Виктория Холт: The Widow of Windsor

Bertie was, of course, sorry that his father’s fever had increased through his journey up to Cambridge in foul weather, but it was self-imposed and unnecessary – and Bertie refused to blame himself.

There was muffled bustle throughout the castle appropriate to the occasion. He would be glad when it was over.

The Guard of Honour of the Grenadier Guards, of which Prince Albert had been Colonel, was at the entrance of the State Apartments and members of the royal family and the heads of foreign states were assembled in the Chapter Room of St George’s Chapel, waiting to be taken to their places in the procession.

It was time to set out.

Behind the coffin walked Bertie, chief mourner with his eleven-year-old brother Arthur and Uncle Ernest; members of the royal houses of Europe followed and the solemn procession began.

Bertie’s features were serious; he was trying to think of the goodness of his father and he could only see that stern face which had also been so cold when turned towards him. He had been different with Vicky and the Queen and some of the younger children. But always he was the mentor, critical of others’ weaknesses because he was so good himself. He had rarely smiled; he had frowned often at Bertie’s laughter which had overflowed far too frequently according to his father.

‘It was all for my own good,’ Bertie told himself. It was the best he could think of.

The choir were singing the opening sentences of the burial service. Outside in the Long Walk minute guns were firing.

The ceremony progressed.

At last they had placed the coffin at the entrance of the royal vault where it would remain until the mausoleum at Frogmore was ready to receive it. The funeral of the Prince Consort was over.

The Queen had decided that Albert’s wishes should be carried out as though he were still with them; his rooms naturally should remain as though he occupied them; his clothes should be laid out every evening; she was determined to keep his memory fresh.

His greatest concern before he had died had been for the welfare of his son and he had thought that a visit to the Holy Land might have a sobering effect on Bertie. The Queen had agreed. Did she not agree wholeheartedly with all Albert’s plans for the children? And never before, in spite of his very difficult childhood, had Bertie shown such need for guidance and care as he did at this time.

Alice was with her constantly. What a dear devoted daughter! So pretty too. Albert had said she was the beauty of the family. Her marriage should take place as arranged, which would be later in the year, though what a travesty it would be without her father’s presence!

Alice was sympathetic and gentle – far more so than Vicky had ever been; but Vicky was now a woman of the world; and it was only to Vicky, of all her children, to whom she could talk of Bertie’s deficiencies. Vicky, alas, was far away in Berlin, with problems of her own; but she did not shirk her duty and wrote constantly to her sorrowful mother. Perhaps Vicky more than any understood her grief and shared it to some extent, for Vicky had loved her father more than any of the others, as he had her. But Vicky now had her Fritz, who was kind and gentle, and her children Wilhelm and Charlotte. Darling little Wilhelm with his poor sad arm! His shoulder had been dislocated at his birth and he would carry that deformity through life, she feared. Not that it affected the dear child, who was bright and clever and, as Vicky said, so full of his own importance. Vicky also had to contend with a certain amount of hostility at the German Court. She was the foreigner there just as her precious father had been when he came to England. How many times had the Queen been hurt and angered by the constant references to him in the Press as ‘The German’. So Vicky was her confidante at this time and to her she wrote of her distress over Bertie.

Vicky replied that while she was horrified by Bertie’s misdemeanour, she believed that he should not be judged too harshly. He would know that dearest Papa had died and that one of the last things he had done was to visit him, his eldest son, to remonstrate with him over his disgraceful behaviour in Ireland. Bertie must feel heartbroken because of this.

Heartbroken! thought the Queen. Bertie’s feelings were too facile for heartbreak. He was not like the rest of the family. He was far more inclined to enjoy life than take it seriously.

Vicky believed that Bertie should continue with the tour of the Holy Land which Papa had mapped out for him, and while he was away the Queen would not be tormented by thoughts of his wicked conduct and travel could have a good influence on Bertie. One thing that had occurred to Vicky was that Bertie needed to be married.

Vicky spoke from the experience of her married status. Bertie, she said, was clearly not capable of great restraint and it might well be that if he remained unmarried there would be other escapades. The influence of a good wife could work miracles; and Mama would remember that dearest Papa had been considering this before he died.

He had, it was true. He had compiled a list of suitable princesses – not that there were many, for they must be worthy and Protestant, and preferably German of course. He had so relied on Vicky’s judgement that he had asked her to keep her eyes open for a suitable bride for Bertie; and Vicky, good daughter that she was, had taken a journey through Europe visiting different capitals and had carried out her father’s instructions. None of the princesses was entirely suitable for Bertie who would, in Vicky’s opinion, need a beautiful and charming wife if he were going to be kept on a straight moral course.

Did Mama remember Countess Walburga von Hohenthal – but of course Mama remembered dear Wally. She was Vicky’s very favourite lady-in-waiting because she was so gay and witty, fun to be with, and more English than anyone at the Prussian Court. As a matter of fact she had married Augustus Paget, the Minister to Denmark, and was now English by marriage. When she had gone to Denmark to marry him she had seen the family of Prince Christian, and Alexandra, his eldest daughter, was the most delightful Princess Wally had ever seen. Wally had thought at once what a good wife Alexandra would be for Bertie.

And, emphasised Vicky, it was imperative to get Bertie married.

So, thought the Queen, first a visit to the Holy Land and then marriage for Bertie.

Alice was peeping round the door, holding Baby Beatrice by the hand.

Four-year-old Beatrice was the only one who could comfort the Queen – although she would not admit to being comforted at all, which seemed sacrilege to Albert’s memory – but Alice had seen her eyes light up at the sight of the child.

Beatrice ran forward and climbed on to her mother’s lap.

‘Oh, Mama,’ she cried, ‘you are still wearing your sad sad cap.’

‘Yes, my love,’ said the Queen.

‘Take it off, Mama,’ said Beatrice.

‘Mama cannot do that.’

‘But it is a sad cap.’

‘Mama is sad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Papa has gone away.’

‘Perhaps he’ll come back.’

The Queen’s eyes filled with tears.

‘He will if Baby wants him to,’ said Beatrice confidently.

‘Oh, my love, and Baby wants her dear papa.’

Beatrice was thoughtful. ‘Baby wants Mama to take off her sad cap,’ she announced.

‘Mama, would you like me to take her away?’ asked Alice.

But the Queen shook her head.

Bertie was delighted to leave England and escape the sombre atmosphere which the Queen created about her. How could he endure the reproachful looks which came his way?