“But you know the woman,” I said.
“Of course. I knew them both.”
“And Sir Charles Mordaunt is naming you as corespondent.”
“No, no,” said Bertie quickly. “He is naming Frederick Johnstone and Lord Cole.”
“And where do you come in?”
“She mentioned my name and there are letters.”
“Letters!” I cried. “Do you remember how my Uncle George was in trouble over letters? You must have heard of that. Did you never think what harm letters can do?”
“I haven't your fondness for writing them, Mama, but occasionally I do find it necessary to take up my pen.”
“My letters,” I retorted, “could be read in any court of law without bringing disgrace on anyone, Bertie. This is shocking. For the first time I am glad dear Papa is not here. This would distress him so much.”
“I am innocent,” Bertie repeated.
“And what does Alexandra think?”
“She is very unhappy about it.”
“Poor girl. I never had to suffer that sort of thing.”
“Papa was a saint, of course,” said Bertie with a lift of his lips. “I fear, Mama, that I am not. But I am innocent in this case.”
“The heir to the throne summoned to a court of law!”
I showered him with questions and at length the story emerged. Lady Mordaunt had given birth to a child who was blind and she was very distressed. In fact, she was a hysterical woman at the best of times. She went into a frenzy and said it was her fault that the child was blind; she had sinned. She told Mordaunt that he was not the father of the child, but that Lord Cole was. She then burst out that she had been unfaithful with several men. She mentioned Frederick Johnstone and the Prince of Wales. Mordaunt searched her bureau and found bills that showed she had stayed at hotels with Cole and Johnstone… and there were letters from the Prince of Wales.
I was very upset. I wished Benjamin Disraeli would come to me. Etiquette forbade it. He was of the Opposition. I could have talked to him. How I should have been able to explain my feelings to Lord Melbourne! But all I had was Mr. Gladstone. How could one talk of such a matter to him? He would declaim and declaim and I should want to shout at him and order him out of my presence.
Albert foresaw something like this, I told myself. But there was no comfort in that. Albert was not here to advise me. And what could we do? There was nothing for it. Even royalty had to obey the courts of law and Bertie had been subpoenaed to appear in court.
I was very sorry for him. He was easy-going. That was the flaw in his character, but perhaps I was comparing him with the incomparable Albert, which was not fair. But Bertie was as he was, and he was my son. He had declared his innocence and I was sure he was speaking the truth. I thought of all the cruel things that had been said about Albert, all the calumnies which had been directed at Brown and myself.
I thought of Bertie as a little boy and how sometimes I had thought Albert too harsh with him; I remembered the tears when he had been beaten and how I had tried not to think of it. I remembered storms that had blown up between Albert and me because I thought Albert was too harsh with Bertie, too soft with Vicky.
I sat down and wrote to Bertie. I said I believed in him, but there were always people to attack us, but that he must stand up and come through this ordeal. He must know that his mother stood with him.
Bertie came to see me. He was so soft and gentle and grateful. He opened out and said that he was afraid at times he was a little indiscreet. He had written letters to Lady Mordaunt but they were quite innocuous. He had never been her lover; but he had known of her relationships with Cole and Johnstone. She was their affair, not his.
I said, “If you are innocent, people will realize it. Innocence is the best defense a person can have.”
“Mordaunt has got Sergeant Ballantine to act for him. He is rather a terror.”
“Stand up and tell the truth, Bertie, and you will be a match for anyone.”
He embraced me. Oddly enough he seemed closer to me than he ever had.
Public interest was great. The papers were full of the case. I knew that this was a very serious matter for whatever the verdict Bertie would be thought guilty. People took a delight in condemning others—especially those in high places.
I heard an account of the proceedings. Bertie went into the box and answered the probing questions put to him by Sergeant Ballantine; he did it with calm and honesty, I believe; he admitted that he knew Lady Mordaunt and had been a friend of hers before marriage.
“Has there been any improper or criminal act between you and Lady Mordaunt?”
It was the vital question and Bertie answered with great firmness, “There was not.”
Bertie was exonerated. Moreover it was proved that Lady Mordaunt was insane and the case was dismissed.
What a piece of luck for Bertie. I did hope it would be a lesson to him for the future.
I wondered what Vicky, Alice, and Lenchen were hearing of it.
I felt compelled to write to Vicky for I felt sure that her opinion of Bertie was very low already, and that she was convinced of his guilt.
“I do not doubt his innocence,” I wrote, “and his appearance in court did good, but it was painful and lowering. The heir to the throne should never have come into close contact with such people. I hope this will teach him a lesson. I shall use it as an example to remind him of what can happen, when the need arises. Believe me, children are a terrible anxiety and the sorrow they cause is far greater than the pleasure they give.”
How true that was!
But I was thankful that Bertie had emerged from a very delicate situation—not unscathed, for although his evidence had been accepted and Lady Mordaunt was proved to be mad, these matters always leave a smear.
JUST AS I was recovering from the shock of the Mordaunt case, trouble blew up in Europe. Lord Clarendon, on whose judgment I had relied so much, died, and Lord Granville took his place. Granville was a good man but I did not think he matched Lord Clarendon; and at this time we needed the very best of men at the Foreign Office. Conflict had been brewing for some time between France and Germany. I wrote to the rulers of both countries urging caution, but my entreaties were ignored and in July of that year Napoleon declared war. I thought that was unnecessary folly and when I heard that he wanted to destroy the independence of Belgium, I was firmly on the side of Germany.
Belgium was especially dear to me. How thankful I was that Uncle Leopold had not to suffer this threat to his kingdom. In spite of the fact that I did not like Bismarck my links with Germany were strong. It was almost a family affair. On the other hand I had friendship with Napoleon. Bertie was especially fond of him. So …we were about to be torn apart again. Oh, the stupidity of war and the men who insist on making it.
Vicky's husband and Alice's were both deeply involved and were actually fighting the French. I sent hospital stores to Alice at Darmstadt and I watched the progress of the war with great horror.
It was soon clear that the French were no match for the Germans who were overrunning France. I wrote to Vicky and Fritz, begging them to use their influence to stop the bombardment of Paris. To Bismarck's fury they asked for this not to be done and he complained bitterly of petticoat sentimentality hampering German progress.
I thought: A little more petticoat government and perhaps countries would not so easily become involved in wars that bring bereavement and tragedy to so many families.
The Emperor had surrendered at Sedan and Paris fell into the hands of the Germans. The war was over.