Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

The only place was his apartments in Stable Court at St James’s. They were not large nor particularly grand, but they had been his headquarters when he was at Court – and in any case it was all he could think of.

And the Duchess Eleanor must accompany them!

So through the rain they drove to St James’s and when they arrived there it was to find a little crowd of people assembled to see the bride.

There was a little laughter to see the mother-in-law as well, but they could trust Clarence to get himself into ridiculous situations.

Adelaide, however, appealed to them; she bowed and smiled and if she was not as beautiful as the Duchesses of Cambridge and Kent, she was more affable; so they cheered her.

The people still waited when they went into the Palace and Adelaide came out and stood on the balcony. That she should do this in the rain, won their hearts still further and it was some time before they would let her go in.

William had given orders for the Duchess to be conducted to a bedchamber – and then he and Adelaide were alone.

He waved his hand at the furnishings. ‘They should have been renewed,’ he said. ‘I thought we should go to Bushy.’

‘I know,’ she said in her halting English.

The bed was rather grand; William looked at it and laughed.

‘It was put here for the King of Prussia not long ago when he paid a visit. He used these apartments then. They were somewhat shabby so this bed was put in for him.’

Adelaide touched the deep pink silk bedcurtains and in some embarrassment traced with her finger the fluting on the pillars of the magnificent four-poster.

He smiled at her; then he took her hands; and as she lifted her face to his she thought gratefully: I need not fear him.

THE DUCHESS ELEANOR, having seen her daughter safely married, decided that her presence was no longer needed in England.

She therefore prepared to make her departure. Her quarters in Stable Yard, St James’s were cramped and dingy, and she did not consider them suitable for her rank and her position as the mother of the Duchess of Clarence and the sooner she was home in Saxe-Meiningen where her son would most certainly be in need of her advice, the better.

Adelaide and William gave a dinner party for her the day after their wedding to which members of the royal family came to bid her farewell. The Queen was too ill to attend, so Eleanor drove out to Kew to say farewell.

The next day she left.

Her departure, Adelaide realized, was not without its advantages for a situation arose the day after she left which would have caused her great concern and would no doubt have made a rift between herself and her daughter.

Adelaide had made up her mind that if it were possible she was going to make her marriage a happy one.

She did not expect William to fall in love with her. I am not, she told herself, the sort of woman with whom men fall in love. But one thing she had discovered was his devotion to his children, and while some might deplore this, she admired him for it and she believed it showed an admirable trait in his character. She was not going to refuse to meet the FitzClarence children; in fact in the short time since her wedding day she had asked all sorts of questions about them, and he had delighted to talk of them. He was proud of the bravery of his sons in battle. Young as they were they had distinguished themselves; he was delighted with the beauty and charm of his daughters. And he was grateful to Adelaide for wanting to hear about them.

So they had made a start towards understanding – which, Adelaide had to admit, her mother would have done her best to ruin.

It was on the second day of her honeymoon that one of the attendants told her that the Duke had left Stable Court in a state of great agitation. She had difficulty in understanding but it seemed that there had been an accident and Major FitzClarence was in a dangerous condition. The Duke had rushed out immediately the news had been brought to him and had not even stopped to explain what had happened to his newly-married bride.

Adelaide passed an uneasy morning and finally the Duke arrived in a special carriage. From this was taken a stretcher on which lay the young man whom William had sent to greet her at Grillon’s Hotel on her arrival in England.

‘It’s George,’ shouted William. ‘He’s had an accident.’ Then he was giving orders. ‘Lift it carefully. He’s broken his leg. Now! Got it? Be careful not to jolt it.’

Adelaide said: ‘I should put him on the bed … our bed. It will be more comfortable.’

So Major George FitzClarence was laid on the bed which had been made for the King of Prussia. Pale and shaken he looked apologetically at Adelaide.

‘I was driving my carriage,’ he said, ‘when the horse took fright and bolted.’

‘You will soon be well,’ she told him. ‘You will stay here and I will nurse you.’

‘You! That’s impossible.’

‘What do you mean? Do I understand? Not possible? My mother has been ill often. I always nurse her.’

She was happy suddenly. Now she would show William that she intended to be not only a good wife but also a mother to his family. It was true the young man on the bed was about her own age, but that did not matter.

‘You will nurse him?’ said William.

‘Why are you surprised? I am a good nurse. You will see.’

And they did see.

‘It’s a strange way to spend a honeymoon,’ said William.

‘But it is not such a bad way,’ she told him.

He was beginning to be quite fond of her.

It was a strange honeymoon. Everyone was saying how typical it was of the Duke of Clarence to take his son by Dorothy Jordan to his wife so that she might spend her honeymoon nursing him.

‘Let them talk,’ said Adelaide. ‘It is, after all, our affair.’

The Queen thought it a ridiculous situation and quite undignified. She would have protested but she felt too ill. Now that all her sons were married she had done all she could and it was up to them. This acceptance seemed to have its effect on her. It was as though she were gradually relinquishing her hold on life.

She sent for Adelaide meaning to remonstrate with her but when her daughter-in-law arrived she was feeling so ill that she merely commanded her to sit by her bed and tell her how she was liking England.

‘I did hear young George FitzClarence is with you.’

Adelaide told her in fluent German how he had had his accident and that he was progressing. The Duke had been very anxious about him and she was not surprised, for George was a son of whom anyone would be proud.

‘And you are content to spend your honeymoon nursing him?’

‘I am content,’ said Adelaide.

‘You are a strange young woman,’ the Queen told her bluntly.

‘Do you find me so?’

‘I find you … unusual, shall we say,’ said the Queen; and she was silent, thinking back to the days when she had arrived in England. Would she have been prepared to nurse a son her husband had had by another woman? She was not sure. But she had come to the conclusion that there was a strength of purpose about this quiet young woman which was admirable.

She said suddenly: ‘I think you may do a great deal for William.’

Adelaide waited but the Queen said no more.

She had fallen into a doze and lay so still that Adelaide wondered whether she should leave. She rose quietly but the Queen opened her eyes and said: ‘Don’t go. Sit there. You comfort me.’

So she sat while Charlotte dozed and, half asleep, thought of the past and all its trials and the anxieties her children had brought to her and the King.

A Queen’s life could be a hard one. Would she have been happier if she had stayed at home in Mecklenburg-Strelitz and remained unmarried? Would this young woman have been happier if she had not married?

But I became Queen Charlotte, she thought. Perhaps in time she will become Queen Adelaide. And if she has a child that child could rule England.

What are we – any of us – but links in the chain?

At the end of three weeks George FitzClarence and Adelaide had become the best of friends and George could not say enough in praise of his stepmother. William would sit listening while they talked together in German – and at Adelaide’s attempts at English – with a smile about his lips. His marriage was going to be a success; he was sure of it. He had forgotten Miss Wykeham already; she would never have nursed young George as Adelaide had done.

But they could not stay in England, for in spite of the extra money his marriage had brought him, his creditors were pressing and a stay abroad was a necessity. Besides, it had been arranged that he and Adelaide should join the Cambridges in Hanover, where young Adolphus was acting as Governor-General.

Adelaide did not look forward to another sea crossing but she did not protest and as the time drew near for their departure she went to see the Queen at Kew to say goodbye to her.

She felt melancholy as the carriage carried her through Hammersmith; and the reason was that she was going to say her last farewells to her mother-in-law. It was a strange feeling, for the Queen had shown her very little warmth and yet there had been something between them – a certain rapport which Adelaide instinctively knew Charlotte felt with very few.

If we were together for a long time we might become friends, thought Adelaide.

When she arrived at Kew the Queen received her in her bedroom where she was resting. Adelaide found Charlotte lying in bed, and she knelt and kissed her hand.

‘Sit down, my child,’ said Charlotte gruffly. ‘So you are shortly leaving for Hanover. I am sorry … but it is best. William is surrounded by his family here. It is better for you to be away. There you will get to know him.’ She smiled crookedly. ‘You will find him a little … ridiculous. But perhaps you will teach him …’

Adelaide did not answer.

‘It is sad,’ went on the Queen. ‘Sad … for princesses. I remember …’

But she did not say what she remembered.

Adelaide believed that she would never forget these moments – the dark bedroom, the curtains drawn to shut out the sun which worried the Queen, the faint musty smell of illness – and she thought: This is the last time I shall see the Queen.

‘You nursed that boy,’ said the Queen suddenly.

Adelaide replied: ‘The Duke was anxious for him. He is, after all, his son. He could not be turned away. I think the Duke is pleased that we have become friends.’

‘Ten children,’ said the Queen. ‘An actress’s bastards! The scandal! It was all scandals.’

‘Perhaps there will be no more scandals. I shall do my best to see that there are none.’

The Queen said: ‘My heart-felt wishes go with you. But William was always ridiculous.’

They were silent for some time during which the Queen seemed to have forgotten her visitor.

‘I tire you,’ said Adelaide at length. ‘I but came to say goodbye before we leave. I will go now.’

The Queen nodded without opening her eyes and Adelaide kissed her hand and tiptoed from the room.

At the door she took one look round the room and her eyes rested on that little shrunken figure on the bed.

I shall never see her again, thought Adelaide, once more, as she shut the door quietly behind her.

She stood outside the door. How quiet it was! She believed that Death was already in that room, waiting to come forward and say: Follow me.

An irresistible impulse came to her to take one more farewell of the Queen; she opened the door quietly and stood on the threshold.

Queen Charlotte opened her eyes and they looked at each other.

‘You … came back,’ said the Queen.

‘To say goodbye … again.’

‘A last goodbye,’ said the Queen.

Adelaide felt tears on her cheeks.

‘Come here,’ said the Queen; and she went to the bed and stood there.

‘My dear child,’ said Charlotte, ‘God bless you.’

‘God bless Your Majesty,’ whispered Adelaide.

‘Go now, child,’ said Charlotte. ‘I shall remember that you came back. I shall remember that you wept for me.’

Adelaide went out to her carriage, bewildered and yet exhilarated, wondering what had happened between her and the unloving and unloved Queen of England.

The next day Adelaide and William embarked on the Royal Sovereign but despite the elaborate furnishings of the royal cabins on board it was an uncomfortable crossing.