“You mean Mrs. Caroline Norton? Yes, indeed it was necessary—as well as pleasant—because she is a very old acquaintance of one of my very dearest friends.”

“I should have thought he would have been eager to put all that behind him.”

“Lord Melbourne would never put an old friend behind him. I believe him to be a very faithful man.”

“He cannot wish that unfortunate episode to be remembered.”

“I don't think it concerns him in the least. He has never attempted to hide his past.”

“I believe the lady's husband brought a case against Lord Melbourne for seducing his wife.”

“That is true. The husband was supported by the Tories who—vile creatures—saw an opportunity of creating a scandal against the Whigs. The case was decided in favor of Lord Melbourne and Mrs. Norton; and the husband was proved to be a very poor creature indeed.”

“Even so, people who have been involved in unsavory cases do the country no good.”

“But if they are innocent?”

“They cannot be completely innocent. Otherwise they would not have been involved.”

“I do not agree with that. I think innocent people can be caught up in these matters. Do you know that Mrs. Norton is the granddaughter of Sheridan, the playwright. She is a gifted poet, an artist, and a musician. I thought they were the kind of people you wanted to introduce into the Court.”

“Not if their morals make them unworthy.”

“Oh, Albert, you ask too much.”

“I only ask that they live respectably.”

“How can you expect everyone to be like you?”

“I expect a certain morality.”

“I believe in forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness, yes. But such incidents cannot be forgotten. If they are, we shall have people thinking that they can indulge in them and be forgiven and forgetfulness will follow as a matter of course. But it seems that my opinions are of no moment.”

“That is unfair!”

“It is a fact. What do I do? I am called on when it pleases you to want a little light amusement. I am shut out while you have those long and I gather often hilarious conferences with your Prime Minister, whose reputation is not of the highest and who is allowed to bring those connected with his shady past into the Court to be received most graciously by the Queen.”

I stood up, my temper rising.

“Albert,” I said, “I will not have anyone—not even you—speak like that of Lord Melbourne.”

In spite of my temper—and perhaps when it was at its height—I could be very cold, very regal, and because I was so short and that was such a disadvantage, I became more royal than I should have had I been a few inches taller.

Albert stood up, bowed and murmured, “Your Majesty will excuse me.”

And before I could protest he had reached the door. “Albert,” I called. “Come back. I am in the middle of a conversation.”

There was no answer; he had gone.

I was very angry. First, because of what he had said about Lord Melbourne, and second because he had walked out while I was talking to him and ignored my command for him to return.

I loved Albert. But he must remember that I was the Queen. It is very hard to be involved in a relationship like ours and for the female in the partnership to be the one who is predominant. I realized that few men would care for such a position, for it is a trait of the masculine character that most men can only be content when they are the dominant one. Albert was essentially masculine. They could jeer at what the Press called his pretty looks, but he was every inch a man.

Still he must accept the fact that I was the Queen.

My anger seething, I went to his dressing room.

“Albert,” I called. “I want to speak to you.”

There was no answer. Albert was refusing to obey me. What was he proposing to do? Was he dressing to go riding or walking … without me?

I saw the key was in the lock outside the door. I went to it and with a vicious gesture turned it. There! Now he was locked in.

I sat down to wait. Soon he must plead to come out, and then I would make him talk. I would tell him that he must not walk away when I was speaking to him. He must not think he could treat me as though I were an ordinary German wife. I was the Queen of England.

I waited. Nothing happened.

The time was ticking away. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen minutes. It was too much. My fury disappeared almost as quickly as it came and it was leaving me wretched. I began to see that I had been hasty. I did not agree with Albert about Caroline Norton, but I should, all the same, respect his opinion. I was lax. I belonged to a family that had never really had a high regard for morals. The uncles were notoriously scandalous. My grandfather had been a good man, but as they said, he was mad.

Albert was very good and very sane. I must learn to control my anger. I must listen to Albert. I felt miserable. I wanted to be forgiven.

Albert was right. Of course Albert was right. I could wait no longer. I turned the key.

“Albert,” I said.

“Come in,” he replied calmly.

I went in and gasped. He was not in the least upset. He was seated at the window sketching.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He held up the sketch. “It struck me that it was a rather delightful scene from the window,” he said.

I looked at it. So all the time I had been sitting out there—angry, waiting—he had been sketching!

He was looking at me with that tender exasperation which I knew so well.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It's very good.”

“I was going to give it to you when it was finished—a reminder of the day you locked me in my dressing room.”

“Oh, Albert,” I cried, almost in tears, “how good you are! How calm! How wonderful!”

“Liebchen…,” He always lapsed into German when he was most tender, “do not be sad. It is all over.”

“I lost my temper.”

“Well? Is that so unusual?”

“I should not, Albert. I know I should not. But it overflows.”

“You have so much feeling…so much love…so much hate.”

“I have much love for you, Albert.”

“I know, little one,” he said.

“Then why do I do this?”

“Because you are…Victoria.”

“I am so sorry, Albert. Do forgive me.”

“You are my dear little wife.”

“Oh, Albert, then all is well.”

So we kissed and another little storm had blown over. But of course in the perfect married life there would have been no storms.


* * *

ERNEST HAD RECOVERED from his indisposition and had now left us.

Albert took a very painful farewell of his brother and was very sad at the parting.

Ernest was a self-evident libertine and yet that had not diminished Albert's love for him; the same thing applied to his father; and Albert's grief at parting from them had been so great that it had angered me.

It seemed to me that the Coburgs, my mother's relations, were every bit as immoral as my father's. I was on the point of taking this up with Albert since he had been so very censorious about Lord Melbourne, but I restrained myself—admirably I thought—for I guessed it would provoke another storm.

Albert was very melancholy in the days following his brother's departure and he spent a good deal of time with Anson and Stockmar. They went out together and I wondered whether Albert was renewing his acquaintance with Sir Robert Peel.

I knew that he was studying politics and history—particularly that of England. He told me he found it quite fascinating and he was almost wistful about it.

Albert was being very careful in what he said. I was sure he hated those storms as much as I did. My twenty-first birthday was approaching and I was now two months pregnant. I felt slightly less discomfort in some ways but I was beginning to feel very tired. What I had always thought was being borne out. Childbearing was a very unattractive— though necessary, I admitted—part of marriage.

My spirits were always lifted by my conferences with Lord Melbourne, and when I found state matters a trifle boring he would always switch to gossip. He usually had some anecdote to bring out for my amusement… either some present scandal or one from the past. I always said I learned more of my ancestors from Lord Melbourne's stories than I did from the history books.

There were still ribald cartoons about us and sly hints in the Press.

“Don't look at them,” was Lord Melbourne's advice.

I refused to receive the Cambridges at Court as the Duchess had not stood up when Albert's toast was drunk, and one day Albert was at a function given by Queen Adelaide. I did not go. I was feeling very tired and uncomfortable and Lehzen had said it could be dangerous to exert myself. I gave in to her persuasions and as we had agreed to go, Albert reluctantly went alone.

He would have been delighted to have stayed with me, which was gratifying. We might have had one of our quiet evenings, singing duets, playing the piano, indulging in a game of chess which Albert invariably contrived to win. A quiet evening at home, early to bed, and then rising fresh in the morning. That was what he wanted.

Albert had a great tendency to go to sleep during banquets. He said it was because of the trivial conversation that generally prevailed and produced a soporific effect.

“You must not let people see it,” I said. But of course they did. We could not sneeze in public without its being noted and probably construed as our having one foot in the grave.

At this particular banquet when the meal was over Albert left. He had thought it a good opportunity to get away and had forgotten that after dinner speeches followed.

When the Duke of Cambridge rose to speak he said that he had noted the Prince had left.

“Can we blame him?” he asked. “Naturally he is anxious to get home to spend the night with a fine girl.”

This was cheered and reported and enlarged on.

Albert was furious. “The coarseness is unforgivable,” he said.

“The Cambridges are annoyed because I did not marry their son George. That is what they wanted. Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide wanted it too. That is why they say such things.”

Albert said it was crass, obscene.

Lord Melbourne chuckled about it and said it was a fine compliment to me.

I saw Lord Melbourne's point and laughed with him. But Albert was really angry. He said it set the public imagining… obscenely.

I had not thought of that. It was amazing how much more the good saw in these things.


* * *

IT WAS MY twenty-first birthday. How much had happened since this time last year. A wife and a mother-to-be.

I had always loved birthdays and there was to be a ball to celebrate the occasion. What would a birthday be like without a ball! Albert would have liked to spend the day quietly in the country. I had to remind him that that was not possible for a person in my position, even if I had wanted to—which I most certainly did not!

Presents were fun. Albert's was a bronze inkstand—a very fine one. Albert liked presents to be useful.

He had talked to me again about Mama. He did not like this discord between us, and was very anxious that it should cease. It is unnatural, he said. Again and again I told him of what I had endured during my childhood; he would smile gently, but I had the impression that he thought I was not quite innocent of blame.

How different from Lehzen, who saw only my side! But then she had been there. She had seen it happening.

But I loved Albert more dearly than ever. He was so beautiful and so good. I loved singing and playing duets with him, but I wished he enjoyed dancing. He danced well and gracefully, as he did everything, but he was always watching the clock and waiting for the moment when he could slip away. He had no desire to dance with anyone else. How gratifying! How touching! And how different from so many men! I thought of his brother Ernest and shuddered. How fortunate I was to have Albert. But I did wish he enjoyed dancing.

Lord Melbourne was quite sentimental when he congratulated me on my birthday.

“I feel so old,” I said.

“Never mind,” said Lord M, “when you are forty you will feel much younger.”

That made me laugh. But Lord M insisted that it was true.

I had taken his advice and was discussing state affairs with Albert. This made me realize that I did not know a great deal about them. I had always taken Lord Melbourne's view, and I did find some of them rather boring.