Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (21 page)

My life had settled into a predictable routine. Except on mornings after a ball when I had not retired until sunup and slept late, I rose at eight. After going over my schedule for the day, I went down to breakfast. Sometimes, when I felt that I must, I sent word to Mamma to join me. I much preferred the company of Lord Melbourne, who could be SO amusing.

We took our breakfast from a large table laden with platters of sprats, cod, eggs, broiled kippers, deviled kidneys, haddock, and pork pie, and a gleaming molded jelly wobbling in their midst. I limited myself to a single boiled egg and buttered toast. Lord Melbourne and I then retired to my sitting room and set to work. Among other important items requiring my attention was my coronation, fixed for Thursday, the twenty-eighth of June. Parliament had voted to set aside a very large sum of money for an array of celebrations throughout coronation week. Planning had begun months earlier.

For days before the actual event, the whole city was in an uproar. Crowds of visitors were pouring into London from all over England and Scotland, and from the Continent as well. Fidi and her husband, Prince Ernst, had arrived, and so had Uncle Ernest, dear Albert's father (but not Albert!). I was VERY disappointed that custom would not allow dearest Uncle Leopold and Aunt Louise, as crowned heads themselves, to be with me.

On the afternoon before the ceremony, Lord Melbourne escorted me in a carriage through the teeming streets to Westminster Abbey with the idea of trying the thrones for size, reminding me that I sometimes found myself sitting on chairs that were too high and left my feet dangling.

“Are we not to have some sort of rehearsal?” I asked my prime minister as we walked through the vast nave of the church, where workmen were hanging banners of crimson and gold along the gray stone walls. “There are so many parts to it that there's sure to be some confusion.”

“Don't worry,” said Lord Melbourne, waving off my concern. “These bishops are accustomed to the most elaborate ceremony. It's their life work. You can depend upon them to guide you.”

That night I slept little—not due to excitement or nervousness, but because large guns had begun booming in the park nearby. By seven o'clock I was up and peeping out the window at the throngs that already surrounded the palace. Skerrett had been there since daybreak. While I was still in my dressing gown and my hair was doing, Daisy read aloud the order of the various parts of the ceremony.

Under Skerrett's direction, the maids dressed me, tightly lacing the corset over my chemise and pantaloons, rolling the white silk stockings over my knees and fastening the garters, tying the petticoats round my waist, lifting the white satin gown over my head and hooking it up the back. Maggie settled the gold coronet on my head.

After the maids had finished, Fidi and Charles and Uncle Ernest came to my dressing room. While I studied my reflection in the glass, Fidi and Daisy draped the ermine-trimmed robe on my shoulders. My sister's eyes met mine, reflected in the looking glass; she blinked away tears. Dear Daisy pressed her fingers to her lips and turned away. By ten o'clock I was ready. My brother and my uncle helped me climb, with my heavy train, into the gilded coach, and I drove off with Lady Harriet. It was a fine day.

The procession wound slowly through London's major streets, to afford the people a glimpse of their queen. The cheers were deafening, and the crowds far exceeded any I had ever seen. An hour and a half after leaving Buckingham Palace, I arrived at Westminster Abbey.

My eight trainbearers were waiting, young ladies in white satin trimmed with pink roses. The mother of one of the girls had ordered their dresses without consulting the other mammas. Now some of the girls complained that they could not manage my eight-foot train and their own trains at the same time.

“Do your best, dear ladies,” I told them, “for we are about to begin.”

Trumpets blew a fanfare and we started the long, solemn walk down the aisle. Hundreds assembled in the great vaulted space of the abbey observed my progress. Noblemen displaying their decorations and titled ladies in dazzling jewels filled the stands. Clergy in gorgeous white and gold vestments waited by the main altar. I could feel occasional tugs on my robe as the girls struggled with my train; Lady Harriet, walking behind them, muttered instructions.

We should have practiced this,
I thought.

The organ resounded and the voices of the choir soared in the anthem traditionally sung at coronations: “I was glad when they said unto me, We will go into the house of the Lord.” My heart fluttered a little and my breath came quickly as I made my way toward my throne.

The ceremony was so long and complicated that at many points I hardly knew what I was expected to do. Worse, despite what Lord Melbourne had said, many of the clergy seemed not
to know either—when I was to change from one robe to another, when the crown was to be put on my head, when I was to be handed the orb. Mistakes were made. The archbishop, who was to place the coronation ring on my little finger, instead forced it painfully onto the ring finger; I nearly cried out, and later I had to soak my hand in ice water to remove the ring. One of the bishops lost his place in the prayer book and had to go back and start over. When he handed me the orb, a golden sphere set with precious gems, it was much heavier than I expected, and I nearly dropped it.

Once the crown was on my head—too heavy and too tight, bringing on a throbbing headache—I sat on my throne. One by one, the members of the Privy Council mounted the steps, approached the throne, and knelt, swearing to become my “liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship.” When my good Lord Melbourne knelt, I grasped his hand with both of mine, and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. Then came Lord Rolle, eighty-two years old and dreadfully infirm. When he attempted to ascend the steps with the help of two ministers, he slipped through their grasp and rolled down to the bottom. Unhurt, he was lifted up and made a second brave attempt. To prevent another fall, I rose and walked to the top of the steps, a gesture that brought applause.

Near the end of the long ceremony, I looked up toward the box where I knew dearest Daisy was seated, and we exchanged smiles. Next to her sat Baroness Späth, who had come to London with Fidi to share in the triumph of this splendid occasion. I did not smile at Mamma, but inclined my head ever so slightly.

Weighed down by the purple robe of state, carrying the heavy
orb, suffering under the tight crown, I climbed into my carriage and rode again through streets jammed with exuberant crowds. Eight hours after I'd left Buckingham Palace, I returned, now a crowned queen.

Needing desperately to do something that felt
normal
, I flung off my royal robes, ran up to my royal apartments, and prepared to give my beloved Dashy a bath. I was up to my elbows in a tub of soapy water when my sister arrived.

“Your majesty,” Fidi said, and dropped a low curtsy.

I leaped up and threw my wet arms around her. “Oh, Fidi!” I cried. “It was such a day! Do you think it went well? The bishops couldn't find their places, some of the gentlemen were tripping over their robes, the archbishop nearly broke my finger when he mashed the coronation ring on the wrong one. And poor Lord Rolle!”

“You couldn't see what was going on behind you,” Fidi said. She imitated Lady Harriet's haughty manner as she stalked up the aisle in her role as mistress of the robes. We laughed together like naughty children. “And two of your younger maids of honor were twittering between themselves throughout the service as though they were in a drawing room. You must speak to them about their deportment.”

“Yes, it's true.” I sighed. “But do you think, on the whole, even with the blunders, that it went well?”

“Victoria, everyone is
so
happy with their queen! Ernst has been out in the streets since we arrived, and he tells me that people from every station are talking about you, your dignity and grace. ‘Our little Vic' they call you, with great affection.”

I fastened Dash's jeweled collar round his neck. “Not
everyone
is happy,” I said.

“You mean Mamma? But she is so proud of you! She was moved to tears when the crown was placed on your head. This was the moment she's lived for, for so many years.”

“She and Sir John. She still depends on him for everything. I've always hated him, and I always will.” I released Dash, who bounded away in search of his rubber ball.

“She told me that you have exiled him and his family from everything. It pains her deeply.”

I turned to my sister. “Fidi, you don't know the pain that man has caused
me
. You can't expect me to forgive him for all that he has done.”

Fidi took my hand in both of hers. “No, I don't expect that. But perhaps we could both join Mamma tonight to watch the fireworks.”

I agreed. On the evening of my coronation, I stood with the rest of the family on Mamma's balcony while colorful wheels and fiery fountains blazed across the sky. The Conroys were not present. But on this most glorious day of my life, my mother and I exchanged scarcely a word.

The coronation was over. Fidi had gone back to Germany, and her departure left a hole in my life. Lord Melbourne had begged to be excused for a fortnight. He had been required to carry the excessively heavy Sword of State at the ceremony, and the effort had apparently taken its toll. He seemed extraordinarily tired, exhausted from all the events leading up to the coronation as well as the seemingly endless ceremonies of the day itself.

For days he was absent, not only from our morning meetings and afternoon rides, but also from dinners, where I always counted on him to sit beside me and entertain me with his amusing anecdotes. When he did recover and eventually returned to my company, Lady Harriet sat to his left at dinner, as etiquette required of the mistress of the robes, chattering unstoppably and drawing his attention away from me, where it properly belonged.

Somehow my life had lost its brightness. As I thought back to a year earlier at my Proclamation, the zeal I held then for my new duties and my new life, I wondered what had happened to that joyous enthusiasm. When my dear uncle Leopold and aunt Louise came for their long awaited visit in August, I sensed that my relationship with my uncle had undergone an unmistakable change, and I did not like it.

Uncle Leopold continued to offer advice: I should devote several hours each day to my duties, receive my ministers only during certain hours, delay all decisions until the day after the matters were proposed. Useful advice, certainly, but I was now a crowned queen and I no longer needed to have even so kind a person as my uncle telling me how to conduct my affairs. Did he think that he must rule the roost everywhere? Apparently he did, and when he learned that I passed many of his letters on to my ministers—particularly Lord Melbourne—he thought ill of it and said so. How irritating!

This, then, was my mood when he brought up the subject of marriage to Prince Albert. I refused to discuss it. “I have only lately achieved my independence, and I cherish it,” I told my uncle. “I'm in no hurry whatever to give it up.”

Uncle Leopold tried to reason with me. “Your cousin Albert has been groomed from boyhood to be your consort. According to Baron Stockmar, Albert would like to have some indication from you of your intentions toward him. I believe he deserves that, Victoria.”

“My cousin Albert will simply have to wait,” I said firmly, “and you may tell him that.”

My uncle was not pleased—I could see that—but I didn't care. Nothing more was said on the subject of marriage and
Albert, and after a rather unsatisfactory visit, Uncle Leopold and dear Aunt Louise returned to Belgium. I was glad to see them go.

I was often very cross. Sometimes I felt unwell, so lethargic that I did not even want to get out of bed in the morning or read one more dull report from one more boring minister. Each time I stared into the looking glass, I could not help noticing that I was growing MUCH TOO PLUMP. I voiced my complaints to my dear Lord Melbourne, but instead of the sympathy I had come to expect from him, I got some rather unwelcome advice:

“Your majesty, if I may say so,” he began, “I believe that you eat too much and exercise too little. It would be good for you to drink less ale and a bit more wine. Perhaps if you were to walk more in the open air, you would find yourself invigorated.”

This was not what I wished to hear. My personal physician, Dr. Clark, had made similar suggestions, which I had rejected.

“I very much dislike walking,” I told Lord Melbourne peevishly. “It makes me more tired than I am already. Besides, I get stones in my shoes, and they hurt my feet.”

“Perhaps the solution is a different pair of shoes, your majesty,” said Lord Melbourne. “A pair of sturdy boots might do it.”

I rejected this suggestion, too. “My cousin Ferdinand says that his wife, the queen of Portugal, stomps round the palace gardens in her daily exercise program, and she grows fatter than ever.”