Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (6 page)

Mamma, and possibly Sir John, with dear Daisy's approval, had concluded that I must record
every single instance
of bad behavior in a Good Behavior Book. “This will help you,” Daisy explained, “to become more aware of your failings and to correct them.”

Must every child in the world struggle, just as I did, to conduct herself perfectly? Or are some people born always
to do the right thing? It seemed so terribly difficult always to behave well, and I often yielded to tempers and impudence and foot-stamping.

For the next six months I wrote down every instance in which I was peevish, vulgar, or impertinent, or—worst of all—refused to obey immediately and without question or argument. I filled one whole book with notations of bad behavior and had to begin a new one. Daisy sat with me through my lessons, and if at any time my answers to one of my tutors seemed too sharp, or I displayed displeasure of any kind, I was reminded to make an entry in the Good Behavior Book. Each entry was dated, and the pages were ruled off in advance for Morning, Afternoon, and Evening. I also made notes on such things as my riding lessons and whether I was improving or not. (Usually I was. I loved to ride.)

“You must be scrupulously honest in your comments on your own behavior, Victoria,” Daisy reminded me VERY often. “I see that you have written ‘Good' and ‘Very good' for your behavior this morning with Mr. Davys, but it seemed to me that you were rather pert when he corrected your Latin. And what about that little scene this afternoon when you were asked to wash your hands and you refused? That was quite disrespectful.”

“I refused because my hands were not at all dirty. There was no need to wash them.”

Daisy sighed and shook her head. “When you are told that you are to do something, then you must do it, at once and without dispute. Obedience, Victoria, is most important. And you were both disobedient and impertinent.”

“That is your perception,” I said stubbornly.

“And now you are being
very
impertinent and stubborn as
well. Please make a note of it in the Good Behavior Book.”

I sighed. Was it impertinent to sigh? Even when the situation warranted? Daisy probably thought it was. Mamma surely did. My naughtiness nearly always had to be pointed out to me, for I obstinately refused to see it myself. Daisy opened the detestable copybook in front of my eyes and stood over me, watching as I made the required notation of my misbehavior. It was to be shown to Mamma at bedtime.

Mamma sent it back to me with these lines penned inside the front cover:

How pleasant it is, at the end of the day

No follies to have to repent;

But reflect on the past and be able to say,

That my time has been properly spent.

In my heart burned a fierce desire
not
to spend all my time properly! And
not
to repent! What would Mamma have said if she had known
that
?

Unbidden, the memory of my mother in Sir John's arms rose up and inflamed me. I wanted nothing more than to fling the Good Behavior Book, and all the naughty misdeeds recorded in it, across the room with a loud shout:
What about YOUR behavior, Mamma?

But of course I did no such thing.

On the summer after my thirteenth birthday we set off on another journey. “It is important for you to learn about the country you will one day rule,” Mamma explained. “It is equally important that your countrymen learn about
you
.”

As we were leaving Kensington, Mamma gave me a small book of blank pages in which I was meant to make a record of my travels—events that occurred, people I met, and any detail that I found interesting. This was
not
the same as my Good Behavior Book, which could not be avoided even when traveling.

I took this new assignment VERY seriously. I had a small pendant watch on a chain, a gift from Queen Adelaide, and checked the time as our carriages rolled out of the palace grounds.

We left K.P. at 6 minutes past 7 and went through the Lower-field gate to the right. We went on, & turned to the left by the new road to Regent's Park. The road & scenery is beautiful, 20 minutes to 9. We have just changed horses at Barnet, a very pretty little town, 5 minutes past half past 9. We have just changed horses at St. Albans.

Throughout the day I dutifully noted in pencil every change of horses, every village through which we passed. When we arrived at our destination, Daisy read what I had written and suggested a few changes. Next Mamma asked to see it. “Well done, Victoria,” she said approvingly. I flushed with pleasure. I wanted her approval, and so often I failed to receive it.

I did this every day.

Wherever we went, curious crowds turned out to have a look at me, and their greetings were always enthusiastic. Mamma insisted that I be dressed in white, which she believed made me look young and innocent. I found this notion tiresome—I was thirteen! I felt so very
old
, not at all like a child, old enough to wear the pearl earrings I had received as a birthday gift. But when I protested, Mamma said, “You are their princess, my dearest Vickelchen. The people want to see their future queen as a young, innocent girl, and we must give them what they want.”

I got out my little wooden Fidi doll. Its dress made of scraps from Fidi's wedding gown was showing wear after five years of being stuffed in my pocket or hidden beneath my pillow.

Someday
, I whispered to the miniature Fidi,
when I am grown, I shall dress however I wish, and furthermore I shall keep a journal that will be entirely private, and no one—least of all Mamma—will be permitted to read it and to know my secret thoughts. Someday, when I am queen, my thoughts will be my own.

Meanwhile, though, I did exactly as Mamma said I must.

We passed through small towns where children welcomed me with flowers and song. I visited a cotton mill, a glove factory, and a slate quarry. We traveled north through country where coal was mined. I was quite shocked by the desolation everywhere—men, women, and children were blackened with coal dust, as were their houses. Burning heaps of coal, smoking and sometimes flaming up, were intermingled with wretched huts and broken carts and little ragged children. It was a heartbreaking sight.

“You may go over your entry now in ink,” Mamma said when she'd read my travel entry that day. “Though I think you might have included more about the children's chorus and less about those wretchedly filthy urchins. It was so
very
unpleasant.”

Our carriages plodded slowly through the rolling hills at the same tiresome rate. I wished we could go faster, but I seemed to be the only one who cared about
speed
.

The Conroy family, including Jane and Victoire, traveled with us. Our ponies, Isabel and Rosa, accompanied us, as did Lady Conroy's cunning little dog, Bijou. We required several carriages just to transport the trunks with our dresses and hats and shoes. My own small bed traveled with me and was set up for me at every stop.

One of the BEST days of the journey was a visit to Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire. We were treated to a magnificent fireworks display of rockets, wheels, and windmills, and my name spelled out in stars with a beautiful crown! Several weeks into our sojourn we crossed a suspension bridge to the Isle of Anglesey—more children strewing more flowers, more bands playing, more guns firing salutes, a number of formal speeches, and a men's choir singing “God Save the King.”

God save our gracious King,

Long live our noble King,

God save the King!

Send him victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign o'er us;

God save the King!

Everyone stood listening respectfully. I could not help thinking how, when I became queen after Uncle William's death, the words would have to be changed.

We arrived at Plâs Newydd, the home of Lord and Lady Anglesey and, at last, after so much traveling, settled down for a lengthy stay. What a dear, dear place it was, such a pleasant change from Kensington. When the weather was fine we boarded the royal yacht,
Emerald
, and were several times saluted by guns fired from the old castle as we sailed by.

I still attended to my lessons for a few hours every day—Scottish history, French grammar, arithmetic, religion, and writing—with dear Daisy acting as my master, but I found time to go out riding, even when the weather was foul. Dear
little Rosa cantered beautifully and sometimes galloped like the wind. She literally
flew
! Finally, I could enjoy some speed!

On a fiercely hot day near the end of September, Victoire and I took Lady Conroy's little Bijou down to the water's edge. The strait was a channel of the Irish Sea and VERY cold. The dog rushed into the water, turned round and raced out again without stopping, and shook himself, splashing us. Victoire squealed and ran away, and I tried to coax the silly dog back into the water. Dear Daisy sat nearby on a bench with a parasol to keep her skin from darkening. If she had not been there, I might have removed my shoes and rolled down my stockings and waded into the water, no matter how cold. But that was not allowed. I blamed the restriction on Sir John, who maintained a long list of things I must not do,
owing to my station
. Perspiration dripped from under my bonnet.

The heat made me irritable, and I complained to poor Victoire, “If Sir John were not so
pertinacious,
we could go wading.”

She gazed at me, blinking. “What does ‘pertinacious' mean, Victoria?”

“Pigheaded,” I explained spitefully.

Victoire's lip began to tremble. “You
do
say such dreadful things about my papa,” she whimpered. “How can you be so cruel, when he does so much for you?”

I should not have said what I did, but I kept right on. “He does very little for me,” I retorted, “and he himself behaves cruelly at times,” I added, feeling entirely in the right, for he always did seem to take pleasure in teasing his daughters and me.

Victoire let out a wounded howl, scooped up wet and muddy Bijou, and ran up the grassy hill toward the mansion. I
watched her retreating back without a morsel of regret.

Daisy was a witness to the scene. “Victoria,” she said severely, “Miss Conroy is your friend. I am appalled.”

Dear Lehzen closed her parasol with a snap and stepped aside, and I started up the hill, knowing she would follow close behind. We marched along in silence, the sun blazing hot on our backs. We did not exchange a single word until we reached the suite of rooms I shared with Mamma. The Good Behavior Book lay on the writing table. I opened it without being told and reached for my pen. Entries did not always have to be written first in pencil.

“24 September 1832. I was
VERY VERY VERY VERY HORRIBLY NAUGHTY!!!!
”

I underlined each word four times, the nib gouging a hole in the paper, blotted it more vigorously than was warranted, and clapped the book shut.
There!
It felt VERY, VERY good.

We had our last ride on Rosa and Isabel, and after a farewell breakfast we drove out amidst the shouts of the sailors. I waved farewell to the dear
Emerald
and her excellent crew, as we were on our way again. I felt quite sad to be leaving dear Plâs Newyyd.

In late afternoon we arrived at Eaton Hall, where we were well entertained for several days. Later, en route to Chatsworth House, we stopped in Chester where I opened the Victoria Bridge across the River Dee. All the while Victoire avoided me, turning her face away. I had written her a note of apology for saying that her father was
pertinacious
—I'd had a great deal of practice in writing letters of apology to Mamma, and this was not much different. I had not changed my mind about Sir
John—I never would—but I should not have spoken so harshly to Victoire. She did forgive me.