Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

Alexandra

WHEN I MADE THE DISCOVERY MY ANGER WAS SUCH THAT oddly enough, for a brief moment, it intruded in my grief and lessened it.

Bertie! My own son! Oh, it was so disgraceful. There was the letter from Stockmar. I remembered Albert's receiving it and how depressed he had been. A few days after he had said he would go to Cambridge and see Bertie. Now I knew why.

Bertie was in disgrace. Stockmar had written that while our son was at the Curragh Camp he had had a mistress. It had created scandal that had come to Stockmar's ears… and yet here we knew nothing of it! At least I did not know. I expect there was sniggering in certain circles at home.

I remembered that day well—the heavy rain, the cold wind. I had said to Albert, “You cannot go to Cambridge in such weather,” and he had replied, “I must.” So he had gone to see Bertie and he had come back with the fever… which had killed him.

Bertie had killed Albert!

My rage against my son was so great that I really did feel that for a time it overshadowed everything else. I kept saying to myself: If Albert had not gone to Cambridge he would be well today.

When Bertie came to me I could scarcely bear to look at him. He was now twenty years old, a man, I supposed. Bertie, who had always been such a disappointment to us. There could hardly be anyone in the world less like Albert; and yet he was Albert's son… the son who had killed his father!

No, that was not fair. But his wicked carelessness and his lustful conduct had helped to bring about Albert's death.

I could never keep things to myself. I had to let him know.

I said, “It was Papa's visit to Cambridge that brought on his fever.”

“He was ill when he arrived, Mama.”

“I know he was ill. I begged him not to go.”

“He should never have come. It was bad weather, I remember.”

“He went because he believed he had to. You know why he went.”

A guilty flush spread itself across Bertie's face.

“He had heard what happened in the Curragh Camp,” I said.

“Oh that,” said Bertie. “It was nothing really.”

“Nothing! A woman…a loose woman and the Prince of Wales! You call that nothing. Papa did not call it nothing. He risked his dear life…”

Bertie came to me and put his arms about me. Oddly enough I wanted the comfort his embrace could give me.

“He was ill before he came. He should not have come. There was no need for him to come. The affair was over. It was nothing. All of them … well, I was no different from the others…It was not my fault that he came. I did not ask it.”

I shook my head. “You will never understand your father, Bertie,” I said. “He was a saint.”

Then the tears began to flow and even my anger against Bertie could not assuage my grief.

I COULD FIND no comfort in anything—even those about me who loved me. I had lost the one being, the only one who could make my life happy.

For hours I sat remembering the past, every little detail. I suffered bitter remorse when I thought of all the storms I had created and how my angel had been so good, so tolerant, always right. That he should be taken, he, the one of whose wisdom we were all so much in need.

I wrote to Uncle Leopold:

Though please God I am to see you soon, I must write these few lines to prepare you for the trying, sad existence you will find with your poor forlorn desolate child who drags on a weary pleasureless existence. I am so anxious to repeat one thing and that one is my firm resolve, my irrevocable decision that his wishes, his plans about everything, are to be my law. And no human power will make me swerve from what he decided and wished… and I look to you to support and help me in this. I apply this particularly as regards our children—Bertie, etc—for whose future he has traced everything so carefully…

Though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think any wish or plan of his is to be touched…

I know you will help me in my utter darkness…He seems so near me, so quite my own, my precious darling. God bless and preserve you. Ever your wretched but devoted Child.

Uncle Leopold thought that I should not remain at Windsor but should go to Osborne. Everyone seemed to think this a good idea.

I had the room in which Albert had died photographed. My letter paper, my handkerchiefs, were in black-edging for Mama. I had the edges widened to an inch. I had laurels hung over his portraits. I wanted a photograph taken with the children standing by a bust of him that was very lifelike. These little things gave comfort to me. They were something to do.

How dreary Osborne seemed without him! How could Uncle Leopold have thought I could find comfort anywhere! And at Osborne of all places, which he had changed so, which his brilliant talents had turned from a little house into a palace! How could I be happy there? Did it matter where I was? Nowhere could I ever be happy again.

I would sit at the window looking out at the sea. I put his portrait on the pillow beside me. I wept bitterly. I took his nightshirt and cradled it in my arms; in that I found a small grain of comfort.

Albert's brother came to Osborne. He arrived at midnight, cold and wet. It had been a dismal crossing, but nothing could be more dismal than our grief. We embraced and wept for the lost loved one.

On the twenty-third of December, Albert was laid to rest in St. George's Chapel, Windsor. He would lie there only temporarily for later he would be removed to the Mausoleum at Frogmore—the site of which I had chosen with Alice just after his death. One day—soon, I prayed—I should be lying there beside him.

It was a time to recall other Christmases when he had been with us. I thought of his sending for the Christmas trees from Coburg and how he had brought that fashion into the country so that it was universally followed. Dear Albert, how he had changed my life! And that of the English people!

He was too young to die. Forty years. It was tragic. Such a wonderful person, one who had done so much good in the world.

And so I went on.

I was not at his funeral in the flesh, but I was there in spirit.

Bertie was chief mourner. I wondered what he was thinking as he followed his father's coffin. What remorse he must be suffering. If only Albert had not gone to Cambridge…

I wanted to blame Bertie, although in my heart I knew it was not fair to do so. I really knew that Albert had been ill for a long time—so ill that he was unable to stand up to a major disease. But I wanted to blame someone. I blamed God for taking him, but it was easier to blame Bertie.

I sat there numb, staring out at the gray sea. Now the burial service would be beginning; the guns would be firing; the bells would be tolling.

They would be laying Albert's coffin at the entrance of the vault.

And when the mausoleum was completed it would be taken to Frogmore to await the day when I should be with Albert.

THE CHILDREN DID their best to comfort me. My two girls, Alice and Beatrice, did help me, although there was very little they could do. Helena—whom Albert had called Lenchen—and Louise were wonderful, but Alice had a special tenderness. She always had since the days when as a fat little girl she had earned the name of Fatima. Alfred was seventeen. I used to be a little fearful for him because I believed he might resemble his elder brother; he had adored Bertie and made such a fuss when they were separated and I had feared he might follow in his footsteps. Arthur was sweet and especially endearing because he looked more like Albert than any of them. He was eleven at this time. Leopold, of course, had always been a source of anxiety because of his weakness.

But apart from Alice the one who did most for me at that time was little Beatrice. She was rather bewildered by the change in our household and clearly wished it to go on as before. Being the baby—she was only four years old—she had occupied a special place in our affections, and her frank and amusing ways had endeared her to me and to Albert.

She used to come into my bed in the mornings and cuddle up to me. I believed Alice sent her. She was so charming in her innocence and did give me a little comfort. When I held her to me I thought of all I had endured in giving birth to these children and how I had dreaded those ordeals.

That would never happen again. But how willingly would I have endured it if it could bring Albert back.

Beatrice would sit solemnly watching me dress.

“Mama,” she said one morning, “do not wear that sad cap.”

She was referring to the widow's cap that I wore now that I had lost my dear one.

“Mama must wear it now, Baby.”

“Baby does not like it. Baby does not want Mama to wear it.”

I was almost in tears. I held her to me. “Mama does not like it either.”

Beatrice smiled. “Then take it off.”

“Mama must wear it because Papa has gone.”

“When he comes back will you take off your sad cap?”

I could not answer. I shook my head. “I wish Papa would come back.”

“You want him to be back, my darling. You miss him.”

Beatrice said firmly, “I want Mama not to wear her sad cap.”

I could not help smiling. She was so single-minded, my little Beatrice. She could think of nothing but that I must not wear my sad cap—the symbol of widowhood.

I wished that Vicky was not so far away. I felt that she would understand my grief more than any of the others did. She had loved him as I had done. I should never forget their parting when she had left for Prussia. They had both been desolate; she had been almost as heartbroken to leave Albert as he had been to leave her. I remembered afresh those pangs of jealousy. I had not a very noble character, I'm afraid; but then I compare myself with my saintly Albert. Perhaps compared with most people I was not so bad.

I re-read Vicky's letter, which had come to me shortly after Albert's death:

Today is a whole week since we began our new life of desolation. And when I look back upon it—dark, frightful, and cruel—yet I have reason to be thankful. Papa shines like a bright star in our darkness…

Papa read to me from the Idylls of a King at Osborne and wished me to draw something for him, and it has been my occupation for weeks—thinking of him, whether the drawings would please him, whether he would think them right. Do you wish to have them— shall I send them or bring them? They are the last I shall ever take pleasure in doing; as he ordered them I consider they belong to you… I know Papa's taste so well. As he was the most perfect model of all that was pure, good, virtuous, and great—so was his judgment in all things concerning art—unerring.

Oh how I tremble for you! How I pray that God may support you through it as he has done through the rest. How I shall bear it I do not know …

Dear dear Mama, goodbye—and oh may God's everlasting blessing rest on your beloved and precious head.”

What a wonderful letter! She understood as others could not. Vicky's letters were wonderful. I used to read them again and weep over them.

In a very short time she was writing again:

How often Papa and I talked about death when I was sitting with him of an evening in '56 and '57. He always said he would not care if God took him at that moment…he always felt ready…

Poor Bertie. How I pity him—but what sorrow he does cause. Perhaps you do not know how much I grieve over his ‘fall'. It was the first step to sin and whether it will be the last no one knows. I fear not! The education of sons is an awful responsibility and a great anxiety if they do not repay one for one's care and trouble. It makes me tremble when I think of my little Wilhelm and the future …

Oh, what a comfort she was! Far more so than she had been when she was at home with us. She alone understood the depth of my grief.

I went over all the letters I had, my journals, everything. I would brood over the pictures of our wedding. Baby would sit on my lap and look with me. She was a little put out because there were no pictures of her in the early photographs.

“What a pity,” she said, “that I was not old enough to go to your wedding, Mama.”

Alice smiled fondly at her. Dear Baby! She did help so much.

Albert had made plans for Bertie to pay a visit to the Holy Land. He thought the sight of so many relics and sanctified places might have a sobering effect on his character.

I wrote to Vicky about it. She was so sound in her judgment having spent so much time with Albert. She understood so well my grief over Bertie's shortcomings, but she was inclined to be rather lenient with him.

Bertie was weak. He would never be as clever as she was; but he had some good points and he was popular with the people. Vicky believed that if he were married to a suitable wife he would settle down.

Her favorite lady-in-waiting had been the Countess Walburga von Hohenthal who had married Augustus Paget the ambassador to Denmark, which meant that Walburga had become very well acquainted with the Court of Denmark. She had given Vicky glowing reports of Alexandra the daughter of Prince Christian. She was seventeen, beautiful, and unaffected—for of course the family was very poor. They inhabited the Yellow Palace in Copenhagen through the bounty of King Christian. Alexandra would be so good for Bertie, and although it was not exactly a brilliant match there were so few eligible princesses in Europe.

Vicky thought a meeting should be arranged between them. Albert had always said that Vicky was a shrewd diplomat, and I was very glad to take her advice. I felt it was almost like Albert speaking.

Bertie's visit to the Holy Land was planned but before he went Vicky invited him to Prussia. Vicky was a born matchmaker and she arranged a visit to Speier Cathedral, which Bertie could not have contemplated with any great enthusiasm for his interests were not for art and higher things. But when he was at the Cathedral he came face to face with Alexandra who Vicky knew would be there. They were introduced and, according to Vicky's reports, quite taken with each other.

“The first step,” commented Vicky.

After that he went to the Holy Land—as relieved to get away as I was for him to go. Whenever I saw him I was reminded of that visit to Cambridge, and I believed he could not forget it either.

Albert would have said that everything must go on as before. I dreamed of him and in my dreams he would sometimes remind me sternly of my duty.

I could not emerge from my mourning because I knew it was going on for the rest of my life.

Alice's wedding day had been fixed for July. It was only seven months since Albert's death—but I supposed it could not be postponed.

Alice was eager for it to take place. I could understand that. The poor child was in love. Perhaps she wanted to escape from this house of mourning. One could not expect the young to feel as I did.

Bertie was back. It would soon be his turn. Albert had said he needed marriage; and it seemed certain that Princess Alexandra, though not a great match, was very suitable in herself.

There could be no great celebrations, no rejoicing. When should we ever rejoice again? Alice should be married quietly at Osborne.

The dining room was made into a chapel. Bertie was back and was with us, trying to look sad when he caught my eye but I could see that he was rather pleased with himself. The prospect of marriage was by no means repulsive to him.

The Archbishop of York, who was to perform the ceremony, was a most sympathetic man. I felt especially drawn to him because three years before he had lost his wife. We talked of the deaths of our dear ones and how one went on mourning for the rest of one's life. I was very glad that he was officiating.

I wore my heavy black and my widow's cap and I thought how different it would have been if Albert had been alive. I could picture his leading his daughter to the altar.

How sad it was! How sad my life was going to be right to the end!

So Alice was married.

She and her bridegroom were having a short honeymoon at Ryde before they left England.

So now my little Alice had become the Princess of Hesse-Darmstadt and she would no longer be there to give me that very special loving attention.

I turned to Lenchen and Louise.

IN MAY I paid my first visit to Balmoral without Albert. I did not know how I should feel in that place that owed so much to him. There were too many memories. But I was given a warm welcome and sincere sympathy. Those good people accepted the fact that I was in mourning and some of them like Annie MacDonald, who acted as my personal maid there, and John Brown, the gillie who was taking on more and more important duties, rather hinted that I had to stop indulging in my grief and take an interest in life. The dear creatures, nothing on Earth would have made them say what they did not mean.

To my surprise I felt happier in Balmoral than I had anywhere else. I found Scotsmen and Scotswomen much less artificial than those people whom I met in the South. They were frank and spoke from the heart. I had long ago discovered this and made a point of choosing Scots for my servants at Balmoral—and they seemed to become my personal friends. They were much less courteous—indeed a little rough in their manners, but I liked that. John Brown especially appealed to me. He was the son of a farmer on the estate and had been an outdoor servant since 1849, but I soon recognized his worth and he was in constant attendance. Albert had approved of him so I knew my trust was not misplaced. All his brothers had been found posts about the household and I was beginning to look upon John Brown as my personal friend.

I had been delighted to hear that the trouble about the Trent had been satisfactorily concluded. The Americans, after receiving the courteous note drafted by Albert, had acceded to the request by the British government, which they would almost certainly not have been able to do without humiliation if that first somewhat bellicose note had been sent.

When Lord Palmerston brought me the news, I reminded him that this peaceful issue of the American quarrel was due to Albert's work. I told him how ill he had been, so feeble that he could scarcely hold a pen, when he had sat up writing.

Palmerston nodded in agreement.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “the tact and judgment and power of nice discrimination of the late Prince has always excited my constant and unbounded admiration.”

I smiled sadly. That was one of the occasions when I liked Lord Palmerston.

At Balmoral I laid the foundation stone of a cairn inscribed with the words:

To the beloved memory of Albert the Great, Prince Consort, raised by his brokenhearted widow.

The children were with me during the ceremony and their initials were carved on the stone.

I remembered so well Albert's delight when he had shown me his home; and I felt a desire to go there once more, to walk through the woods where I had walked with him, to see Rosenau and listen to the birds, and see the room where he had learned his lessons and fenced with Ernest.

It was agreed that a visit would be an excellent idea. The children thought it would help me, and Palmerston had hinted that my period of mourning should be coming to an end and that I should be showing myself to my subjects. How insensitive people were! Did they think my mourning would ever come to an end? The people wanted to see my grief, no doubt, but that was my private affair.

I took Lenchen and Louise with me. They were taking over Alice's place. They were good girls, both of them, and eager to help me forget my grief—an impossible task!

I wanted to see Uncle Leopold so that we could mourn together. Somber in my widow's weeds I arrived at his Palace of Laeken. I threw my arms around him and burst into weeping; he wept with me.

I said to him, “Here, Uncle, you see the most desolate creature in the world.”

“I suffer with you,” he told me. “I share your grief.”

We talked for a long time about our sainted angel.

“At least,” said Uncle Leopold, “you had twenty years of felicity with him. I lost my Charlotte very early and now Louise is gone.”

I knew he had suffered too, but nothing could really compare with the loss of Albert.

Uncle Leopold was very bent. I thought his wig was too luxuriant to match the rest of him. He told me he suffered greatly. His rheumatism plagued him, and he had so many ailments that when one subsided a little there was another to take its place.

He told me he had a surprise for me. Prince Christian of Denmark and his family were coming tomorrow, and he trusted I would allow him to present them to me. “They are such a simple, pleasant family,” he said. “They are having a little holiday in Belgium. It would have been discourteous not to ask them.”

“I suppose they have their daughter with them?” I asked.

“Why yes, they have. I should like you to meet her. She is a beautiful, charming girl with exquisite manners and such good taste.”

I did understand, of course. Uncle Leopold had arranged this. A Danish marriage would be good for Belgium. Some of the European States were getting uneasy about the intentions of Prussia. A certain BismarckSchönhausen was making his presence felt throughout the continent. His plan was the aggrandizement of Prussia, which he wanted to see equal with Austria. He had visited London and talked to Lord Palmerston and Mr. Disraeli, who thought he was a man who would have to be watched.

When such situations arose it made an awkwardness for me because I was related to the heads of so many countries. There was Vicky who had become a Prussian and now Uncle Leopold was regarding Bismarck with suspicion.

There was no doubt that Uncle Leopold wanted the Danish alliance. He mentioned to me that Albert had been in favor of it for it had been brought forward before this calamitous event that had robbed the world of its greatest man and the only one who made life agreeable for me.

I was feeling overwrought. My talks with Uncle Leopold had brought back my grief in full spate. I was living it all again, that day when he had looked at me with those dear haggard eyes and told me he must go to Cambridge and I had tried to dissuade him. Oh, if only he had listened to me!

I wept and sat in my room thinking about it.

Lenchen came to me and said, “Mama, they have arrived. Alexandra is lovely and they are all very nice.”

“My dear child, I cannot join them.”

“Oh but Mama, they are all waiting for you.”

“My dear, I cannot do it. You must understand that my loss is too recent. I cannot receive them. I do not want to eat. The thought of food nauseates me.”

“But, Mama, Uncle Leopold has arranged it so wonderfully.”

I shook my head.

I could not join them. I just sat in my room. The luncheon must proceed without me.

I sat there brooding and after an hour or so there was a gentle tap on my door. I did not answer it. I had no wish to see anyone. The door opened slightly and a face appeared. It was Walburga Paget—a girl I had always liked very much. She was very beautiful and I was susceptible to good looks.

“Your Majesty, may I come in?”

“Yes do, Wally.”

She ran to me and knelt beside me lifting her eyes to my face. I saw that they were full of tears. “Dear child!” I murmured.

“Oh, Your Majesty, how you have suffered!”

I nodded.

“I thought of you so much, but there is nothing I can say. No one can say anything that is adequate. No one can understand your terrible suffering.”

I stroked her beautiful hair.

“He was the most wonderful of men,” she said.

“They don't appreciate him, Wally… none of them. They talk… but they forget.”

“Your Majesty will never forget.”

“Never!” I said vehemently. “My dear child, it is good of you to come and see me.”

“I wanted to ever since I heard you were here.”

“You came with Prince Christian and his family?”

“Yes, they are very agreeable.”

“So I have heard.”

“Your Majesty, I believe it was his wish that there should be a match between the Prince of Wales and Alexandra.”

“He had it in mind. He had so much in mind.”

“He would wish you to be happy about this match. He would wish you to see the Princess.”

“Yes, I think he would wish that.”

“I think he would have approved of her. She has such exquisite taste…as he had. She is good and gentle…as he was…”

I nodded.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would wish to see the Princess now that you are both in this palace. It is such an opportunity. It seems as though it is God's will…as she is here… and you are here…”

God's will, I thought. And Uncle Leopold's.

I suppressed the thought. That was more the sort of thing Lord Melbourne would have said rather than Albert.

But I supposed Albert would have wished me to see her.

I said, “Very well, I will see them. You may conduct me to them, Wally.”

She smiled radiantly. She seemed to be very fond of Princess Alexandra.

They were presented to me. The Prince was handsome in a Nordic way—not beautiful as Albert had been, but tall and fresh looking, rather like a sailor with blue, farseeing eyes. Where would that family be but for the benevolence of King Christian who, Albert had told me when we were discussing the suitability of Alexandra, had given the man a commission in the army and the Yellow Palace for a home. Louise, his wife, was the daughter of the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel; and the Landgravine was King Christian's sister. Hence the King's kindness to this rather impoverished family.

Alexandra, in view of all this, was hardly suitable to be the bride of the Prince of Wales. After all, Uncle Leopold had put her at the bottom of the list, but there was an urgent need to get Bertie married.

I did not greatly care for Christian's wife. She was a little hard of hearing and her complexion was not natural. Painted cheeks! I wondered what Albert would have thought of that! He did so hate any form of artificiality. But the girl was charming. She was all that Wally had said she was. How different from her mother!

I thought there was no point in pretending that the subject that was uppermost in our minds did not exist. I said to Christian and his wife, “Everything will depend on the Prince of Wales. I do not know how affectionate he will feel toward your daughter.”

They looked taken aback, and so did Leopold; but he brought Alexandra forward. Such a pretty girl, and modest too. She raised her beautiful eyes to my face as she knelt, and I could feel the sympathy in them.

Then I turned to Leopold. I think he was not very much at ease. I suppose the meeting had not gone as he had hoped.

I did not join them for dinner, I could not face that, but I went down afterward. Alexandra was wearing a black dress, which was rather conspicuous among the others. She looked at me rather tremulously and I understood. What a delightful gesture! I was in mourning; she wished to respect that mourning and to share in it. I warmed to her from that moment.

They might be impoverished, they might be of little account but this girl was charming and I felt pleased that there was to be a match between her and Bertie.

I smiled at her and in that moment a bond was formed between us.

AFTER LEAVING UNCLE Leopold, I traveled to Coburg. There I visited the scenes of Albert's childhood. I recalled all that he had told me of them; it brought him back so vividly.

I was very disappointed in Ernest. He had been upset when Albert had died but I feared his feelings did not go very deep. When I thought that I might have married him, I thanked Fate for my lucky escape. But, of course, it had been my choice and I should never have chosen him.

I suspected him of all sorts of immorality. Who would not after the disgraceful affair that had so upset Albert. I guessed he was cured of that… physically… but nothing would stop his being the man he was. He was ambitious and very grasping.

He had no children and it had been Albert's wish that on Ernest's death Alfred should have the dukedom. It would go, of course, to Bertie, but Bertie would eventually be King of England and it was therefore suitable that the Dukedom of Saxe-Coburg should go to his brother.

Now a crisis had arisen in Greece. The popular assembly of that country had driven Otho, their King, from the throne and had offered the crown to Alfred.

At first I thought this was a very good proposition but I was finally convinced by Palmerston and Lord John that it was not practical. I was reminded that it had been Albert's wish that Alfred should have the Dukedom of Saxe-Coburg on Ernest's death.

When the offer was declined for Alfred, it was given to Ernest. I had thought this was a good idea for Ernest could go to Greece and Alfred could take over Saxe-Coburg without delay. But Ernest wanted the Greek crown and to retain his hold on Saxe-Coburg. He thought Alfred might go there as a kind of caretaker under his jurisdiction.

“That would not do,” said Palmerston. “It would mean that Ernest would still control the Duchy and Alfred might well be held responsible for Ernest's misrule and the mountain of debts he has managed to pile up.”

There was a great deal of discussion between us on the matter and it spoilt my visit to Coburg, which I had intended should be dedicated to the memory of Albert.

I was glad to leave.

I DECIDED THAT Alexandra must come to Osborne. I must know more of this girl who might well become Bertie's wife. If she were, she would be Queen of England, and that meant she must be entirely suitable.

I already liked her. She had shown sensitivity when I had met her at Laeken, so the invitation was sent and Alexandra arrived at the Isle of Wight with her father. Christian was to stay with the Cambridges and leave Alexandra with me.

It was a cold and miserable day when she arrived. How I hated November! Albert had been very ill in November… and in December he had gone. And on the eve of Christmas! I should never celebrate that festivity again with any pleasure. Always there would be these memories.

I was pleased to see Alexandra. She looked very fresh and pretty. Christian was a little apprehensive and very eager for his daughter to make a good impression. What an advancement for the daughter of such a simple family!

But in spite of her somewhat homely upbringing Alexandra was by no means gauche. Her grace and beauty would always carry her through. They were very much in awe of me, I think. They all seemed so much taller than I, and I suppose because of my low stature I made up for it in regal dignity. But then I had been the Queen now for many years and that sort of thing grows on one.

I was glad when Christian left. His daughter seemed more at ease then. She was perfectly natural, and I had the impression that she was not trying to please because she was eager to make a brilliant marriage, but because she was generally good-hearted and understood my grief.

Baby thought her beautiful and in her frank way announced it to us all; Lenchen adored her; Louise, perhaps, was less impressed but she could find no fault with her. Alfred thought she was wonderful. In fact I was afraid he was going to complicate matters by falling in love with her himself. Alfred was very susceptible. He had so adored Bertie when they were boys and he imitated him slavishly in everything he did; and it seemed he had caught Bertie's interest in the opposite sex.

There was no doubt about it that Alexandra was an outstanding success. She asked me questions about Osborne and I described in detail how such a little house had been acquired and all that Albert had done to transform it. She was very impressed. She thought it was wonderful.

She understood my desolation; she gave me a sympathy that was heartfelt, I knew. She encouraged me to talk about Albert—not that I needed encouragement—but I felt that was a great help, for it was a comfort to talk of him to someone who could only know of his goodness by hearsay.

We went to Windsor, which greatly impressed her. I told her how Albert had loved the place, how he had ridden in the forest and knew the names of all the trees and flowers. “But I think Balmoral was his favorite place,” I told her. “One day you will see that, dear child. I am sure you will love it as I do…as Albert did. The Scots are such good honest people. Albert built Balmoral. It is really magnificent, an example of his extraordinary talents.”

At the end of the month, Prince Christian left the Cambridges and came to take Alexandra home.

By that time we were the best of friends and I had no doubt that she was the right wife for Bertie.

THERE WAS NO reason why the wedding should be delayed. I suggested January. There was opposition from Alexandra's mother. Her daughter could not possibly travel at that time of year. I had to concede that there was something in that.

Finally March was fixed. I was glad to have something to think of, but it brought the memory of Albert back all the more vividly because I kept thinking of how he would have arranged everything.

I decided that I would give Alexandra her wedding dress and that it should be trimmed with Honiton lace as mine had been. It was rather unfortunate that on her way to England she should stay for a few days at the Laeken Palace and when she was there Uncle Leopold—who was delighted with the match—gave her a wedding dress that was trimmed with Brussels lace.

Dear Uncle Leopold! He was wonderful, of course, but he did interfere. I could not have the wedding dress of the Princess of Wales trimmed with foreign lace. It must be Honiton.

I wrote to Uncle Leopold and explained. I knew he was very disappointed, but I had long ago made him realize that as much as I loved him and no matter how poignant were memories of the past when he had meant so much to me, I could not allow him to interfere in the affairs of my country—and the marriage of the Prince of Wales was certainly that.

So Brussels lace it certainly was not. Alexandra was going to the altar in Honiton.

I sent my yacht, the Victoria and Albert, to meet Alexandra's party at Antwerp and it brought her to Gravesend where Bertie met her; from there they would drive to London and take the train to Windsor.

I was waiting with the girls to greet them on their arrival at the castle. How sweet the bride-to-be looked in her lavender cloak and gown. The dear girl had chosen lavender as a kind of half-mourning, I guessed. She could hardly have come in black, but she had made me see that Albert was in her thoughts.

What a sad contrast she made to me in my widow's black and what Baby persisted in calling “my sad cap.”

I was so overcome with memories that I could not join them for dinner. I sat in my room thinking of the day Albert had come and how I had known at once that he was the one I should love forever.

It was a great joy to see Vicky. She had brought four-year-old Wilhelm with her. It was a wonderful reunion and I looked forward to some intimate talks with her when we could remember Albert and mingle our tears.

On the day I reached the chapel, which was decorated in purple velvet, by a specially constructed path that had been covered so that I should not be seen for I did not wish to be stared at. I took my place in a box from which I could look down on the proceedings. I was in deep black with the ribbon of the Garter across my breast. I saw eyes turn to look at me, but my heart was too full for me to acknowledge these glances. My thoughts were back on that other day when Albert and I had been married.

I thought the girls looked lovely in their white dresses. Mary of Cambridge led them, looking larger than ever, but quite splendid in lilac trimmed with lace—Honiton, of course. All the lace, I noted with satisfaction, was Honiton.

There was Beatrice, wide-eyed and looking around her with enthusiasm. She looked up and seeing me, waved. I smiled, in spite of everything, wondering what she was thinking and what odd remark she would come out with. She would be no respecter of places any more than she was of persons.

Little Wilhelm was there, standing between Arthur and Leopold. He looked very sweet—though somewhat mutinous, as though he were a little weary of the proceedings. How cleverly they disguised his arm with those special sleeves! Dear children! I wondered how much of this ceremony they would remember in the years to come.

Alexandra was beautiful and Bertie looked quite handsome too. What a pity he did not resemble his father more and that Arthur was the only one who bore a likeness. It was sad. I should have liked to see those divine features in some of them.

Of course we could not expect children to behave well. Such ceremonies must seem interminable to them. I saw Lenchen and Louis wipe their eyes and Baby watching them began to sob loudly.

Lenchen's hand on her shoulder tightened and Baby said in an audible voice, “If you cry, why can't I? This is a wedding this is, where people have to cry.”

Dear Baby! How Albert would have smiled. I think he might have spoilt Baby as he had Vicky. He may have looked to Baby to take Vicky's place. I shall never be able to forget how heartbroken he was when Vicky went away.

There was more trouble from the children. Wilhelm was crawling on the floor. He had pulled the cairngorm out of his dirk, which was part of his costume and thrown it across the chapel floor. It happened during a silence and caused quite a noise.

Arthur bent down and whispered something to him and Wilhelm then bit Arthur's leg. Leopold tried to remonstrate and Wilhelm turned his attention to his leg.

Oh dear, I thought, I hope Leopold does not bleed.

Between them they managed to subdue Wilhelm and the service went on.

Everyone came back to the Castle for the wedding breakfast. I felt incapable of joining them. It had been a very emotional experience. There had been too many memories of that happy day when my own wedding had been celebrated.

Lenchen came to me afterward. They told me that Wilhelm had thrown her muff out of the carriage and that Baby had said in a very loud voice, when they were driving through Windsor and she had seen the shops, “I did not know before that they had stays in shops.”

We smiled. Baby could always amuse. She did produce some very funny comments.

After the wedding breakfast the bride and groom left for Osborne where they should spend their honeymoon.

I sighed with relief. Bertie was married.