The Queen and Lord M Page 2

  ‘And her mother?’ The Duchess’s eyes flashed. ‘Is she to be banished?’

  ‘She can hardly go as far as that. But we shall have to tread warily. Our little Princess has quite a considerable opinion of herself.’

  ‘I wrote to her a few days ago, feeling that to set down my feelings in writing might have more effect than mere words. I told her that her popularity with the people is due to the way in which I have brought her up and that she should not have too high an opinion of her own cleverness.’

  ‘I trust she realised the wisdom of those words, but I fear she did not in view of her actions. Ah, long ago we should have rid the household of the Baroness Lehzen. We should have been firm.’

  ‘Lehzen has been a good watchdog. She would guard her with her life.’

  ‘While making sure that she loses nothing by it.’

  Sir John did not exactly reproach the Duchess but the reminder was in his words that had she followed his advice the Baroness would have been banished to Germany years ago.

  The Duchess spread her hands. ‘What can we do now?’

  Sir John took them and smiled that cynical smile of his.

  ‘We’ll wait. When she realises what it means to be the Queen she may discover that she needs help … and we shall be at hand to give it. You, her gracious mother; I her Secretary and Comptroller-to-be; and behind us good Baron Stockmar, who as your brother Leopold’s ally, will surely be on our side. Do you think our German spinster can stand against such as we are?’

  ‘There is … Victoria,’ said the Duchess.

  ‘Ah, Victoria!’ murmured Sir John.

  * * *

  The Princess Victoria had retired for the night and the Baroness Lehzen sat in her bedroom reading. Before getting into bed the Princess had opened her wardrobe door and gazed solemnly at the black bombazine dress which was hanging there in readiness.

  Her eyes had filled with the tears which came so readily.

  ‘Oh, Lehzen,’ she said, ‘it seems so heartless to have everything ready like this, as though we can’t wait for it to happen. Poor Uncle William! I hope he doesn’t realise it.’

  ‘Kings are different from ordinary mortals,’ soothed Lehzen.

  ‘And queens too,’ sighed Victoria. ‘Lehzen, I fear I shall never sleep tonight.’

  But like the child she would always seem to Lehzen, almost as soon as she had laid her head on her pillow she was fast asleep.

  Lehzen had straightened the quilt and kissed the warm pink cheek. The Princess looked so young asleep, with those prominent blue eyes, which could be alternately softly sentimental and stormy, closed, and the little mouth with the rather prominent teeth and the receding chin, which mistakenly gave an impression of weakness, in repose.

  My poor darling, thought Lehzen, what burdens of state will be laid upon those young shoulders. But I shall be there.

  That was one thing on which Lehzen was quite determined. She would be there. She must be. To leave this beloved child would be like dying, for she had dedicated her life to Victoria. Everything that the child had become was due to her upbringing. The Duchess of Kent could take little credit.

  It had been a wonderful day when she had come from Germany to serve in the household of the Duchess of Kent – a step upwards for the daughter of a Lutheran clergyman. She had been the governess of Feodora, the Duchess’s elder daughter by her first marriage, but like everyone in that household she had succumbed to the charm of the pink-cheeked, plump little baby. And when that baby was five years old and Louise Lehzen had become her governess she was overjoyed. From that day Victoria was more important to her than anything else on earth. And the most endearing characteristic of this delightful child was her affection and her fidelity. Lehzen was to her the mother she had needed; and although the Duchess of Kent had watched over her daughter with the utmost care, never forgetting for one moment that there was a possibility that she would ascend the throne, she failed to give what Victoria needed most – love. Louise Lehzen was at hand to make up for the Duchess’s deficiency in this respect.

  Even the Duchess, who had, under Sir John’s directions, attempted to banish her to Germany, was aware of her devotion to Victoria, and trusted her as she would no one else.

  That was why she sat here in the Princess’s bedroom now and would remain there until the Duchess came to bed; for it was a rule of the Palace that Victoria must never be alone; and when she retired for the night, Lehzen must sit in her room until the Duchess came to her bed, which was in the same room as Victoria’s.

  From the pocket of her gown she took a handful of caraway seeds and thoughtfully nibbled them. They were sent to her specially from her native Coburg and she rarely took any food without them. They were sprinkled on her bread and on her meat; some of her enemies at the Palace laughed at her and said this caraway seed habit was a loathsome one. She smelt of caraway seeds, they said, although the Baroness did not believe there was any odour attached to her favourite food. She knew she was not attractive; she was constantly unwell, a martyr to migraine; and she knew that many of the Duchess’s women laughed at her behind her back. Never mind. What did it matter? She was dearly loved by the only person she cared about and whenever Victoria talked of her devotion for her dear Lehzen tears would fill her eyes. Lehzen smoothed her cap and stroked her rather hooked nose and let her thoughts dwell in the past and then fell to wondering what was happening in the sick room at Windsor.

  In due course the Duchess appeared. This was the sign for Lehzen to depart. The Duchess, a colourful figure in her beribboned head-dress and gown a mass of lace and flounces was, Lehzen supposed, a handsome woman. And the Duchess was well aware of it. No one could have had a higher opinion of herself than the mother of Victoria.

  ‘She is asleep?’ said the Duchess coldly.

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  ‘That is good. She is a child still. She cannot realise what this means.’

  Lehzen did not contradict the Duchess; but she was aware that Victoria understood very well what this meant.

  ‘It may be – tomorrow,’ went on the Duchess. ‘Think, Lehzen … it may be at this very moment. It may be that we are in the presence of our Queen.’

  The Duchess’s expression was ecstatic. She should, thought Lehzen, show a little more decorum. Still it would have been hypocritical to have pretended remorse because her greatest enemy was dying.

  ‘You may go now, Lehzen,’ said the Duchess dropping her voice to a whisper, and Lehzen went out, wondering how much longer this custom of the years would continue. When the Princess became a queen surely she would insist on a little privacy? The child had never been alone in a room in the whole of her life; and Lehzen, who knew her so well, was aware that she found this irksome.

  As she came through the Duchess’s apartments the Baroness came face to face with Sir John Conroy and immediately regretted passing this way.

  ‘Ah, the good Baroness,’ he said. Lehzen always had an idea – which she shared with Victoria – that he was sneering when he spoke to them. He was not alone. One of the Duchess’s ladies was with him. This was Lady Flora, daughter of the Marquis of Hastings, a rather pallid woman in her early thirties whom the Baroness did not greatly care for, largely because she was friendly with Sir John and was a firm supporter of the Duchess.

  ‘The watchdog is released from her duties,’ went on Sir John. ‘And I’ll swear she’d rather not be.’

  ‘I hope the dear Princess sleeps well tonight,’ said Lady Flora.

  ‘The Princess is sleeping peacefully,’ said the Baroness.

  ‘With such events about to break!’ went on Sir John, raising his handsome eyes to the ceiling. A rogue if ever there was one, thought Lehzen. How could the Duchess be so deceived? But in view of their relationship …

  Lehzen refused to go further even in her thoughts. Whether Sir John and the Duchess were lovers was open to conjecture, but many people were certain this was so, and if one were to judge from their behaviour it could be
right. How she disliked him! He had tried to have her sent away from her beloved child.

  ‘And when they do,’ Sir John was saying, ‘our little darling will have to break out from the nursery, will she not?’

  Lehzen knew he meant that Victoria would no longer need a governess, but Victoria would never agree to her beloved Baroness’s expulsion. Was it possible that he had not yet learned how stubborn Victoria could be?

  ‘Baroness,’ said Lady Flora, ‘there is something on your chin … will you allow me?’ She had taken a handkerchief and come closer, and to Lehzen’s annoyance dabbed at her face.

  ‘It’s caraway seeds, I’ll swear,’ said Sir John laughing unpleasantly as though there was something obscene about them. He shook his finger playfully. ‘We all know your passion, Baroness. Some women love men; some men love women; both women and men love power; but the Baroness remains faithful to her caraway seeds.’

  She must get away before she lost her temper. How the Duchess could give her confidence to such a man was past understanding!

  ‘If you will excuse me I will say goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Baroness Cara … Baroness Lehzen.’

  She did not answer; she swept on. She hated them both. As for Lady Flora with her meek expression and gentle voice and delicate air, she was doubtless far from the virtuous spinster she pretended to be if she was so friendly with Sir John Conroy.

  * * *

  In his apartments in the Palace Baron Christian Friedrich von Stockmar found it difficult to sleep. Instead he took pen and paper and started to write to his patron and friend King Leopold of the Belgians. He hesitated. It could only be a few days at the most, he thought, before his real mission began. Perhaps therefore a letter would be a little premature. Exciting times were ahead. He was a man of dignified demeanour and he had spent years in the service of Leopold, sacrificing his own personal life to that of the King. Perhaps it meant a great deal to mould the destiny of nations rather than to share his life with his family. In any case he had chosen this way.

  To Leopold he had been a faithful servant; but more than that – he was a king-maker. Ever since he had come to England at the time of Leopold’s marriage to the Princess Charlotte he had had a hand in government. Leopold had quickly acknowledged his doctor’s usefulness, for with his help, this clever, faintly hypocritical hypochondriac (so was Stockmar and this gave them an added interest in common) had become a power in Europe. A young son of the house of Saxe-Coburg, Leopold had somehow succeeded in marrying members of his family into most of the royal houses of Europe. But for a cruel fate he would have been ruling England now, for there was no doubt that the Princess Charlotte had doted on him and would have accepted his rule in everything. But Charlotte had died and Leopold would now rule through Victoria; for he and Stockmar had decided on a husband for her. Who but Prince Albert, Leopold’s nephew, who should be guided by Stockmar, through Leopold of course. His niece and nephew on the throne of England! It would not be quite as satisfactory to be the uncle of the Queen and her Prince Consort as it would have been to be the husband of a queen. But it was no use repining. Charlotte was dead. And to govern England through Victoria and Albert must be the next best thing.

  It was not only for political reasons that the Baron enjoyed his role. He was fond of Victoria. Indeed who could help being fond of such a warm-hearted, innocent girl. He remembered her as the child who had visited Claremont years ago, rather solemn for her years, passionately devoted to Uncle Leopold and therefore ready to love anyone whom Leopold commanded her to.

  ‘Dr Stockmar is a very dear friend of mine, my dearest child,’ Leopold had explained. ‘I want him to be yours too.’

  ‘He shall be, Uncle.’ The blue eyes brimmed over with love for Leopold and since Leopold commanded it, for Dr Stockmar too.

  ‘He is the best doctor in the world and more than that, he is my clever friend.’

  She believed it. She believed everything Leopold told her. One might have thought she was too pliable; but that was a mistake, as Stockmar had discovered on his return only a few weeks before. She had received him warmly. He had come from dearest Uncle Leopold and therefore was welcome. She remembered him years ago at Claremont and she was delighted to have him back.

  He had told her that her uncle had asked him to come to Kensington because he thought his old friend might be of use to her.

  ‘Dear Uncle Leopold,’ she had said, ‘is so careful of me.’

  She had charm and when she was animated she was almost pretty; at other times she could be quite plain and rather homely; but she had such dignity in spite of her small stature that Stockmar could write to Leopold that he had every confidence in her.

  Now she was on the brink of becoming Queen. A pity, thought Stockmar, that she was so young. Yet youth was appealing and he had noticed that the people liked her. What a change from the old King who was so undignified and who was called ‘Pineapple Head’ in some of the less respectable papers, and one only had to look at the King to be aware of the resemblance between his head and that fruit. And different, too, from the previous King, who had grown obese and upset his people by holding aloof from them.

  ‘There is certainly not much competition from the Uncles,’ wrote Stockmar, ‘and she is so innocent and fresh, so easily moved to tears, that the people will love that.’

  There was surely no monarch more appealing than a young female one – particularly after a succession of unattractive men.

  It was well worth while, thought Stockmar, although the dampness of the climate did not agree with him and he suffered from rheumatic pains and a hundred mysterious ailments which he as a medical man – for it was as such that he had begun his career – could imagine were indications of dire diseases. And to think that he might be at home in Coburg with his family! Not that the climate there differed much from England and his physical sufferings would not diminish. He did not go so far as to admit that he did not want them to; and that if certain symptoms had disappeared others would have taken their place. One of the first interests he and Leopold had shared was discussing their ailments which Leopold had so much enjoyed – and so had he. But they came a good second to politics.

  Stockmar wanted nothing for himself. In that he was rare. He did not ask for great estates. What he wanted was power – power to do good. That gave him immense satisfaction. When he had seen how unhappy Leopold had been on the death of his wife after she had given birth to their still-born child, he had determined that Leopold should be compensated for his loss.

  He it was who had advised Leopold not to accept the throne of Greece and had urged him to take that of Belgium. Leopold had had obvious evidence of the wisdom of Stockmar so it was natural that to him he should entrust one of the dearest of his projects – the marriage of Victoria.

  So before coming to England he had made a study of Albert – a fine young fellow, as he had written to Leopold.

  ‘Well grown for his age and agreeable. If things go well he may in time turn out a strong and handsome man of a kind, simple yet dignified manner.’

  He was sure he had been wise in advising Leopold not to urge a marriage on Victoria until she had seen the Prince. So last year the Duke of Saxe-Coburg had visited Kensington with his two sons and Victoria had been delighted with them both – particularly Albert.

  ‘The two young people are agreeable to each other,’ Stockmar had written to Leopold, ‘and that is good. But the Prince cannot receive in Coburg the education fitting to a Prince Consort of the greatest of monarchs.’ So the Prince had gone to Brussels and Paris to study history and modern languages, and after that he had been sent to Bonn. Albert was there now, and being the astute young man Stockmar was sure he was, he would be another who was eagerly watching what was happening in England.

  Of course Stockmar had been quick to grasp the friction in the Kensington apartments. The Duchess was Leopold’s sister and one would have thought that the interests of both would have been identical; but it was obvi
ous that what the Duchess wanted to do was guide her daughter in all things and thus become ruler of England … Sir John Conroy to help her.

  And the Duchess had not been strictly honest in her dealings with her daughter. There was that affair of the Regency which had taught Stockmar that it was impossible to serve the interests of the Duchess and those of her daughter at the same time; and Stockmar was not a man to divide his loyalties. He knew the Duchess. A vain woman and in many ways a foolish one; he did not care for her friendship with Sir John Conroy. He had come to England to serve Leopold’s interests and now Victoria had engaged not only his interest but his affection.

  Melbourne himself had told Stockmar that Victoria wished for a Regency even though she was of age; but Stockmar did not believe this and being on such friendly terms with the Princess it did not take him long to discover that she had made no such request, and that it had come from the Duchess in her daughter’s name.

  ‘Such action is dishonest,’ cried Stockmar and lost no time in telling Lord Melbourne the truth.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Melbourne, ‘I am astounded. I was led to believe that the request came from the Princess herself.’

  ‘And now that you know it does not?’

  ‘It shall receive the attention it deserves,’ said the urbane Melbourne and that was clear enough to Stockmar. There would certainly be no Regency. Victoria would rule with the help of Melbourne … and Stockmar.

  No, he thought. He would not write tonight. He would wait until their Princess was indeed a queen.

  * * *

  In the death chamber at Windsor Castle the King lay breathing with difficulty. The Queen sat beside him, her hand in his. On a table close to the bed was the flag which the Duke of Wellington sent to him every year to commemorate the victory at Waterloo. His eyes kept straying to it.

  ‘Wasn’t at the Waterloo banquet this year, Adelaide,’ he murmured.