The Widow of Windsor

Chapter XI A ROYAL BIRTH

The Queen was a little worried. She was laughing now and then, usually at some of Brown’s quaint sayings. She found that she was enjoying rides in the country, particularly at Balmoral which would always be nearest to her heart, although she loved Osborne too.

Was she being unfaithful to Albert because she was not thinking of him every hour of the day?

She wrote to Vicky and told her about her feelings. She would never forget that Beloved Papa was a saint and that there could never be anyone like him, but she did find that her grief was less vehement. Of course there were times when she was sunk in melancholy but she did find some solace in the children of course. Baby Beatrice – not such a baby now – had always been so amusing and it was so pleasant to have the children with her, reading together, but she feared sometimes they would go a very long time without mentioning Papa, and she was very ashamed afterwards; it seemed a slight to his memory.

Vicky wrote back that dearest Papa would be watching over her and perhaps it was his will that she should stop brooding.

‘You have your life to lead, Mama, and great duties to perform. I am sure it is Papa’s will that you should remember that, although you long to join him, you must await the call.’

Vicky was a comfort of course; and so was dear Dean Wellesley to whom she also confessed her waning grief.

She still mourned, replied the Dean, and that showed how deep her affection had been. To spend her days in brooding and weeping was not in fact a sign of great grief for a loss as much as pity for oneself.

She was comforted by this and allowed herself to be amused by clever Mr Disraeli and honest John Brown.

Whenever she rode out John Brown would be on the box; wherever she was he was never far away; he looked after her clothes and wrapped her cloak about her; he scolded her for not standing still while he fastened it; when she was feeling unwell he would carry her from her sofa to her bed. ‘Where is Brown?’ she would ask if he failed to appear.

One of the most startling facets of the relationship was that the handsome Highlander was more than a little fond of his whisky and there had been occasions when he had been unable to answer the Queen’s summons because he had taken rather too much.

When she demanded an explanation he replied nonchalantly: ‘I was o’er bashful last night, woman.’

Bashful! She knew what he meant. He had drunk too much whisky and had been unable to wait on her. What an amusing word! Bashful, meaning slightly intoxicated – or perhaps not exactly slightly.

She would say roguishly when she saw him helping himself to what he called a wee dram, ‘Now, Brown, pray do not become too bashful!’

‘Nae,’ he would reply, ‘I’ll content myself with a wee dram or two the night.’

The Queen laughed. He did her so much good.

But of course it was hardly likely that the relationship between them should go unnoticed.

It seemed incredible that this imperious Queen who could subdue any one of her ministers with a cold stare or an icy comment should find it amusing that one of her servants should be too intoxicated for his duties. What could it mean?

There seemed to be one construction to put on this – and it was immediately put.

Eyebrows were raised; titters were heard. What is the relationship, it was asked, between the Queen and her Highland servant?

It was a mystery. He was good-looking in his rough way – tall, curly-haired and bearded, with the famous strong chin which she admired; he talked to her as no one had ever talked to her in her life and was allowed to.

Such delicious scandal material could not be allowed to go unrecorded.

The scandal was taken up hilariously not only in England but also on the Continent.

There were cartoons, lampoons, imitation Court Circulars in which the activities of Mr John Brown were recorded. It was inevitable that sooner or later there should be talk of Mrs John Brown.

She had married him, said some. It was the only solution. She would never have allowed him the liberties she did if that had not been the case. Why was she always going up to Balmoral? So that they could live in comparative seclusion there? Why had she brought him down from his native Scotland? Why was she never seen out of his company? And all the time she was pretending to be heart-broken about Albert!

The Queen could not be kept in ignorance of rumours. She remembered an occasion long ago, before her marriage to Albert, when Lord Melbourne had been the most important person in her life. She had seen him every day; she had admired him, and in fact she was a little ashamed when she read her old journals and realised how besotted she had been. She had been pulled up with a jerk when someone had shouted Mrs Melbourne at the races. But that had not hurt her friendship with Lord Melbourne; and ill-natured gossip was certainly not going to rob her of John Brown’s.

People were wicked and ill-natured. They said unkind things and those dreadful cartoons, with their horrid pictures, were often quite lewd. But then their target was royalty; they had even maligned beloved Albert.

She would ignore them, and their ill nature should certainly do nothing to drive Brown from her favour. She was going to raise his salary to £150 a year. He was worth every penny.

But the Queen’s family and her ministers were concerned about the rumours.

She was gradually emerging a little from her seclusion. One of the public gibes had gone home. If the Queen was so overcome by grief that she needed seclusion, it was asked, she would not find it in the company of gillies any more than in that of her own class.

She refused to be ordered, she said. She would not allow anyone to force her into something to which she had no inclination; and appearing in public was something to which she was averse.

She did agree, though, to attend the opening of the new Parliament, but she would have none of the usual ceremony. She would not wear the robes of state but insisted on keeping to her widow’s robes and her ‘sad’ cap, and she commanded that the robes of state be laid on a seat beside her; she refused to read the speech from the throne, and the Lord Chancellor had to read it instead. The people were sullen; they had no wish to dispense with the brilliant ceremonies to which they looked forward, but since the Queen had gone into mourning there had been none – even royal weddings were sombre affairs.

She did, however, go to Aldershot a little later on to grace one or two ceremonies and there was Lenchen’s coming wedding to be arranged.

How different it would have been, she mourned, if Albert were here. How interested he would have been in Lenchen’s future.

There would soon be two weddings because as well as Lenchen Mary Cambridge had become engaged. And time too! thought the Queen, for it had seemed as though Mary would never get a husband. She was a good-looking woman but getting so large and she was no longer young, so it was a blessing that she had become betrothed to the Duke of Teck for he was her second cousin, his grandmother being the elder sister of Victoria’s own mother. Quite a pleasant man – and it was a relief to get Mary married.

It had been a disturbing year, the Queen decided. Prussia was showing itself to be fiercely militant and that man Bismarck was determined to carry out his policy of blood and iron. His great dream to amalgamate the German states with Prussia at their head was becoming a possibility. Prussia had squabbled with Austria over Schleswig-Holstein and war had broken out between them.

The Queen hated the thought of war and such a war was particularly distressing to contemplate because it made dissension in the family. Vicky and her husband must naturally stand with Prussia but other members of her family were on the side of Austria; there was Ernest of Saxe-Coburg, cousin George of Hanover and Alice’s husband of Hesse. It was unbearable to contemplate; she could not decide with whom to sympathise. Albert had always been devoted to Germany and a strong Germany was what he had always advocated; but what would his reaction have been if Prussia was at war with Saxe-Coburg, his old home, with Hanover which had always been part of British possessions since the days of George I, and Hesse of course where dear Alice staunchly supported her husband.

The Queen was aroused at last from her lethargy. She felt strongly for poor dear Alice; she commanded that the Hesse children be sent to her at Windsor and she herself despatched first-aid bandages and medicines for the wounded soldiers of Hesse.

Terrible news came from Hanover which the Prussians had seized. Poor Cousin George was driven from his kingdom. This was shocking. England had lost Hanover. She wept bitterly, thinking of poor blind George and how terrible it had been at the time of his accident when his parents – that wicked pair – had been so distressed that everyone had been so sorry for them.

One by one the small principalities and dukedoms fell before the might of Prussia and seven weeks after the conflict began Austria was defeated.

It was very, very sad. Vicky was triumphant in a veiled way; Alice was desolate; and when the Queen thought of poor blind George Cumberland, an exile from his kingdom, she could have wept bitterly.

War was so devastating – particularly when it made such conflict in the family.

It was a great relief to get away from it all and go to Balmoral where faithful Brown was clearly in his element, to take rides to the places which Albert had so loved and to see the celebration of Halloween when the villagers made their bonfires and the gillies were out with their burning torches. So comforting to have Brown wrap the rug about her when she went for a night drive to see the bonfires the better and to be scolded by Brown when she coughed.

‘If you would come, woman, you must take the risk of being choked with the smoke.’

But he produced a wee drop of spirits for her to sip and demanded to know whether or not she didn’t feel the better for it. So pleasant, so good to be away from the terrible conflicts and storms of government.

How different life seemed, thought Alix, from the carefree days of poverty in the Yellow Palace. They were all grown up now. Willy – how strange to think of him as King George of Greece – was finding life very serious in his new kingdom. He wrote to Alix that his new country was engaged in the fearful struggle with Turkey and England could do so much to help.

Alix consulted Bertie who was as blandly sympathetic as ever. He was very fond of pretty Alix and wanted to make up to her for some of the anxieties he caused her. He would do anything for Alix, except of course give up the gay life which was so important to him. He must see his lively friends; he must have that freedom of which he had been starved during his adolescence; he must be surrounded by pretty women who were not too morally scrupulous. He loved the races; he found gambling completely exciting. These things were of the utmost importance to him. If Alix would not interfere in his gay life he would be ready to support her in any way she wished.

She was philosophical. She had been foolish to imagine that the married life of her parents was a usual one. Her dear uncomplicated father and her clever mother had loved each other and their family life had been the most important thing in the world to them. She could only fully appreciate those days at Rumpenheim, Bernstorff and the Yellow Palace now that they were past. She loved Bertie – how could she help it? Bertie was charming; he was kind; he adored little Eddy and Baby George; already they looked for him and shouted with glee when they saw him. He was never unkind; he always insisted that she should be treated with the utmost respect; he was proud of her; continually he told her that she was the most beautiful woman in England. But that was one side of his life; there had to be the other. There were rumours about his friendships with women and she knew it would be unwise to probe too closely into that. She had to accept dear charming Bertie as he was and then they could be happy.

She was learning to do this and only occasionally sighed for the ideal relationship which resembled that enjoyed by her parents in the days before greatness had overtaken them. Not to be royal. What bliss that must be! Sometimes she went to the nursery and put on a big apron and bathed the babies herself. The boys had loved that; they adored her even more than they did Bertie. Young Eddy’s great eyes would fill with tears when she told them she must leave them. And sometimes Bertie would come in when she was playing the humble wife and would crawl round the floor with the two boys on his back shrieking with joy.

When she reminded Bertie about her brother’s plea for help against Turkey he was so full of sympathy that she wondered whether he was eager to placate his conscience because of some recent misdemeanour of which he was secretly ashamed. He would speak to the Foreign Secretary, he said; and he kept his promise.

The result was a summons for Bertie to come to Windsor to face his enraged mama.

The Queen looked distastefully at her eldest son.

‘Really, Bertie,’ she said, ‘you have no sense of decorum. Do you imagine for one moment that it is your place to advise my Foreign Secretary as to the course of action he should take?’

Bertie replied that Alix was anxious about her brother.

‘And do you imagine that the State should take notice of these family relationships?’

Bertie found it difficult to stand against her. He realised that he could not interfere and he had only agreed to do so to placate Alix. He had done his best and the Queen and the Foreign Secretary would not help George of Greece. He could do no more. Poor Alix, she felt so deeply for her family.

‘You will write to your brother-in-law,’ said the Queen, ‘and tell him that we can do nothing to help him. He will have to accept the situation and try to bring about peace in his country.’

Alix was sad. First her parents had been refused help by this powerful country into which she had married; and now her brother. It showed clearly that she had no influence with her new relations.

She had become pregnant again.

There was news from Denmark. Dagmar was soon to leave for Russia and her marriage to the Czarevitch.

Bertie was excited. He and Alix had been invited to the wedding and there was nothing he enjoyed so much as travelling abroad but the doctor, Sir James Paget, was rather uneasy about Alix’s condition and said that on no account must she undertake the arduous journey.

Alix was desolate. Not to be at Dagmar’s wedding was very disappointing; she and Bertie had so looked forward to going.

‘Of course,’ said Bertie, his eyes gleaming in anticipation, ‘it would be unthinkable for neither of us to go to Dagmar’s wedding.’ Sometimes Alix fancied that he preferred to be alone on the journeys abroad.

The Queen disapproved of Bertie’s travelling out of the country, particularly without Alix. Vicky was always aware of any scandal that was circulating and it seemed that it always did about Bertie. His love of gambling was to be deplored but even more so was the fact that it came only second to his love of fascinating women.

Bertie had no intention of going to Osborne to be lectured by the Queen so he went direct to the Prime Minister, Lord Derby, and asked if he did not think relations with Russia would be improved if he went as a guest to the wedding and at the same time made himself agreeable. Disraeli was inclined to think that the Prince was an excellent ambassador and there could be no harm in his taking the trip and possibly a great deal of good. Disraeli had nicknamed him Prince Hal (because of his love of enjoyment) and this seeped out and the Prince was often referred to in this way.

Armed with ministerial approval Bertie faced the Queen at Windsor and told her that Lord Derby and Mr Disraeli were of the opinion that although Alix was unable to attend the wedding he, in the interests of foreign relations, should do so.

Since Mr Disraeli thought it was a good thing, the Queen supposed it was.

‘But you must visit Prussia on your return journey,’ she told him. ‘You must be Vicky’s guest for a short while.’

Bertie inwardly grimaced. Vicky was so censorious and in his light-hearted way he did deplore recent Prussian activities. However, the Queen was adamant. No Vicky, no Russian wedding, whatever her ministers said.

Bertie went off to Russia in high spirits. There was no doubt that he was a great success. His easy manners, his charm, his delight in the gayest entertainments brought him great popularity. He was constantly seen in the company of beautiful women and there was a certain amount of scandal. Alice was worried about it. It seemed very wrong of Bertie to show such pleasure in the company of women when poor Alix was unable to accompany him and by all accounts her health was giving some cause for anxiety. She felt it her duty to write to Sir William Knollys on the subject and Sir William spoke to Bertie, who was very amused that gentle Alice should follow in Vicky’s footsteps. Vicky had always been critical, like an echo of their father, and he expected it from her. Sir William thought that Princess Alice had probably been very disturbed by rumours and that was her reason for writing to him.

Bertie said he must be pleasant to people. It was part of his duties to be so.

‘Perhaps Your Highness could try to be impartially gracious.’

Bertie thought that it was necessary to do honour more to some people than others and it would of course depend on their qualifications to deserve that honour. There was a twinkle in his eye and Sir William understood that he had no intention of changing his ways; but perhaps he could be induced to be a little more discreet.

Vicky, of course, wrote to the Queen. She did think that Bertie should be a little more thoughtful where poor dear Alix was concerned.

With the new year Alix was alarmed by strange pains which she was feeling in her limbs. In early February these grew worse; by the middle of the month she could only walk with great difficulty and was confined to her room. The doctors diagnosed acute rheumatism.

The fact that the birth of a child was imminent gave cause for alarm, and a few days after she had been confined to her room her daughter was born. Before her pains had started, her temperature had soared and there was no doubt that she was in a fever, yet the baby was safely delivered and appeared to be well.

Sir James Paget was very anxious about her. The fact that she had given birth to a child while in the throes of rheumatic fever could mean that her life was in danger.

In her delirium she talked of the Yellow Palace and kept calling for her parents. He deliberated whether to send a messenger to Windsor where the Queen was at that time or to send immediately for the Prince of Wales, who was out of London. Fearing that the Princess was on the point of death he decided that there was no time and he acted on his own judgement by telegraphing direct to Denmark begging the King and Queen to come at once as he feared for the life of the Princess of Wales.

Within a few days Queen Louise was at Marlborough House. King Christian was following and would arrive two days later. Louise went straight to the sickroom and took her daughter into her arms, speaking to her in the manner she had done as a child. Alix was immediately comforted; the tension seemed to have passed and although she was in great pain the change in her was remarkable.

The Queen, who had now heard of the state of Alix’s health, at once came to Marlborough House from Windsor, but by the time she had arrived Louise was already in the sickroom.

The Queen was astonished that Louise should have come to England uninvited. Surely, she fumed to herself, if Alix’s parents were needed I should have been told so that I could have invited them in the proper manner. ‘Where is Sir James Paget?’ she demanded.

Sir James presented himself, dignified and unrepentant. ‘The Princess’s life was in danger, M’am, and it was my duty to save it.’

The Queen of course appreciated that and would not have had Sir James act otherwise, but she wondered whether it was part of his duty to invite people to her Court; she had never liked that woman who was so deaf that she could not understand what was said to her, and who painted her cheeks.

The Queen burst into the sickroom and when she saw Alix with her hand in her mother’s looking so wan and ill and yet so much at peace because Louise was there, all her anger faded. After all she might be a domineering woman and deaf; she might paint her cheeks; but she was Alix’s mother and Alix wanted her at that time more than her relations by marriage.

The Queen kissed Alix and gave a gracious nod to Louise.

‘My dear sweet Alix, this is dreadful. You so ill and my not knowing.’

‘Dr Paget sent for Mama,’ said Alix. ‘I felt better as soon as she came.’

The Queen’s eyes filled with tears. Dear sweet Alix, she was not clever but she was such a good child and so pretty; and devoted to that woman who after all was her mother.

‘You must get well quickly,’ said the Queen. ‘I am pleased that Sir James had the good sense to send for the Queen of Denmark.’

The emotions of the people were deeply touched by the plight of the invalid. Alix was the most popular member of the royal family; she was beautiful, gracious and sick. Bertie amused them with his adventures, but they were not amusing doubtless to the Princess; and now she was very ill; crowds clustered about Marlborough House, all sorts of people sent in advice on treatment, embrocations arrived in their thousands; one old lady sent a roll of oil silk; ointments were sent to the palace, all kinds of cures were suggested. A special staff was needed to deal with them and bulletins on the Princess’s health were issued regularly while crowds waited to see them.

Alix was without doubt very ill indeed and the pains in her joints continued so it was some months before she was able to walk and then could only do so with the aid of sticks.

The new baby was christened Louise Victoria Alexandra Dagmar three months after her birth, when Alix was carried to the drawing-room and even then could only hobble about on her two sticks.

The Queen was very sympathetic but she blamed Bertie – and indeed both of them – for the rackety life they led. They would have to be a little more careful now – not so many late nights, not so many wild parties. Bertie must try to be the sort of husband to Alix that Albert had been to the Queen.