Виктория Холт - The Captive of Kensington Palace

Had Adelaide’s own darling Elizabeth lived, this glittering possibility might have been banished from Victoria’s ambitious Mamma’s mind; but all that was left to Adelaide was a stone statue of her reclining baby – so lifelike, so beautiful that often when she was alone she would kneel by it and shed tears of sorrow.

She did not believe that she would ever have a child now. There had been so many disappointments. It was not so much that she desired an heir to the throne; it was a baby of her own that she wanted. Alas, that blessing was denied her and she must console herself with other people’s children.

William never reproached her. He was kind in his rough nautical way. He was devoted to his FitzClarences. They were bastards and could never mount the throne, but William did not really mind that he had no legitimate heir. As long as he himself was King that was all that concerned him.

And there was another worry. He was becoming obsessed by the fact that the Crown could be his.

Adelaide sighed and went to his room.

‘Ah, my dear Adelaide.’ He always seemed genuinely pleased to see her. He was a faithful and affectionate husband; he had not wanted to marry her particularly and had done so from expediency, but he had soon discovered the fine qualities of his dear Adelaide. He often said now in his brash way that if the most beautiful Princess in the world was offered him he would think twice before changing his Adelaide for her. It was meant to be a compliment of course. But unlike his elder brother George, the King, William had no grace of manners.

He came towards her and embraced her. He was shorter than his brothers – red-faced, weatherbeaten and showing his sixty-three years.

‘The Prince will soon be arriving,’ Adelaide reminded him.

‘Oh yes, yes. Why we should be expected to look after the fellow, I don’t know. He’s come to marry that damned Duchess’s daughter, not one of mine.’

Adelaide did not mention that if the young man had been coming to marry one of his daughters there would be no need for him to be received by a member of the royal family.

‘Her girl,’ he grumbled. ‘A pretty creature. I don’t doubt she’s glad to escape from the interfering old woman.’

‘Let us hope she will find happiness in marriage.’

‘Couldn’t be worse than living in Kensington Palace with that woman. And I suppose we’ve got to have a dinner party to entertain the fellow, eh?’

‘We must remember he is a visitor.’

William was further irritated. He was enjoying the domesticity of Bushy to which he had retired in great dudgeon after having been obliged to resign his post of Lord High Admiral. That had been an intensely worrying time, when he had put on a uniform and attempted to command the Navy instead of treating the post as the sinecure Wellington, the Prime Minister, and his brother, the King, had intended it to be.

She had been afraid, for there had been rumours at the time that William was going the way of his father – towards madness. Such rumours had doubtless been circulated by Cumberland, and William’s behaviour did suggest that there might be some truth in them. However, he had come through that difficult period, had given up parading in his uniform, attempting to reform the Navy and making grandiloquent speeches to the sailors. He had come to Bushy, to Adelaide and the children; now he lived quietly there, rising early, breakfasting with Adelaide and some of the children at nine-thirty, playing with the children until midday and after the meal taking a nap and later discussing the gardens with the gardeners or riding or walking and in the evening settling down to a game of Pope Joan with the family, never staking more than a shilling at a time.

In such surroundings he became calmer although he always talked a great deal and excitedly, making speeches at the least provocation even though Adelaide was his only audience.

But there could be no doubt that in the domestic atmosphere of his home his physical and mental health improved and he was his old affectionate and jaunty self. It was the thought of greatness that unnerved him, but its fascination for him was immense.

Since the death of his brother, the Duke of York – which made him next in the succession if the King did not have a child, and it was scarcely likely that that mass of corrupting flesh could beget a child even if he were suitably married – William had thought constantly of the Crown. He dreamed of wearing it as persistently as in her apartments at Kensington Palace the Duchess of Kent dreamed of her daughter’s doing so. The thought of what his brother’s death would mean would suddenly occur to him and Adelaide would fearfully watch the enraptured expression dawn in his eyes. Then the excitement would grow; the wildness would develop, and she would be terrified that what he said might be construed as treason.

Even now his eyes gleamed as he came closer to her. ‘He’s failing,’ he said. ‘He’s failing fast …’

No need to ask to whom he referred; the rising note in his voice was enough. She drew away from him, wondering how he could show this near elation at the thought of a beloved brother’s failing grip on life.

‘Seventeen leeches they applied to his leg yesterday. He was rambling badly.’

‘Poor George! He has always been such a good friend to us.’

‘He’s a good fellow, George, But he’s had his day.’

‘He is not so very old … only three years older than you, William.’

She hoped the comparison would have a sobering effect.

‘Ah,’ said William craftily, ‘but think of the life he has led. He has eaten and drunk too well. He’s not a healthy man. Any moment now, Adelaide. He can’t last another year.’

‘We must pray for him,’ she said.

Yes, she thought, pray for him. Pray for him to live because what will happen when William comes to the throne who can say? She shivered to remember his brief period as Lord High Admiral. But how much more he would strut as a King than he had as an Admiral. George must live; she was terrified of what might happen when William became King.

‘It is very pleasant here at Bushy, William. The cosy intimate life we lead here – and the dear, dear children.’

He nodded; like his brothers – with the exception of Cumberland – he was excessively sentimental.

‘Poor sweet Louise,’ she went on, luring him farther away from dreams of kingship, ‘she is so interested in this wedding. Dear child, I fear there will never be a wedding for her.’

He nodded. ‘But she is fortunate,’ he said brightly, ‘to have her Aunt Adelaide looking after her.’

‘I know she is happy here.’

Poor little Louise, indeed she was. She was the daughter of Adelaide’s sister Ida, Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, and had been crippled from birth. Adelaide had more or less adopted her and her brother Edward, the little boy who had been born in England when Ida was visiting her sister. This niece and little nephew formed part of Adelaide’s family of children; they adored her and she did everything she could to make their childhood happy.

‘So she should be. Why, my dear Adelaide, you look after us all … every one of us.’

His calm was restored; he was momentarily the country squire of Bushy, but one word could bring back his dreams of greatness. Adelaide lived in terror of what he would do. He was not only tactless but extremely insensitive. She was never sure when he was going off to the House of Lords to deliver a speech which at best would set the peers yawning and at worst set fire to some inflammatory matter which would set the people raging, the lampoonists and cartoonists jeering and give credence to the rumours that the Duke of Clarence was on the way to becoming as mad as his father. ‘I think,’ said Adelaide, ‘that the bridegroom has arrived.’