Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

‘William is in moderately good health.’

‘Is he? Wasn’t he at Ems taking the water for something or other? I was thinking more of his mental health. I’ve heard that he has been behaving very strangely. Of course there is the example of our father, so no one would be exactly surprised.’

Frederica raised her eyebrows. ‘That might apply to any member of the family.’

‘Only if he showed tendencies.’

‘It has been said of George.’

‘Well, George has behaved somewhat madly now and then. Now, listen, if George died and William went off his head …’

‘There still remains Miss at Kensington. The little horror seems to be full of health and vigour. How do you propose to remove her from your path?’

‘It is something which would have to be considered very carefully; and it would hardly be possible to do that from such a great distance.’

‘I see, so you propose going to England?’

‘It’s the only thing to do. I shall leave almost immediately. There may be little time to lose.’

‘And your son and your Duchess?’

‘Will follow me, of course. It is important that George be brought up in England. We must show the people that he is as important as his girl cousin of Kensington … and far more suited to become their ruler.’

‘Will they accept that since he is the son of a younger son?’

‘That is what we have to discover, my dear – a means of making the desirable event acceptable to the people of England.’

‘There is only one thing that would make them accept it – the death of Victoria.’

‘Don’t look so despondent, my dear. You sound as though you think the child immortal.’

She laughed.

‘So, you will go to England to find a way?’

He nodded thoughtfully.

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

THE KING LAY in bed in that house in Windsor Park which was called – with mock modesty – the King’s Cottage. He wore a rather grubby silk jacket and his nightcap of peacock blue satin was a little greasy. He was becoming so blind now – for he had lost the sight in one eye – that he was for great periods of time unaware even of what he looked like.

One of the actresses from Drury Lane sat at his bedside reading to him. He did not go to the theatre now. How could he face his people? But his love of the drama had not abated and it consoled him to have a woman with a beautiful voice to read to him, particularly as she could inject life into the parts as she spoke them. Miss Elizabeth Chester read most days until commanded to stop, although he never allowed her to tire her voice; he might be old, almost blind; he might even forget to be aware of his appearance, but he never forgot the courtesy due to a woman.

Now she was reading The Winter’s Tale. He had asked for it specially. What memories it conjured up; and as he listened he was no longer an old man lying in his bed but a handsome young prince in a balcony box at Drury Lane Theatre and on the stage was Perdita Robinson – as exquisite a woman as ever graced the theatre of her day – or for that matter anyone else’s day.

He closed his eyes and it was Perdita’s voice he heard but not her face he saw, for he could not clearly remember what she had looked like; it was Maria’s, for hers was one that was engraved on his memory for ever – Maria with the fine eyes and the unpowdered golden hair and the finest of fair skins to put all others to shame, for it had never needed artful aids. Her nose, he thought tenderly, was aggressive enough to add character to her beauty – the imperfection which was more fascinating than perfection could ever be.

So he lay dreaming of the past and Miss Chester’s lovely voice was Perdita’s and Florizel’s in turn. In those days they had called him Florizel and Mary Robinson had been Perdita ever since. But he was no longer Prince Florizel.

He sighed and Miss Chester paused to glance at him.

‘You read beautifully … beautifully …’ he murmured.

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘And perhaps now you are a little tired?’

‘No, Sir, if it is Your Majesty’s wish that I continue.’

‘I must not be selfish.’

She thought how charming he was – even lying there in his bed, without an elegant neckcloth to hide his swollen neck, a mountain of flesh under the silk coverlet; his voice was musical still and he had the power to make any woman feel she was important to him.

‘Have I Your Majesty’s leave to retire?’

‘Please do, and come again tomorrow.’

When she had gone he dozed a little and was startled to be awakened by a servant at his bedside.

‘Sir, the Duke of Cumberland is here.’

‘Cumberland! From Germany? Where is he?’

‘He is in the drawing-room, Sir. I have told him that I will acquaint Your Majesty of his arrival.’

‘Bring him in. No, wait.’ His fingers touched the silk coat he was wearing. Cumberland must not see him like this for the first time after so long. ‘Bring me my robe. And my wig. The nut-brown one.’

He was helped out of bed; he looked different and felt different in wig and robe. He only needed the clothes and he was every inch of him a king. He peered at himself in the looking-glass. He looked pale and it had never suited him to be pale.

‘A touch of colour in the cheeks,’ he said.

‘Yes, Sir.’

There, that was better.

‘I will go into my dressing-room,’ he said. ‘Bring the Duke of Cumberland to me there.’

They faced each other. He did not wish Ernest to know how bad his eyesight had become and that his brother was a blurred figure to him. Ernest looked astonishingly sinister, but he always had; it was due to having lost an eye.

‘Ernest, my dear fellow.’ He held out his arms and they embraced.

‘George! You’re looking better than I was led to believe.’

‘Oh, these rumours. It is good to see you. I did not know you were in England. Tell me, how is Frederica? How is my young namesake, eh?’

‘Well, and they send their respects and affection to Your Majesty. They have made me swear that I shall ask you to receive them … soon.’

‘They are here?’

‘Not yet. I came on in advance. I had heard such tales of your illness. It seems so long since we had been in each other’s company. I thought that now that Frederick had gone … you might have been feeling the need of a little brotherly companionship.’

‘I miss him sorely. We were devoted as you know.’

‘Ah, it was always you two. I’ll confess now, George, I was always a little jealous.’

‘Not you, Ernest!’

‘Oh, I know I didn’t show it. I was proud. I was arrogant. But I had such a high opinion of myself that I couldn’t understand why you had selected Fred as your favourite brother.’

The King laughed. He was feeling better. Family friendships were good. He had always wanted to be on the best of terms with his brothers. He had never had much to do with Ernest, but that was doubtless because Ernest had not been much at home. After that disastrous affair in his apartments when the valet had committed suicide – for that was what had happened in spite of attempts by the press and Ernest’s enemies to blacken his character and make him out a murderer – it was to Brighton he had come to recuperate, at his brother George’s request. The only brother the King had not liked was the Duke of Kent; and that was largely due to the fact that he believed he had been instrumental in exposing the scandal about Frederick and his mistress Mary Anne Clarke which had upset Fred so much and resulted in his losing command of the Army.

‘Well,’ said the King, ‘Fred and I were of an age. Only a year between us. We were in the nursery together. You’re a little younger.’

‘Six years.’

‘So I was quite a big fellow when you came along.’

‘Indeed you were. I remember first being aware of you. I thought you were the most important person in the world.’

‘I am sure I would have agreed with you,’ said the King with a laugh.

It was easy, thought Ernest; there was no resistance to friendship. George had become rather pathetic. He was still George, of course, larger than life – in more senses than one – but what was he doing here in the Cottage … living a life of seclusion? It was not like George to hide himself from the world of fashion. But he could no longer compete with the dandies, and he kept away from the wits and the adventurers because he was old and tired and constantly ill.

Poor old George, thought Ernest. I’d only give him a year or so at the most.

‘Do you propose to stay in England?’ asked the King.

‘It depends on your wishes.’

‘Mine?’

‘I’ve been thinking. We’re a family. Fred has gone, we’re all getting older. It seems a pity we were not more together. I shall delay my decision to return until you have had a chance to see a little of me. If you find me a bore and a nuisance, you only have to say so.’

‘My dear Ernest, as if I ever should! It would be pleasant if you stayed here.’

‘It was what I was hoping you’d say. I have not allowed myself to remain ignorant of what has been happening while I have been out of the country. I shall be able to discuss affairs with you if you wish me to … oh, only as a figure in the background.’

‘It would be a comfort. It’s always advisable to discuss matters with friends outside the government.’

Ernest nodded. He was longing to take part in affairs, to offer advice to the King, to guide him, to lead him; to be the King in the background until he could step forward and wear the crown openly.

‘I have been thinking of William,’ went on Ernest, ‘and wondering how he is. I have heard some rather disturbing reports.’

‘About William?’

‘You know what rumours are. I heard he had been acting in a strange manner – showing unbecoming hilarity, even at Frederick’s funeral. I don’t believe it, of course. But I’ve heard it said that Frederick’s death has gone to William’s head. He’s almost calling himself King William.’

‘It’s nonsense. William is too fond of me, I’m sure. I flatter myself I mean more to him than a crown, and by God, Ernest, I can assure you of this: Shakespeare was not far wrong. Uneasy does lie the head that wears a crown. If I thought there was anything in these rumours about William I’d let him know that … quickly.’

‘Poor William, he was always a bit of a buffoon.’

Ernest was watching the King closely. How fond was he of William? How far could he go in his criticism?

The King was smiling affectionately. ‘William ought to have some recognition of his position certainly,’ he said. ‘I have been discussing with Canning the possibility of reviving the title of Lord High Admiral. Why not? It would suit William. He always fancied himself a sailor.’

Lord High Admiral? thought Ernest. That was a good idea. It would keep William occupied in a sphere that interested him; and no doubt give him plenty of opportunities to make a fool of himself. That was what he wanted William to do – make a fool of himself again and again and again. And then in due course he could be shown to be suffering from his father’s malady. They had taken King George Ill’s throne from him, so why not William IV’s – if he were to get it?

And then … that child Victoria. All his plans were foiled by her.

‘I think that would be a highly suitable post for William.’

The King nodded. ‘I remember how he was whisked away from us all at Kew to join the Navy. He was only thirteen or fourteen. I can see his face now – woebegone and wretched. Poor William!’

‘But he enjoyed life afloat. He likes to think of himself as the Merry Tar.’

‘He’ll enjoy being Lord High Admiral. And he can plague them at the Admiralty.’

That was just what he would do, thought Ernest. And it would not be difficult for William to prove himself a fool.

‘Do you see much of Edward’s wife?’

‘I can’t bear the woman. I never did like the Coburg family. I find Leopold a bore. It surprises me what that actress sees in him. She’s a charming woman, I hear. It’s amusing though to find that Leopold is human after all.’

‘And what of Madam Kent?’

‘I call her the Swiss Governess. She’s an intolerable woman. She guards Victoria like a dragon.’

‘Do you see much of the child?’

‘No, but I should and I shall. I shouldn’t blame her for her mother’s sins.’

‘I hear she enjoys robust health.’

‘I believe so. She’s healthier than Charlotte ever was. My daughter suffered from constant ailments – although people forget it now. From what I hear of our young princess it is quite another matter.’