Victoria

by Anna Kirwan

  10 April

  Today, Toire and I played “actress” again. But Toire says we must not call it that, it isn’t proper, because actresses are not Ladies. She says we should call it “Playing Cameos.” At first she was going to be a prioress, a nun. She pinned a white tablecloth around her throat and then put de Spaeth’s black crocheted shawl over her head, and she had on a black dress.

  Toire’s face is much more dramatically shaped than mine. Mine is shaped like a roly-poly pudding. And my mouth is crooked.

  Her face is more pointed and foxlike.

  I wanted to pretend to be Rowena the Saxon, because I have been secretly reading another novel, Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott, a poet who has come to visit Mamma and Uncle Sussex. Rowena is one of the characters in the story. I dared not confess as much to Toire, she’s such a tattler. And she has plenty of nosiness! But she has so little curiosity – I mean, real curiosity. She never asks where my ideas come from. I don’t know if there is a prioress in the book, I am not finished reading it yet.

  Later

  A close call – Lehzen almost caught me writing. I sat on my book so quickly, I feared I got ink on my skirt, and had to go and check in the looking-glass. But I suppose I whisked my book out of sight so fast, the breeze dried the ink directly!

  To return to my account: when Toire could not persuade me to be a nun with her, she considered being a Lost Sheep Saved. Then she decided she’d change her name to Sister Mary Margaret, and she declared herself to be a Belgian mystic saint. For such a sneak and liar, she certainly has very holy fancies! She did not seem in the mood for me to propose to her that she be Rebecca the Jewess of York, but there are no other girls except those two in Ivanhoe yet, so far as I’ve read. So I said that I would be both Rowena and Rebecca and she could be a Belgian prioress.

  Really, I was rather glad that she wouldn’t make a good Rebecca. The truth is, Rebecca is more interesting than Rowena. Though I dare say I look more like Rowena. For Rebecca, I wound Lehzen’s yellow scarf ’round and ’round my head, with de Spaeth’s ruby brooch to hold it like a turban. For Rowena, I made a wreath of primroses (THAT took some time) with a silvery silk gauze scarf over it that fell over my face. Mrs Arbuthnot was visiting Mamma and offered me the loan of the scarf without my asking – a very kind loan, I think. I was careful with it.

  I like to make up speeches and act out whole scenes, but Toire prefers to do a tableau, just a scene with no moving or speaking, because she is better at holding still than she is at remembering her lines. Also, she is better at holding still than I am. Of course, I could MAKE her do as I wish. She is the one who is always talking about my “precedence”, my right to be treated with Utmost Respect. She is her father’s little parrot. But she forgets her lines and so often says, “Um, um, I shall recall it all momentarily,” it drives me daft. I vow, when Lehzen says I am willful and always expect to have my way, she has no idea how often I bite my tongue and hold myself in where Toire is concerned!

  So, perhaps we will do a tableau at tea tomorrow, if Mamma will let us be actresses in company. Or cameos.

  Later

  To my great joy, I believe Uncle Leopold will be dining with us tomorrow.

  His last letter to me was so lovely. “Dearest Little Child, I have travelled far over the world and shall be able to give you some curious information about various matters.” Mamma does not invite him often to Kensington, although he is her own brother. I wonder why she is sour about him this time. It’s O’Hum’s fault, I am sure of that much. I hear him blustering and vowing this and that about how much income Uncle has to share. It is not as though dear Uncle planned the death of his wife, my poor Aunt Princess Charlotte, or Parliament’s grant for them being greater than what my Papa had.

  Toire says my Duke Papa left so many debts because he was too charitable. She also says perhaps she would really like to be a nun instead of getting married, because of what happens when people try to have babies. She meant Aunt Charlotte dying in childbirth so tragically young. De Spaeth overheard. She said, “Nonsense, it’s these English doctors thinking they can cure everything with their filthy leeches.”

  Sometimes, Feo, I really feel sympathy for poor Victoire. But then she does something repugnant.

  When I told her I was Rebecca the Jewess of York, she said, “Oh, Your Highness, how shocking, how can you, and so close to Easter, and with His Grace Dr Howley the Archbishop of Canterbury calling during the day?”

  I wish she had not reminded me. His Grace gives me a bad case of nerves. Lehzen laughs at me when I say so, but it is true and of course dreadful, and I can scarcely manage to stay courteous. When I was little, I thought at one time that his name was Dr Holy and another time that he was a ghost, Dr Howling. Then I thought for a while that he was the one the Bible referred to when it spoke of the Holy Ghost arriving like tongues of flame (I believe that was the year Uncle Billy had Hindoostani fire-swallowers at his garden party at Bushey, too – quite horrid when one is small!). I feared for several days that the candles in church were to be used to light our mouths on fire. I believe I must have had a bad dream about these words because I didn’t understand them. It was silly, but I still rather fear the Archbishop, and I shall wait until he is gone before proposing to show Mamma our tableau.

  But, about Rebecca the Jewess, Feo. I realize that Toire has never gone with us and Uncle Leopold to Mr Montefiore’s at Ramsgate, where Mamma takes us for our summer holidays by the sea. I am afraid she is not what Uncle would consider fair-minded, or she would appreciate that Mr M is so kind to let us play in his garden, and he is a Jew, and is perfectly amiable. I am sure no one could take exception to him, who knew him. But she was behaving quite in a medieval way, if one thinks about it. And I know she thought she was being especially pious. Imagine!

  I wonder what the Reverend Mr Davys would tell me about play-acting the part of Rebecca during Easter season.

  12 April

  Uncle Leopold was indeed here for Sunday dinner yesterday. I was allowed to come to the table with the grown-ups, although Lehzen made it clear I was not to dominate any portion of the conversation, but to listen to how it is done among the best society.

  Our dear, dear Uncle is the most fascinating individual in the world, I believe. He is very handsome, with those fine, dark eyes of inexpressible kindness. He has to be so brave, carrying the burden of his sorrow for losing his beloved wife, Aunt Charlotte, the way he did. He says she was always lively and merry.

  I cannot but notice, though, that Uncle does not overload his conversation with sad sentiments. During the several courses of our meal, for example, he spoke of many things, subjects introduced by himself or others.

  Uncle brought me a present, too – a lovely brass nutcracker, made in the shape of a griffin with a lion’s mane and an eagle’s beak. “These English walnuts are the most hard-headed crop in Europe,” he said. That made Lehzen laugh so, she turned quite pink.

  22 April

  Roast leg of lamb, garnished with mint jelly moulded into the shape of strawberry leaves, and also roast pork with herbs crusted to the cracklings, and soup with parsley dumplings, and watercresses, and a pineapple, and coconut cake, and ices.

  That was dinner yesterday.

  In the morning, we went to the Abbey in the barouche, our most stylish carriage, and came back by way of Rotten Row. I bowed my head to everyone who bowed to me (everyone, in other words!) and said, “A Happy Eastertide to you.” I was wearing my white serge coat, as the day was charmingly warm, and my new bonnet with blue ribbons and white egret tips.

  After we arrived back home, Mamma said I may go to the ball! Now, I only pray nothing might happen to cause her to change her mind. (I mean: a Certain Person of wrathful looming-overness.)

  Really, I cannot understand how there could have been any question whether I should go, as we are commanded, rather than invited. Toire, in her m
ost KNOWING manner, told me that is EXACTLY why her papa and my mamma had to consider carefully.

  I replied (rather irritated) that my mamma knows there can be no serious question! I am a princess, but I am His Majesty’s MOST LOYAL subject!

  Toire looked entirely too smug at that. She said, “Pity, then, he’s not so fond of you as you seem to think. He’s choosing your birthday week to give a party for someone else! And one who but recently lived in Brazil, at that. Papa says that is a ‘gross insult’, Your Highness.”

  I felt as though she had slapped me. I could not understand why she wanted to be so cruel.

  Afterward, though, I found out. Everyone is NOT invited. Toire is not. She says she doesn’t care, for the people at Court wear too much perfume and pomade, and her lungs are delicate. (A lie.)

  If she went, maybe she would do some of the dancing with Cousin Georgie, and I wouldn’t have to. She could ask him if his father, Uncle Ernest, murdered his manservant.

  But it really does not seem fair she can’t go.

  24 April

  Tried four times to write, but almost got caught each time. My heart spends a good deal too much time in my throat these days.

  However, I have found that some of my best times for writing are very early in the morning, when the birds are just starting to sing. I can sit by the window, with my down counterpane wrapped around me. I write with a pencil, for I dare not try to manage an ink bottle in such a position.

  Another time I have found that often allows for a spot of writing is after breakfast, if Mamma is indisposed, and I am set to working by the globes in Uncle Sussex’s library. I make my lists of principal seaports and northernmost outposts and so on, and I do it promptly and rapidly as soon as I am seated. They think it will take me a half to three-quarters of an hour to fulfil the task. But I write as quickly as the Captain does, and with a good deal less time wasted on flourishes.

  I was too tired to write all that happened yesterday. I was too sleepy at bedtime. I thought I would go and get my book, but before Lehzen dozed off, I did. I’ll try to catch up when next I can write.

  Later

  We went to the Serpentine pond in Hyde Park in the afternoon, and Uncle Billy let me sail his model of the Pegasus, his old Navy ship, in the pond where all the boys from Eton were sailing their boats. Aunt Adelaide was quite beside herself, and I did get my shoes damp. We tipped the boat over once in a gust, and Uncle said sailors’ words. Then, as my commanding officer, he ordered me to forget what he said.

  One of the boys had a boat that was supposed to be Admiral Nelson’s ship, the Victory. The Admiral was a great friend of Uncle Billy’s, and he died a great hero. I believe Uncle misses him a good deal.

  6 May

  It is so provoking, but there’s no help for it. Mamma lets me do nothing wherein I might breathe bad air – but lately she includes fresh air in her ruling! She is so particular this week about my not catching a cold. Since it’s how my dear Papa caught his death, of course I take the matter seriously. I am not a careless infant. Uncle’s friend, Dr Stockmar, says pure air is of utmost importance in maintaining one’s health. He is the one who told Mamma to put white upholstery in her apartments and watch it for soot and mildew, to know if the chamber is wholesome to live in. It is useful advice, although Captain Conroy rumbles, “Oh, hmm, one more way to waste money, and nothing to show for it.”

  I came in panting after a brisk canter, and I suppose I looked flushed. Mamma wanted to feel my forehead and put a shawl around my shoulders while I did my geography recitation, which I couldn’t have borne. Egypt makes one warm enough.

  De Spaeth whispered to me, as she tried to help with my soaked bootlace, “You cannot go to Court with a cold. Your Mamma will not permit it.”

  I asked Mamma and O’Hum if Toire could please come to the ball. I said I would send my Uncle King a charming note, and ask it as a favour for my birthday. Mamma looked confused. O’Hum didn’t look at me at all. He said, “Oh, hmm, not necessary, not at all necessary.”

  I was glad I hadn’t told Toire I would ask. It would be too hard to explain.

  Later

  Mamma and Lehzen and I have had letters from Feo in today’s post. It is so charming to hear of life in Hohenlohe. I wish we could go and stay with her sometime. It sounds so amusing, the way she speaks of managing her own household and staff.

  Compton, everyone’s favourite sewing maid, is cutting out my dress today. She’s using the same pattern as my (favourite) lawn frock that has eyelet lace trim, only adding another inset panel to make it longer. (I really am taller.)

  Greta, the new girl, was helping. She got nervous while fitting the muslin pattern on me, and accidentally ran a pin into my leg. I thought she would just about die. I saw tears in her eyes, she was so distressed! It was only a pin, after all. And I am a soldier’s daughter.

  I would have said a few words to comfort her, but Lehzen was reading a fairy tale to me the whole time, “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”.

  29 May

  I celebrated my tenth birthday five days ago. Yesterday I attended the Royal ball. So much has happened! Alas, I’ve had no time to write. Now that I am ten years old, I must learn to be stricter with myself. It would be unfortunate to have one’s failings known publicly. At Court, one is under EVERYONE’S eye.

  The most amazing thing is this, dear Feo: I rather like it. I don’t know why dear Mamma thinks it’s not nice there. I watched all the lords and ladies bow to one another and say such pleasant things. They dress BEAUTIFULLY, of course. It is like a conservatory of satin and sheared velvet and gauzy silk chiffoneries, all the hues of petals, seashells, pastry icing. I never saw so many ropes and knots and stars of shining jewels! The candlelight glimmered on the golden epaulets as if they were the armour of the most splendid company of knights. The gleaming scarlet and black of the military uniforms looked like a pack of playing cards scattered all around.

  And the music was HEAVENLY. Not only was there an orchestra that played for the dancing, but also violins and a cello on the terrace. A female harpist played in the ladies’ withdrawing room. The evening being mild and clear, Scotch bagpipers in their plaid kilts were marching here and there out in the gardens, playing “like a topping gale”, Uncle Billy said. I could tell he meant that as praise.

  It was not true, what Toire said about my Uncle King not noticing my birthday, as I shall tell.

  When I went up to make my curtsy to His Majesty, I was quite nervous. I had to kiss His Majesty’s hand. Really, one kisses the air over his hand, and that’s a good thing, for he’s so glistening with lotions and powders to cover the liver spots on his skin, which he hates. (I heard him say so to Lady Conyngham. Perhaps, also, the Royal purpleness, though he didn’t mention that.)

  Aunt Soap says he was a beautiful lad when he was young. “Prinny was the handsomest Prince ever. His curls were the colour of honey on toast, like that red-gold Russian sable the Princess de Lieven wears.” Now, unfortunately, his beauty has quite fled. Perhaps he does wear a corset, as I once heard Lady C remark – though I can’t see that it does much good. (I’m sure she would be shocked to know I overheard. But I do wonder why so many people seem to think a young person’s ears do not work unless they are instructed to by some adult.)

  When I had kissed the air above His Majesty’s hand, which was scented with eau de cologne, he leaned over the arm of his chair, quite sideways. Feo, he’s so bulgy, he can’t bend forward very well! But he leaned over and held his cheek toward me and patted it with his big, plump hand, which is the size of a plucked quail, and loaded with rings like cherries. He said, “You pretty little pet, give us a true kiss, now.”

  So I did, though he was rather pink and white and greasy with makeup. His hair smelled like gardenia, almost overpowering.

  Then he said, “Ah, so charming. Now, hold out your little paw. I have something
for you.” (His Majesty always calls my hand a “paw”, so I think it’s not too terrible to call his a quail, is it, Feo?)

  He rang a little bell then, and a footman stepped up and bowed and handed him a flat, square, green velvet box. Uncle held it out to me and said, “My dear, a very, very happy birthday.” Really, it was four days after my birthday, but he was close.

  I was not certain if I should open it then and there, but of course I said, “Oh, Your Majesty, thank you. You are so kind to me.”

  “And you, at least, can see that, can’t you,” he murmured. “How difficult can it be?” (And I believe the glance he cast past my shoulder was aimed at poor Mamma, who had been announced when we entered the ballroom, but to whom he had not yet said a word.) “Open it, open it,” he bid me.

  So I did, and it was the loveliest little necklace of pearls, so delicate, with a cunning clasp of tiny diamonds spelling GRA, which you know means George Rex Anglorum – George, King of England.

  “Help her on with it,” he commanded Lady Montagu, who was standing nearby. When she had it fastened, he said something that touched me deeply. He wiggled a finger at me to come closer, and then he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone at home, but that was my daughter Charlotte’s. His Majesty, my father, gave it to her when she was just your size. You are better behaved than she was, poor little soul – you won’t pop the string, will you?”