Who were these people? she asked her mother.
Louise, who liked her children to ask intelligent questions, replied that they were all members of her family and the reason they came to Rumpenheim in the summer was that Louise’s grandfather, the Landgrave of Hesse, had left the castle to his family on the condition that, during the summer months, some members of the family were always at the castle.
What a wonderful grandfather he must have been! commented Alix.
Her own family had grown in the last few years and she had a little brother William (called Willy) and there was a new baby girl, Dagmar. She loved them all dearly and it was a wonderful cosy feeling to belong to such a family.
At Rumpenheim was her cousin Princess Mary of Cambridge, who lived in England and was very attractive in Alix’s eyes. She seemed quite old, being thirteen, and she and Alix took to each other from the start. Mary asked permission to wheel the baby Dagmar in her carriage about the grounds and this was given; so while Mary wheeled Dagmar, Alix would trot along beside her and sometimes Mary would lift up Alix and set her in the carriage opposite Dagmar and push them both.
Because Mary was that wonderful being, not quite an adult and certainly not a child, Alix could feel less restricted in her company than she did in that of grown-ups and at the same time draw on that inexhaustible fund of knowledge which seemed to be Mary’s.
Mary explained the complicated ties which made them related. Her ancestor King George III of England had had fifteen children, nine sons and six daughters; one of these sons was Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge. He married Princess Augusta, who was the daughter of Frederick, Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel. It was this Frederick who had given Rumpenheim to his family. Frederick’s eldest son had married Alix’s mother’s mother. So Alix would see the family connection between herself and Mary.
It was very complicated for the little girl to understand but it gave her such a nice warm rich feeling to know that Mary Adelaide was a kind of cousin and that there would be many more summers spent at delightful Rumpenheim.
Dagmar sat solemnly in her carriage. Poor Dagmar, thought Alix, who could not join in this fascinating conversation.
Everyday, after lessons, for Louise insisted that there should be lessons even at Rumpenheim, and it was one of her maxims that children were never too young to learn, Alix would seek out Mary and this wonderful thirteen-year-old cousin seemed to find greater pleasure in the company of the child than in that of relations nearer her own age.
While the children played, their elders discussed serious matters and the affairs of Denmark at this time were giving some cause for alarm.
The Landgravine Charlotte in her apartments at the palace talked of this with her daughter Louise, for she said they were of greater concern to them than to any of the other members of the family who were at Rumpenheim at this time.
‘King Christian cannot live much longer,’ said Charlotte. ‘And then … Frederick.’
‘It is alarming to think of it,’ agreed Louise.
‘And trouble is brewing all over Europe. There are revolutionary pamphlets being distributed everywhere. They are particularly virulent in France, but I don’t think for one moment that Denmark can escape.’
‘The King, unfortunately, is not popular,’ said Louise. ‘And he won’t be until he gives the people the constitution they want.’
‘Which he feels, with some reason, would put his crown in jeopardy if he granted it.’
‘It may well be a question of granting it or losing his crown.’
Charlotte looked with approval at her daughter. She was talented and intelligent; if she were heir to the throne, how much happier for Denmark. But Frederick, with his loose living and his immoral friends, was the heir and Louise was nothing more than a housewife.
‘What will happen when Frederick comes to the throne I tremble to think,’ said Charlotte. ‘I have tried to talk of these matters with your father but his temper is so quick and all he thinks of is his library, so that it is quite impossible to discuss them with him.’
There is one thing that has struck me, Mother,’ said Louise. ‘If the King dies, what will become of Christian’s position in the Army? What if we should be turned out of the Yellow Palace!’
‘That would be most unpleasant,’ said the Landgravine Charlotte. ‘You could of course come to us but I don’t know what your father would say to noisy children playing in the gardens.’
‘We can only wait and see what happens,’ said Louise philosophically, ‘for there is nothing we can do about it.’
But she was uneasy and so those summer days at Rumpenheim were not so idyllic to her as they were to her little daughter.
When the King asked his sister Charlotte to call on him at the Royal Palace she sensed his anxiety immediately.
‘You look well,’ he told her. ‘Rumpenheim has done you good.’
‘It always does,’ she told him. ‘I was glad that Louise and the children were able to stay. It’s so good for them to get away from the Yellow Palace.’
The King nodded. ‘Louise is a clever girl. You must be proud of her.’ He spoke wistfully and Charlotte knew he was thinking of the unsatisfactory Frederick.
The King was a good man, but it was a pity his personality was not one to please the people. He was so reserved that he appeared to be unfriendly. It didn’t matter that he was ready to sacrifice a good deal for the benefit of Denmark, and the reason he did not wish to grant the country a constitution was because he knew it was not prepared for it yet. He had not that natural bonhomie which people demanded in their rulers and it seemed they would prefer a rogue with it, than an idealist without it.
‘It’s a pity,’ said Charlotte, ‘that they find it so difficult to make ends meet. But she is an excellent manager and I think Christian realises his good fortune in marrying her.’
‘How I wish Frederick could have been as fortunate.’
‘Perhaps he would not have realised the worth of such a wife.’
‘He seems to be keeping with this new woman.’
‘And indulging in adventures meanwhile.’
‘Frederick calls himself the cosmopolitan bohemian.’
‘And this Louise Rasmussen. I hear she was a Parisian midinette. Is that true?’
‘She has also had a post as governess, and she has been a ballet dancer, so she is a woman of many parts. She is well known because they are seen strolling together arm in arm or he waits patiently while she shops and then carries the parcels home for her.’
‘Quite domesticated. I should hardly have thought Frederick was that.’
‘Frederick is anything that is not usual. I do wonder what will happen, Charlotte, when I’m dead.’
‘Frederick will come to the throne.’
‘But what will become of Denmark under such a king?’
‘Denmark has had some unworthy kings and managed to survive.’
‘The great point is that he has no heir and he never will have one.’
‘Is that quite out of the question?’
‘My dear sister, he has been divorced three times. Each of his wives was selected for her suitability and what was the result – no heirs, no marriage – for each one of them has ended. He cannot marry this woman he is now living with. Even Frederick must see that we cannot have a French midinette for Queen of Denmark. So when I die and Frederick comes to the throne there will be no heir to follow him. There could not be a more disastrous state of affairs. Schleswig-Holstein is always ready to give us trouble. What would happen, do you think, if Frederick died and there was no one to follow him? I can tell you, sister, that I have spent some sleepless nights over this matter.’