The Captive of Kensington Palace
Виктория Холт
The young Princess Victoria, strictly confined within the boundaries of Kensington Palace, is being moulded for her awesome future as Queen of England. Surrounded by her dolls and closely guarded by her domineering mother and faithful governess, she slowly becomes aware of the bitter conflicts that surround her.
The jealous and scheming Duke of Cumberland is a constant threat to her rightful accession … her mother’s sinister friend, Sir John Conroy, makes her uneasy … and the bickering between her mother and the king seems neverending.
Growing up is proving difficult for the princess. She longs for her eighteenth birthday when at last she will be free to rule the nation as she pleases and to re-acquaint herself with the gallant Prince Albert.
Jean Plaidy
The Captive of Kensington Palace
Chapter I
THE ROYAL SISTERS
The Duchess of Kent seated at her bureau, her gown a mass of lace and ribbons, her hair piled high under her enormous feathered hat, was smiling with some complacency at her extremely handsome Comptroller of the Household, Sir John Conroy.
Such a treasure of a man! thought the Duchess. Dear Sir John. And if people liked to speak of them scandalously, let them. Heaven knew there were scandals enough in the family, and if she were a little more friendly with Sir John than his position made necessary, who could blame her? She was eight years widowed, still young and vital and even her enemies must admit decidedly attractive so surely it was to be expected. She might have married again on the death of her Duke, but that would have been most unwise. Her position was unique; she was no ordinary widow. She was the mother of the most important little girl in the Kingdom, a fact which she would never forget – nor allow anyone else to.
‘So the arrangements are completed,’ she said.
‘As we could wish, dear Duchess.’
‘My dear Sir John, everything you do is for our good, I know well.’
‘It is not only my duty, dear Madam, but my utmost pleasure to serve the interests of the family.’
‘Within a day or so the Prince will arrive. The Clarences are taking him as their guest.’ The Duchess grimaced. ‘Poor dear fellow. William is such a buffoon and Adelaide so dowdy. Still, she has a good heart, and of course she adores my darling Victoria.’
‘She wishes our Princess was hers. I see it in her eyes.’
‘But there is no malice in her … unlike some. As for William, he is a fool. God help England if ever … I really don’t think there is much to choose between them. His Majesty is either living in that odd way with Lady Conyngham at that ridiculous cottage of his in Windsor or like some Eastern potentate at the Pavilion or Carlton House. It is really shocking. It’s a state of affairs that can’t last.’
They exchanged glances. They shared an ambition to see the Duchess’s daughter Victoria on the throne and a Regency established; and of whom should that Regency consist but of the little Queen’s mother? And who would be her adviser, at her right hand to guide and care for her? Who but her handsome Comptroller of the Household, Sir John Conroy.
Sir John’s expression had become slightly apprehensive. His dear Duchess was a little indiscreet; she was apt to talk too loudly and too much; and although they conducted their conversation in German – the Duchess’s English was not always intelligible – there might be spies in the household.
‘I suppose when we speak of His Majesty and his brothers we should whisper,’ he suggested.
The Duchess nodded so vigorously that the enormous pale blue feather momentarily covered her right eye.
‘How right you are! And how clever to have made a friend of that woman, who is extremely vulgar. I really cannot understand His Majesty. He has always been said to have such exquisite taste.’
Sir John bent closer to the Duchess so that his mouth almost touched her ear.
‘His Majesty is failing fast. They say his eyesight has almost gone and he is so full of water that he is too heavy to walk and has on some days to be carried up and down stairs.’
‘He can’t last.’
‘And Clarence could be as unstable as his father.’
‘Poor George III. I never knew him. But what a tragedy! A mad King of England!’
‘The people won’t want another.’
‘Do you really think William …?’
‘They say that but for Adelaide he would have been in a strait-jacket by now.’
‘Adelaide is a far more significant person than people are led to believe.’
‘Your Grace speaks with your accustomed wisdom. If she were not so devoted to Victoria …’
‘She is devoted to all the children, but I believe she has a special feeling for Victoria.’
‘How could she help loving our plump little pet.’
‘Dear me! Such storms! She will have to be guided.’
‘Indeed yes … and with such a mother …’
She returned his fond glance. ‘Who is so fortunate to have such a faithful …’ She hesitated. She could not call him a servant. He was an extremely proud man. ‘… helper,’ she concluded. ‘And I was saying it was clever of you to have won the favour of that odious Lady Conyngham. It’s so helpful for knowing what is going on at Windsor … even though she is so vulgar.’
There was a glint in the Duchess’s eyes. Sir John did seem to be able to charm rather easily; and there was no doubt that he had made an impression on the King’s mistress. He must not alienate the Duchess because she was essential to his success. It was comforting, of course, to be on good terms with the King’s mistress but once the King was dead – and that could happen at any moment – Lady Conyngham’s power would be nonexistent. She was only useful as long as the King lived.
He said quickly: ‘Indeed, I have often wondered what His Majesty saw in her. The Princess Lieven said that she is at a loss to understand that too. All the lady has, so says that Princess, is a hand for taking jewels and a magnificent balcony on which to display them.’
‘He always liked those large-bosomed females … or almost always. Maria Fitzherbert was his ideal and she was almost as lavishly endowed – as far as balconies are concerned – as Conyngham.’
‘It is fortunate that she is friendly towards … us. It is so useful to be informed of the King’s intentions. And with Cumberland so close to him …’
The Duchess shivered. ‘That man. My God, he is evil. I tremble sometimes to think of him and what may be going on in his mind.’
‘Never forget that you have good friends who are ever watchful of your interests and would stop at nothing to further them.’
The Duchess was sober. He was forgiven his friendship with Lady Conyngham. Of course everything was permissible if it kept them informed of what was going on in the King’s household.
‘She was exceedingly helpful when we were at Windsor,’ went on Conroy, stressing the point. ‘Your Grace will remember how His Majesty laid speculative eyes on the Princess Feodora.’
‘I remember full well. Everyone noticed. He kept her at his side and it was clear what was in his mind. Even Victoria said that she thought he liked Feodora better than he liked herself and that he wanted to marry her.’ The Duchess smiled fondly. ‘That child is too precocious.’
‘She is certainly bright but in need of control as we have agreed.’
‘She shall be controlled. But in spite of her storms and waywardness I am proud of her.’
‘Justly so, Duchess.’
‘And proud of my dearest Feodora, too.’
‘Your Grace should be justly proud of all your children.’
The girls, at least, thoug
ht Conroy. He was not sure of Charles, the young Prince of Leiningen, the Duchess’s son by her first marriage, who, he had heard, was expressing his desire – and more serious still, his intention – to marry a woman who was most unsuitable.
This was not the time to refer to the affairs of the young Prince of Leiningen; it was the Duchess’s two daughters with whom they must concern themselves. The constant concern being Victoria, the Duchess’s daughter by the Duke of Kent, fourth son of King George III.
Feodora, the Duchess’s daughter by her first marriage, was a delightful creature – twenty-one years old and a real beauty – as he believed their ‘plump little partridge’ Alexandrina Victoria would never be; and as a sister to the future Queen of England, Feodora was a very desirable parti.
She might have been the Queen of England, for his ageing Majesty had been very partial. So much so that the Duchess had been apprehensive. It was a great compliment to darling Feodora, of course, but such a match would spoil Victoria’s chances if it were fruitful. The Duchess would be the mother of the Queen Consort which was very different from being the mother of the reigning Queen. She was certain that Victoria would be Queen of England and that was what she wanted more than anything in the world.
So she had whisked Feodora from the King’s circle, with the willing assistance of Lady Conyngham who had no desire to see her ageing lover divert his attention from her to a young and beautiful wife, and poor George, weighed down with his physical afflictions, so that he was often more dead than alive, had ceased to think of her; and her mother – aided by Sir John – had arranged that the dear girl should pay a visit to her Grandmamma, Augusta, Duchess of Saxe-Coburg, who had with Teutonic efficiency set about finding a suitable husband for her.
Grandmamma’s choice had fallen on Prince Ernest of Hohenlohe-Langenburg who had just succeeded his father to the sovereignty of his little Principality. He was a sober-living man, a phenomenon in these days, and turned thirty which was not a bad thing; and in fact the Duchess of Kent agreed with her mother that this was an ideal match; and the sooner it was completed the better.
It was for this reason that Prince Ernest was on his way to England to stay first as the guest of the Clarences until the marriage could be arranged, and then enjoy a brief honeymoon at the Duchess’s brother Leopold’s house, Claremont, before he took Feodora to her new home.
The Duchess leaned forward and lightly laid a hand on Sir John’s arm.
This little matter had been so satisfactorily concluded.
* * *
In another part of the palace the Princess Sophia sat over her fire making a net purse. She could not see very well for her eyesight was failing. How terrible if she were to be unable to work at her embroidery and net her purses and do her knotting! What else was there to do nowadays?
What else, she asked herself, had there ever been to do?
She was not bitter; she had accepted her fate years ago when they had known that Papa would not allow them to marry if he could help it and Mamma was a tyrant and jailer at the same time. Once one of them had said: ‘I’d rather be a watercress seller down by the river or go round the streets crying sweet lavender than be a Princess of England.’ But Sophia had reminded them that if they had depended on watercress and lavender for their bread and butter they might soon have been wishing they were back in their completely boring, utterly monotonous captivity.
And now they had all escaped. Death had brought about their release. The death of Mamma, Queen Charlotte, that was, for Papa living his crazy life behind the grim walls of Windsor had ceased to be of any significance to them when he had been put away because of his madness.
George had become King … dearest of brothers, adored by all his sisters without exception; and he had given them freedom – but it had come too late.
Click-click went the steel needles – a comforting and familiar sound.
‘I wonder if dear Sir John will call on me today,’ murmured Sophia. She touched her wispy hair and sighed. Too late, she thought … everything is too late.
She closed her eyes to rest them a while. Here she lived in these rather secluded apartments in Kensington Palace and her near neighbours were Edward’s wife, the Duchess of Kent, with her dear little daughter Victoria and that pretty girl Feodora for whom they were now arranging a match. And close by in the Palace too was brother Augustus, the Duke of Sussex, with the hundreds of clocks which he tended as though they were children, his rare books and bibles and his pretty flower garden which was a source of great delight. And with him – alas for decorum – was that very merry plump little widow Cecilia Buggin. What a dreadful name – although she had not been born with it and had acquired it through marriage with a certain Sir George of Norfolk and was in fact a daughter of the Earl of Arran. Augustus was devoted to the lady and she to him, but of course he could not marry her since he considered himself married already, although the State did not recognise the marriage.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Sophia. ‘What a mess our lives are in and all on account of our not being able to live naturally like other people. Papa’s Marriage Act has been responsible for so much discord in the family.’
But for that she supposed dearest George might be married to Maria Fitzherbert and how much happier he would have been if that union could have been recognised! It was sad now to see that dearest of brothers reduced to his present state and with that harpy Lady Conyngham perpetually at his side.
Sad indeed! A long way they had come from that time when George had been Prince of Wales, then Regent and so concerned with Mr Brummel about the cut of his coats. And how exquisite he had looked and how proud they had been of him! No woman could have loved him more than his sisters did. If George had been in power earlier how different their lives would have been! He would not have made prisoners of them; he would have helped them to marry, not prevented them from doing so.
But the girls were settled now and only she and Augusta had remained unmarried. Charlotte the eldest had married long ago and become Queen of Württemberg; Elizabeth had married the Prince of Hesse-Homburg (and how the people had jeered at her and her husband – the ageing bride and the husband who had to be bribed to take a bath); Mary had married her cousin, the Duke of Gloucester (‘Silly Billy’ in the family, although he had become a tyrant since his marriage. Mary, though, preferred a domineering husband to a demanding parent); dear Amelia – so beloved of their father – had died at the age of twenty-seven, which sorrow, some said, had sent poor Papa completely mad; that left Augusta and herself, the old maids.
‘I could not exactly call myself that,’ she said aloud. ‘And I don’t care. At least I have something to look back on.’
She looked back frequently on the great adventure of her life, on that occasion when her affairs had been talked of in hushed whispers among her sisters and how they had planned and plotted to keep her secret from Mamma.
Colonel Garth, Papa’s equerry, was not exactly a handsome man. Far from it. But it had been wonderful to be loved; and she had been really happy for the first time. She should have been more careful. But how could she be? Adventure had come to Kew and while she sat with her sisters working on her embroidery, filling her mother’s snuff-box, making sure that the dogs were walked at the appropriate times, she had dreamed of Colonel Garth and romance; and she had slipped away whenever possible, to his apartments – or he came to hers. Life had become filled with intrigue.
And the inevitable consequence!
Augusta had anxiously enquired: ‘Sophia, are you ill?’
And Mary: ‘What is wrong?’
And Augusta: ‘You had better tell.’
And there in the prim drawing-room at Kew she had whispered her secret: ‘I am going to have a child.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Augusta had said. How could an unmarried daughter of the King be pregnant? How could it possibly happen? ‘In the usual way,’ she had said defiantly, not caring very much. ‘It will send Papa mad,’ Mary had said. Anything tha
t was alarming was always reputed to be likely to send Papa mad. ‘Mamma will be furious.’
Knowing this was true she had merely looked helplessly at them while in her heart she did not greatly care for anything but the fact that she was going to have a child.
They might have told George; he would have helped; but they did not do this. Instead the sisters had made a protective circle about her; the dear Colonel was very helpful; and so he should be since he was the child’s father. But he had been loving and tender and she was grateful. Kindly fashion had made skirts so voluminous that they might have been designed to disguise pregnancy. Dear Sophia was peaky, said Mary. She needed a little holiday by the sea.
So to the sea they went and there she gave birth to her boy who was adopted by a worthy couple; and the Colonel who had become a General doted on him and arranged his future for him and he was indeed a fine fellow now, almost thirty – a son to be proud of.
He came to Kensington to see her now and then. He knew of the relationship and was proud of it; but although brother William might openly acknowledge his ten FitzClarences borne to him by the actress Dorothy Jordan, it seemed a very different matter for a royal Princess to admit she was the mother of an illegitimate son.
‘So many scandals in the family,’ she murmured and picked up her netting. Was there another family with so many? The dear King’s life was one long scandal; her second brother Frederick, now dead, had created the biggest scandal of all when he had been accused of allowing his mistress Mary Anne Clarke to sell commissions in the Army of which he was Commander-in-Chief; then William, who had set up his house with Dorothy Jordan who had given him ten children; and Edward, Victoria’s father, who had lived with Madame de St Laurent for years (respectably it was true but without marriage lines); and Ernest, Duke of Cumberland … the less said of him the better. Many people shuddered every time they heard his name. Augustus, now living in this Palace tending his collection of clocks and bibles, accompanied everywhere by his dear friend Lady Buggin, though mild enough was scarcely without reproach; and only Adolphus in far away Hanover lived the exemplary life of a married man.
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