‘There is no barrier.’

‘How often do you see her? She should be here at Windsor. She should be your close companion. Why, you hardly know the child.’

The King was thoughtful.

‘I believe,’ said the Duke of Cumberland, a nerve twitching in his cheek, ‘that you are considering having Victoria brought to Windsor.’

The Duchess of Kent was in a panic.

She sent for Sir John Conroy. ‘What shall I do? The King has made no commands yet, but I have heard that he intends to. He wants Victoria to go to Windsor.’

‘You must resist at all costs.’

‘I know. I know. But what if he should command? And at Windsor is … Cumberland.’

‘The child must not go. You must have a breach with the King rather. I would not answer for her life if she left Kensington. Here we can protect her, but she must not leave us. The Princes who were murdered in the Tower were taken from their mother. It must not happen to Victoria.’

‘It shall not. I’ll take her out of the country rather.’

The Duchess of Clarence called. She embraced the Duchess of Kent fearfully.

‘You have heard the rumours,’ said the Duchess of Kent.

Adelaide nodded. ‘She must not go. You must not let her out of your sight.’

‘I have determined not to. Anything … anything … rather than allow it. I am so terrified.’

Adelaide said: ‘When William comes to the throne she will be safe. He will be King and I know he will protect you. But … now … it is Cumberland they say who rules, for the King is so ill he hardly knows what is going on about him. I know him for one of the kindest of men. I am sure he would be horrified if he knew what was in our minds.’

‘It is as though an evil familiar has taken possession of him.’

‘It is exactly so. I do not know the source of Cumberland’s power over him, but it exists and while he lives we shall have to fear Cumberland.’

‘My dear Adelaide,’ said the Duchess, ‘I live in terror. What if the King should send for her?’

‘I think it is a matter for the Prime Minister. I will approach him and see what can be done. I will tell him that you will never give up Victoria and I am certain that the people would be on your side.’

‘You will speak to the Prime Minister?’

‘I do not like him. He treated William very brusquely over the Lord High Admiral affair but I believe him to be an honest man and that he will do what he believes to be right.’

‘Oh, Adelaide, you are a great comfort to me. I know why Victoria loves you so dearly.’

Adelaide had shed her meekness. One of her children was threatened and she was going to save the child.

The most angry and frustrated man in England was the Duke of Cumberland.

The Duke of Wellington had called on the King that day and had a meeting with him alone. Had Cumberland known that the Duke intended to call he would have made sure that he did not see the King; but Wellington had called unexpectedly and it was not until after the interview had taken place that Cumberland learned what had happened.

The King had invested his brother with the office of Gold Stick which meant that he had great authority at Windsor and no one was allowed to write to the King unless their communications passed first through his hands.

‘I have the authority of His Majesty,’ he announced; and indeed it seemed that Cumberland was in all but name the King.

Wellington had known this. It was his reason for coming unannounced.

Cumberland lost no time in discovering what had been the purpose of Wellington’s call.

‘It was just the matter of Victoria’s leaving Kensington,’ said the King.

Just the matter! It happened to be one of the most important matters in the world to Cumberland.

‘The Duchesses of Kent and Clarence have heard that we had a mind to bring her here. They are very much against her leaving her mother.’

Cumberland laughed shortly. ‘Of course they are. They are a couple of foolish women.’

‘I do not think they are foolish. In fact I believe Adelaide to be a most intelligent woman. She was very insistent. She said that it would break Victoria’s heart to leave her mother. They are devoted.’

‘She does not realize that the child must be brought up to be the Queen … which she may well one day be.’

‘I do not wish her to be unhappy.’

‘She would be completely happy here.’

‘Here, Ernest? What are you thinking of? In the Lodge? In the Castle? In the Cottage? It is no place for a child.’

‘By God, George, this is no ordinary child. It is the Queen.’

‘That is what people forget of royal children. They are destined to be human beings as well as kings and queens. I remember our upbringing. I think it was responsible for my wildness as a young man. No. The child is happy. She shall stay where she is.’

‘George, you should consider …’

There were times when the King could be very regal. ‘I have discussed the matter thoroughly … with Wellington, who is of my opinion. Victoria shall stay at Kensington.’

‘I am sure when we have discussed the matter …’

The King was peevish. ‘My dear Ernest, I have already told you that the matter is settled.’

There was no arguing with him. Wellington had convinced him and they had decided this matter so vital to Cumberland’s plans without him.

Rumour had defeated him. The order should have been given, the child removed before anyone knew that it was his intention to bring her to Windsor.

Another plan foiled.

But there would be others.

The King is Dead

THE KING’S HEALTH had deteriorated rapidly. As many as eleven leeches had been applied to his leg at one time; punctures had been made in his thighs and ankles to draw off the water; he had grown enormous with dropsy. It was evident that he could not live long.

The news spread all over London and down to Brighton. The King is dying.

Mrs Fitzherbert, now living in Brighton, wept when she heard the news. It was long since they had met but she had always regarded him as her husband; she had always hoped that some time before the end they would come together.

He had loved her, she was sure, as deeply as he had been capable of loving anyone; it had not unfortunately been deep enough to keep him faithful; and she had overlooked so many infidelities. He had learned too late that they should never have parted. But there were two great barriers to the happiness of their life together: his crown and her religion. He dared not admit that he, the King, had married a Catholic; and she could never renounce her faith.

Ill-starred lovers, she thought; and yet there had been happy years.

The happiest of my life, she thought.

And now that he was dying did he think of her? Did he remember the day forty-five years ago when in the drawing-room of her house in Park Street they had taken their marriage vows? They had been in their twenties then – she twenty-nine and he some years younger. She was seventy-four now. An old woman; but not too old to forget and not too old to hope that now that he was leaving this life he would want to go with his hand in hers.

She could not stay in Brighton, so she travelled up to London. Who knew? He might express a wish to see her and if he did she must be on the watch.

She waited for some sign; none came, and at last she could not resist taking up her pen and writing to him.

After many repeated struggles with myself, from the apprehension of appearing troublesome or intruding upon Your Majesty, after so many years of continual silence, my anxiety respecting Your Majesty has got the better of my scruples and I trust Your Majesty will believe me most sincere when I assure you how truly I have grieved to hear of your sufferings …

It was true and she could not see the page because the tears blurred it.

So many wasted years, she thought. I should have been with him. I am his wife. Why could he not have been true to our marriage? If he had, what misery we should have been saved.

But they had parted. He had always said it was not his wish, but he would not give up Lady Hertford for her sake. And when he had left Lady Hertford it had been Lady Conyngham, the harpy, who cared more for diamonds and sapphires than she did for the King, and made no secret of it.

Oh, the folly of it!

And now it was too late. But at least he should know that she thought of him.

She went on writing and when she had finished she sent for a messenger to take her letter to the King.

He could not see very clearly. The faces about his bed seemed to be floating in space. He was not even sure where it was.

He heard them talking. ‘We should give it to him. Mrs Fitzherbert …’

Her name roused him. He cried: ‘What is it?’

‘It is a letter, Sir, from Mrs Fitzhèrbert.’

He smiled. ‘Give it to me.’

She had not forgotten him. She had written to him. He held the paper in his hand. Her paper … her writing. Maria, he thought. So you did not forget. All those years you remembered and at the end you wrote to me.

He could not read what she had written. It did not matter. She had written. He put the letter under his pillow. It gave him great comfort.

Mrs Fitzherbert stood at her window, waiting. Surely some messenger would come? He would wish to see her to say a last farewell. He must. He could not die without seeing her once more. She had made it clear in her letter that she longed to see him, to hear him say his last farewell to her. Perhaps to tell her that he had never forgotten, that she was the one he had always loved.