The Widow of Windsor Read online

  About the Book

  Albert is dead and the queen is preparing to spend the rest of her life in mourning. Yet the last years of her reign are to be momentous years.

  Palmerston, then Gladstone and Disraeli, govern her empire through the high noon of its heyday.

  The court at Windsor, Balmoral, Osborne or Buckingham Palace is perpetually shocked by the Prince of Wales, forever in pursuit of horses, women and scandal, the heady harbinger of Edwardian years to come.

  Praise for Jean Plaidy

  ‘One of England’s foremost historical novelists’ Birmingham Mail

  ‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’ New York Times

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781446427316

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2008

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  Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1974

  Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2008

  The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 1974 by Robert Hale and Company

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978009953537

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Copyright

  Praise for Jean Plaidy

  About the Author

  Further titles available in Arrow by Jean Plaidy

  Family Tree

  I: Ceremony at Windsor

  II: Bertie must marry

  III: The family at the Yellow Palace

  IV: A dazzling prospect

  V: The Queen and Alix

  VI: The wedding at Windsor

  VII: Adventure in the Highlands

  VIII: The unexpected birth

  IX: John Brown comes south

  X: The end of Pam and the rise of Dizzy

  XI: A royal birth

  XII: John Brown in command

  XIII: Dizzy’s Beaconsfield

  XIV: The Mordaunt case

  XV: The fatal fourteenth

  XVI: The would-be assassin

  XVII: Death, a betrothal and the return of Dizzy

  XVIII: The Aylesford affair

  XIX: ‘The kiss of death’

  XX: ‘His favourite flower’

  XXI: The Jersey Lily

  XXII: The Queen left lonely once more

  XXIII: The Dilke divorce

  XXIV: Golden Jubilee

  XXV: The arrogant emperor

  XXVI: Scandal at Tranby Croft

  XXVII: Eddy and George

  XXVIII: The Diamond Jubilee

  XXIX: The end of an era

  Bibliography

  Praise for Jean Plaidy

  ‘A vivid impression of life at the Tudor Court’

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘Plaidy excels at blending history with romance and drama’

  New York Times

  ‘Outstanding’ Vanity Fair

  ‘Full-bodied, dramatic, exciting’ Observer

  ‘Plaidy has brought the past to life’

  Times Literary Supplement

  ‘One of our best historical novelists’

  News Chronicle

  ‘An excellent story’

  Irish Press

  ‘Spirited … Plaidy paints the truth as she sees it’

  Birmingham Post

  ‘Sketched vividly and sympathetically … rewarding’

  Scotsman

  ‘Among the foremost of current historical novelists’

  Birmingham Mail

  ‘An accomplished novelist’

  Glasgow Evening News

  ‘There can be no doubt of the author’s gift for storytelling’

  Illustrated London News

  ‘Jean Plaidy has once again brought characters and background vividly to life’

  Everywoman

  ‘Well up to standard … fascinating’

  Manchester Evening News

  ‘Exciting and intelligent’

  Truth Magazine

  Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.

  For further information about our Jean Plaidy reissues and mailing list, please visit

  www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy

  Further titles available in Arrow by Jean Plaidy

  The Tudors

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  Katharine, the Virgin Widow

  The Shadow of the Pomegranate

  The King’s Secret Matter

  Murder Most Royal

  St Thomas’s Eve

  The Sixth Wife

  The Thistle and the Rose

  Mary Queen of France

  Gay Lord Robert

  Royal Road to Fotheringay

  The Captive Queen of Scots

  The Medici Trilogy

  Madame Serpent

  The Italian Woman

  Queen Jezebel

  The Plantagenets

  The Plantagenet Prelude

  The Revolt of the Eaglets

  The Heart of the Lion

  The Prince of Darkness

  The Battle of the Queens

  The Queen from Provence

  The Hammer of the Scots

  The Follies of the King

  The French Revolution

  Louis the Well-Beloved

  The Road to Compiègne

  Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

  The Isabella and Ferdinand Trilogy

  Castile for Isabella

  Spain for the Sovereigns

  Daughters of Spain

  The Victorians

  The Captive of Kensington Palace

  The Queen and Lord M

  The Queen’s Husband

  The Widow of Windsor

  Chapter I

  CEREMONY AT WINDSOR

  Mourning hung heavily over Windsor. The Queen was stunned; now and then her tears would cease and she would ask in a bewildered voice: ‘It’s not true? Tell me it’s not true. This time last year he was with us. Oh God, how could this be? I always believed we should go together.’

  But he was gone; and she would never see his dear face again, never chide him for not sitting long enough over his meals, scold him for going out without a warm coat or getting his feet wet; never again would they sing their duets together, s
ketch, walk, ride; never again would her temper flare up and force her to say hurtful things to him which he with his calm, loving kindness always forgave. Never, never again.

  ‘Dearest Mama,’ pleaded Alice, ‘you must try to stop brooding.’

  ‘Do you think I shall ever forget him?’

  ‘No, Mama, never. None of us will ever forget dear Papa.’

  ‘To you he was the best father in the world, the wisest, most tender parent a child ever had, but he was my life. Now that he … has gone, part of me has gone with him.’

  ‘Dearest Mama, you still have us … your children who love you.’

  Always demonstrative, the Queen embraced her daughter, but she thought: Nothing … no one can ever be to me what he was. But he has gone and life is over for me. I shall never be happy again.

  She had made a terrible discovery. She had gone over everything that had happened during those days before the Beloved Being’s death. He had been ill for some time. She should have heeded the warning; she should have been more insistent that he take care of himself. His colds, his fevers, his rheumatisms had plagued him for years and although she had never taken them exactly for granted she had not thought they could be fatal. And … feeling sick and ill he had gone to Cambridge to see Bertie. This was terrible. If he had not gone to Cambridge in that dreadful weather, if he had stayed at home to be nursed by his loving wife, the Queen, he would be here today.

  But he had said: ‘I must go to Cambridge. It is imperative.’ And he had gone and he came back ill with that dreaded fever. And so he had passed away.

  To be angry gave a little comfort; and she was angry. Bertie was wicked, for Bertie was responsible for his father’s death. How could Bertie have behaved so? The Queen said to herself: The Prince of Wales, my eldest son, has killed his father, the Prince Consort.

  Bertie knew. She saw from his face that this was so. He was shamefaced – only that! He should have been heartbroken. She could not understand Bertie. He was the only one of her children who seemed destined to plague her. The others were good children. Bertie was … well, not so much bad (perhaps he was too young for that and it would come later) as careless, thoughtless, frivolous and, she feared, rapidly rushing along the road to ruin. He needed the firm hand of his father and that hand had been removed. The tragedy was that Bertie was the eldest son, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, and he was responsible for his father’s death.

  Darling, beloved, most wonderful Albert had not told her why he must go to Cambridge. If he had not died and she had not seen the letter from Baron Stockmar among those not yet put away on his desk she would not have known that Bertie had been involved in a disgraceful affair with an actress when he was in Ireland at the Curragh Camp. This affair had gone as far as it was possible for such an affair to go – the Queen shuddered at the implication – and according to the Baron was one of the scandals being discussed all over Europe. How sad Albert must have been when he read of his son’s conduct and how noble of him to try to keep this from her knowledge in order to save her pain. Instead he had gone out when already ill in dreadful weather to remonstrate with his frivolous son, his fever had progressed and he had come home to his deathbed.

  I shall never, never forgive Bertie, she told herself vehemently.

  Dear Alice was a comfort. She had grown up in a few days, changing from a child to a woman. Only a short time ago she had become betrothed to Prince Louis of Hesse with Albert’s consent. What a delightful day that had been when dear Louis, so much in love, had been unable to hide his feelings any more and had proposed to Alice. Dear child, she was young – nearly eighteen – but then Vicky had been married at seventeen and was now a mother.

  The Queen’s tears spurted forth afresh. How Albert had loved his eldest daughter! In fact there were times when she believed she had been a little jealous of Vicky. She had disliked anything that took his mind from her, his wife – even his devotion to their eldest daughter. How wrong of her and how good Albert had always been. Now she was back to the eternal question. What was she going to do without Albert?

  She thought of the others, Alfred who was nearly seventeen; Helena whom Albert had called Lenchen and who was fifteen; Louise, thirteen; Arthur, eleven; Leopold, eight and Baby Beatrice, four. Nine children and now she was remembering how she had dreaded their arrivals and the dreary months of pregnancy, how she had complained, been irritable and lost her temper – and that dear saint had always been there to guide her.

  And now he was gone; everything brought her back to that dreadful truth.

  There should be a mausoleum for him; she would superintend its erection herself. It would help to keep her sane, for when the enormity of her grief forced itself upon her she felt as though she were going mad. Life without Albert, going on and on for years alone! She realised with a pang that she was only forty-two, which was not really old.

  But I cannot live long without him, she reassured herself. It will be a mausoleum for us both. Soon I shall be lying beside him.

  Alice came to her and she told her of her plan.

  ‘It shall be at Frogmore,’ she said. ‘I shall choose the spot and Bertie must be there with me when I do so.’ She shivered. But she could not speak of Bertie’s behaviour to an unmarried girl. It would have been different if Vicky had been there.

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ said Alice. ‘It will be something for us to do.’

  Alice was competent and cool, although grief-stricken herself, but Alice had been her mother’s daughter. It was Vicky who had been her father’s.

  Bertie was waiting at Frogmore to receive her – eyes averted, reading her thoughts.

  His father’s murderer! Our own son! Oh, what a price he has paid for his wickedness.

  Bertie tried hard to show her that he intended to be a good son but she could not bear to look at him. She took Alice’s arm and she and her daughter led the procession round the garden.

  ‘This would be a good spot,’ she decided. ‘We shall lie here together.’

  The Queen’s Uncle Leopold, King of the Belgians, who had been the father-figure of her childhood and the most important man in her life until her accession, when Lord Melbourne, her now dead Prime Minister, had stepped into his shoes, wrote from Brussels that she must not stay at Windsor.

  He understood as no one else could, he insisted. He had lost two beloved wives himself; he was well aware of the Queen’s affectionate nature; it would be disastrous if she stayed at Windsor. She must leave at once for Osborne. He understood the intensity of her grief and he knew that she needed the peace of her island home. There she would mourn silently. She must not attend Albert’s state funeral. The experience would be unendurable. Bertie should be chief mourner and he must beg of her, as she trusted him, to leave at once for Osborne.

  ‘Osborne!’ she said to Alice. ‘Perhaps Uncle Leopold is right.’

  ‘But, Mama, you would not wish to leave yet. You will want to see dear Papa laid to rest.’

  ‘I don’t think I could bear it, my child.’

  ‘But …’

  The Queen silenced her by laying a hand on her arm. Yes, she would leave Windsor. Uncle Leopold was right. She would die or go mad if she stayed here. She did not wish to tell Alice that she had before her marriage sometimes thought of going mad. It was due to the fact that her grandfather, George III, had lived out the last years of his life in that clouded state and there had been rumours that some of the uncles had taken after their father in this respect. Albert’s guiding hand had led her into a calmer state of mind; but now that was no longer there and the fear returned.

  Yes, she would go to Osborne.

  Osborne in December was grey and gloomy. What place on earth would not be grey and gloomy in that December? There were memories everywhere. Together they had come to the old Osborne and his genius had created the charming place it was today. Here he had played his games with the children; making sure that there was always a lesson to be learned from play. What a wonderful father he had been
– an example to all as both father and husband!

  Why had Uncle Leopold thought she could feel better at Osborne than anywhere else? As if she could feel better anywhere!

  And in the room at Osborne, their room, she must go to bed all alone. How cold, how dreary! She smiled fleetingly, thinking of how he was often asleep when she came up because she had stayed up for some reason. He had always been so ready to sleep. They should have taken greater care of him; but because his mind was so great they had forgotten his physical weakness.

  She took a portrait of him and laid it on the pillow where his head used to be.

  ‘Darling Albert,’ she whispered, ‘I could almost believe now that you are near me.’

  She crowned it with a laurel wreath and sat by the bed looking down at it and weeping.

  ‘I have wept so much, dearest Albert,’ she said, ‘that I would seem to have no tears left.’

  She could not sleep; she put out her hand and touched the portrait; then she rose, and finding one of his nightshirts in the drawer, she took it to bed with her and holding it in her arms was comforted.

  It was midnight at Osborne, with the wild sea shrieking as though it knew what a tragedy had taken place. The Queen liked to hear it. She could not have borne it if it had been calm, blue and smiling. But she was shivering; she could not keep warm, which was strange really for in the past she had been so eager for fresh air and had enjoyed the cool keen winds. Her attendants had, she knew, continually complained of draughts from the windows she had insisted should remain open. Albert had been so much better in the spring and autumn than in the heat of summer; although he had so many colds in the winter.

  How the days dragged! Could it really be only a week since that terrible day?

  There was a commotion without, indicating that someone had arrived. She rose and went to the top of the stairs. Her brother-in-law Ernest, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, was below. He and his servants were dishevelled; they had just landed and the night was wild.

  He saw her standing there and ran up the stairs to embrace her. They wept together.

  ‘Oh, Ernest,’ she cried. ‘He has gone. We have lost him!’