When the news of Frederick’s death was brought to the King he lapsed into deep melancholy. Frederick had been his favourite brother and memories of nursery days came flooding back. It was Frederick who, in the days of their youth, had aided him in his assignations with maids of honour in Kew Gardens; it was Frederick who had stood watch on Eel Pie Island when he had been there with Perdita Robinson. Frederick had supported him through all the trouble with Maria. No two brothers had ever been closer.

And now, Fred had gone first although he was a year younger. It was a melancholy occasion. He talked constantly to Lady Conyngham who listened sullenly. She was sulking because Lord Ponsonby had been sent to Brazil.

The day of the funeral was the coldest even in that cold spell. The King was clearly genuinely grieved; but it was noticed that the Duke of Clarence was in a state of great excitement. He had of course taken a very close step to the throne and was the heir apparent and it really seemed, by the appearance of the King, that his accession would not be long delayed. But, said the spectators, surely he might have had the decency to restrain his excitement.

‘By God,’ he said in an audible whisper, ‘the cold goes right through your boots.’ And turning to the Duke of Sussex he continued: ‘This should mean a difference in the way I’m treated now … You too. It will make a difference … no mistake about that.’

Peel, the Home Secretary, whispered to a colleague who was blue with the cold: ‘Take off your cocked hat and stand on the silk round it. It’ll give you some protection from these icy stones.’

‘This,’ whispered Clarence, ‘is going to lay some of us up. There’ll be some deaths after this, you see. This cold is … killing.’

Was he looking hopefully at the King? people asked themselves.

What had happened to Clarence? He had been thought to be a kindly simpleton but was the glitter of a nearby crown blinding him to all family affection?

The King wept openly; but then he had always wept easily. Yet these were genuine tears and as the bells tolled he covered his face with his hands.

‘I feel as though nails are being driven into my heart,’ he told the Duke of Rutland. ‘He was my dearest friend as well as my brother. In our youth we were inseparable and when my father sent him to Germany we were desolate. We considered it the greatest tragedy of our lives; and when he came back it was just as it was before he went away. A world that does not contain Frederick has little charm for me.’

As soon as the funeral was over he drove immediately to Brighton, for, as he explained, he wanted to shut himself away from the world and he could best do that there.

At Windsor the bells would go on tolling as they would in London. He could not bear to hear them.

In Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent summoned her daughter. Victoria was growing up. She would be eight in May. Old enough, said her mother, to be aware of her enormous responsibilities.

The tolling of the bells filled the apartments and Victoria told her dolls that it was because of the death of poor Uncle Frederick.

The Duchess thought this preoccupation with dolls a little childish. She had said so to Fräulein Lehzen, but the Fräulein in her devotion to her charge was not always ready to agree with the Duchess. A disturbing element, but the Duchess had to admit that however mistaken Lehzen might be she had the good of Victoria at heart and was assiduous in her care of the child. She also had a method of teaching which was unrivalled and Victoria was not naturally brilliant at her lessons; she was bright and intelligent, precocious even, but sitting down at a desk and learning from books did not appeal to her.

Lehzen believed that as a future Queen the most important subject she must study was history and as Victoria refused to assimilate cold hard facts and dates, Lehzen turned historical facts into exciting stories which she told to Victoria while her maids were dressing her.

The child was too exuberant and apt to gossip too freely in front of servants and this served a double purpose, keeping her from uttering indiscretions and at the same time teaching her what it was essential for her to know. Victoria actually enjoyed these stories.

Fräulein Lehzen was strict in the extreme; she laid down a set of nursery rules from which she would not allow Victoria to diverge; and yet at the same time she managed to inspire in the child a great affection.

The Duchess was well aware of this and so although at times she had her differences with Lehzen, she appreciated her worth.

She had said to that worthy woman, ‘We must now double our vigil. Who knows, the great day may come sooner than we think.’

One of the obstacles – for that was how she thought of those who stood between Victoria and the throne – had been removed.

‘My child,’ said the Duchess when Victoria came in answer to her summons, ‘you know what has happened?’

Victoria said she did and wondered whether Mamma wished her to look sad or gratified. It was not always easy to know; so she compromised and looked half sad, half expectant.

‘Poor Uncle Frederick has passed away.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘And of course we are very sad.’

There was the cue. They must look sad for a moment.

‘He was very kind,’ said Victoria. ‘He gave me my donkey and my lovely Punch and Judy Show.’

The Duchess looked at her daughter in a manner which implied that this was not the time to talk of donkeys and Punch and Judy Shows.

Of course, thought Victoria, I hardly ever saw him. I hardly ever see any of the uncles. Uncle William doesn’t come with Aunt Adelaide. Uncle Adolphus is always going to Germany. Uncle Ernest is in Germany; and Uncle King is too busy being King to see me. She was regretful about that because of all the Uncles she would have liked to see more of Uncle King. There was Uncle Leopold who came on Wednesdays and talked to her very seriously but kindly. He was always very melancholy and there was something going on of which Mamma did not approve. Something to do with an actress who was a friend of his, Victoria believed; she kept her eyes and ears open and liked to hear what the servants had to say. Visits to Claremont were some of the happiest times of her life although there Uncle Leopold was more melancholy than ever, but she could enjoy Uncle Leopold’s melancholy because she was sure he did. He told her about Cousin Charlotte and showed her her bedroom and told her of the things she had done and said. Cousin Charlotte had been very gay and a little wild and had shocked people, in the nicest possible way. Strangely enough had she lived she would have been Queen and that would have meant that she, Victoria, would have been more like an ordinary little girl and what she did and said would not have been so important. Victoria did not think she would have wished for that. Sometimes life was very restricting and she was impatient with it; but in her heart she knew that she would not have it different. She was Victoria with a great future – and that was how she wanted it to be. Louisa Lewis who had been dresser to Charlotte and who was an old, old woman still at Claremont, was very fond of Victoria. I believe, thought Victoria, she sees me as Charlotte sometimes. Louisa Lewis told stories of Charlotte – how she was always tearing her clothes – and she spoke as though there was some virtue in it, at least in the way Charlotte did it. ‘She was the sweetest, most loving creature that ever lived,’ declared Louisa Lewis. Then she would cry and Victoria would wipe away her tears. ‘Never mind, Louisa,’ she would say. ‘It was God’s will.’

That was a pleasant thought. It was God’s will that Charlotte had died so that Victoria should be the most important little girl in the kingdom.

‘You are not paying attention, Victoria,’ said the Duchess severely.

‘I am now, Mamma.’

‘You will have to be more serious now. You understand what the death of your Uncle Frederick means?’

‘Yes, Mamma, it means that he is dead and we shan’t see him again.’

The Duchess looked exasperated, but affectionately so.

‘It means this, child, that you have come a little nearer to the throne. Your Uncle George, alas (such a gratified smile for Mamma made it clear that she did not love Uncle King) is a very sick man. If he died tomorrow your Uncle William would be King.’

‘Aunt Adelaide would be Queen. I think, Mamma, that she will make a very good Queen.’

Mamma ignored such an idle observation. ‘And if they do not have a child, do you know what would happen if Uncle William died?’

‘But Uncle William is not going to die … and Aunt Adelaide …’

‘Aunt Adelaide has nothing to do with this. Uncle William is not immortal. We all have to die and he is not a young man. If Uncle George died and William died, you would be the Queen of England.’

Victoria clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling, an expression of ecstasy on her face.

The Duchess was pleased. ‘I see that you realize your responsibilities.’

Victoria had not been thinking of those but of a glittering crown on her head and a cloak of purple velvet edged with ermine.

‘We must bear them in mind,’ said the Duchess. ‘We must be less frivolous. We must prepare ourselves.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘We will speak of this on a more suitable occasion.’

She meant, of course, when the bells had ceased to toll for Uncle Frederick because funerals were supposed to be sad times and how could one be sad when one contemplated being a Queen.

‘You may go now, Victoria.’

She curtsied prettily and went to the nursery. She had an urge to play with the dolls. She loved them; she talked to them; they all had names; and most of them represented famous people. Fräulein Lehzen had made some of them herself; she was very good at it, and she would make sure of getting their costumes right. There was Queen Elizabeth who had been a prisoner in the Tower of London before she was Queen and Mary Queen of Scots who had lost her head. She wanted to know all about the dolls and what had happened to them before they had become members of her family. Fräulein Lehzen knew many stories of them all and they were all fascinating. There was the dashing Earl of Leicester who might have married Elizabeth for he wanted to but he had a wife, Amy Robsart. She had always had rather a fancy for Amy Robsart because her story was so sad and she was one of the prettiest of the dolls. She would never really like Elizabeth because of Amy Robsart.

She picked up Elizabeth and straightened her ruff with impatient fingers.

‘Untidy again!’ she said severely. ‘And I really believe you had a hand in murdering Amy.’ Then she took Amy and kissed her. ‘There! A consolation for being pushed down the stairs.’

What exciting dolls they were! Not all famous. The Big Doll presented by Aunt Adelaide was just … the Big Doll, bigger than the others and like a baby. She loved the Big Doll but the others were more interesting. They were a worthy collection for a girl who might one day be a Queen herself.

‘Listen to the bells,’ she said to them. ‘They are tolling for Uncle Frederick and because he is dead I am nearer to the throne. One day I shall be a queen.’

She was thoughtful. One day she would be like one of the dolls – Queen Victoria – made of sawdust with a wooden face and a mantle of purple velvet and ermine and a crown on her head.

How strange to think of herself as a doll? But one had to live first of course – and the exciting future lay before her.

Ernest Duke of Cumberland heard of the death of his brother Frederick with undisguised pleasure. There was after all no need to conceal from his clever Duchess that which seemed to him a perfectly natural emotion.

The Duchess had softened a little since the birth of their son. She doted on young George who was a bright boy, and handsome too. Her greatest ambition would be fulfilled if she could see him attain the throne of England.

And to think that there was that smug fat child at Kensington Palace standing between her and her desires was more than she could endure.

She knew that Ernest felt the same; though he was perhaps thinking more of getting the throne for himself than for George.

George would inevitably follow his father – and as usual their ambitions were identical.

‘George cannot last much longer,’ Ernest was saying. ‘It’s a miracle that he’s held out so long. He’s a mass of disease and has to be wheeled about most of the time. Frederick has been removed. And that leaves only William.’