Victoria Confesses (9781442422469)

by Meyer, Carolyn

  “We,” I heard her say. “Us.” In a few hours Prince Ernst would become her husband. “When are you coming back to Kensington?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’ll write to you as often as I can, and you must promise to write to me, as well.”

  “I promise. But oh, Fidi, what shall I ever do without you?” I had forgotten to whisper. Daisy stirred slightly. Fidi placed her finger on my lips. Daisy sighed and resumed her snoring.

  “I wish I could go to Germany with you,” I said, for perhaps the tenth time, or maybe the twentieth.

  “Darling Vicky, let me tell you a story—the last I shall tell you, for you’re getting too old for my stories.”

  “I will never be too old for your stories,” I insisted.

  Fidi began her story with the part I already knew: There was once a duke named Edward, a son of the king of England, who married a German princess named Victoire. When the princess learned that she was with child, the duke brought her to England so the baby would be born here. I was that baby.

  “This is the part I haven’t told you,” Fidi continued. “A gypsy fortune-teller had once told the duke he would have a child who would grow up to rule England, and Edward believed it. He wanted the baby to be English enough to inherit the throne.”

  “And you believe it, too?”

  “I do,” Fidi said. “The king’s only child died before you were born. The rest of your papa’s brothers are old and fat and gouty, and not a single one of your older cousins is legitimate. As Mamma is fond of pointing out, they are all bâtards and cannot succeed to the throne. It’s very likely that you will someday become queen, Vicky. Your papa planned on it. Mamma wants it. Sir John counts on it, and that’s why he wants to control you.”

  I listened silently to what Fidi was telling me. Can it be true that I shall be queen? Fidi would not lie. Yet the idea was so astonishing that I could scarcely grasp it. I, queen of England?

  “I shall miss you terribly,” Fidi was saying. “But I’m also very glad to be leaving Kensington. I’ve felt like a prisoner from my first days here. I can escape—I’m not important to their plans. But I truly fear for you, dear Vicky, for you’re now a prisoner as well.”

  Her words shocked me.

  “You will have the title of queen,” Fidi went on, “but Mamma hopes to be appointed regent, and if she gets her wish, it is Sir John who will actually rule England until you are eighteen—and long after that. He will try to control you the way he controls Mamma. Sir John is determined to have the power it will bring him. That’s why he has so many rules for you—his so-called Kensington System—and why Mamma allows it.”

  Daisy muttered in her sleep. The book slid off her lap and fell to the floor with a thump. Fidi and I lay still as mice, hoping she had not awakened.

  “I believe they’re trying to break your will,” Fidi said when it was safe to continue, “or at the very least to bend it so that you will always do exactly as they want. You must be strong, Victoria! Lehzen can’t be of much help to you, for if she resists, Sir John will dismiss her with a snap of his fingers. It won’t be easy for you, but you can depend on Uncle Leopold to do what he can to help you.”

  My head was whirling with questions, but before I could ask them, Fidi stroked my hair and kissed me tenderly. “I must leave, before Mamma comes up. Give me your solemn word that you will not tell Mamma or Lehzen or anyone else what I’ve told you. When they do tell you themselves, you must act very surprised. Do you promise?”

  Solemnly, I crossed my heart and promised.

  “Then tomorrow we shall be happy, shan’t we? I’ll pretend to be happy on my wedding day, and you must pretend to be happy for me. Know that I shall always hold you in my heart, and we will exchange letters often, and someday you will be free of these invisible bonds that now hold you so tightly.”

  Fidi crept out from beneath the coverlet and was feeling with her bare feet for her slippers when the door opened. Mamma! Daisy awakened with a start. It was too late for Fidi to make her escape.

  “Feodore! What are you doing here?” Mamma demanded. She sounded startled, then angry.

  “I came to give Vicky my blessing on my last night at Kensington,” Fidi explained.

  “I begged her to stay, Mamma. I shall miss dear Fidi so very, very much!” I added, beginning to weep. Fidi fled, leaving her slippers behind.

  “We shall all miss her, Vickelchen, I know.” Mamma’s heart seemed to soften. She sank down on my bed. “But she will be content in her new life, once she gets used to it.” She rubbed my toes through the thick, quilted satin. Her thoughts seemed far away. “I, too, once married a man I scarcely knew and moved far from everyone I loved.” She smiled sadly. “But you are my reward, my dearest treasure.”

  The wedding was as lovely as one could ever wish. Sweet-smelling flowers filled the Cupola Room, where the ceremony took place. My sister was beautiful, of course, and when she made her marriage vows her voice was clear and strong. Sir John strutted among the guests, behaving as though he were Fidi’s father, and his great, booming laugh drowned out all the other voices. My dress was made of the same delicate lace as my sister’s wedding gown, and I had a little straw basket of favors to hand round to the guests. Fidi was as gay and charming as she used to be. Prince Ernst appeared to adore his new bride. I would have liked him much more if he were not about to take Fidi so far away.

  Toasts were drunk to the health and happiness of the couple, and almost as much attention was paid to me as to the bride. At noon we sat down to a splendid wedding breakfast—stewed oysters, which I did not like, and a galantine of fowl, which I did. There were two cakes, a white one for the bride and a dark, fruity one for the groom. I ate some of both.

  Uncle Leopold bent down to speak to me. “Ah, my little chick”—his pet name for me—“I see that you are enjoying your sister’s wedding day!” Then he whispered close to my ear, “Remember, though, to eat slowly. Small bites! It will make you grow.” It bothered my dear uncle that I was still quite small. Much as I wished to please him, my height did not change.

  I tried to be happy, but as Fidi and her husband left in a borrowed carriage, I was unable to hold back the tears that had been threatening all morning. I waved and waved as they drove off on a cold, bright day, wrapped in furs with thick blankets over their knees, bound for Claremont. In a few days they would board a steamer that would carry them away to Germany.

  “Good-bye, dearest Fidi!” I cried. “Good-bye, good-bye!”

  Chapter 3

  SPÄTH, 1829

  A year passed, one uneventful day on the heels of the next. I waited impatiently for letters from my sister. They arrived less often than I’d hoped, but she always wrote that she was enjoying her new life. I wanted to believe her. Then came the news that she was expecting a child, and we were all very happy for her. I told everyone that I would become an aunt.

  The two people at Kensington Palace of whom I was most fond were dearest Daisy and Baroness Späth. I loved them both. Of course I loved Mamma, too, but I spent most of my time with my governess and mother’s oldest friend, and very little time with Mamma, who had much to occupy her.

  Späth thought Daisy was too strict with me, and Daisy believed Späth was too lenient. Dear Daisy would not tolerate naughty outbursts, even the smallest amount of foot-stamping.

  “A princess does not throw tantrums,” my governess often had to remind me. “She controls her angry tongue.”

  Späth believed I was a perfect child in no need of correction.

  There was another important difference: Daisy always kept her own counsel, while it was impossible for dear Späth to keep a secret. She had told Mamma of Fidi’s love affair with Captain d’Este and spoiled it all. I learned from Späth’s wagging tongue that nearly everyone in my papa’s family was attached to some scandal or had been involved in some sinister affair.

  “Perhaps I should not say this,” Späth had a habit of beginning, and then went on to say it, whatever it
was, anyway. “Perhaps I should not say this, but Sir John will do all he can to separate you from your papa’s family. He has convinced your Mamma that King George means to steal you away and bring you up in court.” When she saw my frightened look, Späth hastened to add, “Don’t worry, child, such a thing will not be allowed.”

  Then one day I happened upon a scene that deeply affected my feelings toward my mother. For some reason I wished to speak to her and told Späth, who was with me that afternoon, “I’m going to find Mamma.” Off I ran to the library, the cozy room with a lovely view of the gardens where Mamma had her desk for writing letters. The library also served as Sir John’s office.

  The door stood slightly ajar. Forgetting to knock, I pushed open the heavy door just enough to allow me to slip through. What I saw shocked me: my mother in Sir John’s embrace. His mouth was firmly on hers. They were quite unaware that they had a witness. Mamma gasped and started to pull away from him, but then she seemed to change her mind and allowed herself to be pulled close. I stared at the pair, my mouth open, disbelieving what my eyes told me.

  I backed slowly from the disturbing scene and rushed back to my room. “Darling girl!” Späth cried when I burst in. “What is it? What has happened?”

  I shook my head. My lips were trembling so that I could scarcely speak. I could not explain it, and I did not understand it.

  “Mamma,” I stammered. “And Sir John. Together.”

  “Yes? What of it?” she asked. Then her demeanor changed. “Together? What were they doing, child?”

  “They were very close,” I ventured. “Embracing,” I added. “Kissing, I think. But why were they doing that? Mamma is not his wife.”

  Späth gazed at me for a moment, her head tilted to one side. “Well!” she said, straightening and smiling brightly. “Because they are friends, of course! Now back to your studies, my love, and think no more of it! Let this be the end of it.”

  But it was not the end of it.

  A fortnight later Späth broke the news to me that she was leaving. “I have been dismissed,” she said. “And I shall return to Germany.”

  Dismissed? I gaped at her.

  She tried to put up a brave front, but clearly she was deeply hurt.

  “I shall speak plainly to you, my darling Victoria. Sir John Conroy has never been my friend, because I have openly criticized him and his methods. I do not like him, and I have never liked him. He was nothing, you know—just a captain in charge of your father’s horses—until he became your mother’s confidant and somehow persuaded King George to make him a knight. I reproached your Mamma, who is my oldest and dearest friend. I told her most forcefully that I believed she had become far too familiar with him. And him so common!”

  She did not say it, but I guessed she was referring to the scene in the library that I had unwisely reported to her. “It is my fault,” I cried, stricken, and threw myself, weeping, onto her lap. “But where shall you go in Germany?” I asked between sobs. “What shall you do?”

  “You must not worry about me, my little love! Feodore is expecting her first child, and she has written to me that there’s no one she thinks better suited to be the child’s governess.”

  She kissed me, and two days later she was gone.

  Späth’s departure greatly distressed me, though dear Daisy tried to console me. “Späth will be with Feodore and Feodore’s precious baby,” she reminded me.

  But I was deeply worried. Sir John had made Fidi leave, and now Späth. Soon it might be dearest Daisy! I thought again of the two I had glimpsed in the library, Mamma in Sir John’s arms, and I realized that my mother would do whatever he wanted and I could do nothing at all to prevent it.

  I hated him now more than I ever had. And I no longer thought well of Mamma.

  Chapter 4

  EXAMINATIONS, 1830

  Mamma was greatly concerned about my education.

  “Before we leave on our spring holiday,” she said, “you will undergo an examination. Two learned men, the bishops of London and Lincoln, will question you.”

  “Why must I do this, Mamma?” I asked. “My tutor thinks I’m doing well enough.”

  Mamma smiled stiffly. “I wish to have more than Mr. Davys’s opinion. The purpose of the examination is to demonstrate that you are being educated in the best way possible and that you are learning all that is necessary to your future station.” She did not say what my future station was, and I did not ask.

  The Reverend George Davys had come to live at Kensington Palace when I was not yet four years old and had been stuffing knowledge into my resistant head ever since. I was not naturally a studious child. His first great challenge had been to teach me to read. Mamma’s attempts had failed. Mr. Davys printed words on cards that he placed round my nursery and asked me to fetch them. “Cow,” he would say, and I’d dash off to find the card with “C-O-W” printed on it. It seemed a game, and so I learned without realizing that I was being taught.

  Since those earliest days, it had been Mr. Davys’s charge to instruct me in history, geography, grammar (in which I was an indifferent student), and religion, and to read poetry aloud and understand it. He was my principal master; tutors came to cover other subjects: Mr. Steward in charge of writing and arithmetic and Monsieur Grandineau, French. I was fairly fluent in French, showed little facility for Latin, and spoke German easily and was often praised for my excellent pronunciation. I could read it well, too, but writing it was quite another matter.

  My lessons began at ten o’clock, continued until noon, and resumed again late in the afternoon. On Saturday mornings Mr. Davys conducted a review of the week’s work. Learning was no longer an amusing game but a tiresome burden. The lessons I enjoyed most were dancing and singing and drawing, but those weren’t the subjects in which I would be questioned.

  Mr. Davys reassured me. “All will go splendidly,” he promised.

  Still, I dreaded this odious examination. “I feel wobbly,” I told Daisy.

  “Who would not feel wobbly?” she asked. “I agree with Mr. Davys. All will go splendidly.”

  The bishops arrived, two elderly gentlemen, their shiny bald pates surrounded by fringes of wispy white hair. My hands were damp, and my stomach churned. The bishops settled in their chairs and popped their spectacles on and off their noses. They began by asking me questions about the Christian religion as set forth by the Church of England, and then moved on to the subject of geography.

  “Name the five continents,” said the bishop with a small, neat beard, and I did so handily.

  “What is the longest river in the world?”

  “What river flows from south to north?”

  They required me to demonstrate my knowledge of the times tables. They asked me to conjugate the Latin verb laudare, “to praise,” in several tenses and to decline the noun agricola, “farmer,” in all its cases, which I did with some hesitation.

  I was able to explain to their satisfaction the importance of the Norman invasion of the British Isles and the Battle of Hastings in 1066 and of Wellington’s defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo just four years before I was born.

  The bishops smiled and nodded, and I knew that I had done well. But this was still not enough to please Mamma.

  “They have stated that they are perfectly satisfied,” she said after they’d gone, “but I need still further approval. I shall ask the Archbishop of Canterbury to examine you. He is the head of the Church of England. There is no higher authority than he in such matters.”

  “Again, Mamma? But surely once was enough! I see no reason—”

  Mamma frowned. “That will do, Victoria! You are being headstrong and impertinent. When I tell you that something is to be done, I do not expect you to contradict me! I shall ask Mr. Davys to arrange it. And you are excused.”

  A fortnight later the archbishop, a corpulent man with two trembling chins, focused on my understanding of the duties of a sovereign.

  “Your grace, shall I assume that you are speaking
of the duties of His Majesty King George?” I asked.

  “Yes, my dear princess Victoria,” replied the archbishop. “But not of His Majesty exclusively. My questions apply to any who might in future succeed him to the throne.” He made a steeple of his fingers and pressed them to his fleshy lips.

  I answered carefully. “It would seem to me, your grace, that a sovereign must first of all live for others and not solely for himself. Or herself,” I added.

  The archbishop nodded with a pleased smile. “Kindly express to me your opinion of King Henry the Eighth and his various wives.”

  “King Henry was a terrible tyrant. Catherine of Aragon, mother of Mary Tudor, was virtuous but much older than Henry and he did not much like her. Anne Boleyn, mother of Elizabeth, was certainly the most beautiful, though she was rather giddy and thoughtless.”

  I had not gotten to the rest of Henry’s wives when the bishop interrupted. “And Elizabeth? Your thoughts on her queenship?”

  “Elizabeth was a great queen but certainly not a very good woman and treated her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, most cruelly. Elizabeth surely inherited her harshness from her father and delighted in having her rival in her power.”

  “Well answered,” rumbled the archbishop, and we continued in this manner. At last the great man pronounced himself satisfied, Mamma, too, was finally satisfied, and I was VERY relieved to have it finished.

  Soon after the archbishop’s visit, Daisy placed a history book on my writing table and pointed out the large, folded sheet inserted in the back of the book. “Your mother wishes you to look at this very carefully,” she told me, hovering at my elbow. I thought she seemed rather nervous, unusual for her.

  An elegantly drawn chart outlined the royal succession, hundreds of years of the past kings and queens of England. I traced my finger down through one generation after another until I reached the name of my grandfather, King George III. My finger moved across the page to note his several sons: Uncle King—George IV—followed by the duke of York with a black cross next to his name and the date on which he’d died; Uncle William, duke of Clarence; my father, Edward duke of Kent, also with the black cross and date; Uncle Cumberland, whom everyone feared and despised, perhaps because he was monstrously ugly; dear, eccentric old Uncle Sussex; and then Uncle Cambridge. Beneath my uncles’ names were the names of their legitimate children—no bâtards. There were scarcely any. It was just as Fidi said.