Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (34 page)

Lord Ponsonby! thought the King. He had heard when he had first become friendly with Elizabeth that Ponsonby had been one of her lovers. He had not paid a great deal of attention. A woman like Elizabeth would be certain to have had many lovers.

And Ponsonby was back in England and Elizabeth was suffering from constant minor ailments which prevented her from sharing the King’s company as frequently as in the past.

‘Ponsonby is a most handsome man,’ went on Madame de Lieven mischievously.

‘I have heard that opinion expressed before. Was his wife with him?’

‘No. She was not present on this occasion. So … he had more opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with old friends.’

Stupid Elizabeth, he thought. Did she think he would not
hear? And if she wanted to go … let her. She was a foolish woman in any case.

‘He is a clever fellow, this Ponsonby.’

‘He is said to be.’

The King was silent for a while and then he went on: ‘Madame de Lieven, I can talk to you very confidentially.’

‘Sir, I am honoured.’

‘I have always respected your intellect, Madame de Lieven, which is a great attraction when one is surrounded by somewhat stupid people.’

‘Stupid people, Sir?’

‘A stupid woman,’ said the King in a sudden anger against Elizabeth Conyngham because his gout had started to be very painful and Elizabeth did not care and he should never have allowed Maria Fitzherbert to leave him.

‘Your Majesty cannot be referring to … Lady Conyngham?’

‘I am,’ said the King shortly.

‘But … she is Your Majesty’s very good friend. I believed … and so did others …’

‘Things are not always as they seem. I find the woman a stupid bore. She is handsome, physically attractive but mentally she is an ignoramus; she bores me with her chatter. I am tired … tired … tired …’

‘Your Majesty!’

He laid his hand over hers. She
was
an attractive woman. She was a woman of the world. She did not possess the fair good looks which he had always admired, but her conversation and wit would make up for her lack of beauty. Not that she was an unattractive woman by any means. There were rumours of her very romantic relationship with Prince Metternich. She was elegant and worldly.

Yes, he would be pleased to replace Lady Conyngham by her.

Madame de Lieven was alarmed. She had merely been maliciously amused by the King’s mistress who couldn’t make up her mind what to do – stay with the King and enjoy the glory or leave the King and enjoy herself. The silly empty-headed creature had been debating that for some time; but she would not do so much longer because the handsome Ponsonby, romantic figure
from the past, had come forward to make up her mind for her.

Poor King! thought Madame de Lieven. But no woman in her right senses would agree to become his mistress just because Elizabeth Conyngham had decided she was bored with the job. And that it was indeed boring Madame de Lieven was well aware. He was leading the life of an invalid – bed till the afternoon, a little drive in the forest, cards. Ugh! thought Madame de Lieven.

‘I have long admired your elegance and wit,’ said the King.

‘How gracious of Your Majesty to say so.’

‘I have often thought how delighted I should be if ours were to become a closer relationship.’

‘Your Majesty does me too much honour.’ She had skilfully removed her hand. What a scene, she thought. She would embellish it a little (writer’s licence) and tell her Prince, in one of her amusing letters, all about it.

But how to extricate herself? It should not be so difficult with the King as with some men. He was so quick to catch an inflection of the voice, the meaning behind the words. He had had many adventures with women, although it would be a rare occurrence for him to be told that he was not wanted.

‘We must talk of this,’ he went on.

‘I had meant to tell Your Majesty that I may be obliged to leave Court for a few weeks.’

He had taken the hint. He had withdrawn but with the utmost ease. He would never forget his courtly manners.

‘Your Majesty will understand how exacting it is to be the wife of a diplomat.’

Of course she was not going to leave Court. She would merely keep clear of him for a few weeks. She could not openly refuse the King’s advances but at the same time she need not accept them.

The King began to talk of his building plans. They were most intricate and he was eager to see them put into practice. One day when she
returned
to Court he would
arrange
for her to see them.

His Majesty was indeed gracious, said Madame de Lieven.

When she left the King she could not wait to pick up her pen. What a story! The King was tired of Conyngham; he thought her
a bore and a fool. He had sought to replace her – and by none other than the wife of the Russian ambassador!

How fascinating! And how delightful to tell it. The Prince would realize what a
femme fatale
he had for a friend.

That night the King felt very melancholy.

Madame de Lieven had told him quite clearly that she would not consider being his dear friend.

He pictured himself making advances to attractive women who would imply politely that they had no wish to share his life. Who would have believed it in those days when he was merely Prince of Wales and he only had to signify his desire to speak to a woman and she was ready to give all he asked.

And now he was a king. But of what importance was rank when one had lost youth.

He must not lose Elizabeth.

He sent for his foreign secretary.

George Canning was a man who had once been a supporter of Caroline, but the King had learned to trust him.

He said when he arrived: ‘I heard Ponsonby is back from Corfu.’

‘That is so, Your Majesty.’

‘A clever fellow, I believe.’

‘I have seen no evidence of it, Sir.’

‘But somewhat personable. How old is he?’

‘Oh … in his early fifties I should think.’

Younger than I, thought the King.

‘It seems to me that he has the necessary qualifications for service abroad. Good ambassadors are not easy to find.’

Canning knew, of course, of Lady Conyngham’s interest in Ponsonby. The King’s affairs were common knowledge. He was not at all sure that he approved of selecting the country’s ambassadors in order to remove them from the field of the King’s amatory adventures. But the King was sick and in need of the comfort a woman could give. Lady Conyngham was not the person best suited to minister to the King, but he had chosen her; and it was important to keep the King happy.

Canning thought: If he dies there is York, who sometimes
seems even more of an invalid than the King; and then Clarence whom everyone knows is a fool – and he is not very young at that. And after him … the child Victoria, who must be just about seven years old.

No, the King must be kept happy.

‘We could use Ponsonby in South America,’ he said. ‘I will sound him.’

‘Offer him an attractive post.’

‘Your Majesty may rely on me.’

So it was arranged tactfully.

All through the year the King alternated between dangerous illness and recovery. He could on occasions appear at functions charming everyone, laughing, quipping and consuming large quantities of wine; then he would go to Brighton and shut himself away, not leaving his bedroom for several days. He would have to be wheeled from room to room and it was reported that the water was rising in him and he could not last much longer.

The Duke of York suffered from the same complaint. He too was said to be near to death on more than one occasion.

In the fashionable clubs bets were taken. Would the Duke of York ever be King of England? One day the King was said to be the ‘favourite’; the next the Duke.

William had decided to take his wife abroad again that year; and he took some of the family with him. All the old haunts were visited; they called on Adelaide’s mother, on the Queen of Würtemburg and Ida at Ghent. William found it most enjoyable and he believed that the waters at the spa of Ems were good for him.

When news reached him about the illness of the King and the Duke of York the enormity of what this could mean was brought home to him. He discussed it with Adelaide.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘I always thought that Fred would be King if George went. And there is not much difference between our ages. Two years to be precise. But if they
both
went …’

‘You would be King, William.’

‘King William,’ he repeated.

There was a strange look in his eyes. He was realizing that he was ambitious.

‘I’d never really faced the fact that George could die. He’s been there all my life. The first person I was aware of was George. We are great friends, Adelaide.’

‘I know of your fondness for the King.’

William nodded. ‘Oh yes, George has been a good brother to me.’

‘And still is.’

‘But he’s a sick man, you must realize. He can’t live for ever and Fred is a sick man, too … and if he goes … By God, Adelaide,
I
shall be King.’

It seemed strange that he should react in this way. He had always known that there was a possibility that one day he could be King. But it was coming nearer and now it seemed almost a certainty.

‘You see, Adelaide, they’re both
ill
. They’re both sick men. At home … they are asking which one will die first. You see, Adelaide …’

She was alarmed by the excitement in his voice; and she noticed the wild look in his eyes.

‘It could come … soon. Perhaps even now … Adelaide, perhaps even now …’

‘If it were so you would hear quickly,’ she told him calmly. ‘The King has been ill for so long and recovered so many times. And so has the Duke of York.’

‘But they say … Just fancy it, Adelaide, King William.’

‘You would be desolate if George died,’ she said. ‘And so should I. He has been a good brother to us both.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m fond of George. But …’ Then he smiled slowly. ‘Adelaide,’ he went on, ‘I think this is a time when we should be in England.’

She could only agree that this was so, but a strange uneasiness had come to her. She had never seen him quite like this before. She knew him well – a simple man, caring for his family at Bushy, living rather humbly for one in his position, playing Pope Joan for small stakes. That was the life which suited him.

She thought: If it ever happened that he should wear the crown I should be uneasy.

When they returned to England it was to find the state of affairs much as it had been when they left. The King had been ill and was better; the Duke of York had been near to death several times but lived on and was building a new home for himself in St James’s.

William did not seem depressed by the news. He was remembering, Adelaide hoped, that he was fond of his brothers.

All was well with the family. Sophia, Lady Sydney, had named her daughter Adelaide – so three of William’s grandchildren now bore this name. It was a pleasant tribute to Adelaide.

The affairs of the FitzClarences could always absorb William, and Adelaide shared his enthusiasm for the family; she was delighted, too, that William had ceased to brood on the possibility of being King.

The winter was bitterly cold; and in January the Duke of York became very ill. He was swollen so with dropsy that he could not leave his chair; and one day, clad in an old dressing-gown of a drab grey colour which for the last weeks he had worn all the time, he sat in his chair and appeared to sleep. When his attendants, alarmed by his long silence, came to see if he needed them, they found that he was dead.

When the news of Frederick’s death was brought to the King he lapsed into deep melancholy. Frederick had been his favourite brother and memories of nursery days came flooding back. It was Frederick who, in the days of their youth, had aided him in his assignations with maids of honour in Kew Gardens; it was Frederick who had stood watch on Eel Pie Island when he had been there with Perdita Robinson. Frederick had supported him through all the trouble with Maria. No two brothers had ever been closer.

And now, Fred had gone first although he was a year younger. It was a melancholy occasion. He talked constantly to Lady
Conyngham who listened sullenly. She was sulking because Lord Ponsonby had been sent to Brazil.

The day of the funeral was the coldest even in that cold spell. The King was clearly genuinely grieved; but it was noticed that the Duke of Clarence was in a state of great excitement. He had of course taken a very close step to the throne and was the heir apparent and it really seemed, by the appearance of the King, that his accession would not be long delayed. But, said the spectators, surely he might have had the decency to restrain his excitement.

‘By God,’ he said in an audible whisper, ‘the cold goes right through your boots.’ And turning to the Duke of Sussex he continued: ‘This should mean a difference in the way I’m treated now … You too. It will make a difference … no mistake about that.’

Peel, the Home Secretary, whispered to a colleague who was blue with the cold: ‘Take off your cocked hat and stand on the silk round it. It’ll give you some protection from these icy stones.’

‘This,’ whispered Clarence, ‘is going to lay some of us up. There’ll be some deaths after this, you see. This cold is … killing.’

Was he looking hopefully at the King? people asked themselves.

What had happened to Clarence? He had been thought to be a kindly simpleton but was the glitter of a nearby crown blinding him to all family affection?

The King wept openly; but then he had always wept easily. Yet these were genuine tears and as the bells tolled he covered his face with his hands.

‘I feel as though nails are being driven into my heart,’ he told the Duke of Rutland. ‘He was my dearest friend as well as my brother. In our youth we were inseparable and when my father sent him to Germany we were desolate. We considered it the greatest tragedy of our lives; and when he came back it was just as it was before he went away. A world that does not contain Frederick has little charm for me.’