‘If it were so you would hear quickly,’ she told him calmly. ‘The King has been ill for so long and recovered so many times. And so has the Duke of York.’

‘But they say … Just fancy it, Adelaide, King William.’

‘You would be desolate if George died,’ she said. ‘And so should I. He has been a good brother to us both.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m fond of George. But …’ Then he smiled slowly. ‘Adelaide,’ he went on, ‘I think this is a time when we should be in England.’

She could only agree that this was so, but a strange uneasiness had come to her. She had never seen him quite like this before. She knew him well – a simple man, caring for his family at Bushy, living rather humbly for one in his position, playing Pope Joan for small stakes. That was the life which suited him.

She thought: If it ever happened that he should wear the crown I should be uneasy.

When they returned to England it was to find the state of affairs much as it had been when they left. The King had been ill and was better; the Duke of York had been near to death several times but lived on and was building a new home for himself in St James’s.

William did not seem depressed by the news. He was remembering, Adelaide hoped, that he was fond of his brothers.

All was well with the family. Sophia, Lady Sydney, had named her daughter Adelaide – so three of William’s grandchildren now bore this name. It was a pleasant tribute to Adelaide.

The affairs of the FitzClarences could always absorb William, and Adelaide shared his enthusiasm for the family; she was delighted, too, that William had ceased to brood on the possibility of being King.

The winter was bitterly cold; and in January the Duke of York became very ill. He was swollen so with dropsy that he could not leave his chair; and one day, clad in an old dressing-gown of a drab grey colour which for the last weeks he had worn all the time, he sat in his chair and appeared to sleep. When his attendants, alarmed by his long silence, came to see if he needed them, they found that he was dead.

When the news of Frederick’s death was brought to the King he lapsed into deep melancholy. Frederick had been his favourite brother and memories of nursery days came flooding back. It was Frederick who, in the days of their youth, had aided him in his assignations with maids of honour in Kew Gardens; it was Frederick who had stood watch on Eel Pie Island when he had been there with Perdita Robinson. Frederick had supported him through all the trouble with Maria. No two brothers had ever been closer.

And now, Fred had gone first although he was a year younger. It was a melancholy occasion. He talked constantly to Lady Conyngham who listened sullenly. She was sulking because Lord Ponsonby had been sent to Brazil.

The day of the funeral was the coldest even in that cold spell. The King was clearly genuinely grieved; but it was noticed that the Duke of Clarence was in a state of great excitement. He had of course taken a very close step to the throne and was the heir apparent and it really seemed, by the appearance of the King, that his accession would not be long delayed. But, said the spectators, surely he might have had the decency to restrain his excitement.

‘By God,’ he said in an audible whisper, ‘the cold goes right through your boots.’ And turning to the Duke of Sussex he continued: ‘This should mean a difference in the way I’m treated now … You too. It will make a difference … no mistake about that.’

Peel, the Home Secretary, whispered to a colleague who was blue with the cold: ‘Take off your cocked hat and stand on the silk round it. It’ll give you some protection from these icy stones.’

‘This,’ whispered Clarence, ‘is going to lay some of us up. There’ll be some deaths after this, you see. This cold is … killing.’

Was he looking hopefully at the King? people asked themselves.

What had happened to Clarence? He had been thought to be a kindly simpleton but was the glitter of a nearby crown blinding him to all family affection?

The King wept openly; but then he had always wept easily. Yet these were genuine tears and as the bells tolled he covered his face with his hands.

‘I feel as though nails are being driven into my heart,’ he told the Duke of Rutland. ‘He was my dearest friend as well as my brother. In our youth we were inseparable and when my father sent him to Germany we were desolate. We considered it the greatest tragedy of our lives; and when he came back it was just as it was before he went away. A world that does not contain Frederick has little charm for me.’

As soon as the funeral was over he drove immediately to Brighton, for, as he explained, he wanted to shut himself away from the world and he could best do that there.

At Windsor the bells would go on tolling as they would in London. He could not bear to hear them.

In Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent summoned her daughter. Victoria was growing up. She would be eight in May. Old enough, said her mother, to be aware of her enormous responsibilities.

The tolling of the bells filled the apartments and Victoria told her dolls that it was because of the death of poor Uncle Frederick.

The Duchess thought this preoccupation with dolls a little childish. She had said so to Fräulein Lehzen, but the Fräulein in her devotion to her charge was not always ready to agree with the Duchess. A disturbing element, but the Duchess had to admit that however mistaken Lehzen might be she had the good of Victoria at heart and was assiduous in her care of the child. She also had a method of teaching which was unrivalled and Victoria was not naturally brilliant at her lessons; she was bright and intelligent, precocious even, but sitting down at a desk and learning from books did not appeal to her.

Lehzen believed that as a future Queen the most important subject she must study was history and as Victoria refused to assimilate cold hard facts and dates, Lehzen turned historical facts into exciting stories which she told to Victoria while her maids were dressing her.

The child was too exuberant and apt to gossip too freely in front of servants and this served a double purpose, keeping her from uttering indiscretions and at the same time teaching her what it was essential for her to know. Victoria actually enjoyed these stories.

Fräulein Lehzen was strict in the extreme; she laid down a set of nursery rules from which she would not allow Victoria to diverge; and yet at the same time she managed to inspire in the child a great affection.

The Duchess was well aware of this and so although at times she had her differences with Lehzen, she appreciated her worth.

She had said to that worthy woman, ‘We must now double our vigil. Who knows, the great day may come sooner than we think.’

One of the obstacles – for that was how she thought of those who stood between Victoria and the throne – had been removed.

‘My child,’ said the Duchess when Victoria came in answer to her summons, ‘you know what has happened?’

Victoria said she did and wondered whether Mamma wished her to look sad or gratified. It was not always easy to know; so she compromised and looked half sad, half expectant.

‘Poor Uncle Frederick has passed away.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘And of course we are very sad.’

There was the cue. They must look sad for a moment.

‘He was very kind,’ said Victoria. ‘He gave me my donkey and my lovely Punch and Judy Show.’

The Duchess looked at her daughter in a manner which implied that this was not the time to talk of donkeys and Punch and Judy Shows.

Of course, thought Victoria, I hardly ever saw him. I hardly ever see any of the uncles. Uncle William doesn’t come with Aunt Adelaide. Uncle Adolphus is always going to Germany. Uncle Ernest is in Germany; and Uncle King is too busy being King to see me. She was regretful about that because of all the Uncles she would have liked to see more of Uncle King. There was Uncle Leopold who came on Wednesdays and talked to her very seriously but kindly. He was always very melancholy and there was something going on of which Mamma did not approve. Something to do with an actress who was a friend of his, Victoria believed; she kept her eyes and ears open and liked to hear what the servants had to say. Visits to Claremont were some of the happiest times of her life although there Uncle Leopold was more melancholy than ever, but she could enjoy Uncle Leopold’s melancholy because she was sure he did. He told her about Cousin Charlotte and showed her her bedroom and told her of the things she had done and said. Cousin Charlotte had been very gay and a little wild and had shocked people, in the nicest possible way. Strangely enough had she lived she would have been Queen and that would have meant that she, Victoria, would have been more like an ordinary little girl and what she did and said would not have been so important. Victoria did not think she would have wished for that. Sometimes life was very restricting and she was impatient with it; but in her heart she knew that she would not have it different. She was Victoria with a great future – and that was how she wanted it to be. Louisa Lewis who had been dresser to Charlotte and who was an old, old woman still at Claremont, was very fond of Victoria. I believe, thought Victoria, she sees me as Charlotte sometimes. Louisa Lewis told stories of Charlotte – how she was always tearing her clothes – and she spoke as though there was some virtue in it, at least in the way Charlotte did it. ‘She was the sweetest, most loving creature that ever lived,’ declared Louisa Lewis. Then she would cry and Victoria would wipe away her tears. ‘Never mind, Louisa,’ she would say. ‘It was God’s will.’