The Queen's Husband

Chapter XXVIII A FATAL JOURNEY

In the middle of March the Duchess of Kent underwent a slight operation. She had a painful abscess under her arm which had been making her feel depressed and wretched so it had been decided to remove it. She had been recuperating satisfactorily in her home of Frogmore when suddenly she became seized by shivering fits.

A few days later Sir James Clark arrived at Buckingham Palace with the news that he was disturbed by the Duchess’s condition.

‘We must go to her at once,’ cried the Queen, and she with Albert and Alice took the train to Windsor.

How long that journey seemed, and all the time Victoria was thinking of the old days at Kensington Palace when she and her mother had had such ‘storms’.

When at last they reached Frogmore the Queen went straight up to her mother’s bedroom. The Duchess lay on a sofa, propped up by cushions and wearing a silk dressing-gown. She looked almost like her normal self but that was because the blinds were drawn and the room was so darkened.

Victoria knelt by the sofa and kissing her hand held it against her cheek. The Duchess looked at her daughter and Victoria saw with a pang of dismay and horror that she did not know her. She could not bear it. She went out of the room to give vent to her tears. Albert came in to comfort her.

‘We will stay for the night,’ he said.

Oh, blessed Albert! What would she do without him?

She would never forget that night. She lay sleepless, listening to every hour as it struck. At four o’clock she could bear no more, and she rose and went to her mother’s room. The Duchess was breathing heavily and there was no sound but the ticking of the old repeater watch in its tortoiseshell case which had been her father’s and had stood in the bedroom she had shared with her mother up to the time of her accession.

She stood looking at her mother and then went back to her room and tried in vain to sleep.

The next morning it was clear that the end was near. The Queen could not bear to look at that familiar face now so changed and suddenly she was aware of Albert who lifted her up and carried her from the room.

‘Is it all over, Albert?’ she asked.

Albert, who rarely wept, was weeping then as he said: ‘Yes, my love, it is all over.’

The death of the Duchess had a deep effect on the Queen.

She was filled with remorse, remembering those battles of the old days. The entries in her journal brought them all back too vividly for comfort. How unkind she had been to dearest Mama! She remembered the occasion when she had refused to see her and insisted that she had to make an appointment before they met. Her own mother!

There were the accounts of how she had considered herself a prisoner – Mama’s prisoner. When all Mama had wanted to do was protect her. She and Baroness Lehzen had behaved as though the Duchess was their enemy. It was terrible. Not until Albert had come had she realised that. Albert had done that for her as he had done everything else.

She was overcome by a deep melancholy. If only Mama could come back and she could talk to her.

The Queen’s melancholy was noted and so exaggerated that rumours persisted on the Continent hinting that she had inherited her grandfather’s malady. Any member of the family only had to step out of the line of conventional behaviour for someone to remember the madness of George III.

Stockmar wrote urgently to Albert from Coburg. The Queen must understand what a situation her conduct was bringing about. She must stop mourning for her mother. She must be seen in public. These rumours must be quashed. They could be dangerous.

Albert realised this and remonstrated with the Queen.

He agreed that she had been an undutiful daughter before her marriage. But the blame for that must rest with the Baroness Lehzen who had influenced her so strongly. Had she not tried to make trouble between Victoria and her own husband?

Albert could always handle her. She saw his point. While she had him, she said, she had everything to live for.

She became gay again. The period of mourning was over.

But, alas, Albert’s health did not improve.

Trouble came from an expected quarter.

Stockmar wrote to break news which, he said, perhaps not strictly truthfully, he would rather have kept to himself.

It was well known on the Continent that while he was at Curragh Camp the Prince of Wales had formed a liaison with an actress. This affair had gone as far as it was possible for such an affair to go. It seemed as though the Prince of Wales was fulfilling their doleful prophecies.

When Albert read the letter his first thought was: The Queen must not know.

She would be horribly shocked; this might bring on that dangerous mood of depression. He must if possible keep this from her.

What could he do to a young man of nineteen? He thought of his brother Ernest and the evil which had befallen him. Bertie, it seemed, was going to be such another.

He must go to Cambridge and see Bertie. He must discover the truth of this matter. He had a streaming cold and he could feel the fever in his body; his frequent shivering was a warning, but it was his duty to go to Cambridge and when had he ever shirked his duty?

The weather was bleak, cold and damp, and although the symptoms which were affecting him warned him that he should stay in bed, he went off to Cambridge.

When Bertie saw how ill his father looked he was immediately contrite. He spoke naturally and without the embarrassment he usually felt in his father’s presence.

‘Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t have come in this weather.’

Albert looked at him sadly. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘it was my duty to come. You will know why, when I tell you I am aware of your conduct at the Curragh Camp.’

Bertie flushed scarlet.

‘You may well be ashamed,’ said his father. ‘I confess I could scarcely believe it even of you. How could you behave in such a way?’

Bertie stammered that it was not really such an unusual way to behave. Other fellows …

‘Other fellows! You are not other fellows. You are the heir to the throne.’

Bertie cast down his eyes. He wanted to shout at his father that he was tired of being treated like a child; they couldn’t go on robbing him of his freedom all his life. When he was twenty-one, he would show them.

But his father looked so ill. He had never seen him quite like this. His face was such a strange colour and the shadows under his eyes so deep; his eyes were unnaturally bright too.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bertie.

Albert nodded. ‘I believe you are,’ he replied with a faint smile. Some of the reforming fire had gone out of him. He felt utterly weary and longed for his bed.

‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I want you to realise your responsibilities.’

‘I do,’ said Bertie.

‘I want you to act in a way that will show that you do.’

Bertie’s kind heart was touched by the pitiful looks of his father. He wanted to end this interview as quickly as possible so that his father could get back home and to bed where he obviously should be.

‘I will try to in future,’ he said. ‘Papa, you are not well. You should be in bed.’

Albert held up a hand that was not quite steady.

‘If you would mend your ways, try not to make your mother so anxious, remember that one day you will be King of England …’

‘I will, Papa.’

Albert nodded. He did not love his son; he could never do that; but he did not feel that mild resentment and faint dislike which he had felt before.

‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I shall say nothing to your mother of this affair.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

Albert rose.

‘You are going home now, Papa?’ asked Bertie.

Albert nodded.

‘You should be in bed.’

Albert smiled. It was the first time his son had ever told him what he should do. In the circumstances it touched him.

When he returned to the palace it was clear that he was ill. The Queen was worried and scolded him for going out in such awful weather.

‘I had to go,’ he said wearily.

‘What on earth could be so important as to make you?’ she demanded.

He said nothing and seeing how weary he was she stopped scolding and helped him to bed. She sat beside it watching him, holding his hand.

‘You’ll soon be well, Albert,’ she said. ‘I am going to insist on your taking greater care.’

He was a little better next morning and would not stay in bed; he sat in the bedroom in his padded dressing-gown with its scarlet velvet collar and went through state papers; but he could eat very little and the Queen was growing very anxious.

Sir James Clark was a little concerned. His colleague Dr Baly, the other royal physician, had been killed only a short while before in a railway accident. Sir James, never very sure of himself, now wished to call in further advice and suggested Dr Jenner, who was an expert on typhoid fever.

When Dr Jenner came and examined Albert it was his opinion that, although Albert was not a victim of the fever, there were signs that he might be affected by the germs. They must therefore prepare themselves for an attack of this dreaded disease.

When the Queen heard this she was terrified. People died of typhoid fever.

‘The Prince would have every possible care,’ said Sir James. ‘And so far he does not have typhoid fever.’

Albert insisted on sleeping in a small bed at the foot of their big bed.

‘I toss and turn so much that I should disturb you,’ he said.

‘Disturb me!’ cried the Queen. ‘Do you think I shall have any sleep? I would be afraid to sleep in any case. You might need me.’

She was up and down all night giving him cooling drinks.

‘If I get this fever,’ he said, ‘I shall die.’

‘You will not die!’ she commanded. And he smiled at her. ‘Dearest little wife,’ he said, ‘I do not fear death. I only think of how you will miss me and how sad you will be.’

‘Oh, Albert, don’t. I can’t bear it. You are my life. How could I go on if you were not here?’

‘You must, dearest, you must.’

‘I’ll not have this talk,’ she cried. ‘You are here with me, and here you are going to stay. You haven’t got the fever. You’re not going to have it.’

‘No,’ he said, to soothe her, ‘no.’ And he thought: Poor Victoria. Poor little Queen.

For five nights he tossed and turned in his little bed. She had scarcely slept at all. The Queen was desperate because he would not eat. When she tried to tempt him with a little soup, he only shook his head.

One day he seemed a little better and the Queen asked if he would like Alice to read to him. Vicky used to and when she had gone Alice took on the duty. He brightened a little. But when she came and started Silas Marner he shook his head. He didn’t like it. She tried others but he did not want to listen to anything.

The Queen said brightly: ‘We’ll try Sir Walter Scott tomorrow, Papa dear.’

Albert smiled at her wanly.

Then he became irritable.

‘I believe it’s a good sign,’ cried the Queen jubilantly.

His complaints were peevish, which was not like him. The Albert Victoria had known seemed to be replaced by a wild-eyed man.

Alice read to him again and he seemed to enjoy that for a little while.

‘That’s a good sign,’ said the Queen. ‘More like dear good blessed Papa.’

But a few hours later when she was sitting by his bed he said suddenly: ‘Can you hear the birds singing?’

She could not and he added: ‘When I heard them I thought I was at Rosenau.’

She went out of the room because she could not control her sobbing. She knew that he was very ill.

Dr Jenner wanted to talk to her. She looked at him anxiously.

‘Your Majesty knows that all along we have feared … gastric fever.’

Gastric fever! Bowel fever! She knew that these were kinder names for the dreaded typhoid.

‘I know it,’ she said. ‘And now …?’

‘I am afraid that this is what His Highness is now suffering from.’

She felt dazed. Typhoid! The dreaded killer!

‘Vicky,’ he said, ‘Vicky.’

For a moment she thought that he was speaking to her, then she realised that he thought she was their daughter.

‘Vicky is well, my darling,’ she said. ‘Vicky is in Berlin with her husband.’

He nodded. Alice sat on the other side of the bed.

He looked at her and was suddenly lucid. He remembered that Vicky was pregnant again and that he was worried about her.

‘Did you write to Vicky?’

‘Yes, dear Papa.’

‘Did you tell her how I was?’

‘I told her that you were ill, Papa.’

He shook his head.

‘You should have told her that I am dying,’ he said.

All the children were there. Bertie oddly enough was her greatest comfort.

‘Oh, Bertie, what am I going to do?’

‘I will care for you, Mama.’

‘But he will get better. The doctors have been telling me. They never despair with fever. People get over it … often.’

‘Yes, Mama. He has every care. You must take care of yourself.’

‘I tried to take care of him. He would go off. That awful November day he went off because he felt it was his duty. I never quite knew where he went. He was in such a hurry. He said it was so important and when he came back he was too ill to say anything. We could only think of getting him to bed. I’ll never forgive those people who asked him to go wherever he went …’

Bertie had grown pale, but the Queen did not notice that.

She had thought he was a little better. He sat up in bed and arranged his hair, just as he used to when he was going somewhere.

Then she noticed that there was a dusky hue about his face which she had never seen before.

He seemed to be preparing himself – as though he were going on a journey.

She could not bear it. He must not see her distress. She got up and went out.

But she must be with him. She had a numbing fear that there might not be much time left. She went and sat beside his bed.

He was aware of her. ‘Gutes Frauchen,’ he murmured.

All the children came in one by one and kissed him.

She did not know how she endured it, but she controlled her grief because she could not bear that he should see it nor could she bear to leave him.

She bent over him. He looked at her wonderingly.

‘Es ist kleines Frauchen,’ he said, and he smiled and kissed her.

She sat there holding his hand and suddenly all the pain and suffering seemed to fall away from his face and he was the young and beautiful Albert again at whom she had only to look to know that she would love him for ever.

Albert was dead.