The Widow of Windsor (24 page)

What joy to be at Balmoral! Brown was in his element. This was the place. This was the life. The Queen was planning trips she would take with John Brown.

‘Aye,’ said Brown, ‘that’s a bit of a rough road, woman.’

‘Nonsense, Brown. We should be perfectly safe with you. We will go to Loch Oishne. It was always a favourite spot of the Prince Consort’s.’

Brown muttered that he was nae going to be responsible if she got it into her head to travel too far away and come back by night.

The Queen laughed. ‘Oh, you’ll look after us. You always do.’

She was so delighted to be back among the beloved hills. But there was this terrible news about Lord Palmerston. She did hope he was not going to be so ill that she would have to return to London. She would write to Lady Palmerston and send her sympathies. How difficult it must be to nurse a man like Lord Palmerston. She was sure he would never do what he was told.

In the meantime she would forget her Prime Minister and enjoy the simple life. What fun it was when Dr Macleod came in and told them about a most horrible murderer with whom he had talked when he visited the prison. Dr Pritchard had murdered his wife and mother-in-law and had been a dreadful character. It was really very distressing to realise that there were such terrible people in the world. But he of course was no longer in it, having been hanged by the neck last July.

Death, she thought. We all came to it. Dear Albert now lay in the mausoleum at Frogmore and how often during the months following his death had she longed to lie there beside him.

Now … She thrust aside the thought, because it was quite a long time since she had wished she were there with him. It was not that she was forgetting, she reminded herself. She was merely reconciled to living out the span allotted to her.

All the same it was very interesting to listen to Dr Macleod and the next day which was Sunday they went to church where prayers were said for the recovery of Lord Palmerston.

Lord Palmerston lay in bed wondering whether he would reach his eighty-first birthday. He had breakfasted off mutton chops and port wine and told Emily that he felt better after such an excellent meal.

Emily came and sat by his bed but refused to allow him to get up. His protests were mild enough for he did not really feel well. But to cheer Emily when the doctor called he told him that he wanted to be up and about and couldn’t think why they were keeping him in bed. ‘You’ll die if you go out in this weather,’ warned the doctor.

‘Die!’ cried Palmerston with the accustomed wit. ‘My dear fellow, that’s the
last
thing I shall do.’

A few days later he was dead.

He was buried in Westminster Abbey and crowds witnessed the ceremony. They were silent crowds and the spirit of genuine mourning was evident. He had been the people’s darling with his amorous adventures in his youth which had earned him the name Cupid, becoming on his marriage to Emily the reformed rake, his wit, his unruffled good humour, his refusal to bow to royalty, his ability in foreign affairs – all this was remembered at the passing of good old Pam.

The Queen was saddened because she hated death.

‘But,’ she said, ‘I never really liked him.’

The Queen hated these ministerial crises and she was really very perturbed to contemplate that Lord Palmerston was no more. Although she had never liked him, she had to admit that she was feeling his loss deeply. He had been a strong man and that was what the country needed, particularly when it no longer had Albert to lead the way. He had been very courageous, anyone must admit that; and he had been calm; of course he had thought that he was infallible and he had been most disrespectful at times, but the country was going to miss him and apart from his vanity he was a great man. Moreover he had been the Prime Minister and there was nothing to do but summon Lord John Russell and ask him to step into Palmerston’s shoes.

Poor Lord John, he was getting so old, but what alternative was there?

When she considered her ministers nowadays she thought longingly of Sir Robert Peel, that great good man whom she had failed to appreciate until Albert had revealed his virtues to her. There was hardly one man of stature in her government now because she refused to consider Mr Gladstone whom she could never like. But there was one … She smiled tolerantly, thinking of him. Mr Disraeli was such
a feeling
man, and even his enemies – and he had many – would admit that he was clever. In the first place she had thought him rather odd – so was his wife, a very flamboyant woman, a widow too and she had never believed in widows remarrying. But Mr Disraeli had shown himself to be a charming man. While Mr Gladstone had fulminated against the cost of the Albert Memorial, Mr Disraeli had made such a delightful speech. Nothing was too expensive, in his opinion, to honour the great Prince Consort. She had warmed towards him immediately; and when they had spoken together he had talked of Albert as an Ideal and had so understood her grief that there was an immediate rapport between them.

She had shown her approval by seeing that he and his wife had good seats for Bertie’s wedding; and she thought it was rather touching how devoted he was to Mrs Disraeli who was thirteen years older than he was; and she of course adored him. They reminded her of herself and Albert and that made her warm all the more to Mr Disraeli. He of course was a Tory as dear Sir Robert had been – but he had not been a great friend of Sir Robert; he had as a matter of fact been one of those responsible for the downfall of that great man. But politics were politics and Mr Disraeli had to defend his principles even if it meant going against his leader, which showed of course how honourable Mr Disraeli was.

However, there was no question of Mr Disraeli’s forming a government at this stage. All she could do was write to Lord John Russell.

The melancholy news of Lord Palmerston’s death reached the Queen tonight. This is another link with the past that is broken and the Queen feels deeply in her desolate and isolate condition how, one by one, tried servants and advisers are taken from her. The Queen can turn to no other than Lord Russell, an old and tried friend of hers, to undertake the arduous duties of Prime Minister and carry on the government.

Poor little Johnny Russell – so old and tired. How much better it would have been if she could have sent for that stimulating and exciting personality, Mr Disraeli.

Only two months after the death of Lord Palmerston another tragedy occurred which touched the Queen far more deeply.

Uncle Leopold died.

She had talked of Lord Palmerston’s death as a broken link with the past, how much more so was Leopold’s.

She shut herself in her room and wept thinking of her childhood when he had seemed godlike to her, perfect in every way, the father whom she had sadly missed, the adviser and the friend. Of course as time went on he had sought to rule her, but that was his way; and first Lord Melbourne and then Albert had been beside her to teach her that much as she loved this dear uncle he must not be allowed to rule England. Dear Uncle Leopold who had been first Charlotte’s husband and then Louise’s and had arranged that all his relations should marry throughout Europe most advantageously. He had been a great power in the world and a great influence on her life.

He wished to be buried at Windsor. Of course it should be so. His body should be brought over and there should be a very sad ceremony for this beloved relation.

She was horrified when the Belgian Government refused to allow his body to be sent to England. He was the King of the Belgians, it was said, and England was not his native land.

The Queen was both furious and tearful.

‘You’ll be upsetting yourself, woman,’ said John Brown, ‘for no good at all.’

‘You’re right, of course, Brown, but this was my beloved uncle, the friend of my childhood, and he is dead.’

‘We all have to die when our time comes,’ mumbled Brown.

How right he was.

‘It’s the Catholic Clergy who are raising objections,’ went on the Queen.

Brown’s lips curled; he didn’t think much of any church but that of Scotland.

‘Nasty beggars,’ he said, which made the Queen smile and feel so much better.

It was most unfortunate that with the passing of Lord Palmerston and the premiership of Lord John, Mr Gladstone should have become the Leader of the House while remaining Chancellor of the Exchequer. This meant that the Queen was obliged to see more of him and as she confided to John Brown, she could never take to the man. She would never forgive him for voting against granting the money for the Albert Memorial; he was so different from Mr Disraeli, whom the more she saw the more she liked. She had forgotten that she had once thought him a mountebank; now he was amusing and exciting. The manner in which he kissed her hand was so reverential and he spoke of Albert in hushed tones as though he were speaking of the Deity.

Mr Disraeli understood the Queen’s grief; he never tried to minimise it, he often dwelt on its magnitude; he told her of his devotion to his own dear Mary Anne although it was absurd to compare the strange, quite ugly creature with beautiful Albert; but in Mr Disraeli’s eyes his wife was a beauty which was very touching, particularly after all the unkind things which people said about his marrying her for her money.

She had sent him a copy of the Prince’s speeches bound in white morocco; he replied by letter containing elegant phrases which exuded gratitude and in person he expressed his delight in the gift with tears in his eyes so that she had no doubt of his sincere appreciation.

But of course he was in Opposition, which was very irritating, because while Johnny Russell’s government remained, unfortunately that
tiresome
Mr Gladstone must be often in her company.

Only one thing could she find in his favour. Mrs Gladstone was devoted to him. She often wondered what it must be like to be married to such an
un
attractive man.
Poor
Mrs Gladstone!

She was not sorry when the Russell government was defeated and forced to resign. She had in the past been fond of Little Johnny, but that was in Lord Melbourne’s day and now he was seventy-three and seemed older than Lord Palmerston had been at eighty. Gladstone’s Reform Bill was the reason for the government’s downfall. Clever Mr Disraeli and his leader Lord Derby had put forward more popular measures and as a result Lord John and Mr Gladstone were so badly defeated that they had no recourse but to resign.