Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

He had taken her to England soon after the marriage. He wanted to make sure of the allowance which Parliament granted to the sons of the King when they married, and that the Queen did not poison the Regent’s mind against Frederica. The Regent was charming to her, but the Queen refused to see her; and the Parliament refused to increase Ernest’s allowance. Frederica had created trouble in the royal family because while the Regent received her and the Duchess of York entertained her at Oatlands, the Queen refused to and forbade her daughters the Princesses to.

There had only been one dignified thing to do. She and Ernest returned to Berlin.

And here they were.

Ernest came into her bedroom and sat on the bed; he was holding a letter in his hand and she knew that it contained news of a startling nature.

‘News from England,’ he told her.

‘Yes, Ernest?’

‘Charlotte …’

‘A son or a daughter?’

Ernest shook his head. ‘A boy born dead. But, Frederica, that’s not all. Charlotte herself …’

‘Dead?’

He nodded.

‘My God, think what this will mean?’

‘I am thinking.’

‘If our daughter had lived she could very likely have been a Queen of England.’

Ernest said: ‘You know what this will mean.’

‘It means that my dear mother-in-law and aunt, Queen Charlotte, is very busy making plans.’

He nodded. ‘There’ll be marriages now, you see. Clarence and Kent will have to get busy.’

‘Busy breeding!’ said Frederica with a laugh. ‘But the gentlemen have left it a little late. And you come next, Ernest. Our sons and daughters …’

‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes gleaming so that he looked like a satyr.

‘You look adorably wicked at this moment,’ she told him. ‘I believe you’re ambitious.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to see your son King of England?’

‘I would, and the thought that perhaps I shall, fills me with exultation. If it were only to have my revenge on Aunt Charlotte … but it’s more than that. Yes, I should love to see our son a King of England, Ernest. That would be good for England … if he were like you. Tell me about those who stand between.’

‘George will never live with Caroline again.’

‘What if he should divorce her?’

‘He’ll try but he forgets how old he is.’

‘What is he … fifty-five? It’s not so old.’

‘When a man has lived as George has, it’s not young. He has indulged himself too much for his health’s sake. And he is married to Caroline, who is at the moment making an exhibition of herself all over Europe. Of course she may well give him grounds for divorce but even so these matters take time. And George grows older. A divorce … a marriage …! Oh, I don’t think there’s anything to fear from George.’

‘And the Duke of York?’

‘Married to a barren wife. No, nor him either.’

‘And Clarence?’

‘Well, of course he’s the danger. They’ll marry him off without delay and he’s proved with Dorothy Jordan that he’s capable of be-getting children.’

‘Unless of course he gets a barren wife.’

‘That’s a chance he’ll have to take.’

‘And after Clarence?’

‘Kent. He’ll have to say goodbye to Madame de St Laurent and he won’t like it. But he’ll be forced to it.’

‘And then Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, and his devoted fertile wife, Frederica.’

He leaned over and kissed her.

‘And how is my love this morning?’

‘Full of health … and hope … considering the news. We must have a child, Ernest. I am going to snap my fingers at my wicked old Aunt who refuses to receive me at her court. She will be obliged to receive the mother of the heir, will she not?’

‘I doubt she would. And while Clarence and Kent lived she would always hope that they would forestall us.’

Frederica threw off the bedclothes.

‘It is wise for you to get up?’ he asked anxiously.

‘My dearest Ernest, I am recovered. I am well. I am ready now. We go into battle.’ She was thoughtful suddenly. Louise often seemed to come back to her to reproach her. Louise had been different from her – the gentler one, sentimental, kindly. Now it was as though Louise reminded her that her elation was due to a tragedy. A young woman had died in childbed and her child with her. And this was the cause of her excitement.

But she dismissed Louise. Life was a battle. It was something Louise had never realized. Perhaps if she had she would be alive today. But Louise had submitted; she had, knowing her health was failing, gone on bearing children.

No, her way was best. There was only one person who truly mattered to her: Ernest. And if she bore him a child that child would be her delight. Life was good, she decided, as she had thought it never would be when she had lost Louise. She was married to the man she loved and they had a chance of bearing a King or Queen of England.

‘In the circumstances,’ Ernest was saying, ‘I think we should set out for England as soon as possible.’

Frederica laughed aloud. As usual she was in complete agreement with Ernest.

THE QUEEN HAD asked the Regent to call on her at Kew.

She sat in her chair, her back to the light, that he might not see her face. She felt very ill; her rheumatism was so painful that she could scarcely move; she was so irritable with the Princesses that they were afraid to speak to her. She deplored this but as she did not wish to complain of her pains she must give vent to her feelings somehow.

She was tired and a little resentful with life. Now she had come to enjoy power and had gained the confidence of her dearest son, she was too old to enjoy it.

‘My dearest Madre.’

He had taken her hands and kissed them. As usual his delicately scented person, his elegance and charm delighted her.

‘My dear George, I cannot rise. My limbs are too painful today.’

‘I shall not allow you to rise, Madre dear. I shall seat myself beside you and you shall tell me what it is that troubles you.’

He brought a chair close to hers; he took her hand and caressed it lightly. What beautiful hands he had! And how gracefully he used them! She wondered then as she often had in the past how she and George III had produced such a man. He was so different from them – so much more erudite, endowed with excellent taste, a lover of the arts, the theatre and good manners; she looked with adoration at her beloved Regent.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘could you bear to talk of our tragedy? Are you sufficiently recovered to bear it?’

The Regent took a perfumed handkerchief and held it to his eyes. A charming gesture, but his eyes were dry, of course.

‘I must,’ he said, ‘since there has arisen this matter of some urgency.’

‘You are so brave. I knew you would understand. Dear Charlotte is gone and that is a great bereavement in the family. But because Charlotte was the only legitimate child you and your brothers produced it made her of such importance. We have to marry off your brothers … without delay.’

‘Perhaps haste at such a time would appear to be a little unseemly?’

‘That may be. Then we must act in an unseemly fashion if it is wise to do so.’

‘We’ll have no difficulty with William.’

‘That is if we can get a bride to take him. He has been making a laughing-stock of himself after making a scandal with his actress.’

‘Poor William. One cannot blame him.’

‘You are too kind, George. You have always sided with your brothers. I wish to discuss William with you. I think you should without delay give orders that feelers be put out in certain places. Ernest is married to that disgraceful woman, so we can do nothing about him. Adolphus is about to be married; that could be hastened. Augustus committed the folly of going through a ceremony with Augusta Murray and therefore is best left alone. But William and Edward must marry at once.’

‘Have you anyone in mind?’

‘My thoughts have been ranging all over Europe, but the religious question makes it so difficult. There is the Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg.’

‘Leopold’s sister?’

‘Would that matter? She is the widow of the Prince of Leiningen and has proved that she can bear healthy children. She has a boy Charles and a girl Feodore. I have discovered that they are lively, attractive, bright and intelligent. She will do for one of them. And for the other there is the eldest daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen – Adelaide, I think they call her. Well, I have found our two princesses, Adelaide and Victoria.’

‘You have been your usual wise self, dear Madre.’

‘I knew action had to be taken and speedily. There are few princesses available who have the necessary qualifications. The point is that William and Edward must be married without delay. Perhaps you will decide that you should summon them and make this duty clear to them.’

‘I see that it is imperative to do so.’

The Queen sighed with relief. ‘I knew you would. There may be some opposition from Edward.’

‘You mean because of Madame de St Laurent.’

‘I do. But I do not think that even he will want to turn his back on the possibility of giving us the future ruler of England.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘The two Princesses will have to be considered carefully. While Adelaide is unmarried – and no longer so young for I believe she is twenty-five or twenty-six – Victoria is a young widow and as such accustomed to a little freedom. Victoria I think may have to be wooed a little; with Adelaide it will be the normal procedure – a match arranged between us on one side and her parents on the other. In the circumstances I suggest Adelaide for William and Victoria for Edward.’

The Regent nodded. He saw the point. William had proved himself rather frequently to have little charm as a wooer and had won a reputation as the most rejected Prince of his time. It would be unwise to send him wooing the Princess Victoria. Therefore quite clearly he must have Adelaide and Edward Victoria.

‘I see, Madre,’ said the Regent, ‘that you have settled the matter as I would have done myself.’

‘My dear son, then you will lose no time in setting these matters in motion?’

‘I shall do so without delay. We are all growing so old, alas, that there is little time to be lost. But I will tell you something.’

Her cold face was touched with sudden warmth and she looked almost handsome for a second. His confidences were the delight of her life.

He put his head close to hers. ‘Caroline is behaving in quite a shocking manner. I don’t despair of ridding myself of her. And if I did … who knows, I might present the nation with the heir myself. What do you say to that?’

‘I would say,’ said the Queen fervently, ‘that Heaven had granted my dearest wish.’

They were silent for a moment contemplating that happy event.

But they both knew that the House of Hanover could not continue to exist on the hope of a granted wish however dear to them both.

William, Duke of Clarence, called at Kew and asked for an audience with the Queen.

When he was brought to her Charlotte looked at him quizzically. He was not very attractive, she had to admit. He had never had half George’s looks; none of them had, but the others had more presence than William. She had always known it had been a mistake to send him to sea at such an early age. It had certainly not developed his royalty. She had told the King so a hundred times; but he had never taken any notice of her. Now of course he was shut away and had no say in matters at all; and it was hardly likely that he ever would.

It was too late to brood on William’s upbringing now that he was a man of fifty-two; at least he was a Prince, a son of a king and very likely would be the father of one. He had the family’s jaw and protuberant eyes – all the faults of the family which she fondly assured herself George had missed – and she had heard it said that his head was the shape of a pineapple. She could see what was meant by that. No, poor William was not the most attractive of her sons; but the death of young Charlotte had made him one of the most important, due to the unfortunate matrimonial difficulties of his two elder brothers.

‘William, my dear son,’ she said perfunctorily.

‘How are you today, Mamma?’

‘Not as well as I would wish to be. But who of us is? My rheumatism was not improved by the Bath waters. But that may have been due to the shock of Charlotte’s death.’