Jean Plaidy - Victoria in the Wings

Once again there came a letter of protest from Sir George.

Now the battle had begun in earnest.

He rapped Sir George across the knuckles in a manner which the Admiral found intolerable.

Your letter does not give me displeasure but concern to see one I had

kept

when appointed to this situation of Lord High Admiral constantly opposing what I consider good for the King’s service.

It was too much to be borne. Here was this fool – for Sir George could call him nothing else – who had been given this office simply because he was the heir apparent, believing that he could come in and take command over experienced sailors. Now he had had the temerity and insolence to tell Sir George Cockburn that he had allowed him to remain, as though he, occupying the sinecure – for it was nothing else – of Lord High Admiral had control over all the British Navy!

He was indeed a madman.

There was only one action to be taken. Sir George must appeal to the Prime Minister, with whom William was already in correspondence demanding the dismissal of Sir George Cockburn. He wished, he said, that Rear-Admiral the Honourable Sir Charles Paget be appointed in his place.

There was nothing Wellington could do but lay this letter before the King, who was extremely irritated by his brother’s folly.

It was inevitable that Cumberland should be at hand when the letter arrived. He had been expecting it. He believed that his pointed observations towards Cockburn had strengthened him in his determination to stand no nonsense from William – not that he would not have stood firm in any case; but the fact that one of the royal brothers believed William to be suffering from a touch of the late King’s malady was added support.

William could not have played better into Cumberland’s hands. But then, it was because of William’s nature that the idea had come to deal with him in this manner.

‘You look weary, George,’ said Cumberland. ‘Disturbing news?’

‘It’s William.’ The King passed the Duke of Wellington’s letter to his brother.

‘Conflict between Sir George and our Lord High Admiral, eh?’

‘William has no sense,’ said the King.

‘A very true statement, alas.’

‘Sometimes I wonder what he’ll do next.’

‘What’s going to happen about this?’

‘I hope Wellington will be able to sort it out. William can be stubborn as a mule. I shall have to write to him and explain, I suppose. Oh, what a bore.’

‘And so unnecessary when there are important State matters with which to concern yourself.’

‘He’s a good fellow, William. He just has a genius for being ridiculous. It was always the same. That long affair with Dorothy Jordan meant that she kept him in order; and now Adelaide does much for him. He is lucky with his women.’

The King sighed – ready to begin an account of his own misfortunes in that direction. But Cumberland was not interested in that. This affair between William and Sir George Cockburn was not over yet. It must become common knowledge. It must be discussed in public. The press would use it, of course. He must make sure that they did so in the correct way.

William is going mad, that was the theme. Who but a man who was not quite balanced would behave as he did? People only had to remember his ridiculous behaviour in the past; his attempts to get married; his long, rambling speeches in the House of Lords; and now he believed, because some high order had been pinned on him, that he could command the dismissal of George Cockburn, the King’s own Privy Councillor, himself appointed to give advice to the Lord High Admiral.

Like the late King, William was capable of the wildest actions.

There were new stakes in the betting clubs. They concerned the Duke of Clarence.

What were the odds against his being in a strait-jacket before George’s reign was over?

And then … the little Princess Victoria.

Yes, thought the Duke of Cumberland sourly, and then the Princess Victoria.

Those were days of speculation.

The King was not expected to live, but he had been in that state for several years. He had the constitution of an ox, it was said. No other man could have endured all the dosing and bleeding he had suffered and still be alive. He had led a life of indulgence; he had eaten unwisely and drunk too much; he had kept late hours; he had burdened himself with debts and they must have caused him anxiety; his adventures with women were notorious. He had married Maria Fitzherbert morganatically and his marriage with Queen Caroline had been the most extraordinary in the life of British royalty. He ought to have died years ago – but he still lived on, near death one day and the next in excited consultation with architects planning improvements to Carlton House and the Pavilion, Buckingham House and Windsor Castle, in addition to which he was conferring with Nash whose Regent Street, Carlton House Terrace and terraces of Regent’s Park he declared to be some of the finest architecture in the world.

But in spite of all this – he could not live long.

And then what?

The rumours persisted that if George should die William would go completely off his head.

He was behaving oddly now. There was all this controversy with the Prime Minister over his office of Lord High Admiral. The grave for George; the strait-jacket for William.

And Victoria? The child was rarely seen in public.

Someone had heard from a friend who knew someone in the Duke of Cumberland’s household who had said that the Princess Victoria was a very delicate child. She had a disease of the bones which would not allow her to stand and she was obviously destined for an early grave. Perhaps even before George found a haven in the tomb and William was constricted in his strait-jacket the nation would be mourning the death of little Victoria.

The next in line was the Duke of Cumberland – Ernest with one eye and the scarred face. Battle wounds it was true; but he did have an evil reputation. It would be a long time before people forgot the Sellic case. And there was some dark history connected with the Duchess.

Still, he was a strong man; and what the country needed was a strong man.

In the clubs bets were being taken. There seemed to be a fairly even chance that the next King of England would be King Ernest.

John Conroy wanted to speak to the Duchess of Kent confidentially.

She received him graciously; she was very fond of him, because, she assured herself, a woman needed a man whom she could trust.

He was carrying a newspaper and she saw from his expression that he was disturbed.

‘I want Your Highness to read this,’ he said, ‘and tell me what you think of it.’

She read it. It was an account of Victoria’s weakness. The disease of the bones from which she suffered prevented her from walking. She suffered from other ailments and there was great anxiety for her health in Kensington Palace.

‘But this is a monstrous lie!’ cried the Duchess.

‘Of course it is, Your Highness. But there is a purpose behind it.’

‘Who could find such satisfaction in pretending that a healthy child is an invalid?’

‘Those who want her out of the way.’

The Duchess stood up, her curls quivering, her hands clasped to her buxom bosom. But she had grown pale. Her Victoria in danger!

‘Want … her … out of the way!’ she repeated.

‘I think the Duke of Cumberland has very decided views as to who should inherit the throne.’

‘It is no use his having views. He cannot meddle with the succession.’

‘Not by constitutional means.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘By saying Victoria is a weakling he may have some plan in view.’

‘How do we know he has said this?’