Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘What is a cold?’ he asked with a shrug.

  ‘I don’t want my child to catch it,’ retorted the Duchess grimly; and she would not allow him to come near the precious infant.

  He laughed at her and said it would not be for long. He was the strongest member of his family; he always had been. Fresh air would soon cure his cold. He was a great believer in fresh air, and sea breezes were the best in the world. Oh, they had been wise to come to Sidmouth.

  But as the days passed and it grew clear that the Duke could not shake off his cold, the Duchess grew alarmed.

  She discussed the Duke’s health with his equerry, John Conroy, a man in whom she had great confidence. He had been an army captain but had decided that he could make a more exciting and profitable career in the Duke’s household; and in this he seemed to be right for he was a favourite with the Duchess, which was essential to keeping the Duke’s favour. Although Conroy did not look in the least like the Duke, they were of a type and many people noticed this similarity between them.

  Conroy thought that the Duke should give up pretending that he merely had a bad cold which could be cured by doses of fresh air, take to his bed and see his doctors.

  ‘I will persuade him to it,’ said the Duchess firmly; but before she could do so Edward was so exhausted and unable to control his breathing that of his own accord he took to his bed. Before the day was out he was in a fever; and the doctors arrived to diagnose a congestion of the lungs.

  The Duchess, alarmed, did what she always did in moments of stress – she sent an urgent message to Leopold who arrived shortly afterwards with his own doctor, Stockmar, in whom he had great confidence and who was his friend as well as his physician.

  It was too late to do anything for Edward who was clearly dying. He should make his will without delay, said Leopold, and Dr Stockmar agreed with him.

  The Duke feebly gave his assent and the will was drawn up and signed by him.

  He lay back breathless on his pillows, a hint of whiteness showing at the roots of his hair and beard for he had been too exhausted to endure his barber’s ministrations; he had become an old man in a few weeks and as the Duchess stood at his bedside, herself weary and exhausted for she had been up nursing him for five days and nights, she was asking herself what effect this was going to have on Alexandrina.

  She had left the child with her nurses – fearful that she might carry some contamination from the sickroom. Fräulein Lehzen was a treasure. No English nurse could have received the Duchess’s absolute trust, and little Alexandrina was safe with Lehzen until her mother could return to her and give her her full attention.

  And as she sat by her husband’s bedside she thought of her relations presided over by the wicked Regent, who did not like her and was not impressed by the charm of Alexandrina. What would become of them if they were left to battle alone? But there was one thing they could not take from her. If Adelaide and William could not produce a child, then her precious daughter must be Queen of England.

  Nothing can alter that! It was her triumphant thought as she looked at the man in the bed who, such a short time before, had been strong and healthy.

  He was dying. She knew it. He knew it too.

  ‘Victoria,’ he whispered and she bent over him.

  ‘You will be alone.’

  ‘I have friends. Leopold … my dear brother Leopold.’

  ‘Listen to his advice. He will be a father to the child.’

  She nodded.

  ‘The prophecy … Who would have thought I was one of them? It should have been …’

  She shook her head. ‘Please don’t talk. You distress yourself. You are going to get better. I know it,’ she lied.

  But he knew he was not going to be better. The prophecy had said that two members of the royal family would die and he was destined to be one of them. But there was that other prophecy. A great queen. Their daughter. It was something the Duchess must never forget now that he would no longer be there to remind her.

  ‘I will never forget it,’ she told him. ‘Her welfare shall be my main concern. She has been brought up by myself … I will trust no other with her.’

  ‘Oh, that I could have been there!’

  ‘You may trust me.’

  ‘There is no one else to whom I could trust our daughter.’

  She nodded and pressed his hand firmly.

  ‘Rest now,’ she said.

  He closed his eyes.

  She thought of the day he had come to Leiningen, her indecision, their brief life together and the result of that union: her own adorable chubby precious child.

  Everything had been worth while and soon once again she was to be a widow. She would never marry again. She now had her mission in life which was to prepare Alexandrina to be the Queen of England.

  The Duke of Kent was dead and lay in a small house in Sidmouth.

  John Conroy said: ‘We must take the Duke to Windsor for burial.’

  But how? the Duchess wanted to know. The journey would be expensive. She had no money, and it would be a costly matter to take her family and their attendants and the furnishings they had brought with them back to Kensington and the funeral cortège to Windsor.

  ‘We must appeal to the Regent,’ said Conroy. ‘He will surely make himself responsible for the Duke’s funeral expenses.’

  Dear Conroy! She wondered what she would do without him.

  The Regent’s secretary wrote a cold note implying that his brother’s funeral expenses were no affair of his, but fortunately Leopold was at hand.

  ‘Leopold, what am I going to do?’ she asked him in distraction. ‘It’s clear that the Regent dislikes me, that he is not going to help and that he refuses to give little Drina the place she should have. He is a hateful, jealous man. He was just the same with his own daughter Charlotte. He cannot bear anyone else to be popular and of course the people adore my child.’

  ‘Let us be calm,’ said Leopold. ‘There is nothing anyone – even the Regent – can do to displace Alexandrina in the succession, except of course William and Adelaide, if they can produce a child. And that is a hazard we must face. However, it has not yet happened. The fact is that at the moment your daughter stands an excellent chance of ascending the throne being the first of the younger generation. The point, though, is getting the Duke buried, and you with your family and servants out of Sidmouth. But that is merely a beginning. How are you going to live? I believe you have very little money. The Duke left many debts which you will be asked to settle. Yours is not a very rosy prospect, sister.’

  ‘I know it well. Oh, Leopold, how unfortunate we are! You to lose your wife, I to lose my husband.’

  Leopold looked at her with faint exasperation. How could she compare either of her husbands with his lovely young and vital Charlotte. But their cases were not dissimilar. He had been married to the heiress to the throne; and his sister might well be the mother of a future queen. How badly these English treated their German relatives whom they had brought into the closer circle of the family. They were noted for their quarrels; and now it seemed one was brewing between the Regent and his sister Victoria.

  He sighed. He had been fairly handsomely treated, having been given an allowance of £50,000 a year. He supposed he could not allow his sister to live in penury and it seemed that the Regent would do little for her. And if Adelaide had a child she would be reduced to no importance whatsoever.

  ‘I shall go back to Germany,’ the Duchess was saying. ‘I will take up my life where I left it when I married Edward.’

  ‘That would be a foolish step to take,’ warned Leopold. ‘Alexandrina must be brought up in England. It is a great mistake for those who may well rule one country to be brought up in another.’

  The Duchess was secretly exultant for she was entirely of his opinion, her point being that she did not see how she could possibly continue to live in England without an income.

  Leopold as usual came to the rescue. He would pay the Duke’s funeral ex
penses; he would pay for the transport of the Duchess and her family to Kensington; and he would give the Duchess an income of £2,000 a year.

  The Regent wept elegantly when he heard of the death of his brother. He told Lady Hertford that he was affected … deeply affected. Edward had not been his favourite brother, he admitted; but family ties were strong. He recalled so much from nursery days.

  ‘Your Highness was most displeased with him over the Mary Anne Clarke affair.’

  Oh dear, how tiresome! It was definitely not the time to refer to that. Edward had broken one of the rules of the royal brothers which was ‘United for Ever’ and, some said, deliberately worked against the Duke of York. The Regent preferred to believe it was only malicious gossip but his opinion of Edward had changed since. Most decidedly it was not the moment to refer to it.

  Lady Hertford could be extremely tactless. He looked at her coldly. She had never really brought him comfort. And to think that it was on her account that Maria had left him. How often did he regret the loss of Maria! Of course her temper had been exasperating and she had not been particularly kind and understanding to him since she had left him when he did not wish her to go, but how often he wished that she were back! He had given up everything for Maria – and she had left him! He was most unfortunate in his relationships. He was tied to a woman he loathed; Maria had deserted him; and Lady Hertford who had always been frigid was of little comfort to him.

  But there was one other who occupied his thoughts quite frequently. This was Lady Conyngham. There was something so comforting about her. She did not give herself airs like Lady Hertford; she appeared to have an easy-going temper, not like Maria. Whenever it was possible he summoned her to his side and bade her talk to him and this she did in a carefree artless way which he found extremely diverting.

  She was plump – how he loathed lean women; she was handsome; no woman could attract him if she were not. She never gave herself airs. She quite frankly admitted that she was not of the aristocracy although she had married into it. She was at a comforting age – in her early fifties, a few years younger than he was himself. She was in good health and understood little of politics. Oh, these women, like Lady Hertford, who liked to dabble in state matters; how trying they could be! She would never be obsessed by her religion. It was Maria’s religion, he was sure, which had broken their relationship. Elizabeth, Lady Conyngham, was in fact the most comfortable person at court and it gave him more pleasure to be in her company than that of anyone else. She had a complaisant husband. The Marquis Conyngham was no doubt pleased to see the favour his wife was finding with the Regent; she was motherly; she had four children to prove it; and she was rich in her own right, for it was money which had brought her her place in the peerage.

  She had told him herself that her grandfather had been a clerk and her grandmother the daughter of a hatter. Her father had been a most excellent business man and had made a fortune in what the Regent could not remember. But his two daughters had married titles.

  ‘Papa bought us a title apiece, Your Highness,’ Elizabeth explained to the Regent, and he laughed with pleasure at her frankness.

  ‘Politics, Your Highness,’ she would say. ‘I know nothing of politics. I am not clever like some. But I can tell a good diamond when I see one and I know how to be kind to my friends.’

  An admirable woman. With her large languishing eyes and her comfortable maternal bosom, she offered just what he needed at this time.

  He was thinking how much he missed the chats he had with his mother who had so adored him. He missed her more than he would have thought possible. There was something completely maternal about Elizabeth Conyngham; and at the same time she offered all the charm of a mistress. Comfortable, that was the word he would apply to her. It was something Lady Hertford had never been. Maria yes, at times; but there was Maria’s devilish temper.

  If he could go back to Maria … Ah, if he could! But he could not now. There would be too many recriminations. Besides, how could he, the Regent, live openly with a woman whom people believed to be his wife and who was a Catholic!

  There was the crux of the matter. Maria’s adherence to her religion. That was what was so comforting about Lady Conyngham. She had no stern principles which constantly ruined one’s peace of mind.

  He brought his mind back to Lady Hertford, sitting there elegant, it was true, like a porcelain figure, perfectly dressed, looking as though she were carved out of stone. An iceberg, rather. He wondered he had ever thought her attractive. There was no womanliness about her.

  ‘I have never known the people so hostile to Your Highness,’ she was saying. ‘The mob threw stones at my carriage yesterday and called out the most uncomplimentary things about you.’

  He shifted uneasily. Why was she always stressing his unpopularity? She herself was partly responsible for it. If he had stayed with Maria he would have been far more popular. Maria had always been a favourite with the people, whereas they loathed Isabella Hertford.

  ‘No doubt they were intended for you,’ he said coldly. ‘And now I shall take my leave.’

  She looked surprised for he had so recently come. But there would be more surprises awaiting Lady Hertford.

  The poor old man, blind, deaf and lost to the world, who was the King of England, lay in his chamber in Windsor Castle. It had been little more than a padded cell. He did not know what events were taking place; he did not even know where he was, or sometimes who he was.

  There were occasions when he would see a picture from the past of a young prince learning to be a king, of a young man in love with a beautiful Quakeress, visiting her secretly, suffering remorse for his treatment of her; sometimes in his muddled thoughts he saw lovely Sarah Lennox making hay in the gardens of Holland House and dreamed of marrying her; he saw his wife, the plain Princess Charlotte, who had become his Queen and borne him many children.

  In the dark recesses of his mind he heard the defiant voice of a handsome boy raised in protest in the nursery demanding meat on the days when his father, the King, had said there should be no meat; then the handsome boy was an elegant young man … in trouble … always in trouble. Words formed on the lips of the poor blind, mad old man. ‘Actresses, letters, wild living …’ ‘Ten sleepless nights I’ve had in a row thinking of those sons of mine …’

  And there were no days, only the long endless night, with rough hands to tend him – and sometimes laughter at the foibles and follies, the childish inanities of a man who had once been their King. No light … only darkness … no understanding … only fleeting pictures … vague memories that mocked him and ran from him when he sought to catch them like mischievous boys in a royal nursery.

  He did not know that his granddaughter, young Charlotte, was dead; he did not know that Charlotte his wife had gone; nor that the Prince of Wales had become the Regent and King in all but name because his father the true King was helplessly insane, living in darkness behind the strong grey walls of Windsor Castle.

  He knew nothing – except sometimes, that he was waiting for the end.

  Once he had said before he was blind, before the darkness had descended on him: ‘I would that I could die for I am going mad.’

  He did not say that now. But somewhere in his mind was the longing for release.

  And one morning when his attendants came to his room they saw that it had come.

  ‘The King is dead,’ they said.

  The Regent was confined to his bed with an attack of pleurisy. His doctors had bled him but he showed no sign of improving. His great bulk did not make breathing easy and it was generally feared that he could not live long.

  In the streets they were shouting: ‘King George III is dead. Long live King George IV.’

  ‘What is it they are shouting?’ he asked.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ they called him. So at last, he thought, it has come.

  All his life he had been bred for this; he had known from nursery days that one day he would be King and he had longed to
wear the crown. And now? He was not so sure. He had had a taste of sovereignty as Regent. The people had loved the Prince of Wales better than they loved the Regent. Now perhaps they would prefer the Regent to the King.

  The glory had come too late. He was too old and ill for it.

  He lay back in his bed and remorse came to him. He and his father had never been good friends. There had been a natural enmity between them. It was always so in the family. It was a Hanover tradition that fathers should quarrel with sons. So many things he might have done. So many little kindnesses.

  He wept and they were real tears.

  ‘I should have been a better son to him,’ he murmured.

  He was in a low state. His spirits would rise when he felt better. He would send for Lady Conyngham to come and talk to him. She would cheer him.

  And then he thought: I am King. Then she … that loathsome woman will be Queen.

  Oh God, what will this mean? She will return to England. She will want to be at my side. She was content enough to stay away when she was Princess of Wales. But now she will want to be recognized as Queen of England.

  The thought of what this could mean destroyed his peace of mind. No one could comfort him. Not even Lady Conyngham.

  There was real anxiety for the state of the King’s health. His doctors insisted that he must not dream of attending his father’s funeral. Even the people, who had grown to hate him, were concerned for him now. They might taunt him and ridicule him but they did not want to lose him.

  His doctors prescribed the air of Brighton which had never failed to benefit him, and as soon as he was able to be lifted from his bed he travelled down to the Pavilion with a few special friends and there he attempted to regain his strength.

  At Windsor the old King was buried with the pomp due to his rank. The bells tolled and the trumpets rang out to remind everyone that this was the passing of a king. He had lived more than eighty years – nine of them in a state of insanity. No one could really regret his passing yet many remembered that he had been a man who had always striven to do his duty.