The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (35 page)

When King George was put away and his eldest son became Regent, Sussex was welcomed back to Court. He had made a second marriage to Lady Cecelia Buggins, the widow of Sir George Buggins, and that was when they were at Kensington Palace. Being eccentric, Sussex never considered what people thought of his actions, and as he was an intellectual he was looked on with suspicion by most members of the family—except the Regent, of course; but Sussex was in a way a good man and gave his support to benevolent causes. It was only his marriages that had brought him notoriety.

The last uncle was Uncle Adolphus, the Duke of Cambridge, and it seemed that the younger uncles were less wild. Uncle Adolphus was the seventh son and the tenth in the family; he had gone to Germany and distinguished himself in the army. When Clarence had been floundering around, looking for a wife, he had promised to keep an eye open for a suitable one for him and his questing eye had fallen on Princess Augusta, the daughter of the Landgrave of Hesse-Cassel. He had written to Clarence extolling her beauty. The letters grew more and more adulatory until it was obvious that Adolphus himself was in love with the lady. This was actually the case, for he married her himself. Yes, Cambridge was really the most ordinary of the uncles.

So there they were, my rather disreputable uncles, the princes of the House of Hanover, which must be kept going at all cost. So any eligible uncle must do his duty and build up the succession. Ambition, which had lain dormant when it seemed that healthy bouncing Charlotte would live and produce a batch of healthy sons, as her grandmother had done, had been fanned into a bright blaze. There was not one of the eligible dukes who did not aspire to producing the heir to the throne.

Clarence, Kent, Cumberland, and Cambridge were on their marks, as it were. There was speculation throughout the family . . . and the country. Who was going to reach the coveted goal?

Poor Aunt Adelaide produced and lost her child, so Clarence had set off to a bad start. Both Cumberland and Cambridge produced sons—both christened George, a good name for a king; but they were the younger sons, and if Clarence failed and the Duchess of Kent was fruitful, the palm would go to the Kents.

How exciting it must have been! I could imagine poor blustering Uncle William urging on Aunt Adelaide; and Cumberland grinding his teeth and plotting Heaven knew what with his sinister wife whose reputation matched his own. Cambridge? Well, he would be gently hopeful, I supposed; but his chances were a little remote as it was hardly possible that the others would fail completely.

I heard of a strange thing that had happened to my father. It was remembered when I was born and he found that, instead of the longed for son, he had a daughter. He had been in the forest of Leiningen, before his marriage, when I think he must have been beset by doubts and anxiously considering the suffering he was about to inflict on Madame St. Laurent. He had been on his way to visit my mother, and put up for the night at an inn. While he was seated with a few members of his company, a gypsy came in, and selecting him from the group, asked if she might tell his fortune.

They laughed and feigned their disbelief in such arts as people do, while at the same time, they find them irresistible. The gypsy took his hand and told him he was going to marry shortly and that he would be the father of a great queen.

This amazed him, for if she had read his thoughts and was trying to give him what he wanted, it would have been a king.

He said, “No. A king.”

But the gypsy shook her head. “A queen,” she insisted.

He was much impressed. So much so that his mind was made up. He must recognize his duty to the family and the State; he must marry Victoria and make sure that Madame St. Laurent was well looked after.

There was no Salic law in England and the gypsy had said a great queen.

Well, that was the prophecy, and, as I believe first and foremost in honesty, I will say that it came as near true as any prophecy can.

The year 1819 dawned. It was the year of royal babies. In March the Clarences had a little girl who did not survive. The Cambridges had a boy. May saw two more babies. The Cumberlands' George was born on the 27th, but before that, on the 19th, I made my appearance.

My father was exultant. He was sure then that the gypsy's prophecy was coming true.

I LIKED TO
imagine my nursery. There was such rejoicing. It would have been pleasant to know what an important baby I was. But perhaps that would not have been good for me and I should have been even more wilful and petulant than I actually was in those early years.

Louise Lehzen, who was to have charge of me, had brought her pupil, the Princess Feodore, my half-sister, over to England to live with us. It was from her and from Feodore—and I came to love both dearly—that I learned so much of those early days.

There I was, a healthy baby—“plump as a partridge,” some said. “Determined right at the start,” said Lehzen, with a twitch of her lips and a nod of her head, “to have your own way.”

Feodore said that I was the most adorable baby that ever was. I daresay when she had her own she changed her mind about that! And I did wonder how many babies she had been acquainted with—but no matter. That she should think so was a sign of her love. Not only was there excitement in Kensington but in Saxe-Coburg too. The Coburg relations always stuck together and rejoiced in the advancement of the family; they were very different from my English relations who were always in conflict with each other.

My maternal grandmother, the Duchess of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, referred to me as the May Blossom, which I thought rather charming when I heard it. “The English like queens,” she added, “and the niece—and also the first cousin—of the ever-lamented and beloved Charlotte will be most dear to them.” It was true that the English
had
liked queens ever since the reign of Elizabeth. How the people had revered that one! The greatest monarch ever to sit on the throne, some said—and a woman! Yes, after Elizabeth, the English must like queens.

There was a great deal of controversy about my name and that ended with a scene in the Cupola Room.

My uncle, the Regent, had taken a great dislike to my mother—so had Uncle William. Feodore told me that our mother said it was because she was young and healthy, and they, poor things, were decrepit old gentlemen who had no hope of getting healthy children. The Regent even hated the way my mother dressed. She loved feathers and rustling silks and lots of flounces, which the Regent said was Bad Taste. He was known throughout the kingdom, in spite of all his failings, as the arbiter of Good Taste. I have never known much about that, noticing that people are apt to believe that what they like is good taste and that all those who have different opinions have bad. However, that dislike was there and my mother—such a forceful lady—would always feel that there was something very wrong with those who criticized her.

There had, so Feodore told me, been a great deal of trouble about choosing my names. My father was so sure that I was going to be a queen that it was imperative that I should have a name suitable for one. After a great deal of thought it was decided that my first name should be Georgiana. There had been three Georges and likely to be a fourth, so that seemed the best choice. This was to be followed by Charlotte (after the Princess who had made this possible), Augusta Alexandrina (after the Tsar), and Victoria after my mother.

Etiquette, of course, demanded that the names be submitted to the Regent for his approval. My mother had argued, so said Feodore. “Why all this fuss about a name?” One might have asked the same of her. Of course my name was important and I have no doubt that the Regent regarded me with suspicion. After all, when one holds a position, it is not the most pleasant thing in the world to view one's successor. There is a feeling of being edged toward the grave. All monarchs feel it at some time—and particularly when one is obese, overcome with gout and other ailments, desperately trying to appear young and handsome as one has been in one's youth.

My parents knew that there would be trouble because on the very evening before the ceremony he sent a brief note saying that the name of Georgiana could not be placed before that of the Emperor of Russia; and he could not allow it to follow.

I am sorry that I cannot recall that scene from personal experience—although I was at the center of it. The Cupola Room must have looked very grand with the golden font that had been brought from the Tower and the crimson velvet curtains that had come from the chapel in St. James's. I had three distinguished sponsors, the most important of these being Alexander the First, the Tsar of Russia; the second was my Aunt Charlotte, the Queen of Württemberg (who had been the Princess Royal of England); and the third my maternal grandmother, the Duchess of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld. These illustrious sponsors were not present in person, of course, but were represented by my uncle, the Duke of York, and my aunts, the Princess Augusta and the Duchess of Gloucester.

The Prince Regent at length arrived and from that moment there was trouble. I can imagine the animosity that must have flashed between him and my mother. There we were assembled in that splendid room before the golden font, my mother preparing for battle. Many times have I seen her in the mood she must have been in on that occasion.

The Archbishop held me in his arms waiting. He asked the Regent to announce my first name.

“Alexandrina,” he said, and then he paused.

The Archbishop was waiting.

“Charlotte,” whispered my father.

But the Regent shook his head reproachfully to show definite disapproval.

“Augusta?”

“Indeed not,” said the Regent. “Let her be named after her mother. Alexandrina Victoria.”

So, to the fury of my mother and the consternation of my father, I, who was to have emerged from the Cupola Room enriched by so many grand names suited to a future queen, came out with only two.

The Regent had shown his disapproval of what he called my parents' presumption. He was not dead yet, and he clearly hoped that one of his other brothers would provide the heir to the throne, for his animosity toward my frilled and feathered mother—as I believe he called her—was great.

And there I was—“plump as a partridge”—full of lusty health and ready to start my life—a possible heir to the throne.

Read Jean Plaidy's Queens of England series in historical order:

The Courts of Love
The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine

AVAILABLE NOW FROM
THREE RIVERS PRESS

The Queen's Secret
The Story of Queen Katherine

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

The Reluctant Queen
The Story of Anne of York

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

The Lady in the Tower
The Story of Anne Boleyn

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

The Rose Without a Thorn
The Story of Katherine Howard

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

In the Shadow of the Crown
The Story of Mary Tudor

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

Queen of This Realm
Memoir of Elizabeth I

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

Loyal in Love
Henrietta Maria, Wife of Charles I

previously published as
Myself My Enemy

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THREE RIVERS PRESS

The Merry Monarch's Wife
The Story of Catherine of Braganza

previously published as
The Pleasures of Love

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The Queen's Devotion
The Story of Queen Mary II

previously published as
William's Wife

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Victoria Victorious
The Story of Queen Victoria

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THREE RIVERS PRESS