The Captive of Kensington Palace

Chapter XIII THE BEAUTIFUL BLIND BOY

The King and Queen were at Kew and this was a very sad occasion – a farewell dinner to the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland and their son.

The King was subdued; he was a family man and all the resentment he had previously felt towards his brother Cumberland was now suppressed because of this terrible tragedy which had overcome him and his Duchess.

‘Their only son,’ he said to Adelaide. ‘I feel for them.’

‘Oh, William,’ replied the tender-hearted Adelaide, ‘if only I could believe that this Baron Graefe could do something for the boy!’

‘We can only hope he will. They say he’s a clever fellow; and he didn’t do badly with Ernest.’

‘But Ernest lost his eye. He couldn’t save that.’

‘No. Well, we’ll see. We’ve got to speed them on their way and hope, that’s all, my dear.’

‘Poor Frederica. This has changed her.’

‘For the better,’ said William bluntly. ‘I always wondered whether she had a hand in murdering those husbands of hers.’

‘There are always rumours,’ said Adelaide sadly. ‘Few of us escape.’ She was thinking of Earl Howe, still attached to the Household but no longer in the position of Chamberlain.

‘H’m,’ said the King. ‘And there have been some particularly nasty ones surrounding my brother Cumberland and his wife.’

‘The whole world is sorry for him now,’ said Adelaide. ‘But we must go to greet our guests, I shall feel like weeping when I see dear George.’

But she managed to smile when Frederica came towards her leading her poor blind son.

‘My dear, dear George,’ said Adelaide, and kissed him tenderly.

‘Why, Aunt Adelaide, it is good of you to ask us to say goodbye to you before we leave for Germany.’

He was smiling. He had grown beautiful in his blindness; the gentleness had increased and his smile was very sweet. Adelaide had heard him referred to as the ‘Beautiful Blind Boy.’ Dear George, so young and yet to have acquired this special and so admirable quality which enabled him to bear his affliction more easily, it seemed, than those about him.

‘Here is the King, dearest,’ said Frederica.

And George turned to William, who, the tears rising to his eyes and his face growing redder than usual, embraced him warmly.

‘Dear nephew, this German fellow is good … the best in the world.’

‘So they tell me, Uncle William.’

‘You’ll be back … right as rain.’

Adelaide had taken his arm. ‘Come, dear George, we will go into dinner.’

It was an informal party as only a few close friends were fellow-guests and Adelaide and young George talked of the old days and visits to Bushy and Windsor when all the children had had such fun. The King and Cumberland talked politics together; and the Duchess of Cumberland’s eyes scarcely left the face of her beautiful blind boy.

When the meal was over the King rose to his feet and drank the health of the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland.

‘We all know for what purpose they are leaving us and our heartfelt prayers go with them. You will all pray, I know – as the Queen and I do – for the success of this mission. May our nephew return to us with his sight fully restored. I can say – and the Queen is with me in this – nothing would give us greater delight.’

The Duchess of Cumberland was weeping quietly, and the Duke stood up and in a voice rent with emotion thanked the King for his goodness to him, his wife and his son. They would go on their journey with hope in their hearts and they would find comfort in remembering this evening.

All were deeply affected except young George who sat smiling amid their tears – a look of happiness on his face. Adelaide wondered whether this was because he was certain of being cured, or whether it simply meant that the qualities which he had recently discovered in himself had brought him such consolation that he could be happy even in blindness.

How fortunate I am in my relations, thought Victoria. There were the dear Württemberg cousins, those other cousins she had not yet met from Saxe-Coburg but of whom she had heard much – they were already dear Ernest and Albert in her mind – and now there was dearest Feodora who was writing to say that her husband – another Ernest – was talking of a visit they might pay to England. Oh, what joy to see darling Feodora and the dear babies. They were increasing rapidly. Little Charles followed by Eliza, then Hermann and now another baby. Victor. Her brother Charles had upset everyone by marrying Marie Klebelsberg and they had a little son. Such fun it was to think up presents for the children. We are a great present-giving family, thought Victoria. Feodora’s letters were a joy; they were full of the antics of the children who already loved their Tante Victoria. But dearest of all the relations was Uncle Leopold.

It was long since she had seen him but she remembered him as being the most handsome man in the world. He wrote to her regularly, stressing the fact that he wanted to help her, to guide her; she was his ‘dear soul’ and he wanted her to turn to him for any advice she needed. She knew now that she would one day be a great Queen; she was very young, and it was likely that she would still be young when the Crown came to her; he wanted her to know that her Uncle Leopold, though he might be far away, was never far off in spirit. She could write her innermost thoughts to him. They were as one. He had believed that he would always be at her side, but fate had made him the King of the Belgians and that had meant that he could no longer live in England. Thank God, they could both wield a pen with some skill. Thus separation need not be an obstacle, although he would give a great deal to be with her, to embrace her once more. Did she remember how she used to sit on his knee and watch his lips as he talked as though she loved the very words which came forth? He was always at the disposal of his dearest Victoria.

‘How fortunate I am to have such an uncle,’ said Victoria to Lehzen. ‘I believe him to be the most noble as well as the most handsome man in the world.’

Lehzen was silent. There were facts about Leopold which Victoria did not know. If he had been so devoted to his niece why had he not stayed with her? He should have said ambition rather than fate had made him the King of the Belgians. He had not behaved with what could be called nobility towards that poor girl Caroline Bauer. She must regret the day when she first saw Leopold King of the Belgians, for as far as Lehzen could gather Fräulein Bauer had been a considerable actress on the German stage and fame and fortune were within her grasp. But Leopold had seen her; he spent many hours with her telling her of his sad life and how he had lost his wife so soon after their marriage and that the only woman whom he had ever known who reminded him of her and who could therefore take her place was Caroline Bauer. She was the niece of his friend and physician, Dr Stockmar and the fact that she had her mother with her seemed to give a respectability to the liaison. He had brought her to England, installed her in a little house and when he visited her would give her an account of his ailments and his sorrows; and then he would expect her to read to him for hours to save his eyes until the poor actress and her mother longed to escape the dreary life to which Leopold had condemned them; and when he decided to accept the Belgian crown they had with relief returned to Germany.

Of these matters Victoria knew nothing. Lehzen often wondered whether it was wise for the dear child to retain her fairytale view of life. Perhaps awakening would come fast enough; perhaps the Duchess herself was breaking it; for Lehzen was fully aware of the changing feelings of Victoria towards her mother.

Meanwhile one of the greatest pleasures in Victoria’s life were the letters from dearest Uncle Leopold. She knew that dearest Aunt Louise was a good wife to him, and in this she rejoiced. It was her greatest hope that she would see them one day, and this, Leopold assured her, was a certainty.

Aunt Louise was going to have a child and how excited that made Victoria.

‘You see, Lehzen, it will make up to him for Charlotte and her dear baby who never lived at all.’

When Louise lost her baby Victoria wept bitterly for her.

‘Dearest Uncle Leopold, how he must suffer! And I suffer with him.’

Tears fell on to the watch cover she was embroidering for him. It was beautiful, with pansies in a lovely mauve shade.

‘It must be done in time for his birthday,’ she told Lehzen. ‘He loves flowers.’

‘Pansies,’ said Lehzen. ‘They are sometimes called two-faces-under-a-hood.’

‘So they are, Lehzen. And that means a two-faced person, which in its turn could mean a deceitful one.’

‘A very appropriate gift for some statesmen,’ said Lehzen.

‘But not for dear Uncle Leopold. I think I like the French name for them better. Pensées. Thoughts. He will know that I have chosen pansies for his watch cover because all the time I am working them I am thinking of him.’

‘And he will be right.’

‘Dear Uncle! I hope he is not too unhappy. Loving people makes one very sad sometimes because one not only has one’s own troubles but theirs also.’

Lehzen was suddenly emotional – which was rare with her.

‘You are a dear good girl,’ she said.

‘Oh, Lehzen, my dear, dear Lehzen, don’t think I don’t appreciate all you do for me.’

Lehzen turned away. She did not want to show her tears. Her darling was growing up. Soon she would have no need of a governess. Victoria seemed to read her thoughts for she said: ‘Oh, Lehzen, you will always be my very dear friend.’

And she was sad again, thinking of those days ahead when she would be grown up and no longer in need of Lehzen’s services. Poor Lehzen!

It seemed that one could not love people without suffering with them. All the same one must be grateful for dear friends and relations.

‘It will soon be Victoria’s fifteenth birthday,’ said the Queen to the King. ‘Do you remember last year’s ball? It was a great success. Victoria enjoyed it so much. I shall do the same again this year.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the King. ‘Like to see the children enjoy themselves. You remember the ball you gave for those Württemberg boys and how That Woman behaved.’

‘I shall never forget it,’ said Adelaide.

‘Who but Madam Kent would have the effrontery …’ began William, his face beginning to redden.

Adelaide said quickly: ‘It is Victoria of whom we must think. That child has a great capacity for enjoyment, and that is rather pleasant.’

When the Duchess of Kent was told that the Queen was arranging a ball for Victoria’s birthday, she told Sir John that although she had allowed Victoria to write a note of thanks to the Queen, she was determined that the Princess was not going to the ball.

‘But what excuse can you make?’

‘I shall find one. Leave it to me. You know what would happen at this ball … if she went. She would open the dancing with George Cambridge. Leopold has written to me that he feels a husband from our side of the family is essential. It is to be either Alexander or Ernest Württemberg or Ernest or Albert Saxe-Coburg. They are so much more suitable, Leopold says. And I agree with him.’

Sir John agreed with the Duchess. Victoria must be kept in leading strings. She must make him her secretary when the time came, and the Duchess would be Regent if she were under age – if not her chief adviser; and if she had a husband who owed his success to the Princess’s mother he would have to be grateful to her – and Sir John, the Duchess, with Leopold in the background would continue to control the Princess … or Queen as she would then be.

The Duchess soon found her excuse.

‘My poor brother has lost his child. We must go into mourning and that of course means no frivolities for a while.’

She wrote to the Queen. The Princess Victoria was grateful to Her Majesty for offering her a birthday ball but in view of the fact that Kensington Palace was in mourning for the Princess’s little cousin, she could not accept it.

When the King heard this he stormed; and Adelaide was terrified that he was going completely mad. Other people infuriated him temporarily but the exasperation and dislike with which he regarded the Duchess of Kent was perpetual.

‘Let’s forget it,’ said Adelaide. ‘After all, neither of us wants to entertain the Duchess. It was Victoria we were thinking of.’

‘One of these days,’ said the King, ‘I shall tell that woman exactly what I think of her. I’ll banish her from England. Why should the King be constantly insulted by this … this … upstart of a Duchess?’

‘She is the most difficult of women,’ sighed Adelaide, and began to talk about one of the grandchildren to turn his thoughts to a more pleasant subject. And as he was vitally interested in everything that concerned these young people she managed it successfully.

Poor Victoria, thought the Queen when she was alone. She was no doubt going to have a wretched birthday and all because of this stupid idea of mourning, which Adelaide knew full well had been thought up so that the invitation need not be accepted. If Victoria were not the heiress to the throne and it was their duty to bring her forward as much as possible, Adelaide would have washed her hands of Kensington Palace and its most troublesome inmate. But she often thought of that young girl who looked so wistful sometimes.

She wrote to the Duchess of Kent. Since there could be no ball for the Princess’s birthday she would call at Kensington Palace on that day to give the good wishes of herself and the King to the Princess in person.

Who would believe anyone could be capable of such discourteous, ungrateful and arrogant behaviour? The Duchess of Kent apparently could; for she wrote back to the Queen. It was so kind of her to offer to call at Kensington Palace, but being in such deep mourning for her brother’s child the Duchess was unable to receive anyone.

So there was no ball for the fifteenth birthday; but there was a letter which made Victoria very happy. It was from her sister Feodora, who wrote that she longed to be with her sister on this important day but the reunion would not be long delayed. A few days after Victoria’s birthday, Feodora with her husband and two elder children would set out on the journey to England.

What joy, wrote Feodora, awaited her. Her little sister who had been but nine years old when she last saw her was now a young lady of fifteen. What changes there would be; and she had heard that Victoria had grown very pretty. As for herself she was grown stouter and was really an old Mamma. She feared Victoria would get a great surprise when she saw her; but she would not wait for the day.

The great day turned out to be June 5th. Victoria was up early awaiting the arrival of her sister and her family long before they were due.

She chattered to Lehzen while her hair was being done. ‘Have I changed much, Lehzen? Do you really think I have grown prettier? Of course I am not very tall. But then nor is darling Feodora. Oh, I wonder if she has changed! And how I long to see the dear, dear children.’

Lehzen was moved too. She had been Feodora’s governess before she had been Victoria’s, and she loved the elder sister only a little less than her present charge.

‘You must curb your impatience,’ she said.

Victoria laughed and threw her arms about her governess. ‘And you, my dear Lehzen, are finding it very hard to curb yours.’

At eleven o’clock the visitors arrived at Kensington Palace. The Duchess was there insisting on a little ceremony and that she be greeted first; but her maternal instincts were strong and she was delighted to see her elder daughter. Her love for Feodora being less calculated was more spontaneous and as she embraced her daughter and exclaimed with delight at the children she was genuinely moved.

Feodora’s eyes were on Victoria. They flew at each other and hugged and kissed, tears in their eyes. Tears of happiness, said Victoria, for it was the most wonderful thing to see her darling sister again.

And the babies. They were enchanting. How tall little Charles was – and only four and a half! Who would believe it! He studied his Aunt Victoria very intently. ‘He has heard so much about you,’ Feodora explained.

‘Oh, the darling.’

‘He remembers the whip you sent him. He talked about it for days before it arrived. Oh … but Eliza wants your attention. She does not intend to be left out.’

Victoria had knelt down to embrace the little girl who was a year younger than Charles. Such a little beauty! Those enormous brown eyes, so big for her age and with such a merry, happy smile!

‘What adorable children!’ cried Victoria. ‘Oh, Feodora my dearest sister; how happy you must be.’

‘And never more so since I left Kensington than at this moment.’

‘You must see your rooms,’ said the Duchess, for once like any humble hostess. ‘Come, we will all go together.’ So the Duchess took young Charles by the hand, and Victoria held little Eliza’s and with her arm linked in that of Feodora they went to the apartments which had been assigned for the family.

Feodora’s husband, Ernest, Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, looked quite old, Victoria thought, but he was kind to Feodora who loved him and he loved her and the children adored him, so Victoria was very ready to take him to her own affectionate heart.

The children were a source of amusement and delight; they were so well behaved and far from shy. They chattered away and were already very fond of their Aunt Victoria. They thanked her for all the presents she had sent them – no doubt primed to do this by Feodora and their nurses – but they did it so prettily that Victoria was very touched.

‘I daresay,’ said the Duchess that afternoon, ‘that Lehzen would like to have her two girls to herself for a while. Victoria, you could take your sister for a drive and Lehzen could accompany you.’

So off they went through the park with Lehzen sitting with them, laughing and recalling incidents from the past. ‘Do you remember?’ they were constantly asking each other; and Lehzen sat there, her cheeks flushed, her lips quivering now and then with emotion and her eyes unnaturally bright as she listened to the light-hearted chatter of the two she loved so dearly.

Feodora was happy in her marriage. She saw that and was grateful. May Victoria find happiness as great was her prayer.

Back at the Palace they dined and during dinner Charles and Eliza were brought in to say good night. How excited they were to be in England with the relations they had never before seen. How gay and happy they were! Eliza was much taken with her Grandmamma’s appearance; she loved all the bows and ribbons and the jewels which adorned the Duchess’s person. Victoria had rarely seen her mother so naturally happy as she was with these darling grandchildren.

How I wish it were always like this! she thought.

They had arranged to go to the Opera that evening, but Feodora said that she could not keep her eyes open.

‘My love,’ said the Duchess tenderly, ‘it has been a very tiring day for you. You must go to bed early. The others can go to the Opera without you. As long as Victoria is present it will be all right.’

Victoria was glad it had been decided for her because she loved the Opera – in fact Italian Opera gave her more pleasure than anything, even drawing and writing in her Journal – but at the same time she would have enjoyed staying behind to be with Feodora. But as the Duchess said they had weeks ahead of them to chatter and Feodora was tired, so to the Opera went Victoria.

It was Rossini’s L’Assiedo di Corrinto and Giuletta Grisi – Victoria’s very favourite artist – sang superbly. The Princess was entranced; and when Taglioni danced in Les Sylphides afterwards she felt that she had rarely enjoyed a day as she had enjoyed this one.

Moreover it was ten minutes to one when the party returned to Kensington Palace – a very late night to end a perfect day.

It was impossible for the Duchess to decline the Queen’s invitation for her visitors to go to Windsor for the Ascot races. It would indeed have been a slight to her daughter and the Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg if they had not been received by the King and Queen.

The children did not go, but remained at Kensington Palace with their nurses. How sad! thought Victoria. Aunt Adelaide would have loved them.

Windsor, restored by George IV, was very grand; but Feodora was delighted to find the Queen as homely and kind as ever – although when she had left Adelaide had been merely Duchess of Clarence; and the King was kind too and delighted to see Feodora ‘with a nice little family, eh? Four of them. Good going. Like to see them. You should have brought them. Nothing like a family!’ It was rather a tactless remark to make in the presence of the barren Queen but Adelaide was used to him by now.

It was going to be very amusing at Windsor, Victoria was sure, as long as Mamma did not offend the King or he her. She found herself becoming very uneasy when they were in the same company and watching them both, which did spoil the enjoyment a little. But the Duchess had changed with the coming of Feodora; she did love the grandchildren so perhaps she was in a happier mood and not worrying all the time that it should be remembered she was the mother of the future Queen.

They went riding in the park together. How Victoria loved the park, and loved riding and dancing and everything that accompanied a visit to Windsor for the races. Victoria took her sister to see the recently erected statue of George III.

‘There is a wonderful view from Snow Hill,’ she said, ‘and really poor Grandpapa does look very grand up there.’

‘Poor man!’ said Feodora.

‘It was all very sad,’ added Victoria. ‘They didn’t tell me for a long time. In fact I had to find out for myself. They are inclined to treat me as a child.’

‘Poor Victoria! I know what it can be like. Now that I have escaped from Kensington …’

‘Escaped, Feodora? It sounds as though you think it like a prison.’

‘There were so many restrictions.’

‘There still are.’

‘And you, of course, are specially guarded. But, my dearest little sister, it will be different when you marry.’

‘Seeing you with dear Ernest makes me feel that there is a lot to be said for the married state.’

‘Our cousins came to see you a little while ago. Did you like them?’

‘Oh … immensely.’

‘I think you might like the Coburg cousins even better.’

‘Do you, Feodora?’

‘They are more … what shall I say … manly. Ernest is my favourite of the two.’

‘Do tell me why?’

‘He is so honest and good-humoured.’

‘Oh, isn’t Albert?’

‘Oh yes. But he is more handsome and I think much more clever.’

‘I like handsome clever people.’

‘You will have a chance to see them soon, I daresay.’

‘I have not heard that they are coming.’

‘They will, Uncle Leopold is very anxious that they should.’

‘In that case I shall give them a special welcome.’

‘You see, my dear little sister, you are fifteen. It is quite old for a royal person.’

‘It certainly seems very old. In three years’ time I shall be of age. Think of that, Feodora. I shall no longer be …’

She did not finish the sentence. It seemed wrong to criticise Mamma even to Feodora.

‘Sir John is always in such evidence,’ said Feodora.

‘We cannot escape from that man.’

‘He seems to be a permanent inmate of the household.’

‘That is exactly what he is. And Lady Conroy too, although she is meek.’

‘She would have to be,’ put in Feodora.

‘And Jane and Victoire are quite pleasant. But until a little while ago I saw very few young people besides them. The boys are sweet. I quite like them, but …’

Feodora sighed. ‘Never mind. Three years’ time and … then freedom.’

Much as she would have enjoyed to carry on this conversation, Victoria felt that it was disloyal in some way, so she began to talk of Sir Richard Westmacott’s bronze statue again and how fine it looked there in the Park, and how Uncle George had done so much for Windsor as well as Buckingham House which she believed was almost ready for occupation.

‘Do you remember the time when we came to Windsor and he took me riding in his carriage? “Pop her in,” he said when we met him in the Park, and Mamma was so frightened; but I loved riding so fast between him and Aunt Mary. I called him Uncle King and he was very kind; and he liked you, Feodora … he liked you particularly. I thought he wanted to marry you.’

Feodora laughed. ‘Fancy if he had.’

‘You would have been the Queen of England.’

‘And that, my love, is a title reserved for you.’

Now they had begun the fascinating game of ‘Do you Remember?’ which lasted throughout the ride.

The company was assembled for dinner with one notable exception. The Duchess of Kent had not appeared. The Queen was waiting for her, because she did not feel that she could lead the guests into the dining-saloon without the Duchess who was one of the most important guests.

Victoria was growing nervous. Why did Mamma not come? She knew the answer. The Duchess had been angry because not enough respect had been paid to her. Everywhere they went it was always the King, the Queen and Victoria. It was Victoria who sat between the King and the Queen, Victoria whom everyone watched and the Duchess did not like it. Victoria might be the future Queen but she was a child and while she remained a child the Duchess was a deputy for her. Nothing infuriated her more than to be treated as merely an honoured guest. She was the guest of honour – as representative of the heir to the throne. Next to the King and Queen should come the Duchess.

She believed the King deliberately slighted her and Victoria had heard her remark to Sir John that she had had enough.

Now she was keeping the house party waiting, to show that they could not go in to dine without her, and therefore must await her pleasure.

The Queen, who was anxious to avoid any trouble, had at first pretended not to notice her absence; but now of course she could not do so. Dinner could not be postponed for half an hour without there being a reason.

The King was getting testy. At any moment Adelaide knew he would command that they went in without the Duchess; and that would be an insult. ‘Half an hour late for dinner. Damned bad manners,’ growled the King.

He said in an audible voice to the Queen: ‘We’re waiting for that woman I suppose.’

‘I am sure she will be here very soon now,’ soothed Adelaide.

‘If not we’ll go in without her.’ The King’s face had reddened. He shouted: ‘That woman is a nuisance!’ Just as the Duchess, ghttering and feathered, made her entrance.

Victoria held her breath with horror. What would happen now? The King was glaring at the Duchess who seemed blithely unaware of him and so sure of her right to keep the company waiting if she so wished to.

Dear kind Aunt Adelaide put an end to the scene in her usual gentle tactful way.

‘Let us go into dinner,’ she said, as though nothing upsetting had happened.

That was the only incident which spoiled the visit.

What fun to drive off to the races – herself sitting with Mamma and the King and Queen. Mamma was gracious on that day because she was in the first carriage; and although the King did not look at her, the Queen behaved as though nothing had happened and she and Victoria laughed and chatted together which was comforting. Dear Feodora rode in the second carriage followed by the rest of the carriages – so many of them that Victoria did not know the number. There were people of all kinds on the race-course and the royal party aroused great attention as it went on its way to the King’s stand.

How excited Victoria was by the races! She stood beside the King and clasped her hands and wanted to shout to the horses as so many people did.

Aunt Adelaide on the other side smiled at her and whispered that it was the greatest fun, and Victoria knew that it was her pleasure which delighted Aunt Adelaide as much as the races themselves.

What a happy day! Even riding back to Windsor with the carriage windows closed to keep out the rain which had come pelting down.

‘How I love racing!’ announced Victoria.

The Duchess remarked that she must not develop a taste for gambling.

But Victoria scarcely heard; it had been such a lovely day and she had quite forgotten that horrid scene before dinner on the previous night.

She wrote in her Journal, ‘I stayed up till a quarter past eleven. I was very much amused indeed at the races.’

The days rushed by and the visit was over. How terribly sad to have to say good-bye to dear Feodora and the darling children.

‘When shall I see you again, dearest sister?’ asked Victoria, with tears in her eyes.

‘There must not be a long parting,’ Feodora declared. ‘For I could not endure it. We are not so very far away.’

‘You must come again,’ Victoria insisted, for she knew that she who was not allowed to sleep alone or ever be alone would never be allowed to visit her sister.

‘Remember … three more years and you will be of age,’ whispered Feodora. ‘You will make your own decisions.’

Victoria understood. Feodora was comforting her. She knew the difficulties of life in a household governed by a domineering Duchess and she was telling Victoria that it would not be long.

They embraced for the last time and blinded by her tears Victoria watched the carriage drive away.

‘How very sad I felt at breakfast,’ wrote Victoria in her Journal, ‘not to see the door open and dear Feodora come in smiling and leading her dear little girl; and not to get the accustomed kiss from her. At one we lunched. I missed dear Feodora here again terribly. I miss her so much today. At three we drove with Lehzen. How dull the drive appeared without dear Feodora! We dined at seven and after dinner Aunt Sophia came. We passed a sad dull evening. I stayed up until a quarter to nine.’

All she could do was look forward to Feodora’s next visit and take some small comfort in the fact that Feodora missed her as sadly as she did her dear sister.

It was wonderful to have such dear relations, she told Lehzen, but at the same time, so sad.

Owing to the dissension his Irish policy had caused his Cabinet, Earl Grey took the opportunity to resign his office and called on the King to tell him of his decision. Grey, whose family life was exceptionally happy and interesting – he had ten sons and five daughters and was on the best of terms with them all – had long desired to leave public life and retire to the country. This seemed the moment.

The King sent for Lord Melbourne and asked him to form a government.

William Lamb, Lord Melbourne, had not enjoyed the same domestic felicity which had been the lot of Earl Grey. In fact some years before, his wife, Lady Caroline, had behaved most scandalously and there had actually been a separation. Caroline Ponsonby, the only daughter of the Earl of Bessborough, had been one of the great beauties of the day but she had been so strange even in childhood that her grandmother, Lady Spencer, had consulted a doctor because she feared Caroline was unbalanced. She was right.

Melbourne’s tragedy was that he married her; but no one could live in harmony with such a woman, not even the calm, intellectual Melbourne; and when Lady Caroline was involved in scandal with Lord Byron he could no longer live with her in any circumstances. They were separated; Caroline had died some six years before, and Melbourne, now a free man, devoted himself to art, literature and politics, and to his son, George Augustus, who was mentally defective.

Melbourne gave no indication that he had passed through such a tragedy. He was suave and handsome, and politically ambitious.

He accepted the King’s challenge and set about forming a government.

There was no great excitement about Grey’s departure. Melbourne was a good Whig and the Whigs had passed the Reform Bill. As long as Wellington – that arch enemy of Reform – was not brought back, the people were content.

Adelaide had a cough which persisted and William was worried about her.

She worked too hard, he said. That Reform business had upset her. She did not understand the English; she had believed that the country was on the edge of revolution and she was to be executed like poor Marie Antoinette.

She needs a holiday, said William to his daughter Lady Alice Kennedy, who had made Windsor Castle her home and brought her children there with her.

Lady Alice, who like all the FitzClarence family seemed to have grown very resentful of Adelaide since she had become Queen, said that a trip to her old home would be a good idea. There was that old mother of hers who could not live much longer; she was sure Adelaide would like to see her.

‘I’ll tell her she shall have a holiday,’ said William.

‘Will you go with her?’

‘A King has to govern his country, Alice. He can’t go dancing all over the Continent.’

‘I thought so, but she’ll protest and say she can’t go without you. You should arrange the trip for her and then tell her what you have done. She’ll be grateful to you for doing it that way and it will do her the good she needs.’

‘Capital idea,’ said William. ‘Leave this to me.’

He sent for Earl Howe who was still a member of the Queen’s household and, although at the time of the passing of the Reform Bill he had been forced to resign from the office of the Queen’s Chamberlain, he continued to serve unofficially in that capacity.

‘I want a trip arranged for the Queen,’ said William. ‘She’s not well. She wants a holiday. She shall go to her old home and see her mother. It’ll do her good.’

‘Has her Majesty agreed to this, Sir?’ asked Earl Howe incredulously.

‘No, no. It’s a secret. I shall just present her with the finished plans.’

Earl Howe was dubious as to the success of this, but he knew that the King was in too touchy a mood for him to suggest he might be wrong.

The King had been behaving even more oddly than usual lately and upsetting all sorts of people. Only the other day at a dinner where he insisted on making one of his interminable speeches he had talked of the changes in the Navy and how it was possible now to rise from the lowest rank to the highest. On his right, he pointed out, was a member of a family as old as his own, on his left, his good friend an Admiral who had risen from the dregs of society. The speech was received with astonishment and acute embarrassment by the Admiral on his left, but William was unaware of it. It seemed that there were times that if he could blunder he would do so. And he appeared to pass through periods when his mind was really unhinged.

No, decided Earl Howe, he dared not disagree with the King.

When Adelaide heard what plans had been made she was dismayed. As for the King his asthma had been worse than usual and he had felt most unwell. He hated the thought of losing her and would never have thought of a separation – however brief – if Alice had not persuaded him of the Queen’s need for a holiday.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Adelaide told him, when he explained the plan to her.

‘You must. You need a rest. That cough of yours … I don’t like it.’

‘I feel I should be here with you.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ said William. ‘I can’t think how I’ll get along without you. The Government … this fellow Melbourne … It’s all very shaky. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the Government fell, and you know what, Adelaide, the people would blame you for it. They always blame you. They seem to have got it into their silly heads that I’m a dolt you lead by the nose.’

‘They’re fond of you,’ Adelaide told him. ‘They want a scapegoat so they’ve chosen me as the French chose Marie Antoinette.’

‘It’s not the same. You don’t know the English. Still, I’d rather you were away. There are those fellows from Tolpuddle … or some such place … those six Dorsetshire labourers taking oaths about trade unions … They’ve been transported and the people are making something of it. It’s nothing. Talk … just talk … All the same it upsets you, but I wouldn’t want you to be here. You’d like to see your mother, wouldn’t you? And your brother’s coming over to travel with you. I’ve arranged it all. There, you’ll like to see your home.’

‘My home is England now,’ she said. ‘My pleasure is in looking after you.’

He was deeply affected. ‘I don’t know what I shall do without you. There are a hundred ways in which you are useful to me.’

‘Then I shall stay.’

‘No, no, I can’t allow it. You must go. It’ll do you good. Go … and come back soon.’

So she left St James’s with her brother, the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, and some members of the FitzClarence family; among the party was Earl Howe.

The Cumberlands had come home from Germany very sad because Baron Graefe had been unable to do anything for George.

Victoria wept when she heard the news.

‘Poor, poor George Cumberland. I must ask Mamma if I may call on him. He will be in need of comfort.’

The Duchess thought there could be no harm in Victoria’s visiting her cousin. No one would expect her to marry a blind man, she said to Conroy.

So Victoria called on her cousin and found him not in the least depressed. He knew that he would never see again. Victoria tried to imagine it. Never to see the flowers and trees, never to embroider, never to see Feodora and the dear children, Lehzen, Uncle Leopold’s letters, the beautiful singer Grisi. How tragic. How very, very sad.

‘Oh, Lehzen,’ she cried, when they were driving back to Kensington, ‘he looked so beautiful so serene, it made me want to weep.’