Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

Augusta knew nothing of William’s vigil; and in due course gave birth to a boy. Her delight was overwhelming.

Adelaide was one of the first to congratulate her. She held the child in her arms and marvelled at him.

Oh God, she prayed, let mine be as lusty as this one.

‘We shall call him George,’ said Augusta.

Adelaide smiled. George. A king’s name!

‘It is well,’ said Adelaide’s doctor, a man who had served with Wellington’s army, ‘to take plenty of exercise. It insures an easy birth. No matter what the weather, exercise should be taken.’

Adelaide followed his advice. She walked regularly in the palace grounds, William often with her and even when she tired, as she often did, he insisted on her carrying out the doctor’s suggestions.

During one of these walks the rain was so heavy that Adelaide was wet to the skin for the shower had been sudden and she was unprepared for rain. William, however, was determined that she should walk the prescribed time and the walk was continued.

A few days later Adelaide had a cold which was followed by pleurisy. The doctor immediately ordered bleeding.

This left Adelaide very weak and a few days after the birth of Augusta’s little George her birth pangs began, although they were not due to start for several weeks.

The result was the premature birth of a little girl.

The child should be baptized immediately, advised the doctors; and she was christened Charlotte Augusta Louisa just before she died.

Adelaide was desolate and there was no comforting her. Moreover the bleeding had left her very weak and had robbed her of the stamina she needed to recover from the birth.

William was distraught.

He had lost his child but what most concerned him – somewhat to his surprise – was his fear at the prospect of losing his wife.

They had known each other less than a year; theirs had been entirely a marriage of convenience; yet he found that he would be wretched if he had to face life without her. She was not beautiful. She did not arouse his passionate desire … and yet how he would miss her if he lost her.

It was very strange.

He was constantly in the sickroom; he talked perpetually to the doctors; he made a nuisance of himself as, poor William, he could not help doing. But she was aware of him and she knew it was due to his affection and this did help to sustain her in her great sorrow. But she was unhappy. She knew that she had longed for her child, but only now did she realize how passionately. Those waiting months had been the happiest of her life, because she had so longed for their fulfilment. And now … it was finished. She was delirious and the doctors said she was on the point of death.

William was at her bedside. He would nurse her. Only he! She must get well, he told her. What would he do if she did not?

Vaguely she was aware of him and his presence, while it encumbered her nurses, did give her comfort.

Augusta longed to visit her but hesitated. How would Adelaide feel if she, the successful mother, appeared to parade her triumph before her? So she did not come to the sickroom and the festivities which had been arranged to celebrate her little George’s birth were cancelled.

But with the coming of April, Adelaide’s condition began to improve.

William stayed at her side and would not leave her.

‘You must not fret,’ he said. ‘That doctor … those walks. That was what brought on your illness. And then the bleeding … and you lost our child. But you’re so young. There’ll be others. My sister, the Queen of Wurtemburg, has written sending affectionate messages to you. She says you will not want to stay in Hanover but will want a change of scene. She suggests that as soon as you are ready to travel we go and pay her a visit. Would you like that, eh? Because if you would not, we shall not go. I am going to take care of you now. Don’t you fret. The next time everything is going to be well. I can’t lose my wife. The children can’t lose their stepmother. Not when they’re beginning to be fond of her, eh?’

It was a little crude – the bluff sailor who spoke his thoughts aloud. But it was genuine and she was comforted.

And because she had lost this child, it did not mean that there would not be others.

Neither the Kents nor the Cumberlands could pretend to feel great grief when they received the news of Adelaide’s tragedy.

They reacted according to their natures.

‘She presents no difficulty,’ said the blunt Frederica. ‘She’s not the child-bearing type.’

‘It’s the will of God,’ said Victoria with the complacent air of one who knows herself to be the elect.

‘I think,’ she went on, ‘that it is time we returned to England.’

And as usual the Duke agreed with her.

They should, of course, have left before; but Victoria had been so anxious to remain in Germany as long as possible so as to have first-hand information of Adelaide’s confinement. It was very convenient that the birth should have been premature; and although she would not go so far as to apply the same adjective to the infant’s demise, it was in her mind.

But it was all part of the pattern of fate.

Money was a difficulty, of course. They had left England because of the Duke’s debts and as they were still unsettled it was a little dangerous to return; but the important child must be born in England.

They must borrow money for their journey; the Duke could drive the coach to save a coachman’s wages; and as it was an exceptionally large coach they could carry quite a lot of their baggage in it.

It was April when they left and the news had just reached them that Adelaide and William had started on a visit to Würtemburg.

‘She will have another try,’ said Victoria glumly, but the Duke so trusted his gipsy that he was sure nothing would come of that or any try.

‘We must take no chances,’ said the Duchess.

She would engage a midwife whom she had heard was the best in Germany and the woman should travel with them – in case of accidents.

Why, by all accounts, but for an accident, Adelaide might have a healthy girl to stand in the way of the child who was about to be born.

They must be prepared.

Fräulein Siebold was a most efficient woman. She told the Duchess that she did not anticipate much trouble, that all was going well, and she had no doubt that the child would be as bonny as Charles and Feodore.

So they set out for England.

Apartments in Kensington Palace had been prepared for the birth; and on 19 May, with the utmost confidence of success, Victoria settled down to produce her child.

In the early morning the child was born.

‘A girl!’ The Duchess heard the voices about her bed.

The Duke was at her bedside. She smiled at him faintly. ‘I’m sorry it was not a boy.’

But the Duke shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was to be a great queen, you know.’

Now she believed in the gipsy’s prophecy as firmly as he did.

Three days after the birth of a princess to the Duke and Duchess of Kent, Frederica, Duchess of Cumberland, produced her child. To her great joy – and that of the Duke – it was a boy.

‘We’ll call him George,’ declared Frederica. ‘It’s a good name for a king.’

So during that year three candidates for the throne had appeared – two boys and a girl; but the girl being the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, the fourth son of the King, was in the lead.

Only Adelaide had been disappointed.

‘But there will be another,’ she assured herself, ‘and the next time nothing shall be allowed to go wrong.’

It was her only hope of happiness; just as it was the prevailing fear of the brothers- and sisters-in-law.

THE PRINCE REGENT was feeling peevish. He was undoubtedly growing old; he was obliged to use a touch of rouge to give his cheeks some semblance of the delicate colour that had glowed in them in his youth. The gout worried him too frequently; he was prey to mysterious illnesses which the doctors did not understand and for which they prescribed perpetual bleeding, which made him feel weak.

His wife was behaving outrageously on the Continent and in spite of all his efforts he could not get the evidence against her he wanted. And now there was all this fuss about babies in the family.

He had one grand-niece and two nephews; and how much more fitting it would have been if he had had a son.

It was not too late. He insisted on it. If only he could rid himself of Caroline he could marry and produce an heir like the rest of them.

He was sorry that Adelaide had lost her child. If he himself could not provide the heir he would rather William did it. He had never liked Edward who was too self-righteous; and he had taken a dislike to Edward’s wife. Madame de St Laurent had been so much more charming and Madam Victoria gave herself too many airs. She was a typical German, he decided; arrogant, sure of herself and eager to lead everyone by their noses. She might lead Edward, but there it would stop.

Aggravating indeed that the woman should now be behaving as though she were the mother of the heiress to the throne. It was almost as though she was saying to him and his father and to William: Hurry up. Die please, so that my daughter can inherit the throne.

Madam Victoria of Kent must be relegated to her place. If he were to remain as unlucky as he had been since he met Caroline of Brunswick, then there was Adelaide and William and their child to come before Edward’s and hers.