Victoria (3 page)

6 April

Splendid ride this morning! Rosa just about flew!

Currant pudding with wine custard sauce at tea – a rare surprise!

7 April

Not just the post, but a messenger from Windsor Palace arrived this morning! He delivered with pomp a great, thick letter with gilded seals, Uncle King's invitation to go to his ball next month! It came after lessons. Toire and I were playing “actress,” dressing up in Grandma'am's old amber-coloured gown
de deux jupes
. (That's French, and it means
of two skirts
. I must say, Grandma'am's is so vast, it would make
two whole gowns
for me, but Toire was clever with some ribbons and made it pleat so nicely so I wasn't absolutely swimming in it.)

She took the mauve Spitalfields silk with the dove-grey farthingale and rose-coloured frill. Toire always chooses that one, because I once said I thought it used to be blue, but it faded. She pretends it is blue. I am afraid I cannot pretend about colours. I have no such imagination – to me, a thing either is or is not blue, and one cannot always have one's favourite colour, but why pretend?

While I was in the room, Mamma did not open the invitation. I believe she was put out with Grampion that he brought it in to her while I was not at my studies. I suppose she would have liked to surprise me with the news. Toire said Mamma most likely wanted to read the invitation first, to see who has been invited, before she decides if I am to be allowed to attend. On my word, it is His Majesty's special invitation! I
must
attend! They shan't keep me away this year! Surely they shan't! Mamma says she will decide by and by.

I said, “Please, Mamma, decide soon enough so I can have a new dress. I am ever so much taller than I was.”

Mamma smiled when I said that. Baroness de Spaeth laughed. “Oh, yes,” she teased me, “you've grown the better part of an eighth of an inch!” But I
am
taller! Quite up to Mr Westall's waistcoat pocket!

8 April

Everyone here is
commanded
to attend. I think it is very kind and gracious of my Uncle King to entertain such a large assembly when he has been in such pain. I am told he can scarcely stand, some days. Aunt Soap says no one is more courteous and refined than His Majesty. She says he always found it embarrassing when Grandfather went into one of his peculiar fits. Uncle is consequently exceedingly proper in his own manners.

But Mamma is put out about something, I can tell. She does not think all of His Majesty's friends are quite
good
.

She would not say as much to Aunt Soap, but I believe she thinks my Uncle King, himself, lacks proper behaviour. De Spaeth, bless her, said (I didn't hear it, Toire did) that my own innocence will be adequate protection against any coarse or unseemly impressions. I don't know exactly what it means. I am sure my innocence has not protected me from noting a Certain Person's nose hairs want attention, and that is a coarse impression, I think.

I know Lehzen is passionately eager for me to go to the ball. As she is my governess, I believe she wants me to behave to her credit, and I will certainly try to do so.

Lehzen also said to de Spaeth, “Ivory
peau d'ange
silk for a May evening?” I think that is French for “angel skin” silk – it sounds lovely. And de Spaeth said, “With Honiton lace.” They were talking about my dress!

But Mamma still hasn't said yes.

Later

I am being as good as I can be. I am so cooperative, I am quite a changed little vixen, Lehzen said. That is because it was rather breezy on our ride this morning – my hat blew right off, and my hair was all in knots. Mamma's dresser, Mrs MacLeod, brushed and brushed my hair before luncheon to get out the tangles. Even though she pulled so hard I thought I should end up bald, I never cried out once. (I am quite ashamed of how I behaved only a few years ago, flinging my boots about, kicking our poor old nurse, Brocky, in her knees if I was even a bit tired when she brushed my hair before bedtime. I was ever so beastly, and she was ever so kind to forgive me.)

I know my dancing instructor, Madame Bourdin, will want me to go to the party. She will want me to be allowed to stay up late and to dance with my cousins, and so to demonstrate how well she has taught me.

As to that, I am of two minds. I do love dancing. And I may say here, in this private journal – think it not conceit, dear Feo! – I am a very fair dancer. No ballerina, of course. But I am not terribly awkward. If only my limbs were a trifle longer and more aerial in their
look
, I should do quite well. I believe I am sufficiently lively.

But my cousin Georgie will be at the ball. I find him an impossible pig of a boy. He is rude to old ladies with ear trumpets and old gentlemen with ill-fitting wigs. AND he is mean to dogs AND
both
mean and cowardly toward parrots. AND he says BEASTLY things when the adults can't hear him, and his accent is quite as if he is speaking with his mouth full of tough meat he is still chewing. I should not like to have to spend any part of my magical evening at Court
dancing
with Georgie!

If only I thought Mamma's concern with WHO will be present were about whether I shall have to dance with Horrid Georgie, I should entirely understand her taking her time making up her mind.

 

Here are more cows:

 

1815

Lily, heifer of Livia

Penny, heifer of Pet

Sukie, heifer of Dolly by Bartlet's Bull

Diamond, heifer of Rose

Irene, heifer of Rose

Zubadayah, heifer of Vashti by Bartlet's Bull

9 April

Jellied eels at dinner. Most unspeakable! I begged to be excused. Was not allowed to leave the table. Ate nothing but blancmange and mulberries in syrup. Still had to smell the eels of those sitting near me. Lehzen put caraway seeds on hers, so she will not suffer wind. She puts caraway seeds on her cabbage and her black bread pudding and her cucumbers in cream and her potato dumplings – she puts caraway seeds on everything. She has such a horror of windiness and dyspeptic stomach.

Mamma has not yet said yes about the ball. But my dear Baroness de Spaeth is working at persuading her that it may be good for my position in His Majesty's favour. She let slip a pertinent bit of information, one that must bode well for my wishes, and it is this: The guest of honour at the ball is to be Queen Maria da Gloria of Portugal! She is just my age, so of course I ought to be able to meet her!

This is how the conversation went. The Baroness was sitting with Lehzen and me in the yellow drawing room before dinner. Lehzen was reading a volume of Schiller's poems. De Spaeth and I were decorating little round cardboard powder boxes, cutting bits of fabric to fit, gluing the edges down, then trimming them with gold braid and velvet florets from old bonnets.

I did mine with pale peach-blossom Shantung silk (leftover from Aunt Adelaide's new dressing room drapery. She brought me a little scrap bag full of lovely little snippets of it. She is
so
thoughtful.)

The Baroness was doing hers in lilac moiré. Somehow, old ladies always seem to choose lilac or lavender for everything. Mourning colours, I say. I suppose by the time one is advanced in age past forty or so, one's whole life is demi-mourning. “One peg in the grave,” is what Uncle Billy says, but he is rather older than that and is perfectly spry.

However that may be, the Baroness had just showed me how to pull a puff of cotton quilt batting thin across the top of the box and paste it down to provide a nice padding under the silk. The effect is quite elegant.

I said to her, “I do so
love
pink! If only Mamma would let me wear a pink frock in company sometimes, not always white!” Truly, I was not thinking particularly of Uncle's party, only making a general comment.

My good de Spaeth, though, spoke with great seriousness.

“Your Highness must realize it would not be suitable for you to dress in the same fashion as Her Majesty Doña Maria.
You
are an
English princess
.”

“Why, who is Doña Maria?” I said. “How does she dress? As I don't know her, I had hardly thought of mimicking her!”

And the Baroness de Spaeth said (as she daintily wiped a bit of paste off her fingertips – she is so much neater than I!), “Well, you know
who
Her Majesty is, of course, the little Queen who is coming to His Majesty's feast! But she is a
Queen
, though she is a little maiden like yourself. And Portuguese, as well – quite Brazilian, they say – you know, southern taste is quite elaborate. But white frocks suit the little English May Blossom, still.”

She is just like my Grandmamma Coburg, calling me “May Blossom” and “May Flower” all the time. I liked it better before Horrid Cousin Georgie told me it was the name of a leaky traitor ship that went to America. I don't think that rude boy knows what he is talking about, but just the fact that I think of him now every time anyone says “May Flower” rather spoils it for me!

But when I was thinking it over later, it occurred to me that I
am
the most suitable person to keep Doña Maria company. Even if she is a Queen and I am only a daughter of a duke who has already passed away and can never be King. My birthday is so close to hers. It must be nice to be turning ten years old and have the Monarch of England give a birthday party for one! Perhaps some year there will be no important Visitors of State at hand in May, and my Uncle King might choose to give me a party. I am sure I would be grateful if he did.

10 April

Today, Toire and I played “actress” again. But Toire says we must not call it that, it isn't proper, because actresses are not Ladies. She says we should call it “Playing Cameos.” At first she was going to be a prioress, a nun. She pinned a white tablecloth around her throat and then put de Spaeth's black crocheted shawl over her head, and she had on a black dress.

Toire's face is much more dramatically shaped than mine. Mine is shaped like a roly-poly pudding. And my mouth is crooked.

Her face is more pointed and foxlike.

I wanted to pretend to be Rowena the Saxon, because I have been secretly reading another novel,
Ivanhoe
, by Sir Walter Scott, a poet who has come to visit Mamma and Uncle Sussex. Rowena is one of the characters in the story. I dared not confess as much to Toire, she's such a tattler. And she has plenty of nosiness! But she has so little curiosity – I mean, real curiosity. She never asks where my ideas come from. I don't know if there is a prioress in the book, I am not finished reading it yet.

Later

A close call – Lehzen almost caught me writing. I sat on my book so quickly, I feared I got ink on my skirt, and had to go and check in the looking-glass. But I suppose I whisked my book out of sight so fast, the breeze dried the ink directly!

To return to my account: when Toire could not persuade me to be a nun with her, she considered being a Lost Sheep Saved. Then she decided she'd change her name to Sister Mary Margaret, and she declared herself to be a Belgian mystic saint. For such a sneak and liar, she certainly has very
holy
fancies! She did not seem in the mood for me to propose to her that she be Rebecca the Jewess of York, but there are no other girls except those two in
Ivanhoe
yet, so far as I've read. So I said that I would be both Rowena and Rebecca and she could be a Belgian prioress.

Really, I was rather glad that she wouldn't make a good Rebecca. The truth is, Rebecca is more interesting than Rowena. Though I dare say I
look
more like Rowena. For Rebecca, I wound Lehzen's yellow scarf 'round and 'round my head, with de Spaeth's ruby brooch to hold it like a turban. For Rowena, I made a wreath of primroses (THAT took some time) with a silvery silk gauze scarf over it that fell over my face. Mrs Arbuthnot was visiting Mamma and offered me the loan of the scarf without my asking – a very kind loan, I think. I was careful with it.

I like to make up speeches and act out whole scenes, but Toire prefers to do a tableau, just a scene with no moving or speaking, because she is better at holding still than she is at remembering her lines. Also, she is better at holding still than I am. Of course, I could MAKE her do as I wish. She is the one who is always talking about my “precedence”, my right to be treated with Utmost Respect. She is her father's little parrot. But she forgets her lines and so often says, “Um, um, I shall recall it all momentarily,” it drives me daft. I vow, when Lehzen says I am willful and always expect to have my way, she has no idea how often I bite my tongue and hold myself in where Toire is concerned!

So, perhaps we will do a tableau at tea tomorrow, if Mamma will let us be actresses in company. Or cameos.

Later

To my great joy, I believe Uncle Leopold will be dining with us tomorrow.

His last letter to me was so lovely. “
Dearest Little Child, I have travelled far over the world and shall be able to give you some curious information about various matters.
” Mamma does not invite him often to Kensington, although he is her own brother. I wonder why she is sour about him this time. It's O'Hum's fault, I am sure of that much. I hear him blustering and vowing this and that about how much income Uncle has to share. It is not as though dear Uncle planned the death of his wife, my poor Aunt Princess Charlotte, or Parliament's grant for them being greater than what my Papa had.

Toire says my Duke Papa left so many debts because he was too charitable. She also says perhaps she would really like to be a nun instead of getting married, because of what happens when people try to have babies. She meant Aunt Charlotte dying in childbirth so tragically young. De Spaeth overheard. She said, “Nonsense, it's these English doctors thinking they can cure everything with their filthy leeches.”

Sometimes, Feo, I really feel sympathy for poor Victoire. But then she does something repugnant.

When I told her I was Rebecca the Jewess of York, she said, “Oh, Your Highness, how
shocking
, how
can
you, and so close to Easter, and with His Grace Dr Howley the Archbishop of Canterbury calling during the day?”

I wish she had not reminded me. His Grace gives me a bad case of nerves. Lehzen laughs at me when I say so, but it is true and of course dreadful, and I can scarcely manage to stay courteous. When I was little, I thought at one time that his name was Dr Holy and another time that he was a ghost, Dr Howling. Then I thought for a while that he was the one the Bible referred to when it spoke of the Holy Ghost arriving like tongues of flame (I believe that was the year Uncle Billy had Hindoostani fire-swallowers at his garden party at Bushey, too – quite horrid when one is small!). I feared for several days that the candles in church were to be used to light our mouths on fire. I believe I must have had a bad dream about these words because I didn't understand them. It was silly, but I still rather fear the Archbishop, and I shall wait until he is gone before proposing to show Mamma our tableau.

But, about Rebecca the Jewess, Feo. I realize that Toire has never gone with us and Uncle Leopold to Mr Montefiore's at Ramsgate, where Mamma takes us for our summer holidays by the sea. I am afraid she is not what Uncle would consider fair-minded, or she would appreciate that Mr M is so kind to let us play in his garden, and he is a Jew, and is perfectly amiable. I am sure no one could take exception to him, who knew him. But she was behaving quite in a
medieval
way, if one thinks about it. And I know she thought she was being especially pious. Imagine!

I wonder what the Reverend Mr Davys would tell me about play-acting the part of Rebecca during Easter season.