Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (24 page)

The thought of what this could mean destroyed his peace of mind. No one could comfort him. Not even Lady Conyngham.

There was real anxiety for the state of the King’s health. His doctors insisted that he must not dream of attending his father’s funeral. Even the people, who had grown to hate him, were concerned for him now. They might taunt him and ridicule him but they did not want to lose him.

His doctors prescribed the air of Brighton which had never failed to benefit him, and as soon as he was able to be lifted from his bed he travelled down to the Pavilion with a few special friends and there he attempted to regain his strength.

At Windsor the old King was buried with the pomp due to his rank. The bells tolled and the trumpets rang out to remind everyone that this was the passing of a king. He had lived more than
eighty years – nine of them in a state of insanity. No one could really regret his passing yet many remembered that he had been a man who had always striven to do his duty.

The last rites were performed. A new reign had begun, but how long would it last? was a question on everyone’s lips, for the new King was a semi-invalid so swollen with gout and dropsy that it was said the ‘water was rapidly rising in him’; he was beset by mysterious illnesses; some even implied there were lapses when he suffered from his father’s complaint.

That may have been but he was a King and whatever his ailments, however gross his body had become, he only had to appear in public to dazzle all who beheld him.

A new King meant a coronation. And what of the Queen?

The people were not displeased with George IV; he could always provide diversion.

They were right in this.

Very soon the news spread through the country. Caroline, wife of George IV, having learned that she was the Queen of England was coming home to claim her rights.

She Shall be Victoria

ADELAIDE AND WILLIAM
could not stay in the inadequate apartments in Stable Yard and William took her down to Bushy House. The grounds delighted her; so did the house itself which she saw as an ideal country residence, not grand enough for ceremonious living and yet spacious enough to exist graciously.

‘It’s enchanting,’ she told William, who was delighted.

‘I always thought so,’ he replied. ‘Some of the happiest years of my life were spent here.’

She smiled. She had learned not to be in the least jealous when he referred nostalgically to his life with Dorothy Jordan. ‘The children always loved it,’ he added wistfully. ‘They made it their home.’

‘I hope they will continue to think of it as such.’

He gave her that dog-like look of gratitude which was often on his face when he regarded her. He wanted to tell her that when he had married her he had seen her just as a vehicle for providing an heir to the throne. Somehow it had become different; and it was due to her. He was well aware of that. He himself was changing. He was no longer the crude sailor he had always fancied himself to be. George had said: ‘William, Adelaide is good for you. You’ve ceased to be a sailor and are becoming a gentleman.’

He felt he must treat her gently – far more so than he had treated Dorothy. There was a fragility about Adelaide; and her pleasant placidity was a great contrast to Dorothy’s vitality and quick temper. It was impossible to quarrel with Adelaide. Of course he could not feel for her the wild passion he had felt for Dorothy; he could not in fact understand his feelings. It was almost as though in spite of himself a sturdy affection was becoming the foundation of his family life. He was proud of this quiet pleasant girl who was his wife. She was no beauty it was true, but she had dignity and her charm of manner served her well.

As he crossed the threshold of Bushy House with her he felt a sudden happiness such as he had not experienced since the death of Dorothy. Those rumours of her not being dead or, worse still, dead and unable to rest had worried him.

Now, oddly enough, with Adelaide beside him in the house which had been Dorothy’s home, he could find peace.

Everywhere there was evidence of Dorothy. He had planned the gardens with her, and he only had to look back into his memory and he could see Dorothy on the lawn surrounded by the children, sitting there laughing with them as she used to on those occasions when she slipped away from her duties at the theatre to come home. He could see her playing pranks such as those she played on the stage in the role of Little Pickle to amuse the children. It was not really so long ago.

Bushy was haunted by memories of Dorothy but with Adelaide beside him strangely enough they were not unhappy memories. He could imagine himself explaining to Adelaide his feelings for Dorothy. He wanted her to understand the strength of that love which had enabled them to live together so cosily for twenty years
and bring up ten children. And he had deserted her in the end and she had fled from the country and died with no one but a woman companion beside her. Poor Dorothy, the comic actress whose life had ended in tragedy.

Adelaide seemed to guess his thoughts.

‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘the children must continue to think of this as their home.’

‘I will tell them what you say.’

William was already making plans for the future. They would live here together – all the unmarried ones – and the grandchildren would come and visit them; it would be as he and Dorothy had often planned it should be when she gave up the stage. It had always been a dream of hers to give up the stage and settle down to enjoy domesticity. Only instead of Dorothy presiding over the family, it would be Adelaide, Duchess of Clarence – a title he could never have given Dorothy.

One thing that had distressed Adelaide was the ever-present conflict which existed throughout her new family. She had heard that the Kents had given themselves such airs since the birth of their daughter that they had alienated the Regent himself and that the Cumberlands and the Cambridges were extremely put out by the fuss that was made of the little girl at Kensington Palace who, because her father was the eldest member of the family to have a young child, was being considered as the future Queen.

‘It is not good,’ said Adelaide to William. ‘And what is that poor woman feeling at Kensington – so recently widowed and the family so much against her. I think, if you have no objection, I will call on her.’

William, who was accustomed to Adelaide’s good sense which far exceeded his own, replied that if Adelaide wished to call on Victoria Kent he saw no reason why she should not.

So Adelaide called at Kensington Palace where she was received by a somewhat suspicious Victoria.

‘It is good of you to come,’ said Victoria, asking herself: Has she come to gloat? Is she pregnant? If she should have a son that would be the end of my hopes for Alexandrina.

‘I wanted to come,’ said Adelaide, ‘because I was hoping that we might be friends.’

Did she mean it? wondered Victoria. Could she possibly find a friend among the women of her new family?

‘You have had such a terrible loss,’ said Adelaide, ‘but you have the children. They must be a great comfort to you.’

‘They are my life,’ said Victoria and sensing her sincerity, Adelaide felt at ease.

‘It is a blessing that there are young people in the family. I have heard such stories of little Alexandrina. She seems to be a most unusual child.’

Victoria could not hide her pride.

‘Drina is adorable. I defy anyone to deny it. Such a bright child! Though a little temper now and then.’

‘I should love to see her.’

‘Come to the nursery now.’

Adelaide stood over the cradle of the important child and marvelled at the perfection of her limbs. Wide blue eyes stared up at her and the baby chuckled.

‘She has taken a fancy to you,’ declared her mother. ‘I can assure you she does not to everybody.’

‘Could I hold her?’

‘But of course. Come, my precious. Your Aunt Adelaide wishes to make your acquaintance.’

Adelaide sat with the baby in her arms and thought how happy she would be if she could have a child of her own. She was almost certain that she was pregnant again.

‘I hope you will invite me to come often and see little Drina.’

‘By the look of it she will be delighted to see you, and I am sure I shall. I cannot tell you how pleasant it is not to have to try to speak English. I am sure I shall never master the language.’

‘It is most difficult,’ agreed Adelaide. ‘But you will in time.’

‘We speak German in the nursery, but of course Drina will have to speak English. It will be expected of her.’

Victoria watched for the reaction to those words. It was almost an assumption that Alexandrina was destined to be Queen. She
and Edward had been so certain of this that it was only by a special effort that they could avoid conveying their conviction to others.

Adelaide gave no sign that she was aware of the meaning beneath the words. She said: ‘Oh yes, it would be well for her to learn English. But it will be easy for her here.’

Alexandrina was allowed to crawl on the floor under the watchful eye of her mother.

‘I do not care to leave her to the care of nurses,’ she admitted. ‘In fact it is my great pleasure – and solace now – to care for her myself.’

Adelaide nodded sympathetically.

‘You will understand my feelings when you …’

Victoria’s eyes were on Adelaide’s face. If she were pregnant surely she must admit it now.

‘I shall hope to,’ replied Adelaide enigmatically.

‘You have had unhappy experiences … twice,’ said Victoria.

Adelaide admitted this and Victoria asked questions about those sad occasions. Twice! she was thinking. It really seems as if she might have difficulty in bearing children.

Adelaide told her of the indispositions which had preceded her two miscarriages. ‘The next time,’ she said, ‘I shall take very special care.’

‘We must only hope that the next time will soon come,’ replied Victoria insincerely.

Adelaide remained noncommittal and seeing that she would disclose nothing, Victoria suggested that she meet Alexandrina’s sister Feodore which Adelaide was delighted to do.

The thirteen-year-old girl promised to be a beauty; she was charming and modest and adored Alexandrina. It was quite clear that everyone in the household was aware of the importance of the little girl.

When Adelaide took her leave Victoria said: ‘You have cheered me so much.’ And Adelaide promised to come again.

The visit had in truth cheered her for as she remarked to Fräulein Lehzen she was absolutely sure that the Duchess of Clarence was not pregnant; moreover, if she were, she doubted she was meant for motherhood. There was a fragility about her which
was a great contrast to the buxom vitality of the Duchess of Kent.

Adelaide was in raptures. There was now no longer any doubt. She told William and he rejoiced with her.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I must take the greatest care. I am sure everything would have been all right before if I had done that. On the first occasion I caught cold and on the second there was that fatiguing journey.’

‘This time you will rest in Bushy; you will sit in the gardens in peace and quiet and the girls will make sure of that.’

The girls, Sophia, Mary, Elizabeth, Augusta and Amelia lost no time in coming to Bushy House, and Adelaide showed such pleasure in their coming that they did not see why they should not regard it as their home. Their brother Augustus, who was the only one of the boys who had not gone into the Army or the Navy, came too. He was only fifteen.

‘It is so pleasant,’ said Adelaide, ‘to have a family. This is too big and beautiful a house not to be full.’

It was clear that she had a talent for motherhood, for in a short time she was presiding over the family as though it were indeed her own. Nothing could have delighted William more. He was at heart, like the King, a very sentimental man.

‘When our son is born,’ he said, ‘I shall be the happiest man in the kingdom. Think, Adelaide, he will be the future King of England.’

‘Suppose the child is a girl?’

‘Then she will be Queen of England. Ha, ha, that will put Madam Kent’s nose out of joint, eh? She is certain that fat baby of hers is going to be the Queen.’

‘Poor Victoria! It is sad that she will be disappointed. What a pity that my triumph will be her disappointment. But little Drina is such an adorable creature. I am sure that to have such a child must in itself be such a joy that a crown cannot be of such great importance.’

‘You don’t know the Duchess Victoria,’ retorted William. ‘If ever I saw an ambitious woman, it’s that one. And she’s got it into her head through some prophecy or other.’

Adelaide felt uneasy. She did not believe in prophecies … at
least she thought she did not. It was disconcerting though that the prophecies of glory for that adorably plump blue-eyed child could only mean disaster for her own.

She would not dwell on them. She longed for her baby. Only when she had a healthy child of her own would she be content. Nothing else would matter than that. She longed for a child with an intensity which was new to her quiet nature.

She made plans for Bushy. She refurnished the nursery. Often she thought of the children who had played here – all those little FitzClarences who had been born and bred here.

They talked to her freely. They had little reticence; they were, after all, the children of an actress.

‘We used to look forward to the days when Mamma came,’ Amelia told her. ‘She was always bringing us presents. I don’t remember her as well as the others of course. But she sometimes came at night after the performance, driving down to us without a care for the danger of the roads. Next day she would leave in the early afternoon to do the evening performance at Drury Lane. Sometimes she didn’t bother to take off her stage costume but came down in that.’

Adelaide could picture it all – the wild and beautiful actress, so charming, so volatile, enchanting William and her children.

‘She used to rehearse her parts here,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Do you remember, Mary? How we all had to play with her. It was great fun. Papa used to love to play. He fancied himself as an actor.’