‘Is it all over, Albert?’ she asked.
Albert, who rarely wept, was weeping then as he said: ‘Yes, my love, it is all over.’
The death of the Duchess had a deep effect on the Queen.
She was filled with remorse, remembering those battles of the old days. The entries in her journal brought them all back too vividly for comfort. How unkind she had been to dearest Mama! She remembered the occasion when she had refused to see her and insisted that she had to make an appointment before they met. Her own mother!
There were the accounts of how she had considered herself a prisoner – Mama’s prisoner. When all Mama had wanted to do was protect her. She and Baroness Lehzen had behaved as though the Duchess was their enemy. It was terrible. Not until Albert had come had she realised that. Albert had done that for her as he had done everything else.
She was overcome by a deep melancholy. If only Mama could come back and she could talk to her.
The Queen’s melancholy was noted and so exaggerated that rumours persisted on the Continent hinting that she had inherited her grandfather’s malady. Any member of the family only had to step out of the line of conventional behaviour for someone to remember the madness of George III.
Stockmar wrote urgently to Albert from Coburg. The Queen must understand what a situation her conduct was bringing about. She must stop mourning for her mother. She must be seen in public. These rumours must be quashed. They could be dangerous.
Albert realised this and remonstrated with the Queen.
He agreed that she had been an undutiful daughter before her marriage. But the blame for that must rest with the Baroness Lehzen who had influenced her so strongly. Had she not tried to make trouble between Victoria and her own husband?
Albert could always handle her. She saw his point. While she had him, she said, she had everything to live for.
She became gay again. The period of mourning was over.
But, alas, Albert’s health did not improve.
Trouble came from an expected quarter.
Stockmar wrote to break news which, he said, perhaps not strictly truthfully, he would rather have kept to himself.
It was well known on the Continent that while he was at Curragh Camp the Prince of Wales had formed a liaison with an actress. This affair had gone as far as it was possible for such an affair to go. It seemed as though the Prince of Wales was fulfilling their doleful prophecies.
When Albert read the letter his first thought was: The Queen must not know.
She would be horribly shocked; this might bring on that dangerous mood of depression. He must if possible keep this from her.
What could he do to a young man of nineteen? He thought of his brother Ernest and the evil which had befallen him. Bertie, it seemed, was going to be such another.
He must go to Cambridge and see Bertie. He must discover the truth of this matter. He had a streaming cold and he could feel the fever in his body; his frequent shivering was a warning, but it was his duty to go to Cambridge and when had he ever shirked his duty?
The weather was bleak, cold and damp, and although the symptoms which were affecting him warned him that he should stay in bed, he went off to Cambridge.
When Bertie saw how ill his father looked he was immediately contrite. He spoke naturally and without the embarrassment he usually felt in his father’s presence.
‘Oh, Papa, you shouldn’t have come in this weather.’
Albert looked at him sadly. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘it was my duty to come. You will know why, when I tell you I am aware of your conduct at the Curragh Camp.’
Bertie flushed scarlet.
‘You may well be ashamed,’ said his father. ‘I confess I could scarcely believe it even of you. How could you behave in such a way?’
Bertie stammered that it was not really such an unusual way to behave. Other fellows …
‘Other fellows! You are not other fellows. You are the heir to the throne.’
Bertie cast down his eyes. He wanted to shout at his father that he was tired of being treated like a child; they couldn’t go on robbing him of his freedom all his life. When he was twenty-one, he would show them.
But his father looked so ill. He had never seen him quite like this. His face was such a strange colour and the shadows under his eyes so deep; his eyes were unnaturally bright too.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bertie.
Albert nodded. ‘I believe you are,’ he replied with a faint smile. Some of the reforming fire had gone out of him. He felt utterly weary and longed for his bed.
‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I want you to realise your responsibilities.’
‘I do,’ said Bertie.
‘I want you to act in a way that will show that you do.’
Bertie’s kind heart was touched by the pitiful looks of his father. He wanted to end this interview as quickly as possible so that his father could get back home and to bed where he obviously should be.
‘I will try to in future,’ he said. ‘Papa, you are not well. You should be in bed.’
Albert held up a hand that was not quite steady.
‘If you would mend your ways, try not to make your mother so anxious, remember that one day you will be King of England …’
‘I will, Papa.’
Albert nodded. He did not love his son; he could never do that; but he did not feel that mild resentment and faint dislike which he had felt before.
‘Bertie,’ he said, ‘I shall say nothing to your mother of this affair.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
Albert rose.
‘You are going home now, Papa?’ asked Bertie.
Albert nodded.
‘You should be in bed.’
Albert smiled. It was the first time his son had ever told him what he should do. In the circumstances it touched him.
When he returned to the palace it was clear that he was ill. The Queen was worried and scolded him for going out in such awful weather.
‘I had to go,’ he said wearily.
‘What on earth could be so important as to make you?’ she demanded.
He said nothing and seeing how weary he was she stopped scolding and helped him to bed. She sat beside it watching him, holding his hand.
‘You’ll soon be well, Albert,’ she said. ‘I am going to insist on your taking greater care.’
He was a little better next morning and would not stay in bed; he sat in the bedroom in his padded dressing-gown with its scarlet velvet collar and went through state papers; but he could eat very little and the Queen was growing very anxious.
Sir James Clark was a little concerned. His colleague Dr Baly, the other royal physician, had been killed only a short while before in a railway accident. Sir James, never very sure of himself, now wished to call in further advice and suggested Dr Jenner, who was an expert on typhoid fever.
When Dr Jenner came and examined Albert it was his opinion that, although Albert was not a victim of the fever, there were signs that he might be affected by the germs. They must therefore prepare themselves for an attack of this dreaded disease.
When the Queen heard this she was terrified. People died of typhoid fever.
‘The Prince would have every possible care,’ said Sir James. ‘And so far he does not have typhoid fever.’
Albert insisted on sleeping in a small bed at the foot of their big bed.
‘I toss and turn so much that I should disturb you,’ he said.
‘Disturb me!’ cried the Queen. ‘Do you think I shall have any sleep? I would be afraid to sleep in any case. You might need me.’