by Theo Aronson
Try as he might, the Prince of Wales could not interest himself in these high-minded activities. Although, in her memoirs, Daisy is very anxious to create the impression that she had won the Prince's 'whole-hearted sympathy' for her various causes (he never stayed at a great country house, she assures us, without 'writing his name in the visitors' book'40 of the local workhouse) and that he was the driving force behind such things as the Prince of Wales's Hospital Fund, there is no doubt that he found her enthusiasms tiresome. On one occasion he was obliged to sit in embarrassed silence in a cramped cottage parlour while one of her 'discoveries' – the aged founder of the Agricultural Labourers' Union – treated him, not to a customary show of deference, but to a diatribe on the injustices of the social system and the iniquities of the upper classes.
But what probably accelerated the end of their liaison was Lady Warwick's discovery that, at the age of thirty-five and well over twelve years since the birth of her last child, she was again pregnant. In March 1898, Daisy gave birth to a son, to whom she gave her maiden name of Maynard. On this particularly beautiful child she was to heap the sort of affection notably lacking in her dealings with her other two children, the fifteen-year-old Guy and the thirteen-year-old Marjorie.
Two months before that, however, she brought her nine-year affair with the Prince of Wales to a tidy and eminently satisfactory close. Appreciating that not even Queen Victoria could live much longer, Daisy was anxious to ensure that she would retain at least the friendship of the future King and, even more important, that she would once again become socially acceptable to the future Queen. Budding feminist, socialist and humanitarian Daisy might be, but not to be a member of society, with a capital S, was unthinkable.
So she sat down to write two very skilful letters: one to the Prince, the other to the Princess. In her formally phrased letter to the Prince – a letter clearly intended to be shown to Alexandra – Daisy stressed the fact that their relationship was now platonic, expressed the hope that the Princess would forgive her for past misunderstandings, and made much of her anxieties about losing the Prince's friendship. In her letter to Alexandra – that 'noble and gracious woman' – Daisy hoped that her 'enemies' had not poisoned Her Royal Highness's ears with spiteful gossip.
Her letters achieved their goals admirably; or so she thought. Bertie, having passed her 'beautiful letter' on to his wife, lost no time in putting Daisy's mind at rest. The Princess, he assured her, had been moved to tears; she was quite sure that 'out of evil good would come'; any enemies of Lady Warwick's were no friends of hers; she had quite forgiven the past; and, most important of all, she was ready to 'receive' Lady Warwick once more. The Prince felt sure that if the two women were to work together on some charitable venture, they would soon become good friends.
'The end of your beautiful letter touched me more than anything,' he continued, 'but how can you, my loved one, imagine that I should withdraw my friendship from you? On the contrary I mean to befriend you more than ever, and you cannot prevent my giving you the same love as the friendship I have always felt for you.
'Certainly the Princess has been an angel of goodness throughout all this, but then she is a Lady, and never could do anything that was mean or small.
'Though our interests, as you have often said, lie apart, still we have that sentimental feeling of affinity which cannot be eradicated by time . . .'41
Princess Alexandra's answer, if less fulsome, was no less reassuring. After all; she could afford to be magnanimous now. But she was not quite as magnanimous as her husband imagined. Alexandra was never the 'angel of goodness' of popular legend. To forgive – or to appear to forgive – her husband's ex-mistress was one thing; to work hand-in-hand with her on some project, no matter how charitable, was quite another. 'In case you should hear from Lady Warwick asking you to become President of a Charity of hers, refuse it,' wrote Prince George, Duke of York, to his wife. 'Motherdear has done so and wishes you to do the same.'42
Yet, according to Lady Warwick, it was from Princess Alexandra that she received 'a small crucifix wrapt in a piece of paper on which was written these words: "From one who has suffered much and forgives all." '43
Part Three
'BELOVED ALICE'
10
The Hon. Mrs George Keppel
FOR THE British monarchy, the summer of 1897 was particularly brilliant. On 20 June that year Queen Victoria celebrated the sixtieth anniversary of her accession, her Diamond Jubilee. Although, in private, the Prince of Wales was sometimes heard to grumble about the inordinate length of time he was being kept waiting for the throne, he actually took an immense pride in the span, success and splendour of his mother's reign. With his taste for pageantry, the Prince was determined that the Jubilee celebrations should be as memorable as possible.
He heartily agreed with the Colonial Secretary, Joseph Chamberlain, that the occasion should be in the nature of a festival of empire. Whereas Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee, ten years before, had been marked by a mustering of European royalty, her Diamond Jubilee was designed to be an imperial fanfare, a manifestation of Britain's imperial power. Colonial prime ministers, rather than Continental crowned heads, would be the principal guests. And although Bertie did not share his mother's aversion to what she called 'the Royal Mob' (the thought of all those kings and emperors strutting about Buckingham Palace was more than the seventy-eight-year-old Queen could bear) he was delighted to know that his nephew, the braggardly Kaiser Wilhelm II, would not be present.
'Sir Arthur Bigge may tell the Prince of Wales,' wrote Queen Victoria to her private secretary early that year, 'that there is not the slightest fear of the Queen's giving way about the Emperor William's coming here in June. It would never do . . .'1
There was, though, no shortage of lesser royals. Princes and princesses from every court in Europe came swarming into London. 'Buckingham Palace is like a beehive,' reported Bertie's sister Vicky, the Empress Frederick, 'the place is so crammed we do not see very much of each other. '2 And as the Queen resolutely refused to be inconvenienced for the sake of these foreign royals, it fell to the Prince of Wales to see that they were suitably entertained. He was no less responsible for the visiting prime ministers. The Prince even arranged for Daisy Warwick – with whom he had not, at that stage, yet ended his affair – to invite the colonial prime ministers to Warwick Castle. Seeing it as an opportunity to do something for the great imperial ideal, Daisy was only too delighted to oblige. The occasion was not a success. Of the eleven premiers then in Britain, only three turned up. Perhaps these less worldly colonials did not approve of the idea of being entertained by the Prince of Wales's mistress.
Into the preparations for the various Jubilee events the Prince flung himself with gusto. His Royal Highness, noted one official, 'loved detail, no matter how small'3 and there was no aspect of the celebrations, be it orders of precedence or stands for school-children, with which he did not concern himself. His energy, his enthusiasm, his attention to minutiae astonished those who had hitherto regarded him purely as a sybarite.
Nothing could more impressively have illustrated both Queen Victoria's position as head of a great imperial family and Britain's policy of 'splendid isolation' than the Queen's Jubilee procession through the streets of London on 22 June 1897. With the Princess of Wales sitting in the carriage opposite her and the Prince, in a field-marshal's uniform, riding his horse alongside, Queen Victoria processed through the streets in the midst of a swaggering parade of troops drawn from every quarter of her great empire. The watching crowds had never seen such a variety of races and peoples. While Alexandra leaned forward, every now and then, to press the Queen's hand, Bertie would bend down to draw her attention to this or that point of interest along the way. It was, in fact, at his suggestion that the Queen drove through the poorer districts south of the Thames as well as along the great processional ways.
'No one ever, I believe, has met with such an ovation as was given to me, passing through those six m
iles of streets . . .' wrote the gratified Queen. 'The crowds were quite indescribable, and their enthusiasm truly marvellous and deeply touching. The cheering was quite deafening, and every face seemed to be filled with real joy.'4
Climax of this triumphant procession was the short open-air service of thanksgiving conducted on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral, with the lame old Queen remaining firmly in her carriage. 'The scene in front of St Paul's was most impressive,' reported the Empress Frederick, 'and when the bells pealed out from the dark old Cathedral, and the cheers rang out again, and the sun shone on all the glitter of the escort and carriages and the countless spectators, it was as fine a sight as you could wish to see.'5
And who had better reason to bask in any reflected glory than the heir to all this magnificence – the Prince of Wales?
Unlike Queen Victoria, who kept her public appearances to a minimum, the Prince revelled in all the activities of Jubilee year. He attended the great naval review where 173 warships, the largest battle fleet that had ever been assembled in peacetime, loomed like great grey castles on the sparkling waters of the Solent. Wearing the uniform of Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller of Malta, he danced at the Duchess of Devonshire's costume ball. To his immense gratification, his horse Persimmon, which had won the Derby the year before, won the Ascot Gold Cup that summer. His racing earnings amounted to over £15,000 in 1897 and he was placed second on the list of winning owners.
Between the luncheons, dinners, garden parties, soirées and balls, the Prince was able to wedge the occasional less ephemeral activity, such as the summoning of a committee to establish (with Lady Warwick's encouragement) the 'Prince of Wales's Hospital Fund'. Princess Alexandra, too, felt compelled to mark the Jubilee by some philanthropic gesture; or rather, by some impulsive act of generosity. She suggested to the Lord Mayor of London that a fund be opened to provide a meal 'for the poorest of the poor in the slums of London'.6 To launch this typical scheme of Victorian charity, the Princess enclosed a sizeable donation. For some reason or other, the appeal did not catch on. Only by the intervention of the rich tea-merchant, Thomas Lipton (who was never averse to currying a little royal favour) was the Princess's project saved from abandonment: Lipton wrote out a hefty cheque to bring the sum up to the required amount.
For the Prince and Princess of Wales Jubilee year ended, as always, at Sandringham. Christmas found them standing side by side in front of the glittering tree in the ballroom, handing out gifts to the members of their household. 'It was all so beautifully done,' remembers one of their secretaries, 'and the pleasure of giving seemed never to leave [them], as it often does with rich people.'7 On New Year's Eve the royal couple observed the usual ritual of' first footing'. The house was completely emptied of guests and servants so as to allow the Prince and Princess, standing in the cold outside, to be the first to open the door after the stroke of midnight. This was guaranteed to bring them good luck in the coming year.
It was almost possible to believe, as the genial, portly, cigar-puffing Prince and his smiling, soignée, apparently ageless Princess entered their favourite home together, that they were the best-suited, most affectionate couple in the world. But the new year, which marked the end of the Prince's affair with Daisy Warwick, did not usher in a new period of marital harmony between the Prince and Princess of Wales. On the contrary, it brought the Prince not only a new mistress, but the greatest love of his life: Alice Keppel.
There is some doubt as to when exactly in 1898 the Prince of Wales first met the Hon. Mrs George Keppel. According to the not always reliable memory of the Baroness de Stoeckl, it was she who presented Alice Keppel to the Prince during his customary spring holiday on the French Riviera. Knowing something of the Prince's taste in women and thinking that he might be 'amused' by the young Mrs Keppel, the Baroness arranged a small luncheon party. 'He saw her then for the first time,' she maintains stoutly, 'and from that day started their friendship. '8
Another version is supplied by the writer, Anita Leslie. Mrs Keppel, she tells us, was a close friend of her grandfather, Sir John Leslie, and it was by him that Anita Leslie was told of the Prince's first meeting with 'the delectable Alice'. While inspecting the Norfolk Yeomanry, of which the Prince was colonel-in-chief and in which Mrs Keppel's husband served as an officer, His Royal Highness first noticed Alice. He immediately asked Lord Leicester to present her. A few days later, at the Sandown races, the Prince again spotted Mrs Keppel, this time on the arm of John Leslie. On being summoned by the Prince, Leslie – about to present Mrs Keppel to His Royal Highness – was assured that they had already met.
'Then, in the most gracious way possible,' reports Anita Leslie, 'H.R.H. gave Leslie to understand that his presence was no longer required. Whimsically, my grandfather used to describe that certain look – blending shrewd appraisement and admiration – that crossed the Prince's face as his eyes travelled over Mrs George Keppel's lovely face and fashionably curved figure.'9
Sir Philip Magnus, in his life of King Edward VII, claims that the Keppels first entertained the Prince to dinner (by which time, presumably, they had been formally presented) on 27 February 1898.
But wherever or whenever the two of them met, there can be no doubt at all about the momentous effect of that meeting. Between the Prince and Mrs Keppel an 'understanding', as Magnus so tactfully describes it, 'arose almost overnight'.10 That understanding, or to put it more bluntly, that strong physical attraction, very quickly developed into a full-blown love affair. Within a matter of weeks, Alice Keppel had been established as the Prince of Wales's new official mistress.
That the fifty-six-year-old Prince had been so strongly attracted to the twenty-nine-year-old Mrs George Keppel is not surprising. Alice Keppel was exceptional, both in looks and in personality. She was one of those women who, if not exactly beautiful, give an illusion of beauty. Her luxuriant chestnut hair was piled high onto her head, her skin was flawless and glowed with good health. She had large, lustrous, blue-green eyes. When, with studied slowness (for she was no fool), she lifted the veil of one of her ostrich-feather laden hats, the watching gentleman seemed, according to one witness, 'to catch his breath a little as he beheld her beautiful face'.11 She was very proud of possessing those prized Victorian attributes – small hands and feet.
With her short but generously proportioned figure, Alice Keppel exuded an unmistakable sensuousness; there was a warm, almost Mediterranean quality about her appearance. This same exotic aura characterised her manner. She was vivacious, extrovert, expansive. Her voice was low and seductive. In old age one admirer remembered her as having a 'deep throaty voice like Garbo'.12 Even in those less emancipated days she smoked, using a long cigarette holder; it emphasised her air of sophistication. She dressed with great panache and, after becoming the Prince of Wales's mistress, with greater panache still.
To attribute a certain Mediterranean quality to Alice Keppel's appearance and personality is not being too fanciful, for she had had a Greek grandmother. Her maternal grandfather, when British Governor of the Ionian Islands, had married a beautiful Greek girl; their daughter, in turn, had married Admiral Sir William Edmonstone, a descendant of a long line of Scottish baronets. Edmonstone had taken his half-Greek bride back to Scotland, to live in Duntreath Castle in Stirlingshire, not far from Glasgow. 'From Ithica to Kelvinside! What an odyssey!' exclaimed one of Lady Edmonstone's granddaughters in later life. 'How she must have loathed and resented the indefatigable rain, the sulphrous fogs, the grim bewhiskered elders!'13
But Lady Edmonstone apparently adapted to the change and bore her husband nine children, of whom the youngest, born in 1869, was Alice. Being the youngest did not, as far as Alice Frederica Edmon-stone was concerned, mean being the least significant. According to one observer, her 'superabundant vitality'14 ensured that she was never overshadowed by some of her more forceful sisters. In fact, in common with the Prince of Wales's other loves, Lillie Langtry and Daisy Warwick, Alice was something of a tomboy in girlhood, wit
h this same tomboyishness developing into the high spirits and air of independence which the Prince always found so alluring.
Duntreath Castle, where Alice grew up, had been the home of the Edmonstone family since the fifteenth century. Set amid rugged moorland and against two austere, bald hills, it was an uncompromising, four-square structure, built around a courtyard with a pepper-pot tower at each corner. But this somewhat forbidding exterior belied the elegance and comfort within. Duntreath had been almost completely renovated fifteen years before Alice's birth and was, for its time, an unexpectedly civilised home.
'I have completely misled you,' writes one member of the family, 'if you imagine that Duntreath was a dour Scottish fastness, reeking of Balmorality; it was nothing of the kind. It was romantic, of a standard of luxury without equal in those days; gay with a touch of Frenchness in its salons en enfilade, and premeditated perspectives. One fled from terror to enchantment. The atmosphere of the place was complex: half-medieval, half-exotic. The Greek goddess wedded to the Scottish ogre.'15
The masculinity of the castle, as characterised by the gun room, the billiard room, the armoury, the dungeons and even the haunted Oak Room, was compensated for by the overpowering scent of the tuberoses, grown in the greenhouse, with which Alice's mother kept the rooms filled throughout the year, and by the fact that of the Edmonstones' eight surviving children, seven were girls. Even Archie, the only boy, was not quite as manly as might have been wished. 'He detested sport, winced through the glorious 12th, took little or no interest in fishing,' writes one of his nieces. Archie was much happier closeted in his turret-room studio, painting 'shepherds and shepherdesses, fetês galantes, saucy harlequins, wistful pierrots'. 16