Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (17 page)

For several days I heard nothing. I was true to my word and
did not speak to my mother, to Sir John, or to my brother. I knew the king's health was fragile and that he was mostly bedridden, but I was almost certain the king realized that, though the handwriting was mine, the words and the sentiments were not. Much later, I learned in conversations with Lord Melbourne, the prime minister, that the king had indeed recognized the truth. In an attempt at compromise, he had suggested dividing the sum and offering six thousand pounds to my mother and the balance to me. Mamma did not tell me about this, but refused the compromise. She wanted it all.

My eighteenth birthday arrived, the most important one yet: I had now legally come of age. The dear old king had arranged a birthday ball in my honor on the evening of the twenty-fourth of May. I looked forward to sitting beside him at St. James's and having a private word with him, but that was not to be. He was too ill to attend and sent his best wishes. I realized that his time was indeed running out.

Crowds had gathered for a glimpse of me as I drove to the ball. Flowers and banners, one with my name spelled out in letters of ethereal blue, were displayed everywhere. I rode in the same carriage with Mamma and Daisy and my brother Charles's wife, Mary, and had to smile and wave at the crowd as though nothing untoward had happened. I had not spoken a single word to Mamma since I signed the letter, and I still refused to speak to her, creating a VERY awkward situation. She rode with her eyes averted and a fixed smile as we passed through the streets of London, packed with people who had turned out to celebrate the birthday of their future queen. Their cheers quite touched me, and for a time I could forget the raging battle. Dearest Daisy squeezed my hand reassuringly.

The roar of the crowd still ringing in my ears, I entered St. James's Palace as I had so many times before. My heart was heavy because the king could not be present, but I danced with many different partners and did enjoy myself enormously. Yet throughout the evening on what should have been a high point in my young life, I remained aware of John Conroy's fierce, unwavering gaze fixed upon me.

Being my own mistress brought me a measure of welcome independence. Though I felt keenly the unending pressure from Mamma and Sir John, I began to try my hand at exercising the rights belonging to an independent person. One of my first decisions was to dismiss the duchess of Northumberland. Lady Charlotte was a kind and pleasant woman and she had often been helpful to me, but I no longer required a governess. Appointing her had not been my idea; it was Mamma's and Sir John's. I composed a letter to the duchess, expressing gratitude for her punctual attendance even when it was at great inconvenience to herself.

Good-bye, dear duchess!

I sent a message to dear little Maggie asking her to come back, which she did gladly. I rejoiced to have Maggie in my service again, and she rejoiced to be with me, though we did not
exchange confidences as we once had. Our lives had changed a great deal: Maggie had married her Simon and had an infant son, cared for by her sister, and I awoke every morning knowing that very soon I would become queen.

A few days after my birthday, I received a letter from Uncle Leopold, who wrote that he was sending Baron Stockmar, his trusted friend and confidant of many years, to Kensington to try to bring about an armistice between the warring parties. This was the same Baron Stockmar who was with my dear cousin Albert, now studying at the university in Germany.

It had been a year since Albert had visited Kensington with his brother and father, a year since Uncle Leopold had spoken to me seriously about a future marriage. In the beginning I had thought often of dear Albert, but, as the months passed, I thought of him less and less frequently. There were too many other matters to occupy my mind. I was more concerned with the problems Stockmar had to address at Kensington Palace.

Baron Stockmar was short, round, and altogether pleasant, and I took an immediate liking to him. If it was not possible to have my uncle himself at my side, I was grateful for his good friend's assistance. Soon after his arrival, the baron suggested that we go for a drive while we discussed the issues. We rode through the countryside in a light rain.

“The main problem,” I told him, “is that Sir John Conroy demands an appointment as my private secretary. If not that, then as keeper of the Privy Purse, in charge of my money. I detest the man, and I've refused to promise him anything.”

“This distresses your mother,” the baron observed.

“It does, and she subjects me to constant harangues in an attempt to persuade me. She tells me and anyone else who will
listen, ‘I gave up my home and my kindred to devote myself to my daughter, the future queen.' It's her favorite speech. When that fails to move me, she calls on my brother, Charles, to press me. Conroy himself never quits his attempts to intimidate me.”

Stockmar listened sympathetically as I passionately described Sir John's insulting conduct, adding, “Mamma allows him to bully me and does nothing to interfere. She's docile as a lamb in his presence and does everything he wants. They plague me every hour of every day.”

I showed the baron my mother's most recent letter. She still resorted to sending me hectoring letters, even more frequently now that I refused to speak to her. Baron Stockmar produced a pair of folding spectacles dangling at the end of a satin ribbon, perched them on his nose, and read:

You are still quite young, though you believe otherwise. Remember that all of your successes have been due to your mother's reputation, not to your own talents. Do not be overconfident of your abilities, my dear Victoria.

The baron returned the letter, shaking his head. “I find it difficult to comprehend that the duchess clings to such a notion.”

“Sir John has convinced my mother that I am immature— ‘younger in intellect than in years,' he tells people—and that I would never be able to govern without a strong private secretary, meaning himself. My brother, Charles, agrees with him, as he agrees with everything Conroy says. I've told Charles it's none of his affair. Uncle Leopold believes that Charles is a spy. He says it would be prudent of me to ask my brother to leave England.”

“I'll do whatever I can to assist your highness, and I'll speak to the parties involved here to try to smooth the dissensions. But please understand that I have no real power. I cannot order them to do anything.”

“I know.” I sighed, and sank back against the leather seat. “I don't really want to have to banish my brother.”

Baron Stockmar folded his spectacles and replaced them in his pocket. “The best I can offer is to advise you to stay the course, my dear princess, to hold out against those who would try to bend your will. Perhaps it won't be necessary to send Prince Charles away.”

We drove on in silence. The rain was coming down harder, and I gave the coachman the order to turn back.

Stockmar continued, “I have spoken with the king's eldest son, George FitzClarence”—one of
les bâtards
—“who assures me that, though the king is weak, he is in no immediate danger. We all realize that his days upon this earth are numbered. I believe you will not have to endure this dreadful situation much longer.”

We returned to the palace, where the baron was treated coolly by my mother and her ladies and, of course, by Conroy. Each day I awoke knowing that Mamma and Sir John had probably come up with another scheme to force me to do their will, and until the moment I became queen, Mamma and Sir John would continue their efforts to secure him a powerful position. I was determined not to grant John Conroy any position whatsoever. But had it not been for Stockmar's steadying hand during this prolonged nightmare, I would no doubt have broken.

“Sir John will not give up,” I told dear Daisy as we walked one day in the gardens. A hawk circled lazily overhead. “He will
somehow find a way to force me to sign a paper agreeing to something I do not wish to do.”

Daisy shielded her eyes against a bright sky, watching the hawk. Suddenly it swooped down and snatched up a vole. The struggle was brief. Daisy took my arm. “I have a solution. We shall draw up a paper in which you renounce any promises you might be coerced into making,” she proposed. “You will sign it, and I will witness it.”

We rushed back to the palace and promptly carried out Lehzen's suggestion. Later, I told Stockmar what we had done.

“I'm glad you have,” he said. “I applaud your spirited response to this distasteful situation. O'Hum should learn his lesson.”

“O'Hum?”

“My disrespectful name for a man for whom I have little respect—our friend Conroy.”

The baron's derisive nickname for Sir John amused me VERY MUCH. And the baron's approval of my action bolstered my determination.

The days trickled by like sand through an hourglass, not one passing without some new effort being made by Mamma and Sir John, or without my brother or someone else calling on me to mend the breach between my mother and myself. The news from Windsor was what might be expected as the poor old king approached the end of his life. A letter from my uncle Leopold acknowledged that I might soon become queen and must not be frightened of the prospect.

I wrote back immediately. “I am not in the least frightened. I look forward to the event, though I do not suppose myself quite equal to all that will be asked of me. I trust, however, that with good will, honesty, and courage, I shall not fail.”

We were in a state of waiting. For a fortnight I did not go out in public. Mr. Davys no longer came to give me lessons. We knew what was about to happen. I felt very calm, very quiet.

On the morning of June nineteenth Daisy proposed going out for a drive. She called for a carriage, and I sent a message to my brother's wife, Mary, inviting her to join us with her sweet children whose chatter served to distract us. Though I was at odds with Charles, I bore his wife no ill will. Fidi's husband, Prince Ernst, had come from Germany to console Queen Adelaide, his cousin, so soon to be widowed. Ernst arrived at Kensington after lunch, bringing word from Windsor that the king was not expected to live through the day. The tension was so great and my emotions drawn to such a heightened state that I burst into tears.

At seven Daisy and I went down to dinner. On my eighteenth birthday I had told her, laughing, that I was now of age and no longer needed to hold her hand as I descended the two flights of stairs, and since then I had gone down unaided. But on that evening, Lehzen offered her hand, and I accepted.

As I expected, Mamma and Sir John and his wife and daughters were present. I acknowledged them but did not engage them in conversation and left immediately upon finishing my meal. I read while dear Maggie was silently undoing my hair, said my prayers alone, and went early to bed.