The Widow of Windsor

Chapter I CEREMONY AT WINDSOR

Mourning hung heavily over Windsor. The Queen was stunned; now and then her tears would cease and she would ask in a bewildered voice: ‘It’s not true? Tell me it’s not true. This time last year he was with us. Oh God, how could this be? I always believed we should go together.’

But he was gone; and she would never see his dear face again, never chide him for not sitting long enough over his meals, scold him for going out without a warm coat or getting his feet wet; never again would they sing their duets together, sketch, walk, ride; never again would her temper flare up and force her to say hurtful things to him which he with his calm, loving kindness always forgave. Never, never again.

‘Dearest Mama,’ pleaded Alice, ‘you must try to stop brooding.’

‘Do you think I shall ever forget him?’

‘No, Mama, never. None of us will ever forget dear Papa.’

‘To you he was the best father in the world, the wisest, most tender parent a child ever had, but he was my life. Now that he … has gone, part of me has gone with him.’

‘Dearest Mama, you still have us … your children who love you.’

Always demonstrative, the Queen embraced her daughter, but she thought: Nothing … no one can ever be to me what he was. But he has gone and life is over for me. I shall never be happy again.

She had made a terrible discovery. She had gone over everything that had happened during those days before the Beloved Being’s death. He had been ill for some time. She should have heeded the warning; she should have been more insistent that he take care of himself. His colds, his fevers, his rheumatisms had plagued him for years and although she had never taken them exactly for granted she had not thought they could be fatal. And … feeling sick and ill he had gone to Cambridge to see Bertie. This was terrible. If he had not gone to Cambridge in that dreadful weather, if he had stayed at home to be nursed by his loving wife, the Queen, he would be here today.

But he had said: ‘I must go to Cambridge. It is imperative.’ And he had gone and he came back ill with that dreaded fever. And so he had passed away.

To be angry gave a little comfort; and she was angry. Bertie was wicked, for Bertie was responsible for his father’s death. How could Bertie have behaved so? The Queen said to herself: The Prince of Wales, my eldest son, has killed his father, the Prince Consort.

Bertie knew. She saw from his face that this was so. He was shamefaced – only that! He should have been heartbroken. She could not understand Bertie. He was the only one of her children who seemed destined to plague her. The others were good children. Bertie was … well, not so much bad (perhaps he was too young for that and it would come later) as careless, thoughtless, frivolous and, she feared, rapidly rushing along the road to ruin. He needed the firm hand of his father and that hand had been removed. The tragedy was that Bertie was the eldest son, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, and he was responsible for his father’s death.

Darling, beloved, most wonderful Albert had not told her why he must go to Cambridge. If he had not died and she had not seen the letter from Baron Stockmar among those not yet put away on his desk she would not have known that Bertie had been involved in a disgraceful affair with an actress when he was in Ireland at the Curragh Camp. This affair had gone as far as it was possible for such an affair to go – the Queen shuddered at the implication – and according to the Baron was one of the scandals being discussed all over Europe. How sad Albert must have been when he read of his son’s conduct and how noble of him to try to keep this from her knowledge in order to save her pain. Instead he had gone out when already ill in dreadful weather to remonstrate with his frivolous son, his fever had progressed and he had come home to his deathbed.

I shall never, never forgive Bertie, she told herself vehemently.

Dear Alice was a comfort. She had grown up in a few days, changing from a child to a woman. Only a short time ago she had become betrothed to Prince Louis of Hesse with Albert’s consent. What a delightful day that had been when dear Louis, so much in love, had been unable to hide his feelings any more and had proposed to Alice. Dear child, she was young – nearly eighteen – but then Vicky had been married at seventeen and was now a mother.

The Queen’s tears spurted forth afresh. How Albert had loved his eldest daughter! In fact there were times when she believed she had been a little jealous of Vicky. She had disliked anything that took his mind from her, his wife – even his devotion to their eldest daughter. How wrong of her and how good Albert had always been. Now she was back to the eternal question. What was she going to do without Albert?

She thought of the others, Alfred who was nearly seventeen; Helena whom Albert had called Lenchen and who was fifteen; Louise, thirteen; Arthur, eleven; Leopold, eight and Baby Beatrice, four. Nine children and now she was remembering how she had dreaded their arrivals and the dreary months of pregnancy, how she had complained, been irritable and lost her temper – and that dear saint had always been there to guide her.

And now he was gone; everything brought her back to that dreadful truth.

There should be a mausoleum for him; she would superintend its erection herself. It would help to keep her sane, for when the enormity of her grief forced itself upon her she felt as though she were going mad. Life without Albert, going on and on for years alone! She realised with a pang that she was only forty-two, which was not really old.

But I cannot live long without him, she reassured herself. It will be a mausoleum for us both. Soon I shall be lying beside him.

Alice came to her and she told her of her plan.

‘It shall be at Frogmore,’ she said. ‘I shall choose the spot and Bertie must be there with me when I do so.’ She shivered. But she could not speak of Bertie’s behaviour to an unmarried girl. It would have been different if Vicky had been there.

‘Yes, Mama,’ said Alice. ‘It will be something for us to do.’

Alice was competent and cool, although grief-stricken herself, but Alice had been her mother’s daughter. It was Vicky who had been her father’s.

Bertie was waiting at Frogmore to receive her – eyes averted, reading her thoughts.

His father’s murderer! Our own son! Oh, what a price he has paid for his wickedness.

Bertie tried hard to show her that he intended to be a good son but she could not bear to look at him. She took Alice’s arm and she and her daughter led the procession round the garden.

‘This would be a good spot,’ she decided. ‘We shall lie here together.’

The Queen’s Uncle Leopold, King of the Belgians, who had been the father-figure of her childhood and the most important man in her life until her accession, when Lord Melbourne, her now dead Prime Minister, had stepped into his shoes, wrote from Brussels that she must not stay at Windsor.

He understood as no one else could, he insisted. He had lost two beloved wives himself; he was well aware of the Queen’s affectionate nature; it would be disastrous if she stayed at Windsor. She must leave at once for Osborne. He understood the intensity of her grief and he knew that she needed the peace of her island home. There she would mourn silently. She must not attend Albert’s state funeral. The experience would be unendurable. Bertie should be chief mourner and he must beg of her, as she trusted him, to leave at once for Osborne.

‘Osborne!’ she said to Alice. ‘Perhaps Uncle Leopold is right.’

‘But, Mama, you would not wish to leave yet. You will want to see dear Papa laid to rest.’

‘I don’t think I could bear it, my child.’

‘But …’

The Queen silenced her by laying a hand on her arm. Yes, she would leave Windsor. Uncle Leopold was right. She would die or go mad if she stayed here. She did not wish to tell Alice that she had before her marriage sometimes thought of going mad. It was due to the fact that her grandfather, George III, had lived out the last years of his life in that clouded state and there had been rumours that some of the uncles had taken after their father in this respect. Albert’s guiding hand had led her into a calmer state of mind; but now that was no longer there and the fear returned.

Yes, she would go to Osborne.

Osborne in December was grey and gloomy. What place on earth would not be grey and gloomy in that December? There were memories everywhere. Together they had come to the old Osborne and his genius had created the charming place it was today. Here he had played his games with the children; making sure that there was always a lesson to be learned from play. What a wonderful father he had been – an example to all as both father and husband!

Why had Uncle Leopold thought she could feel better at Osborne than anywhere else? As if she could feel better anywhere!

And in the room at Osborne, their room, she must go to bed all alone. How cold, how dreary! She smiled fleetingly, thinking of how he was often asleep when she came up because she had stayed up for some reason. He had always been so ready to sleep. They should have taken greater care of him; but because his mind was so great they had forgotten his physical weakness.

She took a portrait of him and laid it on the pillow where his head used to be.

‘Darling Albert,’ she whispered, ‘I could almost believe now that you are near me.’

She crowned it with a laurel wreath and sat by the bed looking down at it and weeping.

‘I have wept so much, dearest Albert,’ she said, ‘that I would seem to have no tears left.’

She could not sleep; she put out her hand and touched the portrait; then she rose, and finding one of his nightshirts in the drawer, she took it to bed with her and holding it in her arms was comforted.

It was midnight at Osborne, with the wild sea shrieking as though it knew what a tragedy had taken place. The Queen liked to hear it. She could not have borne it if it had been calm, blue and smiling. But she was shivering; she could not keep warm, which was strange really for in the past she had been so eager for fresh air and had enjoyed the cool keen winds. Her attendants had, she knew, continually complained of draughts from the windows she had insisted should remain open. Albert had been so much better in the spring and autumn than in the heat of summer; although he had so many colds in the winter.

How the days dragged! Could it really be only a week since that terrible day?

There was a commotion without, indicating that someone had arrived. She rose and went to the top of the stairs. Her brother-in-law Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was below. He and his servants were dishevelled; they had just landed and the night was wild.

He saw her standing there and ran up the stairs to embrace her. They wept together.

‘Oh, Ernest,’ she cried. ‘He has gone. We have lost him!’

Ernest could only murmur brokenly. But it helped her a little to see that the visitors were well received and looked after. She became for a moment the ordinary little housewife she had sometimes told Albert she would have liked to be; and when living in small houses like Osborne she had been able to play at being.

Ernest sat with her, talking. He was a year older than Albert and he might so easily have been her husband. She shuddered at the thought. How different he was from that incomparable angel. One could hardly believe they were brothers. Ernest so dark and saturnine – Albert fair and angelic. Ernest resembled his father the late Duke, not only in looks but in his ways. There had been a horrible rumour about Albert’s birth and malicious people had tried to spread the story that he was not his father’s son, because his mother had been involved in a scandal with a member of her husband’s household, had been divorced and Albert had not seen her after he was four years old. What wicked stories people concocted about good people of whom they could only be envious. Albert certainly was different from his father and brother; she had become aware how different at the time of her marriage when Ernest had stayed with them and confessed that he was suffering from a horrible disease which was a result of his conduct in Berlin.

Dear Albert, how shocked he had been! He loved his brother, though, and had done everything to help him. That was years ago and now Ernest was married and had stepped into his father’s shoes and become Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha; he had no children. Albert had told her that this was sometimes a result of this terrible disease which she reminded herself severely he had brought on himself. She very much doubted that Ernest had mended his ways. In any case this childlessness raised a problem because if he had no heir one of Albert’s sons would inherit the Dukedom – Alfred possibly. This was hardly a matter to be discussed at this time, though.

They sat up late talking of Albert. Victoria told Ernest of the happiness she had known with him, of the thousands of joys now lost to her, Ernest talked of the old days when they had been boys together, fencing, riding, hunting, roaming the forests and finding specimens for their museum. ‘The Ernest and Albert Museum, we called it. We were as one. We had never been separated in our lives until the time came for Albert to prepare for his marriage.’

They wept together and talked of lovely Rosenau where the boys had spent so many happy days and where Albert had delighted in showing Victoria the room he and Ernest had shared, the fencing marks in the wall, the trophies of their childhood, the mountains, rivers and pine forests.

When Ernest left for Windsor where he would attend the funeral she remained at a window waving until he could no longer be seen; and she shuddered to think how fortunate she had been to have chosen Albert.

That brought her back to the recriminations. I should have taken greater care of him. I should never have allowed him to go to Cambridge.

Oh, Bertie, Bertie, what have you done!

The Prince of Wales was dreading the ordeal. He was relieved, though, that his mother was not present. He knew what those reproachful looks implied. Papa should never have come to Cambridge on that wet and blustery day. Of what use had it been? The affair was over and he had promised not to behave in such a way again; but Papa need not have come tearing down to Cambridge on such a day to extract the promise.

Bertie was full of remorse naturally, but he could not help feeling that life might be a good deal more tolerable without his father’s supervision. Everything he had ever done had been criticised; even his recent success in Canada and the United States had been attributed by his parents to General Bruce, his governor.

But life had become easier in the last year or so and this was entirely due to the fact that he was growing up. They could not treat him as a child for ever – much as they would like to. And Bertie knew that he had some quality which that dead saint had lacked. The people saw it – those in the streets, those he had met on his tour. They warmed to him. He smiled readily; he could not remember seeing his father smile. Bertie had a way of saying something to people which amused them or endeared him to them in some way. He had a sneaking feeling that those who knew of the Curragh Camp escapade thought it ‘only natural’ and liked him none the less for it – perhaps a bit more. Lord Palmerston, the Prime Minister, for instance, had refused to give General Bruce the honour Bertie’s parents had asked for him to have. ‘It was the success of the Prince of Wales,’ Palmerston had replied, ‘not that of General Bruce, and Your Majesty’s Government would never agree to give honours where it did not consider them due.’ Good old Palmerston! He had winked once at Bertie when he was leaving the Queen’s presence after, Bertie was sure, having heard a diatribe on the reprehensible behaviour of the Prince of Wales. Palmerston had been a rake himself in his youth – and later. He understood that a young man had to break out sometimes.

Bertie was, of course, sorry that his father’s fever had increased through his journey up to Cambridge in foul weather, but it was self-imposed and unnecessary – and Bertie refused to blame himself.

There was muffled bustle throughout the castle appropriate to the occasion. He would be glad when it was over.

The Guard of Honour of the Grenadier Guards, of which Prince Albert had been Colonel, was at the entrance of the State Apartments and members of the royal family and the heads of foreign states were assembled in the Chapter Room of St George’s Chapel, waiting to be taken to their places in the procession.

It was time to set out.

Behind the coffin walked Bertie, chief mourner with his eleven-year-old brother Arthur and Uncle Ernest; members of the royal houses of Europe followed and the solemn procession began.

Bertie’s features were serious; he was trying to think of the goodness of his father and he could only see that stern face which had also been so cold when turned towards him. He had been different with Vicky and the Queen and some of the younger children. But always he was the mentor, critical of others’ weaknesses because he was so good himself. He had rarely smiled; he had frowned often at Bertie’s laughter which had overflowed far too frequently according to his father.

‘It was all for my own good,’ Bertie told himself. It was the best he could think of.

The choir were singing the opening sentences of the burial service. Outside in the Long Walk minute guns were firing.

The ceremony progressed.

At last they had placed the coffin at the entrance of the royal vault where it would remain until the mausoleum at Frogmore was ready to receive it. The funeral of the Prince Consort was over.