Виктория Холт - The Widow of Windsor

Mourning hung heavily over Windsor. The Queen was stunned; now and then her tears would cease and she would ask in a bewildered voice: ‘It’s not true? Tell me it’s not true. This time last year he was with us. Oh God, how could this be? I always believed we should go together.’

But he was gone; and she would never see his dear face again, never chide him for not sitting long enough over his meals, scold him for going out without a warm coat or getting his feet wet; never again would they sing their duets together, sketch, walk, ride; never again would her temper flare up and force her to say hurtful things to him which he with his calm, loving kindness always forgave. Never, never again.

‘Dearest Mama,’ pleaded Alice, ‘you must try to stop brooding.’

‘Do you think I shall ever forget him?’

‘No, Mama, never. None of us will ever forget dear Papa.’

‘To you he was the best father in the world, the wisest, most tender parent a child ever had, but he was my life. Now that he … has gone, part of me has gone with him.’

‘Dearest Mama, you still have us … your children who love you.’

Always demonstrative, the Queen embraced her daughter, but she thought: Nothing … no one can ever be to me what he was. But he has gone and life is over for me. I shall never be happy again.

She had made a terrible discovery. She had gone over everything that had happened during those days before the Beloved Being’s death. He had been ill for some time. She should have heeded the warning; she should have been more insistent that he take care of himself. His colds, his fevers, his rheumatisms had plagued him for years and although she had never taken them exactly for granted she had not thought they could be fatal. And … feeling sick and ill he had gone to Cambridge to see Bertie. This was terrible. If he had not gone to Cambridge in that dreadful weather, if he had stayed at home to be nursed by his loving wife, the Queen, he would be here today.

But he had said: ‘I must go to Cambridge. It is imperative.’ And he had gone and he came back ill with that dreaded fever. And so he had passed away.

To be angry gave a little comfort; and she was angry. Bertie was wicked, for Bertie was responsible for his father’s death. How could Bertie have behaved so? The Queen said to herself: The Prince of Wales, my eldest son, has killed his father, the Prince Consort.

Bertie knew. She saw from his face that this was so. He was shamefaced – only that! He should have been heartbroken. She could not understand Bertie. He was the only one of her children who seemed destined to plague her. The others were good children. Bertie was … well, not so much bad (perhaps he was too young for that and it would come later) as careless, thoughtless, frivolous and, she feared, rapidly rushing along the road to ruin. He needed the firm hand of his father and that hand had been removed. The tragedy was that Bertie was the eldest son, Prince of Wales and heir to the throne, and he was responsible for his father’s death.

Darling, beloved, most wonderful Albert had not told her why he must go to Cambridge. If he had not died and she had not seen the letter from Baron Stockmar among those not yet put away on his desk she would not have known that Bertie had been involved in a disgraceful affair with an actress when he was in Ireland at the Curragh Camp. This affair had gone as far as it was possible for such an affair to go – the Queen shuddered at the implication – and according to the Baron was one of the scandals being discussed all over Europe. How sad Albert must have been when he read of his son’s conduct and how noble of him to try to keep this from her knowledge in order to save her pain. Instead he had gone out when already ill in dreadful weather to remonstrate with his frivolous son, his fever had progressed and he had come home to his deathbed.

I shall never, never forgive Bertie, she told herself vehemently.

Dear Alice was a comfort. She had grown up in a few days, changing from a child to a woman. Only a short time ago she had become betrothed to Prince Louis of Hesse with Albert’s consent. What a delightful day that had been when dear Louis, so much in love, had been unable to hide his feelings any more and had proposed to Alice. Dear child, she was young – nearly eighteen – but then Vicky had been married at seventeen and was now a mother.

The Queen’s tears spurted forth afresh. How Albert had loved his eldest daughter! In fact there were times when she believed she had been a little jealous of Vicky. She had disliked anything that took his mind from her, his wife – even his devotion to their eldest daughter. How wrong of her and how good Albert had always been. Now she was back to the eternal question. What was she going to do without Albert?

She thought of the others, Alfred who was nearly seventeen; Helena whom Albert had called Lenchen and who was fifteen; Louise, thirteen; Arthur, eleven; Leopold, eight and Baby Beatrice, four. Nine children and now she was remembering how she had dreaded their arrivals and the dreary months of pregnancy, how she had complained, been irritable and lost her temper – and that dear saint had always been there to guide her.

And now he was gone; everything brought her back to that dreadful truth.

There should be a mausoleum for him; she would superintend its erection herself. It would help to keep her sane, for when the enormity of her grief forced itself upon her she felt as though she were going mad. Life without Albert, going on and on for years alone! She realised with a pang that she was only forty-two, which was not really old.

But I cannot live long without him, she reassured herself. It will be a mausoleum for us both. Soon I shall be lying beside him.

Alice came to her and she told her of her plan.

‘It shall be at Frogmore,’ she said. ‘I shall choose the spot and Bertie must be there with me when I do so.’ She shivered. But she could not speak of Bertie’s behaviour to an unmarried girl. It would have been different if Vicky had been there.

‘Yes, Mama,’ said Alice. ‘It will be something for us to do.’

Alice was competent and cool, although grief-stricken herself, but Alice had been her mother’s daughter. It was Vicky who had been her father’s.

Bertie was waiting at Frogmore to receive her – eyes averted, reading her thoughts.

His father’s murderer! Our own son! Oh, what a price he has paid for his wickedness.

Bertie tried hard to show her that he intended to be a good son but she could not bear to look at him. She took Alice’s arm and she and her daughter led the procession round the garden.

‘This would be a good spot,’ she decided. ‘We shall lie here together.’

The Queen’s Uncle Leopold, King of the Belgians, who had been the father-figure of her childhood and the most important man in her life until her accession, when Lord Melbourne, her now dead Prime Minister, had stepped into his shoes, wrote from Brussels that she must not stay at Windsor.

He understood as no one else could, he insisted. He had lost two beloved wives himself; he was well aware of the Queen’s affectionate nature; it would be disastrous if she stayed at Windsor. She must leave at once for Osborne. He understood the intensity of her grief and he knew that she needed the peace of her island home. There she would mourn silently. She must not attend Albert’s state funeral. The experience would be unendurable. Bertie should be chief mourner and he must beg of her, as she trusted him, to leave at once for Osborne.