‘Such as?’
‘That dress you are wearing is very beautiful.’
‘Oh, do you like it? It is rather nice. What do you think of the Grand Duke?’
‘Agreeable.’
‘I confided in him about that dreadful Peel. Was that unwise?’
‘Unwise but natural.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘But I doubt it will blow up to a major affair now that Conroy will no longer interest himself in Palace affairs.’
‘It will be sheer bliss to know that he is not there.’
Then Lord Melbourne began to talk of long ago Palace scandals and how Lord Bute had tried to rule young George III as Conroy hoped to rule her. He was amusing and while he talked pulled his hair about making it rather untidy, which, as she confided to her Journal, ‘made him look so much handsomer’.
The rejoicing at Conroy’s departure was dampened by the departure of the Grand Duke. The Queen wrote in her Journaclass="underline" ‘I felt so sad to take leave of this dear amiable young man whom I really think (talking jokingly) I was a little in love with.’
Victoria was planning another ball when a note was brought to her from the Duchess. Her mother wished Victoria to know that Lady Flora was very ill and the Duchess believed that people would not be very pleased if the Lady Flora were to die while the Queen was gaily dancing at a ball.
Victoria shuddered when she read the letter. She had thought a great deal of Lady Flora; she could not forget that emaciated figure stretched out on the couch looking like a skeleton, her yellow skin drawn tightly across her bones – and that fearful protuberance of the stomach. Sometimes she dreamed of Lady Flora and she was filled with remorse.
So when Lord Melbourne came she showed him the Duchess’s letter and asked him what she should do about the ball.
Lord Melbourne considered for a while and said that this might be one of the rare occasions when the Duchess was right. So the ball was cancelled.
Lord Melbourne adroitly led the conversation away from Lady Flora and it worked round to Sir Robert Peel – a not very happy subject in itself but not so depressing as that of Lady Flora, of course, because in spite of criticism the Queen believed she had acted rightly in his case.
‘Neither he nor Wellington appeared at my levée, I noticed,’ she told him. ‘I think that was rather rude of them.’
‘I don’t think they meant to be rude,’ said Lord Melbourne.
‘I think Sir Robert Peel is a very foolish man.’
‘Well,’ protested Melbourne, ‘he is considered to be a very able statesman. He has been responsible for many reforms and the people think highly of him, even those who oppose his politics.’
‘I think he is foolish to behave like this. It makes me dislike him.’
‘It’s certainly ill-judged of him,’ agreed Lord Melbourne. ‘But he is not so accustomed to dealing with kings and queens as I am.’
‘Do you have to deal with them in a special way?’
‘Most certainly. Some of them have very uneven tempers.’
So now they were laughing again and it was very pleasant.
Lord Melbourne then began telling her stories of Uncle William’s testy behaviour on more than one important occasion, and she quite forgot to be uneasy about Lady Flora.
Then a very disturbing incident occurred.
The Queen had come to Ascot for the races and it was a very brilliant occasion. She was aware during the ceremonial drive that the people were not as vociferous as usual, in fact looked a little sullen. How tiresome of them! They made her feel so uneasy when they behaved like that. Lord Melbourne had told her that George IV had been afraid to show his face on some occasions because the people not only were silent, they booed and jeered. How unpleasant! she thought. ‘The mood of the people is like the uncertain glory of an April day,’ said Lord Melbourne. ‘All sun one minute and rain the next.’
She was thinking of this as she rode along bowing and smiling to the unresponsive crowd. And then – as she took her place in the royal stand she heard the cry: ‘Mrs Melbourne.’
She flushed hotly and began to tremble. Mrs Melbourne. What were they suggesting? But she knew full well.
The cry was taken up. It sounded like a deafening roar. ‘Mrs Melbourne!’
There was nothing to be done but pretend she had not heard, but she could not enjoy the races; she could only think of getting away from those wicked people.
‘Mrs Melbourne!’ she told Lehzen. ‘They called me that.’
Lehzen said: ‘Everything you do is noted. It’s talked of and often exaggerated. He has apartments at the Palace. He dines here almost every night. And of course this affair of the Bedchamber Ladies … They are saying that the reason you made it impossible for Peel to take office was because you wouldn’t part with Lord Melbourne.’
‘But Mrs Melbourne!’
‘Yes, Mrs Melbourne,’ said Lehzen a trifle severely. She wanted to be first in the Queen’s estimation and did not enjoy taking second place even to the Prime Minister.
Lord Melbourne called as usual. He had been at the races and had heard the hisses and boos and the epithet hurled at her. She was never one to hide her feelings so she asked him at once what he thought of it.
He shrugged it aside with his usual elegant ease. ‘People will say anything.’
‘I believe I know who started it. It was the Duchess of Montrose and Lady Sarah Ingestre.’
‘Tory bitches,’ said Lord Melbourne and for a second she smiled; but she was immediately grave.
‘Others quickly took it up. Oh dear, they should be severely punished.’
‘Your ancestors would have had their heads off.’
‘It’s a pity customs have changed,’ said the Queen angrily.
‘Are you sure it was these women who started it?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘They were really attacking me you know.’
‘And me too. But you heard it. You know you did.’
‘Yes, I heard it,’ admitted the Prime Minister.
‘It must have made you angry.’
‘On your account, yes. I am used to being attacked on all sides. A Prime Minister is blamed for most things.’
She could not settle down to a cosy chat. She kept hearing those words echoing in her mind: ‘Mrs Melbourne’.
One early morning in July Victoria wakened to find the Baroness at her bedside.
‘What is it?’ cried Victoria, starting up in bed.
‘I have bad news,’ said Lehzen, ‘Lady Flora Hastings died early this morning.’
‘Poor soul!’
‘This will mean everything is revived, you know.’
‘At least,’ said the Queen, ‘it will be an end of the matter.’
‘There will be a post mortem,’ said the Baroness. ‘She has left instructions that there shall be one performed by any doctor, providing he is not Sir James Clark.’
‘That will surely settle the matter,’ said the Queen as Lord Melbourne would have said.
But she knew it could not be settled immediately. There was sure to be trouble. The press, the Tories, the scandal-mongers and the Hastings family were not going to let it rest.
The autopsy was presided over by five distinguished doctors and the verdict was that Flora had died from a large tumour on the liver which pressing downwards had produced an enlargement of the abdomen.
The Hastings declared publicly that bowed down with grief as they were, at least their honour was vindicated.
The Morning Post came out openly against the Queen; so did Lord Brougham in the Lords, who tried to induce Lord Tavistock to defend his wife’s character at the expense of the Queen’s. Pamphlets were written against her. (‘There have always been the pamphleteers to write against Royalty,’ said Lord Melbourne comfortingly.) The Queen saw one of these which made her shiver. It was called ‘A voice from the Grave of Flora Hastings to her most gracious Majesty the Queen’.