Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (29 page)

Lady Harriet was proved correct. When Edward Albert was born on the morning of the ninth of November 1841, the country went mad with joy, singing “God Save the Queen,” firing off salutes, and hoisting signs that read, “God Save the Prince of Wales.”

My mother was overjoyed. So was my husband. I was simply relieved.

Bertie was strong and robust from the start, but our poor, dear little Pussy, who had been so healthy and fat, now turned sickly. I was much worried. Dearest Albert came to believe it was the fault of dear Daisy, who had taken over the supervision of the nursery in spite of his objections. He called her a crazy, stupid intriguer and even ordered her out of the palace; she refused to go, telling him that he had no right to give such an order, that it was the queen's house and not his. We argued over this, and our words were intemperate. Albert accused the doctor, the nurses, and especially Lehzen of doing harm to the child; I shouted in defense of both Daisy and the doctor. Albert wrote me a furious letter, telling me that I could do what I wished, but if our daughter died, it would be on my conscience, and in a flash of temper I screamed that he could murder the child if he
wanted to. We both behaved shamefully. Pussy recovered and again thrived—we now called her Vic—but the battle raged on.

Albert had begun to loathe dear Lehzen, and the more he criticized her, the more I took her part.

Something had to be done. Then came Baroness Sarah Lyttelton, who had served as one of my ladies since I became queen. A widow with five grown children, Lady Sarah had earned my respect and Albert's confidence, and we decided to make her superintendent of the nursery. She brought about a complete change in the way the children's care was managed. She was SO calm, SO patient and sensible, even in the face of our fat little Vic's horrible screaming fits.

“I wonder how our daughter came by that temper,” dearest Albert said mildly.

“I can't possibly imagine,” I replied, also mildly, and we both burst out laughing.

Dear Daisy immediately found much to disparage about this estimable woman, and her quiet attacks on my dearest Albert increased in intensity. She had, I admitted, become a trial to us both. It was finally decided that my oldest and closest companion since childhood needed to leave. I quite agreed that it was best for her, and certainly best for us, but I could not bear to speak to her. I left it to Albert to make the arrangements for her return to Germany, where she would live with her sister.

“In over twenty years,” Lehzen reminded him in an unsteady voice, “I have never once taken a day's leave.”

“I thanked her for her selfless devotion,” Albert told me later, “and for all she had done for my dearest wife, who would remain forever grateful.”

“Did she say anything more?” I asked sadly.

My dearest Albert shook his head. “No. Nothing more.”

One morning in September 1842 I stood watching a tall, erect figure in dark traveling clothes climb into the handsome coach-and-four I had ordered as a parting gift; I had also approved a generous pension. Daisy did not come to bid me adieu, and I did not send for her. I think neither of us could have endured the pain of saying good-bye. But as the carriage rolled away, I saw her press her face to the window. I raised my hand in farewell, and so did she.

Shortly after Albert and I celebrated the third anniversary of our wedding, I sent for the artist Franz Javer Winterhalter to paint my portrait as a birthday gift for my beloved Albert's twenty-fourth birthday. Winterhalter had done earlier portraits of me, formally posed in a court gown with my hair done up, wearing diamond necklaces and earrings, all
very
proper.

This one is QUITE different. No court gown, no diamond jewelry, no queenly profile. My hair is loose, falling over my bare shoulder. I am wearing only a simple locket, and I gaze off to my left, my lips slightly parted. This is the way Albert sees me, and
only
Albert sees me, when we are alone. I am not a queen in this portrait. I am dearest Albert's wife. The painting is to be a surprise and to remain a secret. It is for no other eyes but his.

A new infant, our third, sleeps in the royal nursery: Alice,
born on the twenty-fifth of April. A month later I attended a ball in celebration of my twenty-fourth birthday. Since then the artist has come nearly every day, and we retire to his rooms—first at Buckingham Palace, now at Windsor Castle—where he has set up his easel. Winterhalter is German, and in the past when I posed for him we spoke together in his language through the long hours. But not this time. I have asked him to let me sit in silence with my thoughts.

“I shall leave orders that I do not wish to be disturbed,” I told him. “I wish to use these hours to recall the most important events of my life.”

That is when I allowed my memories to drift back over my life, back to Sir John Conroy, when I was still a child.

At first Winterhalter was concerned that my reveries, as he called them, were unpleasant, for my brow furrowed and my mouth often became grim.

“I was thinking of a man I used to despise,” I explained with a laugh.
Mamma knew that I was never fond of him, though she did not suspect
how much
I despised him.
“Perhaps I should think instead of my singing lessons with Luigi Lablache.”

The man I despised has returned to England and retired to his rural estate, Arborfield Hall, in the country west of Windsor. How Sir John must have laughed when he learned that his old enemy, Baroness Lehzen, had been sent away! I have not forgiven him; I have simply decided to forget him.

There are some things I would rather forget but cannot. One was my refusal to honor Sir Robert Peel's quite reasonable request to replace some of my ladies of the bedchamber. I was too young and inexperienced to see that he was right, and my pride and stubbornness nearly brought on a constitutional crisis.

Another incident I'd rather forget is my treatment of Lady Flora Hastings. I felt no remorse at the time, believing myself blameless and her guilty. I recognize now that I was wrong on both counts. I ill-used her, in part because she, in her turn, had ill-used Lehzen, to whom I was completely devoted. That was no excuse for my cruelty, and I do very much regret it.

In the months following Lehzen's departure, I have come to realize how sorely trying it must have been for dearest Albert to endure her constant carping. I blame myself for my blindness, and I shudder to think what my beloved Albert had to go through. We never speak of it.

There has been another change that I did not anticipate. When I was first recovering from the birth of our Pussy, dearest Albert went every evening to dine with Mamma, who of course is his aunt as well as his mother-in-law. They grew fond of each other, and after Baroness Lehzen was no longer present to stoke the fires, Albert began to patiently repair the breach that had opened between my mother and me. He persuaded me to give her Clarence House, only a short walk from Buckingham Palace, as well as Frogmore House near Windsor. Comfortably settled there, she visits my children nearly every day—never interfering, but simply delighting in them. I have come to look forward to those visits. For the first time in many years, my dear mamma has a loving daughter who welcomes her into her life.

These sittings are coming to an end; Winterhalter says he will finish the portrait within a fortnight. I, too, have finished my reveries. Sir John long ago lost his power over me. Lehzen, once so dear to me but at the end such a trial, has gone away, though we do exchange letters. Lord Melbourne is still a dear friend, but no longer indispensable.

And I—I am the most fortunate of women. My three children grow more enchanting each day. I have the devotion of my beloved Albert, SO good and SO beautiful. We labor side by side at the hard work of governing the realm. Sometimes we argue—my temper is still short—but our passion for each other burns more brightly than ever. That is the secret of my secret picture.

V. R.

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

Victoria was queen for nearly sixty-four years, the longest reign of any English monarch. Though she had no direct power in a constitutional monarchy—she reigned, but she did not govern—Queen Victoria had enormous influence at a time of great expansion of the British Empire, all those vast areas in pink (originally red) on the map of the world. Her name defines an age.

Fortunately for historians, Victoria began, at the urging of her mother, to keep a diary when she was thirteen, and it was a habit she kept throughout her long life. But the entries in these diaries were written with the knowledge that they would be read—by her mother and her beloved governess, Baroness Lehzen, and later by those who might have an interest in the life of a queen. They were not private. We can only guess at what she was really feeling at the most critical times of her young life—until Prince Albert entered her life. Suddenly she was wearing her heart on her sleeve, her great love and passion for her husband splashed across the page. As a diarist she employed a dramatic style throughout her life, liberally sprinkling her entries with LOTS OF CAPITALS and
underlining furiously,
sometimes three or four times. Victoria's diaries have provided much of the inspiration for this book.

I have long been interested in the young princess in the years before she became her own mistress, as she put it, and then queen, and could free herself from the dark forces that ruled her life. I've included here additional material on her family history and the background of many of those around her.

Queen and Consort

Victoria and Albert adored each other, but their fights became legendary. Tempers flared on both sides as the balance of power shifted from one to the other. Albert complained to his friend, Baron Stockmar, “Victoria is too hasty and passionate for me to speak of my difficulties. She will not hear me out but flies into a rage and overwhelms me with reproaches and suspicions, lack of trust, ambition, envy, etc. I can either keep silence and go away, or I can be still more violent, and then we have scenes, which I hate.”

Queen Victoria gave birth to nine children. Twenty-six of her forty-two grandchildren married European royalty or members of noble families from one end of the Continent to the other, so that Queen Victoria became known as “the grandmother of Europe.” Among her many grandchildren was Tsarina Alexandra of Russia, the mother of Anastasia.

When Prince Albert died at the age of forty-two, his passing plunged Queen Victoria into profound grief from which she never fully recovered. The queen went into deep mourning for the rest of her long life.

Heir to the English Throne

When the thirteen American colonies declared their independence, King George III ruled England. He was happily married to a German princess, Charlotte, and the couple produced nine sons and six daughters. The eldest son, George, was created Prince of Wales, and when George III began to descend into madness, the younger George was named prince regent to rule in his father's place.

King George pressed the prince regent to marry his cousin, Caroline of Brunswick. The pair soon detested each other and separated after the birth of a daughter, Charlotte, in 1796. The prince regent took a number of mistresses; his favorite, Maria Fitzherbert, bore him several illegitimate children. His one legitimate daughter, Charlotte, was the heir to the throne.

Princess Charlotte of Wales was a rebellious young woman. When her father tried to compel her to marry William, prince of Orange, Charlotte fled. Eventually she returned to her father's house, still refusing
to marry the “detested Dutchman.” Instead, she fixed her sights on the handsome German prince she had met at a party, Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. Finally overcoming her father's opposition, Charlotte and Leopold were married in May 1816. Soon Princess Charlotte became pregnant, and England excitedly awaited the birth of the future king or queen. On November 5, 1817, a stillborn boy was delivered. Hours later, Charlotte, too, was dead.

The English line of succession had suddenly come to an end. King George III had fifty-six grandchildren; almost unbelievably, none of them was legitimate. Fifty-six
bâtards
, and not one eligible to inherit the throne.

Edward, duke of Kent, the fourth son, was in line for the crown after his older brother, the prince regent, father of the dead Charlotte; after Frederick, duke of York, who was childless (not counting his illegitimate children by various mistresses); and after William, duke of Clarence, all of whose children were illegitimate. Edward had been living in Paris with
his
mistress when he learned of the death of his niece, Charlotte, and her baby. The childless Edward decided to find a wife and marry for the sake of the succession. His fondest hope was to become the father of the future monarch of England.