Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (19 page)

This was not the end of it. Having Mamma's apartments remote from mine helped the situation, but it was not easy to convince my mother that she could no longer simply walk into my rooms whenever she wished.

“It is my desire that you come only when I have invited you,” I told her, “or, should you wish to speak to me, that you first request permission.”

My mother stared at me, open-mouthed. “You are still my daughter,” she said, her voice shrill. “And you expect me to ask permission to speak with you?”

“I am your daughter, but I am first and foremost the
queen
,” I reminded her.

I reported this scene to Lord Melbourne. “I can now expect to receive a series of scathing letters from my mother,” I explained. “Some will be about what she perceives is her due—where she believes she should sit at the table. But I imagine most of them will be about Sir John Conroy and the debt of gratitude owed him. She still hasn't given up on that. She insists that I must receive him and his entire family at court, and I insist that I shall not. How can she expect me to invite him after the detestable manner in which he behaved toward me when I had fallen
ill? The two of them badgered me day after day to sign a paper promising him an important post!”

“May I offer my advice, your majesty?” Lord Melbourne asked.

“Please do, sir!”

“Allow me, as your prime minister, to reply formally to the duchess's letters. Then you can ignore the matter and let the blame fall on my shoulders. They are quite broad enough.”

I gladly accepted his advice, though I did recall my mother's angry words:
Take care that you do not allow Lord Melbourne to become king!
And that was how she would regard this.

Still more trouble was brewing: Mamma had run up a large debt and, with Sir John no doubt whispering in her ear, she asked for an increase in her income. I turned the matter over to the cabinet minister in charge of finances, who offered to pay whatever debts she had incurred before I became queen. She rejected this generous offer. Her income was increased, though I felt certain she would soon overspend. The problem, I believed, was that Sir John was siphoning off a good part of it.

With Lord Melbourne's advice, I made a decision about Sir John's future. He would be elevated to baronet—ranked below a baron but above a knight—and awarded a sizable pension. O'Hum, as Stockmar called him, remained a member of Mamma's household, because there was no way to get rid of him. Only Mamma herself could do that, and I was certain she would not.

I was delighted with my new life. I now had my own money; Parliament voted to grant me a very large Privy Purse for my own purposes, plus a generous allowance for the expenses of my household, and I had the income from several royal properties. I had become, almost overnight, a very rich girl. I could do as I wished.

I began by appointing the members of my household. The most important was dearest Daisy, who remained closer to me than my mother had ever been. She was always perfectly discreet, disappearing when Baron Stockmar or Lord Melbourne or any other official visitors came to visit, reappearing when I was again alone. Not surprisingly, she was in a fine mood, having triumphed over her old enemy, Sir John.

While I studied lists of highborn ladies, nearly all of them the wives or daughters of my ministers, dear Daisy sat nearby,
knitting stockings for one of her many nieces and nephews in Germany. I commented on each of the ladies, and we discussed their various qualifications for the post. Soon I had named a dozen ladies of the bedchamber and eight bedchamber women, all to be paid for their services and assigned periods during which they stayed in the palace. I also named a number of maids of honor, young girls who received no payment but were promised a gift of one thousand pounds when they married, if they wed with my consent.

The most coveted appointment was mistress of the robes, whose duty was to accompany me to all ceremonies and who had the privilege of riding in my carriage whenever I traveled to and from my royal palaces. I awarded the golden key, symbol of this exalted position, to Lady Harriet Gower, duchess of Sutherland. Lady Harriet was a tall, handsome woman who had married a much older man when she was seventeen and was now the mother of six delightful children. Despite the difference in our ages, we quickly became fast friends. But I was determined that I would not permit friendship to excuse lax discipline among my ladies, and when Lady Harriet arrived half an hour late at dinner one evening, I lectured her in front of everyone.

“I trust this will not happen again, madam,” I said.

Lady Harriet's cheeks colored a deep red. “I beg your pardon, your majesty,” she said, and promised that it would not. Later I received a letter of apology from her, explaining that she had again fallen pregnant and had felt quite ill. “I shall not permit my own physical weakness to interfere with the execution of my duties,” she wrote, and naturally I forgave her.

Most of the gentlemen of my household were already in
place, having served King William, and I saw no reason for them not to continue to serve me. One new appointment was the royal physician; to this post I named Dr. Clark, who had restored me to health after my serious illness the previous year. When I summoned Dr. Clark, he asked with a sly smile if I had been dutifully continuing to exercise with my Indian clubs. I confessed that I had not, and offered a number of excuses.

He said kindly, “You will find many new exercises to develop the strength of your mind, but I beg you, your majesty, to continue to develop the strength of your body as well.”

I indicated that I would
try
to follow his advice, but I did not promise. Fortunately, he didn't ask if I had followed his prescription to chew each mouthful thirty times. Possibly, he knew what the truthful answer would be.

Dearest Daisy declined to become the head of my royal household, telling me, “It would please me simply to stay on as your dear friend and advisor, just as I always have, but with no official title.” I agreed, but gave her an invented title, lady attendant. She took over many of Sir John's former duties, such as answering routine letters. I trusted her far more than I had ever trusted him!

My life was a whirlwind. During my first weeks as queen I was constantly occupied and happy to be so, receiving foreign ministers as well as cabinet members in my audience room, signing papers at my writing table, and spending hours each day with the charming Lord Melbourne. He patiently explained to me many of the workings of government of which I was still quite ignorant, though my tutor, Mr. Davys, had done his best to prepare me.

“You will not rule as some of your predecessors have done,” Mr. Davys had said. “Queen Elizabeth had absolute power. She could order a queen's execution, as she did her cousin Mary's. Today the power to make laws lies with Parliament. But you will have enormous influence. Your power is of a different sort. Your subjects are quite enchanted by their new queen—young, fresh, vivacious—just what our nation has yearned for, for a very long time.”

I had thanked my old tutor for his confidence. Now Lord Melbourne took over my instruction, adding to it daily—even hourly!

In July I would preside at the prorogation of Parliament, the ceremony bringing an end to that year's session. But something worried me: Lord Melbourne had told me that new elections to Parliament were required. “Always held following a change of monarch,” he explained.

Lord Melbourne's Whig party was in power, but the outcome of the election was not a certainty. “We've been losing our majority in recent years,” he cautioned. “But I think we shall hold steady for the foreseeable future.”

“But if we should not?” I asked uneasily, for my sympathies were entirely with the conservative Whigs.

“If the Tories should take the majority, then you shall have a new prime minister.”

I could not imagine how I would endure the loss of dear Lord Melbourne, and I was nearly ill with worry over the outcome. What a relief, then, when I could write to Uncle Leopold, “I'm thankful to say the vote was rather favorable.” Lord Melbourne would remain by my side.

On the day of the prorogation, Skerrett and Maggie helped
me into a gown of white satin embroidered in gold. Maggie arranged my hair to accommodate my gold coronet. Diamonds glittered in my ears and on my wrists. Dear Daisy fastened a crimson velvet robe trimmed in ermine round my shoulders.

I rode to the House of Parliament in a gilded carriage drawn by eight white horses. The Yeomen of the Guard in their crimson tunics, knee-breeches, and flat, black hats strode ahead of me past cheering crowds, and the band played “God Save the Queen” as I entered the House of Lords and was escorted to my throne. I read my speech, again written by dear Lord Melbourne, and it was over.

A day in the life of a queen,
I thought contentedly, waving and smiling at my subjects as my carriage rumbled over the cobblestone streets. I loved every bit of it, though I was happy to be rid of that heavy, fur-trimmed robe when I reached the palace, and Dashy bounded out to greet me carrying his favorite red rubber ball.

The first summer of my reign was the pleasantest I EVER passed in my eighteen years. Nearly every day I went out riding with Lord Melbourne at my side. I had nearly forgotten how much I enjoyed going at a canter and challenging the others to keep up with me. There were many long walks in the gardens, pleasant evenings playing whist—everyone's favorite card game—and engaging in agreeable conversations with dear Lord Melbourne. The more I knew him, the more I liked and appreciated him.

Late in August, the entire court left Buckingham Palace for Windsor. The queen dowager had moved from the state apartments to private quarters in another wing. At first I could not help feeling as though poor King William and dear Aunt Adelaide might turn up at any time, but once settled into my apartments, with dear Daisy occupying the adjoining rooms
and Lord Melbourne installed nearby, I felt quite at home. On rainy days, of which there were many, my ladies and I discovered that we could get up a lively game of battledore and shuttlecock in the Grand Corridor, with the marble busts and gloomy family portraits as witnesses.

What a happiness to welcome Uncle Leopold and Aunt Louise for a visit! They were both looking so very well, though Aunt Louise had grown quite fat. I was VERY pleased to see how well my uncle and my prime minister got on together. I had many interesting conversations with both of them, and I was aware that I had been learning SO MUCH and still had much left to learn.

The days flew by, and it was a sad moment when I had to say good-bye once more to my dearest aunt and uncle. But there was no time for weeping, for I was scheduled to review three army regiments. Dressed in a dark blue riding jacket trimmed with scarlet collar and cuffs, the Windsor colors, and mounted on my horse, I returned the soldiers' salutes, putting my hand to my cap as the officers did. I inspected the lines and watched the men perform complicated military maneuvers, and for an hour or two I felt just like a man, ready to fight at the head of my troops.

I was happy enough to return to Buckingham Palace, but that happiness soured quickly. Mamma, who had seemed in better spirits during Uncle Leopold's visit, renewed her campaign to convince me to allow Sir John's attendance at the Lord Mayor's banquet.

“I implore you, if you cannot find it in your heart to
like
him, at least forgive him and do not exclude him!” she wheedled. “For the sake of your poor mother!”

I told her for the VERY LAST TIME that I would not grant him permission. Once again, my mother and I were not on speaking terms. I decided the only way to stop her constant pleas on his behalf was to speak directly to Sir John. My brief notes to him hardly seemed to make plain my intention: Sir John Conroy no longer had any part in my life. Therefore, I sent him one last message, asking him to call upon me in my audience room at fifteen minutes before nine o'clock in the morning. Lord Melbourne always arrived promptly at nine. I could accomplish what I wished in a quarter of an hour.

Sir John appeared with his usual confident swagger, smiling broadly, and bowed. “How do you do, my dear Victoria? Pretty well, I hope!” he greeted me jovially—and much too familiarly, I believed—as though we were old and dear friends.

I glared at him coldly. “The proper form of address is ‘your majesty,' Sir John.”

His smile remained fixed. “Of course, your majesty. Forgive me.”

Taking a deep breath, I addressed him in my most imperious tone. “I have summoned you here, Sir John, in order to make perfectly clear to you that you will not be invited to the Lord Mayor's dinner, to my coronation, or to any other event, either public or private, at which I am to be present. You are not welcome at my court.” His smile faded. “You may be my mother's friend, but you are not, and have never been, my friend,” I told him.