Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  She often thought of poor Augusta and Sophia who had never married. But Sophia had had her little adventure in her youth and there was young Tom Garth to prove it. Oh, Adelaide would learn the family scandals in time. That had been a very alarming – though exciting – occasion, when Sophia had had to be smuggled down to the seaside to give birth to the child she was going to have. Who ever heard of a royal Princess giving birth to an illegitimate child, though it was considered fair enough for Princes to have as many as they thought fit. She stopped herself in time from referring to William’s ten FitzClarences.

  ‘I am beginning to learn something of my new family,’ said Adelaide.

  ‘What a family!’ cried Landgravine Elizabeth. ‘I think there are more intrigues and scandals in our family than there ever could have been in any other.’

  ‘I am beginning to think so,’ smiled Adelaide.

  ‘And more to come, I don’t doubt,’ added Elizabeth.

  After Homburg they made their way to Ghent where it was pleasant to be reunited with Ida, who had become a happy matron. She had never regretted her marriage, she told Adelaide.

  ‘Of course it is not a grand marriage like yours, but I am happy here in Ghent as the Governor’s Lady. It’s all I am, Adelaide, and we are not rich, and just think you may be a queen. You.’

  ‘Very strange,’ said Adelaide, ‘that it should be the plain one.’

  ‘You are not so plain when one sees your goodness shining through.’

  Adelaide laughed. ‘You make me sound so very unattractive, Ida.’

  ‘Then I didn’t mean to. You look lovely. Particularly with that new maternal look you’re wearing. Will it be soon, Adelaide?’

  ‘It’s some months yet. But I can’t wait for it. I can’t tell you, Ida, how intensely I long to hold my own child in my arms.’

  ‘Dear Adelaide, what a fortunate child it will be, with the best mother in the world and a crown waiting for it. I wonder whether it will be a boy or a girl.’

  ‘Quite frankly, Ida, I don’t care. I only want a child.’

  ‘I see you do. You were meant to be a mother. I hear accounts of all these babies. It is like a contest. Now that you are to have one, the others will be disappointed.’

  ‘I hope not too much so. I wish there were not what you call a contest, Ida. I am not thinking of a crown for my baby. I want him … or her … to be happy.’

  ‘Sometimes, Adelaide,’ said Ida, ‘I think you are too good to be true. Let’s come and see my daughter Louise, who I am sure will provide a contrast to Adelaide the Good.’

  ‘You overrate me,’ said Adelaide, ‘I can see nothing unusual in wanting a child.’

  Ida slipped her arm through her sister’s and they went off to the nursery.

  The summer was passing. September had come and they had still not crossed the Channel.

  ‘Soon the gales will start,’ said Adelaide. ‘We shouldn’t delay longer.’

  William laughed. ‘I like a bit of movement on deck,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been in some seas in my youth.’

  She was sure he had, but she dreaded a rough crossing and they had left it rather late.

  The weather had turned very bad; there had been heavy rains and on more than one occasion their carriage had to be hauled out of ruts in the ill-made roads. Often they were wet through.

  ‘We should have left earlier,’ admitted William. ‘Still, we’ll soon be home now.’

  But this was not to be. One evening when they were jolting along the roughest of roads Adelaide was beset by sudden pains. She knew what this meant and despair filled her heart.

  They stopped at the nearest inn, where she was hastily put to bed; but there was no saving the child and so on the way to England, where she had planned the future sovereign should be born, Adelaide had her second miscarriage.

  William was distraught. He thought of Dorothy Jordan who had gone on tour until the last few weeks before the birth of her children. The delicacy of Adelaide was something quite new to him. It had not occurred to him that the rigours of travelling through the Continent over rough roads, sleeping in not always clean and comfortable inns, was scarcely the way to treat a delicate and pregnant woman. Dorothy had rattled round the country to play in provincial theatres, and had always casually given birth to healthy infants. But Adelaide was not Dorothy.

  Adelaide was heartbroken. For the first time she began to doubt her ability to bear a child. Her great comfort was William who, essentially a family man, was always at his best during such occasions.

  ‘Never mind,’ he consoled her, ‘there’ll be others.’

  She felt too weak to do anything but smile her assent. What had gone wrong this time? She knew, of course. She should have remained at her brother’s court until the baby was born, or as soon as she knew she was pregnant left for England. She had not taken sufficient care and it was her fault.

  Dunkirk was not the liveliest of towns. ‘I always had a dislike for it,’ said William. ‘I never took to the French, either. When you think of all the trouble we had to beat them.’

  There was something else that made him wish to leave this country. It was not so very long ago that Dorothy Jordan had come here to die. Her memory was more vivid than usual here. He kept thinking of her waiting to hear news from England and dying, so they said, of a broken heart.

  It was all over, he assured himself; but how could he stop himself thinking of it all? Some people were whispering that he was unlucky with his legitimate children because he had treated the mother of his illegitimate ones so badly.

  George FitzClarence wrote from England that he was going to be married.

  ‘You and Adelaide must be there,’ he wrote. ‘It won’t be right without you.’

  William showed the letter to Adelaide.

  ‘You see how affectionately he writes of you,’ he told her proudly, and she was pleased because she looked upon the actress’s family as her stepchildren.

  ‘How different she must have been from me,’ she said. ‘She had her children without trouble.’

  ‘Dorothy was a strong woman,’ said the Duke shaking his head. ‘She’d be on the boards until a week or so before, playing those romping parts. You ought to have seen her as Little Pickle and Priscilla Tomboy. I never laughed so much.’

  It was strange for a royal Duke – possibly a future King – to be discussing his mistress so freely with his wife. But that is how I want it to be, thought Adelaide. And she sighed a little; she had to compete with that strong buxom woman whom she had heard referred to as one of the most charming in England – now dead, nothing but a ghost, yet she lived on in William’s mind as she did in that of Adelaide, who had never even seen her.

  ‘I should have liked to be at George’s wedding,’ said William wistfully.

  How she longed to remain on terra firma for a few days, just until she felt a little stronger. But if they remained William would miss the wedding and that would upset him deeply. Whatever else William was, he was a devoted father.

  ‘We must sail at once for England,’ said Adelaide. ‘It would never do for his father to miss George’s wedding.’

  The crossing was a violent one and she had not thought it possible to be so ill. Her relief when they landed at Deal was immense. But she had not realized how weak she had become and the prospect of travelling to London was unendurable.

  The carriage rattled along the coast road. William sat beside her anxiously watching her, but she was scarcely aware of him.

  She did not ask where she was going; she did not care; all she longed for was the comfort of a bed.

  ‘It’s all right,’ soothed William. ‘We’ll soon be there.’

  When she was carried from the vehicle she felt the cold sea breezes on her face and knew they had come only a few miles.

  William was saying: ‘Here you shall stay until you have recovered your strength.’

  She was carried within walls, undressed by her servants and put to bed.

  Willia
m left her and rode on to London to be in time for George’s wedding.

  Adelaide’s couch had been taken on to the ramparts and wrapped up in rugs she lay there watching the waves breaking about the shore, and on clear days looking across the sea to the coast of France.

  She had learned that she was in Walmer Castle, whither William had brought her before going on to London; this was the home of Lord Liverpool, Warden of the Cinque Ports, and here she could be entertained and cared for until she was well enough to go on to London.

  William returned to Walmer and excitedly he told her of George’s marriage – a most suitable one to a charming girl, Mary, who was the daughter of the Earl of Egremont. He was very happy with the union and was sure George had chosen wisely.

  ‘He was sad that you were not at the wedding,’ William told her. ‘He is longing to present you to his bride, which he will do as soon as you return.’

  ‘And when is that to be?’

  ‘Not,’ said William sternly, ‘until you are well enough to travel.’

  He was certainly changing, she thought. Perhaps in time he would abandon his sailor’s oaths completely; perhaps he would cease to remind her that once he had loved a woman who was possessed of every attraction that she lacked – except one, which was royalty.

  Lord Liverpool, the Warden, declared that they must make use of his house for as long as they wished to; and this they did. Adelaide taking walks in the delightful gardens and on the ramparts of the castle until she regained her strength, and William delighting in being so close to the sea; he would stand in the face of a strong wind and declare that he could almost believe himself to be on deck in mid-ocean.

  But winter was almost on them, and the fogs of November were penetrating the castle. Clearly they could not take advantage of Lord Liverpool’s hospitality for ever. Moreover, Adelaide’s health was much improved and her hopes were high that she would soon once more be pregnant. They must return to London.

  So one November day they drove out from Walmer Castle and took up their residence in the Duke’s apartments in Stable Yard, St James’s, which seemed dark and close after the airy ramparts.

  Fulfilment of a Prophecy

  THAT WINTER WAS one of the worst in living memory. The Thames was frozen and the poor were dying in the streets from cold and hunger. The Regent had commanded that centres in London be opened, that those who had neither food nor shelter should go there and receive both.

  The cold persisted.

  In Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent cared for her daughter, feeding her herself for she told the Duke this was natural, and therefore best and nothing but the best was good enough for little Alexandrina.

  Every time she uttered the child’s name she grew angry. It was quite clear, she said, that the Regent disliked both her and her daughter. And how a man could behave so unkindly to an innocent child, she could not understand. The Duke chided her gently; it was well that she spoke in German so that none of the servants could report her words and they reach his brother’s ears. The Duchess snapped her fingers. What did she care for an ageing roué who was more dead than alive. The sooner he died, the better, and Clarence too, for then there would be no one to stand between Edward and in time, Alexandrina.

  She adored her little Alexandrina; and so did Charles and Feodore. They were allowed to watch her bathed and dressed and even hold the child now and then. The Duchess wished everyone to realize as soon as possible that there was something very special about their little sister.

  Fräulein Louise Lehzen had come over from Coburg to be her nurse – a very forthright woman, daughter of a Lutheran clergyman, she had already decided that Alexandrina was her special charge; and having great confidence in her, the Duchess encouraged this.

  The Duke and Duchess discussed the child continually. She was healthy: she was bright: the Duchess never tired of telling everyone how bright. She should be seen in public as frequently as possible, said the Duke; and the baby carriage was wheeled to the most unsuitable places – so said the Regent; and after little Alexandrina had appeared in the Park during a military parade the Regent ordered that there should be an end to these public displays of the baby.

  The Duchess laughed aloud at what she called the Regent’s jealousy. Never mind. Nothing could alter the fact that her child was at the head of the list for the succession and only Adelaide and William could displace her.

  ‘That old sailor-man!’ she scorned. ‘That fragile creature! She’ll never bear a healthy child.’

  ‘How can she,’ agreed Edward, ‘when the prophecy says that our daughter is to be the great queen?’

  ‘My blessed angel,’ cooed the Duchess, picking up her child and covering her face with kisses.

  The baby uttered no protest, being accustomed to such displays of affection.

  All might be well with the child but there were other matters to concern the Duke and Duchess of Kent.

  ‘These bills,’ groaned the Duke. ‘These incessant bills!’

  ‘But I thought you had settled them all.’

  ‘You have no idea of the magnitude of my debts. My ideas for disposing of Castle Hill would have settled everything if it had worked. But it was not to be.’

  ‘How tiresome these tradespeople are! But, Edward, you should have economized.’

  ‘I am trying to, my love. I am trying to.’

  ‘I will speak to Leopold,’ said the Duchess.

  She trusted her brother Leopold beyond all men, thought Edward grudgingly. And Leopold, it had to be confessed, was an extremely serious, capable young man.

  He listened gravely to an account of their difficulties and offered them Claremont where they could live more cheaply than in Kensington Palace and where the country air would be so good for Alexandrina.

  One could always trust Leopold, said the Duchess; and the family moved out to Esher and there lived comfortably for some weeks, while Alexandrina thrived; but tradesmen were not so contented. Claremont was a little farther away than Kensington, but the Duke was still accessible and the bills continued to arrive.

  Since the gipsy had told him that he would beget a great queen and he had married his Duchess who had so promptly given birth to a daughter, Edward had become very susceptible to superstition.

  Prognostications were constantly appearing in the papers and these he read avidly, almost always seeing something in them which referred to himself or his family. And as the royal family figured largely in these prophecies, he did not always have to tailor them to his fancy.

  He was reading the papers one morning at breakfast, a habit he had kept up with the Duchess as he had with Julie, when he suddenly exclaimed ‘Good God!’ and turned very pale.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Duchess, putting aside the letter she was reading.

  ‘It says that two members of the royal family are going to die this coming year.’

  ‘Well, the King is getting worse they tell me, and the last time I saw your brother George he looked as if he would not last long.’

  ‘Death strikes in strange places,’ said the Duke in a hollow voice.

  ‘But they both look to me as if they are not long for this world.’

  ‘I do agree. It’s such a glittering possibility my dear. It dazzles me.’

  ‘There would have to be three deaths before you were on the throne,’ the Duchess reminded him.

  ‘And then it would be Alexandrina’s turn.’

  ‘The darling!’ murmured the Duchess.

  ‘I know. But not yet. It would be disastrous if she came to the throne too early. I must take more care of my health. I must make sure that I live until she is eighteen … at least. She would be too young before that.’

  The Duchess nodded complacently. She intended to guard her Alexandrina. And she was certain that she was as capable of doing so as the child’s father was.

  ‘Yes,’ Edward was saying, ‘I must take care of myself. You know my tendency to catch cold.’

  ‘I know it well,’
said his Duchess. ‘And you must take care. Our baby will need you.’

  ‘We shall have to live more simply. I must discharge my debts. It is somewhat expensive here, and the tradesmen are too close. The sea always agreed with me and the breezes would be excellent for the baby.’

  ‘They would,’ agreed the Duchess.

  ‘Where do you suggest? Not Brighton. I am sure he would object if we went there.’

  ‘No … not Brighton. That would be far too expensive. We must think of some little place … far away from the high fashion … and creditors.’

  They discussed the matter for some days; and finally decided on Sidmouth.

  The Duke’s barber applied the dye to his hair and his whiskers.

  It was their secret.

  I look like a young man, thought the Duke, and while I look like a young man I shall remain one.

  He was thankful that he had not lived the kind of life that some of his brothers had lived. He had been abstemious in his habits; he had never become involved with women but had been faithful to Julie and now to his Duchess. He had been in control of his emotions so that now he had been forced to part with Julie he rarely gave her a thought, but had become devoted to his wife and daughter; he was fond of his stepchildren. He intended to live to a ripe old age and when he departed to hand over the throne – which by that time would be his – to a daughter who would have been taught that her destiny was to be a great queen.

  Before Christmas they would set out for Devon; he had already made the plans in his precise way and decided where they would stop for the night during the journey. The Duchess would carry Alexandrina herself; she was too precious to be left to nurses.

  Fresh air! he thought. What could be better? Alexandrina must be taught to appreciate it.

  They left Claremont with as little ceremony as possible because he did not wish his creditors to know where he had gone. Not that he had any intention of not paying them; but they must learn to be patient.

  The journey was long and tedious and the weather continued to be bitterly cold. The Duke, though, had set himself certain sightseeing tours on the way and no matter how bleak the conditions he would not alter his plans. As a result of one of these jaunts he caught a cold; the Duchess was angry with him, demanding to know what he would say if Alexandrina should take it from him?