20

“Well, Emily, have I kept my promise, or haven’t I?”

Emily Palmerston shook her head and smiled at her husband. It was a mocking smile, but it was full of triumph and admiration. “You’ve kept it,” she admitted. “You’re an impossible, terrible old rogue, my lord, but I love you, and I shall adore being the Prime Minister’s wife. Good heavens, I can still hardly believe it!”

“Never thought you’d see the day when the Queen sent for me to head the Government, did you?” he asked. “Ha, I don’t suppose she did either. Lord, my love, she looked as sour as a lemon.”

“Well, you can’t really blame her. After that dreadful scandal when you resigned and the demonstrations against the Prince … My dear, I should expect her to loathe you!”

“She does, she does,” Palmerston chuckled. “But I’ve a feeling she’ll get over it when she sees what good service I give. She’s a militant madam, I can tell you, and as soon as I began by reviling the Russians, she was agreeing with me as if we’d never had a cross word in our lives. And I positively fawned on the Prince.”

“He’s not pro-Russian, is he?” Emily asked.

“Good God, of course he’s not! I know people said so, and I may have let a word drop here and there just to gain a little sympathy, but there’s no truth in it. He hates the Russians like the devil hates holy water, as they say in Ireland. I almost felt sorry about all that business when I heard him. Needless to say, they were both as stiff as boards with me to begin with, but I do believe they thawed a little. Just a little, at the end.”

Emily put her arm through his and leaned against her husband.

“You’ll have to be tactful with them, Henry, or you may not last. It’s one thing to be Foreign Secretary and let Russell take the knocks, but it’s quite another when you’re Prime Minister.”

“I know that, Emily, I’m not a fool, my dear. This is my opportunity; don’t think I shall throw it away. We’ve got a war to win, and we’ll have to work like the devil to make good our mistakes. That’s the most important link between me and the palace. They want victory and so do I. And I feel sure that the Prince will work with me out of duty, whatever he feels. And where he leads, the Queen will follow. She’s a sensible woman, too, my dear. She knows the country is behind me; I think she probably realizes Aberdeen and the rest were a pack of muddling idiots, and that whatever I do I won’t muddle and stray off course … I left office once, and by God, the throne she was sitting on rocked under her! I daresay she hasn’t forgotten that.”

“Or forgiven,” his wife retorted.

“Or forgiven,” he agreed. “But then she’s not the forgiving kind. I don’t expect her to forgive me—or like me. But she’ll work with me, and that’s all I ask.” He yawned and stretched. “I could put down a good dinner and some port, Emily. And then we’ll go to bed. I’ve had a heavy day.”

Emily Palmerston blinked innocently at him.

“So have I, Henry dear. I’ve been so busy making plans to move into Downing Street I’m tired out!”

In the months that followed Victoria sometimes paused in the middle of her work to wonder whether she were dreaming, and if it were really possible that the detestable old man she had fought with so bitterly a year or two before was the tireless, brilliant Prime Minister who seemed to be the easiest person in the world to deal with.

She didn’t like Palmerston; she never would like him; but in spite of her feminine prejudice, she had to admit that his conduct was now faultless. He was still rather startling to look at, with his dyed red whiskers and his brightly colored clothes, but his manner to her was impeccable, and most important of all, he sought Albert’s advice at every opportunity.

It was incredible, but the raffish, headstrong characteristics which had caused her so much annoyance in peace were ideally suited to conditions of war; she could not help responding to his courage, his contempt for their enemy, and his confidence that England would win a sweeping victory.

The fighting raged in the Crimea; the forces of England and France, decimated more by disease than by battle, struggled to capture the Russian fortress at Sebastopol, and an Englishwoman, Miss Nightingale—such a pretty name—had taken a band of nurses out to Scutari to succor the wounded. And Victoria, whose opinion of her sex’s intelligence and ability was as low as any man’s, decided that Miss Nightingale was an exception to the rule, so she sent her a little brooch to the Crimea with a note of commendation. It pleased her very much to imagine the excitement and gratitude of that busy woman when she received a personal present from the Queen.

Victoria visited the wounded on their return, and shed tears of emotion over her brave soldiers, her own children, almost, who sat up in their beds to cheer her as she passed. They looked so splendid and so sad in their clean bandages, and her imagination pictured the worst battlefields and base camps of that frightful war as looking much the same as the hospitals prepared for her inspection. One did not think about lice and dirt and dreadful pain; one did not imagine men screaming for relief from their wounds. One only saw them brave and washed and on their best behavior, and one felt very proud to think that they were her men and had fought for her.

She had quite forgotten, and Albert did not remind her, that these were the sons and husbands and brothers of the common mob who hated her husband, and in her view were not much better than beasts.

Then, early in the spring of 1855, the Emperor Napoleon III and his Empress Eugénie paid a state visit to England.

Victoria was as excited as a girl at the prospect of seeing them; the very name of Napoleon had a sinister sound, and this was the great Bonaparte’s nephew.

There were so many different opinions of him; some people said he was the most charming man imaginable, while others said he was little and ugly and sly. Albert had gone to Boulogne and met him the year before, and given a reserved but favorable view of him.

It was also said that Eugénie was one of the most beautiful women in the world, and without a trace of jealousy, Victoria longed to see her too. She had several new dresses made—splendid ball gowns of satin trimmed with priceless lace, some plainer day dresses for informal occasions—and decided that since her present wardrobe suited her so well, the additions should be made in the same style.

Albert did not like innovations in dress, and he always said that simplicity became her best. The magnificent state jewels which she so seldom used were polished and taken out now, for while it would have been foolish to go to fashionable extremes in clothes, the wealth and power of a crown were judged by a queen’s jewels.

The Emperor and Empress arrived at Windsor, and they stayed in the golden State Apartments. Victoria’s first impression of Napoleon was of a small man with an ungainly figure and an ugly, melancholy face. But as soon as he spoke to her she felt the extraordinary magnetism of his charm; he had a delightful speaking voice and very fine eyes, and though she was close to forty and idyllically happy with Albert, a buried instinct stirred and responded to an appeal she could not understand. She liked him immediately, and most surprisingly, she liked the Empress too.

It was not in her nature to be jealous; when she saw the dazzling beauty of the French Empress, she admired her wholeheartedly. She had never had beauty or even prettiness herself, it did not occur to her to compare herself unfavorably with the gorgeous red-haired Eugénie, with her superb carriage and rare violet-blue eyes. She was the most exquisite creature Victoria had ever seen, and she was also absolutely charming.

After a magnificent state banquet, the whole company gathered in the great Waterloo Chamber for a ball. Palmerston, colorful as a peacock with his handsome, elegant wife beside him, watched the Queen of England open the ball with the Emperor of the French. They were well matched; he was short, and her tiny stature seemed less incongruous now. But she was badly dressed in an old-fashioned crinoline of gold, smothered in Brussels lace, her head and neck and arms blazing with diamonds so big that she seemed to be on fire when she moved. She was a stout, plain little woman with a rather red face, but Palmerston watched her steadily for some moments, and then glanced at the Empress Eugénie, who was dancing with Albert.

They were both tall, both exceptionally good-looking really, though the Prince seemed tired and his hair was receding. The French Empress wore a glorious white dress which displayed her famous shoulders; she had the figure of a goddess, and a paling tiara thick with diamonds and emeralds sparkled on her burnished hair. She was undoubtedly one of the greatest beauties Palmerston had ever seen—he reminded Emily in a whisper that Napoleon’s original intentions toward her had been dishonorable, as they were to most women. However her virtue and her extraordinary loveliness had driven him to marriage. She was everything Victoria was not—tall, striking, superbly dressed—and she moved on Albert’s arm like a swan on water.

But no man would ever bow instinctively to her, as they would to the dumpy little Queen of England. Victoria was inherently royal, Palmerston thought suddenly, almost as if in that brilliant setting he were seeing her for the first time; beauty and elegance had nothing to do with the kind of majesty Victoria possessed. Albert did not have it either; but it was in the voice and the personality of the nephew of Napoleon Bonaparte. That was why he and Victoria dominated the room, as if the other pair, the lovely woman and the handsome man, did not exist for the spectators.

The visit was a great success; everywhere the Emperor and Empress went, crowds cheered them enthusiastically; there were dinner parties and balls and a review of troops in Windsor Great Park; and when they left for France, Victoria felt such a sense of anticlimax that she burst into tears on Albert’s shoulder. She really liked Louis Napoleon, and she had so enjoyed having the Empress too. She had never had a woman companion who was an equal, and it had been so amusing to talk about the children and ask questions about Paris, and look at some of Eugénie’s dresses, made by a new French designer called M. Worth. Victoria was really sorry they had gone.

But in August she and Albert returned the visit. Victoria prepared happily to see her dear sovereign brother and sister again, and her eldest son was informed that his crushing routine of lessons, lectures, and short walks with Mr. Gibbs would be interrupted while he accompanied his parents to Paris.

Bertie expressed his delight so loudly that he had to be reprimanded, and in a painful interview his father explained that the French court would naturally be interested in the character of the future King of England, and closely observe his behavior. A display of frivolity would be disastrous, Albert said sternly, and told Bertie sharply not to hang his head when he was spoken to like that—it looked so shy! He was going to Paris, and it was his mother’s hope that he would acquit himself properly for once. They would both, Prince Albert warned his son, like to feel that he could be trusted to behave as the Prince of Wales should.

Albert was annoyed and bewildered to hear from Gibbs that the boy had come back to his schoolroom and burst into tears.

They landed in France in August, in brilliant sunshine, and Victoria was so overwhelmed by the magnificence of Saint-Cloud that she forgot to reprove Bertie for being sick on the boat. When she saw her apartments she exclaimed with pleasure. They were exact duplicates of her own rooms at Windsor. The furniture, the hangings, the color scheme—everything had been copied, so that she might never have left England. How thoughtful of the Emperor! How charming and kind of them both! Laughing, she said she only needed to see her dog and the illusion would be complete. Her remark was repeated to the Emperor, and the very next morning her spaniel, barking joyfully, bounded into her bedroom.

Victoria’s enthusiasm was infectious; the cold and calculating heart of Napoleon III had already warmed toward her in spite of himself, and Eugénie, whose beauty had subjected her to so much feminine spite, was completely won by the generous admiration of the English Queen.

In their own apartments at Saint-Cloud, Napoleon and his consort discussed their guests. The Empress sat by her dressing table, swathed in a bedgown and robe of palest pink satin trimmed with swan’s-down; though they had been married for only two years, the Emperor had already begun to share his affections with other women, women who could not compare with his wife for beauty or charm but who gave him the essential warmth that Eugénie lacked. A lot of nonsense was talked about women with red hair, Napoleon thought idly, watching her scenting her throat, but it was typical of men to worship goddesses and then be disappointed by the very qualities which had first attracted them. Yet in spite of his mistresses, he was still in love with her.

Eugénie sighed. “What a long day it’s been! I thought they were supposed to go to bed early, but Victoria was as fresh this evening as if she had just woken up!”

“She’s enjoying herself,” the Emperor said. “She was very gay as a young woman; it’s the Prince who likes early hours. He looked exhausted.”

“I don’t think he’s very strong; he’s so pale, Napoleon, and I’ve thought everything was a terrible effort for him at times. I watched him when we visited the tomb at Les Invalides, and I could have sworn there was a moment when he nearly fell asleep!”

The Emperor smiled. “I was also watching, my dear, and he did!”

Balmoral Castle was finished at last. When the royal party returned from France they traveled on up to the Highlands for their private holiday, and moved into Albert’s architectural dream home. Hand in hand, Victoria and Albert gazed at the enormous gray-stone structure, at the turrets and ramparts, at the medieval grandeur of design which conjured up Scotland’s romantic past. It was perfect, the Queen agreed, so much nicer than the rough and crumbling walls of an old castle.

Their Court could only stare at the monstrosity and murmur compliments. Ludicrous as the exterior seemed, Albert’s carefully planned decorations reduced even the Queen’s dearest friends to giggling despair. The furniture was covered in Dress Stuart poplin, the curtains were an affront in Royal Stuart tartan, and dear God, the carpets were Stuart tartan too …

It was so awful it was beyond description. The colors glared and clashed in a nightmare of ugly contrast, everything in it was brand-new and so tasteless that the cluttered rooms of Osborne seemed like the Tuileries by comparison. Paintings by Landseer, and antlers and stuffed heads lowered from the walls; in the vast entrance hall a life-sized figure of the Prince in Highland dress made the ladies almost jump out of their skins. Mahogany abounded; massive chairs, and tables covered with knicknacks, miniatures, wax flowers under glass, silhouettes and fussy photographs of the Queen and the Prince, their animals, their children … and porcelain views of every mountain scene in Scotland.

The whole thing was incredibly middle-class, bogus, and uncomfortable. The aristocracy of England stood in dumb groups and exchanged glances while the Queen walked through the rooms in raptures of delight, and the Prince’s gillie John Brown bustled round them, pointing out this feature and that and pushing past his betters. Balmoral Castle was beyond comment; it was so ridiculous that it pained those who genuinely admired the Queen and had tried to excuse the Prince on her account.

Palmerston traveled there to see them and hear details of their Paris trip. On his return to London he roared with laughter and told everyone that he had suffered a bilious attack from the color scheme. Word crept through the London drawing rooms; there were titters of contemptuous amusement, and the general reaction was, What else could one expect? The Prince was simply not a gentleman. He chose the Queen’s wardrobe, which had been a disgrace, for the state visit of Napoleon; he packed up the artistic treasures in the palaces and made every room an eyesore with his own taste; and now he had perpetuated his vulgarity in that ghastly Gothic nightmare in the Highlands. Caricatures of Albert, balding and stooped, arrayed in kilts, appeared in the gutter press, and his old enemy the Times printed a scathing article.

In his new home Albert heard the jibes and said nothing; there was nothing he could say, and Victoria could not protect him from the constant hurts inflicted by a hostile people. He merely worked harder than ever, even curtailing the deerstalking he loved so well to sit at his desk, endlessly writing memoranda to the Government and the War Office and the heads of state abroad.

His closest companion was his daughter, now called Vicky instead of Pussy, the eldest of their eight children. She was a quiet, worshiping girl of sixteen, who listened to her father talking about subjects like science and history and metaphysics which her mother could never really understand, however hard she pretended to be interested.

But the daughter had inherited her father’s brain; like him, she was methodical, painstaking, and deeply serious. In her company Albert found the sympathy that was so lacking in his other children, especially in his son Bertie. Vicky was content to study; she showed no weakness for the lighter things of life and her judgment was not spoiled by any sense of the ridiculous. Over the years father and daughter had grown closer and closer, with a strong tie of mutual interest and affection, and Victoria had become more and more jealous of their relationship.

Then that autumn Prince Frederick of Prussia came to stay at the new castle. Victoria noticed with pleasure that he spent as much time as he dared with his young cousin, and when Albert tried to intrude upon them, she firmly restrained him. Frederick William was very nice, very suitable. If anything came of the cousins’ devotion, it would be an excellent thing.

The fair-haired Princess and the tall young Prussian went riding together, and one evening he approached the Queen and Albert and solemnly asked for Vicky’s hand. The royal couple asked time to discuss the question with one another before giving the young man a definite answer.

“She’s too young,” Albert said to his wife. He was frowning, half-turned away from Victoria.

“She’s sixteen,” the Queen retorted, “and she’s very advanced for her age. Darling Albert, I know you think of her as a child, but I assure you, Vicky’s quite marriageable. And Frederick is such a nice young man … I know he’ll make her very happy.”

Victoria was careful not to sound irritated. It was only natural that Albert, who was so kind, should fuss over his daughter, but then men didn’t understand these things. At eighteen, she had been Queen of England, with the most terrible responsibilities, and no one had thought anything of it.

“Personally, I shall give their marriage my blessing,” she continued. “But only if you agree, my love.”

“I’ve no objection to Frederick,” Albert said. “You know that, my dear.” His thoughts flew back across the years to his own feelings when he had married, his homesickness, his intense loneliness in a foreign land. He couldn’t bear to think of Vicky suffering as he had. “But I do think she’s too young.”

“Then they can wait a year,” Victoria suggested quickly. Nobody could say seventeen was too young … Besides, it would be a useful alliance to have the future Queen of Prussia of English birth and sympathies. Albert really must not be so sentimental. It made her feel quite cross to see him pale and frowning over that silly girl. She was not a silly girl really, Victoria corrected herself, she was a very good girl, and had never given them a moment’s trouble. But it was not right to single her out from all the others as Albert did; it would only spoil her …

“I should like her to marry Frederick,” she said. “Dearest, don’t put yourself between them; I know they’re devoted already.”

“Put myself between them?” He turned round in surprise. He had never thought of it like that. He had thought of nothing but how miserable he had been all those years ago, and he had imagined that the daughter he loved so much was going to be precipitated into the same circumstances when she was still so young. “You know I’d never do anything like that. I want only Vicky’s happiness.”

“Then give your permission,” Victoria urged. “Marriage is the only thing that makes a woman happy. Darling love, I ought to know that!”

“Prussia is not like England,” he continued. “I want to be satisfied that the King and Queen will be kind to her, that she won’t be lonely.”

“Of course she won’t be lonely—she’ll be too busy being Crown Princess, and bearing children. Come, Albert, think of it, we could be grandparents before we are forty!”

He sat down, suddenly weary of arguing, weary of combating his wife’s iron will. Victoria wanted the marriage, and Victoria was probably right. She had only Vicky’s interests at heart, and because she would not miss the child so badly, she had no selfish motive for opposing the marriage.

“I want only Vicky’s happiness,” he said at last. “I know we said we would never have favorites, my dear, but I love her the best of all our children. I can’t believe she’s grown up and ready to marry and go and live hundreds of miles away from us. I shall miss her terribly.”

Victoria suppressed a pang of most unmotherly annoyance. How that child had twisted him round her finger! Really, Albert’s eyes were full of tears, just because he talked of losing his daughter, as all parents must lose their children when it was time for them to marry. Perhaps if Vicky were going to cause friction between them, the sooner she married Frederick the better for everyone. Why couldn’t Bertie have been his father’s favorite? Why had he to be so alien, so unsympathetic that Albert was driven to making a favorite out of a daughter, when he already had a wife to love and share things with?

There were moments like these when Victoria regretted her self-imposed isolation with Albert, when a confidante, someone like poor old Lehzen, would have been God-sent. She could not tell her husband that she thought his opinion of Vicky was too high, or that she had stolen his affections in a way that was not quite loyal to her mother. Albert would be hurt and horrified; he had such a noble mind that she couldn’t voice such suspicions to him. And it was so hard to have secrets from him, to feel that there were things she could not say …

“I shall miss Vicky too, darling love. But I think this marriage is best for her, and I also think that as the Queen of Prussia she could do immense good for that country and for our own. Let them wait a year, Albert. Please, dearest, give Frederick that answer.”

She came and slipped her arm through his and smiled pleadingly into his face. It was strange, he thought, as he looked down at her, smiling automatically in return, how gentle she appeared. Perhaps he had imagined that she was forcing him to agree to Vicky’s marriage. She always gave way to him, deferred to his opinions; why should he suspect that her formidable will had awaked on this issue, and that somehow he was agreeing to part with his daughter against his better judgment?

“They will be so happy,” Victoria said. “I think we should send for poor Frederick this evening and not keep him in suspense. I will go and see Vicky right away.”

Had he actually consented—it seemed he had; Victoria was kissing him on the cheek and slipping out of the room to tell her daughter that her parents approved her marriage to the Prussian Prince. Albert sat down in the leather chair and stared into the fire which had been lit in the middle of the wide stone fireplace. Even though it was early September, he felt cold and needed fires. He would be parting from Vicky in a year.

Sometimes he felt as if his life were spent in saying good-by to those he loved and living with people he could so easily have done without. Death had taken Anson and Peel from him, the only two men he had come to love and understand in the whole of England, and then Wellington, who had given him such a feeling of support, though the nature of the man prevented anything like intimacy. At long intervals he saw Ernst, embittered by scandal and change, and Stockmar’s visits to Germany were more frequent and protracted as he grew older. He would lose Stockmar too, one day. And now Vicky, the only one among his children who had come close to his heart, was going to marry and live in Prussia.

He would have to help the child, he thought desperately. He must give her the advice learned by his own bitter experience, save her from making his mistakes and suffering as he had done. He must teach her everything about the country she would adopt as her own, prepare her to make the most of her position and be a help to her young husband. Yet he was so tired and so dispirited, and a mountain of paperwork would grow on his desk if he left it for a few hours. Still he had to help Vicky. It would mean denying himself more exercise, and spending part of his short evening leisure with his oldest daughter, which would certainly annoy Victoria, but it would have to be done. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. If she loved Frederick and Frederick loved her, Vicky would be happy. Victoria seemed so sure of it; mothers usually knew best about these things. Dear God, how he prayed the child would be happy.

“It is your father’s wish,” Victoria said firmly. “Naturally I hesitate to lose you, my dear child, but we are quite sure that Frederick will make you an excellent husband.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The Princess Royal was not looking at her mother. She was very pale, and if she raised her eyes Mama would see the tears in them and that would never do. She was several inches taller than Victoria, but she never felt anything but a small child in her presence, and she stood like a child now, with her head down and her trembling hands clasped in front of her. So she was to marry Frederick? She had gone riding with him, and walking over the Scottish moors, and played amateur theatricals with him in the summer evenings with her parents in the audience, and he seemed to be very nice. Of course she didn’t know him very well, and she had never thought of him as anything but a pleasant cousin who came on an occasional visit. But her mother said she was going to marry him.

“I am sure that you are very fond of him already,” Victoria continued. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Look at me when I am speaking to you, Vicky dear; it’s not polite to stand like that. It reminds me of Bertie, and it’s not becoming.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I—I’m a little confused. You see, I hadn’t thought of Frederick——”

“As a husband,” Victoria finished the sentence for her. “But you will. And I do hope that you are not going to worry your father by letting him see silly tears. Come now, you should be very happy. Besides, you have a whole year to prepare for the wedding.”

“A year? Oh, Mama, I thought you meant I should have to marry him quite soon! Then I shan’t leave Papa—and you—for a year?”

“We thought you were too young to marry before your seventeenth birthday,” her mother explained. “So, come, dry your eyes, Vicky; I know Frederick will be overcome with happiness, and I can’t have you looking pink and puffy; it’s not pretty at all. You must always remember, dear child, that tears do not improve you. And Princesses never cry. I know your father will tell you how best to conduct yourself when you go to Prussia—there’s plenty of time for that—but I want to impress one thing on you myself. Prussia is a very fine country, but you must always remember that you are an English Princess, and that in marrying you, Frederick has made a very great alliance. Wherever you go and whatever you do, you will represent England and me, and though I know you will love Prussia, you must never forget that.”

“I promise I won’t, Mama. Mama—is that why he wants to marry me? Just because I am your daughter and a good match?”

Victoria looked into the wet blue eyes, so large and pretty and just like Albert’s, and said more kindly, “He’s fully aware of the honor done to him and to his country when he marries you, Vicky, but I’m sure he’s genuinely very fond of you. I thought so long before he approached us. Your father and I would never give you to someone who wouldn’t make you happy. Now I expect to see you smiling and looking happy at dinner this evening. You’re a very good child, and your father and I are very pleased with you. Bend down, so that I can kiss you.”

She touched Vicky’s forehead, and according to their custom, the Princess curtsied and kissed her hand. A moment later Victoria had gone.

She was gratified to notice that her daughter showed no sign of having cried or been stupid in any way when they gathered for a family dinner that evening. She smiled and blushed when Frederick spoke to her; they were seated next to each other, and he was laughing and full of good spirits, obviously very happy. Vicky was a dear child, and now that she knew she was leaving them for good, Victoria felt fonder of her than she had for a very long time.