Виктория Холт - The Captive of Kensington Palace

‘There must be a match between them.’

The Duke nodded and she laughed. ‘I know you want the throne for yourself and for him to follow. But how can it be while our plump pigeon lives? We shall have to reconcile ourselves, Ernest. It’ll be Hanover for you. You’ll be a King and I’ll be a Queen. We’ll just have to accept Hanover in place of England; and if our George is the young Queen’s Consort I don’t think we shall have come out of it too badly.’

He was still frowning and she went on: ‘It’s no use your thinking about the English crown, Ernest. It’s impossible. If anything happened to Victoria I do believe they would never have you. That Graves affair did you no good and all that scandal about Sophia. Hanover will be best for us … with George in control over here, because he will be, you know. He is such a darling that she will adore him and he will have his way through the sweetness of his character because she will want to please him in every way.’

‘You think everyone adores your son in the same way that you do.’

‘And I think you have a fondness for our son, eh, Ernest?’

‘He’s a boy to be proud of.’

‘He’s so good. That’s what amazes me.’

The Duke was not going to admit that he shared the Duchess’s fondness but his was almost as great as hers. They had wanted this son; they had him; and he delighted them both.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘that that fool William will try to marry Victoria to Cambridge.’

‘I’m sure he’s the favourite.’

‘He’d want it just to spite me.’

‘Well, you have not exactly been a friend of his, my darling. You did try to fit him into a strait-jacket.’

‘And it would have been a perfect fit.’

‘You’ll never forgive him for not listening to you and taking you into his confidence when George died.’

‘William’s always been an oaf and I certainly don’t forgive the way he insulted me by telling me to take my horses out of the Windsor stables to make way for Adelaide’s carriage.’

‘And for depriving you of your Gold Stick.’

‘What a King!’

‘Yet the people seem to like him.’

‘At the moment. They so hated George they’re ready to like anyone after him.’

‘I admit you would make a more kingly King.’

‘And you a more queenly Queen than our spotted Majesty.’

‘Poor Adelaide! Our George is devoted to her.’

‘All the children are. She should have been a nursery governess, not a Queen.’

‘Mrs Fitzherbert is very friendly. Of course he was gracious to her and behaves as though she is George’s widow.’ She looked at her husband slyly. ‘I know your new plan; you are going to put it about that Mrs Fitz is persuading the King to become a Catholic.’

‘The people would never have a Catholic monarch.’

The Duchess laughed. ‘You try so hard, dear Ernest. If he won’t be forced into a strait-jacket the Catholic Faith will do as well.’

‘Are you on my side or not?’

‘I’m on your side, but I am perhaps a little more realistic. I have decided that the crown of Hanover will do very nicely, with George as Victoria’s husband.’

‘It may well be what we have to accept.’

‘Ah, so you are coming round to that view, eh?’

‘I have always seen it as the second prize, but that does not mean I would not try for the first.’

They were laughing together. They had always worked together; and although she might deplore his involvement in scandal, and although his violent rages might alarm even her at times, there was a bond between them which nothing but death could break.

The King was angry. His children were demanding titles and honours; they were growing more and more arrogant, showing clearly that their pride in their father’s rank was greater than their love for him, and this hurt his sentimental heart. He was going to raise George to the peerage. He was after all his eldest son; and as soon as it could be arranged he should be the Earl of Munster – one of his own titles – and Baron Tewkesbury. That should satisfy him; but when he thought of the little George who used to ride on his knee and play fisticuffs with him in the gardens of Bushy he was bitterly disappointed. Young Victoria had given him a sour look at the Queen’s Drawing-Room and he had not liked that at all. He had told Adelaide about it and she had soothed him by telling him it was not the little girl’s fault. Victoria was an extremely affectionate child, and the manner in which she was brought up in Kensington was really very sad. She had probably been forbidden to smile at the King.

‘What stuff is this?’ growled William. ‘I’ll be having an open quarrel with that woman before long, you see.’

The Queen sincerely hoped not. There was enough trouble in the country without having it in the family as well.

And how right she was! That was the main source of anxiety. The trouble in the country. Everywhere one turned there was talk of Reform. Lord John Russell, one of the leading Whigs, had brought forward the Reform Bill and there was great controversy throughout the country because of this. The differences between rich and poor were great; farm labourers were expected to exist on less than threepence a day; the mill workers were in revolt; the silk weavers of Spitalfields were ready to riot. Every day there was evidence of unrest. Reform was needed and the people saw in the Bill the hope of better times, for although it was concerned with Parliamentary Reform it was believed that this was at the root of the terrible conditions. There were fifty-six boroughs in England comprising less than two thousand people; there were at least thirty others almost as small which were sending a member to Westminster. Only a small and wealthy section of the country were able to use the vote. It was a monstrous state of affairs. The working classes depended on the good graces of their employers who were in complete control. It was small wonder that people were toiling for wages which kept them only sufficiently above starvation that they might continue to work.

‘Reform! Reform!’ cried the hungry farm labourers; and every trade all over the country was taking up the cry.

So when Lord John Russell on behalf of the Whigs introduced the Reform Bill which was to disenfranchise the ‘rotten’ boroughs and give more people the power to vote, he was looked upon as a hero by the people. They were not going to let this chance escape them. The Reform Bill was going to become law no matter what opposition was set up against it.

William was not inclined to let political matters worry him overmuch. He liked to make speeches and did so on every possible occasion. Wellington had in fact expressed the view that while the King was eager to do his duty and did in fact attend to business with an expedition which was rare in recent monarchs, he would undo quite a lot of the advantages by making too many speeches in which he betrayed himself as a somewhat choleric, sentimental and a not very capable old gentleman.

There had been trouble in France. Charles X had been forced to abdicate. The terrible days of the great revolution were recalled through this lesser one, and what was happening abroad was talked of in the streets of England. Adelaide was worried. She told William that she dreamed about Marie Antoinette and the terrible fate which had befallen her.

‘The English wouldn’t behave like that,’ said William stoutly, but she did not believe him, and William couldn’t help but be affected by her fears. He said he wished that fellow Russell and the whole Whig party further when they’d brought up this business of Reform.

‘If this Bill is passed it may well be the end of the Monarchy,’ Adelaide had said. She had got that from Lord Howe, her Chamberlain, of whose opinions she thought so highly.

‘Stuff!’ said the King; but even he was uneasy.

Wellington was in command and he could trust Wellington. The victor of Waterloo could not be wrong. ‘Wellington will pull us through this bit of trouble as he did that other,’ said William. ‘There was a time when the people of this country were more afraid of Napoleon than they ever were of Reform. And then … Waterloo! Trust Wellington.’

* * *

Wellington was at heart a soldier. After Waterloo he had been cheered wherever he went; his name was spoken of in hushed whispers, and he could not believe that the great victory of Waterloo would ever be forgotten. The war at an end, he had turned to politics where he looked for the same success as he had enjoyed on the battlefield. The great general had become the great Tory leader.

Politics was a more tricky game even than war, and Wellington could not believe that the people would cease to regard him with awe and respect. In his home his Duchess, whom he had married out of chivalry and of whom he had long since tired, thought him a genius; his sons admired him; the charming Mrs Arbuthnot was his great friend. He saw himself as one of the great leaders of the day and he could not conceive that anyone should see him otherwise.

He was against Reform. He did not believe that the poor and uneducated should have an opportunity of expressing their opinions through the vote; he believed that the present method of sending members to Parliament was the best that could be contrived.

When Parliament met he stood up and gave his views.

‘The system that is in being today,’ he said, ‘deserves the confidence of the country. As long as I hold office I shall oppose Reform. If the disenfranchisement were admitted it would soon be pushed to lengths which would deprive the upper classes of the political influence which they derive from their property, and possibly eventually of the property itself.’