The Widow of Windsor Page 2

  Ernest could only murmur brokenly. But it helped her a little to see that the visitors were well received and looked after. She became for a moment the ordinary little housewife she had sometimes told Albert she would have liked to be; and when living in small houses like Osborne she had been able to play at being.

  Ernest sat with her, talking. He was a year older than Albert and he might so easily have been her husband. She shuddered at the thought. How different he was from that incomparable angel. One could hardly believe they were brothers. Ernest so dark and saturnine – Albert fair and angelic. Ernest resembled his father the late Duke, not only in looks but in his ways. There had been a horrible rumour about Albert’s birth and malicious people had tried to spread the story that he was not his father’s son, because his mother had been involved in a scandal with a member of her husband’s household, had been divorced and Albert had not seen her after he was four years old. What wicked stories people concocted about good people of whom they could only be envious. Albert certainly was different from his father and brother; she had become aware how different at the time of her marriage when Ernest had stayed with them and confessed that he was suffering from a horrible disease which was a result of his conduct in Berlin.

  Dear Albert, how shocked he had been! He loved his brother, though, and had done everything to help him. That was years ago and now Ernest was married and had stepped into his father’s shoes and become Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha; he had no children. Albert had told her that this was sometimes a result of this terrible disease which she reminded herself severely he had brought on himself. She very much doubted that Ernest had mended his ways. In any case this childlessness raised a problem because if he had no heir one of Albert’s sons would inherit the Dukedom – Alfred possibly. This was hardly a matter to be discussed at this time, though.

  They sat up late talking of Albert. Victoria told Ernest of the happiness she had known with him, of the thousands of joys now lost to her, Ernest talked of the old days when they had been boys together, fencing, riding, hunting, roaming the forests and finding specimens for their museum. ‘The Ernest and Albert Museum, we called it. We were as one. We had never been separated in our lives until the time came for Albert to prepare for his marriage.’

  They wept together and talked of lovely Rosenau where the boys had spent so many happy days and where Albert had delighted in showing Victoria the room he and Ernest had shared, the fencing marks in the wall, the trophies of their childhood, the mountains, rivers and pine forests.

  When Ernest left for Windsor where he would attend the funeral she remained at a window waving until he could no longer be seen; and she shuddered to think how fortunate she had been to have chosen Albert.

  That brought her back to the recriminations. I should have taken greater care of him. I should never have allowed him to go to Cambridge.

  Oh, Bertie, Bertie, what have you done!

  The Prince of Wales was dreading the ordeal. He was relieved, though, that his mother was not present. He knew what those reproachful looks implied. Papa should never have come to Cambridge on that wet and blustery day. Of what use had it been? The affair was over and he had promised not to behave in such a way again; but Papa need not have come tearing down to Cambridge on such a day to extract the promise.

  Bertie was full of remorse naturally, but he could not help feeling that life might be a good deal more tolerable without his father’s supervision. Everything he had ever done had been criticised; even his recent success in Canada and the United States had been attributed by his parents to General Bruce, his governor.

  But life had become easier in the last year or so and this was entirely due to the fact that he was growing up. They could not treat him as a child for ever – much as they would like to. And Bertie knew that he had some quality which that dead saint had lacked. The people saw it – those in the streets, those he had met on his tour. They warmed to him. He smiled readily; he could not remember seeing his father smile. Bertie had a way of saying something to people which amused them or endeared him to them in some way. He had a sneaking feeling that those who knew of the Curragh Camp escapade thought it ‘only natural’ and liked him none the less for it – perhaps a bit more. Lord Palmerston, the Prime Minister, for instance, had refused to give General Bruce the honour Bertie’s parents had asked for him to have. ‘It was the success of the Prince of Wales,’ Palmerston had replied, ‘not that of General Bruce, and Your Majesty’s Government would never agree to give honours where it did not consider them due.’ Good old Palmerston! He had winked once at Bertie when he was leaving the Queen’s presence after, Bertie was sure, having heard a diatribe on the reprehensible behaviour of the Prince of Wales. Palmerston had been a rake himself in his youth – and later. He understood that a young man had to break out sometimes.

  Bertie was, of course, sorry that his father’s fever had increased through his journey up to Cambridge in foul weather, but it was self-imposed and unnecessary – and Bertie refused to blame himself.

  There was muffled bustle throughout the castle appropriate to the occasion. He would be glad when it was over.

  The Guard of Honour of the Grenadier Guards, of which Prince Albert had been Colonel, was at the entrance of the State Apartments and members of the royal family and the heads of foreign states were assembled in the Chapter Room of St George’s Chapel, waiting to be taken to their places in the procession.

  It was time to set out.

  Behind the coffin walked Bertie, chief mourner with his eleven-year-old brother Arthur and Uncle Ernest; members of the royal houses of Europe followed and the solemn procession began.

  Bertie’s features were serious; he was trying to think of the goodness of his father and he could only see that stern face which had also been so cold when turned towards him. He had been different with Vicky and the Queen and some of the younger children. But always he was the mentor, critical of others’ weaknesses because he was so good himself. He had rarely smiled; he had frowned often at Bertie’s laughter which had overflowed far too frequently according to his father.

  ‘It was all for my own good,’ Bertie told himself. It was the best he could think of.

  The choir were singing the opening sentences of the burial service. Outside in the Long Walk minute guns were firing.

  The ceremony progressed.

  At last they had placed the coffin at the entrance of the royal vault where it would remain until the mausoleum at Frogmore was ready to receive it. The funeral of the Prince Consort was over.

  Chapter II

  BERTIE MUST MARRY

  The Queen had decided that Albert’s wishes should be carried out as though he were still with them; his rooms naturally should remain as though he occupied them; his clothes should be laid out every evening; she was determined to keep his memory fresh.

  His greatest concern before he had died had been for the welfare of his son and he had thought that a visit to the Holy Land might have a sobering effect on Bertie. The Queen had agreed. Did she not agree wholeheartedly with all Albert’s plans for the children? And never before, in spite of his very difficult childhood, had Bertie shown such need for guidance and care as he did at this time.

  Alice was with her constantly. What a dear devoted daughter! So pretty too. Albert had said she was the beauty of the family. Her marriage should take place as arranged, which would be later in the year, though what a travesty it would be without her father’s presence!

  Alice was sympathetic and gentle – far more so than Vicky had ever been; but Vicky was now a woman of the world; and it was only to Vicky, of all her children, to whom she could talk of Bertie’s deficiencies. Vicky, alas, was far away in Berlin, with problems of her own; but she did not shirk her duty and wrote constantly to her sorrowful mother. Perhaps Vicky more than any understood her grief and shared it to some extent, for Vicky had loved her father more than any of the others, as he had her. But Vicky now had her Fritz, who was kind and gentle, and her c
hildren Wilhelm and Charlotte. Darling little Wilhelm with his poor sad arm! His shoulder had been dislocated at his birth and he would carry that deformity through life, she feared. Not that it affected the dear child, who was bright and clever and, as Vicky said, so full of his own importance. Vicky also had to contend with a certain amount of hostility at the German Court. She was the foreigner there just as her precious father had been when he came to England. How many times had the Queen been hurt and angered by the constant references to him in the Press as ‘The German’. So Vicky was her confidante at this time and to her she wrote of her distress over Bertie.

  Vicky replied that while she was horrified by Bertie’s misdemeanour, she believed that he should not be judged too harshly. He would know that dearest Papa had died and that one of the last things he had done was to visit him, his eldest son, to remonstrate with him over his disgraceful behaviour in Ireland. Bertie must feel heartbroken because of this.

  Heartbroken! thought the Queen. Bertie’s feelings were too facile for heartbreak. He was not like the rest of the family. He was far more inclined to enjoy life than take it seriously.

  Vicky believed that Bertie should continue with the tour of the Holy Land which Papa had mapped out for him, and while he was away the Queen would not be tormented by thoughts of his wicked conduct and travel could have a good influence on Bertie. One thing that had occurred to Vicky was that Bertie needed to be married.

  Vicky spoke from the experience of her married status. Bertie, she said, was clearly not capable of great restraint and it might well be that if he remained unmarried there would be other escapades. The influence of a good wife could work miracles; and Mama would remember that dearest Papa had been considering this before he died.

  He had, it was true. He had compiled a list of suitable princesses – not that there were many, for they must be worthy and Protestant, and preferably German of course. He had so relied on Vicky’s judgement that he had asked her to keep her eyes open for a suitable bride for Bertie; and Vicky, good daughter that she was, had taken a journey through Europe visiting different capitals and had carried out her father’s instructions. None of the princesses was entirely suitable for Bertie who would, in Vicky’s opinion, need a beautiful and charming wife if he were going to be kept on a straight moral course.

  Did Mama remember Countess Walburga von Hohenthal – but of course Mama remembered dear Wally. She was Vicky’s very favourite lady-in-waiting because she was so gay and witty, fun to be with, and more English than anyone at the Prussian Court. As a matter of fact she had married Augustus Paget, the Minister to Denmark, and was now English by marriage. When she had gone to Denmark to marry him she had seen the family of Prince Christian, and Alexandra, his eldest daughter, was the most delightful Princess Wally had ever seen. Wally had thought at once what a good wife Alexandra would be for Bertie.

  And, emphasised Vicky, it was imperative to get Bertie married.

  So, thought the Queen, first a visit to the Holy Land and then marriage for Bertie.

  Alice was peeping round the door, holding Baby Beatrice by the hand.

  Four-year-old Beatrice was the only one who could comfort the Queen – although she would not admit to being comforted at all, which seemed sacrilege to Albert’s memory – but Alice had seen her eyes light up at the sight of the child.

  Beatrice ran forward and climbed on to her mother’s lap.

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ she cried, ‘you are still wearing your sad sad cap.’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Take it off, Mama,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Mama cannot do that.’

  ‘But it is a sad cap.’

  ‘Mama is sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Papa has gone away.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll come back.’

  The Queen’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘He will if Baby wants him to,’ said Beatrice confidently.

  ‘Oh, my love, and Baby wants her dear papa.’

  Beatrice was thoughtful. ‘Baby wants Mama to take off her sad cap,’ she announced.

  ‘Mama, would you like me to take her away?’ asked Alice.

  But the Queen shook her head.

  Bertie was delighted to leave England and escape the sombre atmosphere which the Queen created about her. How could he endure the reproachful looks which came his way?

  Why couldn’t his mother understand that he had only acted as thousands of young men did; in fact what he had done was taken as a matter of course by worldly people. A young man had to sow his wild oats; and how ever much he was restrained was certain sooner or later to find a way of breaking out.

  He was going to be married fairly soon and he was not displeased by the idea. They were considering Alexandra of Denmark and if she passed the stringent test his mother would insist on, it was almost certain that she would be his bride.

  She was unusually pretty. Vicky had arranged a meeting. Trust Vicky. She had always liked to command him and in the days of their childhood had had plenty of opportunities of doing so. He might have been Prince of Wales but Vicky had been Queen of the Nursery. She had always been so much brighter and cleverer than he was; and because she was his father’s favourite had been his mother’s also. He thought Alice much more charming than Vicky really, and clever too, but not in such a flamboyant way. Alice was always reading – he himself hardly ever read anything unless he was forced to; she knew quite a bit about painting and architecture, and what Bertie thought of as ‘things like that’; but because she was quiet and didn’t call attention to herself they had tended to overlook her type of cleverness.

  Now Vicky was planning and plotting with Mama and the two of them wrote at great length to each other. Mama had always been a great letter writer. There was her Journal too; she was happiest now with a pen in her hands.

  So matchmaking Vicky had arranged that he and Alexandra should meet ‘by accident’. Last September she had invited him to visit her. What a contrived meeting!

  Vicky had said he must see some of the German cathedrals which were very grand.

  ‘Not too many,’ he had wailed. ‘In fact none at all.’

  ‘Bertie, don’t be so unintellectual,’ Vicky had scolded. ‘In any case there is one you simply must see. Speier. It’s magnificent.’

  Bertie grumbled but he could see by Vicky’s conspiratorial air that something was afoot, so in spite of the fact that he was heartily sick of being led this way and that and was, as he had confided to some of the few friends he had managed to know at Cambridge, ‘in a straitjacket’, he decided that there might be something more in this visit to Speier Cathedral than he had at first imagined.

  He was right. There was. They drove out to Speier; and as Vicky led her brother in by the south door and was pointing out the intricate elegance of the moulding, at the north door the Princess of Denmark entered with two girls.

  They greeted each other with just too great a show of surprise so that Bertie knew clever Vicky had arranged this; one of the girls was Princess Dagmar and the other Princess Alexandra. There was no doubt about it, they were two extremely pretty girls, which was surprising, for the beauty of princesses was often exaggerated, disastrously so from the point of view of the princes who had no choice but to marry them.

  Alexandra? Yes, he could be quite interested in her; for what was almost as pleasant as her good looks was a certain sense of fun which to fun-starved Bertie was a great asset indeed.

  It was quite clear that they took an immediate liking to each other, which would most certainly be reported back home by the vigilant Vicky.

  So, in the not far distant future, marriage; and in the meantime, the Holy Land.

  Of course he could not expect too much pleasure. He would have to be very solemn – or try to be. But his recent visit to Canada and America had given him a taste for travel and meeting people. It was something he was rather good at. He had an air of jollity which the people seemed to like as certainly as
his parents had disliked it. He had what he had heard called ‘the royal gift’. He could remember people whom he had met some time before, and could usually call them by their right names too. Although in his parents’ presence he had been tongue-tied and inclined to stammer, when he was meeting the people he was affable and voluble. The fact was though Bertie in private family life might be a dismal failure, in public life he was a success, and he could not help being thoroughly delighted that this was so. Now with his father it had been the opposite. The saintly Albert, revered by the Queen and the master of his family, had been definitely disliked by the people. Bertie would not have been human if he had not been gratified on those occasions when they had appeared together to notice how the people cheered him, the Prince of Wales, and ignored his father – and sometimes made hostile comment – wickedly gratifying but unavoidably so.

  He had to be accompanied by a set of guardians naturally, and, before his death, his father had arranged that the Rev. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley should be of the party. Therefore nothing would satisfy the Queen than that this gentleman should be included.

  The Prince groaned. The Rev. Arthur would no doubt be puritanical, otherwise his father would not have chosen him. Also in the party would be General Bruce, that martinet who had had charge of him for some time, Major Teesdale, and Captain Keppel. It was not a large party considering the way royalty usually travelled and that was hopeful.

  The journey was exciting. The Rev. Arthur turned out to be a warm and sympathetic character, and General Bruce was no longer the stern governor he had once been.

  After all, thought Bertie, I am almost of age. The Queen was always talking of lying beside his father in the mausoleum which was being erected at Frogmore and when she did, Bertie would be King of England, so naturally those about him must remember this.

  How pleasant to visit the Pyramids, to stand close to the Sphinx, to ride on camels over the sand and later to journey on to Palestine.