She wrote to Bertie: ‘They are the children of the country, which seems to have been forgotten, and while you and Alix are away they should be left in the care of one person only and that is the Queen.’
It was rather selfish of Alix to wish to take them with her. She was going to see her parents. That should be enough for her.
Bertie, always bold when he did not have to come face to face with his stern mama, wrote back in the vein he was beginning to adopt. Alix was certainly not selfish, he replied. She was devoted to her children and he could not understand why obstacles should be put in the way of a proud young mother who wished to take her children to see her parents.
The Queen – always fair – saw the point of this and decided that the three elder children might go; it was of course impossible for such a young baby to travel. At the same time the Queen criticised the way the Wales children were being brought up.
‘Papa always believed in discipline,’ she wrote. ‘It is an absolute necessity in the bringing up of children. I fear, Bertie, that your children are allowed to run wild, and what the result of that will be I cannot imagine.’
Bertie, bold from afar, hinted that it had not always had the desired effect and that neither he nor Alfred who had been submitted to it had turned out very satisfactory from her point of view. He believed that if children were treated severely they grew shy and instead of loving their parents feared them. Of one thing he was determined, his children were not going to be afraid of him. They were not now and they never should be.
The Queen could do nothing. Bertie had always been unmanageable; and she had to admit that Eddy and George were two dear little boys even though there was such a lack of parental control.
Meanwhile Alix and Bertie set off with the three elder children and after a stay in Copenhagen where they had spent Christmas the children were sent home while their parents continued their tour visiting Egypt, Russia and Greece.
The Queen was at Balmoral while the general election was taking place. She would not believe that the country could really pass over Disraeli for the sake of Mr Gladstone although Mr Disraeli had feared this would be the case; and she was very despondent when she heard that Mr Gladstone’s government were in power with a majority of one hundred and twenty-eight.
Now she would have to return to London and what was worse send for Mr Gladstone and ask him to form a ministry, at the same time saying good-bye to dear Mr Disraeli.
She would not behave as she had in the past when Lord Melbourne had resigned; she understood that she had been rather foolish then; Albert had taught her that this was something she had to accept. It was none the more palatable for that.
When Mr Disraeli came to see her she almost wept with sorrow and anger.
This was going to be a terrible wrench she feared; she felt such confidence in him; and to think that he was to be replaced by that unsympathetic Mr Gladstone was most upsetting.
Disraeli said that they must accept this trial and hope for better things.
‘It is the only thing left to do,’ said the Queen.
She received Mr Gladstone coolly. He was quite humble and she could not complain that he did not treat her with due respect, but he was so dull and made such boring speeches that she felt as though she were a public meeting. There was a slight compensation for the loss of Mr Disraeli because some of Mr Gladstone’s colleagues were good friends of hers. She had always been fond of Lord Clarendon who was now the Foreign Secretary as well as Lord Granville who was the Colonial Secretary; and with the Duke of Argyll who was the Secretary of India she was on terms of affection. As a matter of fact Louise and Argyll’s son, the Marquis of Lorne, were very friendly, and there was a possibility that they would wish to marry. If they did she would not stand in their way. She was so tired of all the family squabbles and members of it fighting on different sides in these dreadful wars. At least if Louise married Lorne they would be of one nationality; and she had always been especially fond of the Scots.
She sent for Disraeli and told him that she wanted to reward him for his services to her and the country. Would he accept an earldom?
He thanked her in the flowery manner at which he was an adept. He was honoured; he was flattered; he would never forget, etc.; but he declined the earldom.
‘Yet I have one thing for which I should be grateful.’
‘Please tell me what it is,’ said the Queen.
Then he told her that Mary Anne was ill – very ill. She was dying slowly.
Disraeli wept genuine tears and the Queen, greatly moved, wept with him.
She understood absolutely; her heart bled for him; she had suffered it all before him.
‘With Your Majesty it was a sharp blow – so much harder to bear,’ said her tactful ex-Prime Minister. ‘At least fate is giving me time to prepare myself.’
The Queen admitted this and wanted to know what it was that he desired.
‘It is for her. I should like her to be made a peeress in her own right.’
Oh, how devoted! How unselfish! The Queen could not hide her emotion.
A peerage for Mrs Disraeli – certainly.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘that you once dedicated a book to the perfect wife. I should like Mrs Disraeli to know that I believe her to have a perfect husband.’
Mary Anne – now the Countess of Beaconsfield – could not contain her delight. She displayed her coronet whenever possible. She called herself Dizzy’s Beaconsfield. What a wonderful husband she had!
She had perhaps two years to live – and not very pleasantly she knew. Each week the pain would grow a little more. Never mind, she would hide it as best she could. She would manage. She remembered that occasion not so long ago when she had been accompanying Dizzy to the House and he was going to make one of the most important speeches of his career. She had planned to drop him at the House and drive home to wait for him there. He had been a little nervous. That fearful Mr Gladstone with his heavy manner – not a bit witty like dear Dizzy – could be very formidable. All the way he had sat murmuring what he was going to say and when he alighted and slammed the door of the carriage he caught her hand in it. She did not cry out because she had known that would have disturbed him and he would have been worrying all the time how badly she was hurt. So while he said good-bye to her she sat with a smile on her face ignoring the agony and let the coachman drive on without telling him that her hand was caught in the door. As soon as Dizzy had disappeared she called the coachman to release her. Well, if she could hide pain then she could hide it now. She did not wish to worry him.
‘Poor Dizzy!’ she said now. ‘But you’re only out of office temporarily.’
‘Oh, only temporarily,’ he assured her.
‘What will you do? After all to be Leader of the Opposition will not demand half the time that a Prime Minister has to devote to his duties. There is one blessing, though. Your Beaconsfield will be able to see more of you.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he told her. ‘We’ll go down to Hughenden. I can finish my book and we can have a very cosy time together.’
‘Very nice,’ she said, ‘for Beaconsfield.’
‘And for Disraeli,’ he assured her.
He was reconciled. He wanted to spend time with Mary Anne. There was tragically little left, and he knew in his heart that he would one day take his place on the Government bench of the House – just as surely as he knew that when he did his beloved Beaconsfield would not be at hand to comfort him, to cherish him, to give him that which he had finally learned through her was the best thing that had ever happened to him.