Виктория Холт - The Captive of Kensington Palace

* * *

At dear Claremont Victoria could forget that horrible incident at Windsor for something wonderful had happened. Uncle Leopold had come for a short visit.

He wanted to talk in person with his ‘dear little soul,’ he said. Letters were all very well, but how much greater understanding could be reached in conversation.

He wanted her opinion of Albert; what exactly had she thought?

It was all true, she told him, what she had written to him. She loved Albert; she loved all her cousins but there was something special about Albert.

He had seemed a little delicate, Uncle Leopold feared, but there was nothing really delicate about him. He had merely grown too fast. He had an alert and wonderful brain. Did she not think so?

She thought Albert the cleverest young man she had ever met.

Uncle Leopold was satisfied.

Oh yes, in her Uncle’s company she could easily forget unpleasantness. He was like her second father, she thought. No, her only father for he was indeed her real father because she had none other.

How grateful she would always be to Uncle Leopold.

* * *

Uncle Leopold must go back to his own country and they must go back to Kensington, although they returned to Claremont for Christmas. Since His Majesty, said the Duchess speaking with exaggeration to indicate contempt, thought that the heiress to the throne occupied too much of Kensington Palace they should show that they had another home and that Claremont – the house which belonged to the Duchess’s brother Leopold – was always at their disposal.

The news came that Mrs Strode had died and that the King had appointed Lady de l’lsle and Dudley as the custodian of Kensington Palace.

The Duchess was furious.

‘That woman! At Kensington Palace! And in such a post! How characteristic of That Man. He has no sense of royalty.’

‘Mamma,’ pleaded Victoria, ‘it is the King’s command and there is nothing we can do about it.’

The Duchess studied her daughter quizzically. The child was beginning to criticise her own mother. Could it be that she was taking sides with the King against her!

‘So,’ she said coldly, ‘you have no objection to sharing a roof with … with the bastidry!’

Victoria said, with that newly acquired dignity which was giving her mother and Conroy such uneasy qualms. ‘I think, Mamma, that we must accept the King’s commands.’

William sat at his desk, the letter in his hand, his eyes glazed with memories.

Maria Fitzherbert was dead. Another link with the past had snapped. He felt he was a very old man and there was little time left to him.

Adelaide came in and found him and understanding the cause of his grief mourned with him.

‘She was the only woman George ever loved,’ declared William. ‘What a sad thing that they parted. How foolish George was … not to appreciate the love of a good woman. I thank God, Adelaide, that I have more perception in that respect. I don’t know what I should do without you. I’ve had the love of two good women in my life and that’s a good share, you know.’

‘She was old, William. It had to come.’

‘Oh yes, she was older than George. She must have been over eighty. Poor Maria Fitzherbert. She was magnificent, Adelaide, magnificent.’

‘And she was good,’ added Adelaide.

‘A good handsome woman – a rare thing Adelaide, a rare thing.’

Adelaide winced. She knew she was plain; the press were continually calling attention to her lack of physical charms; but she was foolish. She too was getting old and she should be accustomed to William’s tactlessness by now.

‘Death!’ said William. ‘It’s claiming so many of the people who were young with me. My turn can’t be far off.’

‘Don’t talk of it,’ she said quickly.

‘All right, all right. I’ve got to live for a long time. I’ve got to live until Victoria is of an age to stand on her own, for, by God, I’ll not have that Duchess as Regent.’

‘Yes, you must live, William. You are needed not only by your country but by me.’

William felt suddenly happy. He had a good wife and he loved her; and he was fortunate, for how many men were so blessed in that respect? Two good women had loved him – his incomparable Dorothy who had given him his dear children and Adelaide who could give him none but instead gave him a devotion which even Dorothy had been unable to give. He had always believed that with Dorothy the children came first.

A lucky man, he thought. Two good women and ten children – and if at times they were cruel to him, they had given him the darling grandchildren. Yes, a lucky man.

* * *

Death was in the air. News came from Saxe-Meiningen that Adelaide’s mother was very ill and not expected to live. She was asking for Adelaide.

‘You must go, my dear,’ said the King. ‘You’ll not have any peace if you don’t. But don’t forget the King is missing you, so come back to him as soon as you can.’

‘I don’t think you’re well enough to be left.’

‘I’m all right. The girls will come and stay with me.’

‘Sophia’s at Kensington.’

The King grinned. ‘And I hear Madam Kent is not very pleased about that. Not Sophia, no! In any case she’s expecting the child in April. She’ll stay at Kensington. But Mary could come, and I daresay my sister Augusta will be here too. I’ll be in good hands. Now you go and see your mother and come back to me soon.’

Adelaide was more aware than most that the strange moods of the King had intensified, which they did at certain periods, and at such times she appeared to be the only one who could comfort him.

So with misgivings she left England.

* * *

Lady de l’Isle had been finding the last weeks before her child was due rather trying. She was very much aware of the Duchess of Kent in her grand apartments, which the King had not taken from her, and although normally she would have been able to deal with her, she felt too ill and listless to do so.

The Duchess, whenever possible, humiliated her; she made constant references to the fact that although Sophia was the King’s daughter she was illegitimate.

‘Good gracious,’ cried the Duchess, ‘if all the King’s bastards through the ages were lodged in royal palaces we should have to start building rapidly to accommodate them.’

Victoria’s eighteenth birthday was only a month or so away, and she was uneasy. How would Victoria behave when she was her own mistress?

‘Eighteen,’ she cried indignantly to Sir John, ‘is far too young for a girl to manage her own affairs. Victoria should ask the King to let a Regency continue for a while after she comes to the throne, for I am sure she will be far too young.’

‘It’s a difficult letter to write,’ Sir John warned her, ‘because the assumption must be that the King is dead before she comes to the throne.’

‘The old fool must know that he can’t last much longer, I have no compunction in reminding him of that.’

‘I know, but he might object.’

‘Ridiculous old fool,’ snapped the Duchess. ‘But draft a letter to Melbourne and tell him that Victoria wishes me to continue as Regent for a while after she comes to the throne.’

‘Shall you consult Victoria on this point?’

‘Good gracious me, no! In her present mood she might refuse.’

There was no harm in drafting the letter, Sir John supposed. His position in any case was even more desperate than that of the Duchess, so they might try everything however wild and devious. Victoria showed quite clearly that she disliked him and never would take him into her service, but the Duchess as her mother could not be so easily disposed of, however much Victoria might long for the disposal.

Yes, thought Sir John, they must try everything.

* * *

Really, thought the Duchess, such a bother! And all because a bastard was about to give birth to a child. Carriages arriving at the Palace; the King’s own physician calling; the King himself. It was most absurd. People would think that she was ill or perhaps Victoria. Such a fuss was made they would believe it must be someone who was important.

She was having a dinner party that night and she did not like all this activity in the Palace, even though it was not in her own apartments.

Victoria had said: ‘Mamma, don’t you think that in view of Lady de l’Isle’s condition you should postpone your dinner party?’

‘Postpone my dinner party! Sometimes I wonder at you. What has the confinement of this … this … woman got to do with my dinner party, pray?’

‘It is just that at such a time perhaps we should be quiet. I have heard that all is not going quite as it should.’

‘That rumour is put about merely to call attention to her. She is like her mother … that common actress. They’re like gypsies. They could have babies by the roadside.’

‘Gypsies deserve as much consideration as anyone else, Mamma.’

‘What, Victoria?’

‘I believe that the King’s physicians are rather anxious about Lady de l’Isle. Oh, I do hope all goes well. Uncle William will be so distressed; and think of her little children.’

‘You say the oddest things,’ said the Duchess coldly. ‘You should thank God that I am constantly at your elbow to remind you of what is expected of a Queen.’

I am not that yet, thought Victoria, and perhaps when I am you will not be at my elbow.