‘Dr Stockmar is a very dear friend of mine, my dearest child,’ Leopold had explained. ‘I want him to be yours too.’

‘He shall be, Uncle.’ The blue eyes brimmed over with love for Leopold and since Leopold commanded it, for Dr Stockmar too.

‘He is the best doctor in the world and more than that, he is my clever friend.’

She believed it. She believed everything Leopold told her. One might have thought she was too pliable; but that was a mistake, as Stockmar had discovered on his return only a few weeks before. She had received him warmly. He had come from dearest Uncle Leopold and therefore was welcome. She remembered him years ago at Claremont and she was delighted to have him back.

He had told her that her uncle had asked him to come to Kensington because he thought his old friend might be of use to her.

‘Dear Uncle Leopold,’ she had said, ‘is so careful of me.’

She had charm and when she was animated she was almost pretty; at other times she could be quite plain and rather homely; but she had such dignity in spite of her small stature that Stockmar could write to Leopold that he had every confidence in her.

Now she was on the brink of becoming Queen. A pity, thought Stockmar, that she was so young. Yet youth was appealing and he had noticed that the people liked her. What a change from the old King who was so undignified and who was called ‘Pineapple Head’ in some of the less respectable papers, and one only had to look at the King to be aware of the resemblance between his head and that fruit. And different, too, from the previous King, who had grown obese and upset his people by holding aloof from them.

‘There is certainly not much competition from the Uncles,’ wrote Stockmar, ‘and she is so innocent and fresh, so easily moved to tears, that the people will love that.’

There was surely no monarch more appealing than a young female one – particularly after a succession of unattractive men.

It was well worth while, thought Stockmar, although the dampness of the climate did not agree with him and he suffered from rheumatic pains and a hundred mysterious ailments which he as a medical man – for it was as such that he had begun his career – could imagine were indications of dire diseases. And to think that he might be at home in Coburg with his family! Not that the climate there differed much from England and his physical sufferings would not diminish. He did not go so far as to admit that he did not want them to; and that if certain symptoms had disappeared others would have taken their place. One of the first interests he and Leopold had shared was discussing their ailments which Leopold had so much enjoyed – and so had he. But they came a good second to politics.

Stockmar wanted nothing for himself. In that he was rare. He did not ask for great estates. What he wanted was power – power to do good. That gave him immense satisfaction. When he had seen how unhappy Leopold had been on the death of his wife after she had given birth to their still-born child, he had determined that Leopold should be compensated for his loss.

He it was who had advised Leopold not to accept the throne of Greece and had urged him to take that of Belgium. Leopold had had obvious evidence of the wisdom of Stockmar so it was natural that to him he should entrust one of the dearest of his projects – the marriage of Victoria.

So before coming to England he had made a study of Albert – a fine young fellow, as he had written to Leopold.

‘Well grown for his age and agreeable. If things go well he may in time turn out a strong and handsome man of a kind, simple yet dignified manner.’

He was sure he had been wise in advising Leopold not to urge a marriage on Victoria until she had seen the Prince. So last year the Duke of Saxe-Coburg had visited Kensington with his two sons and Victoria had been delighted with them both – particularly Albert.

‘The two young people are agreeable to each other,’ Stockmar had written to Leopold, ‘and that is good. But the Prince cannot receive in Coburg the education fitting to a Prince Consort of the greatest of monarchs.’ So the Prince had gone to Brussels and Paris to study history and modern languages, and after that he had been sent to Bonn. Albert was there now, and being the astute young man Stockmar was sure he was, he would be another who was eagerly watching what was happening in England.

Of course Stockmar had been quick to grasp the friction in the Kensington apartments. The Duchess was Leopold’s sister and one would have thought that the interests of both would have been identical; but it was obvious that what the Duchess wanted to do was guide her daughter in all things and thus become ruler of England … Sir John Conroy to help her.

And the Duchess had not been strictly honest in her dealings with her daughter. There was that affair of the Regency which had taught Stockmar that it was impossible to serve the interests of the Duchess and those of her daughter at the same time; and Stockmar was not a man to divide his loyalties. He knew the Duchess. A vain woman and in many ways a foolish one; he did not care for her friendship with Sir John Conroy. He had come to England to serve Leopold’s interests and now Victoria had engaged not only his interest but his affection.

Melbourne himself had told Stockmar that Victoria wished for a Regency even though she was of age; but Stockmar did not believe this and being on such friendly terms with the Princess it did not take him long to discover that she had made no such request, and that it had come from the Duchess in her daughter’s name.

‘Such action is dishonest,’ cried Stockmar and lost no time in telling Lord Melbourne the truth.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Melbourne, ‘I am astounded. I was led to believe that the request came from the Princess herself.’

‘And now that you know it does not?’

‘It shall receive the attention it deserves,’ said the urbane Melbourne and that was clear enough to Stockmar. There would certainly be no Regency. Victoria would rule with the help of Melbourne … and Stockmar.

No, he thought. He would not write tonight. He would wait until their Princess was indeed a queen.


* * *

In the death chamber at Windsor Castle the King lay breathing with difficulty. The Queen sat beside him, her hand in his. On a table close to the bed was the flag which the Duke of Wellington sent to him every year to commemorate the victory at Waterloo. His eyes kept straying to it.

‘Wasn’t at the Waterloo banquet this year, Adelaide,’ he murmured.

‘No, William. But it took place on your orders.’

‘Great victory,’ murmured the King.

His eyes had become glazed, and Adelaide, bending closer, knew that his thoughts were wandering again. Dear William, who had been a good husband to her! She had failed him by not producing the heir for the sake of which they had been thrust into hasty marriage, and that was something she would always regret. She loved children and consequently had had to console herself with other people’s. The palaces had always been full of William’s grandchildren of the FitzClarence family. What a devoted grandfather he had been to them even though they had been far from grateful. She was glad that at such a time as this they had forgotten their differences, and several of them were at Windsor now in case he should ask for them.

‘Adelaide.’

She bent over the bed.

‘You’ve been a good wife …’

‘Don’t talk, William. Lie still. Conserve your strength.’

The tears were on her cheeks. She loved him and he loved her; and that was strange in such a marriage. He had been faithful to her, which was perhaps because he was no longer young, and he would become furious with anyone who criticised her. Her gentle nature had won the regard which her lack of physical charms might have made impossible. It had been a happy marriage as such marriages go, and it was now nearly over.

‘Glad I lived till she was of age,’ murmured the King. ‘Was determined to. I did it, Adelaide. The child will be Queen tomorrow.’

‘William …’

‘You’re crying, Adelaide. Don’t. You’ve been a good wife. Couldn’t have been better. Wasn’t going to let that woman rule the roost.’ He gave a croaking cackle of laughter. ‘She’ll be mad with rage … Adelaide … She’s been hoping I’d die before … Didn’t I always say I’d wait till the child was eighteen?’

‘You did, William.’

‘And I kept my word. She’ll be Queen and she’ll know how to keep that woman where she belongs. England will be great under her. Better than old men … Sailors will love a young queen. I know sailors. They’ll fight the better for her than for a mad old man like my father, or for George and for me. Yes, they’ll love a bonny girl …’

‘William, don’t try to talk …’ It was useless to tell him this. He had always talked too much.

He closed his eyes; his lips moved but she could not hear what he said. She continued to sit by his bed. George FitzClarence came into the room and stood in the shadows. George, his firstborn by Dorothy Jordan, the boy whom William so dearly loved, was now full of contrition for all the anxiety he had caused his father.

‘How is he?’ he whispered.

‘Sinking I fear,’ said Adelaide.

Somewhere a clock in the Castle chimed midnight. The Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham, the Lord Chamberlain, were in the ante-room, waiting.

It couldn’t be long now, they assured each other.

The King’s physician, Sir Henry Halford, joined them.

‘He is very near the end,’ said Halford.

At one o’clock Sir Henry was at the King’s bedside. William’s breathing was stertorous; he was in a coma.