The Captive of Kensington Palace

Chapter VIII ON THE BRINK OF REVOLUTION

The King was angry. His children were demanding titles and honours; they were growing more and more arrogant, showing clearly that their pride in their father’s rank was greater than their love for him, and this hurt his sentimental heart. He was going to raise George to the peerage. He was after all his eldest son; and as soon as it could be arranged he should be the Earl of Munster – one of his own titles – and Baron Tewkesbury. That should satisfy him; but when he thought of the little George who used to ride on his knee and play fisticuffs with him in the gardens of Bushy he was bitterly disappointed. Young Victoria had given him a sour look at the Queen’s Drawing-Room and he had not liked that at all. He had told Adelaide about it and she had soothed him by telling him it was not the little girl’s fault. Victoria was an extremely affectionate child, and the manner in which she was brought up in Kensington was really very sad. She had probably been forbidden to smile at the King.

‘What stuff is this?’ growled William. ‘I’ll be having an open quarrel with that woman before long, you see.’

The Queen sincerely hoped not. There was enough trouble in the country without having it in the family as well.

And how right she was! That was the main source of anxiety. The trouble in the country. Everywhere one turned there was talk of Reform. Lord John Russell, one of the leading Whigs, had brought forward the Reform Bill and there was great controversy throughout the country because of this. The differences between rich and poor were great; farm labourers were expected to exist on less than threepence a day; the mill workers were in revolt; the silk weavers of Spitalfields were ready to riot. Every day there was evidence of unrest. Reform was needed and the people saw in the Bill the hope of better times, for although it was concerned with Parliamentary Reform it was believed that this was at the root of the terrible conditions. There were fifty-six boroughs in England comprising less than two thousand people; there were at least thirty others almost as small which were sending a member to Westminster. Only a small and wealthy section of the country were able to use the vote. It was a monstrous state of affairs. The working classes depended on the good graces of their employers who were in complete control. It was small wonder that people were toiling for wages which kept them only sufficiently above starvation that they might continue to work.

‘Reform! Reform!’ cried the hungry farm labourers; and every trade all over the country was taking up the cry.

So when Lord John Russell on behalf of the Whigs introduced the Reform Bill which was to disenfranchise the ‘rotten’ boroughs and give more people the power to vote, he was looked upon as a hero by the people. They were not going to let this chance escape them. The Reform Bill was going to become law no matter what opposition was set up against it.

William was not inclined to let political matters worry him overmuch. He liked to make speeches and did so on every possible occasion. Wellington had in fact expressed the view that while the King was eager to do his duty and did in fact attend to business with an expedition which was rare in recent monarchs, he would undo quite a lot of the advantages by making too many speeches in which he betrayed himself as a somewhat choleric, sentimental and a not very capable old gentleman.

There had been trouble in France. Charles X had been forced to abdicate. The terrible days of the great revolution were recalled through this lesser one, and what was happening abroad was talked of in the streets of England. Adelaide was worried. She told William that she dreamed about Marie Antoinette and the terrible fate which had befallen her.

‘The English wouldn’t behave like that,’ said William stoutly, but she did not believe him, and William couldn’t help but be affected by her fears. He said he wished that fellow Russell and the whole Whig party further when they’d brought up this business of Reform.

‘If this Bill is passed it may well be the end of the Monarchy,’ Adelaide had said. She had got that from Lord Howe, her Chamberlain, of whose opinions she thought so highly.

‘Stuff!’ said the King; but even he was uneasy.

Wellington was in command and he could trust Wellington. The victor of Waterloo could not be wrong. ‘Wellington will pull us through this bit of trouble as he did that other,’ said William. ‘There was a time when the people of this country were more afraid of Napoleon than they ever were of Reform. And then … Waterloo! Trust Wellington.’

Wellington was at heart a soldier. After Waterloo he had been cheered wherever he went; his name was spoken of in hushed whispers, and he could not believe that the great victory of Waterloo would ever be forgotten. The war at an end, he had turned to politics where he looked for the same success as he had enjoyed on the battlefield. The great general had become the great Tory leader.

Politics was a more tricky game even than war, and Wellington could not believe that the people would cease to regard him with awe and respect. In his home his Duchess, whom he had married out of chivalry and of whom he had long since tired, thought him a genius; his sons admired him; the charming Mrs Arbuthnot was his great friend. He saw himself as one of the great leaders of the day and he could not conceive that anyone should see him otherwise.

He was against Reform. He did not believe that the poor and uneducated should have an opportunity of expressing their opinions through the vote; he believed that the present method of sending members to Parliament was the best that could be contrived.

When Parliament met he stood up and gave his views.

‘The system that is in being today,’ he said, ‘deserves the confidence of the country. As long as I hold office I shall oppose Reform. If the disenfranchisement were admitted it would soon be pushed to lengths which would deprive the upper classes of the political influence which they derive from their property, and possibly eventually of the property itself.’

These were his views; he had never been a man to prevaricate.

He had no doubt that now he had spoken the people would see reason and agree that no change in the parliamentary system was necessary. There should be no Reform.

Apart from Wellington, no one was surprised by the effect his speech had on the people. Wellington had become the most unpopular man in England. The Tories were against Reform. Therefore the Tories must go. Wellington was eager to keep the poor poor, was he, for the sake of the rich? Then Wellington was no friend of the people. There were riots all over London. People were complaining bitterly about the Peelers, that body of men whom Sir Robert Peel had inaugurated in 1822 and who walked the streets keeping law and order. What next? they demanded. The Bobbies or Peelers prevented them from causing a disturbance, and the Duke of Wellington was preventing their having the vote. And what of the King? He had walked the street and been mighty friendly with the people – but what was he doing for them now?

Stones were thrown at carriages; crowds collected and the wrongs of the people were discussed; the mob was always ready for the excuse to make trouble.

‘This could mean revolution,’ Lord Howe told the Queen.

Wellington’s speech on that November day had certainly changed the situation. It had become truly threatening. The Lord Mayor had invited the King and Queen to his yearly banquet on the ninth and of course the Duke of Wellington, as the King’s chief minister, would be present.

Everyone was waiting for the Lord Mayor’s banquet; they felt that it would be a climax and there was a brooding silence in the streets. Rumour was everywhere. This would be the end of Wellington. He would ride to the banquet at his peril.

Wellington called to see the King.

‘My dear fellow, my dear fellow,’ cried William. ‘What is all this stuff?’

‘The people are in an ugly mood,’ said Wellington. ‘They did not like what I said the other day.’

‘They did not and they are working up to something, so they tell me. You should ride in my carriage to the banquet, my dear Duke. You’ll be safe with me.’

The Duke did not think so.

They were taking wagers throughout the Court. Would the King go to the Lord Mayor’s banquet or would the whole thing be cancelled? What was the wise thing to do? The King would not wish to appear a coward – and yet this was how riots started and riots could spill over into revolutions.

Adolphus FitzClarence was certain his father would go.

‘The old fellow’s not a coward,’ he assured his friends. ‘I’d take a bet on it that he’ll go.’

‘A hundred pounds,’ was the offer.

‘A hundred pounds let it be,’ said Adolphus.

Wellington was no coward either. He was ready to face an army in the course of duty but he hated to lose his dignity. He was a handsome man – of a fine stature. He was five feet nine inches tall; and his aquiline nose was his most distinctive feature – that and his keen grey eyes. He was always immaculate; he could not bear to be other than well dressed. The idea of what might happen in the streets appalled him. The thought of his garments being spattered with mud was nauseating. It might even be worse. Who knew what the mob could be led to do? He had been shocked that the people could so far forget Waterloo as to threaten him; now he was remembering that though they might cry ‘Hosanna!’ one week it could be ‘Crucify him!’ the next.

As a successful soldier he believed in the theory that discretion is the better part of valour, so he went to see the Lord Mayor and they decided that for the good of the City of London it would be better to cancel the banquet.

The Queen talked of these matters to her Chamberlain. Richard, Earl Howe, was one of the most handsome men at Court, and from the moment he had entered Adelaide’s household she had been aware of his special qualities. His attitude towards her had been one of great chivalry and admiration and Adelaide found that in his company she became animated and when she saw her reflection at such times she was amazed at the change in her face. If she did not look pretty or beautiful, at least she looked alive and not without attraction. He had such a flexible mind, she thought; he never raved and ranted; he was always completely tactful. She did not realise for some time that she was comparing him with the King.

She was always exhilarated by his company and he seemed to be by hers, but she never allowed herself to examine too closely her feelings for him. He was her Chamberlain and her friend; the King enjoyed his company too. Earl Howe was married and Lady Howe was a woman of great beauty who, before her marriage, had been one of the toasts of the town but she was rather eccentric and caused her husband some embarrassment. Adelaide would never forget the occasion recently when she had been driving with her Chamberlain and his wife. Lady Howe was seated next to her in the carriage and Earl Howe opposite when Lady Howe had said she was tired and put her feet on her husband’s knee. He looked so taken aback and had given her such a look that she had replied: ‘What do you mean by making signs at me?’ Then she had laughed and, adding that her feet were hot, rested them on the window ledge so that they were half out of the window.

Adelaide wondered why Lady Howe had behaved so in her presence and the thought did give her some uneasiness; she knew that she had become very unpopular since the Reform Bill had been brought into the house. To some extent the King too had lost his popularity – but not entirely. The people were still fond of their bumbling old sailor and since they must blame someone they blamed the Queen. The Queen, they said, was the one who was advising the King to oppose the Bill. And why? Because Earl Howe opposed it and the Queen listened more to her Chamberlain than to anyone else.

Adelaide refused at first to believe that people were whispering about her and Earl Howe but when she was forced to accept this she suspected the FitzClarences of spreading the gossip and was very unhappy by the way in which they had changed towards her. They had been such friends when William had been merely Duke of Clarence, but it seemed that they could not endure the fact that she was legitimately accepted into the royal circle and they were not. They were called the ‘bastidry’ which infuriated them, and because their treatment of the King was common knowledge, some wit referred to them as the King’s unatural children.

Earl Howe was saying that he was pleased the Lord Mayor’s banquet had been cancelled.

‘I should not have cared for Your Majesty to ride through the streets with the people in their present mood.’

‘That Bill. How I wish it had never been thought of.’

Earl Howe looked grave. ‘If it ever became law I believe that would be the end of the Monarchy.’

‘You are not the only one who thinks so. I believe that the Duke of Wellington is of the same opinion.’

‘I shall vote against it. If by some chance it got through the Commons it would never get through the Lords.’

‘It will not get through the Commons. Wellington will not allow it.’

‘And Your Majesty will make sure that the King refuses to give his consent even if it should.’

It was flattery, the implied suggestion that she carried great influence with the King. It was not really true, although she had to admit that William had always been good to her and treated her with respect; but it was Wellington on whom he relied.

This was perhaps why she enjoyed Lord Howe’s company so much. He made her feel wise … and yes, she had to admit it, an extremely attractive woman. For the first time in her life she was enjoying masculine admiration, and when it came from one of the most handsome and attractive men at Court how could she help being flattered.

There was to be a small dinner party at Clarence House. The Queen was dressed in white silk which fitted her beautifully. She wore a few diamond ornaments but she never overloaded herself with jewels and feathers as the Duchess of Kent did.

When she went to the drawing-room William was already there, seated in a chair waiting to receive his guests. He never behaved like a King and although he was courteous to the ladies, people laughed at his lack of regality. He had been jeered at for offering people lifts in his carriage and going to the door of Clarence House or even St James’s to wave goodbye – acts which while they endeared him to those who received them, were noted and laughed at.

‘He’ll never be the King his brother was!’ was the comment; and although the most unpopular of monarchs had been George IV, there was a note of nostalgia in the words.

‘That’s a nice dress,’ he said. ‘Why you look quite pretty tonight, Adelaide.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘It’s made of English silk. I shall tell the ladies tonight that every bit of it was made in England and that I consider our own silk equal … if not better than … the French. It would be much more helpful to these people who are so dissatisfied if more work came their way, and surely it would if we bought less abroad.’

‘You’re right … damned right.’

‘Well, I shall tell them tonight.’

William said, ‘I hope they’ll soon be forgetting all this stuff.’

Adolphus FitzClarence arrived, bursting into the drawing-room with the studied lack of ceremony affected by all the FitzClarence family.

‘Lots of people in the streets,’ he said. ‘You’d think something was going on.’

‘Oh.’ Adelaide laid her hand to her heart.

‘Crowds shouting. Banners.’ He grinned at the Queen. ‘They don’t seem very fond of you.’

‘They blame me,’ said Adelaide. ‘As if I had anything to do with it!’

‘The people always have to have something to shout about,’ growled William.

‘By the way, Father,’ said Adolphus, ‘will you let me have a hundred pounds?’

‘What?’ cried the King, growing red in the face.

Adolphus laughed. ‘It’s to settle a debt. I bet you’d ride to the Lord Mayor’s banquet; and you see, Father, you let me down and didn’t go. So … I owe one hundred pounds.’

‘Gambling!’ said the King.

‘Now, Papa, you don’t expect a shilling at Pope Joan to suit us all.’

The King laughed. How he loved those children! thought Adelaide. They could behave as badly as possible and he would forgive them. Whenever she saw him with Dorothy Jordan’s brood she longed more than ever for a family of her very own; and now she tried not to think of that cold little stone figure carved on a couch – the effigy of her child who had once been warm flesh and blood in her arms and the delight of her life.

There was another arrival. This time it was Frederick FitzClarence bursting in just as his brother had.

‘The Government’s been defeated in the Commons,’ he said. ‘This means Wellington’s out. The Whigs will be in and that means … the Bill.’

‘Oh God help us,’ said the Queen. ‘It will be the end of everything.’

‘Stuff!’ said the King; but he too was uneasy.

The guests would be arriving at any moment. They must behave as though they were not in the least perturbed. William was not seriously so. His father had been shot at several times and so had his brother. He was not afraid of assassination; this indifference to danger was a family characteristic. They’d all had it, except perhaps George; and he used to say he was too civilised to be indifferent to violent and undignified death. Poor George! He had died in a far more sorry state than if he had been carried off by a bullet in his carriage or in the box at the opera.

No, William was not seriously perturbed. Wellington might have been defeated in the House but there would be a way out of it.

No one mentioned the Reform Bill at dinner; they knew it irritated the King. Instead he talked of the old days at sea and how he had been best man at Nelson’s wedding. Then he showed them how Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar and they were all very bored.

Dear William, thought Adelaide. I believe he is the most boring man at Court. How different from Earl Howe!

The dinner over they left the table and retired to the drawing-room where they sat and talked. The King dozed and snored faintly and everyone pretended not to notice.

He awoke with a start and looking at Lady Grey who was sitting next to him he said: ‘Exactly so, M’am! Exactly so!’ at which everyone was amazed for Lady Grey had not spoken for the last ten minutes.

The King then went to sleep again for a while, and when he awoke he said: ‘Well, well, I’ll not delay you from your beds. And I’ll go to mine. Come, my Queen.’

As everyone had to admit, it was scarcely royal behaviour.

The next day Wellington resigned and William had no recourse but to send for Earl Grey. There was great rejoicing throughout London. The Whigs would bring in the Reform Bill and the hope of every undernourished farm labourer, every worker in the towns was that the passing of the Reform Bill would bring justice to them and their kind.

Everyone was waiting now for the debate on the Bill. The King, never very stable, became ill suddenly and the Queen was terrified that his malady would be similar to his father’s. Cumberland was watchful. If William went mad, Victoria would be Queen. There were great possibilities. A country on the verge of revolution, a little girl Queen, a mother as Regent who had not exactly endeared herself to the people; and the next heir a strong man, who might have an evil reputation but who could be trusted to be a firm ruler.

Commentators were saying that this could be the end of the Monarchy in England. Riots were occurring every day. ‘Reform! Reform!’ shouted the City apprentices without knowing what the word meant.

Adelaide had never been so frightened; she discussed matters continuously with Earl Howe. Wellington must come back to power, she said. It was their only way of preventing this Bill’s becoming law and she was certain that if it did it would mean the end of the Monarchy.

Her support for Wellington became known and the people were enraged against her. Those chose her as the scapegoat. She was a dowdy old German hausfrau, they said. She was an extravagant woman who was spending the country’s money on adornments; she was arrogant; she was homely; and she was the mistress of Lord Howe.

She should take care.

‘A foreigner is not a very competent judge of English liberties, and politics are not the proper field for female enterprise and exertion,’ said an observer in The Times.

She was constantly compared with Marie Antoinette.‘I bid the Queen of England remember that in consequence of the opposition of the ill-fated woman to the wishes of France, a fairer head than ever graced the shoulders of Adelaide, Queen of England, rolled on the scaffold.’

‘They hate me,’ she cried. ‘They hate me because I am a foreigner.’

The King recovered. She felt happier when he was well. He made less of these matters than she did.

‘Lot of stuff,’ he said. ‘It’ll pass.’

When they went to the play they were received in the theatre by silence but when they drove home mud was thrown at their carriage and a stone broke the window.

Adelaide was trembling and William was red with fury.

‘This is an inconvenience,’ he shouted. ‘If people are going to throw stones through the windows of my coach it will constantly have to be repaired and I’m always going somewhere.’

The uneasy weeks went on. There was undoubtedly revolution in the air. And in due course the Reform Bill was passed through the Commons and was rejected by the Lords.

The Duchess of Kent and her Comptroller were watching events with great attention.

The Duchess’s great fear was Adelaide’s friendship with Earl Howe.

‘For,’ as she whispered to Sir John, ‘what if she should have a child by that man? What fearful complications! What a terrible thing!’

‘I’m sure she will never do that. She is far too prim.’

‘Of course if she did become pregnant I should want to be very sure who was the father.’

Lights of cupidity were in the Duchess’s eyes. Suppose the dreaded event should come to pass. Suppose Adelaide was with child. She would swear that it was Earl Howe’s. There would be a revolution. There would have to be. It would be the only way to get Victoria where she belonged … on the throne.

Sir John smiled at her indulgently. ‘Don’t let us face this terrible fact until it has happened,’ he said. ‘I am convinced that it never will.’

‘Dear Sir John, such a comfort. But I do declare I shall have to make the King see reason. I believe he thinks of nothing but how to mortify me.’

‘He may well be equally concerned with the trouble over the Reform Bill,’ suggested Sir John with that irony that always passed over the Duchess’s ornate head.

‘And serve him right. I hear they threw mud at his carriage. He is really most unpopular. And can you wonder at it. A foolish old man. And they hate Adelaide. She becomes more and more unpopular.’

Sir John said that the people did not like German ladies and the Duchess agreed, seeming to forget that she was one.

‘And now that Buggin person. Because she changes her name to Underwood does that alter the fact that she is a Buggin?’

‘She was an Underwood before her marriage.’

‘But she is a Buggin now; and even though the Duke of Sussex has gone through a ceremony of marriage with her that does not make her his wife. She will never be accepted. Victoria will never receive her. I shall see to that. And I am expected to live at Kensington Palace under the same roof with a Buggin!’

‘The Duke I have heard dotes on her and likes to smother her with jewels.’

‘Then she must look like a decorated barrel. She is so short and fat. I wonder what he sees in her?’

‘I was going to suggest,’ said Sir John, tactfully changing the subject, ‘that since the Princess is so refreshed by sea breezes we take a little trip to the sea.’

‘What an excellent idea. I should enjoy to get away from Kensington for a while. People talk of nothing here but reform. And the people in the streets are getting so disgusting. So many dirty people standing about and they come too close to the Palace to please me.’

‘Then let us take a little trip. It is as well for the Princess to be seen about the country. She should travel like the heiress to the throne. And whatever objections there are the royal standard should fly over her residence and the guns give the royal salute.’

The Duchess nodded.

Trust Sir John to soothe her.

As the Reform Bill had been passed through the Commons – though it still had to go through the Lords – William decided that his coronation should take place.

The people were always beguiled by ceremonies; and it would be a change to have a bit of pageantry in the streets. They might well find it much more to their taste than a lot of sordid riots. Earl Grey applauded this decision; he felt it would do a great deal of good in conjunction with the fact that the Bill’s passing through the Commons had put the people in a good mood.

‘Mind you,’ said the King, ‘I don’t care for too much ceremony, I don’t want any Bishops kissing me, and I think that we don’t want to spend too much money on the business.’

‘If it is going to please the people it should be done in appropriate style, Sir.’

‘I’ll not have money wasted,’ said the King.

The people were of course delighted at the prospect of a coronation. The disgruntled Tories said that it was a great mistake to try to economise on this, and they would not wish to attend a coronation which was tawdry and over which there had been obvious economy.

‘All right, all right,’ said the King. ‘And what do they propose to do about it?’

Wellington told him that his colleagues would not attend unless a required amount of money was lavished on the necessary details.

‘By God,’ cried the King. ‘So they’ll stay away, eh? That’s good news. It’ll avoid the crush.’

There was no way of making a King of William.

Then came trouble from the Duchess of Kent.

She wrote to the King to say that she was delighted to hear he had at last agreed to be crowned. He would, of course, wish Victoria to take her rightful place immediately behind him.

When William received this letter he was furious. He went into Adelaide’s sanctum where she was enjoying a pleasant tête-à-tête with Earl Howe.

‘That woman!’ he cried. ‘That damned woman!’

‘Is it the Duchess of Kent?’ asked Adelaide.

‘Is it the Duchess of Kent! Of course it is that damned irritating woman.’

‘What is the trouble now?’ asked Adelaide.

‘She’s giving me instructions about the coronation. Her daughter is to walk immediately behind me, to show everyone that she is second only to the King. Did you ever hear such … such … impertinence.’

‘William, my dear, I beg of you to sit down,’ said the Queen. ‘The Duchess is merely being her tiresome self.’

‘And if she thinks I’m going to have that … that chit …’

‘She is only a child. She should not be blamed.’

‘I don’t blame her. Nice little thing. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her mother poke her interfering finger into royal affairs. Certainly not, I say. Certainly she shall not walk immediately behind me. Every brother and sister of mine – and I’m not exactly short of them – shall take precedence over Victoria.’

‘Is that right …’ began Adelaide. ‘I mean is that the way to treat the heiress presumptive to the throne?’

‘It’s the way I am treating her,’ said the King. His lips were stubborn. ‘That child will come to the coronation and walk where she is told.’

‘Oh, it is monstrous!’ cried the Duchess. ‘If I were not so angry I should faint with fury.’

‘Pray do not do that,’ said Sir John. ‘We need all our wits to deal with this situation.’

‘Victoria shall not be exposed to indignity, which she would be if she followed those stupid old aunts and uncles of hers.’

‘She must not do it.’

‘Then how … ?’

Sir John smiled, delighted that once again the Duchess was at loggerheads with her family. The more isolated she was, the more power for Sir John. As it was he was almost constantly in her company; his home was Kensington Palace, and to give respectability to the situation, Lady Conroy and the children were there also. His daughters Jane and Victoire were the companions of the Princess Victoria and he endeavoured to arrange that she saw as little as possible of the young people of her own family. The fact that the King had said she must make more public appearances had worried him; he had had visions of Victoria’s affection for the Queen – which was already considerable – being a real stumbling block. So he welcomed controversies such as this and encouraged the Duchess in her truculent attitude.

‘If the King will not give her her rightful place,’ said Sir John, ‘she must refuse to attend the coronation.’

‘The heiress to the throne not present at the coronation!’

‘If it is regrettably necessary, yes. The people will notice her absence and they will blame the King for it. Moreover, the King wishes Victoria to be under the charge of his sisters and not to walk with you, which is significant.’

‘Significant,’ cried the Duchess.

‘It means that on this important occasion he is taking your daughter from your care. Don’t you see what meaning people will attach to this?’

‘I do indeed and my mind is made up. Victoria shall not attend the coronation.’

‘I should write and tell His Majesty that you believe you should stay in the Isle of Wight as to leave it now might be detrimental to your daughter’s health.’

The Duchess nodded sagely.

‘This will show the old fool,’ she said.

‘Let her stay away,’ growled the King. ‘I tell you this, Adelaide: my great hope is that I live long enough to prevent that woman ever becoming Regent.’

‘Of course you will. There are many years left to you.’

William’s eyes glinted. ‘God help the country if she was ever Regent. I’m going to live long enough to see Victoria stand alone.’

‘You will if you take care of yourself.’

He smiled at her, his eyes glazed with sudden sentiment. ‘You’re a good woman, Adelaide. I’m glad I was able to make a Queen of you.’

‘It’s enough that you are a very good husband to me.’

William was pleased. Momentarily he had forgotten that maddening sister-in-law of his.

It was not a very bright September morning but the crowds were already lining the streets. They chatted about the odd but not unlovable ways of the King; some murmured a little about the Queen – why must we always bring these German women into the country? – but after all it was Coronation Day and the Reform Bill had passed through the Commons and better times they believed lay ahead, so for this day they were prepared to forget their grievances.

When the King and Queen drove past on the way to Westminster Abbey a cheer went up for them. William wore his Admiral’s uniform and looked exactly like a weatherbeaten sailor which amused the crowd; and the Queen looked almost beautiful in gold gauze over white satin.

‘Good old William,’ the cry went up, and although no one cheered Adelaide there were no hostile shouts.

But where was the Princess Victoria? One of the most delightful sights at such functions was usually provided by the children and the little heiress to the throne was very popular. Her absence was immediately noticed and whispered about.

‘They say that the Duchess and the King hate each other.’

‘They say the Duchess won’t bring Victoria to Court because she is afraid of Cumberland.’

Rumours multiplied; there were always quarrels in the royal family.

Meanwhile the King and Queen had reached the Abbey and the Archbishop was presiding over the ceremony of crowning them. William who looked upon all such occasions as ‘stuff’ showed his impatience with the ceremony and so robbed it of much of its dignity; but Adelaide behaved with charming grace and many present commented on the fact that although she might not be the most beautiful of Queens she was kindly, gracious and peace-loving.

During the ceremony the rain pelted down and the wind howled along the river; however, when the royal pair emerged the rain stopped and the sun shone, so they were able to ride back in comfort through the streets to St James’s.

The people cheered. He was not such a bad old King, they decided, and if he was ready to put up with his spotted wife they would too.

William was grumbling all the way back about Victoria’s absence. It had been noticed; it had been commented on.

‘It’s time,’ he said, ‘that someone taught that woman a lesson.’

Soon after the coronation Adelaide went to Brighton with her niece Louise of Saxe-Weimar, the daughter of her sister Ida, for whom the Queen had very special love among her family of other people’s children because Louise was a cripple. Adelaide had had this child in her care for most of her life and this made her seem like her own daughter, just as George Cambridge was like her own son.

But Louise was growing weaker as the years passed and this saddened her. Louise’s mother was now paying a visit to England and to her Adelaide was able to talk of her anxieties – the state to which the country had been reduced and her fears (quoting Earl Howe) that if this dreaded Reform Bill was passed it would be the beginning of the end for the Monarchy.

Ida listened sympathetically and admitted that she was glad to be the wife of a man who was not the ruler of a great country. She was not rich and not really very important but she would not wish for Adelaide’s anxieties.

‘I had the Crown and was barren,’ said Adelaide. ‘But I have been happier than I would have believed I could possibly be … without children.’

‘You have other people’s,’ said Ida. ‘And how is the little girl at Kensington?’

‘We scarcely ever see her although William has expressly told her mother that as heiress to the throne she must appear with him in public’

‘The Saxe-Coburgs give themselves such airs. Though why they should, I can’t imagine. There was all that scandal about Louise of Saxe-Coburg. They kept very quiet about that. And I believe they are hoping that Victoria will marry one of the two boys – Ernest or Albert.’

‘William has decided that she shall have George Cambridge. He is already rather taken with her.’

‘He’s a diplomat already, then.’

‘I don’t think he thinks of her position so much. She is not without charm, you know. Such a dignified young lady. I declare that it is not right that she should be shut away there in Kensington and scarcely ever allowed any fun.’

‘Oh, that Saxe-Coburg woman!’

‘She really is trying and William is becoming incensed at the very mention of her name.’

‘I dare say the Cumberlands are hoping that their George will win the prize.’

Adelaide laughed. ‘He is a delightful boy, too. It surprises me that …’ She stopped. She had rarely been heard to make a malicious comment even about her enemies.

‘Surprise you that such parents could have such a son?’ said the forthright Ida.

‘Well, it is a little odd. And he is a charming boy. Of course if Victoria loved him I daresay there would be no objection; but we are hoping it will be his cousin.’

‘Your special protégé. Oh, Adelaide, how long ago it seems when we were together in Saxe-Meiningen wondering what would happen to us and who our husbands would be.’

‘And when the Duke of Saxe-Weimar came riding to the castle to seek his bride who was supposed to be the elder sister no one was very surprised – certainly not that elder sister – that he chose the younger.’

‘You were always the sweetest and most modest of sisters. The Duke of Saxe-Weimar was stupid. He would have been so much wiser to have chosen you.’

At which Adelaide laughed and began to talk of the baths which she thought might be beneficial for Louise. She would take her to them the next day.

‘I believe,’ said Ida, ‘that if I wanted to take her back with me you would refuse to let me do so.’

‘I would have Louise choose where she wishes to be.’

‘And you know where that is,’ laughed Ida.

It was true that Adelaide knew, and she could not help being pleased. She was born to be a mother, for her fiercest inclination was to care for children. How happy she would have been with a nursery full of them. Instead of which she had had to make do with a family of stepchildren, all of whom were now proving to be rather ungrateful. But she did have William’s grandchildren and like all young people they were devoted to her. In addition there was George Cambridge and Louise … and George Cumberland too who was constantly visiting her – and it would have been the same with Victoria if the Duchess had permitted it.

She smiled thinking of them. They took her mind off other matters; and this was a few days respite in Brighton with her dear sister, when they could talk of the days of their youth during which they had been so happy together.

It took her away from the stark reality of the uneasy days through which they were living. Revolution was a fact on the Continent and a possibility in England. Her dreams were haunted by memories of riding through the streets in her carriage and the faces of the mob leering in at her. She dreamed of the mud spattering the windows, of the stones that broke the glass. She heard their comments: ‘Go back to Germany, dowdy hausfrau.’ She knew that they called her the ‘frow’; and they whispered unpleasant things about her and Earl Howe.

She must enjoy these days in Brighton before returning to London where everyone would be thinking of and talking about that Reform Bill.

London was seething with rage. Although a strong majority had passed the Bill through the Commons, the Lords rejected it by a majority of forty-one.

Earl Grey came to see William.

‘If the Bill is not passed, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘there will be a revolution.’

‘Bills have to pass through the Commons and the Lords and receive my signature before they become law.’

‘This one must become law,’ insisted Grey.

‘And how do you propose it should?’

‘Your Majesty must create new peers who will support it.’

‘I’ll be damned if I will,’ said the King. ‘I’m against that measure in any case. They’ll have to forget about reform.’

‘That is something I fear they will never do, Sir. The people are intent on reform and reform they’ll have.’

‘But if the Bill is thrown out …’

‘By the Lords, Sir? The Commons have passed it. Something will have to be done, and I think it would be wise if Earl Howe were dismissed from his post of Chamberlain to the Queen.’

‘Howe dismissed? The Queen will never hear of it.’

‘Nevertheless, Sir, perhaps she should be persuaded to relinquish him.’

‘Why so? Why so?’

‘He voted against the Bill.’

‘So did many others. A majority of others voted against it.’

‘But owing to Earl Howe’s position in the Queen’s household and the fact that he is on friendly terms with … er … Your Majesties …’

William was obtuse. He did not understand the reference.

Earl Grey saw that it was no use pursuing it and went back to report to his Cabinet that he had made no progress with the King.

Earl Grey discussed the King’s obstinacy with his fellow-ministers.

‘He refuses to see the implications about Howe. He refuses to create new peers. If the Lords are adamant the Bill will be thrown out. I have to make them see that this will mean revolution.’

The Cabinet insisted on the dismissal of Howe. Secrets which Grey discussed with the King were leaking out to the Tories; Howe was an ardent Tory and a sworn enemy of the Bill. The likeliest leakage would come through the Queen and as the Queen was on such terms of … er … intimacy with Earl Howe and the King was notoriously outspoken and completely lacked finesse, it seemed that Howe was the informer. No sooner had Grey discussed some matter with the King than Wellington was aware of it. The dribble of information into the opposite camp must be stemmed – and the dismissal of Howe would bring this about.

It was not difficult to work up public feeling against Earl Howe. The Queen was already loathed because she was blamed for persuading William against Reform. There were scurrilous paragraphs in the press about her. There had been criticisms for some time of her ‘spotted Majesty’, an unkind reference to her blotchy complexion; she had been accused both of dowdiness and extravagance; of Machiavellian craft and crass stupidity. But now there was Earl Howe.

There were cartoons of the Queen in the arms of her Chamberlain. In one they were embracing behind William’s back. In another they were kissing and a balloon coming from the Queen’s mouth enclosed the words, ‘Come this way, Silly Billy.’

There would be riots soon if something was not done. Grey decided something must be done and quickly; and if the King would not dismiss Howe, then Howe must resign.

He sent for Howe. He bade him be seated at his table across which he passed the cuttings from the newspapers.

‘You will see, my lord,’ said Earl Grey, ‘that it is imperative for you to resign from the Queen’s service without delay.’

Adelaide, returned from a ride, was about to change her costume when she received an urgent message from Earl Howe. When she said she would see him later, the messenger returned immediately and said that as the matter was of the utmost importance would she please see him at once.

Somewhat agitated she received him.

‘Something terrible has happened,’ she said. ‘Tell me quickly.’

He told her. ‘And I have come to return my keys to you.’

‘I shall not accept your resignation.’

He smiled at her affectionately. ‘The Prime Minister has made it very clear that I must go.’

‘But the Prime Minister does not manage my household.’

‘Your Majesty will see that in the circumstances I must resign. You, more than the King, are aware of what is going on in the streets. At times like this the people look for a scapegoat.’

‘And they have chosen you.’

‘If they had I should not be so alarmed. I would refuse to resign. I believe they have chosen Your Majesty.’

She stared at him in horror.

‘And for that reason,’ he said, ‘there have been many disgusting cartoons.’

She understood.

‘But to insist on your resignation … it is an insult.’

‘It is one we must accept. It is necessary for your safety. That is why I must insist on handing you the keys.’

She felt sick and ill. Reform or Revolution. That was what Grey thought. But Adelaide believed that Reform was Revolution.

She sat down in her chair.

‘You are feeling faint?’ asked Howe kneeling beside her.

She shook her head. ‘Please do not stay. If you were to be seen … what construction would they put on that? Please … send my women to me.’

He stood up and before he went laid the keys on the table.

The mood of the people grew more ugly. The windows of Apsley House were broken by the mob. Anyone who opposed the Bill was the enemy of the People. Effigies of the Queen were burned in public places, but the people still retained an affection for the King who continued to be represented as a foolish old man led astray by his scheming Queen. ‘Oh, I’m a poor weak old man,’ he was reputed to say in the cartoons. ‘They know I’m not able to do anything.’

Earl Grey came to the King. The Bill must be passed through the Lords. If the King would not create new peers who would support it, the Whig Ministry must resign.

‘Resign, then,’ said the King.

William sent for the Duke of Wellington and asked him to form a government. There was a menacing lull in the streets. If Wellington was at the helm with his Tories this would mean disaster for the Bill, and the people would not see the Bill thrown out. They had become obsessed by the Bill; they looked upon it as a magic formula and believed that once it was passed Utopia would be established in England; everything they had hoped for would come to pass.

It was said that young ladies imagined they would be at once married … when the Bill was passed; schoolboys believed that grammar would be abolished; poets believed that the public would clamour for their works; soldiers would receive double their pay; and the price of pies and cakes would be halved … all that was needed to bring about this miracle was that the Bill should become law.

The Bill was discussed in every tavern by many who did not understand a word of it. To them it was merely the key to paradise on Earth.

If Wellington formed a new Tory government opposed to the Bill it would be the sign for the mob to march. There was not a politician who did not know this, and Wellington’s plan was to bring in a new Bill – a Reform Bill yes, but a modified one. Even this would not do; and because there was not a man among them who did not realise that a change of government at that time would mean that the people would rise, it was impossible for Wellington to form a government.

The Bill must be passed; and since the King would not create the necessary peers to pass it through the Lords, those peers who would not vote for it must abstain from voting at all. It was the only way to pass the Bill.

So … with London ready to rise and destroy the existing regime which would not bring about reform, the Bill was again presented. Breathlessly people waited for the result. In the House of Lords it was put to the vote. As the members of that House were aware of what would happen if the Bill was rejected, the Tory benches were half empty. So those who opposed, refrained from voting and on June 4th of that year 1832 the Reform Bill was passed.

Adelaide was terrified, expecting revolution at any moment. The King tried to soothe her. ‘Devil take them all,’ he said. ‘By God, if I hear the word Reform again I shall never speak to the man who says it.’

He refused to give his assent in person, which was foolish as this was only a matter of form, and royal confirmation was given by the commission.

London was jubilant; there was carousing in the streets and bonfires at every corner.

Reform was coming. Now all they had to do was wait for the miracle.

The King had refused his personal assent. Then the King was no friend of the people. It was not his fault at all; it was that German Queen of his. She was the real villainess. But Billy should be taught a lesson.

When William drove through the streets on his way to dissolve Parliament, the people refused to take off their hats; they came close to his coach and jeered at him. Silly Billy, who did what his wicked wife told him. He had been against Reform.

William was unperturbed. He had faced death during his life at sea and he lacked the imagination to worry about the harm an angry mob might do to him.

He was annoyed by these people who no longer loved him. They were threatening him; they would start throwing stones in a moment. Adelaide seated beside him was trembling. Poor Adelaide, she didn’t understand these people. They wouldn’t really harm him; they were just an ill-mannered crowd.

To show his contempt for them he leaned out of the window and spat at them.

This unkingly act had such an effect on the crowd that it fell back in amazement. A king to spit on his subjects! The mob could spit; it was a common habit of the lower orders, but for a king to do so … was unheard of.

They could think of nothing to say or do; and then a voice was distinctly heard to say: ‘George IV would never have done that. George IV always remembered that he was a king.’

And by that time the royal coach had driven on.

The King was on his way to dissolve Parliament. And what did it matter? The Reform Bill was passed.