To change the subject he said: ‘I have heard that the King has been to see his nephews – the two young Georges who are named after him, Cumberland and Cambridge. They’re just about Victoria’s age.’

The Duchess of Kent laughed scornfully. ‘They will never have a chance.’

‘The King has always had a great respect for his brother Ernest,’ said Leopold. ‘It would not surprise me if Cumberland did not return to England now that the old King is dead.’

‘Let them come,’ said the Duchess of Kent recklessly.

Leopold frowned. But after all it was only Adelaide. She would not report anything, nor see any evil in it.

‘You are looking in exceptionally good health,’ said Leopold to Adelaide.

‘I am very well, thank you.’ Adelaide had flushed slightly.

Oh God, thought the Duchess of Kent. It can’t be. I couldn’t bear it.

But she must know. The suspense would be unbearable if she did not. And if it were so? No! Fate could not be so cruel. There had been three failures. There could not be another attempt.

She was aware of Victoria quietly leaning against Adelaide playing with the rings she was wearing.

‘My stepdaughter, Lady Erroll,’ Adelaide said, ‘is very happy. She is expecting a child.’

‘Excellent news,’ said the Duchess of Kent. Was that a certain lilt she heard in Adelaide’s voice? What did it mean? Was it possible?

‘If it is a girl she wants to call it Adelaide.’

‘And you will allow this?’ asked the Duchess of Kent whose manner always grew cold when the FitzClarences were referred to.

‘I shall be delighted.’

The Duchess of Kent could restrain herself no longer.

‘You yourself look much happier than you have since … the tragedy. Is there any reason?’

There was a tense silence in the room. Victoria listening intently wondered what it could mean.

‘I have hopes again.’

Hopes! Oh God! thought the Duchess of Kent. It is as I feated.

They could not talk in front of the child, of course; but it was clear enough. Adelaide sitting there, quiet, serene, smug! thought the Duchess of Kent. I cannot bear it. It was like the distant funeral bell tolling dismally. The birth of Adelaide’s ‘hopes’ could only mean the death of her own.

Adelaide begged that Prince Leopold and the Duchess of Kent would excuse her. She wanted to pay her respects to the dolls before she left and she was going to ask Victoria if she might do this.

Victoria was taking her aunt’s hand, forgetting the strange conversation she had not understood, and together Adelaide and Victoria went to the nursery while back in the drawing-room Leopold was trying to restrain his sister and begging her not to have hysterics until after the Duchess of Clarence had left.

Adelaide grew happier as it became certain that her hopes were well-founded. She would take care, she promised herself; everything that could be done to achieve a safe delivery should be done. She kept reminding herself that but for that bitterly cold day her baby Elizabeth would have lived. She could bear a child – and a healthy one.

Elizabeth Erroll’s baby was born and like the daughter of George FitzClarence was christened Adelaide. William was delighted both to be a grandfather and that his son and daughter should have wanted to name their children after their stepmother.

At least, thought Adelaide, I am surrounded by babies. And that made her very happy. Not only was she constantly with her step-grandchildren but there was her niece Victoria too. She never lost an opportunity of visiting Kensington Palace and she and Victoria were the best of friends. But she must be careful for she sensed that the Duchess of Kent was a little jealous of Victoria’s love for her.

But however much she might enjoy the company of other people’s children, desperately she wanted her own. Only when she had her own child would the pain of Elizabeth’s loss begin to fade.

As the time for her confinement drew near she stayed at Bushy; she was very large and believed that presaged a strong and healthy child.

The FitzClarences were constantly with her, George’s wife and Elizabeth – mothers themselves – giving her advice, the rest cosseting her.

And then came the day when her pains started … far too early. She was hurried to bed to have a miscarriage.

She was desperately unhappy. It seemed a double misfortune since there had been two babies and she could not help picturing herself with her twins, one in each arm.

Had any woman ever longed for a child as she did? she wondered. Had any ever been so heartbreakingly disappointed.

William came and sat by her bed. He wept with her.

‘My poor, poor Adelaide,’ he said. ‘But I still have you.’

And that was some comfort.

He had written to the King, he said, to tell him the sad news. His Majesty, now at Brighton, feeling far from well, would be desolate.

William was right. The King sent his deepest condolences. He was genuinely sorry for he was disliking the Duchess of Kent more than ever; the airs she gave herself were intolerable to him and he would very much like to see her relegated to the background by the birth of a child to William and Adelaide.

William himself had no liking for the lady who had been extremely rude about his dear sons and daughters. Why should this upstart Duchess imagine herself too good to know his children? A most unpleasant woman! he decided.

Adelaide, however, was fond of young Victoria so she continued to visit Kensington Palace. He did not wish to spoil Adelaide’s pleasure so he did not suggest she should forgo these calls. But it was galling when the haughty Duchess refused to come to Bushy because she feared she might come into contact with some of the FitzClarence family.

Adelaide was delicate for some time after the miscarriage and William believed a holiday would be good for her.

‘Let us do a bit of travelling,’ he said. ‘We will go and stay with Ida and perhaps look in at Würtemburg to see my sister. She would be delighted and you two were fond of each other.’

Adelaide agreed that she would enjoy a continental tour! Not that it would make her forget. Nothing could do that; but William was obviously elated at the idea; and who knew, there might be hope yet of realizing her greatest dream.

So they made plans to leave and it was with some sorrow that she discovered she would not be in London to celebrate Victoria’s birthday.

She wrote to her before she left:

Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide send their love to dear little Victoria with their best wishes on her birthday and hope that she will become a very good girl, being now three years old.

Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide also beg little Victoria to give dear Mamma and dear Sissi a kiss in their name; and to Aunt Mary, Aunt Augusta and Aunt Sophia too, and also to the Big Doll.

Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide are very sorry to be absent on that day and not to see their

dear, dear

little Victoria, as they are sure she will be very good and obedient to dear Mamma on that day and on many, many others. They also hope that dear little Victoria will not forget them and know them again when Uncle and Aunt return.

So for Victoria it was a birthday without the presence of Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide. She missed Aunt Adelaide very much indeed. But her mother was by no means displeased.

Victoria was growing far too fond of Aunt Adelaide, who spoiled her in any case. Why, there were times when the Duchess of Kent believed that the child – her child – was more anxious for the society of her Aunt Adelaide than that of her own dear Mamma.

Shortly afterwards on a sunny June day the Royal Sovereign carrying the Duke and Duchess of Clarence left Walmer for Flushing; the holiday had begun, but as the yacht left the Downs it struck rough weather and most of the passengers were ill so it was a great relief when the coast of Belgium was sighted and they came to Antwerp.

Adelaide was delighted to be on dry land again and after a short stay at Antwerp they went on to Ghent to see Ida and her family.

What a joyful reunion and how delighted was poor little Louise and her brother Wilhelm!

‘Children always love Adelaide,’ said William rather sadly; and Ida went on quickly to talk of how they had enjoyed their stay in London and were all hoping to come again.

‘We’ll be glad to see you at Bushy whenever you care to come,’ replied William. ‘And I know I speak for Adelaide, too.’

The time in Ghent passed too quickly. There was so much to tell Ida. At first it was not easy to talk of her disappointments but in time she was able to and Ida’s ready sympathy was comforting.

‘You will have a healthy child one day, Adelaide,’ said Ida. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘How I wish I were! I believe though that the Duchess of Kent is fearful.’

‘Oh, that woman. I believe she is very ambitious.’

‘It is natural that she should be. Little Victoria is the most enchanting creature whom her mother has quite made up her mind is going to be the Queen of England. I wish that the Duke of Kent had been older than William, then she might not have been so fearful.’

‘Adelaide!’ cried Ida aghast. ‘You don’t think that she ill-wishes you.’

Adelaide smiled. ‘Dear Ida, she is not a wicked woman, and I so well-wish myself that I am sure the fervency of my wishes would outweigh hers.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Ida. ‘Ambition is a frightening thing.’

‘Then don’t let’s talk of it. Tell me about Louise and Wilhelm, and all that is happening here.’

‘Oh, we get along well. I am always hoping to find a doctor who can do something for Louise. And we are not rich, you know. I did not make a grand marriage as you did.’

‘It was a happy marriage, Ida. What could be better than that?’

‘And you are not happy?’

‘But of course I am. William is kind and he is really a good man, Ida.’

Ida looked a little sadly at her sister. Her marriage to the ageing Duke could scarcely be called romantic; and she was still childless after several attempts.

So, thought Ida, I would still say ‘Poor Adelaide’.

It was very pleasing to the sisters to feel that no great distance separated them. When Adelaide left Ghent it was after having received a promise from Ida that she would visit her next year.

They then proceeded with their journey, calling on Elizabeth, the Landgravine of Hesse-Homburg, and her rather odd husband, with whom Elizabeth declared herself well pleased, although she admitted that he had to be asked very persuasively to bath. Then to Saxe-Meiningen where Adelaide’s mother and brother, the Duchess Eleanor and Duke Bernhard, were delighted to see the visitors.

But the Duchess was disturbed by her daughter’s misadventures in childbirth. ‘Dearest child,’ she asked, ‘do you take the greatest care?’

‘The utmost, Mamma,’ replied Adelaide.

‘You were always a little delicate,’ sighed the Duchess. ‘Not like Ida and …’

She did not add that Ida’s husband was young and vigorous and that the Duke of Clarence was scarcely that. What a pity that the Duke of Saxe-Weimar was not the Duke of Clarence and vice versa. It was far more important for Adelaide to have children than for Ida; and yet ironically – one might say mischievously – it was the younger daughter who was productive when the elder one could have given birth to a monarch.

But what concerned Duchess Eleanor as a mother was the health and happiness of her daughters. She need have no fears for Ida – but Adelaide. Adelaide so deserved happiness; and there was a haunting sadness about her which the Duchess knew was due to frustrated motherhood.

Still, she was having her effect on William. He was far less crude than he had been at the time of their marriage. When they parted the Duchess Eleanor gave her daughter injunctions to come again soon and declared what happiness it was to her to know that she could see all her family from time to time.

And after that followed a brief visit to the Queen of Würtemburg who welcomed her brother and sister-in-law with great warmth. They were shocked by the sight of her, for her body had become not only gross but oddly shaped. She had the family tendency to grow fat and unlike her brother, King George IV, she had never corseted. Her face had grown so large that eyes had sunk into flesh; she was an extraordinary sight and scarcely human, but she was kind and felt very friendly towards Adelaide and was full of commiseration over the loss of her children. Adelaide was sorry to leave her sister-in-law but she was beginning to feel an eagerness to be back in the peace of Bushy with her younger stepchildren where the elder ones called frequently bringing the children which they knew made them exceptionally welcome.

Back in England, settling happily at Bushy, visiting Kensington Palace, seeing how the little Victoria had grown, was certainly very pleasant.

The Duchess of Kent though was decidedly jealous, for on Adelaide’s first call after the return to England, Victoria so far forgot her good manners as to fly at her aunt and put her chubby arms about her knees and bury her face into Aunt Adelaide’s gown in an excess of affection.

‘Victoria!’ cried the Duchess of Kent in an angry voice.

And Victoria, flushing with shame, withdrew herself and curtsied to Aunt Adelaide in the manner laid down in the nursery.

Adelaide laughed and picked up the child in her arms.

‘Oh, we are too good friends for ceremony, my precious.’

At which Victoria chuckled with relief and putting her arms about Adelaide’s neck gave her a resounding kiss.

We must put a stop to this, thought the Duchess of Kent.

‘I must apologize for my daughter’s behaviour,’ she said to Adelaide.

‘I like it,’ was the reply.

‘So,’ complained the Duchess of Kent afterwards to John Conroy, ‘shattering all the good sense I have been trying to instil into the child. But what can you expect of a woman who receives those dreadful FitzClarence bastards as though they are her stepchildren.’

‘And how is the Big Doll?’ Adelaide wanted to know.

‘She is very well, Aunt Adelaide. And she will be pleased to see you. She has missed you. She told me so.’

Victoria must be taught not to tell lies, thought the Duchess of Kent.

‘And may I see her?’

‘Oh, please come, Aunt Adelaide. And I have some more dolls. Aunt Augusta gave me one dressed like Queen Elizabeth. And Aunt Mary has promised me another.’

‘That is a lovely idea. Perhaps you will make a collection.’

‘What is a collection?’

The Duchess of Kent watched in exasperation while they looked at the dolls and the Duchess of Clarence behaved in what she could only call a most infantile manner.

Now, she thought, she will be calling often; Victoria will be visiting St James’s – but not Bushy, never Bushy, that is something I will never allow – and Victoria is growing up. She is advanced for her years. She picks up things quickly … sometimes, I think, too quickly. We shall have to be very watchful.

Adelaide was telling Victoria about the dolls she had seen on the Continent and she must look about and see what were to be had here. They must really start their collection.

Really, thought the Duchess of Kent, I would say it was time that woman had a child of her own – if it would not be so disastrous if she did.

A glorious thing had happened. Adelaide was once again pregnant.

This time, she told herself as she had on every other occasion, I shall succeed.

When Adelaide wrote and told Ida of her hopes Ida wrote that Mamma had suggested she come over to England and look after Adelaide during her pregnancy. Did Adelaide feel it would be a good idea? Adelaide’s reply was that little could delight her more and Ida said she would prepare to leave at once bringing the children with her.

‘It would be pleasant,’ Adelaide said to William, ‘if when we entertained we could do so in London as well as at Bushy.’

‘The apartments at St James’s are hardly big enough for that. We should need a bigger house. Really it is ridiculous that we have no place in London but these dismal rooms. I’ll choose a moment to speak to George about it. He is constantly adding to Carlton House and the Pavilion; and now he has notions for Buckingham House. He was telling me about them the other day. I don’t see why we shouldn’t have a house of our own.’

‘It must either be that or we shall have to refurbish these St James’s rooms,’ said Adelaide. ‘But there is always Bushy. Ida and the children will stay there of course. But it would be convenient if we could be in London now and then.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said William.

It was a great joy to see Ida very pleased with herself, and looking extremely well.

‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Adelaide.

‘It’s not to be wondered at,’ retorted Ida. ‘There will be two of us.’

‘You … again.’

‘Oh, come, I only have my two. Three will be a pleasant number.’

‘Ida … when?’

‘October.’

‘I’m so pleased that we shall have our children together.’

‘That’s what I thought and that’s why I came. I’m to take the greatest care of you. Make sure you don’t tax your strength. I have orders from Mamma.’

‘Oh, it’s wonderful to be together again.’

‘The children think so. Loulou adores you, you know.’

‘As I do her.’

‘When she heard we were coming to stay with you her face lit up with joy. Poor darling, I fear life will not be very good for her. She looks so sad sometimes when she sees other children running about.’

‘We must try to make her happy.’

‘You do, Adelaide. You always do. You have a way with children. They all seem to love you.’

Adelaide sighed and Ida wished that she had not said that for she had reminded her sister of her losses.

But this time it was going to be different.

Alas, this was not to be.

It was the familiar pattern. Weeks before the child was due, Adelaide felt the warning pains; and all the attention of the royal physicians and her sister Ida’s care could not save her from the inevitable miscarriage.

With each one she grew more and more desperate. It seemed to her that she was incapable of bearing a child that could live. And the fact that there were ten healthy FitzClarences to prove that the fault did not lie with William made her all the more depressed.

‘Our marriage is pointless,’ she told Ida, ‘for it was solely to provide a child that it was arranged.’

‘That may have been,’ retorted Ida, ‘but it is not so now. William relies on you. He was quite distracted when you were so ill. Whatever the original reason for the marriage, now it is based on true affection. He relies on you. He needs you. That has to be your consolation.’

There was some consolation in the thought.

In October Ida gave birth to a son – a healthy boy who was christened Edward and in caring for him Adelaide found much comfort.

William went down to see the King at the Pavilion, whither he had gone after his very successful tour of the Continent which had followed that of Ireland.

The King was not in good health and William was shocked at the sight of him. The coronation and the State visits which had followed had given him an interest which had temporarily rejuvenated him but now he was back in England and his people showed quite clearly that they had recovered from the excitement of the coronation. They did not like their King now that it was over any more than they had before it had taken place. The spate of lampoons was growing and they were getting more and more unpleasant.

By God, he has changed! thought William; and remembered how awkward he had always felt in glittering George’s presence. The King still retained his charm and when he displayed it one forgot his unwieldy body, but he felt that unless he were firmly corseted he could not possibly appear in public and to be firmly corseted had become an agony.

He was pleased to see William as he always was to see any of his brothers, and commiserated with him immediately about the loss of the child.

‘How I would have delighted if all had gone well! Not only for dear Adelaide’s sake and yours, William, but to put an end to the vanities of that absurd woman at Kensington Palace. I hear that infant thrives.’

‘Adelaide tells me so. She is very fond of her. She is embroidering a dress for her now.’

‘Adelaide is a saint.’

‘I know.’

The King looked as though he were about to launch into an account of his own matrimonial disasters from which release had come too late. So William said: ‘Adelaide feels we should have a place in London. Those St James’s quarters are cramped and uncomfortable.’

‘So you should,’ said the King. ‘Why don’t you get a London house?’

‘For the usual reasons,’ said William. ‘Money.’

‘My dear fellow, I am sure that could be arranged.’

So that was settled, and now the King could talk of his own troubles.

He had felt damned ill when he returned from his travels and had had to be bled even more than usual.

‘And those damned scribblers! By God, if this is not a libel I don’t know what it is. You know what they were suggesting, William? That my illness was mysterious. That I had to be shut away from my subjects. And the reason because I was suffering from the same trouble as our father did.’

‘What rubbish!’

‘That is how it is, William. It will never be forgotten that our father was mad. They are going to watch us very closely and if we show the slightest sign of eccentricity there will be those to whisper against us.’

‘It’s monstrous.’

‘I thought so, William, and that is why I wished to sue for libel. But you know what happened when Peel raised the matter. The Attorney-General was against it. It would have meant one of those interminable cases and so, I was told, whatever the verdict, the rumours would remain. You see what I have to suffer, William.’

‘I am glad that you have dear Lady Conyngham to make life easier for you.’

The King looked sad, but decided not to make a confidant of William.

The truth was that he was discovering he had no great confidence in Lady Conyngham. He was not such a fool as not to know that her affection was rather for the King than for the man. She was no Maria Fitzherbert. How he wished that Maria were with him now. But it was many years since they had been together. He wondered whether she ever thought of him now. It was when he had become Regent that they had parted and she would have grown accustomed to being without him; she had devoted herself to her adopted daughter Mary Seymour and he had heard from time to time that she had derived great happiness from the girl. He could recall times when Mary Seymour had been a very little girl and used to climb on his knee and call him Prinney – and they had been like a happy family – the three of them. That was how it should have remained.

But he had left Maria. No, no, he would not have that. Maria had left him. But it was due to his friendship with Lady Hertford. And what happiness had that brought him? And now Lady Hertford had gone and Lady Conyngham was the companion on whom he relied.

But she was weary of him. He knew it. She did not want to be a nurse to a tired, sick old man. She wanted a king who could give her diamonds and sapphires and at whose side she could appear on glittering occasions.

But he was ill and tired – mad, his enemies tried to say, like his father; and life had not gone well for him because he was lonely and he must cling to Lady Conyngham because there must be some woman in his life. She did not want him and through his own folly he had lost the one whom he had truly loved and who had truly loved him.

She was not very far away in distance but too many years, too many quarrels, too many humiliations separated them.

So, tired, old and ill, he must be lonely too.

And while Lady Conyngham continued to be with him and he bribed her with his kingship and the jewels she so loved and the honours she demanded for her family, he knew that he did not care for her; he only wanted not to be lonely.

And the name that most constantly was in his mind was Maria.

When Ida said she should return to Ghent to join her husband, Adelaide was melancholy.

‘I can never tell you,’ she said to William, ‘what it has meant to me to have my sister and the children with me at this time.’

‘You’ve grown fond of the little ones,’ said William. ‘Particularly Louise.’

‘I am so sorry for the dear child. She is a brave little thing for I know she suffers pain.’

‘I sometimes think she cares for you more than she does her own mother.’

‘That’s not true. But Ida is so gay and full of life. Perhaps her mother makes her realize more fully what she has missed than I do.’

William was thoughtful and later that day he went to Ida’s room and asked if he could have a word with her.

‘You’ll be leaving soon,’ he said. ‘Adelaide is going to miss you very much.’

‘As I shall miss her.’

‘You will go back to the gay life of Ghent. You have your husband and your children …’

‘Oh dear, how I wish Adelaide’s child had lived.’

‘And how I wish there was something I could do to make her see this is not quite so important as she thinks. If we cannot have a child there is no use brooding on it. We should forget it and enjoy life. A trip on the Continent, I always say – and go on hoping. But one thing did strike me. You have to go but why shouldn’t Loulou and the baby remain?’

‘My children!’ cried Ida.

‘It would comfort her. Let them stay on. She’ll have little Louise to care for and that will comfort her for the loss of her own. Ask Louise if she will stay and if she wishes to, let her. And the baby too. That is what Adelaide needs at this time – a baby to care for.’

Ida looked in astonishment at William. How he had changed since his marriage! He was developing a little imagination and had grown thoughtful. He did indeed love Adelaide.

Of course, this was Adelaide’s influence on him. She was thought to be quiet and perhaps insignificant. It had always been so; but this was not true. It was people like Adelaide who had a stronger influence than frivolous people like herself.

And Louise? She had to admit that there were times when she was impatient with Louise, when she could not suppress her irritation with the child, when the sight of a crippled daughter depressed her; and she saw now that Louise, perhaps made more sensitive by her affliction, was aware of this.

But Adelaide would feel only love for Louise and the love would be greater because of the child’s disability. Adelaide would never flare into sudden temper; she would be equable, able to bring Louise out of her fits of depression; she would make her believe that there were compensations in not being able to dance and play games that other children could.

‘You see what I mean,’ persisted William. ‘Think about it, Ida. And if you agree, tell Adelaide.’

Thus it was that when Ida left for Ghent she left behind her baby and the crippled Louise. The latter, when questioned by her mother, had admitted that she would prefer to stay in England with Aunt Adelaide than return with her mother to Ghent.

That was enough for Ida who told Adelaide that Louise wished to stay.

Adelaide could not disguise her pleasure in the fact that although her sister must go she was not going to lose her little niece and nephew.

Could Ida bear to part with them?

Ida said she could and since the baby had been born Adelaide had done far more for him than his mother had.

‘He would be lost without you,’ said Ida. ‘Let them stay on until I have settled in; and then I will come again and take them home.’

So Ida left and the parting was not so desolate as it might have been: for Adelaide had the children to look after and if they were not her own – well, they were the next best thing.

William was in excellent spirits for he had chosen a site for his new House which was to be built in St James’s.

‘I shall call it Clarence House,’ he said, and Adelaide agreed that it was as good a name as anyone could wish.

With the approach of Christmas came an invitation to join the King at Brighton.

Adelaide was a little uneasy as the death of the Queen and the Duchess of York had put her in the position of first lady, which meant at Brighton where the Court was she would be constantly called upon to do her duty in that role, for where the King was there must be a certain amount of ceremony and she would be often at the King’s side.

She was aware that she lacked the handsome looks of many of the women with whom the King surrounded himself. Lady Conyngham who was always very prominent at all functions might be considerably older than Adelaide, but she knew how to be beautiful by candlelight at least, and she rarely appeared in the bright light of morning. Nor did the King, who was growing more and more conscious of his ageing looks; and all the glittering ornaments and decorations he could put on to his beautifully cut garments could not hide the fact that his body was becoming a grotesque travesty of what it had been in his youth. The swelling in his neck necessitated a neckcloth so vast that it almost suffocated him; there were times when his gout was so painful that he could not put his foot to the ground. But for Christmas he needed to charm his guests, so he was bled – not too profusely this time – and lived very quietly for a few weeks in readiness for the festivities.

Adelaide was a little overwhelmed by the Pavilion – as indeed everyone was who entered it. It changed continuously for the King could not conquer his passion for beautiful objets d’art, nor for building, so there was always something new to be admired and the King took an almost childish delight in his treasures.

The newest acquisition was the wonderful bathroom the pipes of which were connected with the sea. This enabled him to enjoy the sea-water baths which had so delighted him in the days of his prime. When he had first discovered the spot and transformed little Brighthelmstone, the tiny fishing village, into royal and fashionable Brighton, he had taken his dips in. the sea attended by old Smoker – the dipper who respected no person, not even the Prince of Wales, and who had been christened by the Prince himself, the King of Brighton.

Those days were over. The Prince of Wales had become Regent and then King and as he passed from one glorious role to the other he had shed his youth and handsome looks. He had been too fond of indulging his tastes – too much rich food, too much good wine. And women? No, not to excess. He had had many mistresses but he had always deceived himself that he was in love with them. And one thing he had never lost throughout his life was the power to deceive himself.

Adelaide found the ordeal less trying than she had feared, for the King exerted all his magic to make her feel at ease; and since she was at his side so often he had the opportunity of charming her.

Lady Conyngham was very sure of her position, flashing the new sapphire which the King had given her and which was reputed to be part of the State jewels. She was a little arrogant because while she enjoyed occasions like this and, without doubt, the gifts and honours she received as the King’s mistress were well worth having, the King’s growing desire to live in retirement was very tiresome, and there had been times when she wondered whether the disadvantages did not outweigh the advantages.

The fact that the King needed her more than she needed him gave her a sense of such self-importance that being a rather foolish woman she could not help showing it.

She was extremely unpopular among the King’s enemies who looked upon her as a royal extravagance and by his friends who regarded her as a harpy.

Adelaide did not like her, although Lady Conyngham considered Adelaide too insignificant for her notice.

As the days passed Adelaide thought longingly of the simple life at Bushy with the children she had staying with her. Louise must be missing her, though the baby was too young to do so. Perhaps the noisy FitzClarences discussing their always interesting affairs missed her too.

The Pavilion was almost unbearably hot, being overheated because the King felt the cold. In the evenings there was usually a concert in the Music Room, and there the King liked to lie on a couch and listen; consequently the guests were expected to do the same.

The Music Room during a concert, thought Adelaide, with its oriental decor, its almost suffocating heat, its occupants stretched out on sofas, was like a room in a Sultan’s palace. And there, benign, enormous, in complete harmony with the surroundings he had created, lay the Sultan himself – King George IV.

Yes, it would be a great relief to go back to family life at Bushy.