Victoria

by Daisy Goodwin

  “This dress makes me look like a … a delphinium!”

  “A glorious flower, I always think, ma’am,” said Harriet with a little curtsey.

  “But I want to look like a queen!”

  “You are the Queen, ma’am,” said Emma. “How could you look like anything else?”

  Victoria was about to answer when one of the pages came in, looking breathless. “Excuse me, ma’am, but the Duke of Wellington is here. He is requesting an audience.”

  Victoria noted the look of surprise on the faces of her ladies.

  “I see. Tell him I will be with him presently.”

  The page left, and Victoria turned to Emma. “Do you think he has changed his mind about forming a ministry, Emma?”

  Emma considered this. “I would be surprised, ma’am. The Duke is not a man who changes his mind.”

  “Well, I hope he is not here to persuade me to give in to that horrid Peel and surround myself with Tory harpies.”

  Emma smiled. “The Duke is brave, but he is not foolhardy, ma’am.”

  Mrs Jenkins came into the room holding the blue sash of the Order of the Garter. She was about to put it down when Victoria said, “Thank you, Jenkins, I shall wear it now.”

  Jenkins adjusted the order on Victoria’s arm so that it was secure. Victoria took a deep breath. “I feel like I am going into battle.”

  Lehzen picked up the miniature of Elizabeth and handed it to her. “Perhaps you should have this, Majesty, to remind you of what is possible.”

  Victoria nodded and put it in her pocket.

  Wellington was waiting for her in the throne room. As he bent over her hand, she could see that he was examining her face with care, as if looking for something.

  Conscious that the Duke was at least a foot taller, Victoria sat down and invited him to do likewise. There was a momentary pause, and then Wellington spoke. “I have come to enquire after your health, ma’am.”

  Victoria looked at him in surprise. “I am quite well, thank you.”

  The Duke nodded and smiled. “I am most glad to hear it, ma’am. I heard reports at the club of an … incident at your birthday celebration, and I was concerned.”

  Victoria narrowed her eyes. “But I am in perfect health, Duke, as you see.”

  Wellington put his hands on his knees in a gesture that announced that he was about to do business.

  “Then you must be aware that it is time that you called someone to form a government, ma’am. I know Peel is not a charmer like Melbourne, but he’s sound enough.”

  Victoria lifted her chin. “If you say that Sir Robert is sound, then I must believe you. But I will not give up my ladies. They are not just my friends; they are my allies.”

  She paused and looked directly at him. “You were a soldier, Duke. Would you want to go into battle alone?”

  Wellington shifted in his seat. “I was not aware you were fighting a war, ma’am.”

  Victoria did not smile back. Sitting up a little straighter, she felt the shape of the miniature in her pocket.

  “That is because you are not a young woman, Duke, and no one, I suspect, tells you what to do. But I have to prove my worth every single day, and I cannot do it alone.”

  The Duke considered this, and the craggy plane of his face erupted into a blazing smile. If Victoria had been a soldier, she would have willingly followed him into battle. “Then, ma’am, I do not blame you for sticking to your guns.”

  Victoria felt herself subside in relief, but the Duke continued, “And yet your greatest ally, Viscount Melbourne, is not at your side?”

  Victoria looked at the floor and shook her head. “He and I are not … in agreement.”

  “That is unfortunate. It seems, ma’am, that you need a new plan of attack.”

  Victoria waited for him to continue, but he picked up his cane and looked at her for permission to leave.

  She stood up and he followed suit. Bending down he said, “As you know, I knew your father, ma’am. But I must tell you that I believe that I would rather have you at my side on the battlefield.”

  He gave her a crisp neck bow and left.

  Victoria put her hand to her cheek. It was burning hot.

  * * *

  The carriages were lined up all the way along Whitehall. Melbourne put his head out of the window and, seeing that there was no movement, decided that he would get out and walk. He had not intended to go to the portrait unveiling, but he had received a message from Wellington asking him to meet him there, and knew it would be churlish to refuse. Wellington no doubt would want him to use his influence with the Queen to persuade her to make some changes to her ladies. He would have to explain that his influence with the Queen did not extend that far.

  It was important that Wellington should understand that the Queen’s stubbornness was not of his making, but something quite her own. The irony was that everyone thought that he had encouraged her to resist Peel. Sutherland, Portman, Lord John Russell had all called on him, asking when he was going to form a new administration, and when he had told them that he had no plans to return as Prime Minister, they had looked baffled.

  As he walked along Whitehall, he saw that the reason for the delay was a flock of sheep that were being driven down the middle of the road by a shepherd wearing a smock. The shepherd looked quite unconcerned about the chaos he had created. Melbourne looked at the shepherd’s ruddy face and unhurried manner and envied him his independence.

  Melbourne had thought that he would feel equally sanguine about his decision, that there would be sustenance in doing the right thing, but in truth even St. Chrysostom had not assuaged his sense of loss. The day before had been the first since the Queen had come to the throne where they had not met or communicated by letter. He knew there would be a lessening—he was not Prime Minister, after all—but he had not anticipated how much he minded the silence of his study, the relentless ticking of the clock marking out the hours that were no longer punctuated by red boxes or rides in Rotten Row or by a small clear voice calling for Lord M.

  Melbourne heard the conversations around him turn to whispers as he walked up the steps to Westminster Hall. One voice was saying, “Screaming like a banshee, apparently. Had to be held down by six footmen,” but it stopped when Melbourne came into view.

  Inside he saw that the hall was packed with peers and members of Parliament who had come to see the unveiling of the Queen’s portrait, but also to assess which way the political wind would blow. He saw the Duke of Sutherland standing with Lord John Russell and Lord Durham, and could tell from their furtive expressions that they had been talking about him. To distract himself he looked up at the great wooden hammerbeams of the roof. They had been there since the time of the Plantagenets and had survived the great fire of 1834 that had burnt down the rest of the Parliament building. There had been some people that night who would have been quite happy to see the whole building destroyed, but Melbourne had ordered that the hall should be saved. His concern and a lucky shift in the direction of the wind had meant that apart from a few scorch marks, the ceiling at which Charles I had looked when he was being tried for his life had been preserved. At the end of the hall, on a wooden dais with the easel covered by a red velvet cloth, was Hayter’s portrait of the Queen in her coronation robes. The picture, commissioned by Parliament, would hang in the new buildings whenever they were finally built.

  Melbourne wondered if the Queen knew the history of the hall. Perhaps it would make her think more seriously about the consequences of her behaviour. The country could not function without a government. It could, on the other hand, as the ten years of the Interregnum had shown, survive without a monarch.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned round to see the hawk-like visage of the Duke of Wellington. “Found you at last, Melbourne,” said the Duke.

  “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?” Melbourne gestured to an area behind the portrait where they would not be in the public gaze.

  As they wal
ked over, Wellington said briskly, “You have played this very smartly, Melbourne. Our little Queen is such a Whig supporter that she won’t surrender a single bonnet to my party. I wonder how she comes to be so stubborn?”

  Melbourne waited until they were safely behind the dais before replying. “I advised the Queen that she should make some adjustments among her ladies, Duke.”

  Rather to his surprise, the other man gave a short bark of a laugh. “And she don’t listen to you, either? Women.”

  Then Wellington drew a little nearer and said in a lower voice, “Well, if she ain’t listening to you, who is telling her what to do? Cumberland thinks she is listening to voices in her head, like her grandfather.”

  “The old King? But he was mad,” said Melbourne, astonished.

  Wellington tapped his nose with his finger. “Precisely.” Then he said in an even lower voice, “And what’s more, Cumberland is agitatin’ for a regency bill.”

  Melbourne’s heart lurched, but he kept his gaze steady. “I assure you, Duke, that the Queen is as sane as anyone in this room. The only voice she is listening to is her own.”

  To his great relief, the other man gave a sharp nod of agreement. “I’ll take your word for it, Melbourne. But the longer this business of her ladies goes on, well, it don’t look good. If the Queen ain’t right in the head, then something must be done.”

  “What do you mean?” said Melbourne, in a louder voice than he had intended.

  Several bystanders looked round.

  Wellington put his finger to his lips, and looked at Melbourne steadily. “If the Queen won’t appoint a prime minister, then Parliament will have to appoint a regent. Must have someone sensible at the heart of things.”

  Melbourne could hardly believe that Wellington, of all people, would give credence to such an absurd suggestion. “You cannot mean that, Duke.”

  Wellington shook his head and cast a shrewd glance at Melbourne. “Perhaps not.”

  And then, leaning in and pointing a finger at Melbourne’s chest, he said, “But I am not the man to put those rumours to rest, Melbourne.”

  Melbourne looked into the old soldier’s flinty blue eyes and realised that he was being given an order.

  There was a change in the sounds around them, and heads started to turn towards the doors of the hall. The royal party was arriving. Wellington gave Melbourne a nod and made his way over to where the senior Tories were standing. As the group shifted to accommodate him, Melbourne saw that Cumberland was talking urgently to Sir Robert Peel.

  The great door opened, and Melbourne saw Victoria silhouetted against the afternoon sun. He was struck by how small she was, and yet there was something essentially regal about the resolute tilt of her head and the steady pace at which she walked through the chamber, flanked, and that was the only word for it, by her ladies.

  The Queen stopped at the foot of the dais, where she was greeted by James Abercrombie, the Speaker of the House of Commons. He was the kind of Scotsman who never used two words when he could use twenty. Clearing his throat with elaborate care, he began his speech. “I would like to extend the welcome of this the mother of Parliaments to Your Majesty on the occasion of the presentation of this portrait of Your Majesty to the nation, by George Hayter, fellow of the Royal Academy. May I request that you do us the honour of unveiling this pictorial tribute in front of this, an audience of your most loyal and devoted subjects?”

  As he uttered the last line several heads swiveled to look at Cumberland, who looked neither loyal or devoted. There was a hush as the Queen climbed the steps to the dais. She stood beside the covered easel, surveying the crowd as if she were looking for someone. Then she put her hand on the golden rope that was to pull the velvet cloth down from the front of the picture. Someone had misjudged the relative heights of the easel and the monarch, so the Queen had to stand on her toes and stretch out her arms to reach the rope. She looked precarious and little absurd. Melbourne saw Cumberland raising an eyebrow and looking round at his neighbours as the Queen tried and failed to tug the rope so that it released the cloth.

  Her face was going pink with the exertion, and she frowned with frustration. She gave a little jump, as if hoping that by pulling on the rope with all her weight it might eventually give way. Melbourne heard a snigger behind him, and when he looked around he saw that faces all around him were struggling to contain their mirth. He saw Victoria squaring her small shoulders to make another attempt, and before he had time to think about what he was doing he was standing beside her and saying, “May I be of assistance, ma’am?”

  Victoria turned her head, and her face blossomed into a smile that Melbourne thought that he would remember for the rest of his life.

  “I should be most grateful. It seems I can’t manage unaided.”

  Melbourne reached up and took the rope out of her hands. “Then it will be my pleasure to serve you, ma’am.”

  Their hands touched, and Victoria looked at him inquiringly. “Do you mean that…” She trailed off, hope shining in her eyes.

  “I mean, that if Your Majesty should do me the honour of asking me to form a government, I would consider it my privilege to accept.”

  He could see that Victoria was not really attending to his words but scanning his face for his meaning. He smiled at her and at that moment pulled down the cloth covering the portrait.

  There was a gasp from the audience, but whether it was due to the splendour of the portrait or the spectacle of the Queen standing by the side of her former Prime Minister, it was impossible to tell.

  In the painting Victoria looked out over her shoulder at the world. Hayter had resized the crown, so that instead of perching precariously, it fitted Victoria’s head as if it had been made for her. Her hair was in plaits around her ears, and the bright colours of the state robes and the royal standard behind her throne gave the painting a mythic air, as if she were not just the Queen but the symbol of sovereignty itself.

  Victoria looked up at Melbourne. “Do you like it, Lord M?”

  It had been less than a week since she had last called him by that name, but Melbourne felt a foolish lift in his heart.

  “No painting can truly do you justice, ma’am.”

  She smiled back at him. “It is better than those horrid cartoons where they draw me as a dumpling.”

  “I trust that no one will draw you as a dumpling again, ma’am. At least not while I am Prime Minister.”

  Victoria laughed. “Then I hope you will remain in office as long as I am Queen.”

  Abercrombie appeared at the Queen’s elbow. “If you would be so gracious as to permit me to present to you some of the members who have subscribed to the portrait.”

  Victoria glanced at Melbourne. “Yes, indeed. I believe that I have finished talking to the”—and she paused and smiled—“Prime Minister.”

  “I believe so, ma’am.”

  Abercrombie’s eyes widened as he led the Queen over to the line of MPs waiting to be presented. Melbourne followed a couple of paces behind, knowing that this would be the fastest way to signal to his peers that he had decided to return to government. As the Queen made her way down the line of men, acknowledging their greetings with her small, quick smile, she would from time to time look back over her shoulder at Melbourne as if to reassure herself that he was still there.

  On the other side of the room, Cumberland, who was standing next to the Duke of Wellington, was convulsively tracing the scar on his cheek with his finger as he watched his niece make her way along the receiving line, her slight figure dwarfed by the forest of men around her.

  “And that is the Lord’s Anointed. The French knew what they were doing when they adopted Salic law.”

  Wellington permitted himself a smile. “Women can be an infernal nuisance, but the public like having a young queen. Makes the country feel youthful, don’t you know?”

  “No one wants a queen who has lost her reason.”

  “Oh, I think the Queen looks sane enough. Look
how she has got Melbourne back. I think there is no doubt that she will keep her wits about her.”

  Cumberland heard something in the Duke’s tone that made him turn round. “I wonder if Robert Peel agrees with you, Duke. Denied his chance of being Prime Minister because the Queen wouldn’t give up a single petticoat.”

  “Sir Robert knows that we will be in office soon enough,” Wellington raised an eyebrow at Cumberland, “but only in the right circumstances.”

  Victoria was almost level with them both on the other side of the room. When she saw Wellington, she glanced at Melbourne and then back at the Duke and smiled. A smile that was returned.

  Cumberland, who saw this exchange, decided that there was no point in remaining. He stalked out of the hall without saying good-bye, his finger still tracing the scar’s signature on his cheek.

  * * *

  Melbourne dined at the palace that night, and the household were able to finish their food without interruption as the Queen listened with delight to his stories of the court in George III’s day. After dinner the Queen played a duet with Harriet Sutherland.

  Melbourne was only half attending to the music; he was looking at the Queen’s small head and observing the way that she sucked in her cheeks as she encountered a difficult passage.

  “The Queen looks very happy tonight,” said Emma Portman. He hadn’t noticed her behind him. Melbourne answered without taking his eyes from Victoria.

  “So young but with such responsibilities. She should not have to bear them alone.”

  At that moment Victoria looked up from the keyboard, and seeing Melbourne looking at her, she smiled at him, showing her small white teeth. Emma watched the exchange, then said slowly, “You know your days are numbered, don’t you, William?”

  Melbourne was still looking at the Queen as he replied, “Of course. Every prime minister knows that.”

  “No, I don’t mean that. She is very young, as you say, but one day soon she will marry, and then…”