Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (21 page)

All were awaiting the arrival of the Prince Regent, the chief godparent; he was late in arriving and when he did come it was easy to see that he was scarcely in a benign mood.

Curtly he received the greetings of the child’s parents and made a gesture which suggested that the ceremony should start immediately.

The look he cast in the direction of the child’s mother was almost distasteful. Overdressed, he thought. No sense of the solemnity of the occasion. These German women! And his mood was not softened by the memory the woman brought to him of his own wife. She had always been overdressed; too colourful; they were all the same.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was ready to begin. He picked up the child who fortunately did not yell; and taking her to the golden font looked askance from the Duke of Kent to the Regent as he waited to hear with what names the child should be christened.

‘Alexandrina,’ said the Regent testily.

‘Alexandrina,’ repeated the Archbishop.

The Duchess of Kent opened her mouth as though to speak but her husband for once was able to silence her with a look. Alexandrina! she wanted to cry. This was no name for an English queen. Georgiana! Georgiana! That was what she wanted. It was an echo of Gloriana, the name which had been bestowed by her admirers on another queen. Elizabeth would have been a good name. A right and proper name. But perhaps better still Georgiana to follow the Georges. And the Regent showed his contempt for them by proposing Alexandrina.

But the child should have a second name.

Breathlessly she waited, but the Regent was still silent.

‘Charlotte?’ whispered the Duke of Kent. For queens need not
be called by their first names and but for the recent family tragedy there would have been a Queen Charlotte on the throne in the years to come.

But the Regent would not have Charlotte.

His eyes were on the feathered hat of the Duchess and the face beneath distorted by passion; the woman looked as though she were going to burst into tears of anger and frustration at any moment.

‘She should be called after her mother,’ pronounced the Regent.

The matter was settled. The baby was christened.

Alexandrina Victoria.

The Duchess left the Cupola Room in tears. Alexandrina Victoria. Were those the names of a queen?

Adelaide’s Disappointment

TO ADELAIDE’S DELIGHT
she was once more pregnant.

‘I told you so,’ said the delighted William. ‘Why, you didn’t think I could manage it! Dorothy Jordan had ten children – one following close on the other.’

Adelaide had ceased to wince at his lack of restraint; she had come to accept it and understand that it was due to a kind of naïveté which was not unattractive. He did not use so many oaths now as he had, and seemed eager to please her. Better, she often told herself, that he should say openly what was in his mind than attempt to deceive her.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that our child should be born in England, for it is almost certain to be the future sovereign.’

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ cried William. ‘We’ll begin our journey back at once – and take it slowly, eh? We’ll go visiting as we travel.’

And so they set out – first to visit Würtemburg where they were warmly received by the Queen of that land. This was William’s eldest sister, the Princess Charlotte, who as Princess
Royal had married – to the envy of her sisters – twenty years or so before and even then she was thirty or even just past it.

She had changed a great deal, having developed an enormous stomach. Her face had grown so fat that her eyes had almost disappeared; she had lost most of her hair and refused to wear a wig. But she greeted her guests with pleasure, particularly Adelaide.

‘I know what it is to lose a baby,’ she said; and she looked forward to womanly chats, she assured her, so they discussed pregnancies and babies and the Queen gave Adelaide lots of advice which Adelaide could not help viewing with some suspicion as the Queen had lost her child. But she was kind and good and talked of the old days in England and how stern her parents had been; and how glad she had been to escape from the dreary lives led by the princesses who spent their days waiting on their mother, filling her snuff-boxes and walking the dogs.

‘Marriage was our only escape but Papa would not let us,’ she explained. ‘He hated the thought of our marrying and was determined not to allow us to leave. But I was the lucky one. He had so many daughters he could not refuse to let one escape. Oh, my dear, how terrified I was that something would go wrong, for my husband had been married before and there was a scandal about his first wife. Some said that she had been murdered. In any case she had disappeared. She was the sister of my brother George’s wife, Caroline, she who is causing such a scandal in Italy and wherever she happens to be. So what could you expect in
that
family. However, it was proved that she was dead, at least it was proved to my parents’ satisfaction – and I was married, although I was terribly ill, while I waited. I remember my skin went quite yellow – and it still was when I married. And now I have lost my husband. Oh, it is a sorrowful life. But you have your husband … and your baby on the way. William is a good man, although a trifle foolish at times. But who is not? I believe he will be kind to you.’

The Queen could not stop talking but as she spoke in German was easy to follow; and when she spoke in English her accent was a decided German one, so long had she been out of England.

But Adelaide enjoyed listening to her stories of life at the English Court in the days before her marriage.

‘I am delighted that you have married William,’ she told Adelaide. ‘It is good for him to be sensibly married. His manners have improved since I last saw him. That liaison with the actress was not good. And all those children! No, there is the family to consider with us royal people. And I hear that the Duchess of Kent is giving herself
airs
because of this child of hers. There is one nose which is going to be put out of joint.’

‘But the child is strong and healthy. She must be a very happy woman, for she already has two delightful children. I don’t suppose she will grudge me mine when it comes.’

‘It’s the throne, my dear. That’s what she’ll grudge. I wonder if they know of your state? And she is not the only one who is going to be just a little put out.’ The Queen of Würtemburg looked really grotesque when she laughed; and it was no use Adelaide’s trying to explain that it was not so much a crown she was thinking of, as a child. Her very own child.

When they left Würtemburg they passed through Homburg where Elizabeth had just arrived with her new husband.

Elizabeth greeted them warmly; she was eager to entertain them, and so delighted to have as she confessed ‘escaped’ from England.

‘Although,’ she said, ‘it seems a little sad now that Mamma is dead. Perhaps I should have waited a while. But how was I to know? And when the chance of marriage came I had to take it, hadn’t I?’

‘Are you happy?’ Adelaide asked her.

She was happy, ecstatically so. Her husband was kind; he never minded having to be reminded to take a bath and he very often agreed to do so. He was amused that she should think it necessary. It was a matter of custom, of course.

She often thought of poor Augusta and Sophia who had never married. But Sophia had had her little adventure in her youth and there was young Tom Garth to prove it. Oh, Adelaide would learn the family scandals in time. That had been a very alarming – though exciting – occasion, when Sophia had had to be smuggled down to the seaside to give birth to the child she was going to have. Who ever heard of a royal Princess giving birth to an
illegitimate child, though it was considered fair enough for Princes to have as many as they thought fit. She stopped herself in time from referring to William’s ten FitzClarences.

‘I am beginning to learn something of my new family,’ said Adelaide.

‘What a family!’ cried Landgravine Elizabeth. ‘I think there are more intrigues and scandals in our family than there ever could have been in any other.’

‘I am beginning to think so,’ smiled Adelaide.

‘And more to come, I don’t doubt,’ added Elizabeth.

After Homburg they made their way to Ghent where it was pleasant to be reunited with Ida, who had become a happy matron. She had never regretted her marriage, she told Adelaide.

‘Of course it is not a grand marriage like yours, but I am happy here in Ghent as the Governor’s Lady. It’s all I am, Adelaide, and we are not rich, and just think you may be a queen.
You
.’

‘Very strange,’ said Adelaide, ‘that it should be the plain one.’

‘You are not so plain when one sees your goodness shining through.’

Adelaide laughed. ‘You make me sound so very unattractive, Ida.’

‘Then I didn’t mean to. You look lovely. Particularly with that new maternal look you’re wearing. Will it be soon, Adelaide?’

‘It’s some months yet. But I can’t wait for it. I can’t tell you, Ida, how intensely I long to hold my own child in my arms.’

‘Dear Adelaide, what a fortunate child it will be, with the best mother in the world and a crown waiting for it. I wonder whether it will be a boy or a girl.’

‘Quite frankly, Ida, I don’t care. I only want a child.’

‘I see you do. You were meant to be a mother. I hear accounts of all these babies. It is like a contest. Now that you are to have one, the others will be disappointed.’

‘I hope not too much so. I wish there were not what you call a contest, Ida. I am not thinking of a crown for my baby. I want him … or her … to be happy.’

‘Sometimes, Adelaide,’ said Ida, ‘I think you are too good to be true. Let’s come and see my daughter Louise, who I am sure will provide a contrast to Adelaide the Good.’

‘You overrate me,’ said Adelaide, ‘I can see nothing unusual in wanting a child.’

Ida slipped her arm through her sister’s and they went off to the nursery.

The summer was passing. September had come and they had still not crossed the Channel.

‘Soon the gales will start,’ said Adelaide. ‘We shouldn’t delay longer.’

William laughed. ‘I like a bit of movement on deck,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been in some seas in my youth.’

She was sure he had, but she dreaded a rough crossing and they had left it rather late.

The weather had turned very bad; there had been heavy rains and on more than one occasion their carriage had to be hauled out of ruts in the ill-made roads. Often they were wet through.

‘We should have left earlier,’ admitted William. ‘Still, we’ll soon be home now.’

But this was not to be. One evening when they were jolting along the roughest of roads Adelaide was beset by sudden pains. She knew what this meant and despair filled her heart.

They stopped at the nearest inn, where she was hastily put to bed; but there was no saving the child and so on the way to England, where she had planned the future sovereign should be born, Adelaide had her second miscarriage.

William was distraught. He thought of Dorothy Jordan who had gone on tour until the last few weeks before the birth of her children. The delicacy of Adelaide was something quite new to him. It had not occurred to him that the rigours of travelling through the Continent over rough roads, sleeping in not always clean and comfortable inns, was scarcely the way to treat a delicate and pregnant woman. Dorothy had rattled round the country to play in provincial theatres, and had always casually given birth to healthy infants. But Adelaide was not Dorothy.

Adelaide was heartbroken. For the first time she began to doubt her ability to bear a child. Her great comfort was William who, essentially a family man, was always at his best during such occasions.

‘Never mind,’ he consoled her, ‘there’ll be others.’

She felt too weak to do anything but smile her assent. What had gone wrong this time? She knew, of course. She should have remained at her brother’s court until the baby was born, or as soon as she knew she was pregnant left for England. She had not taken sufficient care and it was her fault.

Dunkirk was not the liveliest of towns. ‘I always had a dislike for it,’ said William. ‘I never took to the French, either. When you think of all the trouble we had to beat them.’

There was something else that made him wish to leave this country. It was not so very long ago that Dorothy Jordan had come here to die. Her memory was more vivid than usual here. He kept thinking of her waiting to hear news from England and dying, so they said, of a broken heart.

It was all over, he assured himself; but how could he stop himself thinking of it all? Some people were whispering that he was unlucky with his legitimate children because he had treated the mother of his illegitimate ones so badly.

George FitzClarence wrote from England that he was going to be married.

‘You and Adelaide must be there,’ he wrote. ‘It won’t be right without you.’

William showed the letter to Adelaide.

‘You see how affectionately he writes of you,’ he told her proudly, and she was pleased because she looked upon the actress’s family as her stepchildren.

‘How different she must have been from me,’ she said. ‘She had her children without trouble.’

‘Dorothy was a strong woman,’ said the Duke shaking his head. ‘She’d be on the boards until a week or so before, playing those romping parts. You ought to have seen her as Little Pickle and Priscilla Tomboy. I never laughed so much.’

It was strange for a royal Duke – possibly a future King – to be discussing his mistress so freely with his wife. But that is how I want it to be, thought Adelaide. And she sighed a little; she had to compete with that strong buxom woman whom she had heard referred to as one of the most charming in England – now dead, nothing but a ghost, yet she lived on in William’s mind as she
did in that of Adelaide, who had never even seen her.

‘I should have liked to be at George’s wedding,’ said William wistfully.

How she longed to remain on terra firma for a few days, just until she felt a little stronger. But if they remained William would miss the wedding and that would upset him deeply. Whatever else William was, he was a devoted father.