As the cortège progressed the crowds grew thicker and some of them were bent on mischief. The press had worked on their emotions with their diatribes against the Queen and her scandal-mongering ladies and the pamphlets like The Victim of Scandal and the Palace Martyr had had their effect. The crowd was all in sympathy with the dead and full of reproaches for the living.

The heroine of the occasion was without doubt Flora Hastings and the villainess the Queen.

As they neared the wharf where Lady Flora’s coffin was to be placed on a ship to be taken up to Scotland someone threw a stone at the royal carriage; others followed but fortunately the stone throwing was not taken up with much enthusiasm and the people contented themselves with words.

‘What’s the good of her gilded trumpery after she has killed her?’ called a voice.

And another: ‘This is the victim. Where’s the murderer?’ Another: ‘This is a case of murder against Buckingham Palace.’

But at last Lady Flora’s coffin was placed on board the ship which was to take it to Scotland and the danger was over.

‘Just a few repairs to the royal carriage,’ said Lord Melbourne lightly when he reported to the Queen.

‘The indignity!’ she cried. ‘They stoned my carriage.’

‘A mercy that you were not in it.’

She was angry. ‘Oh how dared they! They misunderstood. I only wanted to be kind to her … at the end.’

‘At the end,’ said Lord Melbourne. ‘But that was after all the fussing.’

‘I visited her. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her and she was grateful to me. She was indeed.’

‘She was honoured of course, but it was an unfortunate business.’

‘Thank God it is now done with.’

‘Yes,’ said Lord Melbourne, ‘providing the Hastings will let it die down. They’ve got so used to hounding a scapegoat that it might be hard for them to do without one. They will doubtless decide on poor old Clark next.’

‘Is there no end to this affair?’

‘It’s like a stone being thrown into a pond,’ said Lord Melbourne. ‘The ripples go on for a long time afterwards.’


* * *

She could not settle down. She was restless and ill at ease. Perhaps she was more upset by those words which had been flung at her than by anything else. Mrs Melbourne!

There was only one meaning to it. It disturbed her. But I am only twenty, she thought. I suppose I ought to marry.

Lord Melbourne was having his portrait painted. It was at her request that this was taking place and she had imperiously commanded that it should be done at the Palace so that she could watch the work in progress. Moreover she could talk to Lord Melbourne while he sat and that as he said would kill two birds with one stone, for naturally a busy Prime Minister would have little time to sit for his portrait.

‘I want a picture of you,’ she had told him, ‘so that I can look at it when you are not there. Therefore I shall need a good likeness.’

She would sit watching the artist at work with the utmost amusement.

‘Lord Melbourne,’ she told him severely, ‘you are not a good sitter. Is that not so?’ she demanded of the artist.

The artist looked a little embarrassed and Lord Melbourne said, ‘Oh, it is always wise to agree with the Queen.’

‘That is not only wise but true. You are always being told to hold your position and keep your head where it was. You move continually. Mr Grant,’ she said to the artist, ‘Lord Melbourne is not a good sitter, is he?’

‘His Lordship is solemn one moment and appears to be deep in thought and the next he is amused and laughing aloud. No, Your Majesty, it is certainly not easy to catch him.’

‘There, Lord Melbourne. You see you are not easily caught.’

‘Oh, I am very elusive,’ said Lord Melbourne.

She was happy watching the work progress. And it was fun to take one of the dogs with her – usually darling Dashy who was particularly fond of Lord Melbourne, but dear Islay sometimes went. And Lord Melbourne would talk to Dash and Dash would put his head on one side in such a way which drove her into fits of laughter and the poor artist into despair.

‘It is an exact likeness,’ she declared, which made Lord Melbourne grimace and Mr Grant so happy.

As she later wrote in her Journal: ‘It will be such happiness for me to have that dear kind friend’s face which I do like and admire so. His face is so handsome and his expression and there is his air. It is all just as he is with his white hat and cravat, waistcoat and coat … all just as he wears them.’

It was hard to tear herself away from the room. But even those sessions had been spoilt by the memory of those words: Mrs Melbourne.


* * *

It was some time now since Baron Stockmar had at Uncle Leopold’s suggestion left England to become the companion of the Queen’s cousin Albert. She had not given Albert a thought during all the anxieties of the last months but those words heard at Ascot had brought him back to mind. She had recently reached her twentieth birthday; Cousin Albert would soon be celebrating his. It was a marriageable age.

Uncle Leopold had made up his mind that she was going to marry Albert. It was true that at one time she had not been displeased with the idea. Long ago – that was how it seemed but it was in fact three years – before her accession, Albert and his brother Ernest had visited her and she had been delighted with her cousins, particularly Albert. Uncle Leopold had reminded her when they met that she had written to him – he still had and treasured her letter – that Albert ‘possessed every quality which could make her happy’. So she had thought then. But three years ago she had been a child. She hardly knew herself when she looked back – a princess instead of a queen, a captive instead of a power which could dismiss Sir Robert Peel, an ignorant girl who had never drunk from the fountain of Lord Melbourne’s wisdom.

And now she could not get out of her mind the thought of those words ‘Mrs Melbourne’; and she knew that it was time she married.

But whom should she marry? The answer from Uncle Leopold would be Cousin Albert of course, but Lord Melbourne had taught her that Uncle Leopold did not rule England. He had tried to interfere politically once before and Lord Melbourne had told him diplomatically, with such tact, that the affairs of England were for England’s ministers and her Queen to decide.

And, she thought, if I do not wish to marry Albert, I shall certainly not do so merely because Uncle Leopold wishes me to. Nor anyone else for that matter. But the truth was that she was unsure. She did not think she wished to marry at all – perhaps never. She would be like Queen Elizabeth – whom she had never liked – and remain single all her life.

If the people would not be so foolish and grow to like her again, and if she could keep Sir Robert Peel at bay, and if Lord Melbourne was her constant companion, that seemed a very happy prospect.

But, she thought vehemently, I will not be hurried into marriage in any circumstances.

Cousin Albert had made a grand tour of Europe in the company of Baron Stockmar and she knew that Uncle Leopold meant his next visit to be to England. Then her decision would be expected. She had three months of freedom. What a way to look at it. Freedom! Was she going to become a captive again? As far as she remembered Albert appeared to have been gentle, but of course one had to get to know people before one was sure.

Perhaps she should prepare Uncle Leopold. He must understand that she would not be coerced into anything – not even to please him.

She would write to him now and send the letter by courier. There were certain things she must know. How far was Albert aware of the family’s intention? Was he coming over to inspect her as she would inspect him? Oh surely not! A somewhat obscure German Prince would jump at the offer of the hand of the Queen of England. It was for her to decide. She could be sure of that. But of all else she was not at all sure … because as Uncle Leopold must understand so much had happened since that naïve outburst of three years ago.

She sat down and wrote to Uncle Leopold:‘First of all I wish to know if Albert is aware of the wish of his father and you relative to me. Secondly if he knows that there is no engagement between us … If I should like Albert I can make no final promise this year, for at the very earliest any such event could not take place till two or three years hence … Independent of my youth and my great repugnance to change my present position, there is no anxiety evinced in this country for such an event … I may like him as a friend, and a cousin and a brother but not more; and should this be the case (which is not unlikely) I am very anxious that it should be understood that I am not guilty of any breach of promise, for I never gave any … Were this not completely understood I should be in a very painful position. As it is, I am rather nervous about the visit for the subject I allude to is not an agreeable one to me …’

There! That stated her feelings exactly; and having despatched the letter to Uncle Leopold she felt much better.


* * *

Naturally she talked the matter over with Lord Melbourne.

‘I have written to Uncle Leopold. He seems to be so certain that I am going to like Albert.’

‘Cousins are not very good for each other.’

‘Most royal people are cousins.’

‘And most of your cousins are Germans.’

‘And Germans are not good for one either?’ demanded the Queen.

‘They are inclined to be solemn.’

‘Shouldn’t we all be on some occasions?’

‘They are solemn on all occasions. Besides, they don’t wash as frequently as we do.’

‘I should enjoy washing less frequently,’ said Victoria with a laugh.

Oh it was fun to sit with him and watch the expressions flit across his face and the way in which he ruffled his hair without realising he was doing it. Now, he looked quite mischievous, now very much the Prime Minister; now like his portrait.

Oh dear Lord M! she thought. Why can’t we go on like this forever? We don’t need interruptions.

‘Something is on your mind,’ said Lord Melbourne suddenly.

‘It is this visit of Albert’s. It’s definitely planned for the autumn. Albert’s father, Uncle Ernest and Uncle Leopold are very anxious for it.’

‘They would be,’ said Lord Melbourne. ‘But it is not they who would have to marry Albert, is it?’

She laughed at the thought. ‘Marriage! Why do we have to talk of marriage?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t think it is necessary for me to marry yet.’

‘Not for a year or two.’

‘And if I do not like Albert?’

‘Well then Albert will be sent back to Saxe-Coburg.’

‘And all will go on as before.’

She was so happy at the thought that he could not tell her then that sooner or later it would be her duty to marry, nor remind her that the victory they had snatched from Sir Robert Peel was in fact a respite. Life could not go on as it was. Change had to come from some direction.


* * *

The Queen was becoming fretful. Her temper flared out at the slightest provocation. Her ladies were sometimes afraid to speak to her. Even dear Daisy was snapped at.

She dreamed of Lady Flora Hastings now and then; and the memory of that emaciated figure stretched out on the couch with the reproachful eyes regarding her stayed with her.

The Hastings would not let the matter rest and were now taking up the case against Sir James Clark. When she drove out she had come to expect a few hisses from the crowd. Often she thought of that first summer of her reign – the pleasantest she had ever spent in her life – and asked herself why it had changed.

She even became irritable with Lord Melbourne. Sometimes in the evening when they were sitting together and the rest of the company were playing games or listening to music and the Duchess sat at her interminable whist, Lord Melbourne would not answer when she spoke to him and she would realise that he had fallen asleep.

It was a habit of his, for although he could be very lively if there was an interesting discussion in progress he would go straight off to sleep when the conversation became trivial. It had amused her to try all sorts of ruses to awaken him without calling attention to his somnolent state; and it could be very awkward when she wanted to go and he was not ready to stand up and bow. She would twit him about it afterwards and he would say the funniest things. It could be so embarrassing – in a comical sort of way.