Victoria in the Wings

One Step Nearer

IT WAS NOT to be expected that the ambitious Duke and Duchess of Cumberland had cut themselves off from affairs in England. Though it was true that since Queen Charlotte had ordered them to leave the country, they had done so, they had watched what was happening with the greatest interest.

‘Soon,’ Ernest told Frederica, ‘it will be necessary for me to go back.’

‘We have lost the throne for our George,’ replied Frederica sadly. ‘That fat child at Kensington Palace seems as healthy as a child could possibly be.’

‘She may not always remain so.’

‘That’s true. And Adelaide is not going to produce – that much is evident.’

‘I hear that George is very ill. In fact no one would be surprised if he went at any moment. And Frederick is not much better. They are both puffed up with dropsy.’

‘There’s still Clarence.’

‘Curse Clarence! He’s the stumbling block.’

‘No. It’s that fat child, Victoria they are calling her now. And I believe her dear Mamma is giving herself such airs that the family is a little put out with her.’

‘One thing,’ put in Ernest, ‘I shall be a king before I die. King of Hanover. Little Victoria cannot have Hanover. Thanks to the Salic law they’ll not have a woman ruler – not even darling little Victoria.’

‘I’ll swear that infuriated Mamma Kent.’ The Duchess’s lips tightened. ‘And to think that our beautiful George would be King of England were it not for that girl. It’s maddening.’

‘Quite maddening,’ agreed Ernest.

‘And is there nothing that can be done about it?’

They looked at each other cautiously. There were means of preventing precocious children from coming to the throne. There were methods which were unmentionable – even to such as they were; not exactly for moral reasons but because they could never be sure who might overhear them. Besides, such ideas were futile at the moment. That was the point. At the moment.

Kent, Clarence and then Victoria – and if they all failed to reach the throne, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland – with his son George to follow.

It was a brilliant prospect – if it were not for the lives between.

‘The time will come,’ said his Duchess, ‘when it will be necessary for us to go to England.’

‘In due course,’ replied her husband.

And he saw himself – as she saw him – the crown on his head. King of England. And why not? Only two ageing brothers stood between him – and a plump, spoiled little girl, of course.

Adelaide and William had settled down to a quiet domestic life. They had travelled once more on the Continent. She had kept Ida’s children with her and Ida made no complaint; with them and the FitzClarence family she felt that she was indeed a mother. Louise relied on her, was unhappy when not in her company and was even resigned to her affliction for she was sure that it had brought her and Aunt Adelaide closer together.

The romances of the FitzClarence girls – always confided to Adelaide – were a source of continual excitement. Mary was now married to Captain Fox of the Holland family, and Sophia, the eldest of the girls, had announced her engagement to Sir Philip Sydney; only the two younger girls, Augusta and Amelia, were not yet engaged, and they were only twenty-one and eighteen.

‘My word,’ said William, ‘if Dorothy could see her family now, she would be delighted. And there is one thing that would please her more than anything else and that is to see how fond they are of their stepmother.’

Dear William. He might be tactless but he had a good heart; and she must be grateful for it.

He had a great liking for card games and in the evenings would sit playing Pope Joan with Adelaide, Louise and any members of the FitzClarence family who happened to be available. He would chuckle when he won, although the stakes were never more than a shilling a night. How his brothers George and Frederick would have laughed at his simple pleasure. But Adelaide found it endearing.

And from her place on the wall Dorothy smiled down on the woman who had taken her place in Bushy House.

The King’s health was deteriorating; he had gone to his cottage at Windsor and was living there in as much seclusion as was possible. He suffered acutely from gout and dropsy and there were times when his legs and feet were so swollen that he could not put them to the ground.

He occupied his time by planning the restoration of the castle which at that time could only be lived in if one was prepared to face the utmost discomfort. The constant interviews with the men he had selected to carry out the task, the vision of what the castle would be like when restored by him, sustained him considerably and made him forget his pains.

But it was not a very happy existence. He hated to be seen by his subjects. Such ridicule had been heaped on him and he had to admit that even the most elegant clothes could do little for the mass of flesh he had become. The desire not to be seen became an obsession. He had trees planted around The Cottage so that no one could see any part of it; and he always had servants stationed at certain spots to prevent any trespassers invading his privacy. He even had certain glades in the forest shut in for his special use; and when he rode back and forth to Brighton and London he did so in a closed carriage, so determined was he not to be seen by his subjects; only his friends, his ministers and those who could not be prevented from seeing him, were allowed to do so.

Art, music, literature still delighted him; and when he was at the Pavilion there were many concerts in the Music Room where he and his guests lay on sofas and were entertained by the greatest musicians of the day. He could be momentarily happy on such occasions and relied on his innate elegance and charm to carry him through; but when he reached the privacy of his apartments and saw his reflection he would be overcome by depression.

Only the thought of beautiful things could give him pleasure, and he could only soothe himself by planning fresh alterations to the Pavilion and Carlton House. But, he thought, shall I be here to enjoy them? Not for long, he feared. But the restored Windsor Castle, the glories of Carlton House and his magnificent Pavilion would be his epitaph. In the generations to come people would say: ‘His subjects reviled him but he was a man of exquisite taste.’

He was worried about Elizabeth Conyngham. She had been acting rather strangely lately. The fact was that he had seen little of her. He had been spending so much time in bed, not rising until the afternoon, and then driving out into the secluded glades of the forest accompanied by very few people; sometimes she was there but not always. And when he questioned her absence he heard that she had a headache, or she was slightly unwell.

When he expressed concern she would visit him and explain that it had only been a slight indisposition and she was well again. But she had changed; and he was alarmed.

He knew her very well. She was a stupid woman really. It was six years since he had deserted Lady Hertford for her and he was not sorry to have parted with that lady; but he had now to admit that the relationship with Elizabeth Conyngham was not what he had hoped for.

He sighed. He needed women – or rather one woman over whom he could sentimentalize. It had always been so, all his life; and now that he was forced to spend so much time incapacitated and could brood on the past he saw so clearly how different life would have been if he had never parted from Maria Fitzherbert. She would have remained faithful to him. She was faithful by nature. It was Maria’s religion which had come between them.

‘Ah,’ he moaned, ‘I never should have parted with her.’

He became morbid picturing how different it would have been if Maria was here in The Cottage now; he could imagine the pleasant domesticity. She would talk to him intelligently – something Elizabeth could not do if she tried – and they would discuss her adopted daughter Minney’s affairs, for Minney would have been his daughter as well as Maria’s. What a comfort she would have been when he had lost Charlotte.

Once he had thought that if he could be rid of Caroline he would be perfectly happy. And now he was – and he was far from content.

Elizabeth Conyngham was handsome; he did not deny it. She had great feminine charm – but she was a fool.

Yet he could not lose her, for if he did he would be without a mistress. Oh, there might be others who would be willing, but he was too romantic to accept what could not at least appear to be romance. What woman could be expected to fall in love with a mountain of flesh that was in a state of rapid decay merely because it wore a crown?

The worst of being intelligent was that one had to face moments of truth like that. And here he was, tired, old and alone – with the truth.

No, his only hope of a little comfort was to keep Elizabeth – at least outwardly – as his mistress. Even if there was no woman to love him, he must delude himself now and then into believing that there was.

Oh, Maria … how different if you were here! Maria was not the woman to turn away because her husband had grown old and ill. That was the difference. He was Maria’s husband and nothing could alter that. Why didn’t Maria realize it? Why didn’t she come back?

It was time to rise. His attendants had come into his bedroom to ask his pleasure. Yes, he would get up.

Later that day he found himself in the company of Madame de Lieven, the wife of the Russian ambassador, a lively woman who although far from beautiful was decidedly fascinating. He was attracted by her and even as he talked to her and considered the defections of Elizabeth Conyngham he was wondering whether it might not add some spice to life to begin a courtship of her. That of course would infuriate Elizabeth and it would give him some pleasure to do that.

Madame de Lieven, who loved gossip, had noticed that the relationship between the King and Lady Conyngham was a little strained and she thought how amusing it would be to discover the truth of the matter and to pass it on to her friends. She loved writing letters and was proud of her reputation for having intimate knowledge of scandals, royal and otherwise.

She it was who brought up the subject of Lady Conyngham.

‘I see that she is not present this evening, Sir.’

‘I believe her to be suffering from some slight indisposition.’

‘Is that so? I saw her but yesterday and she seemed extremely well.’

‘Then perhaps her health has deteriorated since then.’

‘She was most animated,’ went on Madame de Lieven, ‘and greatly enjoying the company.’

There was an insinuation in Madame de Lieven’s manner which made the King feel that he must pursue this.

‘It was excellent company, no doubt.’

‘The most excellent … at least so much was evident from Lady Conyngham’s manner. Lord Ponsonby, you know, has returned from Corfu. He was present. I believe that he and Lady Conyngham were once old friends.’

Lord Ponsonby! thought the King. He had heard when he had first become friendly with Elizabeth that Ponsonby had been one of her lovers. He had not paid a great deal of attention. A woman like Elizabeth would be certain to have had many lovers.

And Ponsonby was back in England and Elizabeth was suffering from constant minor ailments which prevented her from sharing the King’s company as frequently as in the past.

‘Ponsonby is a most handsome man,’ went on Madame de Lieven mischievously.

‘I have heard that opinion expressed before. Was his wife with him?’

‘No. She was not present on this occasion. So … he had more opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with old friends.’

Stupid Elizabeth, he thought. Did she think he would not hear? And if she wanted to go … let her. She was a foolish woman in any case.

‘He is a clever fellow, this Ponsonby.’

‘He is said to be.’

The King was silent for a while and then he went on: ‘Madame de Lieven, I can talk to you very confidentially.’

‘Sir, I am honoured.’

‘I have always respected your intellect, Madame de Lieven, which is a great attraction when one is surrounded by somewhat stupid people.’

‘Stupid people, Sir?’

‘A stupid woman,’ said the King in a sudden anger against Elizabeth Conyngham because his gout had started to be very painful and Elizabeth did not care and he should never have allowed Maria Fitzherbert to leave him.

‘Your Majesty cannot be referring to … Lady Conyngham?’

‘I am,’ said the King shortly.

‘But … she is Your Majesty’s very good friend. I believed … and so did others …’

‘Things are not always as they seem. I find the woman a stupid bore. She is handsome, physically attractive but mentally she is an ignoramus; she bores me with her chatter. I am tired … tired … tired …’

‘Your Majesty!’

He laid his hand over hers. She was an attractive woman. She was a woman of the world. She did not possess the fair good looks which he had always admired, but her conversation and wit would make up for her lack of beauty. Not that she was an unattractive woman by any means. There were rumours of her very romantic relationship with Prince Metternich. She was elegant and worldly.

Yes, he would be pleased to replace Lady Conyngham by her.

Madame de Lieven was alarmed. She had merely been maliciously amused by the King’s mistress who couldn’t make up her mind what to do – stay with the King and enjoy the glory or leave the King and enjoy herself. The silly empty-headed creature had been debating that for some time; but she would not do so much longer because the handsome Ponsonby, romantic figure from the past, had come forward to make up her mind for her.

Poor King! thought Madame de Lieven. But no woman in her right senses would agree to become his mistress just because Elizabeth Conyngham had decided she was bored with the job. And that it was indeed boring Madame de Lieven was well aware. He was leading the life of an invalid – bed till the afternoon, a little drive in the forest, cards. Ugh! thought Madame de Lieven.

‘I have long admired your elegance and wit,’ said the King.

‘How gracious of Your Majesty to say so.’

‘I have often thought how delighted I should be if ours were to become a closer relationship.’

‘Your Majesty does me too much honour.’ She had skilfully removed her hand. What a scene, she thought. She would embellish it a little (writer’s licence) and tell her Prince, in one of her amusing letters, all about it.

But how to extricate herself? It should not be so difficult with the King as with some men. He was so quick to catch an inflection of the voice, the meaning behind the words. He had had many adventures with women, although it would be a rare occurrence for him to be told that he was not wanted.

‘We must talk of this,’ he went on.

‘I had meant to tell Your Majesty that I may be obliged to leave Court for a few weeks.’

He had taken the hint. He had withdrawn but with the utmost ease. He would never forget his courtly manners.

‘Your Majesty will understand how exacting it is to be the wife of a diplomat.’

Of course she was not going to leave Court. She would merely keep clear of him for a few weeks. She could not openly refuse the King’s advances but at the same time she need not accept them.

The King began to talk of his building plans. They were most intricate and he was eager to see them put into practice. One day when she returned to Court he would arrange for her to see them.

His Majesty was indeed gracious, said Madame de Lieven.

When she left the King she could not wait to pick up her pen. What a story! The King was tired of Conyngham; he thought her a bore and a fool. He had sought to replace her – and by none other than the wife of the Russian ambassador!

How fascinating! And how delightful to tell it. The Prince would realize what a femme fatale he had for a friend.

That night the King felt very melancholy.

Madame de Lieven had told him quite clearly that she would not consider being his dear friend.

He pictured himself making advances to attractive women who would imply politely that they had no wish to share his life. Who would have believed it in those days when he was merely Prince of Wales and he only had to signify his desire to speak to a woman and she was ready to give all he asked.

And now he was a king. But of what importance was rank when one had lost youth.

He must not lose Elizabeth.

He sent for his foreign secretary.

George Canning was a man who had once been a supporter of Caroline, but the King had learned to trust him.

He said when he arrived: ‘I heard Ponsonby is back from Corfu.’

‘That is so, Your Majesty.’

‘A clever fellow, I believe.’

‘I have seen no evidence of it, Sir.’

‘But somewhat personable. How old is he?’

‘Oh … in his early fifties I should think.’

Younger than I, thought the King.

‘It seems to me that he has the necessary qualifications for service abroad. Good ambassadors are not easy to find.’

Canning knew, of course, of Lady Conyngham’s interest in Ponsonby. The King’s affairs were common knowledge. He was not at all sure that he approved of selecting the country’s ambassadors in order to remove them from the field of the King’s amatory adventures. But the King was sick and in need of the comfort a woman could give. Lady Conyngham was not the person best suited to minister to the King, but he had chosen her; and it was important to keep the King happy.

Canning thought: If he dies there is York, who sometimes seems even more of an invalid than the King; and then Clarence whom everyone knows is a fool – and he is not very young at that. And after him … the child Victoria, who must be just about seven years old.

No, the King must be kept happy.

‘We could use Ponsonby in South America,’ he said. ‘I will sound him.’

‘Offer him an attractive post.’

‘Your Majesty may rely on me.’

So it was arranged tactfully.

All through the year the King alternated between dangerous illness and recovery. He could on occasions appear at functions charming everyone, laughing, quipping and consuming large quantities of wine; then he would go to Brighton and shut himself away, not leaving his bedroom for several days. He would have to be wheeled from room to room and it was reported that the water was rising in him and he could not last much longer.

The Duke of York suffered from the same complaint. He too was said to be near to death on more than one occasion.

In the fashionable clubs bets were taken. Would the Duke of York ever be King of England? One day the King was said to be the ‘favourite’; the next the Duke.

William had decided to take his wife abroad again that year; and he took some of the family with him. All the old haunts were visited; they called on Adelaide’s mother, on the Queen of Würtemburg and Ida at Ghent. William found it most enjoyable and he believed that the waters at the spa of Ems were good for him.

When news reached him about the illness of the King and the Duke of York the enormity of what this could mean was brought home to him. He discussed it with Adelaide.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘I always thought that Fred would be King if George went. And there is not much difference between our ages. Two years to be precise. But if they both went …’

‘You would be King, William.’

‘King William,’ he repeated.

There was a strange look in his eyes. He was realizing that he was ambitious.

‘I’d never really faced the fact that George could die. He’s been there all my life. The first person I was aware of was George. We are great friends, Adelaide.’

‘I know of your fondness for the King.’

William nodded. ‘Oh yes, George has been a good brother to me.’

‘And still is.’

‘But he’s a sick man, you must realize. He can’t live for ever and Fred is a sick man, too … and if he goes … By God, Adelaide, I shall be King.’

It seemed strange that he should react in this way. He had always known that there was a possibility that one day he could be King. But it was coming nearer and now it seemed almost a certainty.

‘You see, Adelaide, they’re both ill. They’re both sick men. At home … they are asking which one will die first. You see, Adelaide …’

She was alarmed by the excitement in his voice; and she noticed the wild look in his eyes.

‘It could come … soon. Perhaps even now … Adelaide, perhaps even now …’

‘If it were so you would hear quickly,’ she told him calmly. ‘The King has been ill for so long and recovered so many times. And so has the Duke of York.’

‘But they say … Just fancy it, Adelaide, King William.’

‘You would be desolate if George died,’ she said. ‘And so should I. He has been a good brother to us both.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m fond of George. But …’ Then he smiled slowly. ‘Adelaide,’ he went on, ‘I think this is a time when we should be in England.’

She could only agree that this was so, but a strange uneasiness had come to her. She had never seen him quite like this before. She knew him well – a simple man, caring for his family at Bushy, living rather humbly for one in his position, playing Pope Joan for small stakes. That was the life which suited him.

She thought: If it ever happened that he should wear the crown I should be uneasy.

When they returned to England it was to find the state of affairs much as it had been when they left. The King had been ill and was better; the Duke of York had been near to death several times but lived on and was building a new home for himself in St James’s.

William did not seem depressed by the news. He was remembering, Adelaide hoped, that he was fond of his brothers.

All was well with the family. Sophia, Lady Sydney, had named her daughter Adelaide – so three of William’s grandchildren now bore this name. It was a pleasant tribute to Adelaide.

The affairs of the FitzClarences could always absorb William, and Adelaide shared his enthusiasm for the family; she was delighted, too, that William had ceased to brood on the possibility of being King.

The winter was bitterly cold; and in January the Duke of York became very ill. He was swollen so with dropsy that he could not leave his chair; and one day, clad in an old dressing-gown of a drab grey colour which for the last weeks he had worn all the time, he sat in his chair and appeared to sleep. When his attendants, alarmed by his long silence, came to see if he needed them, they found that he was dead.

When the news of Frederick’s death was brought to the King he lapsed into deep melancholy. Frederick had been his favourite brother and memories of nursery days came flooding back. It was Frederick who, in the days of their youth, had aided him in his assignations with maids of honour in Kew Gardens; it was Frederick who had stood watch on Eel Pie Island when he had been there with Perdita Robinson. Frederick had supported him through all the trouble with Maria. No two brothers had ever been closer.

And now, Fred had gone first although he was a year younger. It was a melancholy occasion. He talked constantly to Lady Conyngham who listened sullenly. She was sulking because Lord Ponsonby had been sent to Brazil.

The day of the funeral was the coldest even in that cold spell. The King was clearly genuinely grieved; but it was noticed that the Duke of Clarence was in a state of great excitement. He had of course taken a very close step to the throne and was the heir apparent and it really seemed, by the appearance of the King, that his accession would not be long delayed. But, said the spectators, surely he might have had the decency to restrain his excitement.

‘By God,’ he said in an audible whisper, ‘the cold goes right through your boots.’ And turning to the Duke of Sussex he continued: ‘This should mean a difference in the way I’m treated now … You too. It will make a difference … no mistake about that.’

Peel, the Home Secretary, whispered to a colleague who was blue with the cold: ‘Take off your cocked hat and stand on the silk round it. It’ll give you some protection from these icy stones.’

‘This,’ whispered Clarence, ‘is going to lay some of us up. There’ll be some deaths after this, you see. This cold is … killing.’

Was he looking hopefully at the King? people asked themselves.

What had happened to Clarence? He had been thought to be a kindly simpleton but was the glitter of a nearby crown blinding him to all family affection?

The King wept openly; but then he had always wept easily. Yet these were genuine tears and as the bells tolled he covered his face with his hands.

‘I feel as though nails are being driven into my heart,’ he told the Duke of Rutland. ‘He was my dearest friend as well as my brother. In our youth we were inseparable and when my father sent him to Germany we were desolate. We considered it the greatest tragedy of our lives; and when he came back it was just as it was before he went away. A world that does not contain Frederick has little charm for me.’

As soon as the funeral was over he drove immediately to Brighton, for, as he explained, he wanted to shut himself away from the world and he could best do that there.

At Windsor the bells would go on tolling as they would in London. He could not bear to hear them.

In Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent summoned her daughter. Victoria was growing up. She would be eight in May. Old enough, said her mother, to be aware of her enormous responsibilities.

The tolling of the bells filled the apartments and Victoria told her dolls that it was because of the death of poor Uncle Frederick.

The Duchess thought this preoccupation with dolls a little childish. She had said so to Fräulein Lehzen, but the Fräulein in her devotion to her charge was not always ready to agree with the Duchess. A disturbing element, but the Duchess had to admit that however mistaken Lehzen might be she had the good of Victoria at heart and was assiduous in her care of the child. She also had a method of teaching which was unrivalled and Victoria was not naturally brilliant at her lessons; she was bright and intelligent, precocious even, but sitting down at a desk and learning from books did not appeal to her.

Lehzen believed that as a future Queen the most important subject she must study was history and as Victoria refused to assimilate cold hard facts and dates, Lehzen turned historical facts into exciting stories which she told to Victoria while her maids were dressing her.

The child was too exuberant and apt to gossip too freely in front of servants and this served a double purpose, keeping her from uttering indiscretions and at the same time teaching her what it was essential for her to know. Victoria actually enjoyed these stories.

Fräulein Lehzen was strict in the extreme; she laid down a set of nursery rules from which she would not allow Victoria to diverge; and yet at the same time she managed to inspire in the child a great affection.

The Duchess was well aware of this and so although at times she had her differences with Lehzen, she appreciated her worth.

She had said to that worthy woman, ‘We must now double our vigil. Who knows, the great day may come sooner than we think.’

One of the obstacles – for that was how she thought of those who stood between Victoria and the throne – had been removed.

‘My child,’ said the Duchess when Victoria came in answer to her summons, ‘you know what has happened?’

Victoria said she did and wondered whether Mamma wished her to look sad or gratified. It was not always easy to know; so she compromised and looked half sad, half expectant.

‘Poor Uncle Frederick has passed away.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘And of course we are very sad.’

There was the cue. They must look sad for a moment.

‘He was very kind,’ said Victoria. ‘He gave me my donkey and my lovely Punch and Judy Show.’

The Duchess looked at her daughter in a manner which implied that this was not the time to talk of donkeys and Punch and Judy Shows.

Of course, thought Victoria, I hardly ever saw him. I hardly ever see any of the uncles. Uncle William doesn’t come with Aunt Adelaide. Uncle Adolphus is always going to Germany. Uncle Ernest is in Germany; and Uncle King is too busy being King to see me. She was regretful about that because of all the Uncles she would have liked to see more of Uncle King. There was Uncle Leopold who came on Wednesdays and talked to her very seriously but kindly. He was always very melancholy and there was something going on of which Mamma did not approve. Something to do with an actress who was a friend of his, Victoria believed; she kept her eyes and ears open and liked to hear what the servants had to say. Visits to Claremont were some of the happiest times of her life although there Uncle Leopold was more melancholy than ever, but she could enjoy Uncle Leopold’s melancholy because she was sure he did. He told her about Cousin Charlotte and showed her her bedroom and told her of the things she had done and said. Cousin Charlotte had been very gay and a little wild and had shocked people, in the nicest possible way. Strangely enough had she lived she would have been Queen and that would have meant that she, Victoria, would have been more like an ordinary little girl and what she did and said would not have been so important. Victoria did not think she would have wished for that. Sometimes life was very restricting and she was impatient with it; but in her heart she knew that she would not have it different. She was Victoria with a great future – and that was how she wanted it to be. Louisa Lewis who had been dresser to Charlotte and who was an old, old woman still at Claremont, was very fond of Victoria. I believe, thought Victoria, she sees me as Charlotte sometimes. Louisa Lewis told stories of Charlotte – how she was always tearing her clothes – and she spoke as though there was some virtue in it, at least in the way Charlotte did it. ‘She was the sweetest, most loving creature that ever lived,’ declared Louisa Lewis. Then she would cry and Victoria would wipe away her tears. ‘Never mind, Louisa,’ she would say. ‘It was God’s will.’

That was a pleasant thought. It was God’s will that Charlotte had died so that Victoria should be the most important little girl in the kingdom.

‘You are not paying attention, Victoria,’ said the Duchess severely.

‘I am now, Mamma.’

‘You will have to be more serious now. You understand what the death of your Uncle Frederick means?’

‘Yes, Mamma, it means that he is dead and we shan’t see him again.’

The Duchess looked exasperated, but affectionately so.

‘It means this, child, that you have come a little nearer to the throne. Your Uncle George, alas (such a gratified smile for Mamma made it clear that she did not love Uncle King) is a very sick man. If he died tomorrow your Uncle William would be King.’

‘Aunt Adelaide would be Queen. I think, Mamma, that she will make a very good Queen.’

Mamma ignored such an idle observation. ‘And if they do not have a child, do you know what would happen if Uncle William died?’

‘But Uncle William is not going to die … and Aunt Adelaide …’

‘Aunt Adelaide has nothing to do with this. Uncle William is not immortal. We all have to die and he is not a young man. If Uncle George died and William died, you would be the Queen of England.’

Victoria clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling, an expression of ecstasy on her face.

The Duchess was pleased. ‘I see that you realize your responsibilities.’

Victoria had not been thinking of those but of a glittering crown on her head and a cloak of purple velvet edged with ermine.

‘We must bear them in mind,’ said the Duchess. ‘We must be less frivolous. We must prepare ourselves.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘We will speak of this on a more suitable occasion.’

She meant, of course, when the bells had ceased to toll for Uncle Frederick because funerals were supposed to be sad times and how could one be sad when one contemplated being a Queen.

‘You may go now, Victoria.’

She curtsied prettily and went to the nursery. She had an urge to play with the dolls. She loved them; she talked to them; they all had names; and most of them represented famous people. Fräulein Lehzen had made some of them herself; she was very good at it, and she would make sure of getting their costumes right. There was Queen Elizabeth who had been a prisoner in the Tower of London before she was Queen and Mary Queen of Scots who had lost her head. She wanted to know all about the dolls and what had happened to them before they had become members of her family. Fräulein Lehzen knew many stories of them all and they were all fascinating. There was the dashing Earl of Leicester who might have married Elizabeth for he wanted to but he had a wife, Amy Robsart. She had always had rather a fancy for Amy Robsart because her story was so sad and she was one of the prettiest of the dolls. She would never really like Elizabeth because of Amy Robsart.

She picked up Elizabeth and straightened her ruff with impatient fingers.

‘Untidy again!’ she said severely. ‘And I really believe you had a hand in murdering Amy.’ Then she took Amy and kissed her. ‘There! A consolation for being pushed down the stairs.’

What exciting dolls they were! Not all famous. The Big Doll presented by Aunt Adelaide was just … the Big Doll, bigger than the others and like a baby. She loved the Big Doll but the others were more interesting. They were a worthy collection for a girl who might one day be a Queen herself.

‘Listen to the bells,’ she said to them. ‘They are tolling for Uncle Frederick and because he is dead I am nearer to the throne. One day I shall be a queen.’

She was thoughtful. One day she would be like one of the dolls – Queen Victoria – made of sawdust with a wooden face and a mantle of purple velvet and ermine and a crown on her head.

How strange to think of herself as a doll? But one had to live first of course – and the exciting future lay before her.

Ernest Duke of Cumberland heard of the death of his brother Frederick with undisguised pleasure. There was after all no need to conceal from his clever Duchess that which seemed to him a perfectly natural emotion.

The Duchess had softened a little since the birth of their son. She doted on young George who was a bright boy, and handsome too. Her greatest ambition would be fulfilled if she could see him attain the throne of England.

And to think that there was that smug fat child at Kensington Palace standing between her and her desires was more than she could endure.

She knew that Ernest felt the same; though he was perhaps thinking more of getting the throne for himself than for George.

George would inevitably follow his father – and as usual their ambitions were identical.

‘George cannot last much longer,’ Ernest was saying. ‘It’s a miracle that he’s held out so long. He’s a mass of disease and has to be wheeled about most of the time. Frederick has been removed. And that leaves only William.’

‘William is in moderately good health.’

‘Is he? Wasn’t he at Ems taking the water for something or other? I was thinking more of his mental health. I’ve heard that he has been behaving very strangely. Of course there is the example of our father, so no one would be exactly surprised.’

Frederica raised her eyebrows. ‘That might apply to any member of the family.’

‘Only if he showed tendencies.’

‘It has been said of George.’

‘Well, George has behaved somewhat madly now and then. Now, listen, if George died and William went off his head …’

‘There still remains Miss at Kensington. The little horror seems to be full of health and vigour. How do you propose to remove her from your path?’

‘It is something which would have to be considered very carefully; and it would hardly be possible to do that from such a great distance.’

‘I see, so you propose going to England?’

‘It’s the only thing to do. I shall leave almost immediately. There may be little time to lose.’

‘And your son and your Duchess?’

‘Will follow me, of course. It is important that George be brought up in England. We must show the people that he is as important as his girl cousin of Kensington … and far more suited to become their ruler.’

‘Will they accept that since he is the son of a younger son?’

‘That is what we have to discover, my dear – a means of making the desirable event acceptable to the people of England.’

‘There is only one thing that would make them accept it – the death of Victoria.’

‘Don’t look so despondent, my dear. You sound as though you think the child immortal.’

She laughed.

‘So, you will go to England to find a way?’

He nodded thoughtfully.

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of urgency.’