This had been Uncle Leopold’s home and he wrote to her telling her how pleased he was that she was staying for a while at Claremont where she must, whether she wished it or not, be reminded of him. There, he reminded her, she had spent many happy days in her childhood. It had been a kind of refuge for her. He knew that she had been a little plagued at Kensington and how she had benefited from that respite she had enjoyed at Claremont.
It was true, of course. How she had adored meeting Uncle Leopold there! He had been the most important person in her life then, until she had become on such friendly terms with Lord Melbourne who, she now saw, had taken her uncle’s place. And now there was Albert, dear beautiful Albert, whom she loved as she could never love anyone else in the world. There was a warning in Uncle Leopold’s letter. He had heard that she was being just a little dictatorial with Albert. Oh, people did not understand how difficult it was to be the Queen and a wife as well.
She may have been given an impression, wrote Uncle Leopold, that Charlotte had been imperious and rude. This was not so. She had been quick and sometimes violent in her temper, but she had been open to conviction and always ready to admit she was in the wrong when this was proved to be the case. Generous people, when they saw that they were wrong, and that reasons and arguments submitted to them were true, frankly admitted this to be so. He knew that she had been told that Charlotte had ordered everything in the house and liked to show that she was mistress. That was untrue. Quite the contrary. She had always tried to make her husband appear to his best advantage and to display respect and obedience to him. In fact sometimes she exaggerated this to show that she considered the husband to be the lord and master.
He must tell her an amusing little incident. Charlotte was a little jealous. There had been a certain Lady Maryborough whom she fancied he had a liking for. This was absolutely untrue. The lady was some twelve or perhaps fifteen years older than he was but Charlotte thought he had paid too much attention to her. Poor Charlotte! At such times she was a little uncontrolled, which if she had become Queen would never have done. Her manners had been a little brusque, he confessed, and this at times often pained the Regent – ‘your Uncle George’. This had its roots in shyness for she was very unsure of herself – probably due to her extraordinary upbringing – and was constantly trying to exert herself.
I had – I may say so without seeming to boast – the manners of the best society in Europe, having early mixed in it and been rather what is called in French
de la fleur des pots
. A good judge, I therefore was, but Charlotte found it rather hard to be so scrutinised and grumbled occasionally how I could so often find fault with her.
She understood the meaning between the lines of Uncle Leopold’s long letter. How very similar her position was to that of Charlotte! Charlotte, of course, was never the Queen, but everyone thought she would be. The only daughter of King George IV – and married to Uncle Leopold. Uncle Leopold was a little like dear Albert. He was extremely handsome, clever and liked to take a part in affairs. Of course he was Albert’s uncle as well as hers.
She thought a great deal about Charlotte. She had heard so much of the happy days her cousin had spent here, first under the adoring eyes of dear Louie and later under the tenderly corrective ones of Uncle Leopold.
It was so easy to substitute herself for Charlotte. They were of an age; one had a crown and for the other it must have seemed almost a certainty that the crown would have been hers. During the months when she awaited her baby she must have walked in these gardens of Claremont. Her husband Leopold was here, just as Victoria’s husband Albert was. The husbands would even have looked alike for there was a strong family resemblance.
She could almost identify herself with Charlotte. They were of an age, both just married, both in love, both pregnant and both aware of the burden of the crown.
She went to the rooms which had been Charlotte’s. There the young girl had had her confinement. Her child had been born dead … and she poor girl had followed after.
It was all so similar. How often during her life had Charlotte wondered whether there would be a brother to supplant her and block her way to the throne? How often had Victoria wondered whether Uncle William and Aunt Adelaide would have a child? Victoria could see those lovers Charlotte and Leopold and it was as though they were in truth Victoria and Albert.
She had made a habit of going to the room in which Charlotte had died, and thinking of what her cousin must have suffered. It was like poor Lady John Russell.
‘I am afraid,’ she whispered, ‘that it will happen to me.’
One day when she went to the room and stood there looking at the bed and imagining that last scene which Uncle Leopold had described in detail – how he had knelt by the bed and wept for his beloved Charlotte and how her last thoughts had been for him – she was filled with terror because it seemed like a recurring pattern. The child within her would be as that other child; she would be as the poor princess who had died in her ordeal, and dear Albert would be collapsing by the bed in his grief as Uncle Leopold had. Yes, a tragic pattern.
The door handle turned silently. She gave a gasp. She thought it was the ghost of Charlotte come back from the grave to warn her that her end was near.
It was Albert.
‘Victoria, what are you doing in this room?’ he asked.
‘I come here often.’
‘I know, and I ask why.’
‘In this room my cousin Charlotte died having her baby. Had she lived she would have been Queen of England.’
‘You should not come here, Victoria.’
‘I feel impelled to do so.’
Then Albert spoke with the authority of a husband. ‘We are leaving Claremont tomorrow,’ he said.
She just lay against him, comforted. For once he was to have his way.
They were back in London and, although Albert disliked the capital and was never in it without planning his next visit to the country where he might breathe the fresh air which made him feel so much more alive and healthy, he was excited and certainly apprehensive because he had been asked to preside at a meeting. This was to promote the abolition of the slave trade and he was to make his first speech in England.
He was very nervous, he told Victoria. ‘I have to convince the people of my serious interest in affairs,’ he told her. ‘I do not wish them to think me frivolous.’
‘They could never think you that, Albert,’ she told him fondly.
She had been very happy since he had drawn her away from her brooding at Claremont. ‘How very silly I was,’ she had said. ‘And you, dearest Albert, showed me so in the nicest possible way.’
Yes, his attempt at playing the masterful husband had succeeded; and now, due to the joint efforts of Stockmar and Lord Melbourne, he was allowed to develop his interest in what was going on and this public appearance was the result.
‘It is very difficult to speak in English,’ said Albert.
‘You will manage admirably,’ the Queen told him. ‘Let me hear your speech.’
It was short and, she said, excellent. She corrected his pronunciation and suggested he rehearse it again. She was delighted because she quickly knew it off by heart and could listen and correct without having to have the written version before her.
‘It is well to be a little nervous,’ the Queen assured him. ‘I do believe that all the best speakers are. Lord Melbourne says that when he is completely at ease he never really speaks well.’
‘Then I am comforted,’ said Albert, ‘because I am very nervous.’