My dearest and most beloved Uncle

One line to express to you, imperfectly, my thanks for all your very great kindness to me, and my great, great grief at your departure. God knows how sad, how forlorn I feel. How I shall miss you, my dearest dear Uncle! every every where. How I shall miss your conversation! How I shall miss your protection out riding. Oh, I feel very very sad, and cannot speak of you both without crying.

Farewell, my beloved Uncle and father! May Heaven bless and protect you, and do not forget your most affectionate, devoted, attached Niece and Child. Victoria R.

How glad I was that Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston were staying at Windsor. They did help—both of them—and particularly my dear Lord Melbourne—to alleviate my grief.

I had the great pleasure when I was at Windsor of reviewing the troops. I wore something very like the Windsor uniform—and the garter ribbon; and I had a lovely little mare at Windsor called Barbara. She was very frisky and since Lord Melbourne insisted I did not take her to the review but went on steady old Leopold, which was really very wise of him for one needs a patient steed for such a ceremony, which lasts two and a half hours.

“There,” I said to Lord Melbourne afterward, “I have shown you that I can review my troops on a horse and let me tell you, Prime Minister, that I shall never do so from a carriage… until I am very very old.”

“You did splendidly, Ma'am,” said Lord Melbourne. Then he turned away to hide his emotion. “Forgive me,” he said.

My dear Lord Melbourne! I grew fonder of him every day.

I was very sorry when we had to leave Windsor, for although I had been there only six weeks I had grown to love the place. Time passes so quickly when one is happy and the summer of this wonderful year had been the happiest I had ever spent. The people loved me; there were compliments every time I appeared in public; I had spent three weeks with my beloved uncle; and Lord Melbourne had retained the premiership, by the skin of his teeth, as some said, but nevertheless he had held on. The election had been the only thing that had marred perfection, but as Lord Melbourne said, continual perfection might be a little dull, and it was as well to have the odd cloud to make one appreciate the beauty of the summer sky.

But all was well and the glorious year continued.

Alas, we must leave Windsor for I had to be in London for the opening of Parliament.

On the way home we were to call in at Brighton and of course we stayed at that really rather odd palace that my eccentric Uncle George had created.

This was not so pleasant because Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston had returned to London and the Chinese-looking structure with its low rooms did not appeal to me. One could get only the smallest glimpse of the sea from the strange place and it was all rather dull.

I wrote to Lord Melbourne and told him of my impressions of the place and stressed how sorry I was that he was not there.

He wrote back so charmingly—as he always did—and thanked me gracefully for my description of my coming to Brighton.

Lord Melbourne entirely partakes in the wish Your Majesty has been graciously pleased to express that he had been there to witness the scene; but Your Majesty will at once perceive that it is better that he was not, as in that case Lord Melbourne would have been accused of an attempt to take a political advantage of the general enthusiasm and to mix himself and the government with Your Majesty's personal popularity…

I supposed he was right. But how tiresome people were! Why could they not accept Lord Melbourne as their Prime Minister and be grateful for him. I was sure there could not be one better.

It was November when I rode into London. The people cheered wildly welcoming me back, and I was so pleased once more to be in dear Buckingham Palace.

Before the opening of Parliament I was to attend the Lord Mayor's Banquet at Guildhall.

At this time Mama showed me clearly that she did not really understand the state of affairs between us.

She wrote a note to me asking me to allow Sir John Conroy to attend the banquet.

I was astonished. Did she not know of the demands Sir John was making? Blackmail, Lord Melbourne called it. I heartily wished that the matter could have been settled and that Sir John would be banished from the Palace, but negotiations still hung fire.

“The Queen,” wrote Mama, “should forget what displeased the Princess.”

I showed the note to Lord Melbourne. “I do so dislike that man,” I said. “I shall never forget how offensive he was to me when he thought he had me in his power.”

“And now,” said Lord Melbourne, “he is in your power.”

“But he is still here. Mama says that my attitude toward him is causing talk.”

“The attitude of people in high places always causes talk.”

“She says my obstinacy in this matter is hurting me more than it is Sir John.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I am not. He deserves everything that comes to him. He is the most odious of men.”

“Then ignore him … until that time when we shall come to our decision.”

“What shall I say?”

“Nothing. Ignore your mother's letter. Leave it alone.”

“I do wish we could finish with him.”

“We will…in time. At the moment… let it go. Say nothing. That is the best way.”

I sighed. I did so wish it could be settled and I need never think of Sir John Conroy again.

Another letter came from Mama.

Really, dearest Angel, we have had too much of this affair. I have the greatest regard for Sir John. I cannot forget what he has done for me and for you, although he has had the misfortune to displease you …

That is it, Mama, I thought. I cannot forget how much he has displeased me. And your relationship with him has shocked me deeply.

Never, never would I forget opening the door and seeing them together and the dire incident that had been for poor Spath.

But I forgot the bitterness when I rode through the streets of London on my way to the Guildhall. The crowd was dense—so many people had come to see their Queen ride by and to express their loyalty to her. What a moving sight! I smiled and waved and there were tears in my eyes. They knew this and loved me for showing my emotion. And as I was sitting down they couldn't see how short I was, although Lord Melbourne was quite right. Many small people had done very well indeed and one should not be bothered by one's height.

There were fifty-eight carriages, and at Temple Bar I was received by the Lord Mayor, Sir John Cowan, with the sheriffs and members of the Corporation of London. It was really a splendid occasion, and I had to confess that I was beginning to love such ceremonies, with myself the center of attraction and the people showing so vociferously that they loved me.

But there was an angry note from Mama. She had not been given the right place at the dinner. Those who should not have been had been set above her. She must see me. It was cruel of me to shut myself away from my own mother. She was writing to me not as the Queen but as a daughter.

I did see her and it was like being a child again in Kensington Palace. Mama showed clearly that she had forgotten that I was now the Queen. She was quivering with indignation. My treatment of her, my treatment of Sir John Conroy, was monstrous. I was ungrateful. I had forgotten all she had done for me. It poured out of her, all that I had heard so many times before, how she had given up everything for me, how my welfare had been her one concern.

Before I entered the room I had been inclined to believe that I was a little harsh. I had made up my mind that I must see more of her. After all, she was my mother. But when I saw her like that, the old resentments came back, and my heart was hardened.

I remained cool and calm and she went on, “You have been so gracious to the Dowager Queen. You have visited her; you have told her that now she is settling in Marlborough House to take any pieces of furniture from Windsor which she may like to have. Oh, you can't do enough for spotty old Adelaide. It is very different with your poor mother.”

I said, “The Dowager Queen was always good to me. I have always been fond of her. She is very sad now, for she loved the King and she has lost him. I want to make her as happy as I can.”

“You always turned to her. And you were against me…your own mother. Adelaide tried to turn you from me.”

“She never did.”

“All those invitations to balls…so that she could get you to marry George Cambridge.”

“She thought I should live a normal childhood, that I should have some pleasure and be with other children. She knew that I was more or less a prisoner in Kensington.”

“I never heard such nonsense. And the bastards… the FitzClarences…You have taken good care of them too.”

I said, “They have never done me any harm. Aunt Adelaide treats them like her own children.”

“Then more fool her! All these you go out of your way to favor, and your poor mother, who looked after you, who gave her life to you…”

I said coldly, “Mama, you saw that I was fed and clothed, but your goal was to become Regent through me. That was why I was so important to you…not for my sake… but for your own. Always you pushed me aside—ridiculously often at ceremonies when people had come to see me. They called my name and you took it as homage to you. It never was. Nor to me either. It was to the Crown. Let us be fair. Let us be honest. I am now the Queen. I will not have Sir John Conroy in my household, and I will not be told by you what I must do. You have your apartments here, and I must ask you to keep to them unless you are invited otherwise.”

I turned and went out of the room, leaving her deflated and bewildered.

She could not now remain unconvinced that I was determined. I was of age. I was the Queen, and she must perforce obey me.

Ten days later I opened Parliament.


* * *

DURING THE FIRST session of that Parliament the Civil List came under discussion and to my joy I was voted £385,000 a year—£60,000 of which was for my privy purse. This was £10,000 more than had been allotted to my Uncle William and was most gratifying. I was now rich, but Lehzen had brought me up to be provident and I had learned that however much one had, if one were extravagant, that could not be enough. I should not be as my father had been and hoped that when I died I would not leave behind a mountain of debts as he had done. Certain debts of his were still outstanding and the first thing I should do was settle them out of my privy purse.

As a Queen I should have great expenses but I had been careful ever since the days when I had saved up six shillings to buy the beautiful doll I coveted.

Mama had received a further £8,000 a year.

“Which,” Lord Melbourne told me, “has been granted solely for your sake.”

“Oh, how good the government is to me!” I cried.

“Well,” admitted Lord Melbourne, “there was some opposition. There are some very mean fellows about. And do you know, I believe our odious friend Conroy did all he could to stop your getting such a large amount.”

“Oh,” I said, “he is a fiend.”

“The transition has taken place merely by removing the letter r. How easily it is done.”

I thought that was very amusing and typical of Lord Melbourne.

It was soon after that that Lord Melbourne attempted to get rid of Conroy.

“That man continues to importune and is a thorn in our flesh,” he said. “I think the best thing we can do is settle the matter.”

“Nothing would please me more,” I said.

“Well,” went on Lord Melbourne, “let us give him his pension of three thousand pounds a year and a baronetcy. That will shut him up.”

“Is that not giving in to his demands?” I asked.

“Sometimes it is better to make a compromise with the enemy. It saves a lot of trouble. We do not want this man creating trouble, do we?”

“It seems to me a little…weak.”

“Sometimes one has to appear weak to be strong.”

That sounded very profound and at length I agreed, although I hated to see our enemy get what he had demanded.

But that was not the end of the matter. Instead of being grateful that most of his demands had been met, Conroy stuck out for a peerage.