Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (16 page)

If the servants heard they would shudder. That was not the manner in which the Prince Regent – that arbiter of good manners – summoned people to his presence. But William was a rough sailor and had no intention of changing his manners. People must get used to them. They should be by now.

George came and stood before him. William’s eyes grew sentimental as he looked at his eldest son. He was very handsome in his military uniform. He had a look of Dorothy about him, and William flattered himself – for George was very attractive – he was not without a resemblance to his father.

‘George,’ he said, ‘your new stepmother is at Grillon’s. Go and welcome her.’

‘You mean
I’m
to go?’

‘Why not? You’re her stepson.’

‘Won’t she expect to see you?’ The FitzClarence children never stood on ceremony with their father although, regarding themselves as royal, they could be arrogant enough with others.

‘It may be she will; but she will see her stepson instead.’

‘What about her mother and the statesmen they’ve brought with them? Will they be pleased?’

‘It’s a gesture, you see. It’s like saying to her: See, this is your new family. I want her to understand that she’s to be a stepmother as well as a wife.’

George thought it a good idea that she should be made aware of the importance of the FitzClarence children in their father’s life and said he would set out at once.

William watched him leave.

In due course, he said to himself, I shall put in an appearance. Poor girl, she must be overwrought. An ordeal to come to marry a stranger. She must be terrified of the impression she may make on me.

It did not occur to William to wonder what impression he might make on her. He was, after all, third son of the King, with a fair chance of wearing the crown.

George FitzClarence arrived at Grillon’s and was conducted to a room where he was received by Adelaide and the Duchess Eleanor.

He announced himself: ‘George FitzClarence, son of the Duke. He suggested I should come to welcome you.’

The Duchess Eleanor’s face was a mask of disapproval, but Adelaide smilingly held out her hand.

‘You are the eldest son.’

‘Yes – and there are ten of us – five boys and five girls – even numbers, you see.’

‘Yes,’ said Adelaide. ‘Even numbers will be easy to remember.’

‘My father wants to present us all to you.’

‘And I shall be eager to meet you all.’

‘We’re not all at Bushy at the moment. The girls are most anxious to meet you.’

‘All five of them?’ asked Adelaide.

The Duchess Eleanor could not understand her daughter. This was an affront. Was the Duke of Clarence deliberately trying to insult Adelaide? The idea of sending the son of his mistress to greet his future wife!

And Adelaide did not seem to see this. She was talking to this FitzClarence man – who could only be a year or so younger than she was herself – as though she found his conversation entertaining and there was nothing disgraceful in his being here.

‘Tell me about your brothers and sisters,’ Adelaide was saying.

‘There’s Henry, a year younger than I. He’s in the Army now although he did join the Navy at first. Following in Father’s footsteps, you might say. But he didn’t care for it and transferred to the Army. There’s Frederick – also a soldier and the handsome one of the family. Adolphus is in the Navy, and then there is Augustus. He’s the youngest boy and is only thirteen, although Amelia is the youngest of us all, aged eleven.’

‘And the girls?’

‘Sophia, Mary, Elizabeth, Augusta and Amelia.’

‘I feel I know something of the family already.’

‘My father will be pleased. He said he wanted you to like us.’

‘Did he say that?’

The Duchess Eleanor said: ‘I believe someone is arriving. I should hope it is the Duke of Clarence.’

‘I hardly think so … yet,’ said George FitzClarence and strode to the window.

The manners of these people! thought the Duchess Eleanor. Is this what my daughter is expected to endure in England?

‘Oh, it’s Uncle George,’ announced FitzClarence. ‘My namesake.’

‘Uncle George …’ stammered Adelaide.

‘The Prince Regent,’ announced George.

Now the Duchess Eleanor could not complain of the lack of good manners.

He had entered the room – a glittering personage, his diamond star blazing on his mulberry velvet coat, his white buckskin
breeches gleaming, his chins carefully hidden by the swathed silk of his cravat; his nut-brown wig was an elegant mass of curls; the most delicate of perfumes came from him; and his bow was a masterpiece of perfection.

He held out both hands – delicately white, discreetly flashing with diamonds – in a gesture of informal friendliness.

‘My dear
dear
sister. So you have come to us at last.’

The little nose was humorous, the eyes shrewd. He – that connoisseur of feminine beauty was thinking: Poor William, she’s a plain little thing and her complexion is very bad.

Maria Fitzherbert’s complexion had been the most dazzling in the world – completely naturally so. He had noticed it the first time he had seen her on the towpath near Richmond, years and years ago. And her hair was golden like the corn in August. This young woman reminded him of Maria by what she lacked.

Poor William!

But he said: ‘Enchanting! Enchanting! And I trust you are well looked after here?’

‘Your Highness is gracious,’ said the Duchess Eleanor. ‘The Duke of Clarence has not yet called but he sent his … this gentleman … to welcome us.’

The Regent gave a surprised look in the direction of George FitzClarence. What a tactless fool William was! If there was a wrong thing to do William could be relied upon to do it.

Well, he would save the situation as he was well able to do; he was delighted to see that even the mother was in awe of him. So charmingly he set them at their ease and chatted light-heartedly about the family, what they must see in England, how delighted he was that they had come.

And while they were chatting easily another arrival was announced.

The Duke of Clarence had at last arrived to greet his bride.

They regarded each other cautiously.

He was an ageing man; it was true his head was the shape of a pineapple; he had the Hanoverian eyes, blue, protuberant, and there was a hint of wildness in them; he was not nearly as tall nor as glorious as his dazzling brother; but somehow the thought
of that ready-made family to whom she had been introduced by the eldest member of it – if only by hearsay – made her feel less alarmed than she might have done. There was something about him that was young, in spite of his age. She supposed it would be called naïve, and oddly enough this was comforting.

She had been brought up to believe that one day she would have to marry and very likely a strange Prince in a foreign land. Well, having seen him she was not as afraid as she had thought she might be.

He looked at her and felt a twinge of disappointment. She was no beauty. But he liked her gentle manner. And when she told him that she had already made the acquaintance of his son George and that George had talked to her of the rest of the family, he felt his spirits uplifted.

If she would come to Bushy and live there with them all, if she was ready to be a stepmother to the children, and if she could give him the child who would be the heir to the throne, he would be content.

They talked of her journey and he told her of the improvements he had made to the house at Bushy which was quite his favourite residence. He was looking forward to showing it to her.

It was almost a prosaic meeting. They had come nowhere near falling in love at first sight.

But she had decided that she might have had worse than her ageing Duke; and he perceived that although she did not possess the attractions of that brash young beauty Miss Wykeham, nor the exquisite features of Miss Tylney-Long, nor the handsome looks of Miss Mercer Elphinstone – all of whom he had tried to persuade to marry him – it might well be that she had qualities which those more flamboyant ladies lacked.

When they parted, although they could scarcely be said to be elated, they were not unduly dismayed.

When they were alone the fury of the Duchess Eleanor broke forth.

‘I never imagined that you would be treated like this! I am going to suggest that we return to Saxe-Meiningen tomorrow. Or … or …’ She faltered, but Adelaide smiled.

‘Dearest Mamma, you know that it is the last thing you wish.’

‘We should be objects of ridicule. It would be said that he had seen you and refused to marry you.’

‘And I should never have another chance to marry. Think of that, Mamma.’

‘But not to greet us! To let us come to an hotel. And then … insult on injury to send that, that …
bastard
of his to be so insolent to you.’

‘I liked him, Mamma; and after all, he will be my stepson.’

‘I should not use that word to describe your future husband’s bastard.’

‘But that’s what he is, Mamma. They will all be my stepchildren … all ten of them.’

‘You must refuse to see them.’

‘I could not do that.’

‘Why not? Why not? Von Konitz shall speak to the Regent immediately. We will make it a condition.’

‘It is not what I wish.’

The Duchess Eleanor looked in surprise at her daughter. There had been one or two occasions in Adelaide’s life when she had taken a stand and like all usually malleable people when she did stand firmly there was no shaking her.

‘You can’t mean …’

‘I mean this,’ said Adelaide, ‘that my future husband already has a large family of whom he is obviously fond. What chance of happiness should I have as his wife if I refused to acknowledge them?’

‘Your husband’s family. The children of an actress … who by all accounts must have been a loose woman, for these ten children are not the only ones she has had.’

‘They are nevertheless the Duke’s children. You always knew, Mamma, that I wanted to be a member of a big family. I regretted that I had not more sisters and brothers. Well, when I marry the Duke I shall become a member of one. That is one of the things that please me most in this marriage.’

The Duchess Eleanor stared at her daughter.

‘I shall speak to both Konitz and Effa in the morning.’

‘Mamma, I am sorry to say this, but this is my marriage. I
think that I should be the one who decides how it shall be conducted.’

What had happened to Adelaide? She had become an autocrat already. Perhaps though, decided the Duchess Eleanor, one should rejoice because she had not given way to melancholy at the sight of her ageing bridegroom.

A very unbecoming welcome; and I tremble to think of leaving my daughter behind in such company.

Adelaide, oddly enough, seemed quite composed. It was strange to think that it was due to her future husband’s family of bastards.

The Duke of Kent had brought his Duchess to England that the ceremony might be repeated there in the presence of the Prince Regent and the Queen. They considered themselves in fact, already married.

The Queen received the Duchess graciously; she liked what she saw of her; but as she said afterwards to Augustus and Sophia she was so disgusted by Cumberland’s wife that any of her son’s consorts seemed admirable in comparison.

But undoubtedly the Duchess of Kent was a discreet and worthy woman. She had left her son and daughter in Leiningen, whither she and the Duke would return for a while after their three weeks honeymoon in England.

Apartments at Kensington Palace were offered to the Duke and these he gratefully accepted. They rode out to Claremont to see Victoria’s brother Leopold, who wept with joy and declared that nothing now could please him more than to see this match brought to fruition, for theirs was a union very near to his heart.

‘I have not been so happy since my dearest Charlotte died,’ he said.

Victoria, who was practical, asked him if he were wise to remain at Claremont, the scene of his last months with Charlotte.

‘Wise?’ he asked. ‘I am nearer to Charlotte here than anywhere else.’

‘Dearest Leopold,’ said Victoria, ‘you prolong your grief. You should get away.’

‘You don’t understand,’ groaned Leopold.

‘I too have lost a husband.’

Leopold looked at her in astonishment. How could she compare that old husband of hers with his young and vital Charlotte. But he merely covered his eyes with his hands and Victoria said no more.

He took them over Claremont. ‘This was the room where she died. I have left it just as it was on that dreadful day. This is her cloak. After the last walk she took in the grounds, she hung it there. I won’t have it moved.’

Victoria said: ‘Dearest brother, it is time you took a holiday away from England.’

‘It is what I propose to do. And when you are married you may borrow Claremont for your honeymoon.’

‘That is excellent news, is it not, Edward?’ asked Victoria.

Edward was forming the habit of agreeing with everything Victoria said and did, and he immediately concurred.

So it was decided that after the wedding the honeymoon should be spent here.

‘And the first thing I shall do,’ the practical Victoria told her husband, ‘is take down Charlotte’s cloak and rearrange that bedroom in which she died.’

The Duchess Eleanor was received by the Queen, who was feeling a little better on this day. She explained to Duchess Eleanor the nature of her complaint and how it varied with the days.

‘Anxiety does not improve it,’ she explained. ‘And I have had plenty of that and to spare.’

Duchess Eleanor inclined her head sympathetically.

‘I trust Adelaide will be happy here,’ said the Queen.

‘I shall feel that she has found a mother in Your Majesty.’

The Queen graciously inclined her head.

‘William is not the most level-headed of the Princes, so I am particularly relieved that Adelaide seems to be a
sensible
young woman.’

‘Your Majesty will find her so. She has a good heart. In fact there is a matter on which I would ask Your Majesty’s advice.’