The Captive of Kensington Palace (4 page)

And now she had betrayed the fact that Charles was heading for trouble. Well, what harm could there be if she told it discreetly?

Victoria loved her half-brother Charles; it was wonderful to have a grown-up brother – he was three years older than Feodora. It was true she saw very little of him, but when she did, she thought him charming. He was often in Germany, which was after all his home, but she loved to have news of him.

Feodora looked over her shoulder and whispered: ‘He is in love with Marie Klebelsberg and swears he’ll marry her. It will never be allowed.’

‘Who is Marie Klebelsberg?’ whispered Victoria.

‘She is the daughter of Count Klebelsberg. Aunt Louise … before … before she left the Court met her when she was travelling with Uncle Ernest and was so taken with her that she made her her lady-in-waiting. That was how Charles met her. He says nothing on earth will stop his marrying her.’

‘Not Grandmamma? Not Mamma?’

‘We shall have to see.’

‘Poor darling Charles! I believe people should marry for love.’

She looked fondly at her dear Feodora and saw an idyllic picture – herself watering the flowers and Augustus and Feodora laughing under the trees and darling old Späth looking so pleased and happy.

Feodora, fearful that she had said too much, went on quickly: ‘It’s a secret. You must not mention it. Mamma would be cross.’

Victoria nodded conspiratorially; and Feodora, to take her mind from dangerous subjects, started to play the favourite game of ‘Do you remember?’

Victoria enjoyed hearing stories that concerned herself; and because she was sad about the impending departure, Feodora decided to cheer her up. The story of Victoria and the Bishop never failed to delight the little girl.

‘He picked you up in his arms and you were not very pleased.’

‘No I was not,’ agreed Victoria. ‘And what did I do then, eh, Feodora?’

‘You pulled off his wig and started to pull the hair out of it.’

‘How … wicked of me,’ cried Victoria delightedly. ‘And what did he do?’

‘He could do nothing. Poor man, he was smothered in powder, and he only grew very red in the face and waited for Mamma to come to the rescue.’

‘Of course I was talked to
very
severely afterwards.’

‘Oh yes, there was quite a storm.’

‘Indeed I can be very wayward.’

‘Darling Vicky, you are often very good.’

‘Oh, am I?’

‘Do you remember when your Uncle York was dying how you used to send him a bunch of flowers every day?’

‘I picked them myself. I thought he would like to know I was thinking of him.’

‘There. It shows you can be kind and thoughtful.’

‘He gave me my beautiful donkey. Poor Uncle York! He was a very kind man. He was the heir to the throne then and now it is Uncle Clarence.’

Feodora sighed. Did Victoria know who was next to Clarence in the succession? One did not mention it. Mamma and Lehzen had decided that since Victoria was so frank and apt to speak her mind, it was better if her future prospects were not made too clear to her. She must, said Mamma, be made to feel that life would offer her great responsibilities, but what these should be must, for the time being, be a little vague to her.

‘Darling Aunt Adelaide,’ said Victoria. ‘I love her very much. She gave me the Big Doll, you know. She is kind, although Mamma thinks her a little dowdy.’

‘Don’t mention that. Mamma would not be pleased.’

‘No, but I heard her mention it to Sir John.’

Feodora looked quickly at her sister. Victoria’s mouth had tightened a little. She did not greatly care for Sir John Conroy, the Comptroller of her mother’s household, and she did not quite know why.

‘Look!’ said Feodora. ‘Dear old Späth is coming. I expect it is for you.’

The Baroness’s yellowish face lit up with pleasure when she saw her two darlings. It was both a joy and a sadness to contemplate them. Victoria was a dear child, so vivacious, so passionate, so determined to have her way and yet so eager to be good, and always so ready to sympathise with the troubles of others. Often one saw the rather prominent blue eyes fill with tears at the sight of some poor person in distress.

The Baroness had never really recovered from the shame of having displeased the Duchess over the Augustus d’Este affair. Poor darling Feodora had been so much in love with the young man and if she dared go against the Duchess’s wishes – which of course she would not – the Baroness would have said that a marriage with the son of the Duke of Sussex was not such an ill match. If the young couple were in love that, in Späth’s opinion, should have been reason enough.

But the dear Duchess had been so displeased. Poor Späth trembled now to remember how angry she had been.

And now Feodora was betrothed and was soon to be married and that meant a sad separation.

‘Have you come for me, dear Späth?’ asked Victoria.

‘It is time for your lesson, Princess.’

Victoria walked between them a little soberly. This was how they used to walk when they went to Uncle Sussex’s garden. Alas, that Mamma had not approved. If she had dearest Feodora would not have been on the point of going away.

  Chapter II  

A WEDDING AT KENSINGTON

I
n the house at Bushy – the favourite residence of Adelaide, Duchess of Clarence – she was preparing for the arrival of the Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg. This was in the nature of a State visit and State visits never made her very happy. She much preferred the rural life at Bushy where she and William could live quietly surrounded by the FitzClarence grandchildren who were growing numerous and whose parents looked upon the mansion as the family home.

Adelaide was delighted that this should be so. She, who had longed for children of her own and been denied them, could find some solace in the children of others. People had ceased to remark on the extraordinary manner in which she had taken her husband’s family by Dorothy Jordan to her heart. It certainly had won William’s. She might be a little dowdy; she was certainly no beauty – she was pale and her skin was often spotty at certain times of the year; people were inclined to ignore her; but those who knew her well loved her. William her husband was delighted with her; he treated her with respect; he even listened to her; and one of his greatest delights was to see her with his grandchildren – behaving as though they were hers too. She, a Princess – albeit of a little German state – could be a fairy godmother to the actress Dorothy Jordan’s grandchildren.

Soon she hoped to have with her her nephew by marriage – young George Cambridge whose father Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge, was at present Viceroy of Hanover. George’s mother, Augusta, had written to her saying that it was time her young George came to England to be educated and she would be happy if Adelaide would take him under her wing.

Of course she would. She loved children; she had a way with them too; there was not one of them who did not respond at once to her affection and her gentle discipline. She herself was only happy when the house was full of them; and she gathered together all her young relations and gave parties for them; she was frequently devising new presents for them, something which would delight and enchant them. It was small wonder that they all loved Aunt Adelaide.

Even the Cumberlands’ boy, George, was a frequent visitor. What a dear boy – so different from his parents who rather terrified Adelaide. She could never quite be sure what they were plotting.

There was one absentee from the parties: little Victoria from Kensington. It was a shame. Adelaide often thought of the child – a lively, pretty little creature, bubbling over with affection. But her mother would not allow her to come to Bushy while the FitzClarence grandchildren were there. She implied that Adelaide should banish the youngsters – as if she could! They were William’s grandchildren, and therefore hers. But the Duchess of Kent did not wish her Victoria to be contaminated by what she called the ‘bastidry’. Really, she was a difficult woman! She incensed William who could grow incoherent with rage when he discussed her. The King himself was irritated by her. Adelaide had tried to make harmony in the family, but with a woman such as the Duchess of Kent who had such grand ideas of her position in the country – through her daughter, of course – it was certainly difficult. So dear little Victoria was not allowed to join the gay parties at Bushy and share in the fun. It was wrong. Children were not meant to be so serious – even if there was a possibility of their mounting the throne. Childhood was a carefree time. Poor little Victoria!

Had Adelaide’s own darling Elizabeth lived, this glittering possibility might have been banished from Victoria’s ambitious Mamma’s mind; but all that was left to Adelaide was a stone statue of her reclining baby – so lifelike, so beautiful that often when she was alone she would kneel by it and shed tears of sorrow.

She did not believe that she would ever have a child now. There had been so many disappointments. It was not so much that she desired an heir to the throne; it was a baby of her own that she wanted. Alas, that blessing was denied her and she must console herself with other people’s children.

William never reproached her. He was kind in his rough nautical way. He was devoted to his FitzClarences. They were bastards and could never mount the throne, but William did not really mind that he had no legitimate heir. As long as he himself was King that was all that concerned him.

And there was another worry. He was becoming obsessed by the fact that the Crown could be his.

Adelaide sighed and went to his room.

‘Ah, my dear Adelaide.’ He always seemed genuinely pleased to see her. He was a faithful and affectionate husband; he had not wanted to marry her particularly and had done so from expediency, but he had soon discovered the fine qualities of his dear Adelaide. He often said now in his brash way that if the most beautiful Princess in the world was offered him he would think twice before changing his Adelaide for her. It was meant to be a compliment of course. But unlike his elder brother George, the King, William had no grace of manners.

He came towards her and embraced her. He was shorter than his brothers – red-faced, weatherbeaten and showing his sixty-three years.

‘The Prince will soon be arriving,’ Adelaide reminded him.

‘Oh yes, yes. Why we should be expected to look after the fellow, I don’t know. He’s come to marry that damned Duchess’s daughter, not one of mine.’

Adelaide did not mention that if the young man had been coming to marry one of his daughters there would be no need for him to be received by a member of the royal family.

‘Her girl,’ he grumbled. ‘A pretty creature. I don’t doubt she’s glad to escape from the interfering old woman.’

‘Let us hope she will find happiness in marriage.’

‘Couldn’t be worse than living in Kensington Palace with that woman. And I suppose we’ve got to have a dinner party to entertain the fellow, eh?’

‘We must remember he is a visitor.’

William was further irritated. He was enjoying the domesticity of Bushy to which he had retired in great dudgeon after having been obliged to resign his post of Lord High Admiral. That had been an intensely worrying time, when he had put on a uniform and attempted to command the Navy instead of treating the post as the sinecure Wellington, the Prime Minister, and his brother, the King, had intended it to be.

She had been afraid, for there had been rumours at the time that William was going the way of his father – towards madness. Such rumours had doubtless been circulated by Cumberland, and William’s behaviour did suggest that there might be some truth in them. However, he had come through that difficult period, had given up parading in his uniform, attempting to reform the Navy and making grandiloquent speeches to the sailors. He had come to Bushy, to Adelaide and the children; now he lived quietly there, rising early, breakfasting with Adelaide and some of the children at nine-thirty, playing with the children until midday and after the meal taking a nap and later discussing the gardens with the gardeners or riding or walking and in the evening settling down to a game of Pope Joan with the family, never staking more than a shilling at a time.

In such surroundings he became calmer although he always talked a great deal and excitedly, making speeches at the least provocation even though Adelaide was his only audience.

But there could be no doubt that in the domestic atmosphere of his home his physical and mental health improved and he was his old affectionate and jaunty self. It was the thought of greatness that unnerved him, but its fascination for him was immense.

Since the death of his brother, the Duke of York – which made him next in the succession if the King did not have a child, and it was scarcely likely that that mass of corrupting flesh could beget a child even if he were suitably married – William had thought constantly of the Crown. He dreamed of wearing it as persistently as in her apartments at Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent dreamed of her daughter’s doing so. The thought of what his brother’s death would mean would suddenly occur to him and Adelaide would fearfully watch the enraptured expression dawn in his eyes. Then the excitement would grow; the wildness would develop, and she would be terrified that what he said might be construed as treason.

Even now his eyes gleamed as he came closer to her. ‘He’s failing,’ he said. ‘He’s failing fast …’

No need to ask to whom he referred; the rising note in his voice was enough. She drew away from him, wondering how he could show this near elation at the thought of a beloved brother’s failing grip on life.

‘Seventeen leeches they applied to his leg yesterday. He was rambling badly.’

‘Poor George! He has always been such a good friend to us.’

‘He’s a good fellow, George, But he’s had his day.’

‘He is not so very old … only three years older than you, William.’

She hoped the comparison would have a sobering effect.

‘Ah,’ said William craftily, ‘but think of the life he has led. He has eaten and drunk too well. He’s not a healthy man. Any moment now, Adelaide. He can’t last another year.’

‘We must pray for him,’ she said.

Yes, she thought, pray for him. Pray for him to live because what will happen when William comes to the throne who can say? She shivered to remember his brief period as Lord High Admiral. But how much more he would strut as a King than he had as an Admiral. George
must
live; she was terrified of what might happen when William became King.

‘It is very pleasant here at Bushy, William. The cosy intimate life we lead here – and the dear, dear children.’

He nodded; like his brothers – with the exception of Cumberland – he was excessively sentimental.

‘Poor sweet Louise,’ she went on, luring him farther away from dreams of kingship, ‘she is so interested in this wedding. Dear child, I fear there will never be a wedding for her.’

He nodded. ‘But she is fortunate,’ he said brightly, ‘to have her Aunt Adelaide looking after her.’

‘I know she is happy here.’

Poor little Louise, indeed she was. She was the daughter of Adelaide’s sister Ida, Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, and had been crippled from birth. Adelaide had more or less adopted her and her brother Edward, the little boy who had been born in England when Ida was visiting her sister. This niece and little nephew formed part of Adelaide’s family of children; they adored her and she did everything she could to make their childhood happy.

‘So she should be. Why, my dear Adelaide, you look after us all … every one of us.’

His calm was restored; he was momentarily the country squire of Bushy, but one word could bring back his dreams of greatness. Adelaide lived in terror of what he would do. He was not only tactless but extremely insensitive. She was never sure when he was going off to the House of Lords to deliver a speech which at best would set the peers yawning and at worst set fire to some inflammatory matter which would set the people raging, the lampoonists and cartoonists jeering and give credence to the rumours that the Duke of Clarence was on the way to becoming as mad as his father. ‘I think,’ said Adelaide, ‘that the bridegroom has arrived.’

‘Then,’ replied William ungraciously, ‘I suppose we should go down to greet him.’

The Duchess’s brother, Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, called at the apartments at Kensington Palace to see his sister. He came regularly every Wednesday afternoon, very dignified, very benign, expecting affection and homage, for the Duchess lived on his bounty and he was one of the few people in England whom she was sure she could trust.