Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (12 page)

‘The child died too. That is what makes it so important.’

Adelaide nodded. She knew of course that the Princess Charlotte of neighbouring Mecklenburg-Strelitz had married King George III and they had had several sons and daughters and none
of the sons except the Prince of Wales had had a legitimate heir. And that heir was dead. Princess Charlotte and her baby.

‘There will have to be some hasty marriages in the English royal family now,’ said the Duchess, looking speculatively at her daughter.

Every ducal house in Germany had its eyes on England. There were two marriageable dukes who would be looking for wives; and one of these wives could, in certain circumstances, be the Queen of England.

Little Mecklenburg-Strelitz had never ceased to give itself airs because one of its daughters was now the reigning Queen. England always looked to Germany for its Queens. All the wives of the Georges had been German; though no parents could wish their daughters to be treated as the wives of George I and George IV had been. But perhaps that was partly the fault of Sophia Dorothea of Celle and Caroline of Brunswick themselves.

True, neither of the two dukes was very young, and although the Duke of Kent was the younger and therefore a step further from the throne than Clarence, he was the favourite among aspiring parents of marriageable daughters. Clarence’s liaison with Dorothy Jordan was common knowledge; so was the fact that he had ten illegitimate children whom he regarded as his family and with whom he lived on terms of intimacy.

He had also made himself look rather foolish by proposing marriage in several quarters and being refused. There was something undesirable about Clarence. Kent was another matter. True he had never married and there had been a liaison with a French woman to whom he had been faithful for many years but he had lived discreetly – unlike Clarence – and was a good soldier. And he was two years younger – not much it was true; but at their time of life two years could make a difference.

The Duchess Eleanor could not help being affected by the excitement.

She did not want to lose Adelaide but she was a good enough mother to be concerned about her daughter’s future; and because Adelaide was so sensible it was possible to discuss the matter with her.

As they sat over their sewing – for the poor of Saxe-Meiningen – she discussed the situation with her.

‘I think it very possible that you may be in the field,’ she said.

Adelaide closed her eyes and inwardly shuddered. How she hated to be considered in this way. ‘In the field.’ As though she were a horse who was about to be put through its paces.

‘Of course,’ went on the Duchess Eleanor. ‘It would be a wonderful opportunity. Either of the two chosen could be a Queen of England.’

‘Why should I be chosen?’

‘Because, my dear, there are not so many who fill the qualifications. Young enough to bear a child and Protestant.’

‘I should hate to leave home.’

‘All of us do, but it’s something we have to face. And, my dear, think of the alternative, which is staying here all your life. I shall die in due course and Bernhard will marry … and what will your place be? It is never very satisfactory to be the unmarried daughter.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Adelaide.

‘And you would have children. What a consolation they can be! Why, my dear, what should I do without you and Bernhard? My life would be wasted. I know what I’m talking about. For ten years your father and I had no children. We were happy together. He was the best of men. But when you were born … when I had my child … well, then I knew I had not lived in vain. Then there were Ida and Bernhard. Why, my dear, I knew then that I could never have been so contented if I had not married … and yet when my marriage was arranged I cried for days and nights because I was leaving home. I was younger than you and … and not nearly so sensible in those days.’

Adelaide said: ‘I can see that if one had children everything would be worth while.’

‘And that would be the purpose of this marriage, as it is of all marriages but even more so in this case – to have children.’

‘Ida has become much more serious since Louise was born.’

‘Exactly. Our frivolous Ida has become a woman. I have seen you with Louise. I think it is the only time I have seen you envy your sister.’

‘Yes, it is true. I should love a child of my own.’

The Duchess Eleanor laid down her work and gazed at her daughter.

‘You would be as good a mother as you have been a daughter and sister. How I wish that I could let the Queen and Regent of England know how admirable you are. Then I am sure they would not hesitate for a moment.’

‘It was different with Ida,’ said Adelaide wistfully. ‘Her Bernhard came here and saw her … and wanted to marry her.’

‘It rarely happens to people of our rank. Besides, Adelaide, we are not speaking of marriage with the ruler of a small Duchy but alliance with the reigning House of England. The child you would have could be a king or queen.’

‘If I had a child,’ said Adelaide, ‘that would be enough for me.’

The Duchess Eleanor smiled. If the great opportunity came their way, there would be no difficulty in persuading her docile Adelaide to accept it.

The Duchess Eleanor was bitterly disappointed.

The Duke of Kent had fallen to the widowed Princess Victoria of Leiningen.

‘It’s only to be expected,’ said Duchess Eleanor to Adelaide with some chagrin. ‘She’s the sister of the Princess Charlotte’s husband Leopold – and you may be sure that he had a hand in arranging this. Besides she has proved that she can have children. She has two already. So … we have lost Kent but we can still hope for Clarence.’

Clarence! thought Adelaide. The father of all those children! The man who had offered himself to several women and had been refused!

She shivered. It was alarming to consider herself going to a strange country which would be so different from anything she had known in Saxe-Meiningen – and more alarming than anything else was the stranger who would be her husband.

The Duchess Eleanor was constantly receiving news. She had sent messengers in all directions to discover what they could.

The Duke of Clarence, it was said, had proposed to a Miss
Wykeham who had accepted him and with whom he declared himself to be enamoured. She was a somewhat brash young woman who spent her life riding about the countryside on spirited horses, but she was very rich and this was her great attraction for the impecunious Clarence.

‘They will never allow that marriage to take place,’ said the Duchess; and she was right.

But a further disappointment was waiting for her.

The Duke of Cambridge, shortly to marry his adored Augusta of Hesse-Cassel whom he had discovered for Clarence and with whom he had himself fallen in love, had suggested that Clarence should marry a cousin of his bride-to-be, Princess Caroline of Hesse.

‘So this is the end of our hopes,’ said the Duchess.

‘The Princess Caroline is very young,’ said Adelaide. ‘It is small wonder that she is considered suitable.’

‘She is eighteen,’ replied the Duchess. ‘Far too young to be the wife of a man of fifty-two. And as Ida has had Louise so soon after her marriage it shows we are not a barren family.’

Adelaide smiled at her mother’s indignation. She was relieved. She would love to have a child, but she could not contemplate with equanimity marriage to a man of fifty-two who had the reputation of the Duke of Clarence.

So, she thought, I shall be left in peace.

But it was not to be. The Duke of Hesse had declined the proposal on behalf of his daughter. She was so young, and although the Duke was conscious of the honour done to his house he must decline.

‘Who else is there?’ asked the Duchess Eleanor. She was elated. Adelaide was only twenty-six; there were many years ahead of her during which she could bear children; and the choice of a princess young enough to be a mother who was a Protestant was very, very narrow.

‘We have a chance,’ she cried; and every day she hopefully awaited the messenger.

At last it came.

William Henry, Duke of Clarence, asked for the hand of the
Princess Amalie Adelaide Louise Thérèse Caroline of Saxe-Meiningen.

The castle was in a ferment of excitement. What was Ida’s marriage compared with this? There were messengers arriving every day with despatches from England.

‘How delighted your father would be if he were alive today,’ declared the Duchess fervently.

Adelaide supposed he would. She supposed she should be too. It was a brilliant marriage, not because her bridegroom would be the Duke of Clarence but because a young woman had recently died with her baby and neither of the Duke’s brothers had a legitimate child.

‘It is a certainty,’ said the Duchess Eleanor, ‘that your child will be a King or Queen of England. Think of it. How proud you must be.’

Proud, thought Adelaide, to go to a stranger, to an unknown land! To be the bride of a man who had been rejected by so many! But I myself was once rejected, she reminded herself.

And she would leave her home, her mother, her brother. But she saw clearly that her mother believed any marriage to be better than no marriage at all.

She thought about her future husband. A man of fifty-two, a royal Duke, a man who had spent his early years at sea, who had lived with an actress for twenty years, had had ten children by her, and then deserted her. He was overburdened by debts; it was for this reason that he would marry, she knew, and because he was forced to do so by his family and the English Parliament, and the reason was that if the House of Hanover was to be preserved the urgent necessity was an heir to the throne.

In such circumstances should she be proud?

There was a new respect for her in the castle. The Princess Adelaide could be the Queen of England. Two ageing and not very healthy men stood between her and that exalted position. Ida wrote to her: ‘Dearest Adelaide, what great good fortune! Who would have believed this could happen to you!’

Yes, who would have believed it? Adelaide asked herself. And did she want it?

Yes, in a way. She had known ever since she had held her little niece in her arms that above everything on earth she longed for a child.

Whatever unpleasant experience lay between her and that goal must be endured.

Adelaide had never asked for the impossible, so she must be prepared.

She had tried on the gowns which had been made for her, and the Duchess dismissed the dressmakers which was a sign that she wished to talk confidentially.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘one must be wary of the English royal family. I have decided that I will accompany you to England. I have talked this over with my advisers and we all agree this to be best. The royal family of England has not always treated those who join it with the respect due to them.’

Adelaide smiled with pleasure. ‘Oh, Mamma, that will make everything so much easier.’

‘Yes,’ said the Duchess. ‘I can leave Saxe-Meiningen for a few weeks and travel with you. I should not wish to leave you in England until I see you safely married. I have declined to have a proxy marriage … which I consider to be of very little use. Besides, that would have entailed a great deal of expense. Caroline of Brunswick was treated very badly when she arrived in England. She was greeted by the mistress of the Prince of Wales. Can you imagine anything more shocking?’

‘You think I shall be greeted by my future husband’s mistress?’

‘My dear Adelaide. You speak too frankly. There is no evidence that he has a mistress. There was, of course, that disgraceful affair with the actress Mrs Jordan but at least it lasted for twenty years and she is now dead, although there are all those children. Heaven knows what complications there will be over them. But that you will discover. The point is that the family is not always gracious to those who marry into it. The Queen refuses to receive the Duchess of Cumberland. Not that I am surprised. That woman’s reputation is quite horrifying. But all the same I should like to see you safely married before I left you in England. I
have heard that the Prince of Wales almost refused to marry Caroline of Brunswick at the altar. Think of that.’

‘Do you think that the Duke of Clarence will refuse to marry me once he has seen me?’

‘What nonsense! Why should he?’

‘I am not what is called an attractive woman.’

‘And he is a man of fifty-two! He will find your youth … your comparative youth … delightful. No. It is the family I am thinking of. And I am determined to come with you.’

‘Well, Mamma, your decision gives me great relief.’

‘My dear child, don’t think I don’t realize what an ordeal this is. You are so sensible that you don’t display your fears but I realize that they are there none the less. I have no qualms about your future, my love, because you are yourself. Your dear father used to say Adelaide will never cause us any anxiety, and I have always known it to be true. We were fortunate indeed to have such a daughter; and I am desolate at losing you, but I know this is right for you.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

‘It is your duty … and such a glittering future!’

‘I know, Mamma. I know.’

‘Well, then, we must not allow our emotions to take control of us. We shall travel inconspicuously. We could not afford to do otherwise. Nor do we want to make a show of having what we have not. I believe the Regent’s manner of life to be most elaborate. But you have been taught that it is better to live modestly than in ostentatious state which you cannot afford; and for all their grandeur the Princes of England live beyond their means. But no matter. You will manage your household with care, I know, as you have been taught to do. I was saying that we shall travel in accordance with our means. You shall have two ladies-in-waiting and I will take von Konitz and von Effa to counsel me. I shall need their services.’

‘I think that this is an admirable arrangement, Mamma.’

‘And there is one other thing. How are you getting on with your English lessons?’

Adelaide smiled. ‘I am working hard, Mamma.’

‘You will soon master it. But I daresay your husband will speak German. Or perhaps French. And in time of course you will master the language. There is nothing like living among the natives to do that. Queen Charlotte could not speak a word of English when she arrived, but she seemed to get on very well. But I believe the poor King was very different from his sons. How I wish that we had had you taught English. If only we had known … but who would have thought such a glittering possibility would come our way. We should rejoice, should we not, that it has.’