Victoria in the Wings

Cumberland

IN HER BED in the Berlin mansion which she shared with her husband Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, fifth son of King George III, Frederica, the Duchess, was resting. She had taken to rising late since the birth of her still-born daughter, for the fact was that she was no longer very young. It was thirty-nine years since she had been born in her father’s dukedom of Mecklenburg-Strelitz; but her vitality, her flamboyant good looks and a certain magnetism which she had possessed since a young girl made her – and all about her – forget her age. She would be the fascinating Frederica until she died.

She stretched luxuriously. Life was good. She was in love with the man she had married – her third husband – and that seemed to her not only an idyllic but also a rather comical situation. She, Frederica of the lurid reputation, and Ernest, the wicked Duke of Cumberland, the sinister member of the British royal family who had been suspected of most sins – as she had herself – had met, and found their match.

She laughed every time she thought of it; and so did Ernest.

She was particularly pensive this morning and was thinking of her old Aunt Charlotte, Queen of England, who, one would have thought, would have been delighted to accept her niece as her daughter-in-law. Not so old Charlotte. Charlotte did not approve of her niece’s reputation, she would not receive her at Court, and if it had been possible she would have stopped the marriage.

Poor old Charlotte! laughed Frederica. Surely one of the most unattractive women in the world. Didn’t they always see evil in those members of their sex who possessed the charms they lacked!

Oh God, she thought. I wish Louise were here.

If Louise, sister and friend who had scarcely been parted from her until her death, could be with her now she would ask nothing more of life. In moments of happiness she would remember Louise. She would see herself sitting at her sister’s bedside at the last, talking to her, trying to divert her mind from pain, recalling the early days of their triumphs when they had been fêted and courted and had shocked the Court of Berlin by being the first to dance the waltz there.

Louise, Queen of Prussia, had borne ten children and she had only been thirty-four when she died. They ask too much of us, thought Frederica angrily. We are bred to breed. Ten children and only thirty-four! Beautiful Louise – born only to breed and to die doing it!

No wonder she felt angry.

But before all that how wonderful life had been in Grandmamma’s house in Hesse Darmstadt, where Grandmamma was the Landgravine. They had gone there because their stepmother had died giving birth to little Charles. Their mother had died two years before, also in childbed, and the child had died with her.

Charlotte, their eldest sister, had married the Duke of Hildburghausen, so she did not accompany the younger ones to Grandmamma Landgravine. There were just Thérèse, Louise, Frederica, George – who was a year younger than Frederica – and now stepbrother baby Charles.

They were happy carefree days which had perhaps helped to make her what she was. The Landgravine was a clever woman. She wanted the children to be happy so she gave them a certain amount of freedom, but at the same time she introduced them to music and the arts and saw that they were endowed with all the social graces. Recognizing the outstanding beauty of the girls, she decided that as they grew older no opportunities should be missed. Thérèse immediately found a princely husband, and the Landgravine then turned her attention to Louise and Frederica.

Life went on gaily, full of trivial excitements, until the carefree existence was brought to a sudden halt. Revolution had crippled France and from the ruins had risen the Corsican adventurer whose dream was to dominate Europe. The Landgravine was alert as each day came news of Napoleon’s successes and every hour brought his invading armies to their home.

It was unsafe, the Landgravine decided; and the girls were sent off to their sister Charlotte.

They were young and lively and the war seemed far away from lovely Hildburghausen in the sweet-smelling pine forest. Charlotte gave balls and banquets to launch her sisters whose beauty had become a legend; Louise and Frederica were the two loveliest girls in Germany, it was said; and they were clearly looking for husbands.

How happy they had been – she and Louise! Everywhere they went they were together. They spoke of each other as one person. ‘Louise and I do this.’ ‘Frederica and I think that.’ They had never thought in those days that separation must inevitably come. Their brother George, who was as gay and vivacious as his sisters, was their staunch ally; he adored them and they him; but in the case of Louise and Frederica they were as one.

Snatches of conversation came back to Frederica now as she lay in bed in Berlin. ‘But, dearest Freddi, when we marry we shall have to part.’ ‘Then I won’t marry. I’ll stay with you! I’ll be your companion. Your dresser. Your lady-in-waiting. I’d rather be with you than marry a King.’ ‘Always so wild,’ chided Louise. ‘If they decided you’d marry, you’d have to. But when I marry I shall invite you to stay with me and you must invite me to stay with you.’ ‘I don’t want to be a guest in your house, Louise. I want to belong.’

And then came that night in Frankfurt through which they had passed on their way home with the Landgravine who had come to collect them from Hildburghausen; there was great excitement because the King of Prussia with his two sons was in the town and it would be unthinkable for two such highly-born ladies not to pay their respects to the monarch. Besides, with him were his two unmarried sons.

The inevitable happened. Or had it been planned? The sons of the King of Prussia needed brides; and the Princesses of Mecklenburg-Strelitz needed husbands.

After that first meeting, the King told the Landgravine that her granddaughters were as beautiful as angels, and that his sons had fallen in love with them at first sight.

Although, thought Frederica ironically, it was not clear with whom the Crown Prince had fallen in love – herself or Louise. As for his brother Prince Louis, he was immersed in his own private love affair, and was unimpressed by either of the beautiful girls who were paraded for his approval.

He had told her afterwards, when they were married, that he knew he had to take one of them and it hadn’t mattered to him a jot which, and the Crown Prince felt the same but as he had to make a choice he took Louise, who talked less and apart from the fact that her neck was too short which gave her a humped look, was quite beautiful.

But then Louis had disliked her because she had been a necessity. But not more than she disliked him, of course. And if Louise’s neck was a little short it was her only imperfection and was easy to disguise by the lovely gauzy draperies she affected.

But the sisters were ecstatically happy because if they married the brothers they would live at the same Court and their fears of separation were groundless. For the rest of their lives they would continue to say: ‘Louise and I think this.’ ‘Frederica and I do that.’

Who cared for husbands? Louise did a little. But that was Louise, gentle, sentimental, and when she started bearing his children she felt a strong affection for the Crown Prince and he for her. Frederica was different. She was more proud, more eager to go her own way and not so docile as Louise. Louis had done his duty by marrying her; he had got her with child; his duty was completed until the time came to produce another child so he could return to his mistress.

Let him. What did she care? She could dance, amuse herself, surround herself with admirers.

I am, she thought, picking up a mirror from the table beside her bed, the kind of woman about whom there will always be scandal – even now.

What had she cared? She had danced through the night, made assignations with men; lived wildly and feverishly, but the happiest times were when she was alone with Louise, while Louise was waiting for a child to be born; then they were at peace, listening to music or making it themselves, talking of the children, laughing over the old days.

She had her beautiful baby, Frederick William Louis, and she loved him; but she had never been a domesticated woman. It might be different now, she believed. She was mature where she had been young, serious where she had been lighthearted; she loved one man, whereas in those butterfly days she had been humiliated by her husband’s indifference and perhaps determined to prove that he was the only man who did not find her attractive.

While awaiting the birth of her daughter, Frederica Wilhelmina Louise, she and Louise had lived their quiet completely satisfying life together; but the time came when she was rejoined by her husband, and soon after that he died. It was said to be a fever, but the whisperings had begun then. Everyone knew that she disliked him; they were unfaithful to each other; and he was so young to die. What was this fever? What had caused it? No one could be sure.

She was a widow of nineteen with two babies and her reputation for frivolity had changed a little. There was a sinister tinge to it.

She laughed thinking of it. What had she cared. She would rather be thought a wicked woman than a fool. Louis had treated her shamefully – and Louis had died. Perhaps that would be remembered if anyone else decided to treat her badly.

It was not to be expected that she would remain unmarried; and if a husband was found for her she might have to leave the Court of Berlin.

‘I won’t do that,’ she had declared.

But she knew they would force her to it.

Her family was very proud of its connections with the Court of England, which was natural when one compared little Mecklenburg-Strelitz with that great country. All her life she had heard references to ‘your Aunt, Queen Charlotte of England’. It was a legend in the family – the story of how one day news had come to her grandfather that his daughter the Princess Charlotte was sought in marriage by King George III.

And that same Charlotte had many sons and one of these, Adolphus, the Duke of Cambridge, was four years older than Frederica, entirely eligible, and of course the English royal family could have no objection to his marriage with a niece of the Queen.

Adolphus came to Berlin. No one could dislike Adolphus; he was too mild and pleasant. Dull, was Frederica’s comment. And if I married him I should have to leave Louise.

She talked the matter over with Louise. ‘We’d be parted,’ admitted Louise, ‘and that would make us most unhappy. But you have to marry, Freddi, and Adolphus is very kind.’

‘I wonder what it’s like at the English Court with that old legend Aunt Charlotte in command.’

‘There is a king, you know. And the Prince of Wales is said to be the most exciting Prince in Europe.’

‘Ah, the Prince of Wales! Why didn’t they offer me him instead of Adolphus?’

‘Adolphus will be good to you.’

‘And what of us?’

‘You must ask him to bring you here often. Perhaps you could settle here. Why not? He could live in Hanover. They might give him a position there.’

‘That’s true. I see I could do worse than Adolphus.’

And so she had become betrothed to him, and was becoming moderately reconciled to marriage when she met Frederick William, Prince of Solms-Braunfels, a Captain of the King’s Bodyguard, who had seemed at that time devastatingly attractive. Was it because he was so different from Adolphus – gay and dashing and determined to seduce her?

‘But I am betrothed to the Duke of Cambridge,’ she protested.

‘Do you think I should allow that young man to stand in my way?’ demanded Frederick William of Solms-Braunfels.

Frederick William certainly had a way with him, and perhaps she was in rebellion against those who would choose her husband for her, and against the legend of Aunt Charlotte.

It was not enough to make her his mistress. That was a secret affair. He wanted to flout the Duke of Cambridge, to throw his defiance at the English Duke; he wanted the world to know that the beautiful Frederica was so enamoured of her bold captain that she would turn from mighty England to little Solms-Braunfels. And she had believed it was due to his passion for her! She married him secretly, and made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

She shuddered even now to recall the storm that arose when it was discovered that she had married. She had brought about a coolness between England and Prussia because she had jilted a son of the King of England; she had married unsuitably and behaved in a manner which could only bring discredit to herself and the family.

She did not want to think of the years that had followed when she learned slowly and bitterly what a fool she had been. Being banished from the Court meant that she had lost Louise, and Frederick William was soon showing himself for what he was – a bully even capable of physical violence towards her. What unhappiness for herself and for Louise! And of course there was the war. Nowhere was safe from Napoleon’s troops; and soon she was pregnant and her daughter was born. She called the child Louise – which seemed some consolation.

She could not bear to think of that time, although there was reconciliation and she and Louise were allowed to be together again. But the disaster of war threatened continually and when peace came Louise was about to bear her tenth child; and soon after that …

No, she would not think of it. It was over. She now had Ernest and although they had lost their first child there would be others.

She had sat by Louise’s bed; she was the one who was with her to the end. She could feel the pain in her heart now. ‘Louise, Louise, we were to have been together for the rest of our lives. And now you are leaving me.’

But Louise had gone and she had been alone in a world of hostility, dominated by a husband whom she had come to hate; but she was not the woman to sit down and cry over her troubles. Instead she snapped her fingers at Fate and sought a way out of them. She had lost Louise, the one she loved best in the world, and she was left with a husband whom she had grown to hate. She took one lover, two lovers. Her reputation was becoming tarnished – even worse, for there were many who remembered what had happened to her first husband; but she did not care.

And then she met Ernest.

What was there to attract her so strongly in the brother of that Adolphus whom she had so shamelessly jilted? He was scarcely handsome – at least he was not to others; but to her there was something completely fascinating in his somewhat sinister face. He had lost an eye at the battle of Tournay and his expression was sardonic. One could believe the stories that were told of him. His reputation matched her own. He was said to have murdered his valet who discovering his master in bed with his wife had attacked him with the Duke’s own sword. Ernest’s retaliation – so it was said – was to cut the valet’s throat. Was Ernest a murderer? It was a question which was constantly asked.

It was said of Ernest that there was no vice which he had not practised and looking at him one could believe this. He had lived as dangerously as she had herself; she was immediately attracted by him and he by her. They were of a kind – different from other people. They took what they wanted from life and were prepared to pay for it.

A new excitement had come into her life such as no man had ever given her before. It was inevitable that they should become lovers. Inevitable too that the Prince of Solms-Braunfels should discover this. How indignant unfaithful husbands could be when they learned that their wives were playing the same game! This amused her; she laughed at him.

‘I will divorce you,’ he had cried.

‘Nothing would please me more,’ she retorted.

‘Do you realize you will be an outcast in Europe?’

‘I realize that I shall be free of you, which gives me so much pleasure that I can think of nothing else.’

In a fury he set divorce proceedings in motion; he produced evidence of her adultery; she did not deny it and the divorce was granted.

Immediately afterwards he died … mysteriously.

She laughed now remembering the storm. To have one husband who had died of an unidentifiable fever was scandalous enough, but when a second did the same, then conjecture must become a certainty.

‘How strange that he should die at that time,’ it was said.

‘Of course she had her divorce but it would have been awkward having him alive if she planned to marry again. Did she arrange for him to die?’

‘Did I?’ she asked of Ernest. ‘You were suspected of murder once, my love. From the moment I met you I wanted to share our experiences. I had to be your equal, you know.’

He was amused. He did not ask her if she had murdered her husbands; she did not ask him if he had murdered his valet. Each liked the aura of mystery which surrounded the other. They knew that they were two strong-minded people, that they were capable of murder. That was all they wished to know.

They delighted in each other. The passion between them was unquenchable.

‘I always meant to marry you,’ she told him. ‘I was determined on that.’

‘Not more determined than I.’

Her delight in the death of her husband, her pleasure in her approaching nuptials with Ernest set the gossips talking. It was said that there was only one other with a reputation evil enough to be compared with that of the Duke of Cumberland and that was his future wife, Frederica, recently Princess of Solms-Braunfels.

Shortly after the divorce Frederica gave birth to a son, Frederick William; he was reputed to be the child of the Prince of Solms-Braunfels but that, said rumour, was a matter of which only Frederica could be sure.

She laughed now thinking of Queen Charlotte’s welcoming her into the English royal family. Charlotte had always wanted to get one of her nieces married to one of her sons. She was not aware, at first, of the shocking history of Frederica though she did know that she had been widowed twice; but since the lady’s birth was acceptable so was she.

It was only natural that the old Queen should want detailed reports of her prospective daughter-in-law, and when Charlotte’s envoys returned to her with these what a different picture she was presented with! Frederica had been giddy in her manners and light in her morals before the death of her first husband … somewhat mysteriously. And then she had not been faithful to the second husband who had divorced her for immorality and then had died … also mysteriously.

Frederica could imagine how her Aunt Charlotte would have received the news. She would not have raged and stormed; it was not in her nature to do that. Her anger would have shown itself in the tight lips and the cold snake-like eyes. Poor old Charlotte, thought Frederica almost indulgently, she came to power too late not to want to enjoy every minute of it.

Frederica might be a niece of hers but she was not the kind of woman she would choose for one of her sons and Charlotte wished to make it clear that the marriage would not have her approval.

Ernest laughed. His mother was far away; and nothing was going to stop his marrying Frederica. They had had a brilliant wedding in Strelitz, her father, old Charlotte’s brother, gave her away, and for the first time in her life she had been happy – happy with Ernest of the evil reputation, who looked as though he were capable of anything for not only had he lost an eye but his face had been badly scarred in battle which added a malevolent touch to his features. His appearance gave credence to that rumour that he was capable of all and every vice.

We are a pair, she thought.

But how interesting he was! His mind was sharp and probing; he was the most intelligent man she had ever met; she admired him as she could admire no one else; and he was the only person in the world who could make up to her for the loss of Louise.

She was happy. She could say: To hell with Queen Charlotte. To hell with the world – while I have Ernest.

He had taken her to England soon after the marriage. He wanted to make sure of the allowance which Parliament granted to the sons of the King when they married, and that the Queen did not poison the Regent’s mind against Frederica. The Regent was charming to her, but the Queen refused to see her; and the Parliament refused to increase Ernest’s allowance. Frederica had created trouble in the royal family because while the Regent received her and the Duchess of York entertained her at Oatlands, the Queen refused to and forbade her daughters the Princesses to.

There had only been one dignified thing to do. She and Ernest returned to Berlin.

And here they were.

Ernest came into her bedroom and sat on the bed; he was holding a letter in his hand and she knew that it contained news of a startling nature.

‘News from England,’ he told her.

‘Yes, Ernest?’

‘Charlotte …’

‘A son or a daughter?’

Ernest shook his head. ‘A boy born dead. But, Frederica, that’s not all. Charlotte herself …’

‘Dead?’

He nodded.

‘My God, think what this will mean?’

‘I am thinking.’

‘If our daughter had lived she could very likely have been a Queen of England.’

Ernest said: ‘You know what this will mean.’

‘It means that my dear mother-in-law and aunt, Queen Charlotte, is very busy making plans.’

He nodded. ‘There’ll be marriages now, you see. Clarence and Kent will have to get busy.’

‘Busy breeding!’ said Frederica with a laugh. ‘But the gentlemen have left it a little late. And you come next, Ernest. Our sons and daughters …’

‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes gleaming so that he looked like a satyr.

‘You look adorably wicked at this moment,’ she told him. ‘I believe you’re ambitious.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to see your son King of England?’

‘I would, and the thought that perhaps I shall, fills me with exultation. If it were only to have my revenge on Aunt Charlotte … but it’s more than that. Yes, I should love to see our son a King of England, Ernest. That would be good for England … if he were like you. Tell me about those who stand between.’

‘George will never live with Caroline again.’

‘What if he should divorce her?’

‘He’ll try but he forgets how old he is.’

‘What is he … fifty-five? It’s not so old.’

‘When a man has lived as George has, it’s not young. He has indulged himself too much for his health’s sake. And he is married to Caroline, who is at the moment making an exhibition of herself all over Europe. Of course she may well give him grounds for divorce but even so these matters take time. And George grows older. A divorce … a marriage …! Oh, I don’t think there’s anything to fear from George.’

‘And the Duke of York?’

‘Married to a barren wife. No, nor him either.’

‘And Clarence?’

‘Well, of course he’s the danger. They’ll marry him off without delay and he’s proved with Dorothy Jordan that he’s capable of be-getting children.’

‘Unless of course he gets a barren wife.’

‘That’s a chance he’ll have to take.’

‘And after Clarence?’

‘Kent. He’ll have to say goodbye to Madame de St Laurent and he won’t like it. But he’ll be forced to it.’

‘And then Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, and his devoted fertile wife, Frederica.’

He leaned over and kissed her.

‘And how is my love this morning?’

‘Full of health … and hope … considering the news. We must have a child, Ernest. I am going to snap my fingers at my wicked old Aunt who refuses to receive me at her court. She will be obliged to receive the mother of the heir, will she not?’

‘I doubt she would. And while Clarence and Kent lived she would always hope that they would forestall us.’

Frederica threw off the bedclothes.

‘It is wise for you to get up?’ he asked anxiously.

‘My dearest Ernest, I am recovered. I am well. I am ready now. We go into battle.’ She was thoughtful suddenly. Louise often seemed to come back to her to reproach her. Louise had been different from her – the gentler one, sentimental, kindly. Now it was as though Louise reminded her that her elation was due to a tragedy. A young woman had died in childbed and her child with her. And this was the cause of her excitement.

But she dismissed Louise. Life was a battle. It was something Louise had never realized. Perhaps if she had she would be alive today. But Louise had submitted; she had, knowing her health was failing, gone on bearing children.

No, her way was best. There was only one person who truly mattered to her: Ernest. And if she bore him a child that child would be her delight. Life was good, she decided, as she had thought it never would be when she had lost Louise. She was married to the man she loved and they had a chance of bearing a King or Queen of England.

‘In the circumstances,’ Ernest was saying, ‘I think we should set out for England as soon as possible.’

Frederica laughed aloud. As usual she was in complete agreement with Ernest.