‘You see, my dear,’ said the King, ‘it puts you in a more prominent position.’

Adelaide saw this and was eager to do her duty. She was often at Court; she gave parties which the King attended – often with Lady Conyngham; she appeared at all important royal functions.

People were noticing her more now than they ever had. She was far from handsome, was the verdict, but she had a charm of manner which made up for her lack of beauty; and her effect on William was miraculous.

She regretted the need for these ventures into society because they kept her from her baby. She felt she would never be accustomed to the wonder of having a child of her own; every moment she could spare from her duties was spent with the child. Queen Charlotte had had a wax image made of her beloved son George – now the King – and she had kept it on her dressing-table that she might see it every day. Adelaide now ordered a sculptor to model a reclining figure of the little Princess Elizabeth.

‘I want to have her with me always as she is now,’ she told William.

William was ready to indulge her and engaged the sculptor Scoular to carry out the work. The figure of the child was to be depicted lying on a couch, her head on a tasselled cushion; and when Scoular started the work Adelaide occasionally went to his studio to see how it was progressing.

The weather during January and February of coronation year had been mild, but in March it turned suddenly cold; and to Adelaide’s consternation the Princess Elizabeth caught a chill.

Going into the nursery one day she found the child uncomfortably flushed and in panic she immediately sent for the royal doctor, Sir Andrew Halliday.

At first he said that the child had merely taken a chill which he expected she would throw off in a day or so, but within a few hours he grew alarmed and sent for Sir William Knighton and Sir Henry Halford.

Adelaide was terrified. How could this have happened so suddenly? A day or so before the child had been quite well. She sent a message to William, who was with the King, to come to her at once.

When William heard that the child was ill he returned immediately. Adelaide met him at the door and when he saw how white she was and how she trembled he sought to comfort her.

‘Children have these ailments,’ he soothed. ‘Why, there are always alarms when they’re young. I should know … with ten of them.’

But this was not the ten vigorous FitzClarences; this was her precious fragile Elizabeth.

He went with her to the child’s nursery and there he was greeted by Sir Henry Halford, who was grave.

‘I have to tell Your Highnesses that the Princess has fallen into a convulsion and my colleagues feel that she is very gravely ill.’

William said nothing; he turned to Adelaide who looked as though she were about to faint.

‘I will take the Duchess to her room,’ he said; and he led her unresisting away.

She lay down as she was bid. She was praying silently. This could not be. She could not know so much happiness merely to lose it almost as soon as it was hers.

‘Anything, anything, let anything happen to me but let my baby be well again,’ she prayed.

She kept saying the child’s name over and over again and in her own ears her voice sounded mournful as a tolling bell and the fear in her heart would not be dismissed.

She must know what was happening. What was she doing lying here when her baby might be needing her?

She left her bed and went to the nursery.

William was there – looking unlike himself, a look of bleak bewilderment on his face.

She knew as soon as she saw him.

‘Not …’ she began, but she could say no more.

William nodded slowly.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘How could it be!’

She could see the child lying in her cradle … white and still.

‘No,’ she murmured.

William had caught her in his arms.

‘Help me get the Duchess to bed,’ he said.

There could not be such misery. She would not believe it. She did not want to know what was going on about her because everything would be dominated by one tragic fact.

She had learned in these last months that what she wanted more than anything, what she needed, was to be a mother. She was intended for motherhood. Her children would be the very meaning of life to her.

Her little Elizabeth had taught her that, and now she was gone.

She became ill, for she had never fully recovered from Elizabeth’s birth and the shock of her death was more than she could endure.

There was only one thing she wanted in life and that was for someone to come to her and say: ‘You dreamed this. It is not true. See here is your child, alive and well.’

The FitzClarences came to see her; they sat at her bedside and tried to comfort her. They did to a certain extent; but they were not her own children; and she had learned what it meant to hold her own flesh and blood in her arms.

William came. ‘You must get well,’ he said. ‘There will be others.’

But there was a terrible fear in her heart. Three times she had tried and failed. A fearful certainty had come to her that she would never bear a healthy child.

William told her that her sister Ida had written to say she was coming to England to comfort her, and she was bringing little Loulou and Wilhelm to help her in this.

‘You see, my dear, you must not grieve for ever,’ said William.

He was right. She had her duty. She must get up, try to live a normal life, try to pretend to the world that she did not believe that nothing would ever be the same again.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ said William. She tried to show some pleasure because he was so eager to interest her.

He took her into the small room in which she sat when she wished to be alone; sometimes she read there or did a little needlework. In one corner of this room was something covered by a velvet cloth.

William lifted this cloth; and there was the statue of a child – her Elizabeth – reclining on a sofa, with one exquisite little foot exposed; tiny fingers perfectly chiselled, curled about the stuff of the robe. The eyes were closed; the child was sleeping. It was Elizabeth, her child.

She stood staring at it; then she fell on her knees and laid her face against that cold little hand.

She began to sob as she had not been able to since the loss of her child, and the Duke knelt with her and they wept together.

The enormity of her grief swept over her; but in some strange way the cold marble statue had rekindled the life in her.

She was ready to go on.

Ida arrived in England with her two children and the reunion brought happiness to Adelaide. She admired her niece and nephew and they, sensing her genuine affection, were soon returning it. It was characteristic of Adelaide that in spite of her ever-present grief she bore no envy towards those who were more fortunate than herself.

Being with Ida, giving parties for her and introducing her to society helped her a great deal; but what she most enjoyed were the hours she spent alone with the children. The afflicted little Loulou was her special favourite, perhaps because the child aroused her pity; she even felt that in some way her little niece filled a part of that emptiness which had been created by the loss of Elizabeth.

The Duchess of Kent, now that Victoria’s rival was no more, was anxious to commiserate with her sister-in-law. Whenever she looked at her sturdy Victoria and thought of what had happened to the child’s cousin fear gripped her; and this quickly turned to pity for the Duchess of Clarence for she refused to allow herself to believe – for more than a second or two – that Victoria could possibly be threatened by death. Victoria was the elect, the beloved of the gods; it had been prophesied that she was to be a great queen – therefore fate could not allow it to be otherwise.

‘We were foolish to imagine anything could stand in Victoria’s way,’ she said to Lehzen. ‘Oh dear, I am so sorry for poor Adelaide. I have written to her condoling with her and I have told her that I have refrained from bringing little Victoria to see her for fear the sight of the child might upset her.’

‘How thoughtful of Your Highness!’ murmured Fräulein Lehzen.

Adelaide, however, was soon writing back to her sister-in-law thanking her for her letter and declaring that it would give her the greatest pleasure to see little Victoria, so that if the Duchess of Kent would bring her daughter to her she would be delighted.

‘There!’ said the Duchess to John Conroy who had become her chief adviser. ‘The Duchess of Clarence would like to see Victoria.’

‘She will be extremely jealous.’

‘They say she is not of a jealous nature – although having lost her daughter and seeing mine … I shall go of course. There is nothing else to be done and it is well that Victoria should be on good terms with all her uncles – particularly those who might one day wear the crown.’

John Conroy thought this was sound.

‘I shall certainly not take her to Bushy. It would be quite wrong for her to be near Clarence’s illegitimate brood. On no account shall I allow her to see them. So the visit will be paid when the Duchess is at St James’s.’

‘An excellent idea and worthy of Your Highness.’

The Duchess looked at him fondly; they worked so well together and he had been such a comfort to her since Edward’s death. There was always Leopold of course; and he came to Kensington every Wednesday to see her and Victoria; and what she would do without him she did not know. Victoria was so fond of him. The child did seem fond of men. She liked to sit on Leopold’s knee, examining his decorations and call him Uncle in her charming baby way.