by Jean Plaidy
‘Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t have come in this weather.’
Albert looked at him sadly. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘it was my duty to come. You will know why, when I tell you I am aware of your conduct at the Curragh Camp.’
Bertie flushed scarlet.
‘You may well be ashamed,’ said his father. ‘I confess I could scarcely believe it even of you. How could you behave in such a way?’
Bertie stammered that it was not really such an unusual way to behave. Other fellows …
‘Other fellows! You are not other fellows. You are the heir to the throne.’
Bertie cast down his eyes. He wanted to shout at his father that he was tired of being treated like a child; they couldn’t go on robbing him of his freedom all his life. When he was twenty-one, he would show them.
But his father looked so ill. He had never seen him quite like this. His face was such a strange colour and the shadows under his eyes so deep; his eyes were unnaturally bright too.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bertie.
Albert nodded. ‘I believe you are,’ he replied with a faint smile. Some of the reforming fire had gone out of him. He felt utterly weary and longed for his bed.
‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I want you to realise your responsibilities.’
‘I do,’ said Bertie.
‘I want you to act in a way that will show that you do.’
Bertie’s kind heart was touched by the pitiful looks of his father. He wanted to end this interview as quickly as possible so that his father could get back home and to bed where he obviously should be.
‘I will try to in future,’ he said. ‘Papa, you are not well. You should be in bed.’
Albert held up a hand that was not quite steady.
‘If you would mend your ways, try not to make your mother so anxious, remember that one day you will be King of England …’
‘I will, Papa.’
Albert nodded. He did not love his son; he could never do that; but he did not feel that mild resentment and faint dislike which he had felt before.
‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I shall say nothing to your mother of this affair.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
Albert rose.
‘You are going home now, Papa?’ asked Bertie.
Albert nodded.
‘You should be in bed.’
Albert smiled. It was the first time his son had ever told him what he should do. In the circumstances it touched him.
When he returned to the palace it was clear that he was ill. The Queen was worried and scolded him for going out in such awful weather.
‘I had to go,’ he said wearily.
‘What on earth could be so important as to make you?’ she demanded.
He said nothing and seeing how weary he was she stopped scolding and helped him to bed. She sat beside it watching him, holding his hand.
‘You’ll soon be well, Albert,’ she said. ‘I am going to insist on your taking greater care.’
He was a little better next morning and would not stay in bed; he sat in the bedroom in his padded dressing-gown with its scarlet velvet collar and went through state papers; but he could eat very little and the Queen was growing very anxious.
Sir James Clark was a little concerned. His colleague Dr Baly, the other royal physician, had been killed only a short while before in a railway accident. Sir James, never very sure of himself, now wished to call in further advice and suggested Dr Jenner, who was an expert on typhoid fever.
When Dr Jenner came and examined Albert it was his opinion that, although Albert was not a victim of the fever, there were signs that he might be affected by the germs. They must therefore prepare themselves for an attack of this dreaded disease.
When the Queen heard this she was terrified. People died of typhoid fever.
‘The Prince would have every possible care,’ said Sir James. ‘And so far he does not have typhoid fever.’
Albert insisted on sleeping in a small bed at the foot of their big bed.
‘I toss and turn so much that I should disturb you,’ he said.
‘Disturb me!’ cried the Queen. ‘Do you think I shall have any sleep? I would be afraid to sleep in any case. You might need me.’
She was up and down all night giving him cooling drinks.
‘If I get this fever,’ he said, ‘I shall die.’
‘You will not die!’ she commanded. And he smiled at her. ‘Dearest little wife,’ he said, ‘I do not fear death. I only think of how you will miss me and how sad you will be.’
‘Oh, Albert, don’t. I can’t bear it. You are my life. How could I go on if you were not here?’
‘You must, dearest, you must.’
‘I’ll not have this talk,’ she cried. ‘You are here with me, and here you are going to stay. You haven’t got the fever. You’re not going to have it.’
‘No,’ he said, to soothe her, ‘no.’ And he thought: Poor Victoria. Poor little Queen.
For five nights he tossed and turned in his little bed. She had scarcely slept at all. The Queen was desperate because he would not eat. When she tried to tempt him with a little soup, he only shook his head.
One day he seemed a little better and the Queen asked if he would like Alice to read to him. Vicky used to and when she had gone Alice took on the duty. He brightened a little. But when she came and started Silas Marner he shook his head. He didn’t like it. She tried others but he did not want to listen to anything.
The Queen said brightly: ‘We’ll try Sir Walter Scott tomorrow, Papa dear.’
Albert smiled at her wanly.
Then he became irritable.
‘I believe it’s a good sign,’ cried the Queen jubilantly.
His complaints were peevish, which was not like him. The Albert Victoria had known seemed to be replaced by a wild-eyed man.
Alice read to him again and he seemed to enjoy that for a little while.
‘That’s a good sign,’ said the Queen. ‘More like dear good blessed Papa.’
But a few hours later when she was sitting by his bed he said suddenly: ‘Can you hear the birds singing?’
She could not and he added: ‘When I heard them I thought I was at Rosenau.’
She went out of the room because she could not control her sobbing. She knew that he was very ill.
Dr Jenner wanted to talk to her. She looked at him anxiously.
‘Your Majesty knows that all along we have feared … gastric fever.’
Gastric fever! Bowel fever! She knew that these were kinder names for the dreaded typhoid.
‘I know it,’ she said. ‘And now …?’
‘I am afraid that this is what His Highness is now suffering from.’
She felt dazed. Typhoid! The dreaded killer!
‘Vicky,’ he said, ‘Vicky.’
For a moment she thought that he was speaking to her, then she realised that he thought she was their daughter.
‘Vicky is well, my darling,’ she said. ‘Vicky is in Berlin with her husband.’
He nodded. Alice sat on the other side of the bed.
He looked at her and was suddenly lucid. He remembered that Vicky was pregnant again and that he was worried about her.
‘Did you write to Vicky?’
‘Yes, dear Papa.’
‘Did you tell her how I was?’
‘I told her that you were ill, Papa.’
He shook his head.
‘You should have told her that I am dying,’ he said.
All the children were there. Bertie oddly enough was her greatest comfort.
‘Oh, Bertie, what am I going to do?’
‘I will care for you, Mama.’
‘But he will get better. The doctors have been telling me. They never despair with fever. People get over it … often.’
‘Yes, Mama. He has every care. You must take care of yourself.’
‘I tried to take care of him. He would go off. That awful November day he went off because he felt it was his
duty. I never quite knew where he went. He was in such a hurry. He said it was so important and when he came back he was too ill to say anything. We could only think of getting him to bed. I’ll never forgive those people who asked him to go wherever he went …’
Bertie had grown pale, but the Queen did not notice that.
She had thought he was a little better. He sat up in bed and arranged his hair, just as he used to when he was going somewhere.
Then she noticed that there was a dusky hue about his face which she had never seen before.
He seemed to be preparing himself – as though he were going on a journey.
She could not bear it. He must not see her distress. She got up and went out.
But she must be with him. She had a numbing fear that there might not be much time left. She went and sat beside his bed.
He was aware of her. ‘Gutes Frauchen,’ he murmured.
All the children came in one by one and kissed him.
She did not know how she endured it, but she controlled her grief because she could not bear that he should see it nor could she bear to leave him.
She bent over him. He looked at her wonderingly.
‘Es ist kleines Frauchen,’ he said, and he smiled and kissed her.
She sat there holding his hand and suddenly all the pain and suffering seemed to fall away from his face and he was the young and beautiful Albert again at whom she had only to look to know that she would love him for ever.
Albert was dead.
Bibliography
Argyll, The Duke of, V.R.I., Queen Victoria, her Life and Empire
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edited by Philip Whitwell Wilson, The Greville Diary
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title
Copyright
Praise for Jean Plaidy
About the Author
Available in Arrow by Jean Plaidy
Chart
I: Alberinchen
II: Prince Albert
III: The Little Cousin of Kensington
IV: Preparations
V: The Brief Honeymoon
VI: The Honeymoon is Over
VII: Shots on Constitution Hill
VIII: The Princess Royal
IX: In-I-Go Jones
X: Lord Melbourne Departs
XI: Not the Queen, but Albert’s Wife
XII: A Long Holiday for the Baroness
XIII: A Visit to the Continent
XIV: Poor Lord Melbourne
XV: In Albert’s Native Land
XVI: Bertie in Trouble
XVII: Revolution
XVIII: Lord Palmerston Offends the Queen
XIX: Naughty Bertie
XX: Albert’s Exhibition
XXI: Deaths and Birth
XXII: Crimea
XXIII: A Proposal for Vicky
XXIV: Mutiny
XXV: Vicky’s Wedding
XXVI: Bertie’s Progress
XXVII: The Betrothal of Alice
XXVIII: A Fatal Journey
Bibliography