Victoria in the Wings

Adelaide

WHEN ADELAIDE WAS born to the Duke and Duchess of Saxe-Meiningen there was great rejoicing throughout the Duchy, for after ten years of fruitless marriage it had been feared that their efforts to provide the heir were destined to fail.

A princess, it was true, when a prince would have been more welcome, but at least the baby proved that the Duchess was not a barren woman and a girl-child was better than none at all.

‘Nun danket all Gott,’ sang the choir at her christening; and the Duke gave orders that there were to be concerts and similar decorous celebrations throughout Saxe-Meiningen. In the mountain chalets and the inns of the Thuringer-Wald the people danced, sang and drank the health of the child who had been christened Amalie Adelaide Louise Thérèse Caroline.

The small Duchy of Saxe-Meiningen was north of Coburg and Bavaria, a land of rich green forests and mountains; since the Duke had come to power farming had flourished. The Duke was a man who had the good of his people at heart; he liked to mingle with them and discuss their problems – not in order to win popularity but to discover how they could be solved. When he had married Princess Eleanor of Hohenlohe there had been great rejoicing, for she was of the same mind as her husband; her great desire being to further the good of the people and to produce a son who would continue with the work she and the Duke had set in progress. Thus while the Duchy flourished there had been the shadow over it. What would happen when the Duke was no longer with them? Into whose hands would the Duchy pass?

And then had come the great news that the Duchess had given birth to a living child. And if the baby was a girl – still it was a child; and every man and woman in Saxe-Meiningen rejoiced for their Duke and Duchess and themselves.

The Duchess devoted herself to her daughter while she prayed that her union might be further blessed.

She was not disappointed. Fifteen months after the birth of Adelaide she was once more pregnant.

With what excited anticipation was the birth of this child awaited. Surely the prayers of the people would be answered.

‘Let it be a boy,’ prayed the people in the churches.

‘Let it be a strong healthy child,’ prayed the Duchess.

The Duchess’s prayers were answered but not those of the people and the Princess Ida joined Adelaide in the nursery.

The two little Princesses were the Duchess’s delight. She wanted them to be wise and good. Nor did she despair of providing them with a brother for she now seemed to have entered into a productive rhythm; two years after the birth of Ida she was ready to give birth again. This time there was a disappointment. Her daughter was still-born.

The two little girls were devoted to each other. Ida looked to Adelaide to lead the way and Adelaide was always conscious of the responsibility of looking after her younger sister.

Her mother had talked to her very seriously. ‘You are a princess, my dearest child,’ she told her. ‘You must never forget that. You are born with responsibilities.’

Adelaide looked in some alarm about the schoolroom as though she expected to see them there, but her mother smiled and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You will recognize them when they come,’ she said. ‘And then you must let nothing stand in the way of your duty. And you must help Ida to do the same.’

Ida was just a little frivolous. It was due to her being the younger.

‘You must always lead Ida in the right direction,’ said the Duchess.

And Adelaide was faintly worried, wondering whether she would know which was the right direction when the time came to lead Ida.

But of course it happened continually. She had to stop Ida stamping when she did not get her own way; she had to tell her how wrong it was to kick their nurses, to throw the milk over the table, to stare out of the window when she should be studying her books.

Adelaide recognized those responsibilities; and as the best way of teaching Ida was to set a good example she became a model of decorum herself. ‘Adelaide is such a good child,’ they said in the nursery. But Adelaide discovered that they were more amused by Ida and it was Ida who received the caresses, the smuggled-in sweetmeat. It was Ida who was the pretty one.

Their father frequently came to the nursery with the Duchess. He was often thoughtful on account of the burdens of State, but he wanted to see what the children were doing and he questioned their tutor Friedrich Schenk very closely and heard them read to him in French and Italian.

The Duke would take the inattentive Ida on to his knee and put an arm about Adelaide while he talked to them of the importance of learning. It was the gateway to knowledge. They must never forget it. They must listen attentively to everything Herr Schenk told them and they would discover how much more exciting it was to acquire knowledge than to play idle games.

He was starting a girls’ school in Meiningen. Was that not an excellent thing? He did not believe that the education of girls should be neglected. Perhaps he had a special affection for girls – because he had two of his own. Ida, watching the smile on his lips started to laugh, and Adelaide permitted herself to smile with him.

Yes, he wanted his girls to be an example to all the girls of the Duchy. In this school they would be taught Latin. So his girls must work hard at their Latin, for they did not want to be outpaced by his subjects, did they? Ida did not care in the least, but Adelaide could see that this must not be so and made a vow that she would try to work even harder and listen even more carefully to Herr Schenk.

Education and work, said the Duke, were the most gratifying things in the world. One must not forget work. That was why he had commanded that young people when they were not learning should work in the gardens or be taught trades. They earned money, and the Duchy had prospered in the last years because of work and education. He wished it to remain like that.

Adelaide listened gravely while Ida played with the buttons on his jacket.

Afterwards he said to the Duchess: ‘Adelaide is such a dutiful child. She will make someone an excellent wife when the time comes. I want good matches for them both.’

‘I am sure they will marry well. There are not many Protestant Princesses in Europe.’

‘Oh, you are thinking of England.’

‘The King has so many sons and they always come to Germany for their brides.’

‘I should like to see them marry into England.’

‘We shall hope,’ answered the Duchess, ‘and in the meantime look to their upbringing.’

‘I doubt the system of education in England compares with ours,’ said the Duke proudly.

‘I doubt it, too, now that you have introduced your schools, and the Duchy is becoming so prosperous.’

‘How I wish we could have a son.’

‘We shall not always be disappointed,’ replied the Duchess.

Adelaide remembered vividly the seventh year of her life. That was when the weather was so cold and the snow lay in drifts about the castle. She and Ida knelt on the window-seat looking out at the white-encrusted firs and listening to the wind whistling round the castle walls. Ida thought of ski-ing down the mountain slopes; Adelaide thought of the poor people who might not have enough fuel to warm their houses and keep out the cold. She asked the Duke how the poor managed to keep warm and he told her that he had given an order that they might help themselves to wood in the forest providing they did not take green wood. ‘For you see,’ he said, ‘our forests provide a large part of the Duchy’s wealth and to cut down striplings would be folly.’

Everything her father did was wise and just, Adelaide knew. He was a very stern and righteous man; and although his edicts sometimes meant a certain hardship, his people realized that everything he did was for their own benefit and they accepted this.

‘It is for your own good,’ it was a phrase Adelaide had learned to use to Ida.

There was a sadness in the castle too because it was three years since the Duchess had had her still-born daughter and it seemed as though the two-yearly happy event was not to be repeated.

It meant that the little girls were even more important than they had been before, because if the Duchess Eleanor was to have no more children Adelaide as the eldest daughter might take over the reigns of government.

It was an anxiety. But Adelaide was a serious child, pointed out the Duchess. It was true, but she must become even more serious and be made to realize the enormity of her responsibilities.

A new tutor was introduced to the schoolroom, Herr Hofrats Schmidt Buckeburg, and there were even stricter rules to be obeyed. There was to be no singing or dancing on Sundays.

‘It is a rule I have made throughout the Duchy,’ said the Duke, ‘and what we ask our people to do we must perforce do ourselves.’

Life was very serious. When the snows of that winter were cleared away the Princesses must drive through the country with their parents and see for themselves how the people lived; they must bring relief to the hard-working poor by taking them blankets and clothing – which they had helped to make themselves. Oh, those coarse shirts over which Ida wept tears of frustration and anger while she pricked her delicate fingers and spattered them with blood! Adelaide did not like to sew them either but she remembered her responsibilities.

The next winter was less severe and to the Duchess’s great joy she was once again pregnant.

There was great rejoicing throughout the castle and the Duchy; and on a cold December day it seemed to Adelaide that the whole world must be wild with joy for Bernhard Erich Freund, Crown Prince of Saxe-Meiningen, was born.

Adelaide could not help but be relieved. Attention was no longer focused on herself. Now she might be allowed to be a normal little girl of almost nine because she was merely a princess daughter of the Duke; she had been shorn of her responsibilities.

‘How they spoil Bernhard!’ grimaced Ida.

But Adelaide pointed out that they should. He was a boy and as the Crown Prince he was naturally the most important person in the nurseries. He would one day have to rule Saxe-Meiningen whereas they …

‘What shall we do?’ Ida wanted to know.

Adelaide was suddenly sad. ‘I think we may have husbands and go away.’

Go away from this castle stronghold in the beautiful forests with the Rhine Mountains in the distance, and the cold snowy winters and the warm summers, and dearest Mamma who loved them in her cool restrained way and Papa who was so good and wanted them to be the same. Adelaide shivered slightly; but Ida had started to dance, seeing herself as glittering with jewels as Mamma was on State occasions.

She was, after all, barely seven years old, and she had never had to be serious like her sister.

Adelaide would have liked to be gay like Ida. To dance round – though not on Sundays, as Ida sometimes disobediently did – to laugh and refuse to do her lessons, but the habit of obedience was strong in her. She was set in her ways.

Even shorn of her immense responsibilities Adelaide continued to be the good child of the nursery.

The happy days came to an abrupt end when Bernhard was three years old.

It had been a bad winter. The snow had started early and the Duke, who never neglected his duty, had gone among his subjects as was his usual practice, advising them, helping them, and being the good ruler he prided himself on being.

One day his sledge was overturned and he was almost buried in a snowdrift but soaked to the skin he had continued his journey. When much later he returned to the castle he was shivering with the cold and although the Duchess herself got him to bed and brought him one of the possets she had prepared herself, during the next few days he had developed a very bad cold; this would not be cured and in a week had turned to bronchitis and from that to a congestion of the lungs. On the most dismal day of Adelaide’s life her father died.

There was grief and consternation not only in the castle but also throughout the land.

The new Duke was but three years old; the Princesses Adelaide and Ida eleven and nine; the Duchess Eleanor must become the Regent until her son was able to govern.

But to the children this was more than the loss of a ruler; they had loved their father who, in spite of his sternness and the strict rules which he had insisted should be obeyed, had been the benign arbiter of their lives.

‘What shall we do without him?’ cried the Duchess Eleanor.

She called a meeting of her husband’s ministers and told them that she was to some extent at their mercy. She needed their help. It was fortunate that her husband had consulted her, kept her informed of his plans, and indeed sometimes had asked her advice. She believed that now, with their assistance, she could be their Regent until such time as the little Duke could take on his duties.

She was warmly applauded. Everyone was eager to do what the late Duke would have wished. They had seen how the Duchy had prospered from his wise rule and they knew that his wife, who had been beside him throughout their married life, was the one who could best take on his mantle until her son was old enough to wear it himself.

When the ministers had gone Duchess Eleanor sent for her eldest daughter.

She was grateful for this calm, serious girl.

‘My dear Adelaide,’ she said, ‘you know that nothing will ever be the same again. We have lost dearest Papa who was so wise and good. We have to think now of what he would have wished, and until little Bernhard is ready I have to rule in his place.’

They wept together and it was Adelaide who comforted her mother.

‘You have always been a good child, my dearest Adelaide, but now you must be even more serious. We must remember all the time what Papa would have wished. I shall rely on you to help me. You will do that by being good, by guiding your sister, by loving your brother. I want Papa when he looks down from Heaven to see his good little Adelaide behaving just as he would wish. It is a great responsibility.’

So after being briefly relieved of her duties Adelaide found herself once more burdened with them.

It was doubly necessary now to work hard, never to disobey, to be an example to her sister and brother.

One could grow accustomed to anything, Adelaide supposed. As the months began to pass, life in the castle settled down. The Duchess Eleanor tried to be as calm and wise as her husband had been; and she succeeded by following the laws he had made; nor did she neglect her children.

The days were full and as their grief receded they began to be happy again.

Ida was gay and attractive, growing prettier every day. Adelaide believed she herself grew more plain. Her skin was not clear and fresh like Ida’s; her nose was too long. ‘I shall never be a beauty,’ she said ruefully.

‘Never mind, darling Adelaide,’ cried Ida. ‘You will always be the good one.’

They had grown closer together after their father’s death; and Ida, though still loving to sing and dance and amuse herself, recognized the qualities of her sister and loved her for them, just as Adelaide adored Ida; and while she knew that it was necessary to consider one’s responsibilities she frequently wished that she were like the gay and volatile Ida.

She often wondered when they would have to leave the castle; for it was the inevitable fate of all princesses to leave their homes. She could not bear the thought of it and was sometimes glad when she looked in her mirror.

‘I am too plain for anyone to want to marry me,’ she told Ida.

At which Ida declared that marriages were arranged for people such as they were and neither bride nor bridegroom knew what they were getting until they were presented with their partner. So looks were not all that important.

‘They always will be important,’ said Adelaide sadly. ‘And even if marriages are arranged pictures are sent and a bridegroom would have to approve of the picture before he accepted his bride.’

Ida kissed her sister. ‘How you exaggerate! You are really quite good looking. I mean good looking – and that is very unusual. Your eyes are nice and your hair isn’t bad.’ Ida studied their faces side by side in the mirror and she could not hide the look of satisfaction as she studied her own pretty one.

Perhaps, thought Adelaide, it is only in comparison with Ida that I seem so plain.

Nothing remained the same for long. Soon there was a shadow looming across the castle. The whole of Europe was trembling in fear of the man who had determined to dominate it. Napoleon was on the march.

Nearer and nearer came the terror as one small State after another fell into his hands.

‘If only your father were alive,’ cried the Duchess Eleanor.

But she knew and so did everyone else that even the Duke would not have had the power to stop Napoleon’s armies.

The French soldiers were in the streets of Meiningen, which fortunately was too small a Duchy to interest Napoleon, who was on the way to bigger objectives. But the Duchy was no longer free; the people must receive the soldiers in their houses; they must cook for them and work for them during their stay.

Their commander had sent a message to the castle. Providing the people fed and housed the soldiers no property would be destroyed and no one harmed.

There was nothing to do but comply. It was occupation of a sort.

The French passed on and the Prussians came; and although they were not enemies, their demands were the same.

War had come to Saxe-Meiningen and it brought with it all its terrible consequences.

The good old days when the Duke had ridden out into the forests to learn the needs of his people were gone.

Such days, it was said, would never come back.

Meanwhile the Duchess Eleanor lived in the castle, the Crown Prince growing into lusty boyhood, while his sisters left their childhood behind them.

There were long afternoons when Adelaide and Ida sat together making bandages for the wounded soldiers, sewing garments for them and sometimes attending the wounded who were brought to the castle.

Even Ida lost some of her gaiety; the sights they saw were so depressing; and since there was this war which devastated the land and from which no one was safe, how could there be those balls and festivities at the castle which in ordinary times would have been considered necessary for two young women who were about to be launched on the world? How could there be visits to other Duchies where they might have found suitors?

War put an end to such activities. Instead they must sit making their bandages, waiting for messengers to arrive with news of the fighting, asking themselves when there was going to be a halt to the wicked Napoleon’s conquests and life was going to return to normal.

They were growing up. Adelaide was twenty-three; Ida was twenty-one; even Bernhard was fifteen. They were no longer children and still the dreary war went on.

And suddenly there was change. The bells were ringing all over Europe. The soldiers of Saxe-Meiningen who had gone to fight in the Prussian Army returned home and there were victory parades through the streets. What had seemed the impossible had become the possible; it had in fact actually happened.

Napoleon had been beaten at Waterloo by Blücher and Wellington. England and Germany had rid the world of that megalomaniac and the world was free again.

No more bandages. No more occupation. The war was over.

‘This,’ said Ida, ‘is an end to the dull existence. Now they will find husbands for us, you see.’

She was right. So much time had been lost, mused the Duchess Eleanor. The girls were no longer very young. She consulted with her ministers. They must make up for lost time. They must find husbands for them without delay.

The Duke of Weimar was young, handsome and not ineligible. He was Governor of Ghent and from this post derived the greater part of his income. They would invite him to the castle and there he could meet Adelaide and perhaps if he were agreeable the marriage could be arranged.

If it were not the most brilliant of matches it would be a comforting one, at least, mused the Duchess, for Weimar was not so far distant from Saxe-Meiningen that there could not be frequent visits and Adelaide was a girl who loved her home and family dearly. Eleanor would not wish her to be too far away.

There was excitement throughout the castle. The seamstresses were busy. There were beautiful gowns for the Princesses and particularly for Adelaide.

She felt nervous and shy.

He will be very disappointed when he sees me, she thought; but she did not mention it even to Ida.

Those rooms in the castle where soldiers had been billeted were repainted and refurnished. The Duke of Weimar’s suite must be adequately housed.

‘What an important visit this is!’ cried Ida with a chuckle. She was excited because she knew that her turn would come.

The Duchess seemed happier than she had since the death of her husband; she was sure they had left the dark days behind. Bernhard was now sixteen – in two years’ time he would be of age; then there would be no need for a Regency and Saxe-Meiningen would have its reigning Duke. And the girls would be married – Adelaide first and then Ida – both into neighbouring dukedoms, so that they need not be distantly separated.

The girls were watching from the turret windows; soon the cavalcade must come into sight and at the head of it would ride the Duke of Weimar. ‘Do you remember how we used to look from this window and see the soldiers coming?’ said Ida.

Adelaide nodded.

‘This is rather different, eh, sister?’ Ida was chuckling with excitement. ‘Suitors are more fun than soldiers. Ugh! That awful war. Those bandages! I shall never forget them. I wonder what he will be like.’

‘Who?’

‘The Duke of Weimar, of course. His name is Bernhard the same as our brother’s. I long to see him. Do you think he will be handsome?’

‘I hope not … too handsome.’

‘Why ever not? People should be as handsome as it is possible to be. The more handsome the better.’

Not when they have a plain bride waiting for them, thought Adelaide.

She could scarcely bear to look, yet she was as eager to see as Ida was. Let him be kind, she prayed. Let him not ask too much.

‘Do you know,’ said Ida, ‘I fancy I can see something in the distance. Is it? Yes … I’m sure. Look, sister.’

They strained their eyes to see. It was indeed the outriders of the cavalcade in the livery of the House of Weimar – brilliantly colourful among the trees.

Ida gripped her sister’s hand in excitement.

‘Adelaide,’ she cried. ‘They’re here. They’re here.’

Her eyes were brilliant; there was a faint colour in her cheeks; she was beautiful.

One of their women was coming up to the turret.

‘You know what this is,’ said Ida. ‘Mamma has sent for us to go down. We must be ready to greet the Duke when he arrives. Am I presentable?’

‘Very. Am I?’

‘You always are. Always neat. Always tidy. Dear Adelaide, you are such a pattern of virtue. What shall I do when you are gone? I shall deteriorate … rapidly, I fear. There will be no good example for me to follow.’

The woman had entered.

‘I know! I know!’ cried Ida. ‘We are to come down and be ready to greet the Duke when he arrives.’

He had leaped from his horse, a commanding figure, six feet four inches tall. He came forward to greet the Duchess Eleanor who gave him her hand to kiss.

‘You must allow me to present my son to you.’

The Dukes of Weimar and Saxe-Meiningen bowed.

‘And my daughters,’ went on the Duchess.

They stood on either side of her – Adelaide the plain and Ida the beautiful.

The Duke of Weimar looked from one to the other.

‘The elder, the Princess Adelaide,’ said the Duchess.

Again that bow.

‘And the Princess Ida.’

Once more he bowed and his eyes rested on Ida and lingered there.

The Duchess took his hand and led him into the castle, and it was as Adelaide had known it would be. He could not take his eyes from Ida, nor she from him.

The Duchess Eleanor called her ministers to the castle.

‘The Duke of Weimar is asking for the hand of the Princess Ida,’ she told them.

‘Would it not be more agreeable if the Princess Adelaide married first?’

‘It would have pleased me better, but the Duke of Weimar asked for Ida. It is a good match and we cannot with wisdom refuse it.’

It would be the utmost folly to, since if the Duke of Weimar could not have Ida he would certainly not take Adelaide.

‘It is an excellent match for a younger daughter,’ said the Duchess; ‘and what pleases me is that neither the Princess Ida nor the Duke would have to be persuaded to it. They are more eager than we could hope. In fact they declare they are in love.’

In the circumstances it seemed that there was only one thing lacking to make the young couple completely happy and that was the consent of the Duchess and her ministers.

That consent was readily given, although every one of them believed it would have been more fitting for the elder princess to marry first.

‘Adelaide!’ cried Ida, throwing herself at her sister.

‘What is it? You’re crying.’

‘Such odd tears. I’m so happy … and yet I’m so sad.’

‘How can that be?’

‘Oh, Adelaide, dearest Adelaide, I don’t know what to say to you. They … they have given their consent. Bernhard and I are to be married.’

‘Well, what is that to cry about?’

‘Oh, sister, my dearest Adelaide, you really don’t mind?’

‘Mind … but I am delighted to see you so happy.’

‘I … I shall marry before you.’

‘And so you should because you are so pretty.’

‘But he was to have been for you.’

‘Being very sensible he fell in love with you instead. I can’t say I blame him. As a matter of fact if he had not done so I should have thought there was something lacking in him.’

‘Oh really… Adelaide … you are not … furious!’

Adelaide laughed. ‘Did you really think I should be?’

‘No,’ admitted Ida. ‘Even if you had loved him, which I trust you don’t.’

‘No, my dear Ida. I do not think I should fall in love so easily. I should need to know someone for years and years.’

‘Yes, I believe you would. You are so calm and wise and good. And I am wildly happy, Adelaide, if you are not unhappy about this I am the happiest woman in the world.’

‘Then you are indeed the happiest woman in the world.’

Ida had pressed her face against her sister’s. She was always so impulsive.

‘Now, I shall ask your advice … about my wedding dress, my jewels … everything. Because you always tell the truth. So if you were really unhappy you would have to say so. But then you might not because you are also unselfish and you might think you would spoil my happiness. Oh, Adelaide, do you really mean this?’

‘I mean it. I don’t want to marry. I hope I never do. I hope I stay here with Mamma and Bernhard – my Bernhard not yours – for the rest of my life. I begin to think that is what I really want. I am sure no man would really want to marry me any more than your Bernhard did.’

‘It’s nonsense. He would have fallen in love with you if I had not been here. I’m sure of it, because someone will love you one day – very much. I am the sort of person they fall in love with – you are the sort they grow to love. One day someone will love you as I do and Mamma does and our Bernhard does. That’s because we know you.’

‘Ida, you are growing hysterical.’

‘Dear Adelaide, you are always so calm, so good.’

The wedding was to take place immediately for there was no point in delay, said the Duchess. Ida was intoxicated with happiness; the seamstresses were working at full speed in that room at the castle which had been set aside for them and the whole of Saxe-Meiningen was talking about the wedding.

The great day came; the bells rang out; the bride was a vision of beauty in her shimmering gown and jewels and even Adelaide looked handsome on that day with the jewels in her hair and the gown which had been made for her to wear at her sister’s wedding.

‘Your turn next,’ said her brother Bernhard; and she laughingly shook her head.

The Duchess told herself that they must busy themselves with finding a husband for Adelaide; it was not right that the younger sister should marry before the elder.

The wedding celebrations continued for two days with festivities in the town, fireworks and illuminations; it was as exciting as the victory celebrations. When Ida and her husband left for Weimar Adelaide ran to the turret to watch them until they were out of sight.

How she missed Ida! She could not remember ever being separated from her before. The castle seemed quieter; she would often think: I must go and tell that to Ida, and then remember that Ida was not there.

The Duchess watched her daughter anxiously. Adelaide was twenty-four. It was not really very young and she looked her age. That cursed Napoleon! thought the Duchess. Precious years had been wasted because of his selfish desires for conquest.

‘My dear Adelaide,’ she said. ‘I know you miss Ida sorely – more so than any of us. I am sorry that she should have been the one to go first.’

‘It was inevitable, Mamma.’

‘Well, she is married, and it will be your turn next.’

‘Perhaps not. I am not eager for marriage. I should be happy at home here with you and Bernhard.’

The Duchess shook her head and smiled, but she did not press the matter.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I need your help. The prosperity we gained under your father’s rule has disappeared. These terrible wars have impoverished us all. I am most concerned for some of the poorer classes. There is starvation in the villages such as there never was in your father’s day – nor would there have been now but for the war. The beggars have multiplied. I want you to help me look into these matters. They are most urgent.’

Helping to relieve cases of hardship she was more contented than she had been; the Duchess gave her permission to found a group of ladies like herself who would join with the Poor Law Institution, and she worked eagerly at this.

When she rode out into the streets the people cheered her. Good Princess Adelaide, they called her.

She was pleased because she was of some use. Perhaps, she assured herself, it was better to be useful than decorative.

One day there were visitors at the castle.

One of the women came running into Adelaide’s apartments to tell her that a band of riders was approaching.

She hurried to the window; her heart began to beat fast; then she went down the great staircase and out to the hall and the court-yard.

Ida threw herself into her sister’s arms.

‘Ida. You have come home.’

Ida was laughing. ‘Don’t be alarmed. I have not run away. My husband had to go away on a mission for a short while and I got his permission to visit you for a few days. So here I am.’

There were fond embraces and they went into the castle where Ida could not stop talking. She must tell them all about Weimar and her husband’s castle and life there and how happy she was – particularly as she was not too far away to pay visits like this. She had a secret. She was almost certain that she was pregnant. She wanted nothing more than this to complete her happiness.

It was wonderful to have Ida back home even for a short stay and when she left the Duchess Eleanor and Adelaide accompanied her part of the way back.

And so a year passed. Ida had given birth to a daughter whom she called Louise, and Adelaide and her mother had been to Weimar to see Ida and the child.

There were no suitors for Adelaide. It seems there never will be, she thought. No, the Duke of Weimar saw me and preferred my younger sister. All the eligible bachelors in Europe will know that by now, and they will not want to take what Weimar refused.

She did not care. She was twenty-five – growing old fast. She was often with her mother; the Duchess discussed State affairs with her; when her mother was sick, she nursed her; they were as close as she and Ida had been.

One day while they sat together over a batch of accounts which Adelaide was helping her mother to balance, the Duchess said: ‘There is news from England.’

‘England?’ said Adelaide, but mildly interested. It was very far away, although there was a link between the German States and England; the Kings of England were of the House of Hanover and many of them had been unable to speak English without an accent – and George I had not been able to speak it at all. Herr Schenk had taught her history which he said was the subject most important to royal people.

‘The Princess Charlotte is dead. There will be consternation for she has died giving birth to a child who would have been heir to the throne.’

‘Poor child … to be without a mother.’

‘The child died too. That is what makes it so important.’

Adelaide nodded. She knew of course that the Princess Charlotte of neighbouring Mecklenburg-Strelitz had married King George III and they had had several sons and daughters and none of the sons except the Prince of Wales had had a legitimate heir. And that heir was dead. Princess Charlotte and her baby.

‘There will have to be some hasty marriages in the English royal family now,’ said the Duchess, looking speculatively at her daughter.

Every ducal house in Germany had its eyes on England. There were two marriageable dukes who would be looking for wives; and one of these wives could, in certain circumstances, be the Queen of England.

Little Mecklenburg-Strelitz had never ceased to give itself airs because one of its daughters was now the reigning Queen. England always looked to Germany for its Queens. All the wives of the Georges had been German; though no parents could wish their daughters to be treated as the wives of George I and George IV had been. But perhaps that was partly the fault of Sophia Dorothea of Celle and Caroline of Brunswick themselves.

True, neither of the two dukes was very young, and although the Duke of Kent was the younger and therefore a step further from the throne than Clarence, he was the favourite among aspiring parents of marriageable daughters. Clarence’s liaison with Dorothy Jordan was common knowledge; so was the fact that he had ten illegitimate children whom he regarded as his family and with whom he lived on terms of intimacy.

He had also made himself look rather foolish by proposing marriage in several quarters and being refused. There was something undesirable about Clarence. Kent was another matter. True he had never married and there had been a liaison with a French woman to whom he had been faithful for many years but he had lived discreetly – unlike Clarence – and was a good soldier. And he was two years younger – not much it was true; but at their time of life two years could make a difference.

The Duchess Eleanor could not help being affected by the excitement.

She did not want to lose Adelaide but she was a good enough mother to be concerned about her daughter’s future; and because Adelaide was so sensible it was possible to discuss the matter with her.

As they sat over their sewing – for the poor of Saxe-Meiningen – she discussed the situation with her.

‘I think it very possible that you may be in the field,’ she said.

Adelaide closed her eyes and inwardly shuddered. How she hated to be considered in this way. ‘In the field.’ As though she were a horse who was about to be put through its paces.

‘Of course,’ went on the Duchess Eleanor. ‘It would be a wonderful opportunity. Either of the two chosen could be a Queen of England.’

‘Why should I be chosen?’

‘Because, my dear, there are not so many who fill the qualifications. Young enough to bear a child and Protestant.’

‘I should hate to leave home.’

‘All of us do, but it’s something we have to face. And, my dear, think of the alternative, which is staying here all your life. I shall die in due course and Bernhard will marry … and what will your place be? It is never very satisfactory to be the unmarried daughter.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Adelaide.

‘And you would have children. What a consolation they can be! Why, my dear, what should I do without you and Bernhard? My life would be wasted. I know what I’m talking about. For ten years your father and I had no children. We were happy together. He was the best of men. But when you were born … when I had my child … well, then I knew I had not lived in vain. Then there were Ida and Bernhard. Why, my dear, I knew then that I could never have been so contented if I had not married … and yet when my marriage was arranged I cried for days and nights because I was leaving home. I was younger than you and … and not nearly so sensible in those days.’

Adelaide said: ‘I can see that if one had children everything would be worth while.’

‘And that would be the purpose of this marriage, as it is of all marriages but even more so in this case – to have children.’

‘Ida has become much more serious since Louise was born.’

‘Exactly. Our frivolous Ida has become a woman. I have seen you with Louise. I think it is the only time I have seen you envy your sister.’

‘Yes, it is true. I should love a child of my own.’

The Duchess Eleanor laid down her work and gazed at her daughter.

‘You would be as good a mother as you have been a daughter and sister. How I wish that I could let the Queen and Regent of England know how admirable you are. Then I am sure they would not hesitate for a moment.’

‘It was different with Ida,’ said Adelaide wistfully. ‘Her Bernhard came here and saw her … and wanted to marry her.’

‘It rarely happens to people of our rank. Besides, Adelaide, we are not speaking of marriage with the ruler of a small Duchy but alliance with the reigning House of England. The child you would have could be a king or queen.’

‘If I had a child,’ said Adelaide, ‘that would be enough for me.’

The Duchess Eleanor smiled. If the great opportunity came their way, there would be no difficulty in persuading her docile Adelaide to accept it.

The Duchess Eleanor was bitterly disappointed.

The Duke of Kent had fallen to the widowed Princess Victoria of Leiningen.

‘It’s only to be expected,’ said Duchess Eleanor to Adelaide with some chagrin. ‘She’s the sister of the Princess Charlotte’s husband Leopold – and you may be sure that he had a hand in arranging this. Besides she has proved that she can have children. She has two already. So … we have lost Kent but we can still hope for Clarence.’

Clarence! thought Adelaide. The father of all those children! The man who had offered himself to several women and had been refused!

She shivered. It was alarming to consider herself going to a strange country which would be so different from anything she had known in Saxe-Meiningen – and more alarming than anything else was the stranger who would be her husband.

The Duchess Eleanor was constantly receiving news. She had sent messengers in all directions to discover what they could.

The Duke of Clarence, it was said, had proposed to a Miss Wykeham who had accepted him and with whom he declared himself to be enamoured. She was a somewhat brash young woman who spent her life riding about the countryside on spirited horses, but she was very rich and this was her great attraction for the impecunious Clarence.

‘They will never allow that marriage to take place,’ said the Duchess; and she was right.

But a further disappointment was waiting for her.

The Duke of Cambridge, shortly to marry his adored Augusta of Hesse-Cassel whom he had discovered for Clarence and with whom he had himself fallen in love, had suggested that Clarence should marry a cousin of his bride-to-be, Princess Caroline of Hesse.

‘So this is the end of our hopes,’ said the Duchess.

‘The Princess Caroline is very young,’ said Adelaide. ‘It is small wonder that she is considered suitable.’

‘She is eighteen,’ replied the Duchess. ‘Far too young to be the wife of a man of fifty-two. And as Ida has had Louise so soon after her marriage it shows we are not a barren family.’

Adelaide smiled at her mother’s indignation. She was relieved. She would love to have a child, but she could not contemplate with equanimity marriage to a man of fifty-two who had the reputation of the Duke of Clarence.

So, she thought, I shall be left in peace.

But it was not to be. The Duke of Hesse had declined the proposal on behalf of his daughter. She was so young, and although the Duke was conscious of the honour done to his house he must decline.

‘Who else is there?’ asked the Duchess Eleanor. She was elated. Adelaide was only twenty-six; there were many years ahead of her during which she could bear children; and the choice of a princess young enough to be a mother who was a Protestant was very, very narrow.

‘We have a chance,’ she cried; and every day she hopefully awaited the messenger.

At last it came.

William Henry, Duke of Clarence, asked for the hand of the Princess Amalie Adelaide Louise Thérèse Caroline of Saxe-Meiningen.

The castle was in a ferment of excitement. What was Ida’s marriage compared with this? There were messengers arriving every day with despatches from England.

‘How delighted your father would be if he were alive today,’ declared the Duchess fervently.

Adelaide supposed he would. She supposed she should be too. It was a brilliant marriage, not because her bridegroom would be the Duke of Clarence but because a young woman had recently died with her baby and neither of the Duke’s brothers had a legitimate child.

‘It is a certainty,’ said the Duchess Eleanor, ‘that your child will be a King or Queen of England. Think of it. How proud you must be.’

Proud, thought Adelaide, to go to a stranger, to an unknown land! To be the bride of a man who had been rejected by so many! But I myself was once rejected, she reminded herself.

And she would leave her home, her mother, her brother. But she saw clearly that her mother believed any marriage to be better than no marriage at all.

She thought about her future husband. A man of fifty-two, a royal Duke, a man who had spent his early years at sea, who had lived with an actress for twenty years, had had ten children by her, and then deserted her. He was overburdened by debts; it was for this reason that he would marry, she knew, and because he was forced to do so by his family and the English Parliament, and the reason was that if the House of Hanover was to be preserved the urgent necessity was an heir to the throne.

In such circumstances should she be proud?

There was a new respect for her in the castle. The Princess Adelaide could be the Queen of England. Two ageing and not very healthy men stood between her and that exalted position. Ida wrote to her: ‘Dearest Adelaide, what great good fortune! Who would have believed this could happen to you!’

Yes, who would have believed it? Adelaide asked herself. And did she want it?

Yes, in a way. She had known ever since she had held her little niece in her arms that above everything on earth she longed for a child.

Whatever unpleasant experience lay between her and that goal must be endured.

Adelaide had never asked for the impossible, so she must be prepared.

She had tried on the gowns which had been made for her, and the Duchess dismissed the dressmakers which was a sign that she wished to talk confidentially.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘one must be wary of the English royal family. I have decided that I will accompany you to England. I have talked this over with my advisers and we all agree this to be best. The royal family of England has not always treated those who join it with the respect due to them.’

Adelaide smiled with pleasure. ‘Oh, Mamma, that will make everything so much easier.’

‘Yes,’ said the Duchess. ‘I can leave Saxe-Meiningen for a few weeks and travel with you. I should not wish to leave you in England until I see you safely married. I have declined to have a proxy marriage … which I consider to be of very little use. Besides, that would have entailed a great deal of expense. Caroline of Brunswick was treated very badly when she arrived in England. She was greeted by the mistress of the Prince of Wales. Can you imagine anything more shocking?’

‘You think I shall be greeted by my future husband’s mistress?’

‘My dear Adelaide. You speak too frankly. There is no evidence that he has a mistress. There was, of course, that disgraceful affair with the actress Mrs Jordan but at least it lasted for twenty years and she is now dead, although there are all those children. Heaven knows what complications there will be over them. But that you will discover. The point is that the family is not always gracious to those who marry into it. The Queen refuses to receive the Duchess of Cumberland. Not that I am surprised. That woman’s reputation is quite horrifying. But all the same I should like to see you safely married before I left you in England. I have heard that the Prince of Wales almost refused to marry Caroline of Brunswick at the altar. Think of that.’

‘Do you think that the Duke of Clarence will refuse to marry me once he has seen me?’

‘What nonsense! Why should he?’

‘I am not what is called an attractive woman.’

‘And he is a man of fifty-two! He will find your youth … your comparative youth … delightful. No. It is the family I am thinking of. And I am determined to come with you.’

‘Well, Mamma, your decision gives me great relief.’

‘My dear child, don’t think I don’t realize what an ordeal this is. You are so sensible that you don’t display your fears but I realize that they are there none the less. I have no qualms about your future, my love, because you are yourself. Your dear father used to say Adelaide will never cause us any anxiety, and I have always known it to be true. We were fortunate indeed to have such a daughter; and I am desolate at losing you, but I know this is right for you.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘It is your duty … and such a glittering future!’

‘I know, Mamma. I know.’

‘Well, then, we must not allow our emotions to take control of us. We shall travel inconspicuously. We could not afford to do otherwise. Nor do we want to make a show of having what we have not. I believe the Regent’s manner of life to be most elaborate. But you have been taught that it is better to live modestly than in ostentatious state which you cannot afford; and for all their grandeur the Princes of England live beyond their means. But no matter. You will manage your household with care, I know, as you have been taught to do. I was saying that we shall travel in accordance with our means. You shall have two ladies-in-waiting and I will take von Konitz and von Effa to counsel me. I shall need their services.’

‘I think that this is an admirable arrangement, Mamma.’

‘And there is one other thing. How are you getting on with your English lessons?’

Adelaide smiled. ‘I am working hard, Mamma.’

‘You will soon master it. But I daresay your husband will speak German. Or perhaps French. And in time of course you will master the language. There is nothing like living among the natives to do that. Queen Charlotte could not speak a word of English when she arrived, but she seemed to get on very well. But I believe the poor King was very different from his sons. How I wish that we had had you taught English. If only we had known … but who would have thought such a glittering possibility would come our way. We should rejoice, should we not, that it has.’

The Duchess Eleanor was looking anxiously at her daughter. She wished romantically that the Duke of Clarence could have come to Saxe-Meiningen and fallen in love with Adelaide and she with him – as with the case of Ida and Weimar.

She was being absurdly romantic, but she did hope that Adelaide was not too fearful. She did not show her feelings, admirable girl.

Let her be happy, prayed the Duchess.

Every day the Duchess Eleanor fearfully awaited a message. She was terrified that there might be some hitch.

But preparations went on and nothing happened to stop them, and one warm July day the party set out for England.

The bride took her last look at the castle and wondered whether she would ever see it again. Adelaide, soon to be the Duchess of Clarence – and perhaps in due course Queen of England – was on her way to the new life.