Victoria watched for the reaction to those words. It was almost an assumption that Alexandrina was destined to be Queen. She and Edward had been so certain of this that it was only by a special effort that they could avoid conveying their conviction to others.

Adelaide gave no sign that she was aware of the meaning beneath the words. She said: ‘Oh yes, it would be well for her to learn English. But it will be easy for her here.’

Alexandrina was allowed to crawl on the floor under the watchful eye of her mother.

‘I do not care to leave her to the care of nurses,’ she admitted. ‘In fact it is my great pleasure – and solace now – to care for her myself.’

Adelaide nodded sympathetically.

‘You will understand my feelings when you …’

Victoria’s eyes were on Adelaide’s face. If she were pregnant surely she must admit it now.

‘I shall hope to,’ replied Adelaide enigmatically.

‘You have had unhappy experiences … twice,’ said Victoria.

Adelaide admitted this and Victoria asked questions about those sad occasions. Twice! she was thinking. It really seems as if she might have difficulty in bearing children.

Adelaide told her of the indispositions which had preceded her two miscarriages. ‘The next time,’ she said, ‘I shall take very special care.’

‘We must only hope that the next time will soon come,’ replied Victoria insincerely.

Adelaide remained noncommittal and seeing that she would disclose nothing, Victoria suggested that she meet Alexandrina’s sister Feodore which Adelaide was delighted to do.

The thirteen-year-old girl promised to be a beauty; she was charming and modest and adored Alexandrina. It was quite clear that everyone in the household was aware of the importance of the little girl.

When Adelaide took her leave Victoria said: ‘You have cheered me so much.’ And Adelaide promised to come again.

The visit had in truth cheered her for as she remarked to Fräulein Lehzen she was absolutely sure that the Duchess of Clarence was not pregnant; moreover, if she were, she doubted she was meant for motherhood. There was a fragility about her which was a great contrast to the buxom vitality of the Duchess of Kent.

Adelaide was in raptures. There was now no longer any doubt. She told William and he rejoiced with her.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I must take the greatest care. I am sure everything would have been all right before if I had done that. On the first occasion I caught cold and on the second there was that fatiguing journey.’

‘This time you will rest in Bushy; you will sit in the gardens in peace and quiet and the girls will make sure of that.’

The girls, Sophia, Mary, Elizabeth, Augusta and Amelia lost no time in coming to Bushy House, and Adelaide showed such pleasure in their coming that they did not see why they should not regard it as their home. Their brother Augustus, who was the only one of the boys who had not gone into the Army or the Navy, came too. He was only fifteen.

‘It is so pleasant,’ said Adelaide, ‘to have a family. This is too big and beautiful a house not to be full.’

It was clear that she had a talent for motherhood, for in a short time she was presiding over the family as though it were indeed her own. Nothing could have delighted William more. He was at heart, like the King, a very sentimental man.

‘When our son is born,’ he said, ‘I shall be the happiest man in the kingdom. Think, Adelaide, he will be the future King of England.’

‘Suppose the child is a girl?’

‘Then she will be Queen of England. Ha, ha, that will put Madam Kent’s nose out of joint, eh? She is certain that fat baby of hers is going to be the Queen.’

‘Poor Victoria! It is sad that she will be disappointed. What a pity that my triumph will be her disappointment. But little Drina is such an adorable creature. I am sure that to have such a child must in itself be such a joy that a crown cannot be of such great importance.’

‘You don’t know the Duchess Victoria,’ retorted William. ‘If ever I saw an ambitious woman, it’s that one. And she’s got it into her head through some prophecy or other.’

Adelaide felt uneasy. She did not believe in prophecies … at least she thought she did not. It was disconcerting though that the prophecies of glory for that adorably plump blue-eyed child could only mean disaster for her own.

She would not dwell on them. She longed for her baby. Only when she had a healthy child of her own would she be content. Nothing else would matter than that. She longed for a child with an intensity which was new to her quiet nature.

She made plans for Bushy. She refurnished the nursery. Often she thought of the children who had played here – all those little FitzClarences who had been born and bred here.

They talked to her freely. They had little reticence; they were, after all, the children of an actress.

‘We used to look forward to the days when Mamma came,’ Amelia told her. ‘She was always bringing us presents. I don’t remember her as well as the others of course. But she sometimes came at night after the performance, driving down to us without a care for the danger of the roads. Next day she would leave in the early afternoon to do the evening performance at Drury Lane. Sometimes she didn’t bother to take off her stage costume but came down in that.’

Adelaide could picture it all – the wild and beautiful actress, so charming, so volatile, enchanting William and her children.

‘She used to rehearse her parts here,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Do you remember, Mary? How we all had to play with her. It was great fun. Papa used to love to play. He fancied himself as an actor.’

‘He did act on board ship when he was in the Navy,’ Augustus put in. ‘They played The Merry Wives of Windsor and tipped the fat lieutenant who played Falstaff into a load of rubbish. Papa was always telling us about it’

It was so easy to picture it all – that happy-go-lucky unconventional family presided over by a Duke and an actress; and strangely enough she felt grateful to have been allowed to become a member of it. She never tired of hearing stories of the past. If she had been a fanciful woman she might have imagined the presence of Dorothy Jordan presiding over the house now, as benignly glad that Adelaide had come to Bushy House as Adelaide was to be there.

Once when Adelaide went up to the attics she saw a picture there of a lovely woman in a theatrical costume and she guessed at once who it was.

She studied it carefully, looking into the big brown eyes that seemed to speak to her. When she went into the gardens she found Augustus there playing with his dog.

‘There is a picture in the attic,’ she said. ‘It’s rather lovely. I wondered about it.’

‘I expect it’s one of Mamma. People did paint her quite a lot.’

‘Will you come to the attic and tell me if it is.’

Augustus expressed himself willing and they went up together.

‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘that is Mamma. It used to hang over the fireplace in the dining-room. Every day when we came in I used to say “Good morning, Mamma”. It was nice when she was playing somewhere and wasn’t at home.’

‘When was it taken down?’

‘When you were coming, of course. Papa said you wouldn’t want to see our Mamma there. So it was taken down and put up in the attic. I remember the day they did it.’

‘And what did you think then?’

‘Well, I was a little sad because after Mamma went I used to think that she was still there. You see what I mean.’

‘I do see,’ said Adelaide.

William came into the dining-room and stared at the picture hanging in its old place over the fireplace. For the moment he thought he was dreaming. He remembered the day it had been brought home and hung there and how the family had all congregated to admire and criticize it; and how he had made Dorothy stand just beneath it. ‘It’s not quite like you, Mamma,’ one of the children had said, ‘It’s too … quiet. It’s like a dead you.’

He often remembered that and told people of it; he had bored people with a repetition of his children’s sayings.

He sent for the chief footman.

‘Who hung that picture there?’ he demanded.

‘Your Highness, I did.’

William’s face was suddenly purple with rage. ‘How … how dared you? On whose orders?’

The footman inclined his head almost proudly; and he replied: ‘It was on the Duchess’s orders, Your Highness.’

‘The Duchess’s orders!’ Then he said: ‘Oh … I see.’

He could not wait to find her. She was in the gardens with Augustus and Amelia. He did not wish to speak to her of the picture when she was with the children; and it was not until later that they were alone together in that very room in which it hung that she herself explained.

‘I asked them to bring it from the attic and hang it there.’

‘But you know who it is!’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the children’s mother. Augustus told me. They love that picture.’

‘It shall be taken down. We will have a portrait of you hung in its place.’

‘I want you to follow my wishes over this,’ she said. ‘I want that picture to remain.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

She laid her hand gently on his arm. ‘You will … in time,’ she said.

‘But you can’t want her picture there … in this room which we use so much.’

She nodded. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘she was a most unusual woman, a great woman. And she is the mother of the children. They wish it there … and so do I.’

‘You are their mother now,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I can only take the place of the mother they have lost if they need me and it shall be my pleasure to be that. She is their true mother. They will never forget it, nor must we wish them to. So … the picture will hang in its old place?’