Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria Read online

  Then Mama suggested that as the cousins must see something of the countryside, we should take them for a trip, and we might go to the Isle of Wight. That would have been perfection, but Mama would insist that the royal standard should fly over Norris Castle, and the guns were firing the royal salute, which reminded me of Uncle William and that terribly embarrassing time at the ball.

  There was, however, one thing to be grateful for. Sir John and his family did not stay with us at Norris Castle. This was because he owned a small house on the island called Osborne Lodge. It was close to the Castle and, of course, we visited the Conroys there. I thought how pleasant it was—or would have been if they had not been there; and indeed, I preferred it to Norris Castle. It was a blessing—though a small one—that when we were at this castle he was not under the same roof.

  What happy days they were! I walked and rode with the cousins and took Dash down to the sea. The little darling loved everything as long as I was there to share it. The cousins played with him and he was quite fond of them. I was sure he preferred Alexander—because I did—although Ernest was very charming. Then there were the occasions when I was presented to the people and they cheered me and the guns fired, and I could see how impressed my cousins were because of my importance and popularity.

  Mama watched me closely and told me that I must not become arrogant just because the guns were fired and the royal standard flown. “They are for the crown, not you, my child.”

  I pointed out then that they must be for Uncle William.

  At which she said, “Don't be so trying, Victoria.”

  But I liked the truth and could become very obstinate even though I knew it would result in Mama's getting annoyed. She and I were growing farther and farther away from each other. I was seeing her too clearly. I wondered how fond she was of me, and whether it was the crown for which she had such overwhelming affection. She always stood forward and in front of me on ceremonial occasions, as though she were the heir to the throne and the one the people wanted to see even though they shouted my name and “God bless the little Princess.” Of course she liked to hear that because it meant that I was more popular than the King, but all the time she wanted them to cheer her. And the fact was that they did not really like her.

  They liked me because I was the heir to the throne, destined to be Queen; I was young and innocent and smiled at them, and looked as though I was pleased. Mama always looked haughty, as though they were far beneath her—and naturally they did not like that.

  There was one embarrassing incident when I was to open a pier. Mama suddenly decided that I was becoming conceited and must be taught a lesson. I should not open the pier, she said. She would.

  I was astounded. It made me very ashamed to have to be present at such times, for there was great consternation when Mama announced to the Mayor and his counselors that I should not be opening the pier and that she would do it instead.

  They were so dismayed, they did not know what to say. Then the Mayor stammered that the crowds had come to see the little Princess.

  “They may see her,” said Mama, “but I shall open the pier. Pray proceed with the ceremony.”

  Mama was not always very wise. She did not seem to be aware that the people were greatly displeased and they liked her even less after that than they had before.

  To make matters worse she, being aware of their disappointment, told them that we could not stay to the luncheon that was to follow the ceremony. We had an engagement elsewhere.

  I could imagine the preparations that had gone into the luncheon and the expectations of the people.

  Oh yes, Mama could not only be overbearing but foolish, and her behavior spoiled many days that should have been blissful.

  I did not write then of my feelings in my journal. How could I for Mama to see? I often thought as I wrote laboriously—best handwriting—how much more relieved I should feel if I could only set down what I felt when it was happening. How much better I should have known myself if I could. But I had to remember that Mama and Lehzen read every word I wrote, and that had been Mama's intention when she gave me the journal. So I wrote an exercise, and only allowed my real feelings true range for enthusiasm over the opera and my pleasure in my cousins' visit—all of which were subjects that would not irritate Mama.

  To crown my embarrassment, when we returned to Norris Castle there was a letter awaiting Mama from Earl Grey which stated that standards and royal salutes must only be employed when the King or Queen were in residence.

  Still smarting from the reception the people had given her at the opening of the pier, Mama was furious.

  HOW SAD IT was to say goodbye to the cousins. I was almost in tears. So were they.

  “Please, please, come and see us again soon,” I begged.

  They said they would not be happy until they did.

  Mama smiled benignly to see the affection between us, and for once she and I shared the feeling of sorrow because they were leaving us.

  They were so amiable, good-tempered, and interested in everything.

  I wrote in my journal: “We shall miss them at breakfast, at luncheon, at dinner, riding, sailing, driving, walking—in fact everywhere.”

  I LOOKED FORWARD to Uncle Leopold's letters and was delighted when he wrote to say that as soon as possible, he was going to bring his new wife Louise to England to meet his favorite child.

  So that was something to look forward to.

  I was so happy when he wrote to say he was expecting to become a father.

  “That,” I said to Lehzen, “is just what he needs. It will make him happy. He mourned so long for Princess Charlotte.”

  “Oh,” said Lehzen, “I think he revelled in his mourning now and then.”

  I did not quite understand, but she would say no more. Was Lehzen a little jealous of my affection for Uncle Leopold? I am afraid that my vanity overcame my better nature when it was a question of people's being jealous, as had been the case with my cousins. It was so comforting to know that I was important to them.

  But all the same I did not quite like any criticism of one who seemed so perfect to me as Uncle Leopold.

  My fifteenth birthday was approaching and I was hoping that Aunt Adelaide would give another ball for me. I had so enjoyed the one on my fourteenth birthday, and surely Mama could not spoil it this time. In three years time I should reach the all-important age of eighteen.

  Mama was getting more and more contentious; each day she said something detrimental about Uncle William because he refused to die; and there were only three years left. Any little rumor about his illness sent her into transports of delight. It seemed to me very wrong to wish another person dead with such vehemence. It was like murder…in a way.

  Shortly before my birthday I had sad news from Uncle Leopold. His baby was dead.

  Dear Uncle Leopold, how sad he must be! He wrote to me at length about his sorrow. He was desolate. Life was cruel to him. He and Louise were staggering under the blow.

  I tried to comfort him, repeating many of those homilies he had delivered to me over the years, and he wrote back saying my letter brought him consolation.

  Aunt Adelaide had not forgotten my birthday. She visited Mama and when I was present she reminded us of the coming birthday.

  “We must have another juvenile ball,” she said. “I know how much you enjoyed the one we gave on your fourteenth birthday. The King and I were saying we must do it again. I shall never forget the sight of you opening the ball with your cousin George.”

  I saw Mama bridle and feared the worst.

  “Dear Adelaide,” she said, “it is kind of you, but you have forgotten that I am in mourning for my brother's child.”

  The Queen looked startled. “Oh …I had forgotten…”

  “I do not forget such a bereavement in my family.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Queen seeing my crestfallen looks, “Victoria might come. It is her birthday and there should be some celebration.”

  Mama rai
sed her eyebrows in that haughty way she had, and her earrings trembled. “I cannot see how Victoria could fail to be in mourning too. Leopold is her uncle… her very favorite uncle.”

  The Queen looked as near annoyance as I had ever seen her. There was a look of resignation on her face. “Very well,” she said, and soon after that she left.

  “How insensitive!” said Mama. “Some people have no family feeling.”

  “I think she only wanted to please me.”

  “She might have known that it is not the time for dancing and that if you have any fine feelings at all, it is the very last thing you would want to do.”

  I was silent—sullen perhaps. I did not see what good I could do to Uncle Leopold's baby by staying at home on my birthday.

  I think Aunt Adelaide had been very put out, but being herself she did not want to spoil my birthday any more than it had been already.

  The next day she wrote to my mother and said that she was sorry there would be no ball, but she would call at Kensington Palace on the morning of my birthday to convey her good wishes and those of the King.

  Then Mama did an outrageous thing that made me more ashamed than I had been over the birthday.

  She sent a note to the Queen saying that as she was in mourning— and the Princess with her—she was unable to receive visitors.

  I was shocked. I could not help talking to Lehzen.

  “How dare Mama tell the Queen she is not receiving! Receiving! She talks like a queen herself. Oh, Lehzen, I am so ashamed.”

  Lehzen shook her head but did not leap to the defense of my mother. I supposed she was remembering that Mama had allowed Sir John to attempt to dismiss her.

  But the birthday was not quite so mournful as I had feared it might be, for on it I received a letter from Feodore; and its contents delighted me. She was coming to see us.

  Feodore was now a happy mother of four children. There were Charles and Eliza, little Hermann and now another baby named Victor. Although we had corresponded regularly, it was six years since I had seen my dear sister and the prospect of actually talking to her again was so exciting that it made my birthday a happy one.

  I would notice the change in her, Feodore warned. Well, I expected she would notice a change in me! I tried to remember what I had been like at nine. I could picture my beautiful Feodore as she had been on her wedding day…perfectly. She was always pretty—prettier than I ever would be, I supposed.

  Even Mama was delighted at the prospect of seeing Feodore. She bustled about giving orders and preparing for their arrival. She kept talking about the dear little babies and for once seemed to have forgotten her obsession with Uncle William's long-delayed death and her own importance in the country.

  It was a lovely June day when they arrived. Such excitement there was! Lehzen, chewing away at her caraway seeds, was in a state of bemused delight. And there was Feodore, getting out of the carriage with her husband, Ernest, and the children.

  I dashed forward but Mama laid a hand on my shoulder and she herself went forward to kiss Feodore.

  Then it was my turn.

  “Darling, darling Vicky!”

  “Dearest, dearest Feodore!”

  “Oh, how you have grown!”

  So had she. She was no longer the sylph-like girl who had left England; she was quite plump, but beautiful as ever, and all my love for her came flooding back and I was so happy to see her.

  Oh, the joy of that reunion! I put an arm through Feodore's; and Mama had her arm around her. Mama looked really happy. She did love Feodore even though she was not destined for a crown. She loved the babies too. Even Mama seemed different while Feodore was there. I quite liked the Count Hohenlohe-Langenburg and I adored the children. They called me Aunt Victoria. It felt very strange to be an aunt but I loved it.

  “We will have such talks,” I said; and Feodore squeezed my hand.

  When they had all rested awhile, it was decided that Feodore and I should go for a drive with Lehzen in the Park and that was the greatest delight to me.

  Lehzen was laughing all the time and we chatted away about those days when we were all together, and the things we used to do. Feodore told us about the babies and I believed she had forgotten all about Augustus and how he used to talk to her while I watered the flowers—which was a very good thing, because what everybody had wanted for her had turned out to be right.

  A program had been arranged for Feodore's stay and we were to visit Windsor. I guessed Mama would have liked to have refused but the invitation was extended to Feodore and Ernest and they accepted graciously, so there was little Mama could do.

  On that first day we were to go to the opera. Feodore said she was so tired and Mama, looking at her tenderly, said, “Well, my darling, you must go to bed. It has been a long day for you and I do not want you to be exhausted.”

  I cried impulsively, “Feodore, go to bed and I will sit with you and we will talk until you go to sleep.”

  “No,” said Mama firmly. “You must go to the opera. It will be expected.”

  So I went although I should have loved to stay with Feodore. But I have to admit I did enjoy the opera. Giulia Grisi was singing and I thought her voice quite divine; and it was Rossini's L'Assiedo di Corrinto. Moreover the opera was followed by Les Sylphides in which Taglioni danced. So I was in a state of bliss.

  To have seen Feodore, Grisi, and Taglioni in one day made it one of the most thrilling of my life so far.

  I awoke next morning with the glorious feeling of anticipation and the first thing I said to myself was: Feodore is here.

  What joy there was during those days! I contrived—rarely—to be alone with Feodore for then we would talk easily and naturally. But, of course, either Mama or Lehzen was usually there. I loved the children. They were so affectionate and so amusing.

  We went to Windsor, where Feodore was received most kindly by the King and Aunt Adelaide, although I must admit the King rather pointedly ignored Mama, and my happiness was tinged with apprehension while we were there because I was terrified that a storm would blow up between them and I pictured Mama marshalling us all out at short notice.

  But Feodore's visit did seem to soften even her and I believed she did want Feodore to enjoy it. Feodore was of a gentle, peace-loving nature; she accepted life more readily than I did. Perhaps Mama was right and I had been affected by the knowledge that I might step one day into a very exalted position. It may be that that gives one a determination not to be subdued.

  The best way to be alone with Feodore was to go riding, and this we did frequently. There were others with us of course but with little maneuvering we could sometimes escape from them. One day we did this and as we walked our horses through a narrow lane I said to her, “I believe we have escaped.”

  Feodore looked at me quickly and said, “Do you sometimes feel you would like to escape?”

  “I should like to be alone sometimes.”

  Feodore smiled. “I understand. Do you sometimes feel like a prisoner?”

  “Yes, I think I do. You see there is always someone there. I even have to sleep in Mama's bedroom. One of the things I want most is a room of my own where I can go sometimes… and be alone.”

  “I understand.”

  “When you were there…did you feel like that?”

  “Mama was determined to take care of us but sometimes she seemed like a jailer. But you will soon be eighteen, Victoria, and then…”

  “Then I shall be free.”

  “You will be the Queen. Does that frighten you a little?”

  “It makes me very serious.”

  “You will be good, I know.”

  “I shall try. And I shall be free.”

  “I think,” she said, “that you will know how to have your way. It is not long now. You will marry, as I did.”

  “That meant freedom for you.”

  “One is never really free. There are always obligations.”

  “Yes, but free to be alone sometimes.”

&
nbsp; She said suddenly, “What did you think of the cousins?”

  “They were charming.”

  “We have several cousins. I wonder what you will think of the SaxeCoburgs. I find them the most charming of all.”

  “Uncle Leopold has written to me about Ernest and Albert. He thinks I shall enjoy meeting them very much. I believe they will visit us one day.”

  “I feel sure they will.”

  “What are they like, Feodore?”

  “Very handsome. Uncle Leopold watches over them with great care.”

  “As he does over me.”

  “He has a great family feeling.”

  “Tell me about the cousins. What do they look like?”

  “They are tall and good-looking. My favorite of the two is Ernest.”

  “Oh, why? Uncle Leopold writes most glowingly of Albert.”

  “They are both admirable. Ernest is so honest and good-humored.”

  “Is not Albert honest and good-humored?”

  “Oh yes, but Albert is more clever, sharper. What I mean is Ernest is more… innocent.”

  “I do long to meet them.”

  “They must miss their mother.”

  “Why?”

  Feodore looked at me sharply. “I suppose you haven't heard the scandal?”

  “You mean about the cousins?”

  “Well, not exactly about them. It is their parents.”

  “Do tell me.”

  Feodore hesitated and I wailed, “Oh, Feodore, don't be like the rest of them. Don't have secrets from me. They are always implying that I am too young for this and that. Don't be like that, dear Sissy.”

  Feodore said, “Well, I suppose you will know one day. Their mother was Luise of Saxe-Gotha, and when she married Duke Ernest of SaxeCoburg it should have been a happy match. But something went wrong. After the birth of her eldest son, Ernest, there was trouble between her and the Duke. He was not as faithful as he might have been; she was lonely and there were people at Court to flatter and amuse her. There was scandal about her, and soon after Albert was born at Rosenau. It is a beautiful yellow stone castle surrounded by trees—oak, beech, elm, and ash…. You can look out from the windows to the Thuringian Forest. There Albert was born on a lovely August day.”