Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (24 page)

“Delicate?” cried Uncle Leopold.

“He was very tired sometimes and he did not like staying up late.
I
love staying up late. I think it is a shame to cut the night short.”

“Oh, Albert was growing. People get tired then.”

“Do they? I do not remember getting tired. But then I have not grown so much as Albert.”

“I thought you and he matched so well together.”

“Oh,” I said, “you are thinking of marriage.”

“Haven't you thought of it?”

“There has been so much to do. No, I had not thought of it, Uncle.”

“I believe you did once… when Albert was here.”

“I was young and romantic then. Now I have state duties. There has been little time to think…of other matters.”

Uncle Leopold laughed. “You have so recently come to the throne. You will learn that royal people have other duties besides officiating at ceremonies and signing papers.”

I thought he was a little displeased with me, and I sought to mollify him.

“You are right, Uncle, of course,” I said. “I hope Albert will pay us another visit.”

“Oh he will. He will.”

Then he talked of other things, of the possibility of there being another election soon, the near balance of the parties making it difficult to conduct government. I told him how relieved I was that the Whigs had retained power because I could get along so easily with Lord Melbourne; and the thought of his being replaced did not please me at all, and that I was taking singing lessons with dear old Lablache and that these took place twice a week.

“It is such a pleasant relaxation from all the business I do. Lablache is so delighted that I have called him in. He would like me to sing more in French but actually I prefer to sing in Italian which seems to suit
the music so much more. Dear Uncle, you and I must sing some duets. I have learned some of your favorites … Just for the joy of singing with you.”

He was so delighted and we did sing together. Uncle Leopold said I had the sweetest voice and asked me to compliment Lablache on the excellence of his tuition.

In the evenings I played chess with Aunt Louise who—I suppose because she played with Uncle Leopold—was very good at the game.

On one occasion when we played, several of the gentlemen who were clearly eager for me to beat her, hovered over the table. There were Lord Melbourne, Lord Palmerston, and Lord Conyngham and they were all telling me how to move and very often the advice was contradictory. I do not think there is anything so disturbing—particularly in chess—as to be looked at while one is pondering the moves and to be given advice. Very naturally I lost to Aunt Louise.

I turned to my advisers and said, “The Queen of the Belgians has triumphed over my Council.”

They all thought this rather amusing, but I did feel I could have given a better account of myself if I had been left alone.

Uncle Leopold and Aunt Louise stayed at Windsor for three weeks. I urged them to stay longer but Uncle Leopold pointed out that he had a kingdom to govern.

Before he went he said, “Albert often thinks of you. You will meet soon, I hope.”

I assured him that I should be delighted to see Albert again. Then they had gone; and how I missed them!

I sat down and wrote to Uncle Leopold at once:

How glad I was that Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston were staying at Windsor. They did help—both of them—and particularly my dear Lord Melbourne—to alleviate my grief.

I had the great pleasure when I was at Windsor of reviewing the troops. I wore something very like the Windsor uniform—and the garter ribbon; and I had a lovely little mare at Windsor called Barbara. She was very frisky and since Lord Melbourne insisted I did not take her to the review but went on steady old Leopold, which was really very wise of him for one needs a patient steed for such a ceremony, which lasts two and a half hours.

“There,” I said to Lord Melbourne afterward, “I have shown you that I can review my troops on a horse and let me tell you, Prime Minister, that I shall never do so from a carriage… until I am very very old.”

“You did splendidly, Ma'am,” said Lord Melbourne. Then he turned away to hide his emotion. “Forgive me,” he said.

My dear Lord Melbourne! I grew fonder of him every day.

I was very sorry when we had to leave Windsor, for although I had been there only six weeks I had grown to love the place. Time passes so quickly when one is happy and the summer of this wonderful year had been the happiest I had ever spent. The people loved me; there were compliments every time I appeared in public; I had spent three weeks with my beloved uncle; and Lord Melbourne had retained the premiership, by the skin of his teeth, as some said, but nevertheless he had held on. The election had been the only thing that had marred perfection, but as Lord Melbourne said, continual perfection might be a little dull, and it was as well to have the odd cloud to make one appreciate the beauty of the summer sky.

But all was well and the glorious year continued.

Alas, we must leave Windsor for I had to be in London for the opening of Parliament.

On the way home we were to call in at Brighton and of course we stayed at that really rather odd palace that my eccentric Uncle George had created.

This was not so pleasant because Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston had returned to London and the Chinese-looking structure with its low rooms did not appeal to me. One could get only the smallest glimpse of the sea from the strange place and it was all rather dull.

I wrote to Lord Melbourne and told him of my impressions of the place and stressed how sorry I was that he was not there.

He wrote back so charmingly—as he always did—and thanked me gracefully for my description of my coming to Brighton.

I supposed he was right. But how tiresome people were! Why could they not accept Lord Melbourne as their Prime Minister and be grateful for him. I was sure there could not be one better.

It was November when I rode into London. The people cheered wildly welcoming me back, and I was so pleased once more to be in dear Buckingham Palace.

Before the opening of Parliament I was to attend the Lord Mayor's Banquet at Guildhall.

At this time Mama showed me clearly that she did not really understand the state of affairs between us.

She wrote a note to me asking me to allow Sir John Conroy to attend the banquet.

I was astonished. Did she not know of the demands Sir John was making? Blackmail, Lord Melbourne called it. I heartily wished that the matter could have been settled and that Sir John would be banished from the Palace, but negotiations still hung fire.

“The Queen,” wrote Mama, “should forget what displeased the Princess.”

I showed the note to Lord Melbourne. “I do so dislike that man,” I said. “I shall never forget how offensive he was to me when he thought he had me in his power.”

“And now,” said Lord Melbourne, “he is in your power.”

“But he is still here. Mama says that my attitude toward him is causing talk.”

“The attitude of people in high places always causes talk.”

“She says my obstinacy in this matter is hurting me more than it is Sir John.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I am not. He deserves everything that comes to him. He is the most odious of men.”

“Then ignore him … until that time when we shall come to our decision.”

“What shall I say?”

“Nothing. Ignore your mother's letter. Leave it alone.”

“I do wish we could finish with him.”

“We will…in time. At the moment… let it go. Say nothing. That is the best way.”

I sighed. I did so wish it could be settled and I need never think of Sir John Conroy again.

Another letter came from Mama.

That is it, Mama, I thought.
I
cannot forget how much he has displeased me. And your relationship with him has shocked me deeply.

Never, never would I forget opening the door and seeing them together and the dire incident that had been for poor Spath.

But I forgot the bitterness when I rode through the streets of London on my way to the Guildhall. The crowd was dense—so many people had come to see their Queen ride by and to express their loyalty to her. What a moving sight! I smiled and waved and there were tears in my eyes. They knew this and loved me for showing my emotion. And as I was sitting down they couldn't see how short I was, although Lord Melbourne was quite right. Many small people had done very well indeed and one should not be bothered by one's height.

There were fifty-eight carriages, and at Temple Bar I was received by the Lord Mayor, Sir John Cowan, with the sheriffs and members of the Corporation of London. It was really a splendid occasion, and I had to confess that I was beginning to love such ceremonies, with myself the center of attraction and the people showing so vociferously that they loved me.

But there was an angry note from Mama. She had not been given the right place at the dinner. Those who should not have been had been set above her. She must see me. It was cruel of me to shut myself away
from my own mother. She was writing to me not as the Queen but as a daughter.

I did see her and it was like being a child again in Kensington Palace. Mama showed clearly that she had forgotten that I was now the Queen. She was quivering with indignation. My treatment of her, my treatment of Sir John Conroy, was monstrous. I was ungrateful. I had forgotten all she had done for me. It poured out of her, all that I had heard so many times before, how she had given up everything for me, how my welfare had been her one concern.

Before I entered the room I had been inclined to believe that I was a little harsh. I had made up my mind that I must see more of her. After all, she
was
my mother. But when I saw her like that, the old resentments came back, and my heart was hardened.

I remained cool and calm and she went on, “You have been so gracious to the Dowager Queen. You have visited her; you have told her that now she is settling in Marlborough House to take any pieces of furniture from Windsor which she may like to have. Oh, you can't do enough for spotty old Adelaide. It is very different with your poor mother.”

I said, “The Dowager Queen was always good to me. I have always been fond of her. She is very sad now, for she loved the King and she has lost him. I want to make her as happy as I can.”

“You always turned to her. And you were against me…your own mother. Adelaide tried to turn you from me.”

“She never did.”

“All those invitations to balls…so that she could get you to marry George Cambridge.”

“She thought I should live a normal childhood, that I should have some pleasure and be with other children. She knew that I was more or less a prisoner in Kensington.”

“I never heard such nonsense. And the bastards… the FitzClarences…You have taken good care of them too.”

I said, “They have never done me any harm. Aunt Adelaide treats them like her own children.”

“Then more fool her! All these you go out of your way to favor, and your poor mother, who looked after you, who gave her life to you…”

I said coldly, “Mama, you saw that I was fed and clothed, but your goal was to become Regent through me. That was why I was so important to you…not for my sake… but for your own. Always you pushed me aside—ridiculously often at ceremonies when people had come to see me.
They called my name and you took it as homage to you. It never was. Nor to me either. It was to the Crown. Let us be fair. Let us be honest. I am now the Queen. I will not have Sir John Conroy in my household, and I will not be told by you what I must do. You have your apartments here, and I must ask you to keep to them unless you are invited otherwise.”

I turned and went out of the room, leaving her deflated and bewildered.

She could not now remain unconvinced that I was determined. I was of age. I was the Queen, and she must perforce obey me.

Ten days later I opened Parliament.

D
URING THE FIRST
session of that Parliament the Civil List came under discussion and to my joy I was voted £385,000 a year—£60,000 of which was for my privy purse. This was £10,000 more than had been allotted to my Uncle William and was most gratifying. I was now rich, but Lehzen had brought me up to be provident and I had learned that however much one had, if one were extravagant, that could not be enough. I should not be as my father had been and hoped that when
I
died I would not leave behind a mountain of debts as he had done. Certain debts of his were still outstanding and the first thing I should do was settle them out of my privy purse.

As a Queen I should have great expenses but I had been careful ever since the days when I had saved up six shillings to buy the beautiful doll I coveted.