Albert continued to stare at the cane.

‘Therefore I am going to punish you. I am going to beat you with this cane and you will still feel the effects of this beating for days to come. Now don’t start to cry. Is that the way princes behave? You can scream to your heart’s content but Ernest is gone for a walk and will not hear you; your mother will not hear you either. As for your grandmothers, they agree with me that what I am about to do is necessary. So Albert, take your punishment like a man and remember that when you are about to behave badly in future the cane will be applied with even more severity than I shall apply it now.’

His father seized him. ‘No!’ screamed Albert.

‘But yes,’ retorted the Duke.

Albert’s screams were deafening.

‘I won’t be defied,’ shouted the Duke.

Albert screamed the louder. His face grew red; he was gasping for breath. The Duke raised the cane but Albert’s piercing screams grew louder.

The Duke hesitated. The child would do himself an injury; he had heard of Albert’s screaming but had never realised how alarming it could be.

It grated on the Duke’s nerves; he felt he had to stop it at all costs; at the same time the sight of that small face suffused with blood and growing more purple every moment alarmed him.

The boy would do himself an injury; and the Duke knew that if he applied the cane those terrifying screams would grow worse.

‘Stop it, Albert,’ he commanded.

Albert continued to scream.

The Duke could not bear the sound; it seemed to pierce his eardrums. And then suddenly the child started to cough.

The Duke put the cane down. Albert, they said, was delicate. That was why he didn’t like dancing. It tired him. Albert went on coughing; he found he couldn’t stop.

The Duke said: ‘If you promise to behave better next time, I shan’t use the cane now.’

That quietened Albert.

‘I think,’ went on the Duke, ‘that we have come to an understanding.’

It was true. Albert understood that his screams were as effective with his father as with others.

The cough had helped too. He started to cough again. He went on and on making an odd noise as he did so.

His father went with him to the nursery and the grandmothers came in for a consultation. Meanwhile Albert discovered that Ernest, returned from his walk, was coughing too.

The brothers had contracted whooping-cough.


* * *

They must stay in the nursery, said the grandmothers. Everything that could be found to amuse them was brought to them. There were not so many lessons and more picture books; and Albert studied the drawings in one of these picture books which told the story of the two Saxon princes who had been kidnapped.

He did not mind being kept in the nursery because Ernest was with him; they could play and fight and listen to accounts of the treats that had been planned for them when they were better.

‘Why does Mama not come to see us?’ asked Albert.

Ernest couldn’t answer that; and when they asked the grandmothers they talked of something else.


* * *

The young Duchess was imprisoned in her room. She was frightened. Everything was known now. They had spied on her. She had been seen with her lover; they knew that she had visited his house.

What would become of her? What of her little boys? They were confined to the nursery now with whooping-cough and she longed to be with them.

They were cruel, these German Princes – cruel and crude. There was one law for the men and another for the women. Why should Ernest be so shocked because she had taken a lover? She wanted to laugh when she thought of the hosts of mistresses with whom he had humiliated her. Yet she was supposed to ignore that side of her husband’s nature; to remain coldy virtuous and await those occasions when he deigned to share her bed for the purpose of getting children. Her part of the bargain had been kept. He would have to understand that.

She would never forget – and who else would? – the terrible case of their ancestress, Sophia Dorothea. How very like her own: a crude boor of a husband from whom no female was safe, be she lady of the court or tavern woman; and poor tragic Sophia Dorothea had loved romantically the Count of Konigsmark. The discovery of their liaison had brought about the murder of Konigsmark and the banishment and divorce of Sophia Dorothea. Poor sad Princess who had languished in her prison castle for more than twenty years while her coarse husband went to England to become George I. And she had had two children – a boy and a girl. How heart-broken she must have been to leave them!

And here she was … she, Louise, married to Ernest, mother of two dear little boys, her Ernest and little Alberinchen. Poor darlings, if I am sent away what will they do without me? she asked herself.

The door was unlocked and her husband came in. He looked at her with contempt and her expression became one full of loathing.

‘It’s no use making any attempt to deny it,’ he said.

‘I was unaware that I was attempting to do that.’

‘Szymborski is leaving the country.’ She was silent. ‘We have put no obstacle in his way. We think it better to have him out of the way with as little scandal as possible.’ She nodded. ‘As for yourself, you may go tomorrow. You shall go quietly and without fuss. There has been enough gossip.’

‘You and your women have created a fair share of it,’ she retorted.

‘I have behaved as a natural man is expected to behave.’

‘By crude peasants, perhaps.’

‘Whereas you have behaved in a manner which is intolerable to me, my family and the people.’

‘Why should what is shameful in me be so natural and commendable in you?’

‘I did not say commendable … only natural. And the difference is, Madam, that you are the mother of the heirs of Saxe-Coburg. How long have you been consorting with your Jewish lover? Was it before Albert’s birth?’

‘How … dare you!’

‘I dare because we are here in this room alone. I would not have the boy’s future jeopardised by voicing these fears outside.’

‘Albert is your son.’

‘With a wanton for a mother how can I be sure of that?’

‘A mother can be sure.’

‘I can conceive circumstances where even she might not be sure.’

‘You are making me an object of your insults. Pray don’t.’

‘You are an obvious object for insult. How can I know that you have not brought a bastard into my house?’

She ran to him, her eyes blazing; she would have struck him but he caught her wrist and twisted her arm till she screamed with the pain.

‘Albert is your son,’ she said.

‘I believe you,’ he said, releasing her. ‘If I thought he were not, I would kill you.’

‘Always be good to Albert. He is not as strong as Ernest.’

‘Albert is my son and shall be treated as well as his elder brother.’

That placated her to some extent; but she felt desolate. She knew that she would be sent away, but for the first time she realised how wretched she would be when she was unable to see her children. Perhaps she would never see them again.

‘Yes, Ernest,’ she said, ‘Albert is your son. Never doubt it. I swear it.’

He looked at her searchingly and there was still a niggling doubt in his mind. His impulse was to seize her, to throw her to the ground, to beat the truth out of her. But Albert is my son, he assured himself. He must believe it. It was unthinkable that he could accept anything else. He had feared that under stress she might confess that Albert was not his son. What if Ernest were not also? Then he would be a man without sons. That was unthinkable. He loved the boys in his way. They were his. Ernest surely was, there could be no doubt of that. Ernest had his looks. And so was Albert. It was true those fair delicate looks were inherited from his mother but many babies resembled their mothers and bore no likeness whatsoever to their fathers.

He could not afford his suspicions. Albert was his son and no one must doubt that in the years to come.

He looked at his wife with hatred.

‘You will not take the boys away from me,’ she said.

‘Are you mad? You play the whore and then think it would be pleasant to be the mother for a while. You will never see the boys again.’

‘That would be too … cruel … wicked.’

‘What a pity you did not think of that before.’

‘Ernest, listen to me, I beg of you. I’ll go away. You can divorce me … never see me again. I admit I have done wrong, but please … I beg of you don’t take my babies from me.’

‘It’s a pity you did not think of your children when you were with your lover.’

‘I have thought of them constantly. Only they made my life worth while.’

‘They … and Szymborski?’

The Duchess broke down and wept.

‘Be ready to leave the schloss tomorrow morning early,’ said the Duke. ‘I want no one to see you go. You will just disappear.’

The Duchess, thinking of her little boys, began to weep silently.


* * *

The boys were recovering. Grandmother Saxe-Coburg stayed with them and she was constantly in and out of their room.

‘Why doesn’t Mama come?’ Alberinchen asked Ernest.

Ernest thought she might have whooping-cough too.

Grandmother Saxe-Coburg said that fresh air was good for the boys while they were getting better, so they were taken out into the pine forests. They played games and pretended they were the kidnapped princes. But Albert could not forget his mother and made up his mind to ask his grandmother what had become of her.

One day when she was reading to him he put a finger on the page and said: ‘Where is my Mama?’

The Dowager Duchess hesitated for a moment and then she said: ‘She’s gone away.’

‘She did not say goodbye.’

‘There was no time.’

‘Was she in a hurry?’

‘Yes, she was in a great hurry.’

‘When is she coming back?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Alberinchen and his grandmother did not answer: and when she saw the questions trembling on his lips she said: ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

That quietened him; his enormous blue eyes were fixed on his grandmother while he waited for her to begin.

‘Three months before you were born another little baby was born right over the sea in a place called Kensington.’

‘Over the sea?’ repeated Albert.

‘Yes, in England, which is a big country. There are many in our family as you know, and the little baby girl who was born in Kensington three months before you is your cousin. Her name is Alexandrina Victoria. She is a little mayflower because she was born in May.’

‘What sort of flower am I?’

‘Boys are not flowers. You are an August baby. But one day you will grow up and so will the little girl at Kensington. Then you will meet because that is what your Uncle Leopold wishes. And I’ll tell you a secret, little Alberinchen. If you are very good when you grow up you shall marry the Princess in Kensington.’

Albert’s eyes were round with wonder. He was not sure what it meant to marry; but that story about the baby girl of Kensington was his story too.


* * *

There were changes in the household. The nurses were dismissed.

‘The boys have to grow up and learn to be men,’ said the Duke. ‘Now that their mother has gone there shall be no more pampering. Albert particularly needs a man’s hand. He will have to stop this crying habit.’

Herr Florschütz came to be the new tutor; he immediately set about discovering what standard the boys had reached and found them to be rather forward for their ages. Lessons were going to begin in earnest now. Alberinchen was not dismayed for he was a little brighter than Ernest and he enjoyed coming in first with the answers.

He was constantly asking when his mother was coming back and began to wonder because the answers were always evasive.

The two grandmothers disagreed as to the desirability of Herr Florschütz’s taking the place of the nurses.

‘Poor mites,’ said Grandmama Saxe-Gotha. ‘They need a woman’s tender hand.’

But Grandmama Saxe-Coburg was of the opinion that Herr Florschütz would make a much better attendant than the nurses for he was expected to combine these duties with those of a tutor, the Duke’s income being inadequate to his position and his necessarily large household.