Victoria in the Wings

Lord High Admiral of England

WILLIAM HAD BEEN acting oddly since the death of Frederick; he was making the most indiscreet comments and it was quite clear that the fact that he was the heir apparent to the throne had gone to his head. He talked freely of what he would do when he was King; he was continually inspecting the house which was being built for him; and would drive back and forth from Bushy every other day to see how it was progressing. He was enchanted with it; it was going to be a novel building with its Ionic and Doric columns and its three impressive storeys.

He dreamed of a house even more grand than Carlton House, but he would have no oriental touches in his house. It should be a fine house; a magnificent house; but a sailor’s house.

The only subject which could lure his thoughts from the royal grandeur which he was sure would soon be his was the affairs of his children. Augustus had just taken Holy Orders and he was a little disturbed about this.

He discussed the matter with Adelaide who was only too pleased to be able to talk of something other than his accession to the throne.

‘Augustus has not the temperament for a priest,’ he said.

‘I am sure he will make a very good one,’ insisted Adelaide. ‘After all, one does not need to be melancholy to be a man of the church. And if Augustus’s approach is a little light-hearted, that is better than being sorrowful.’

‘My dear Adelaide always sees the brightest side,’ said William.

‘I am sure you are not blaming me for that.’

‘Only admiring you, my dear, as ever. But one must visualize all possibilities. When you consider the state of the government now and what would happen if the King were to die …’

Adelaide said quickly: ‘I am a little worried about Amelia.’

‘Amelia. What’s wrong with Amelia?’ The very thought of something being wrong with one of the children could drive everything else from his mind.

‘I fancy she has been a little preoccupied recently.’

‘Preoccupied. What do you think. You think she has a lover?’

‘It is not the only possibility.’

‘I’ll speak to her.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if I did?’

It seemed strange that Amelia might be able to talk more easily to Adelaide the stepmother than to her own father, but William was fully aware that this was so.

‘Yes, speak to her,’ he said.

If there was anything wrong he wanted to know.

Amelia was tearful when Adelaide questioned her.

She was in love; she wanted to marry; and she was sure that her choice would not be approved of.

‘But why ever not?’ Adelaide wanted to know.

‘He is a widower. He has children. He is years older than I am.’

‘None of these are insurmountable difficulties. Your father is years older than I am.’ She might have added: And if he was not a widower when I married him, it might have been more respectable if he had been.

‘But, you see, Horace is poor.’

‘Horace?’

‘Horace Seymour.’

‘He is one of the Hertford family?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Well, then I am sure that there will be no objection to your marrying into such a family.’

‘But he has no money. He has settled everything he had on his children. I am sure there will be objections.’

‘We might first discover if there will be before we assert so strongly that there are.’

‘Adelaide … will you speak to Papa?’

‘But of course I will.’

There was nothing that pleased William so much as to be called in to deal with family affairs.

So Amelia was in love, and she was afraid to tell her father. She had had to get her stepmother to approach him. It both pleased him that Adelaide should have his daughter’s confidence while it hurt him that she could not have come to him.

But, as Adelaide said, as long as she came to one of them what did it matter?

The facts were that Amelia was in love with a penniless widower, and a daughter of the Duke of Clarence could not marry into poverty. All her brothers and sisters had done well for themselves; Amelia must do the same. And if she were so much in love with this man that she wanted to marry him – money or not – some means of providing money must be found.

William believed the solution lay with Lord Hertford, the head of the Seymour family. He would, therefore, write to Hertford explaining that his daughter Lady Amelia FitzClarence wished to marry Horace Seymour and that he would give his consent to the marriage providing Lord Hertford made an allowance to Horace which would enable him to marry the Duke’s daughter. He confidently expected Lord Hertford to express his immediate willingness. After all, Horace would be marrying into the royal family – albeit from the wrong side of the blanket.

Lord Hertford was one of the proudest peers in the country. He had become friendly with the King – then Prince of Wales – at the time of the Mary Seymour case when he had, as head of his family, taken charge of the little girl, who was after all his niece, and placed her in the hands of Mrs Fitzherbert, which had been done entirely to please the Prince of Wales. As a result Lord Hertford’s wife had become very friendly with the Prince and had remained on intimate terms with him during his Regency until she had been replaced by Lady Conyngham. That intelligent, fastidious Lady Hertford should have been replaced by stupid Lady Conyngham was not likely to endear the Hertfords to the royal family.

Moreover, Lord Hertford did not consider an illegitimate daughter, even of a royal Duke, worthy to marry with a Seymour and he replied bluntly that he intended to do nothing to further the match.

William was astounded. When he received Hertford’s letter he read it to Adelaide and then began to rave against Hertford.

‘How dare he slight the connection? Does he realize that Amelia is my daughter. Does he despise a link with the King.’

Adelaide said: ‘Perhaps he does not wish to put up the money.’

‘Not wish to put up the money. Why, he is one of the richest men in the country. No, this is an insult to my daughter. Let him wait. I’ll not forget this. Let him wait … it will only be a few months now …’ Adelaide listened in horror as his voice rose. He was back on the old subject. ‘I shall soon be King now.’

She sought to soothe him and she did to some extent, but he still went on talking of what he would do when his brother was dead and he was the King.

There was poor Amelia to be soothed. Poor, pretty, melancholy Amelia! Adelaide did her best; she told Amelia that she was young; perhaps her happiness with a man so much older than herself might not have been of long duration. Let her wait a while and if in, say, a year she was still in love with Horace Seymour … well, there were still means.

So it was Adelaide who comforted Amelia, but as she did so she was thinking of William.

Change was fast approaching. The peaceful days at Bushy were coming to an end. The simple country entertainments could not continue. There was little time to spend with their neighbours who had called during Dorothy Jordan’s reign and William’s nautical friends with whom he had kept in touch. How different they were from the fashionable crowd that circulated in Court circles. They were more simple in their tastes; they were more genuinely friendly. They talked of crops, the weather, their gardens and family affairs. Then there had been frequent visits of the married FitzClarences with their children; and in the evenings perhaps a small dinner party or no visitors at all and a simple game of Pope Joan.

But that was in the days before William saw himself as a king.

George Canning called at Windsor Lodge to discuss the Duke of Clarence with the King.

Canning was a man for whom the King had a great respect in spite of the fact that he had at one time been a firm supporter of Caroline. He had come to power very recently when Lord Liverpool had had a stroke, and the King believed that the government was in firm hands.

But Canning had not come to discuss high politics but this purely domestic matter of the post which should be given to the Duke of Clarence.

Canning came straight to the point.

‘There has been an addition to his income, Sir; but he needs a position of some authority. We must not forget that the unfortunate death of the Duke of York has placed him in a very important position.’

‘From what I hear,’ said the King, ‘he is becoming increasingly aware of it.’

‘It is natural that he should,’ replied Canning. ‘He is the heir apparent and although we hope that he will retain that title for many many years, it is one nevertheless to which some dignity should be attached. So far His Highness has not been very much in the public eye. He has lived an astonishingly obscure life. It is my belief – and I know Your Majesty shares this view – that he should be brought into prominence.’

‘I do agree,’ said the King. ‘And you are referring to the post of Lord High Admiral. Now, is it possible to revive this office?’

‘As Your Majesty knows, it was abolished with Prince George, the husband of Queen Anne. I see no reason, and I am sure Your Majesty’s cabinet will not either, why this office could not be reinstated.’

‘In that case let us reinstate it. I will be perfectly frank though,’ went on the King. ‘My brother has had no experience of office of this kind. He is apt to be a little … excitable.’

‘I had thought of that, Sir,’ said Canning. ‘The title of Lord High Admiral is not meant to carry any arduous duties with it. There will be a Board set up at the Admiralty which will undertake such work. In fact such a board has already been assembled under Sir George Cockburn. His Royal Highness will merely be an ornament to the Navy. The title will give him the standing he needs; it will bring him out of the somewhat provincial life he has been leading for so many years which, admirable as it may be, is not the way of life expected of the Heir Apparent.’

The King nodded. It was not one of his good days. At such times death seemed very close; and when he felt thus a great sense of responsibility came to him. He wanted to ensure that the House of Hanover continued to rule – and rule well. But when he thought of all the pitfalls which loomed under a monarch’s feet he shuddered for William. Still, he had nice sensible Adelaide at his side. A good wife was so helpful and the people like a cosy domesticity – as he had learned to his cost.

And Canning was there. He looked at the man – brilliant statesman, one of the great men of the day – but by God, he thought, how ill he looks! A fine pair to be discussing the affairs of England – a couple of death’s heads.

He told Canning that he would leave the appointment to him for he knew it would be in the most capable hands.

They then began to discuss more important matters of State than the Duke of Clarence’s appointment to the sinecure of Lord High Admiral of England.

William strutted before Adelaide in his Admiral’s uniform, his eyes gleaming with happiness, his face grown youthful so that he resembled a boy with a toy which he has coveted for a long time.

‘Lord High Admiral, Adelaide. Think of that! It’s something I used to dream of in those early days on the Prince George and the Barfleur. I was a midshipman then. Plain William Guelph. It was my own wish that I should be known by that name. And it wasn’t easy, Adelaide, for the son of the King to become a common sailor.’

‘I can well believe it was not.’

‘Oh no. But I accepted the discipline. I forgot my rank. I became one of them and I learned to love the sea and ships. By God, it’s a fine thing – the British Navy. It’s the finest institution in the world. But there is room for improvements. By God, yes! And there will be improvements. They have got a sailor at their head now … a sailor who started at the bottom and rose to his present position through his own determination and …’

Adelaide was not listening to the words. She was alarmed by his excitability. He was constantly making long speeches as though he were addressing the House of Lords.

‘I am sure it is realized what an asset you will be to the Navy, William,’ she said quietly. ‘It is for this reason that you have been offered the post.’

‘There’ll be jealousies,’ went on William. ‘By God, I’m not sure that I like that fellow Cockburn. Seems to think he’s in some superior position. Talks about the Board. “The Board”, I demanded. “What of the Board? The Lord High Admiral of England does not need a Board to tell him what to do. Let me tell you, sir, that the Lord High Admiral of England was a sailor which is something this Board could never be!” I said to him …’

His eyes grew wild, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

‘William,’ said Adelaide gently, ‘remember your asthma. You won’t want to provoke another attack.’

But William could not be calmed. He was Lord High Admiral and he intended to make his presence felt.

They were scarcely ever at Bushy now. There was no time for the old peaceful life. ‘I have my duties,’ said William. ‘Navy affairs must come first.’

He was not content merely to wear a uniform and appear at naval functions which was what Canning had planned for him. He wanted to be responsible for reforms, he wanted to make speeches. The latter was easier than the former and he plunged into this on every occasion; he made the mistake of thinking that he was a master of oratory; his voice sounded magnificent to himself; he could laugh at his own words and when the occasion demanded it be intensely moved by them. Unfortunately they did not have the same effect on his listeners, who had difficulty in suppressing their yawns and whispered comments. The result was ridicule in the press.

William did not care. He was going to hoist his flag and go to sea. For this purpose he determined to take the Royal Sovereign yacht at the head of a Squadron. Excitedly he discussed the project with Adelaide.

As she dreaded going to sea she was less happy. She was almost always ill; and this was not like a Channel crossing; William planned to stay at sea for more than a week.

‘William,’ she said, ‘I cannot come with you. I should be violently ill.’

His face fell childishly.

‘Don’t forget you will soon be Queen of England.’

‘I beg of you do not speak so loudly of such things.’

‘Why not?’ he roared. ‘It’s true.’

‘It sounds as though you almost want your brother to die.’

‘Old George has had his day. To my mind he’s not all that anxious to cling to life. It’s inevitable. Fred’s gone … and Fred was younger. Oh, the day will come soon and I see no reason to pretend otherwise.’

‘It might not be considered seemly, and a king has to consider his words.’

‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said William. ‘A king has his responsibilities.’

‘And often has to act with discretion.’

William laughed. ‘You’ll make a good queen, Adelaide,’ he roared.

All the same she could not go with him, so she compromised. He was calling at ports along the south coast. Very well, she would travel overland to all those ports and when he docked she would join him in the Royal Sovereign. This would prevent her suffering from seasickness, which in any case would have rendered her incapable of doing her duty; she could help him entertain in the ports and be on board with him when the ship was in dock and while it was at sea she would have an opportunity of visiting some of the noble families who had country estates in those ports.

It would be, she said, a sort of royal progress.

A royal progress! The phrase appealed to William.

Trust Adelaide to think of the right thing. How she had developed under his guidance. To think that when he married her he had believed that the alliance with the House of Hanover might have gone to her head. No, she was steady and reliable, his Adelaide; and he couldn’t have had a better wife.

He was very pleased with life. But he would be more pleased when the crown was placed on his head and he was proclaimed King of England.

The Duchess of Cumberland had joined her husband and his son George was with her. George was immediately taken into Adelaide’s circle of young people and the boy was charmed with his aunt. He was given presents and made to feel very welcome and his parents looked on with amusement.

They were staying at Windsor where the Duke of Cumberland had become the closest confidant of the King. The Duchess too was often in his company: he found her clever and amusing.

Lady Conyngham was not very pleased with the Cumberlands. She had been contemplating leaving the King and would have done so if she could have found a means of effecting it easily; but now that she saw her place being usurped by the Duchess of Cumberland she was angry.

The King was very old, she reasoned. He could not live much longer. She should remain with him until the end now. There might be quite a few perquisites to fall into her hand for the King was very lavish with his jewellery and who would be able to say whether such and such a piece had been given to her or not.

No, she was going to stay to the end and she was not going to be pushed out by the Duchess of Cumberland.

The Cumberlands carried a sinister aura wherever they went. No one could quite forget that during their past they had both been suspected of murder.

They had a standard of morals all their own. They were undoubtedly allies, yet that did not mean that they were faithful to each other.

The Duke of Cumberland was known to be engaged in a haison with Lady Graves; the Duchess did not object in the least; and in fact had the King not been so old and incapable of such conduct, she would most certainly have attempted to become his mistress.

They understood and they had one aim which made any other desire that might come to them of the greatest insignificance. They wanted the throne of England – first for the Duke and then for their son George.

The situation amused them. An ailing king with clearly a short time to live and when he was dead between them was merely William (Silly Billy as they called him) and Victoria.

If the situation had been straightforward, if there had been no lives between, they could not have experienced the same stimulation and exhilaration which the present state of affairs gave rise to.

When they were together they discussed the way things were going.

‘William,’ said the Duke, ‘is playing straight into our hands.’

‘Trust William.’

‘Behaving like an idiot. He can scarcely open his mouth without showing his impatience for George’s death.’

‘That may upset George, but however upset he is he can’t alter the succession.’

Her husband’s eyes narrowed. ‘Successions can be altered.’

‘What have you in mind?’

‘Our father was put away; he went into retirement and George became King – in all but name.’

‘You can’t mean they would put William away?’

‘Why not … if he behaved like a madman?’

‘But he’s just a fool.’

‘There is a very fine line between folly like his and madness.’

‘You would never get others to see that point.’

‘Then, my dear, it will be my job … our job … to make them.’

Frederica laughed. However much she might be attracted by other men and Ernest by other women, they still found each other the most exciting person in the world.

‘A terrible misfortune has come to the country,’ said the King, holding a handkerchief to his eyes. ‘I have just had word that Canning is dead.’

Lady Conyngham was scarcely listening. She was bored with politics; but she was glad of course that the King was confiding in her instead of in the Cumberlands. He had just received the news and was very upset about it.

He rambled on: ‘Of course there was a time when I was set against him. He was very friendly with the Princess of Wales.’ (He never thought of Caroline as the Queen; to him she remained the Princess of Wales.) ‘At the time of the Delicate Investigation he was visiting her frequently; and when the Bill of Pains and Penalties was brought forward he was on her side. Some said he was her lover. Who knows? With that woman one could never be sure of anything. And when he became my Foreign Secretary I don’t mind saying now that I could not endure the fellow. But that changed. He had such good taste; he was the sort of man with whom I could find an understanding. No, I cannot believe that he could ever have been the lover of that creature. One did not have to spell things out with him. He had a quick mind; a great eloquence; he was one of the most brilliant men of our day.’

Lady Conyngham yawned and wondered whether to have her sapphires reset with the new diamonds the King had given her, or wear them as they were. Canning’s death meant nothing to her.

‘And now he is dead,’ went on the King. ‘I have lost a good friend as well as a great minister. And what can I do but ask myself what would Canning have wished me to do in such sad circumstances? He would have wished me to send for men whom he trusted. That is so. Don’t you agree with me, my dear?’

‘Oh yes, I agree,’ said Lady Conyngham.

In accordance with what Canning would have wished the King sent for Lord Goderich and offered him the office of Prime Minister.

But it was soon clear that Goderich was no Canning; the choice was a bad one and ‘The Goody’ as the press called Goderich was soon in difficulties.

A few months after his appointment he called to see the King and in tears informed him that he could no longer carry on.

‘My dear fellow,’ said the King, ‘then you must resign.’

With that he passed Goody his handkerchief to dry his eyes and decided that there was nothing to be done but call in the Duke of Wellington.

One of the most romantic men in the country was Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. After the battle of Waterloo it was inevitable that he should be the country’s hero. Who had rid them of the enemy Napoleon, the villain who had cast a shadow over Europe for so long? The answer was Wellington. Nelson had beaten the Corsican at Trafalgar but he was still able to plague Europe for ten long years after that. But with Waterloo came the eclipse of the arrogant conqueror. Everyone must admire Wellington if he were the most ill-favoured man in England. But he was not. Tall and spare of figure, with aquiline nose and keen grey eyes, always immaculately dressed, he was not only handsome but, also romantic.

He was married, and the story was that he had married out of chivalry. As a young man he had fallen in love and the lady of his choice, Kitty Pakenham, had declined his offer of marriage at which he had gone away and devoted himself to his career in the Army. When he had gone Kitty regretted having let him go and decided to mourn her loss for the rest of her life. Some years later the news of this reached him and being the romantic man of chivalry he wrote to her and asked her to marry him.

‘I have been a victim of the smallpox,’ she wrote. ‘I am very different from the girl you wished to marry. I have lost my looks and you would be shocked if you saw me. Do you still wish to marry me?’

There was only one reply a chivalrous man could make and he made it. It was not for her beauty alone that he had wanted to marry her. So they were married and he was soon regretting his impulsive action; and when the war was over and he came into politics and made the acquaintance of the fascinating Mrs Arbuthnot he was more in the latter’s company than that of his Duchess. But so discreet was he that although it was considered appropriate when inviting the Duke to invite Mrs Arbuthnot too and to place them side by side at dinner, no one was absolutely certain whether or not she was his mistress.

There was Mr Arbuthnot, that very respectable Tory gentleman, who was one of the Duke’s greatest friends, and surely this could not have been the case if the Duke had taken his wife?

Of course Mr Arbuthnot was years older than his beautiful wife; and she was a strikingly intelligent and intellectual woman. Mr Arbuthnot himself said that ministers discussed State affairs before her – not only because they could trust her discretion but because she often had valuable advice to offer.

So it was with the Duke. He could talk to Mrs Arbuthnot; he enjoyed her company as he could no one else’s; and the poor doting Duchess, who had been married for chivalry, must accept this and make the best of it. She was half blind in any case and declared often that she could not see her husband’s ‘precious’ face as clearly as she would like. She had her sons whom she adored and who treated her without respect, obliging her to fetch and carry for them and generally making a slave of her. But all this she accepted as she did the Duke’s attitude towards her, for he, accustomed to commanding an army, liked to issue orders as to how the house was to be run and the guests entertained.

It was to Mrs Arbuthnot he turned when he was selected as Prime Minister.

She was delighted, of course, and certain of his success.

‘A Ministry with Wellington and Robert Peel as its leading lights,’ she cried, ‘is certain to be a great one.’

William was delighted at the appointment of Wellington.

‘A great hero,’ he told Adelaide. ‘I have always admired him – almost as much as I did my dear friend and colleague, Nelson. The talks we had! There was a man! One of the greatest England has ever known. I was at his wedding. Ah, he thought he’d done a very fine thing when he married Frances Nesbit. It was one of the few mistakes he ever made.’

‘He was openly unfaithful to her,’ said Adelaide.

‘Ah, but with a fellow like Nelson you have to make allowances. He was not a promiscuous man. And Lady Hamilton was a fascinating woman … fascinating! The greatest sailor … and Wellington the greatest soldier! Mind you, I never thought the Army was so important to the country as the Navy.’

‘Spoken like a sailor,’ said Adelaide with a smile.

‘A great fellow for reforms, Nelson. He was one of the few commanding officers who spared a thought for the men. He used to say, “Look after the men and they’ll look after England.” It’s true – and by God, Adelaide, that’s what I intend to do. Now I think promotion should be given by merit. There is too much command given through influence. Nelson was against it. He would talk for hours about the disaster that sort of thing had brought to the Navy. I want to pension off some of the older men so that I can have a chance of bringing the younger ones forward. That’s how it has to be. This means money but I shall put the plan before the Treasury.’

‘I am sure,’ said Adelaide, ‘that you are going to reform the Navy.’

William was delighted. He saw himself as the great reformer.

Admiral Sir George Cockburn was scarlet with rage.

‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘Our Lord High Admiral going over our heads to the Treasury. Promising pensions without consulting the committee! What does he imagine he is? Dictator of the Navy? Why does he think the Board has been set up? To take orders from him?’

The Board agreed with Sir George.

‘Doesn’t he know why this office has been created? It’s to give him some standing in case – which God forbid – he should inherit the throne! Reviewing the Navy in the Royal Sovereign! Harmless in its way but unnecessary expense. But when he sets up his own rules and attempts to carry them out without referring to the Board, that, Gentlemen, is something we cannot endure. Now he has set up a commission on gunnery – about which we have not been consulted. I think we have him here. He has far exceeded his power. I shall have to inform him of this and humbly – I suppose – beg His Royal Highness to toe the line.’

Sir George was not a humble man. He was a sailor and accustomed to speaking his mind.

‘The fellow’s crazy,’ he said. ‘Ever since the death of the Duke of York the possibility of his own position has gone to his head. Gentlemen, it is agreed that I write to the Lord High Admiral and convey to him the displeasure of the Board and inform him that he must desist from taking any action of importance to the Navy without consulting it?’

This was unanimously agreed.

The fact that William was at loggerheads with the Board of Admiralty was soon common knowledge.

The Duke of Cumberland, meeting Sir George Cockburn, casually alluded to the matter.

‘Trouble with my brother William, I hear?’

‘His Highness is over zealous,’ said Sir George with a rare caution.

‘Oh, you call it that. I have heard it said that William is just a little mad.’

Sir George relaxed. ‘It might seem so from his actions.’

‘We have to watch William,’ said the Duke confidentially. ‘We have often said – in the family – that we feared he might go the way of his father.’

Sir George was pleased. By God, he thought, Cumberland is right. And we don’t want a madman running the Navy … or trying to.

When William received Sir George’s letter he was furious.

‘Upstart!’ he cried, forgetting Sir George’s long record. ‘Who the hell does he think he’s ordering? I’ll have him know that the Lord High Admiral is not taking orders from him!’

He hoisted his flag on the Royal Sovereign and set off along the coast to continue his grand tour which had been interrupted by the death of Prime Minister Canning; and in this again he was defying rules, for he should have asked the Board’s permission before taking the Royal Sovereign.

Once again there came a letter of protest from Sir George.

Now the battle had begun in earnest.

He rapped Sir George across the knuckles in a manner which the Admiral found intolerable.

Your letter does not give me displeasure but concern to see one I had

kept

when appointed to this situation of Lord High Admiral constantly opposing what I consider good for the King’s service.

It was too much to be borne. Here was this fool – for Sir George could call him nothing else – who had been given this office simply because he was the heir apparent, believing that he could come in and take command over experienced sailors. Now he had had the temerity and insolence to tell Sir George Cockburn that he had allowed him to remain, as though he, occupying the sinecure – for it was nothing else – of Lord High Admiral had control over all the British Navy!

He was indeed a madman.

There was only one action to be taken. Sir George must appeal to the Prime Minister, with whom William was already in correspondence demanding the dismissal of Sir George Cockburn. He wished, he said, that Rear-Admiral the Honourable Sir Charles Paget be appointed in his place.

There was nothing Wellington could do but lay this letter before the King, who was extremely irritated by his brother’s folly.

It was inevitable that Cumberland should be at hand when the letter arrived. He had been expecting it. He believed that his pointed observations towards Cockburn had strengthened him in his determination to stand no nonsense from William – not that he would not have stood firm in any case; but the fact that one of the royal brothers believed William to be suffering from a touch of the late King’s malady was added support.

William could not have played better into Cumberland’s hands. But then, it was because of William’s nature that the idea had come to deal with him in this manner.

‘You look weary, George,’ said Cumberland. ‘Disturbing news?’

‘It’s William.’ The King passed the Duke of Wellington’s letter to his brother.

‘Conflict between Sir George and our Lord High Admiral, eh?’

‘William has no sense,’ said the King.

‘A very true statement, alas.’

‘Sometimes I wonder what he’ll do next.’

‘What’s going to happen about this?’

‘I hope Wellington will be able to sort it out. William can be stubborn as a mule. I shall have to write to him and explain, I suppose. Oh, what a bore.’

‘And so unnecessary when there are important State matters with which to concern yourself.’

‘He’s a good fellow, William. He just has a genius for being ridiculous. It was always the same. That long affair with Dorothy Jordan meant that she kept him in order; and now Adelaide does much for him. He is lucky with his women.’

The King sighed – ready to begin an account of his own misfortunes in that direction. But Cumberland was not interested in that. This affair between William and Sir George Cockburn was not over yet. It must become common knowledge. It must be discussed in public. The press would use it, of course. He must make sure that they did so in the correct way.

William is going mad, that was the theme. Who but a man who was not quite balanced would behave as he did? People only had to remember his ridiculous behaviour in the past; his attempts to get married; his long, rambling speeches in the House of Lords; and now he believed, because some high order had been pinned on him, that he could command the dismissal of George Cockburn, the King’s own Privy Councillor, himself appointed to give advice to the Lord High Admiral.

Like the late King, William was capable of the wildest actions.

There were new stakes in the betting clubs. They concerned the Duke of Clarence.

What were the odds against his being in a strait-jacket before George’s reign was over?

And then … the little Princess Victoria.

Yes, thought the Duke of Cumberland sourly, and then the Princess Victoria.

Those were days of speculation.

The King was not expected to live, but he had been in that state for several years. He had the constitution of an ox, it was said. No other man could have endured all the dosing and bleeding he had suffered and still be alive. He had led a life of indulgence; he had eaten unwisely and drunk too much; he had kept late hours; he had burdened himself with debts and they must have caused him anxiety; his adventures with women were notorious. He had married Maria Fitzherbert morganatically and his marriage with Queen Caroline had been the most extraordinary in the life of British royalty. He ought to have died years ago – but he still lived on, near death one day and the next in excited consultation with architects planning improvements to Carlton House and the Pavilion, Buckingham House and Windsor Castle, in addition to which he was conferring with Nash whose Regent Street, Carlton House Terrace and terraces of Regent’s Park he declared to be some of the finest architecture in the world.

But in spite of all this – he could not live long.

And then what?

The rumours persisted that if George should die William would go completely off his head.

He was behaving oddly now. There was all this controversy with the Prime Minister over his office of Lord High Admiral. The grave for George; the strait-jacket for William.

And Victoria? The child was rarely seen in public.

Someone had heard from a friend who knew someone in the Duke of Cumberland’s household who had said that the Princess Victoria was a very delicate child. She had a disease of the bones which would not allow her to stand and she was obviously destined for an early grave. Perhaps even before George found a haven in the tomb and William was constricted in his strait-jacket the nation would be mourning the death of little Victoria.

The next in line was the Duke of Cumberland – Ernest with one eye and the scarred face. Battle wounds it was true; but he did have an evil reputation. It would be a long time before people forgot the Sellic case. And there was some dark history connected with the Duchess.

Still, he was a strong man; and what the country needed was a strong man.

In the clubs bets were being taken. There seemed to be a fairly even chance that the next King of England would be King Ernest.

John Conroy wanted to speak to the Duchess of Kent confidentially.

She received him graciously; she was very fond of him, because, she assured herself, a woman needed a man whom she could trust.

He was carrying a newspaper and she saw from his expression that he was disturbed.

‘I want Your Highness to read this,’ he said, ‘and tell me what you think of it.’

She read it. It was an account of Victoria’s weakness. The disease of the bones from which she suffered prevented her from walking. She suffered from other ailments and there was great anxiety for her health in Kensington Palace.

‘But this is a monstrous lie!’ cried the Duchess.

‘Of course it is, Your Highness. But there is a purpose behind it.’

‘Who could find such satisfaction in pretending that a healthy child is an invalid?’

‘Those who want her out of the way.’

The Duchess stood up, her curls quivering, her hands clasped to her buxom bosom. But she had grown pale. Her Victoria in danger!

‘Want … her … out of the way!’ she repeated.

‘I think the Duke of Cumberland has very decided views as to who should inherit the throne.’

‘It is no use his having views. He cannot meddle with the succession.’

‘Not by constitutional means.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘By saying Victoria is a weakling he may have some plan in view.’

‘How do we know he has said this?’

‘Madam, this is a matter of the utmost importance. That child who is so dear to us both may well be in acute danger.’

The Duchess’s expression was bewildered. ‘But I don’t understand.’

‘We have to conjecture, Madam. We have to be a step ahead of our enemies. We may be wrong, but we have to consider all possibilities. There have been rumours that the Duke of Clarence is going off his head. It may well be that they have been started by the Duke of Cumberland with the hope that he will be set aside.’

‘Well?’ said the Duchess.

‘The Princess Victoria would still stand in the way of … the Duke of Cumberland and his son.’

‘You terrify me.’

‘Madam, I feel it is necessary to do so.’

‘What do you think he plans for Victoria?’

‘How can I say? But someone is telling lies about her. Preparing the people to accept … something.’

‘They are such foolish lies. One only has to look at her to see how healthy she is.’

‘At the moment … yes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I cannot say. There may be some plot. Don’t forget the Duke’s valet was found in bed with his throat cut. It was said to be suicide.’

‘But … I cannot believe that here … in Kensington Palace … my own child is in danger.’

‘We do not know, Madam. But this could be a warning.’

‘What do you suggest we do?’

‘The first thing is to show these rumours to be lies. The Princess must not be shut away from the public view. She must be seen to walk perfectly, to be in good health. That is the best way of foiling the devil … or devils … who may be working against us.’

‘I will take her for a walk myself … this very day. I shall not let her out of my sight. She shall be guarded. I shall tell Lehzen right away. We must be watchful. Oh dear, how you have alarmed me!’

‘I am glad, because although I hope that my zeal for your welfare and that of the Princess may have let my imagination run away with me, at least there are these lying rumours to show us that something sinister may well be afoot.’

‘I shall send for Fräulein Lehzen at once. I shall take her into my confidence. The Princess Victoria is to be watched night and day.’

Victoria walked with her mother out of the gates of Kensington Palace.

‘Oh, Mamma, are we really going into the park?’

‘It is time you appeared now and then in public.’

‘Oh yes, Mamma. I enjoy it.’

They walked as far as the Duke of Wellington’s house. Now and then someone called out: ‘God bless the little Princess!’ Which greeting Victoria prettily acknowledged.

She enjoyed it and told her mother so.

‘I am glad, because from now on we shall be taking walks such as this.’

‘It is pleasant to see something of the people,’ said Victoria.

‘And very pleasant that they should see you,’ retorted the Duchess.

She was delighted when Conroy brought a paper to her in which Victoria was mentioned. The little Princess had at last come out into the open. She appeared to be a healthy young person and the rumours about shaky legs were clearly false. The implication was that in future the public would like to see more of Victoria.

Children always had the power to win public approval quite effortlessly and when they were as fresh, charming and healthy as the Princess Victoria, it was a pity to keep them shut away.

‘I am sure someone is feeling a little put out by this,’ said Conroy.

‘How grateful I am for your care, my dear friend,’ said the Duchess tenderly. And added fearfully: ‘But we must be watchful. No harm must come to Victoria.’

William was astounded.

‘It seems,’ he told Adelaide, ‘that Wellington is on that fool Cockburn’s side. Look at this. Read it. He says he’s sure I am too well acquainted with military discipline not to know that I can’t hoist the flag without the consent of the Admiralty Board. He thinks the differences between myself and Cockburn should be settled and forgotten because they are causing annoyance to His Majesty. I shall write to him at once and tell him that I don’t agree.’

Adelaide tried to soothe him. ‘William, perhaps it would be better if you did forget this affair.’

‘And allow Cockburn to insult me?’

‘It seems that he thinks you have insulted him.’

‘Who the hell does he think he is? I happen to be the Lord High Admiral and the heir apparent to the throne. Is this the way to treat his future King?’

‘Oh, William, please do not talk of that. With the King still with us …’

‘He won’t be for long and then what is Master Cockburn going to say, eh? I’m surprised at Wellington. I thought he would be on my side.’

A further communication had arrived. This time it was signed by every member of the Board. If Sir George was asked to resign, it stated, they would resign too … in a body.

‘Let them,’ cried William. ‘We can manage very well without them.’

He left Adelaide to return to the Royal Sovereign to continue his tour. He would meet her at his next port of call. He was taking no notice of Wellington’s warning that he had no right to go to sea in this way without the Board’s consent.

Wellington went to the King.

He was very disturbed, he said. The Lord High Admiral was acting in a very strange way and the Admiralty Board had threatened to resign in a body. Something would have to be done and as the Duke of Clarence seemed disinclined to listen to the Prime Minister he must appeal to a higher authority. Would His Majesty consider letting his brother know what a serious position he had put himself in?

The King sighed. Really William was a fool. Didn’t he realize how he was making himself ridiculous? But when had William ever understood how foolish he looked? Of course, he was pleasing quite a number of the junior officers by boasting of the better conditions he proposed for the Navy and talking of giving promotion where it was deserved. But he was going to disrupt the entire service in bringing about his reforms, which in any case were going to be expensive in some cases and this would mean heavier taxation – a subject the public was not very happy about at the moment.

‘Your Majesty will write to the Duke of Clarence?’ asked Wellington.

The King said that he could see that it would be necessary for him to perform this unpleasant duty.

William! he thought when he was alone. What a stubborn fellow he could be! But he was fond of him all the same; he and his brothers had at least been devoted to each other – some more than others. Frederick … ah, how he regretted the loss of his favourite brother! But Ernest was always with him now. Secretly he could not be very fond of Ernest; there was a barrier between them which the King was too tired to think about. He couldn’t see very well and sometimes when he looked at the blur which was Ernest’s face it seemed quite malevolent. This was merely due to his loss of an eye and the scars, and one must remember that these were worthy wounds won in battle.

But there was something strange about Ernest. He implied that he had come to stay whether the King wanted him or not.

‘Ah, we know too much about each other, eh, George, not to work together.’

What a cryptic remark for one brother to make to another. To what was he referring? What did Ernest know of George? That he was in truth married to Maria Fitzherbert? It was common knowledge – or was it? There had been some to doubt it. But his affairs had always been so public; it had been impossible for the Prince of Wales or the Prince Regent to do anything without having the full glare of publicity turned on him.

What secrets did Ernest have which he would not wish betrayed?

Little secrets of the private apartments; the carefully applied rouge, the fear of corseting which was becoming too painful to be endured. The humiliating results of undignified illness. Were those the secrets? It might well be, for he would rather the public heard of his secret marriage than some of the tricks it was necessary to perform to make an old man presentable.

No! He was imagining it. It was Ernest’s way of talking. He should be grateful for Ernest’s advice … Ernest’s help. And his Duchess was a fascinating woman. In her way she was a little alarming too. The little hints that were dropped, the innuendo which might have had nothing behind it at all. She was a damned attractive woman, though the antithesis of Maria.

Ah, Maria! He grew tearful at the thought. Where are you now? Living in Brighton. Sometimes in London. Why are you not here to keep these people from me? How different everything would be if you were.

What had made his thoughts run on in this melancholy way?

It was William. He had to write to William and explain that he would have to behave. William was a good fellow, an affectionate brother. It was true that at times he seemed to be waiting for the King’s death so that he could step into his shoes but who could blame him? Poor William, who had always made such a fool of himself. Naturally he wanted to be King.

He sighed and took up his pen.

My dear William,

My friend, the Duke of Wellington, as my first minister, has considered it his duty to lay before me the whole of the correspondence which has taken place with you upon the subject relating to yourself and Sir George Cockburn. It is with feelings of the deepest regret that I observe the embarrassing position in which you have placed yourself. You are in error from the beginning to the end. This is not a matter of opinion but of positive fact …

It was true. William must be made to see this. If he were ever King of the Realm he would have to learn how far he could go in his treatment of men in high positions. Yet he could not keep an affectionate note from creeping in. He did not love William any the less because he was a fool.

You must not forget, my dear William, that Sir George Cockburn is the King’s Privy Councillor, and so made by the King to advise the Lord High Admiral …’

He wrote on, trying to explain even more clearly, hoping William would accept the fact that he had erred and make some apology to Sir George Cockburn who was, according to Wellington, exceedingly put out.

Am I to be called upon to dismiss the most useful and perhaps the most important naval officer in my service for conscientiously acting up to the letter and spirit of his oath and duty?

Poor William, he would think he was very harshly treated. He would say: ‘My own brother is against me.’ The King wanted William to understand that he wished to help him, that he would have preferred to be on his side; but William must see reason.

… I love you most truly as you know and no one would do more or go further to protect and meet your feelings; but on the present occasion I have no alternative. You must give way and listen to the affection of your best friend and most attached brother.

G.R.

The King sighed. The little effort of writing had wearied him considerably. And when he thought of all the letters he had written in the past it seemed astonishing that such a short epistle could have this effect on him. Letters! he thought, and remembered those he had written to Perdita Robinson and which had cost a small fortune to retrieve; and all those he had poured out to Maria when he was entreating her to come to him.

And there he was back to Maria. It seemed that everything he did led back to her – even William’s affair with George Cockburn.

When William received his brother’s letter he was truly dismayed.

It was delivered to him when he came to port where Adelaide was waiting for him.

‘Read this,’ he cried. ‘What nonsense! That fool George Cockburn the King’s most useful and important naval officer! How could that be? That conceited jackanapes … “the King’s most” … Upon my word, I never heard such rubbish.’

Adelaide said quietly: ‘William, remember those are the King’s words.’

‘King’s words or not they’re nonsense.’

‘Please, William.’

‘What do they expect me to do, eh?’

‘Couldn’t you make friends with Sir George and then perhaps gradually introduce all the reforms you have in mind?’

He looked at her steadily. She was a clever little woman, his Adelaide. No one would think it. She was so quiet, often one would think she hadn’t a thought that didn’t concern the children. But it wasn’t so. There was a lot of deep thought going on behind that plain little face.

‘That fool Cockburn would be completely outwitted.’

‘I’m sure he would. And you have to consider the King’s letter.’

‘I’m surprised Wellington went to the King. It wasn’t a matter for my brother at all.’

‘But now that he has gone to the King and you have this letter, it will be necessary to carry out your brother’s wishes.’

‘Yes,’ said William reluctantly. ‘I’ll write to Cockburn and tell him that if he retracts I’ll forget all about my orders to dismiss him. He may stay in his post if he’ll retract all he’s said and done so far. That’s all I ask.’

‘But …’ began Adelaide; but William tweaked her ear.

‘Don’t you give it another thought. I shall say to him: “Sir George, we will try to work together. I have plans for the Navy. They are excellent plans. As my late lamented friend Lord Nelson said to me …”’

William was off on one of his long speeches; he stood rocking on his heels and Adelaide was sure he saw a great assembly before him as he talked; he certainly spoke as though he were addressing a large gathering.

But he did not understand.

Adelaide sighed. They were back where they started.

How right she was! Sir George Cockburn’s reply to William’s magnanimous offer was that he could in no circumstances retract. He would stand by all he had said and done and if His Royal Highness acted in any way similar he would continue to raise his voice in protest.

‘There, you see,’ cried William. ‘There is no placating that man.’

But the Duke of Wellington was determined that there should be peace between the two antagonists and arranged a meeting at the Admiralty. There he pointed out how damaging it was to the Navy and the country to continue in such a dispute. So eloquently did he talk that at the close of the interview William, who was always ready to be moved by patriotism, was prepared to shake hands with Sir George and let bygones be bygones.

The Duke trusted that His Royal Highness would in future remember that while it was no doubt an excellent exercise to visit the various ports with his squadron of ships, these exercises must have the approbation of the Admiralty Board – which he was certain that Board, under the most excellent command of Sir George Cockburn, would not withhold.

There must be friendship within the service. War was to be practised among enemies only and amity must prevail.

That, thought Wellington, was an end of the matter; but he deplored Canning’s lack of foresight in bestowing the office of Lord High Admiral on the Duke of Clarence.

William was gleeful. ‘Such a bother,’ he said to Adelaide. ‘All a matter of form, of course. That fellow Cockburn has really been put in his place. He’ll know better than to interfere again.’

Adelaide looked dismayed. ‘But you have agreed to settle your differences.’

‘My dear Adelaide, the heir apparent does not make bargains with naval officers.’

He was growing excitable again. Sometimes she feared where these moods would end. He had always been subject to them but since the death of Frederick they had increased alarmingly. He must calm himself; he must stop talking so freely. Otherwise she could not imagine what would happen.

She could not dissuade him from setting sail once more and on a warm July day he sailed out of Plymouth Hoe on the Royal Sovereign dreaming of Drake going forth to fight the Armada, George Cockburn and the Admiralty Board taking the place of the Spaniards in his mind. It was the same thing, he reasoned. He was defending freedom just as Drake had.

What a sight with Sovereign at the head of the accompanying squadron! The Royal Sovereign! What an apt name for his ship! He would soon be the Royal Sovereign himself.

With him watching the receding land was his eldest son, George. George was a bit of a rebel himself and had applauded his father’s tussle with the Admiralty. George, like the rest of the family, was very much looking forward to the day when his father would be King, for there could be no more indulgent parent in the world.

‘This is the life,’ cried William. ‘The fresh sea breezes in your face and a rolling deck beneath your feet. My only regret is that your stepmother is not with us.’

It was a happy ship – the Royal Sovereign. William was the most thoughtful of commanders; and there was not a man on board who did not know that they were defying the Admiralty and it was exciting to take part in the famous quarrel.

Wellington called a Cabinet meeting. The Lord High Admiral was on the High Seas. For what purpose? Was it some secret mission? Why was Major George FitzClarence present? Who had authorized the mission?

The Prime Minister called on the King, who was suffering from one of his more painful lapses and was unable to leave his bed.

‘In spite of everything he has gone off again?’ cried the King.

‘I fear so, Sir.’

‘He must be recalled at once. It must be made clear to him that if he will not obey the laws of the country he will be dismissed.’

That was what Wellington needed.

‘Leave this to me, Sir.’

The correspondence had started again. William returned like a conqueror in the Royal Sovereign; it had been an exhilarating trip – he and George together and his ship’s company delighting to serve under him; he had forgotten all about exacting people at home. But when he came into port again, there were letters and messages awaiting him.

The most important was from the King himself. He deplored his brother’s conduct. It might well be that he had a very short time to live and William would then be his successor. William must remember that the first duty of a king to his country was to obey the laws laid down by the Parliament. No king – or any other man – could be a law unto himself.

When he read this letter William saw that there was only one thing he could do.

He resigned the office of Lord High Admiral.