Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

He and Julie lived in a pleasantly domestic atmosphere. There were young people constantly in and out of the houses. Julie was fond of children and had become godmother to several when she was in Canada and these paid frequent visits. It had been an exceptionally happy household – more domesticated than that enjoyed by Dorothy Jordan and the Duke of Clarence because Dorothy’s frequent absences at the theatre had meant that the occasions when the family could be all together were rare. Not so with Edward and Julie. They, as Julie often told Maria Fitzherbert, lived for each other.

Julie’s charm offset the rather morose character of Edward – not that he was morose with her, but in company her gaiety was the charming antidote to his seriousness. He liked everything to be done at precisely the time assigned to it. His servants must be on duty all the time; a manservant must remain awake all night to come into Edward’s bedroom during the night and light the fire so that the room was warm by morning; another servant must bring in his coffee at the stroke of six; another, exactly half an hour later must come to take away the tray. In this he resembled his great-grandfather George II who had, it was said, even made love by the clock. In fact Edward was fascinated by time-pieces; in his bedroom it was impossible to escape from their chiming and ticking.

Like all his brothers, Edward was in debt, but he did not take the matter as lightly as they did. With his precise methods of keeping accounts he deplored the fact that his expenses were more than his income.

He talked this over with Julie who was concerned to see his anxiety. ‘Castle Hill,’ he pointed out, ‘Knightsbridge and my apartments in Kensington Place! That is three homes. Do we need three?’

‘I need only one if you are in it,’ Julie replied.

‘And as I am of like opinion,’ he replied, ‘why should we keep up these three homes? Why don’t we settle for one? Do you know, it’s three times cheaper in Brussels than it is in London.’

‘Brussels!’ Julie’s eyes gleamed at the thought. She would be closer to her family who were in Paris, and now that the war was over it was safe to travel on the Continent.

‘I have an idea,’ said Edward. ‘We’ll take a house there. We’ll sell Castle Hill and the Knightsbridge place and I’ll give up my apartments in the Palace. That would settle some of the debts and we’d be more or less free to start again.’

Julie was clearly delighted, but she was eager that he should be sure that he wanted to make this move.

‘Your family …’

He shrugged them aside. He had been unpopular with the Duke of York since the Mary Anne Clarke scandal and that had meant to some extent with the Regent, for George believed firmly in family loyalty; and in any case he and Frederick had always stood together. The Queen did not approve of the irregularity of life; and he and Ernest had always been the outsiders in the family.

‘You are my family, Julie,’ he said. ‘Your godchildren could come and visit us there, and you could see your family frequently.’

Julie was delighted, so they rented a mansion in Brussels and Julie, who loved flowers, immediately began planning the gardens while Edward made a few improvements to the house, for why should they not settle here where they could live on a quarter of his income and the rest could be used to pay off his debts?

It seemed to be an admirable arrangement, and they settled down to a peaceful existence, visiting Paris, entertaining Julie’s family, playing cards and chess together, giving parties in the gardens of which Edward was growing very proud.

Then the Princess Charlotte died.

When they heard the news they could not believe it.

‘Not that great bouncing girl!’ cried Edward.

‘Poor, poor Leopold!’ sighed Julie. ‘I have heard that he was so devoted to her. I can’t get him out of my thoughts.’

What Edward could not get out of his thoughts was the fear of what this was going to mean. He would have to go to England, he supposed. Sooner or later he would receive a summons from the Regent and there would be a family conference. He wondered what suggestions the Queen would make.

He watched Julie covertly. Was she remembering how often they had congratulated themselves that he was the fourth son of the King, for had he been the first or second he would have been forced into marriage as the Regent and the Duke of York had been. And with what disastrous results in both cases! He kept thinking of Julie’s distress over poor Dorothy Jordan when William had abandoned her. ‘I should not have believed it of William,’ she had said. ‘I do not admire him for it.’

And she must have been thinking of him and herself, for were not their cases similar?

He wondered if pressure had been brought to bear on William by the family, and if that were not the reason why he had suddenly deserted a woman with whom he had lived for more than twenty years and who had borne him ten children.

He had soothed Julie. ‘You should put the thought that it could happen to us out of your mind.’

‘I think I should die if it did,’ Julie had answered.

What he could not get out of his mind was that conversation.

And Dorothy had died. He did not believe those stories of her walking down Piccadilly and in the Strand. Nor did he believe that her ghost had appeared there. Poor Dorothy Jordan!

He could not sleep for thinking of what lay in store for him. He waited for the message. The peace of Brussels was shattered. He knew the summons would come; and when it came he would have to obey it.

He had had a sleepless night; he had lain still afraid lest Julie should be aware of his lack of ease. He did not want her to suspect just yet. He wanted her to enjoy every hour to the full. It was important now that they both did.

He was tired when he went down to breakfast. His letters with the papers from England were awaiting him at the breakfast table as they always were. They were placed there precisely five minutes before he appeared.

He picked up the letters and Julie held out her hands for the papers.

He gave them to her and settled down to the letters.

She did not speak but he was aware that something dreadful had happened. He looked up. She was lying back in her chair, her face the colour of the cloth on the table, her eyes closed.

‘Julie, my darling, what’s wrong?’

She opened her eyes and her fingers caught at his sleeve.

The paper! Of course it was the paper.

He looked down. There it was in large print on the front page. ‘Dukes of Clarence and Kent to marry now. The death of the Princess Charlotte has made it imperative that her uncles do their duty by the State. There are rumours that …’

So it had come.

He threw the paper to the floor. He laughed. ‘Oh come, Julie. Newspaper talk. You know what the press is like.’

She opened her eyes and looked at him. She was begging him to reassure her, and he went on talking. His lips told her what she wanted to know, but in his heart he knew he was lying. He could hear those words she had spoken beating like a malicious tattoo in his head. ‘I think I should die.’

IN HER BED in the Berlin mansion which she shared with her husband Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, fifth son of King George III, Frederica, the Duchess, was resting. She had taken to rising late since the birth of her still-born daughter, for the fact was that she was no longer very young. It was thirty-nine years since she had been born in her father’s dukedom of Mecklenburg-Strelitz; but her vitality, her flamboyant good looks and a certain magnetism which she had possessed since a young girl made her – and all about her – forget her age. She would be the fascinating Frederica until she died.

She stretched luxuriously. Life was good. She was in love with the man she had married – her third husband – and that seemed to her not only an idyllic but also a rather comical situation. She, Frederica of the lurid reputation, and Ernest, the wicked Duke of Cumberland, the sinister member of the British royal family who had been suspected of most sins – as she had herself – had met, and found their match.

She laughed every time she thought of it; and so did Ernest.

She was particularly pensive this morning and was thinking of her old Aunt Charlotte, Queen of England, who, one would have thought, would have been delighted to accept her niece as her daughter-in-law. Not so old Charlotte. Charlotte did not approve of her niece’s reputation, she would not receive her at Court, and if it had been possible she would have stopped the marriage.

Poor old Charlotte! laughed Frederica. Surely one of the most unattractive women in the world. Didn’t they always see evil in those members of their sex who possessed the charms they lacked!

Oh God, she thought. I wish Louise were here.

If Louise, sister and friend who had scarcely been parted from her until her death, could be with her now she would ask nothing more of life. In moments of happiness she would remember Louise. She would see herself sitting at her sister’s bedside at the last, talking to her, trying to divert her mind from pain, recalling the early days of their triumphs when they had been fêted and courted and had shocked the Court of Berlin by being the first to dance the waltz there.

Louise, Queen of Prussia, had borne ten children and she had only been thirty-four when she died. They ask too much of us, thought Frederica angrily. We are bred to breed. Ten children and only thirty-four! Beautiful Louise – born only to breed and to die doing it!