Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

That was a pleasant thought. It was God’s will that Charlotte had died so that Victoria should be the most important little girl in the kingdom.

‘You are not paying attention, Victoria,’ said the Duchess severely.

‘I am now, Mamma.’

‘You will have to be more serious now. You understand what the death of your Uncle Frederick means?’

‘Yes, Mamma, it means that he is dead and we shan’t see him again.’

The Duchess looked exasperated, but affectionately so.

‘It means this, child, that you have come a little nearer to the throne. Your Uncle George, alas (such a gratified smile for Mamma made it clear that she did not love Uncle King) is a very sick man. If he died tomorrow your Uncle William would be King.’

‘Aunt Adelaide would be Queen. I think, Mamma, that she will make a very good Queen.’

Mamma ignored such an idle observation. ‘And if they do not have a child, do you know what would happen if Uncle William died?’

‘But Uncle William is not going to die … and Aunt Adelaide …’

‘Aunt Adelaide has nothing to do with this. Uncle William is not immortal. We all have to die and he is not a young man. If Uncle George died and William died, you would be the Queen of England.’

Victoria clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling, an expression of ecstasy on her face.

The Duchess was pleased. ‘I see that you realize your responsibilities.’

Victoria had not been thinking of those but of a glittering crown on her head and a cloak of purple velvet edged with ermine.

‘We must bear them in mind,’ said the Duchess. ‘We must be less frivolous. We must prepare ourselves.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘We will speak of this on a more suitable occasion.’

She meant, of course, when the bells had ceased to toll for Uncle Frederick because funerals were supposed to be sad times and how could one be sad when one contemplated being a Queen.

‘You may go now, Victoria.’

She curtsied prettily and went to the nursery. She had an urge to play with the dolls. She loved them; she talked to them; they all had names; and most of them represented famous people. Fräulein Lehzen had made some of them herself; she was very good at it, and she would make sure of getting their costumes right. There was Queen Elizabeth who had been a prisoner in the Tower of London before she was Queen and Mary Queen of Scots who had lost her head. She wanted to know all about the dolls and what had happened to them before they had become members of her family. Fräulein Lehzen knew many stories of them all and they were all fascinating. There was the dashing Earl of Leicester who might have married Elizabeth for he wanted to but he had a wife, Amy Robsart. She had always had rather a fancy for Amy Robsart because her story was so sad and she was one of the prettiest of the dolls. She would never really like Elizabeth because of Amy Robsart.

She picked up Elizabeth and straightened her ruff with impatient fingers.

‘Untidy again!’ she said severely. ‘And I really believe you had a hand in murdering Amy.’ Then she took Amy and kissed her. ‘There! A consolation for being pushed down the stairs.’

What exciting dolls they were! Not all famous. The Big Doll presented by Aunt Adelaide was just … the Big Doll, bigger than the others and like a baby. She loved the Big Doll but the others were more interesting. They were a worthy collection for a girl who might one day be a Queen herself.

‘Listen to the bells,’ she said to them. ‘They are tolling for Uncle Frederick and because he is dead I am nearer to the throne. One day I shall be a queen.’

She was thoughtful. One day she would be like one of the dolls – Queen Victoria – made of sawdust with a wooden face and a mantle of purple velvet and ermine and a crown on her head.

How strange to think of herself as a doll? But one had to live first of course – and the exciting future lay before her.

Ernest Duke of Cumberland heard of the death of his brother Frederick with undisguised pleasure. There was after all no need to conceal from his clever Duchess that which seemed to him a perfectly natural emotion.

The Duchess had softened a little since the birth of their son. She doted on young George who was a bright boy, and handsome too. Her greatest ambition would be fulfilled if she could see him attain the throne of England.

And to think that there was that smug fat child at Kensington Palace standing between her and her desires was more than she could endure.

She knew that Ernest felt the same; though he was perhaps thinking more of getting the throne for himself than for George.

George would inevitably follow his father – and as usual their ambitions were identical.

‘George cannot last much longer,’ Ernest was saying. ‘It’s a miracle that he’s held out so long. He’s a mass of disease and has to be wheeled about most of the time. Frederick has been removed. And that leaves only William.’

‘William is in moderately good health.’

‘Is he? Wasn’t he at Ems taking the water for something or other? I was thinking more of his mental health. I’ve heard that he has been behaving very strangely. Of course there is the example of our father, so no one would be exactly surprised.’

Frederica raised her eyebrows. ‘That might apply to any member of the family.’

‘Only if he showed tendencies.’

‘It has been said of George.’

‘Well, George has behaved somewhat madly now and then. Now, listen, if George died and William went off his head …’

‘There still remains Miss at Kensington. The little horror seems to be full of health and vigour. How do you propose to remove her from your path?’

‘It is something which would have to be considered very carefully; and it would hardly be possible to do that from such a great distance.’

‘I see, so you propose going to England?’

‘It’s the only thing to do. I shall leave almost immediately. There may be little time to lose.’

‘And your son and your Duchess?’

‘Will follow me, of course. It is important that George be brought up in England. We must show the people that he is as important as his girl cousin of Kensington … and far more suited to become their ruler.’

‘Will they accept that since he is the son of a younger son?’

‘That is what we have to discover, my dear – a means of making the desirable event acceptable to the people of England.’

‘There is only one thing that would make them accept it – the death of Victoria.’

‘Don’t look so despondent, my dear. You sound as though you think the child immortal.’

She laughed.

‘So, you will go to England to find a way?’

He nodded thoughtfully.

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

THE KING LAY in bed in that house in Windsor Park which was called – with mock modesty – the King’s Cottage. He wore a rather grubby silk jacket and his nightcap of peacock blue satin was a little greasy. He was becoming so blind now – for he had lost the sight in one eye – that he was for great periods of time unaware even of what he looked like.

One of the actresses from Drury Lane sat at his bedside reading to him. He did not go to the theatre now. How could he face his people? But his love of the drama had not abated and it consoled him to have a woman with a beautiful voice to read to him, particularly as she could inject life into the parts as she spoke them. Miss Elizabeth Chester read most days until commanded to stop, although he never allowed her to tire her voice; he might be old, almost blind; he might even forget to be aware of his appearance, but he never forgot the courtesy due to a woman.

Now she was reading The Winter’s Tale. He had asked for it specially. What memories it conjured up; and as he listened he was no longer an old man lying in his bed but a handsome young prince in a balcony box at Drury Lane Theatre and on the stage was Perdita Robinson – as exquisite a woman as ever graced the theatre of her day – or for that matter anyone else’s day.

He closed his eyes and it was Perdita’s voice he heard but not her face he saw, for he could not clearly remember what she had looked like; it was Maria’s, for hers was one that was engraved on his memory for ever – Maria with the fine eyes and the unpowdered golden hair and the finest of fair skins to put all others to shame, for it had never needed artful aids. Her nose, he thought tenderly, was aggressive enough to add character to her beauty – the imperfection which was more fascinating than perfection could ever be.

So he lay dreaming of the past and Miss Chester’s lovely voice was Perdita’s and Florizel’s in turn. In those days they had called him Florizel and Mary Robinson had been Perdita ever since. But he was no longer Prince Florizel.

He sighed and Miss Chester paused to glance at him.

‘You read beautifully … beautifully …’ he murmured.

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘And perhaps now you are a little tired?’

‘No, Sir, if it is Your Majesty’s wish that I continue.’

‘I must not be selfish.’

She thought how charming he was – even lying there in his bed, without an elegant neckcloth to hide his swollen neck, a mountain of flesh under the silk coverlet; his voice was musical still and he had the power to make any woman feel she was important to him.

‘Have I Your Majesty’s leave to retire?’

‘Please do, and come again tomorrow.’

When she had gone he dozed a little and was startled to be awakened by a servant at his bedside.