Виктория Холт - The Widow of Windsor

Then she was melancholy thinking how pleasant it was chatting with dear Lord Beaconsfield and how he reminded her of long ago when Lord Melbourne had been her Prime Minister – and what was more important, her friend.

How could she ever feel friendship towards the ridiculous Harty Tarty, Granville (who had been given the equally ridiculous name of Puss) or worst of all Mr Gladstone, to whom no one could give a frivolous name but Gladdy – which was meant of course to be ironical.

* * *

She sent for Hartington; she sent for Granville. They could not take office, they explained. There was one man the people wanted. They called him The People’s William. They referred to Mr Gladstone.

She dismissed them; she brooded. Oh, if only Albert were here to guide her! She remembered the Bedchamber Affair before her marriage when she was a very young and inexperienced Queen.

She knew what was coming. A Queen must bow to the will of the people and the people wanted Gladstone.

She must do her duty. She could, of course, abdicate, she had threatened it often, but in her heart she knew she never would, so she sent for Mr Gladstone.

He took her hand and kissed it; she turned away that she might not look at him while this act, so necessary to etiquette, so repulsive to her personal feelings, was performed.

She noticed that he looked haggard. She was certainly not going to ask him to sit down. She addressed him coldly; there was a distant look in her eyes, when he talked, as though she were not listening; and all the time she was thinking: He defeated my government. They have taken Lord Beaconsfield from me and given me this man.

* * *

How she missed Lord Beaconsfield! She was anxious about him too because she knew that he was not well. She talked to John Brown about the excellence of that man and how different he was from The People’s William.

‘Aye,’ said Brown, ‘it’s been a fight between the Queen’s Benny and the People’s Willy.’

How quaintly he expressed himself; she could not help smiling; so he said he would make her a cup of tea with a dash of whisky in it to keep up her spirits.

That spring she picked primroses at Osborne and sent them to Lord Beaconsfield. What charming letters he wrote to her. He expressed his sentiments so graciously. Again how different from Mr Gladstone!

It was rather a shock to discover that Sir Charles Dilke had been given a post in the government – that radical who had thundered away declaring that a republic would be better for the country than a monarchy, and had tried to make inquiries into the manner in which her income was spent.

It was quite humiliating. Strangest of all Dilke had struck up a friendship with Bertie. Didn’t Bertie realise that the man was an enemy of Royalty? She remonstrated with Bertie.

‘He is an extremely clever man, Mama. He’s very witty and has a wonderful flow of language when expressing himself that it’s quite a joy to listen to him.’

‘This man,’ she said, ‘has insulted me!’

‘He’s Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in Your Majesty’s government.’

‘What can one expect with Mr Gladstone in charge?’

‘Well, Mama, if he is a radical it is as well for me to find out what he is thinking.’

‘I do not care to see him entertained too frequently at Marlborough House,’ said the Queen.

‘Not really frequently,’ said Bertie, ‘only now and then; and since you live so aloof, it is necessary for me to meet these people.’

Bertie was right in a way; and of course he had a way with him which Lord Beaconsfield had admired.

All the same, she implied that she did not like this friendship with Sir Charles Dilke.

‘Ah, Mama,’ said Bertie, sadly, ‘I fear there are several of my friends whom you do not like.’

‘A fact which a dutiful son should surely try to rectify.’

‘Indeed yes, Mama, but I wish to take unpleasant burdens from your shoulders and entertain those who are offensive to you.’

She bowed her head. There was a good deal in what Bertie said.

* * *

The winter had been more than usually cold, and Lord Beaconsfield felt far from well. He went down to Hughenden and tried the quiet life to see if his health would improve; but everywhere were reminders of happy days spent there with Mary Anne and his melancholy increased. He was not meant to lead the quiet country life. He was lonely and bored and even his books could not hold his attention; his thoughts kept straying into the past.

He came back to London. It was March and the winds were icy; he caught a bad chill and took to his bed.

He felt old and feeble and since the death of Mary Anne the zest of life had gone. As he lay in his bed in the house in Curzon Street his mind drifted back to the past and he thought of those nights when he had come home from the House of Commons to find Mary Anne waiting for him with cold chicken and champagne. He could see himself leaning towards her talking earnestly about the success or the failure of the day; and he could see her eyes eternally young while they glowed with love for him.

A messenger came to the house bringing primroses from Osborne. The Queen had heard that he was indisposed and was anxious.

He wrote thanking her for her concern. He drew great pleasure from the primroses.

She wired every day from Windsor asking how he was.

‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield,’ she said to Brown, ‘I fear his end is near.’

And she shut herself away in the Blue Room where Albert had breathed his last; she thought of the terrible day which would live for ever in her mind; and she wept bitterly for she knew that she was about to lose a very dear friend.

* * *

April had come. He knew he was dying. It was time, he told himself. He had no more use for life. He had climbed to the very highest pinnacle. No one would have believed that the young Jew who had struggled so hard to make a living from his writing would have become Prime Minister, a peer, and the beloved friend of the Queen.

He had not left the house in Curzon Street for three weeks now, and he knew he never would again. It was gratifying to learn that in the streets people spoke his name in hushed whispers and asked each other how he was today.

‘Getting so close to the grave,’ he murmured. ‘Soon I shall be lying beside Mary Anne.’

His secretary came to his bedside.

‘Her Majesty would be pleased to come to see you if you were to ask,’ he was told.

He shook his head. ‘I am in no shape to receive Her Majesty. Besides,’ he added wryly, ‘she would ask me to take a message to Albert.’ He sighed. ‘I’d rather live,’ he said, ‘but I’m not afraid to die.’

Then he lay back, closed his eyes and did so.

* * *

The Queen wept. It was so sad. She could not imagine what it would be like without dear Lord Beaconsfield to come and talk to her. He was always so witty, so amusing and so respectful and affectionate. How she missed this in her present ministers.

‘His devotion to me, his wise counsels, his gentleness combined with firmness, his one thought of the honour and glory of the country make the death of my dear Lord Beaconsfield a national calamity,’ she said.

Mr Gladstone suggested that Lord Beaconsfield should be given a public funeral and be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Queen said this would please her and she thought it right and fitting. But she learned later that Beaconsfield had asked to be buried in the little church at Hughenden beside his wife, Mary Anne.

‘How characteristic,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes.

So Lord Beaconsfield was buried in Hughenden churchyard. The Prince of Wales, representing the Queen, attended the funeral and a wreath of primroses was laid on his coffin and on this was attached a message written in the Queen’s hand: ‘His favourite flower.’

Prince Leopold was in love. He had met the most enchanting creature. He had never seen anyone quite so beautiful and a number of other people agreed with him; in fact he was only one of her admirers. She was the daughter of the Dean of Jersey and in her teens she had fascinated a widower, Mr Langtry, who came to the island in his yacht. He had urged her to marry him which she did and thus she came to London.

Mr Langtry was comfortably situated but not rich and when he brought his bride to London they lived quietly and did not move into society until one day at a museum they encountered a nobleman whom they had met when he had been in Jersey. He was so struck by the girl’s beauty that he asked her to a party at his London house. That was all that was needed.

Lillie Langtry’s beauty was so outstanding that no one could fail to notice her. People were soon talking of her, inviting her to their houses, calling her the Jersey Lily; she was photographed everywhere; artists sketched her; when she walked in the park she was recognised; everyone seemed to be talking about Lillie Langtry.

She had hosts of admirers, among them Prince Leopold. Leopold was different from his brothers. In the first place he was a victim of that dreaded disease which dogged certain male members of the royal family. All his life Leopold had been watched carefully; he must never be allowed to fall or cut himself lest he should begin to bleed. This could be fatal or at best mean a serious illness with a spell in bed and the doctors in attendance. Unable to play games, Leopold was more intellectually inclined than his brothers. He was a great reader, well acquainted with the works of Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott. At Oxford he had attended lectures on history, poetry and music; he had also studied modern languages.