The Captive of Kensington Palace (23 page)

‘And he loves you. You should hear him talk of the perfections of his Aunt Adelaide. Sometimes he calls you Queeny as the little ones do.’

Adelaide smiled. ‘The darlings!’ she said.

‘And Victoria … she is never there,’ said Frederica.

‘Never. Such a pity. Poor child. They are bringing her up so strictly. I believe she rarely has any fun.’

‘She should be meeting her cousins.’

‘That’s what William says. But to tell the truth I rarely broach the subject of Victoria to him. It upsets him.’

‘And George Cambridge is well?’

‘Very well and happy I’m glad to say.’ Adelaide’s expression softened even further. Young Cambridge was the favourite … he and little crippled Louise. They were the Queen’s special charges because they were always with her, the parents of both those children being overseas.

And how, wondered Frederica, are we going to oust Cambridge from first place? That will be difficult. The only one who could do it would be Victoria herself. Surely she must prefer her cousin Cumberland. Was there some way of bringing their son to Victoria without young Cambridge’s being there?

That was something which could not be discussed with Adelaide.

‘The two boys are the best of friends … your George and mine,’ said Adelaide.

Her George! Oh dear! She would try to marry Victoria to Cambridge and the King would do the same. She and Ernest would have to think of something.

‘Such a good boy! He writes to his mother regularly. Poor Augusta! I fear it is a sad wrench to part with him. I do not know how she does it. I tell her that her loss is my gain … but
how I
feel for her!’

Adelaide would run on for hours about her precious children if allowed to but Frederica found it particularly galling to listen to an account of the virtues of George Cambridge, her son’s chief rival for the hand of Victoria.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘that you came to comfort me. Dear Adelaide, you are such a good soul. But there is no need to remain silent about all these distressing matters. They are uppermost in our minds, we both know.’

‘My dear Frederica, I too have suffered from these wicked scribblers.’

‘They delight in taunting us. That affair took place years ago. It is wicked of them to revive it now.’

Frederica was referring to a recent pamphlet printed by a certain Joseph Phillips which had revived that long-ago scandal concerning the Duke of Cumberland and his valet Sellis. Sellis had been found in his room in the Duke’s apartment at St James’s with his throat cut; the Duke had been badly wounded. The Duke’s story had been that the valet had attacked him and then cut his own throat because he feared the consequences. ‘He went mad suddenly,’ was the Duke’s verdict, but as Sellis had a pretty wife and the Duke’s reputation was quite evil then as now the general opinion had been that the Duke had been discovered in the woman’s bed by her husband who had understandably remonstrated. The Duke had then murdered Sellis and inflicted a wound on himself to attempt to make good his version of the affair. This had happened more than twenty years before; but the Duke had become very unpopular during the agitation over the Reform Bill because he had been one of its most enthusiastic opponents. Then of course there had recently been the charge of incest with his sister Sophia which had been brought up against him, in addition to which there was the suicide of Lord Graves, with whose wife the Duke was conducting an affair. No member of the royal family had a more sinister reputation than the Duke of Cumberland; but never had the people been so much against him as when he opposed the Reform Bill.

Cumberland, angry that Phillips should have dared print this pamphlet particularly at such a time when, with the help of the Orange Lodges, he hoped to be the King of England, prosecuted Phillips who had just been found guilty and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment.

‘At least,’ soothed Adelaide, ‘the man was found guilty.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Frederica, a little impatiently, ‘but people forget that the man was sentenced and they go on thinking Ernest a murderer.’

‘They cannot do that.’ But Adelaide spoke half-heartedly. She was remembering how she had once feared that Ernest was planning some harm to little Victoria. She had herself spoken to the Duchess of Kent and begged her to be careful not to let the child out of her sight.

It was hard to think of dear George being the son of a murderer. He was such a delightful boy and she loved him dearly, nearly as much as George Cambridge.

Frederica sighed. ‘We must resign ourselves to being targets for the wits,’ she said. ‘But there are some who are determined to blacken Ernest’s name.’

To blacken it? thought Adelaide. That would be difficult. It was really as black as possible already.

‘Brougham,’ went on Frederica, ‘insulted him in the Lords the other day.’

‘Is that so?’

‘I am afraid it is. He referred to him – and Ernest was present at the time – as “the Illustrious Duke – illustrious only by courtesy”.’

‘And what will Ernest do about that?’

‘What can he do? He can’t prosecute Lord Brougham. But he’ll remember it if ever …’

Oh dear, she was being led away by Adelaide’s sympathy.

‘It is so distressing,’ she finished on a pathetic note.

‘My dear Frederica! And my purpose in coming here was to comfort you! Let us talk of happier things. Shall I tell you about the children’s ball I am planning?’

‘Please do. And will Victoria be there?’

‘She shall be invited.’

‘I’ll tell you a secret. My George is very taken with her.’

‘So is mine … dear Cambridge! He could talk of nothing else after their meeting. She is a charming creature. Oh, how I wish her mother would be less tiresome. In fact, I believe the King will be firm and insist on her coming out of retirement. It is ridiculous … the heiress to the throne!’

‘Quite!’ agreed Frederica.

She was wondering whether to speak to her son. He was something of an idealist. She could imagine his saying: ‘Well, if she prefers Cambridge, she must marry him.’ How did we produce such a son … such an intelligent, charming,
good
boy? But he was not really very ambitious. Doubtless he would be happier so. And I want his happiness above all things, thought Frederica, but I want him to rule England as well.

When Adelaide left she was turning over in her mind how she could bring Victoria and her son together. If only she could ask Victoria to visit her. As if that would be allowed! Well, that was Ernest’s fault. He had at one time had rather wicked ideas about her and as he had been too indiscreet and not clever enough people had got wind of his intentions. No, little Victoria would never be allowed to escape her watch-dogs. And to come to the wicked Cumberlands! That was a joke!

Never mind; she would discuss this with Ernest and they would think of something. She would not despair. Her plan now was to see Ernest King of Hanover and George consort of Victoria.

If that happens I shall be content, she told herself.

She was musing on this when a messenger came from Clarence House. It was from the Queen. She was setting out for Kew immediately and she believed that the Duchess might wish to come with her. There had been an accident in the gardens. George Cumberland had been hurt.

The Duchess set out at once.

Adelaide comforted her. The reports had been exaggerated she was sure. They would find this so when they reached Kew. Frederica must not imagine the worst.

Adelaide’s message had not been very clear. All she knew was that there had been an accident.

‘A … serious accident?’ whispered Frederica.

Adelaide put an arm about her. ‘I beg of you … don’t despair. Wait and see. I
know
he is going to be all right.’

So on that anxious journey down to Kew, the Queen comforted the Duchess of Cumberland, and when they arrived Frederica was taken straight to the room in which her son lay. His head was bandaged so that she could not recognise him. She took his hand and sank down by the bedside.

‘Your Grace,’ said the doctors, ‘His Highness will live. You need have no fear of that.’

She wept quietly and meanwhile the Queen had called the doctors aside.

‘Pray tell me the worst,’ she said. ‘I want the truth.’

‘Your Majesty, His Highness is in no danger of death.’

‘Then …’

One doctor looked at the other who said, ‘We fear that he has damaged his eyes so badly that blindness may result.’

The Queen felt as though she would faint.

‘Pray,’ she said, ‘do not tell the Duchess yet. It must be broken gently … gradually. Leave this to me.’

And they were content to do this.

  Chapter X  

ROYAL PROGRESS

V
ictoria, waking at half past seven, sat up in bed and looked about the strange room wondering where she was. Then she remembered. Chatsworth! They had arrived here on the previous night and it had been dark so that she had been unable to see the house. The Duke of Devonshire had welcomed them at the door and been very respectful to Mamma and herself, declaring that he was honoured to receive them. These receptions always delighted Mamma and put her into a good temper; and if their hosts and hostesses were especially welcoming to Sir John Conroy, Mamma was even more pleased.

There was no doubt about it that she enjoyed travel. They had been moving from one place to another since August. How excited she had been on that day when they had left Kensington Palace and taken the new road to Regent’s Park, through such pretty country! Such good progress they had made, leaving the Palace at six minutes past seven and arriving at Barnet, where they changed horses, at twenty minutes to nine. She could be precise about the details because she had written it all down in her Journal.

How right Mamma had been about the pleasures of a Journal! One could recall what had happened so vividly. Of course, she must always remember that Mamma would read her Journal and that meant that she could not write
exactly
what she felt. In fact she was not always sure what she did feel – about Sir John for one thing. But if she could have written down these vague doubts it would have been rather exciting.

But there were so many things one must not do – far more it seemed than those one could. So it was best to enjoy what one was allowed to and keep the rest for the days when she would be free.

And now here she was on this sunny October day lying in bed in Chatsworth. The door was open and Mamma was sleeping in the room beyond. There was no escape. ‘Chatsworth is a very fine mansion,’ Mamma had said when they drove towards it; she was looking forward to seeing it in detail. Last night she and Lehzen had dined alone in this room while Mamma was entertained at a grand dinner which Victoria was considered too young to attend. Oh dear, it would not always be so!

What a great deal of England she was seeing! Of course she already knew Ramsgate very well and she had been to Brighton; but this was different; this was travelling all over England which, Mamma had said, ‘will one day be yours’.

So fascinating, she thought. I have been very much
amused
.

They had journeyed right up to the Midlands and seen the Black Country – where everything indeed did look black. She had been rather worried about some of the poor ragged children, but Mamma had said that they were
necessary
. She wondered why, but one did not argue with Mamma. They had been received in great houses wherever they went; some of the castles had been a little draughty, but there had always been fires in her room. Everyone seemed anxious to placate her, even though Mamma insisted that she was only a child and in great need of guidance.

Wales had been exciting – particularly when she had explored the ruins of Carnarvon Castle and a royal salute had been fired. In fact royal salutes were fired everywhere and this seemed to make Mamma very pleased, while Sir John had that strange rather mischievous twinkle in his eyes which she had begun to notice.

She heard him say to Mamma: ‘This will give His Majesty the greatest pleasure when he hears of it,’ and she knew by the tone of his voice that he meant exactly the opposite – which was to say the least deceitful – and deceit was a trait which Victoria particularly disliked.

Then they had gone on board the
Emerald
which was lying off-shore. And how she loved the ship! They had just heard that Uncle Leopold had married. Mamma said it was a Good Thing, but she was not quite sure in her mind of this. She and Uncle Leopold had loved each other fondly, and she had always believed that she had been his dearest; but if he had a wife could this be so? There again, that was something one could not write in one’s Journal. ‘Your welfare is the nearest thing to my heart,’ Uncle Leopold had said many times. But how could that be if he had a wife? Of course she was only a little girl – thirteen years old and Uncle Leopold was a man who had already been married. It was quite impossible that she could marry Uncle Leopold, but if she could have … It was something which it was absurd to think of and which she would never write in her Journal, but she had to admit that she did love him more than anyone else in the world and that was how one should feel about one’s husband. And now he had a wife … a new wife to take the place of that hoyden Princess Charlotte who was long since dead but who lived on in dear Louisa Lewis’s memory in haunted Claremont.

‘It’s a good marriage,’ Mamma had said. ‘I believe Louise to be the favourite daughter of the King of France.’

Oh yes, it appeared to be a very good marriage. Louise of Orleans, daughter of Louis Philippe. She would be the Queen of the Belgians now. And Victoria hoped she would be worthy of dearest Uncle Leopold – although she gravely doubted that anyone could be that.

That was August 9th; and she would always remember it as Uncle Leopold’s wedding day.

Her feelings had changed little, for she and her uncle still exchanged loving letters. She was longing to meet her new Aunt and she felt that she was going to love her because Uncle Leopold did.

Well, they had travelled through Wales and been much fêted, but her pleasure had been marred by the sad news about George Cumberland. Poor George! There were grave fears that he would go blind and his Mamma was frantic about it and was talking about taking him to Germany for an operation.

‘How I should love to go and see him,’ she had said. ‘I should like to tell him that I am thinking of him. I should like to send him flowers every day which I would pick myself.’

‘What nonsense!’ Mamma had said. ‘My dear child, don’t you realise yet that everything you do is significant. As the future Queen you cannot send flowers to boys. In any case it would only arouse hopes which could never come to anything.’

‘I only want him to know how sorry I am, Mamma, about his eyes.’

‘It’s a judgment,’ said Mamma piously, and obscurely as far as Victoria was concerned.

But she did think of poor George Cumberland often, and she would shut her eyes and wonder what it was like not to be able to see at all.

It was now eight o’clock and time to get up. So she did and by nine she was seated at a table in a room overlooking the park where she breakfasted in the company of Lehzen. She studied the room, for she would have to describe it in her Journal. She wished she could make a sketch of it, but Lehzen sitting there with that rather anxious look on her face would be far more interesting to sketch than any room. Why was Lehzen anxious? Was she worried about something Victoria had done, or was it Mamma and Sir John – for she was sure Lehzen did worry about them – or was it because of the royal salutes and all the ceremonies which Mamma and Sir John insisted on and of which the King had expressed his disapproval?

She studied the ceiling painted with figures to represent some mythology, she did not know which, nor would she ask Lehzen for it would only provoke a lecture. The things she really wanted to know were not told her. So she remarked that it was a splendid room and it was a magnificent carpet and the waterfall she could see in the grounds was very lovely. All of which seemed the right sort of conversation to satisfy Lehzen.

‘It is a very fine house,’ she said.

‘It is reckoned one of the finest in the country,’ remarked Lehzen.

‘Finer than Kensington Palace,’ commented Victoria.

‘Later in the morning you will be taken on a tour of the house. Lord and Lady Cavendish are making up a party.’

‘That,’ said Victoria, ‘will amuse me very much.’

And it did and gave her plenty to write about in the Journal; and when they were in the grounds the Duke of Devonshire, who was walking beside her, said: ‘I wonder whether Your Highness would honour us by planting a tree in the grounds.’

‘Oh, I should like that.’

‘I will ask her Grace if you may do so.’

‘But I
will
do so.’

Oh dear, what had made her say that! She was pink with mortification, for what if Mamma should say ‘No’ and she have to break her word.

But Mamma was already approaching, accompanied by Lord and Lady Cavendish. ‘Victoria,’ she said, ‘you are to plant an oak and I a Spanish chestnut.’ So it was all right.

They planted their trees and she wondered what the world would be like when hers became a great tree; and what fun it would be to come to Chatsworth now and then and examine its progress.

Mamma was in a good mood because she too had planted a tree. Victoria had noticed that although Mamma wanted all possible honours for her daughter she was always a little cross if they were not extended to herself. What Mamma really wanted was Uncle William to die so that Victoria could be a Queen who had no authority. Then Mamma could be Regent. Oh dear, she was becoming
very
critical of Mamma who, as she was so fond of telling her, had done everything for her.

After luncheon there was a visit to Haddon Hall – a fascinating old house which dated back to the twelfth century; and afterwards they returned to Chatsworth where the Devonshires and their friends had devised a charade for the royal visitors.

Lehzen said: ‘The Duchess tells me that you may be allowed to sit up for the charade.’

‘Oh, that will be wonderful!’

‘It is really,’ went on Lehzen, ‘not to disappoint the Devonshires.’

‘It makes me very happy to know that they would be disappointed if I were not there.’

‘It is not to be taken as a precedent,’ Lehzen warned.

No! thought Victoria. But I am getting older and when I am of age I shall not be told when I must go to bed either by Lehzen, Sir John Conroy or even Mamma.

It was ten o’clock when the charade began. Victoria was seated beside Mamma and chairs were ranged all round them. Most of the candles were put out and the few remaining ones gave only a glimmer of light. Victoria was very excited. She looked at Victoire Conroy who always shared everything and on this occasion she was glad because they would be able to discuss the charade together afterwards.

‘It is to be in three syllables,’ said Mamma, ‘and there will be four acts. In the last, you must listen for the whole word.’

‘I shall, Mamma.’

This, she thought, is the sort of party Aunt Adelaide gives. How I should love to go to them. And once again the resentment towards Mamma was making itself felt. But she must give her entire attention to the charade if she were going to discover the word.

The first act was a scene from
Bluebeard
. How exciting! And then there was one depicting a scene at the Nile, and after that a scene from
Tom Thumb
. Best of all was the last act in which Queen Elizabeth figured with the Earl of Leicester and Amy Robsart. Victoria was excited because she guessed the word which was Kenilworth; and there they were in costumes similar to those her dolls had worn. She became so excited that the Duchess laid a restraining hand on her arm.

‘Pray, child, you forget yourself,’ she whispered in a shocked voice; and for a moment that resentment flared up again.

Mamma disapproved. Victoria would hear more of this, and she would have to be taught to remember her dignity in all circumstances.

Victoria noticed with glee that it was nearly twelve o’clock before she went to bed.