Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

Feodore curtsied prettily. It should not be difficult to find a husband for her.

Victoria signified her desire to be picked up by Feodore and Feodore immediately complied with this wish. An enchanting picture, thought the gratified Duchess.

‘We are going to see the Duchess of Clarence at St James’s,’ said their mother.

‘Sissi?’ asked Victoria, her eyes on Feodore.

‘Yes. Sissi is coming with us. Now, I believe the carriage is waiting.’

Feodore handed Victoria to her nurse who carried her down to the waiting carriage. All the way from Kensington to St James’s Victoria alternately looked out of the window at the streets through which they passed or bounced up and down on the upholstered seats. Not very decorous behaviour for a future queen, thought the Duchess; and it was quite clear that soon Victoria’s exuberance would have to be curbed, but for the moment the sheer vitality of the child was such a joy to watch that Victoria might continue to amuse herself as she wished.

No one in the streets gave more than a cursory glance at the occupants of the carriage. They seem to be unaware, thought the Duchess, that their future queen is passing by.

When they reached St James’s they were warmly welcomed by Adelaide, who, the Duchess of Kent noticed with pleasure, could not take her eyes from Victoria.

When the children were sent away to play together – poor crippled Louise, her brother William, Feodore and Victoria – Adelaide said to her sister-in-law, ‘Your little daughter quite enchants me.’

The Duchess glowed with pride. ‘I feared to bring her before …’

‘You should not have done. My loss does not prevent my delight in seeing her. She is so full of life; she looks so healthy. I trust you will often allow her to come and see me.’

‘You have only to ask, my dear,’ said Victoria of Kent graciously.

When the children came back Victoria sat on Adelaide’s knee and delighted in her admiration while she herself admired Adelaide’s rings and the locket which she wore round her neck. It was like her Mamma’s; she wanted to see the picture inside which was of the Duke of Clarence.

This delighted her and she spent some time shutting the locket and watching it spring open. Adelaide’s heart overflowed with emotion as she watched those chubby fingers at work.

William, having heard that his sister-in-law was visiting Adelaide, called in to pay his respects and Victoria looked at him with delight and holding her arms to him cried: ‘Papa! Papa!’

William picked her up and held her over his head so that she shrieked with laughter. Oh dear, thought her mother, this is not very decorous – but I suppose it is all right since he could be King if the present King and the Duke of York died soon.

The result of that visit was that all decided it was a great success; and after that Adelaide took a special delight in the little Victoria and they saw each other frequently.

The charm of the child gave her great pleasure; and she believed if she could surround herself with children she could find some happiness, although she would never cease to mourn for her own Elizabeth.

THE CORONATION WAS fixed for 19 July, and as plans went forward the excitement arose.

An important event had taken place that May which in the minds of many predicted a peaceful reign for their new King. Napoleon died at St Helena of cancer in the stomach, and there was no longer any fear that he could escape and cause misery and suffering to thousands as he had from Elba. There was great security in the knowledge that he was dead.

The people felt that they could give themselves up to the pleasure of the grand ceremony and forget wars. It was sure to be a dramatic occasion. They could always trust old George to give them that; and what with the Queen’s saying she would be there and the King’s saying that on no account should she be, the whole thing would seem like something out of a comic opera.

Lady Conyngham was now constantly in the King’s company; she had a house in Marlborough Row and when she wished to ride used a carriage from the King’s stables; each day she dined with the King; her daughters were never far off; and the King treated them as though they were his own family, being far more gracious to them, it was noted, than he ever had been to his own daughter, the Princess Charlotte. They received handsome presents from him, and as it was a custom of his to walk through his apartments after dinner displaying the latest objets d’art he had acquired, he often did this with Lady Conyngham on one arm and one of her daughters on the other.

The story was told that on one occasion Lady Conyngham gave orders that all the candles in the saloon should be lighted – there were hundreds of them – and when the King entered and seemed a little startled by the brilliant light she said to him somewhat apologetically: ‘Sir, I told them to light the saloon as guests were coming.’ To which the King replied, taking her arm with the utmost devotion, ‘Thank you, my dear. You always do what is right. You cannot please me so much as by doing everything you please, everything to show that you are mistress here.’

Many people heard that and they said that they had not seen the King so deeply in love since the days of Maria Fitzherbert. And he was now a man of nearly sixty, though he did not look it in spite of his great bulk and his constant illnesses, for his charm – aided considerably by that unpowdered wig – helped him to throw off the years.

During the weeks which preceded the coronation the King was aware that his popularity was rising a little. He felt confidence in the future. Napoleon was dead, an era of peace lay ahead, the long-awaited crown was his, and the people were perhaps beginning to appreciate that he wished to serve them well. He had Lady Conyngham to be his constant companion, and he was in love – he could never be happy unless he was in love – so the future seemed fair but for one heavy cloud.

The Queen!

He could not get her out of his mind. What was that dreadful woman planning to do to ruin his coronation.

That was something he would not know until the day.

On the evening of 18 July the King drove to the Speaker’s House in readiness for the next day’s ceremony. He retired to his room early and sat at his window looking out on the river flowing peacefully by.

‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured, ‘I shall be crowned King.’ And he thought of those days when he had been the young Prince Charming and people had said how different his reign would be from that of his father, and had longed impatiently for him to ascend the throne. That was before they had learned to hate him, in the days when he had been a handsome and romantic figure, when he had courted Maria Fitzherbert and secretly married her in the drawing-room of her house in Park Street.

And now here he was an old man, worn out by excesses and a hundred aches and pains, tormented by ailments which were a mystery to him. All this time he had waited for the crown and now that it had come to him, did he greatly want it? There would not be much difference between being a King or Regent and it was ten years ago that he had assumed that title and the responsibilities which went with it.

But tomorrow he must recapture the glory of his youth. He must charm his people with the ease which he had in the past. It was not so easy when one was almost sixty; when one’s limbs were swollen, one’s girth uncontrollable and one’s subjects had been making sly jokes at one’s expense for thirty years, so that they had built up an image of him which they could not admire. How did they see him? An ageing voluptuary? No doubt they were right. Perhaps he had pandered to his sensual appetites and it was certain that they had been prodigious. Everything would have been different if he could have openly married Maria; he had always believed that. If she had not clung to her religion … if …

But what was the use?

He was nearly sixty and tomorrow he would be crowned King of England. He had to forget the past and look to the future – what there was left of it. Sometimes he thought there was not much.

He smiled suddenly. Tomorrow he would put on his coronation robes; he would play his part magnificently in the Abbey ceremony. He was a great actor, and he performed the parts he assigned to himself with as much verve now as he had at twenty.

Tomorrow at least his people should not be disappointed in him.

Nor were they. He might be old, fat and ill; but he was magnificent. Nothing could detract from his dignity and in every word and gesture his charm was evident. He even looked handsome.

From the moment the women with the herbs – following the old custom of strewing them along the route the King would take – appeared, all the spectators knew that with George IV as the central actor the play was going to be a grand one.

Of course he looked splendid; of course he looked all that a King should look; and of course his coronation was a superb glittering colourful spectacle.

But the Queen had made up her mind to share it. She had no sense of propriety, no decorum; she was all that the King was not; but one thing they shared and that was determination: his that she should not share in the coronation, hers that she should.

While the King was making his way from the Speaker’s House to the Abbey the Queen left Brandenburg House for the same destination.

She did not notice that the cheers for her were less fervent than usual. She had believed that when she rode out the crowd would follow her to the Abbey and force an entrance with her, if need be. But she did not know the English. They reviled the King; he was an old roué; he had behaved badly to Mrs Fitzherbert; his debts were enormous; he lived in extravagant splendour while there was great poverty in the country. But this was his coronation and he was playing his part with a flair that they admired. He might be an indifferent ruler; but he was a superb actor and today’s affair was a pageant. They were not going to have it spoilt, and the Queen was wrong to try and force herself where she was not wanted.

That was the verdict of most of the crowd. They were not looking for trouble today, but spectacle. They had come to cheer the King not to boo him. Whoever heard of a king being booed during his coronation when they were all going to get drunk in the taverns shortly drinking his health.

So Caroline rode through silent streets to present herself at the Abbey and be refused admittance – on orders of His Majesty. Nothing deterred she presented herself at another door, only to be once more prevented from entering.

In her tawdry finery she looked vulgar, decided the people. How different from their glorious King who at this moment, under the canopy of State, was receiving the orb and sceptre.

‘Go home,’ shouted a voice; and others took up the strain.

Caroline was bewildered. It was the first time she had received such treatment from the people.

She could not storm the Abbey; she would only wait disconsolate; and at last she gave the order to drive her back to Brandenburg House.

The King was pleased with his people and they were not ill-pleased with him. Today they had not failed him but had helped to drive the wretched Caroline away from the Abbey.

He was benign and regal and his charm was touching said all who beheld it. He presided with kingly dignity over the coronation banquet and when the long exhausting day was over he was cheered on his way to Carlton House.

The cheers of his people were the sweetest music in his ears.

He would have a portrait painted of himself in his coronation garments; it would serve to remind him of this triumphant day.

King George IV! An old man, he thought; and who is there to follow me but Frederick who is even more ill than I and may not live much longer; or William who is getting old, too; and then that precocious infant at Kensington Palace. But he should not misjudge the child; it was the mother who irritated him, not the little girl.

But who knew, there might be someone to displace her yet. Adelaide might bear a child. He himself might become the father of one if he could rid himself of that woman.

But what was he thinking of? He was too old now. He did not want to go through the ridiculous farce of marriage, even if he could … and then find he could not get a child.

He was content with dear, delightful, not exactly intellectual, Lady Conyngham with her beautiful motherly bosom and her handsome looks. She reminded him very often of Maria – but without Maria’s temper.