Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (9 page)

‘Then he must be a good man,’ said Feodore. ‘When will he arrive?’

‘At any moment, I believe.’

‘As he has come from England,’ said Charles, ‘he will be able to give us news of our uncle.’

‘I shall ask him when Uncle Leopold is coming to see us.’

‘You must not ask questions,’ said their mother, ‘but wait until you are spoken to.’

‘Is he very important, Mamma?’

‘He is the son of the King of England.’

The children’s eyes were round with wonder.

‘Even Uncle Leopold’s Charlotte was only the daughter of the Prince of Wales,’ said Charles.

His mother laid her hand on his arm. ‘You talk too much, Charles,’ she said severely. ‘And when the Duke arrives I want you to remember that you are in the presence of a very important man.’

Thus when Edward arrived he found Victoria with her children.

I can’t do it, thought Edward, as he made his journey across Europe to the castle of Wald-Leiningen. It will break her heart. Clarence will have to be the one. Why not? He’s older than I. Then there’s Ernest; he’s very likely to have a child. Just because
my mother won’t accept his wife that’s no reason why his child should not inherit the crown. She’s even royal – my mother’s own niece. And what of Adolphus? He’s betrothed. Why should I disrupt my life when I have so many brothers?

I will behave in such a way that she refuses me. She might refuse me in any case. But would a young widow who had probably made up her mind she must marry at some time refuse the Duke of Kent to whom she could bear a king or queen of England?

But I can’t hurt Julie, he kept telling himself.

And yet … the prospect was glittering. Life in Brussels was cheap; there was a pleasant social atmosphere; Julie was happy there. But England was his home. He hadn’t told Julie how homesick he was. He had been all those years in Canada; and his career in the Army had often taken him away but now that he was getting older he did long to be at home. If he married his debts would be settled; he would get a grant from Parliament, a larger income. And suppose he had a child? He did regret that Julie had never had his child. There was William with those ten FitzClarences, and although some might deplore their illegitimacy, William took great pride in them and there was no doubt that he derived a great deal of pleasure from them.

They had come to an inn in the heart of the forest and there were to stay the night. In a few days now he would arrive at the castle of Wald-Leiningen and he would have to make up his mind. He would not admit it to himself because he refused to consider the fact that any woman but Julie could attract him, but he was eager to see whether the Princess Victoria was as handsome as she had been made out to be.

Princes were so often deceived in these matters. He only had to think of the Prince of Wales’ own marriage to Caroline of Brunswick. There could not have been a greater disaster than that.

‘Your Highness!’ It was his equerry come to conduct him to the room he was to have in the inn.

The innkeeper was delighted at the prospect of being host to a royal Duke. He was preparing the finest meal he had ever offered to guests and the smell of sausages and sauerkraut filled the parlour.

It sickened Edward who was too concerned with his affairs to think of food.

He kept seeing Castle Hill, the home he had loved in Ealing, the house in Knightsbridge where he and Julie had lived together, and his apartments in Kensington Palace which he had left, but which had been home to him. He wanted to go home and if he married this young woman there would be no question of it.

He looked about the room – the best in the inn – and said to himself: ‘I can never do it.’

He imagined his mother’s face cold with fury. He couldn’t do his duty! Did he realize that he had been receiving an income from the State so that when the moment came for him to do his duty it should be done.

He could imagine George’s apologetic shrug. We all have to do these things, Edward. I myself had the most unfortunate of experiences. No one could suffer more than I did.’

A prince must do his duty.

His equerry was at the door. The meal was ready. Would His Highness honour the host by coming down to partake of it?

The meal was over when the gipsy came in. She had been passing, she said, and she had felt an impulse to enter because she knew there was an important guest under the innkeeper’s roof that night.

She had no doubt seen the equipage, thought Edward, but everyone else was eager to let her talk.

She could foresee the future, she told them. If they would cross her palm with silver.

The bright alert eyes were on Edward. She had selected him immediately as the important personage; it was his future she was anxious to foretell.

He shook his head and she took the hands of other members of the party and spun her tales of glory and disaster while Edward looked on and thought it was as good a way as any to pass the time.

‘And my lord?’ she pleaded.

He held out his hand and she chuckled gleefully.

‘Here’s glory,’ she cried. ‘My lord is going to marry.’

‘What, at my age!’ cried Edward.

‘Ah, my lord is young at heart. He will marry and be the father of a great queen.’

Edward’s heart had begun to beat faster and he was anxious that none of the company should know it.

‘You might have given me a king,’ he reproved her.

She shook her head.

‘A queen,’ she insisted.

‘A higher price for a king,’ he tempted.

But she shook her head and said with dignity, ‘I am an honest woman your lordship should know. I cannot sell what is not here.’

‘So it has to be a queen,’ he sighed.

‘There is nothing your lordship should regret in that,’ she answered.

The gipsy told no more fortunes. She left the inn; and Edward retired to his room to rest before the morning’s early start.

And he kept thinking: A queen. How strange that she had said that. A
great
queen, she had insisted.

And a few days later he came to the castle of Wald-Leiningen and there was received by the Princess Victoria with her children.

She was plump, handsome, fertile, desirable: and he could not get the gipsy’s words out of his mind.

A queen. A great queen.

He knew that he wanted to marry the Princess Victoria. If it were not for Julie he could be completely reconciled to his position. And what could he do? He had come to court the lady; it would be churlish not to do so.

She was charming; so were her children; she was serious and made no secret of the fact that the marriage would be one of convenience.

She told him quite frankly that she would forfeit a considerable income if she married. The Duke must understand that she would be giving up her independence.

He saw this clearly; at one moment he was anxious to urge her not to give up her freedom; in another he was almost imploring her to. He was unsure what he wished for. She was very attractive; he liked the children; and he kept hearing the gipsy’s prophecy.

Did she sense his hesitancy? Was that why she gave voice to her
own? They were both mature people, she pointed out. They had sacrifices to make. She thought they should not make up their minds in a hurry.

He was relieved by the delay.

He returned to London but he did not call at Brussels on the way.

When he reached London a letter from the Princess Victoria awaited him. She had decided to give up a life in which she had enjoyed independence and comfort; but she hoped to find compensation in the Duke’s affection and the children they would have.

So he was committed. But he would keep secret … just at first. He would make sure that everything was made as comfortable for Julie as possible. She must be looked after. She must have an adequate income. She must be allowed to live with dignity. He must impress on everyone that Julie was no ordinary mistress. Theirs had been a marriage in all but the legal sense. Julie had never lived with anyone else. It was merely the fact that he was a royal Duke who could not marry without the consent of the King and Parliament that had prevented his marrying her.

They
must
understand this. She must have a dignified life, servants, carriages … He would accept nothing else.

He could not understand his feelings; they ran in opposite directions. Complete desolation at the thought of what he was doing to Julie; exultation at the future with Victoria.

Julie wrote to him. He must not grieve. It was inevitable. They must be thankful for all the happy years they had enjoyed together.

She wished him success in his new life. She herself had decided to go into a convent and he must think no more of her.

‘So,’ said the Queen, ‘Edward is
happily
settled. He could not have a better bride than the Princess Victoria. Now we must get William’s affairs arranged without delay.’

The Regent agreed.

‘Now that Parliament have made it clear that he cannot have his Miss Wykeham, he is reconciled. Parliament have supplied his reasons to the lady for him. He couldn’t have a better excuse.’

‘We must bring Adelaide over as soon as possible,’ said the Queen.

‘I don’t anticipate any difficulties.’

‘I shall not rest until they are married,’ said the Queen, moving stiffly in her chair. And she thought: I hope I live long enough to see the unions fruitful. But she did not mention this to the Regent who hated references to death.

‘It would be pleasant if we could arrange a double wedding,’ he was saying. ‘William’s with Adelaide, Edward’s with Victoria.’

Adelaide

WHEN ADELAIDE WAS
born to the Duke and Duchess of Saxe-Meiningen there was great rejoicing throughout the Duchy, for after ten years of fruitless marriage it had been feared that their efforts to provide the heir were destined to fail.

A princess, it was true, when a prince would have been more welcome, but at least the baby proved that the Duchess was not a barren woman and a girl-child was better than none at all.

‘
Nun danket all Gott
,’ sang the choir at her christening; and the Duke gave orders that there were to be concerts and similar decorous celebrations throughout Saxe-Meiningen. In the mountain chalets and the inns of the Thuringer-Wald the people danced, sang and drank the health of the child who had been christened Amalie Adelaide Louise Thérèse Caroline.

The small Duchy of Saxe-Meiningen was north of Coburg and Bavaria, a land of rich green forests and mountains; since the Duke had come to power farming had flourished. The Duke was a man who had the good of his people at heart; he liked to mingle with them and discuss their problems – not in order to win popularity but to discover how they could be solved. When he had married Princess Eleanor of Hohenlohe there had been great rejoicing, for she was of the same mind as her husband; her great desire being to further the good of the people and to
produce a son who would continue with the work she and the Duke had set in progress. Thus while the Duchy flourished there had been the shadow over it. What would happen when the Duke was no longer with them? Into whose hands would the Duchy pass?

And then had come the great news that the Duchess had given birth to a living child. And if the baby was a girl – still it was a child; and every man and woman in Saxe-Meiningen rejoiced for their Duke and Duchess and themselves.

The Duchess devoted herself to her daughter while she prayed that her union might be further blessed.

She was not disappointed. Fifteen months after the birth of Adelaide she was once more pregnant.

With what excited anticipation was the birth of this child awaited. Surely the prayers of the people would be answered.

‘Let it be a boy,’ prayed the people in the churches.

‘Let it be a strong healthy child,’ prayed the Duchess.

The Duchess’s prayers were answered but not those of the people and the Princess Ida joined Adelaide in the nursery.

The two little Princesses were the Duchess’s delight. She wanted them to be wise and good. Nor did she despair of providing them with a brother for she now seemed to have entered into a productive rhythm; two years after the birth of Ida she was ready to give birth again. This time there was a disappointment. Her daughter was still-born.

The two little girls were devoted to each other. Ida looked to Adelaide to lead the way and Adelaide was always conscious of the responsibility of looking after her younger sister.

Her mother had talked to her very seriously. ‘You are a princess, my dearest child,’ she told her. ‘You must never forget that. You are
born
with responsibilities.’

Adelaide looked in some alarm about the schoolroom as though she expected to see them there, but her mother smiled and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You will recognize them when they come,’ she said. ‘And then you must let nothing stand in the way of your duty. And you must help Ida to do the same.’

Ida was just a little frivolous. It was due to her being the younger.

‘You must always lead Ida in the right direction,’ said the Duchess.

And Adelaide was faintly worried, wondering whether she would know which was the right direction when the time came to lead Ida.

But of course it happened continually. She had to stop Ida stamping when she did not get her own way; she had to tell her how wrong it was to kick their nurses, to throw the milk over the table, to stare out of the window when she should be studying her books.

Adelaide recognized those responsibilities; and as the best way of teaching Ida was to set a good example she became a model of decorum herself. ‘Adelaide is such a
good
child,’ they said in the nursery. But Adelaide discovered that they were more amused by Ida and it was Ida who received the caresses, the smuggled-in sweetmeat. It was Ida who was the pretty one.

Their father frequently came to the nursery with the Duchess. He was often thoughtful on account of the burdens of State, but he wanted to see what the children were doing and he questioned their tutor Friedrich Schenk very closely and heard them read to him in French and Italian.