Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

The Duke of Weimar looked from one to the other.

  ‘The elder, the Princess Adelaide,’ said the Duchess.

  Again that bow.

  ‘And the Princess Ida.’

  Once more he bowed and his eyes rested on Ida and lingered there.

  The Duchess took his hand and led him into the castle, and it was as Adelaide had known it would be. He could not take his eyes from Ida, nor she from him.

  The Duchess Eleanor called her ministers to the castle.

  ‘The Duke of Weimar is asking for the hand of the Princess Ida,’ she told them.

  ‘Would it not be more agreeable if the Princess Adelaide married first?’

  ‘It would have pleased me better, but the Duke of Weimar asked for Ida. It is a good match and we cannot with wisdom refuse it.’

  It would be the utmost folly to, since if the Duke of Weimar could not have Ida he would certainly not take Adelaide.

  ‘It is an excellent match for a younger daughter,’ said the Duchess; ‘and what pleases me is that neither the Princess Ida nor the Duke would have to be persuaded to it. They are more eager than we could hope. In fact they declare they are in love.’

  In the circumstances it seemed that there was only one thing lacking to make the young couple completely happy and that was the consent of the Duchess and her ministers.

  That consent was readily given, although every one of them believed it would have been more fitting for the elder princess to marry first.

  ‘Adelaide!’ cried Ida, throwing herself at her sister.

  ‘What is it? You’re crying.’

  ‘Such odd tears. I’m so happy … and yet I’m so sad.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Oh, Adelaide, dearest Adelaide, I don’t know what to say to you. They … they have given their consent. Bernhard and I are to be married.’

  ‘Well, what is that to cry about?’

  ‘Oh, sister, my dearest Adelaide, you really don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind … but I am delighted to see you so happy.’

  ‘I … I shall marry before you.’

  ‘And so you should because you are so pretty.’

  ‘But he was to have been for you.’

  ‘Being very sensible he fell in love with you instead. I can’t say I blame him. As a matter of fact if he had not done so I should have thought there was something lacking in him.’

  ‘Oh really… Adelaide … you are not … furious!’

  Adelaide laughed. ‘Did you really think I should be?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Ida. ‘Even if you had loved him, which I trust you don’t.’

  ‘No, my dear Ida. I do not think I should fall in love so easily. I should need to know someone for years and years.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you would. You are so calm and wise and good. And I am wildly happy, Adelaide, if you are not unhappy about this I am the happiest woman in the world.’

  ‘Then you are indeed the happiest woman in the world.’

  Ida had pressed her face against her sister’s. She was always so impulsive.

  ‘Now, I shall ask your advice … about my wedding dress, my jewels … everything. Because you always tell the truth. So if you were really unhappy you would have to say so. But then you might not because you are also unselfish and you might think you would spoil my happiness. Oh, Adelaide, do you really mean this?’

  ‘I mean it. I don’t want to marry. I hope I never do. I hope I stay here with Mamma and Bernhard – my Bernhard not yours – for the rest of my life. I begin to think that is what I really want. I am sure no man would really want to marry me any more than your Bernhard did.’

  ‘It’s nonsense. He would have fallen in love with you if I had not been here. I’m sure of it, because someone will love you one day – very much. I am the sort of person they fall in love with – you are the sort they grow to love. One day someone will love you as I do and Mamma does and our Bernhard does. That’s because we know you.’

  ‘Ida, you are growing hysterical.’

  ‘Dear Adelaide, you are always so calm, so good.’

  The wedding was to take place immediately for there was no point in delay, said the Duchess. Ida was intoxicated with happiness; the seamstresses were working at full speed in that room at the castle which had been set aside for them and the whole of Saxe-Meiningen was talking about the wedding.

  The great day came; the bells rang out; the bride was a vision of beauty in her shimmering gown and jewels and even Adelaide looked handsome on that day with the jewels in her hair and the gown which had been made for her to wear at her sister’s wedding.

  ‘Your turn next,’ said her brother Bernhard; and she laughingly shook her head.

  The Duchess told herself that they must busy themselves with finding a husband for Adelaide; it was not right that the younger sister should marry before the elder.

  The wedding celebrations continued for two days with festivities in the town, fireworks and illuminations; it was as exciting as the victory celebrations. When Ida and her husband left for Weimar Adelaide ran to the turret to watch them until they were out of sight.

  How she missed Ida! She could not remember ever being separated from her before. The castle seemed quieter; she would often think: I must go and tell that to Ida, and then remember that Ida was not there.

  The Duchess watched her daughter anxiously. Adelaide was twenty-four. It was not really very young and she looked her age. That cursed Napoleon! thought the Duchess. Precious years had been wasted because of his selfish desires for conquest.

  ‘My dear Adelaide,’ she said. ‘I know you miss Ida sorely – more so than any of us. I am sorry that she should have been the one to go first.’

  ‘It was inevitable, Mamma.’

  ‘Well, she is married, and it will be your turn next.’

  ‘Perhaps not. I am not eager for marriage. I should be happy at home here with you and Bernhard.’

  The Duchess shook her head and smiled, but she did not press the matter.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I need your help. The prosperity we gained under your father’s rule has disappeared. These terrible wars have impoverished us all. I am most concerned for some of the poorer classes. There is starvation in the villages such as there never was in your father’s day – nor would there have been now but for the war. The beggars have multiplied. I want you to help me look into these matters. They are most urgent.’

  Helping to relieve cases of hardship she was more contented than she had been; the Duchess gave her permission to found a group of ladies like herself who would join with the Poor Law Institution, and she worked eagerly at this.

  When she rode out into the streets the people cheered her. Good Princess Adelaide, they called her.

  She was pleased because she was of some use. Perhaps, she assured herself, it was better to be useful than decorative.

  One day there were visitors at the castle.

  One of the women came running into Adelaide’s apartments to tell her that a band of riders was approaching.

  She hurried to the window; her heart began to beat fast; then she went down the great staircase and out to the hall and the court-yard.

  Ida threw herself into her sister’s arms.

  ‘Ida. You have come home.’

  Ida was laughing. ‘Don’t be alarmed. I have not run away. My husband had to go away on a mission for a short while and I got his permission to visit you for a few days. So here I am.’

  There were fond embraces and they went into the castle where Ida could not stop talking. She must tell them all about Weimar and her husband’s castle and life there and how happy she was – particularly as she was not too far away to pay visits like this. She had a secret. She was almost certain that she was pregnant. She wanted nothing more than this to complete her happiness.

  It was wonderful to have Ida back home even for a short stay and when she left the Duchess Eleanor and Adelaide accompanied her part of the way back.

  And so a year p
assed. Ida had given birth to a daughter whom she called Louise, and Adelaide and her mother had been to Weimar to see Ida and the child.

  There were no suitors for Adelaide. It seems there never will be, she thought. No, the Duke of Weimar saw me and preferred my younger sister. All the eligible bachelors in Europe will know that by now, and they will not want to take what Weimar refused.

  She did not care. She was twenty-five – growing old fast. She was often with her mother; the Duchess discussed State affairs with her; when her mother was sick, she nursed her; they were as close as she and Ida had been.

  One day while they sat together over a batch of accounts which Adelaide was helping her mother to balance, the Duchess said: ‘There is news from England.’

  ‘England?’ said Adelaide, but mildly interested. It was very far away, although there was a link between the German States and England; the Kings of England were of the House of Hanover and many of them had been unable to speak English without an accent – and George I had not been able to speak it at all. Herr Schenk had taught her history which he said was the subject most important to royal people.

  ‘The Princess Charlotte is dead. There will be consternation for she has died giving birth to a child who would have been heir to the throne.’

  ‘Poor child … to be without a mother.’

  ‘The child died too. That is what makes it so important.’

  Adelaide nodded. She knew of course that the Princess Charlotte of neighbouring Mecklenburg-Strelitz had married King George III and they had had several sons and daughters and none of the sons except the Prince of Wales had had a legitimate heir. And that heir was dead. Princess Charlotte and her baby.

  ‘There will have to be some hasty marriages in the English royal family now,’ said the Duchess, looking speculatively at her daughter.

  Every ducal house in Germany had its eyes on England. There were two marriageable dukes who would be looking for wives; and one of these wives could, in certain circumstances, be the Queen of England.

  Little Mecklenburg-Strelitz had never ceased to give itself airs because one of its daughters was now the reigning Queen. England always looked to Germany for its Queens. All the wives of the Georges had been German; though no parents could wish their daughters to be treated as the wives of George I and George IV had been. But perhaps that was partly the fault of Sophia Dorothea of Celle and Caroline of Brunswick themselves.

  True, neither of the two dukes was very young, and although the Duke of Kent was the younger and therefore a step further from the throne than Clarence, he was the favourite among aspiring parents of marriageable daughters. Clarence’s liaison with Dorothy Jordan was common knowledge; so was the fact that he had ten illegitimate children whom he regarded as his family and with whom he lived on terms of intimacy.

  He had also made himself look rather foolish by proposing marriage in several quarters and being refused. There was something undesirable about Clarence. Kent was another matter. True he had never married and there had been a liaison with a French woman to whom he had been faithful for many years but he had lived discreetly – unlike Clarence – and was a good soldier. And he was two years younger – not much it was true; but at their time of life two years could make a difference.

  The Duchess Eleanor could not help being affected by the excitement.

  She did not want to lose Adelaide but she was a good enough mother to be concerned about her daughter’s future; and because Adelaide was so sensible it was possible to discuss the matter with her.

  As they sat over their sewing – for the poor of Saxe-Meiningen – she discussed the situation with her.

  ‘I think it very possible that you may be in the field,’ she said.

  Adelaide closed her eyes and inwardly shuddered. How she hated to be considered in this way. ‘In the field.’ As though she were a horse who was about to be put through its paces.

  ‘Of course,’ went on the Duchess Eleanor. ‘It would be a wonderful opportunity. Either of the two chosen could be a Queen of England.’

  ‘Why should I be chosen?’

  ‘Because, my dear, there are not so many who fill the qualifications. Young enough to bear a child and Protestant.’

  ‘I should hate to leave home.’

  ‘All of us do, but it’s something we have to face. And, my dear, think of the alternative, which is staying here all your life. I shall die in due course and Bernhard will marry … and what will your place be? It is never very satisfactory to be the unmarried daughter.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Adelaide.

  ‘And you would have children. What a consolation they can be! Why, my dear, what should I do without you and Bernhard? My life would be wasted. I know what I’m talking about. For ten years your father and I had no children. We were happy together. He was the best of men. But when you were born … when I had my child … well, then I knew I had not lived in vain. Then there were Ida and Bernhard. Why, my dear, I knew then that I could never have been so contented if I had not married … and yet when my marriage was arranged I cried for days and nights because I was leaving home. I was younger than you and … and not nearly so sensible in those days.’

  Adelaide said: ‘I can see that if one had children everything would be worth while.’

  ‘And that would be the purpose of this marriage, as it is of all marriages but even more so in this case – to have children.’

  ‘Ida has become much more serious since Louise was born.’

  ‘Exactly. Our frivolous Ida has become a woman. I have seen you with Louise. I think it is the only time I have seen you envy your sister.’

  ‘Yes, it is true. I should love a child of my own.’

  The Duchess Eleanor laid down her work and gazed at her daughter.

  ‘You would be as good a mother as you have been a daughter and sister. How I wish that I could let the Queen and Regent of England know how admirable you are. Then I am sure they would not hesitate for a moment.’

  ‘It was different with Ida,’ said Adelaide wistfully. ‘Her Bernhard came here and saw her … and wanted to marry her.’

  ‘It rarely happens to people of our rank. Besides, Adelaide, we are not speaking of marriage with the ruler of a small Duchy but alliance with the reigning House of England. The child you would have could be a king or queen.’

  ‘If I had a child,’ said Adelaide, ‘that would be enough for me.’

  The Duchess Eleanor smiled. If the great opportunity came their way, there would be no difficulty in persuading her docile Adelaide to accept it.

  The Duchess Eleanor was bitterly disappointed.

  The Duke of Kent had fallen to the widowed Princess Victoria of Leiningen.

  ‘It’s only to be expected,’ said Duchess Eleanor to Adelaide with some chagrin. ‘She’s the sister of the Princess Charlotte’s husband Leopold – and you may be sure that he had a hand in arranging this. Besides she has proved that she can have children. She has two already. So … we have lost Kent but we can still hope for Clarence.’

  Clarence! thought Adelaide. The father of all those children! The man who had offered himself to several women and had been refused!

  She shivered. It was alarming to consider herself going to a strange country which would be so different from anything she had known in Saxe-Meiningen – and more alarming than anything else was the stranger who would be her husband.

  The Duchess Eleanor was constantly receiving news. She had sent messengers in all directions to discover what they could.

  The Duke of Clarence, it was said, had proposed to a Miss Wykeham who had accepted him and with whom he declared himself to be enamoured. She was a somewhat brash young woman who spent her life riding about the countryside on spirited horses, but she was very rich and this was her great attraction for the impecunious Clarence.

  ‘They will never allow that marriage to take place,’ said the Duchess; and she was right.

  But a further disappointment was waiting for her.
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  The Duke of Cambridge, shortly to marry his adored Augusta of Hesse-Cassel whom he had discovered for Clarence and with whom he had himself fallen in love, had suggested that Clarence should marry a cousin of his bride-to-be, Princess Caroline of Hesse.

  ‘So this is the end of our hopes,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘The Princess Caroline is very young,’ said Adelaide. ‘It is small wonder that she is considered suitable.’

  ‘She is eighteen,’ replied the Duchess. ‘Far too young to be the wife of a man of fifty-two. And as Ida has had Louise so soon after her marriage it shows we are not a barren family.’

  Adelaide smiled at her mother’s indignation. She was relieved. She would love to have a child, but she could not contemplate with equanimity marriage to a man of fifty-two who had the reputation of the Duke of Clarence.

  So, she thought, I shall be left in peace.

  But it was not to be. The Duke of Hesse had declined the proposal on behalf of his daughter. She was so young, and although the Duke was conscious of the honour done to his house he must decline.

  ‘Who else is there?’ asked the Duchess Eleanor. She was elated. Adelaide was only twenty-six; there were many years ahead of her during which she could bear children; and the choice of a princess young enough to be a mother who was a Protestant was very, very narrow.

  ‘We have a chance,’ she cried; and every day she hopefully awaited the messenger.

  At last it came.

  William Henry, Duke of Clarence, asked for the hand of the Princess Amalie Adelaide Louise Thérèse Caroline of Saxe-Meiningen.

  The castle was in a ferment of excitement. What was Ida’s marriage compared with this? There were messengers arriving every day with despatches from England.

  ‘How delighted your father would be if he were alive today,’ declared the Duchess fervently.

  Adelaide supposed he would. She supposed she should be too. It was a brilliant marriage, not because her bridegroom would be the Duke of Clarence but because a young woman had recently died with her baby and neither of the Duke’s brothers had a legitimate child.

  ‘It is a certainty,’ said the Duchess Eleanor, ‘that your child will be a King or Queen of England. Think of it. How proud you must be.’