Sir Henry remarked that quite a number of gentlemen had been enamoured of that lady.
She knew that he was referring to Bertie, who had been one of the woman’s admirers. A very good-looking creature by all accounts, and Hartington had left the Duchess of Manchester for her but had returned to the Duchess when he had tired of the Skittles person. It really was rather disreputable.
There was nothing to be done but to return home immediately where at least she could see Lord Beaconsfield. He looked so pale and melancholy that she felt the need to comfort him. ‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield, this is my tragedy as well as yours,’ she told him.
He kissed her hand; there was sad longing in his eyes. He knew this was farewell to The Faery.
She talked of Mr Gladstone. ‘I would rather abdicate than accept him,’ she declared.
‘Dear Madam,’ said Lord Beaconsfield, tenderly reproachful. Then he advised her to send for Hartington. After all Gladstone had resigned the party leadership some time ago so she need not send for him. If she could reconcile herself to Harty Tarty she might give him a trial.
‘Such a ridiculous name! How could any man be serious with a name like that? He is a most immoral man too with his Skittles and his irregular union with the Manchester woman!’
To cheer her Lord Beaconsfield told her how Skittles had acquired her name; she had quarrelled with some soldiers and had threatened to knock them down like a row of skittles. ‘Only, of course, her language was such that I would not care to repeat to Your Majesty.’
‘And this is a woman with whom our would-be Prime Minister’s name has been linked!’
‘His Highness the Prince of Wales once carried out a practical joke on Hartington. I am sure Your Majesty would be amused to hear of it. The Prince and Princess were visiting Coventry (Hartington was in his suite) and the Prince had asked that when they toured the town they should be taken to a bowling alley. When they reached the alley the Mayor invited Hartington to show his skill. Hartington said he had no idea what had to be done at which the Mayor exclaimed: ‘But His Royal Highness was insistent that you should be brought here as a tribute to your Lordship’s love of skittles.’ The joke has been repeated up and down the country.’
The Queen could not repress a smile. She and Albert had been very fond of practical jokes, and Bertie had inherited their love of them. It was rather funny – though not the sort of joke that should be played out on a future Prime Minister.
Then she was melancholy thinking how pleasant it was chatting with dear Lord Beaconsfield and how he reminded her of long ago when Lord Melbourne had been her Prime Minister – and what was more important, her friend.
How could she ever feel friendship towards the ridiculous Harty Tarty, Granville (who had been given the equally ridiculous name of Puss) or worst of all Mr Gladstone, to whom no one could give a frivolous name but Gladdy – which was meant of course to be ironical.
She sent for Hartington; she sent for Granville. They could not take office, they explained. There was one man the people wanted. They called him The People’s William. They referred to Mr Gladstone.
She dismissed them; she brooded. Oh, if only Albert were here to guide her! She remembered the Bedchamber Affair before her marriage when she was a very young and inexperienced Queen.
She knew what was coming. A Queen must bow to the will of the people and the people wanted Gladstone.
She must do her duty. She could, of course, abdicate, she had threatened it often, but in her heart she knew she never would, so she sent for Mr Gladstone.
He took her hand and kissed it; she turned away that she might not look at him while this act, so necessary to etiquette, so repulsive to her personal feelings, was performed.
She noticed that he looked haggard. She was certainly not going to ask him to sit down. She addressed him coldly; there was a distant look in her eyes, when he talked, as though she were not listening; and all the time she was thinking: He defeated my government. They have taken Lord Beaconsfield from me and given me this man.
How she missed Lord Beaconsfield! She was anxious about him too because she knew that he was not well. She talked to John Brown about the excellence of that man and how different he was from The People’s William.
‘Aye,’ said Brown, ‘it’s been a fight between the Queen’s Benny and the People’s Willy.’
How quaintly he expressed himself; she could not help smiling; so he said he would make her a cup of tea with a dash of whisky in it to keep up her spirits.
That spring she picked primroses at Osborne and sent them to Lord Beaconsfield. What charming letters he wrote to her. He expressed his sentiments so graciously. Again how different from Mr Gladstone!
It was rather a shock to discover that Sir Charles Dilke had been given a post in the government – that radical who had thundered away declaring that a republic would be better for the country than a monarchy, and had tried to make inquiries into the manner in which her income was spent.
It was quite humiliating. Strangest of all Dilke had struck up a friendship with Bertie. Didn’t Bertie realise that the man was an enemy of Royalty? She remonstrated with Bertie.
‘He is an extremely clever man, Mama. He’s very witty and has a wonderful flow of language when expressing himself that it’s quite a joy to listen to him.’
‘This man,’ she said, ‘has insulted me!’
‘He’s Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in Your Majesty’s government.’
‘What can one expect with Mr Gladstone in charge?’
‘Well, Mama, if he is a radical it is as well for me to find out what he is thinking.’
‘I do not care to see him entertained too frequently at Marlborough House,’ said the Queen.
‘Not really frequently,’ said Bertie, ‘only now and then; and since you live so aloof, it is necessary for me to meet these people.’
Bertie was right in a way; and of course he had a way with him which Lord Beaconsfield had admired.
All the same, she implied that she did not like this friendship with Sir Charles Dilke.
‘Ah, Mama,’ said Bertie, sadly, ‘I fear there are several of my friends whom you do not like.’
‘A fact which a dutiful son should surely try to rectify.’
‘Indeed yes, Mama, but I wish to take unpleasant burdens from your shoulders and entertain those who are offensive to you.’
She bowed her head. There was a good deal in what Bertie said.
The winter had been more than usually cold, and Lord Beaconsfield felt far from well. He went down to Hughenden and tried the quiet life to see if his health would improve; but everywhere were reminders of happy days spent there with Mary Anne and his melancholy increased. He was not meant to lead the quiet country life. He was lonely and bored and even his books could not hold his attention; his thoughts kept straying into the past.
He came back to London. It was March and the winds were icy; he caught a bad chill and took to his bed.
He felt old and feeble and since the death of Mary Anne the zest of life had gone. As he lay in his bed in the house in Curzon Street his mind drifted back to the past and he thought of those nights when he had come home from the House of Commons to find Mary Anne waiting for him with cold chicken and champagne. He could see himself leaning towards her talking earnestly about the success or the failure of the day; and he could see her eyes eternally young while they glowed with love for him.