Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

And now that he was dying did he think of her? Did he remember the day forty-five years ago when in the drawing-room of her house in Park Street they had taken their marriage vows? They had been in their twenties then – she twenty-nine and he some years younger. She was seventy-four now. An old woman; but not too old to forget and not too old to hope that now that he was leaving this life he would want to go with his hand in hers.

She could not stay in Brighton, so she travelled up to London. Who knew? He might express a wish to see her and if he did she must be on the watch.

She waited for some sign; none came, and at last she could not resist taking up her pen and writing to him.

After many repeated struggles with myself, from the apprehension of appearing troublesome or intruding upon Your Majesty, after so many years of continual silence, my anxiety respecting Your Majesty has got the better of my scruples and I trust Your Majesty will believe me most sincere when I assure you how truly I have grieved to hear of your sufferings …

It was true and she could not see the page because the tears blurred it.

So many wasted years, she thought. I should have been with him. I am his wife. Why could he not have been true to our marriage? If he had, what misery we should have been saved.

But they had parted. He had always said it was not his wish, but he would not give up Lady Hertford for her sake. And when he had left Lady Hertford it had been Lady Conyngham, the harpy, who cared more for diamonds and sapphires than she did for the King, and made no secret of it.

Oh, the folly of it!

And now it was too late. But at least he should know that she thought of him.

She went on writing and when she had finished she sent for a messenger to take her letter to the King.

He could not see very clearly. The faces about his bed seemed to be floating in space. He was not even sure where it was.

He heard them talking. ‘We should give it to him. Mrs Fitzherbert …’

Her name roused him. He cried: ‘What is it?’

‘It is a letter, Sir, from Mrs Fitzhèrbert.’

He smiled. ‘Give it to me.’

She had not forgotten him. She had written to him. He held the paper in his hand. Her paper … her writing. Maria, he thought. So you did not forget. All those years you remembered and at the end you wrote to me.

He could not read what she had written. It did not matter. She had written. He put the letter under his pillow. It gave him great comfort.

Mrs Fitzherbert stood at her window, waiting. Surely some messenger would come? He would wish to see her to say a last farewell. He must. He could not die without seeing her once more. She had made it clear in her letter that she longed to see him, to hear him say his last farewell to her. Perhaps to tell her that he had never forgotten, that she was the one he had always loved.

If she could see him, she would treasure the memory for the rest of her life. It would not be long before her turn came.

He must send for her. He must.

She lay on her couch listening. The sound of carriage wheels on the road? No, they had gone right past.

All through the night she lay fully dressed, waiting for a summons that did not come.

And he was sinking fast; one thing he remembered was the letter under his pillow. Her letter. She had written to him at the end.

Maria, Maria, he thought. We should never have parted.

And Maria was waiting through the night for the message that would never come.

He was dead – George the King, who had shocked the country with his scandalous adventures; who had been known as the First Gentleman of Europe; the elegant dandy, the man of exquisite taste, who had enriched the land with magnificent buildings, who had given them Carlton House, the Pavilion, Nash’s terraces and Regent Street; who had turned Buckingham House into a Palace and had made Windsor Castle habitable. Prinney, who had been loved in youth and hated in his middle and old age, the incomparable George.

No one mourned as Maria Fitzherbert did. She was so ill that she had to keep to her bed. She was sad thinking of what might have been, and bitterly hurt because he had not answered her letter.

That was until she knew. And then they told her that he had worn her picture about his neck at his death and in his will he had left the instruction:

I wish that the picture of my beloved wife, my Maria Fitzherbert, may be interred with me, suspended round my neck by a ribbon as I used to wear it when I lived and placed upon my heart.

They would carry out his wishes.

And in death, she thought, we shall not be divided. She heard of his inability to read her letter; she was told how he had seized it and kept it under his pillow.

So she knew that at the last he had been thinking of her even as she had been thinking of him.

KING GEORGE WAS dead. There was a new King and Queen to rule the land. King William IV and his Queen Adelaide.

Lady Conyngham was busy packing her bags; she wished to get out as quickly and with as much as possible.

The King’s doctor, Sir Henry Halford, hastened to Bushy to call on the new King who must of course be the first to hear the news.

It was early morning but William was up while Adelaide still slept.

William knew as soon as he saw the doctor.

His hand was kissed; he heard the magic words: ‘Your Majesty.’

‘So he has gone,’ said William. ‘Poor George, he found it hard to die. Now we must tell the Queen.’

He sent one of the servants to waken Adelaide and as soon as she saw William she knew.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Sir Henry.

And she stared at him blankly and said: ‘So it has come,’ and there was great sorrow in her voice.

William, however, could not pretend to grieve for his brother, because through his death he had realized his great ambition. The crown was his.

‘Go back to bed,’ William told her. ‘And I will join you.’

‘I could not rest … now.’

‘Go back, nevertheless,’ said William, ‘and I’ll join you. I’ve never yet been to bed with a Queen.’

The new King was popular. He was so different from his brother. He went among the people freely; he had no airs and graces. He was the rough sailor.

He was soon in conflict with his brother Ernest, for Ernest was certain that soon the King would be in a strait-jacket and then there would be a Regency for Victoria and he would be a member of that Regency and then there should be no obstruction to his plans.

The first friction came when William discovered his brother’s horses in the Queen’s stables at Windsor.

‘Remove them,’ he said. ‘That’s the place for the Queen’s carriage.’

‘I’ll be damned if I’ll move them,’ retorted Cumberland.

But William was the King and not to be defied; so the horses were removed and Cumberland’s office of Gold Stick taken from him.

‘I am the King,’ said William, ‘and I’ll be the King.’

It was Cumberland who had started those rumours about himself, and Adelaide had told him some nasty stories about his designs on Victoria.

‘By God,’ he said, ‘I am the King and all here had better remember it.’

He took the first opportunity of showing his intentions towards his brother when at a dinner where Cumberland and several others were present the King rose to give the toast.

‘The land we live in and let those who don’t like it, leave it.’

His eyes were on Cumberland when he said that, and he meant: I understand you, brother. There is not room at this Court for you and me. And as it’s my Court and I am the King of it, there is no room for you.

At Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent rejoiced. ‘He can’t harm her now,’ she told Lehzen. ‘His power is broken.’

‘But Your Highness will wish to guard her all the same.’

‘I do not forget how precious she is, Baroness. Nor must any of us.’

So she continued to sleep in her room and Victoria must not descend the stairs alone. But the tension was lifted. They could breathe more freely in Kensington Palace; and the Duchess of Kent must impress on her daughter more firmly than ever that one day she would be the Queen of England. And that day was not far distant, she was sure.

It was more like a holiday than a day of mourning. On that beautiful July day the sun shone warmly and it seemed that all the inhabitants not only of Windsor but the surrounding country had come out to see the last of George IV.

He was buried in the royal vault with the miniature of Maria Fitzherbert over his heart. And the new King could scarcely contain his exuberance, so delighted was he to have the crown in his grasp at last.

The gentle Queen whispered to him that he must hide his pleasure. It was hardly seemly to show such delight in the death of a brother.

William was puzzled. He had loved old George. But he loved his crown better. He would explain to Adelaide when they were alone.

The bells were tolling; they were firing the salute; even if few cared that this was the funeral of the late King it must be a royal funeral.

It was more than that. It was the passing of an age.

The great Georgian era was at an end. It was William’s turn now – William’s and Adelaide’s – and in the apartments at Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent put her arm about her daughter and led her to the window.

‘All your life,’ she said, ‘you will remember – this day.’

Victoria had wept; she had been fascinated by Uncle King. But it was long since she had seen him; and she knew what this meant.

One day – and perhaps quite soon – there would be another royal funeral – and a new sovereign would mount the throne.

And then … Victoria.

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