Victoria Confesses (9781442422469) (7 page)

Then it was on to Alton Towers, where a foxhunt was arranged for the amusement of the gentlemen. The ladies followed in carriages behind the immense field of horsemen.

Victoire, sitting next to me, was among the first to sight the fox. “Look!” she shrieked, as a flash of rust-brown fur dashed past us. The sounding of the hunting horn and shouts of “Tally-ho!” from the hunters drowned out her cry. A great pack of baying hounds chased after the poor, terrified fox, pursued by dozens upon dozens of horses, their hoofs thundering on the damp ground.

Our carriage came to a stop in an open field at the edge of a thicket of small trees. Fox, hounds, horses, and hunters were far ahead of us. I stole a glance at Victoire. She looked pale and was unusually silent and kept her face averted.

I detected a change in the baying of the hounds, and soon the huntsman, the gentleman in charge of the hunt, rode out of the trees with the limp body of the fox. The huntsman made a ceremony of cutting off the fox's brush, affixing it to a stick, and presenting it to me. Then he cut off the ears and paws as trophies for the hunters and threw the mangled body to the dogs, which leapt forward and seized it, tearing it from side to side until there was nothing left.

Victoire, whose eyes had been shut throughout, opened them warily. “Thank goodness that's over,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I found it quite interesting,” I told her. “I was
very much
amused.”

This was not precisely true, my stomach was churning, but
dear Daisy liked to remind me that I must learn never to show weakness. “A queen must not be weak,” she repeated. “Queen Elizabeth may have been cruel, but she was never, ever weak.”

Later, as we drove toward Wytham Abbey, the home of Lord and Lady Abingdon, Mamma commented on the woodlands surrounding the great manor house. Sir John, riding beside our carriage, said, “These woodlands are noted for having a large population of badgers.” Then, glancing at Victoire slumped in the corner, he added loudly, “I understand that Lord Abingdon is planning a
badger hunt
in honor of our visit.”

Poor Victoire, overhearing the remark just as Sir John intended, burst into tears. There was to be no badger hunt, but Victoire's wicked father enjoyed teasing
her
as much as he did
me
. I reached for her hand and squeezed it sympathetically.

After an absence of more than three months, we were back in our old rooms at Kensington. The journey had ended and with it the need to record the daily events, but both Mamma and dear Daisy urged me to continue the habit. And so I did.

Christmas Eve was always celebrated in German style to please Mamma. After dinner, with the Conroy family in attendance, we gathered in the upstairs sitting room, the doors thrown open to reveal a beautiful evergreen tree decorated with little candles, sugared nuts, and sweetmeats. “Just as it was in my home as a child!” Mamma said happily.

Round the tree were several small tables on which our gifts had been arranged. I had a table for myself, on which I found several gifts from Mamma—an opal brooch and earrings, books, prints, a pink satin dress, and a cloak lined with fur. I received a pretty bag that Victoire had worked herself and a silver hairbrush from Sir John. Everyone else also got lovely gifts.

We sang Christmas carols, some in German, one or two in French, and several in English. Then Mamma led me to our bedroom, followed by all our ladies, everyone in a fine holiday
mood. There I found my new toilet table, covered with pink and white muslin gathered in swags by pink ribbons. All my silver things—looking glass, comb, buttonhook, hair receiver, pin box—were arranged on it. I caught the look of pure envy on Victoire's face. I had glimpsed that look before, but it had never been so naked. I turned away, feeling I had witnessed something embarrassing.

“Oh, dearest Mamma!” I exclaimed. “How delightful! Thank you!” I embraced her as warmly as ever I had. I knew the toilet table was a recognition that I was
growing up
.

In the past months my feelings toward my mother had become increasingly strained. It was impossible to have a discussion with her. I had tried many times, approaching her in the most loving and reasonable way I knew how.

“Dearest Mamma, why must I still share a room with you? I should so like to have a room of my own,” I had said only weeks earlier.

“Darling, it is beyond me that you should not want more than anything to sleep near the one who cares for you most deeply. And it's for the best, believe me.”

Another time: “Mamma, why must I, at the age of thirteen, hold someone's hand when I go down a flight of stairs?”

“My dear Vickelchen, if you were to slip on the marble, or to stumble and injure yourself, I could never forgive myself! This rule is only for your safety!”

Rules, rules, rules. It was pointless to challenge them, for I never won a concession and often had to write yet another letter of apology.

My body was becoming that of a woman, but she still insisted that I wear childish dresses. I was allowed to see almost
no other girls my age but the dull Victoire, and to read only books suitable for an eight-year-old. I often felt that she did not love me for who I was but for what I represented. It seemed more important for Mamma to be the mother of the future queen of England than of an English girl named Victoria. I owed everything to Mamma, as she reminded me often, but I withdrew from her, preferring to spend my time with Daisy. Did Mamma notice that my bond with my former governess was more intense than my bond with her? I didn't know. And I didn't care, for it was true.

There was one thing more that could not be dismissed: The memory of Mamma in Sir John's embrace still sprang unbidden to my mind. Perhaps there had been nothing to it. It may have meant nothing at all. But it did not escape my notice that Sir John made all the decisions. He ruled my life and my mother's too. I might forgive her that embrace, but I could not forgive her for allowing him to control us.

Early in the New Year Sir John brought Mamma a gift: the most beautiful and adorable little King Charles spaniel. He had long, floppy black ears, a white muzzle, brown spots on a white body, and large brown eyes that gazed at me with
great intelligence
. His name was Dash. He was very playful, yet always obedient and lay devotedly at Mamma's feet.

Little Dash was perfection. I soon began to earn his affection, and Mamma did not object—she was more adoring of her many birds. I dressed Dash in the scarlet jacket and blue trousers that Daisy ordered for him as a surprise for me. He didn't seem to mind being outfitted as a human and enjoyed the attention. It became clear that DEAR SWEET LITTLE DASH had
declared himself to belong to me, and from then on he was with me constantly.

I was delighted to have him by my side during the long, tiresome hours I spent with the artist commissioned by Mamma to paint a full-length portrait of me. I had often sat for portraits, sometimes with Mamma, but none had ever been as wearisome—and as detailed—as this. I was dressed in palest pink, my hair done up in an elaborate braid arranged like a crown on my head. I wore gloves—or rather, one glove; the other had been stolen by my dear sweet little Dashy, shown frisking in the lower left corner of the painting. I was posed standing by a library table with a world globe nearby and Windsor Castle seen in the distance. Nearly every afternoon for seven weeks I had to stand motionless for two hours at a time, while the painter dabbed at his canvas. HOW TEDIOUS! But the finished portrait was to be a wedding gift for Uncle Leopold and his bride, Princess Louise of Orléans, whom he had recently married. It was also reproduced in black and white engravings intended to be widely distributed, so that my future subjects would have a likeness of their future queen.

During that busy winter and spring my evenings were often occupied with visits to the theater, the opera, and the ballet. In April we went to see Marie Taglioni, the dancer, make her London debut in Rossini's opera,
Cenerentola
—Cinderella. Madame Taglioni danced
sur la pointe
, on the tips of her toes, so lightly and gracefully. In May we saw her again; the ballet was
excessively
pretty. I took careful note of her costume, a sort of Swiss dress with a blue and white apron, and a little straw hat with her hair in plaits. She was not a beautiful woman—in fact I thought she was rather plain, though she danced beautifully.

I was
very much
amused, but I soon learned that Mamma was not.

“I do wish Madame Taglioni would not shorten her skirts
quite
so much,” Mamma protested. “It's truly scandalous.”

“They say she does it to show off her
pointe
work,” explained Lady Charlotte, who often accompanied us to these events.

“One does not need to see her legs in order to admire her feet,” Mamma sniffed disapprovingly.

I could not understand what was so improper about seeing the dancer's legs, but as Daisy once explained to me, Mamma's sense of moral propriety was much higher than most people's—maybe than anyone's.

In May I celebrated my fourteenth birthday. Among the many gifts were prints for my collection, books, embroidered handkerchiefs, little china figures, and a great many pieces of jewelry, including a lovely ferronière, a jewel on a chain worn on the forehead. I had wanted one ever since Mamma had her portrait done wearing a ferronière and looking so very pretty. I thought it made me appear grown up and elegant, though I did find it a bit difficult to get used to having something
dangling
there.

Throughout the day friends and guests stopped by. Sir John and the Conroy family came in the morning, and I must confess that my very favorite of all my gifts was given to me by Sir John: a life-size portrait of dear little Dashy! King William and Queen Adelaide arrived late in the afternoon and presented me with a pair of diamond earrings. Mamma and the king were barely speaking to each other, since she had refused to let me attend the coronation or even to visit them at Windsor. Dear Queen
Adelaide was always quite kind and pleasant to Mamma, possibly to make up for the king's ill humor.

My uncle Leopold sent me a
very
important and
very serious
letter in which he pointed out the need for regular self-examination to guard against the selfishness and vanity to which he said persons in high stations are known to be susceptible. “It is necessary that the character of such persons be formed so as not to become intoxicated by greatness or success, nor to be cast down by misfortune.”

Dear Uncle Leopold!
I thought, and placed it in the silver casket where I kept all his letters.
So kind, so wise! I could not have a better man advising me.

The day being an unusually fine one, my guests and I went out into the garden and enjoyed bowls of sillabub—fresh cream whipped with sugar and wine—under the trees. That evening the king and queen gave a Juvenile Ball at St. James's in my honor. Mamma and I and the king and queen and a few others gathered in the Royal Closet, a large chamber next to the ballroom. When all was ready, servants in the king's livery opened the doors and a trumpet fanfare was played. I placed my left hand on King William's right wrist, and he led me into the ballroom. Victoire Conroy was present, as well as many other children.