The Captive of Kensington Palace, page 14
William was not inclined to let political matters worry him overmuch. He liked to make speeches and did so on every possible occasion. Wellington had in fact expressed the view that while the King was eager to do his duty and did in fact attend to business with an expedition which was rare in recent monarchs, he would undo quite a lot of the advantages by making too many speeches in which he betrayed himself as a somewhat choleric, sentimental and a not very capable old gentleman.
There had been trouble in France. Charles X had been forced to abdicate. The terrible days of the great revolution were recalled through this lesser one, and what was happening abroad was talked of in the streets of England. Adelaide was worried. She told William that she dreamed about Marie Antoinette and the terrible fate which had befallen her.
‘The English wouldn’t behave like that,’ said William stoutly, but she did not believe him, and William couldn’t help but be affected by her fears. He said he wished that fellow Russell and the whole Whig party further when they’d brought up this business of Reform.
‘If this Bill is passed it may well be the end of the Monarchy,’ Adelaide had said. She had got that from Lord Howe, her Chamberlain, of whose opinions she thought so highly.
‘Stuff!’ said the King; but even he was uneasy.
Wellington was in command and he could trust Wellington. The victor of Waterloo could not be wrong. ‘Wellington will pull us through this bit of trouble as he did that other,’ said William. ‘There was a time when the people of this country were more afraid of Napoleon than they ever were of Reform. And then … Waterloo! Trust Wellington.’
Wellington was at heart a soldier. After Waterloo he had been cheered wherever he went; his name was spoken of in hushed whispers, and he could not believe that the great victory of Waterloo would ever be forgotten. The war at an end, he had turned to politics where he looked for the same success as he had enjoyed on the battlefield. The great general had become the great Tory leader.
Politics was a more tricky game even than war, and Wellington could not believe that the people would cease to regard him with awe and respect. In his home his Duchess, whom he had married out of chivalry and of whom he had long since tired, thought him a genius; his sons admired him; the charming Mrs Arbuthnot was his great friend. He saw himself as one of the great leaders of the day and he could not conceive that anyone should see him otherwise.
He was against Reform. He did not believe that the poor and uneducated should have an opportunity of expressing their opinions through the vote; he believed that the present method of sending members to Parliament was the best that could be contrived.
When Parliament met he stood up and gave his views.
‘The system that is in being today,’ he said, ‘deserves the confidence of the country. As long as I hold office I shall oppose Reform. If the disenfranchisement were admitted it would soon be pushed to lengths which would deprive the upper classes of the political influence which they derive from their property, and possibly eventually of the property itself.’
These were his views; he had never been a man to prevaricate.
He had no doubt that now he had spoken the people would see reason and agree that no change in the parliamentary system was necessary. There should be no Reform.
Apart from Wellington, no one was surprised by the effect his speech had on the people. Wellington had become the most unpopular man in England. The Tories were against Reform. Therefore the Tories must go. Wellington was eager to keep the poor poor, was he, for the sake of the rich? Then Wellington was no friend of the people. There were riots all over London. People were complaining bitterly about the Peelers, that body of men whom Sir Robert Peel had inaugurated in 1822 and who walked the streets keeping law and order. What next? they demanded. The Bobbies or Peelers prevented them from causing a disturbance, and the Duke of Wellington was preventing their having the vote. And what of the King? He had walked the street and been mighty friendly with the people – but what was he doing for them now?
Stones were thrown at carriages; crowds collected and the wrongs of the people were discussed; the mob was always ready for the excuse to make trouble.
‘This could mean revolution,’ Lord Howe told the Queen.
Wellington’s speech on that November day had certainly changed the situation. It had become truly threatening. The Lord Mayor had invited the King and Queen to his yearly banquet on the ninth and of course the Duke of Wellington, as the King’s chief minister, would be present.
Everyone was waiting for the Lord Mayor’s banquet; they felt that it would be a climax and there was a brooding silence in the streets. Rumour was everywhere. This would be the end of Wellington. He would ride to the banquet at his peril.
Wellington called to see the King.
‘My dear fellow, my dear fellow,’ cried William. ‘What is all this stuff?’
‘The people are in an ugly mood,’ said Wellington. ‘They did not like what I said the other day.’
‘They did not and they are working up to something, so they tell me. You should ride in my carriage to the banquet, my dear Duke. You’ll be safe with me.’
The Duke did not think so.
They were taking wagers throughout the Court. Would the King go to the Lord Mayor’s banquet or would the whole thing be cancelled? What was the wise thing to do? The King would not wish to appear a coward – and yet this was how riots started and riots could spill over into revolutions.
Adolphus FitzClarence was certain his father would go.
‘The old fellow’s not a coward,’ he assured his friends. ‘I’d take a bet on it that he’ll go.’
‘A hundred pounds,’ was the offer.
‘A hundred pounds let it be,’ said Adolphus.
Wellington was no coward either. He was ready to face an army in the course of duty but he hated to lose his dignity. He was a handsome man – of a fine stature. He was five feet nine inches tall; and his aquiline nose was his most distinctive feature – that and his keen grey eyes. He was always immaculate; he could not bear to be other than well dressed. The idea of what might happen in the streets appalled him. The thought of his garments being spattered with mud was nauseating. It might even be worse. Who knew what the mob could be led to do? He had been shocked that the people could so far forget Waterloo as to threaten him; now he was remembering that though they might cry ‘Hosanna!’ one week it could be ‘Crucify him!’ the next.
As a successful soldier he believed in the theory that discretion is the better part of valour, so he went to see the Lord Mayor and they decided that for the good of the City of London it would be better to cancel the banquet.
The Queen talked of these matters to her Chamberlain. Richard, Earl Howe, was one of the most handsome men at Court, and from the moment he had entered Adelaide’s household she had been aware of his special qualities. His attitude towards her had been one of great chivalry and admiration and Adelaide found that in his company she became animated and when she saw her reflection at such times she was amazed at the change in her face. If she did not look pretty or beautiful, at least she looked alive and not without attraction. He had such a flexible mind, she thought; he never raved and ranted; he was always completely tactful. She did not realise for some time that she was comparing him with the King.
She was always exhilarated by his company and he seemed to be by hers, but she never allowed herself to examine too closely her feelings for him. He was her Chamberlain and her friend; the King enjoyed his company too. Earl Howe was married and Lady Howe was a woman of great beauty who, before her marriage, had been one of the toasts of the town but she was rather eccentric and caused her husband some embarrassment. Adelaide would never forget the occasion recently when she had been driving with her Chamberlain and his wife. Lady Howe was seated next to her in the carriage and Earl Howe opposite when Lady Howe had said she was tired and put her feet on her husband’s knee. He looked so taken aback and had given her such a look that she had replied: ‘What do you mean by making signs at me?’ Then she had laughed and, adding that her feet were hot, rested them on the window ledge so that they were half out of the window.
Adelaide wondered why Lady Howe had behaved so in her presence and the thought did give her some uneasiness; she knew that she had become very unpopular since the Reform Bill had been brought into the house. To some extent the King too had lost his popularity – but not entirely. The people were still fond of their bumbling old sailor and since they must blame someone they blamed the Queen. The Queen, they said, was the one who was advising the King to oppose the Bill. And why? Because Earl Howe opposed it and the Queen listened more to her Chamberlain than to anyone else.
Adelaide refused at first to believe that people were whispering about her and Earl Howe but when she was forced to accept this she suspected the FitzClarences of spreading the gossip and was very unhappy by the way in which they had changed towards her. They had been such friends when William had been merely Duke of Clarence, but it seemed that they could not endure the fact that she was legitimately accepted into the royal circle and they were not. They were called the ‘bastidry’ which infuriated them, and because their treatment of the King was common knowledge, some wit referred to them as the King’s unatural children.
Earl Howe was saying that he was pleased the Lord Mayor’s banquet had been cancelled.
‘I should not have cared for Your Majesty to ride through the streets with the people in their present mood.’
‘That Bill. How I wish it had never been thought of.’
Earl Howe looked grave. ‘If it ever became law I believe that would be the end of the Monarchy.’
‘You are not the only one who thinks so. I believe that the Duke of Wellington is of the same opinion.’
‘I shall vote against it. If by some chance it got through the Commons it would never get through the Lords.’
‘It will not get through the Commons. Wellington will not allow it.’
‘And Your Majesty will make sure that the King refuses to give his consent even if it should.’
It was flattery, the implied suggestion that she carried great influence with the King. It was not really true, although she had to admit that William had always been good to her and treated her with respect; but it was Wellington on whom he relied.
This was perhaps why she enjoyed Lord Howe’s company so much. He made her feel wise … and yes, she had to admit it, an extremely attractive woman. For the first time in her life she was enjoying masculine admiration, and when it came from one of the most handsome and attractive men at Court how could she help being flattered.
There was to be a small dinner party at Clarence House. The Queen was dressed in white silk which fitted her beautifully. She wore a few diamond ornaments but she never overloaded herself with jewels and feathers as the Duchess of Kent did.
When she went to the drawing-room William was already there, seated in a chair waiting to receive his guests. He never behaved like a King and although he was courteous to the ladies, people laughed at his lack of regality. He had been jeered at for offering people lifts in his carriage and going to the door of Clarence House or even St James’s to wave goodbye – acts which while they endeared him to those who received them, were noted and laughed at.
‘He’ll never be the King his brother was!’ was the comment; and although the most unpopular of monarchs had been George IV, there was a note of nostalgia in the words.
‘That’s a nice dress,’ he said. ‘Why you look quite pretty tonight, Adelaide.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘It’s made of English silk. I shall tell the ladies tonight that every bit of it was made in England and that I consider our own silk equal … if not better than … the French. It would be much more helpful to these people who are so dissatisfied if more work came their way, and surely it would if we bought less abroad.’
‘You’re right … damned right.’
‘Well, I shall tell them tonight.’
William said, ‘I hope they’ll soon be forgetting all this stuff.’
Adolphus FitzClarence arrived, bursting into the drawing-room with the studied lack of ceremony affected by all the FitzClarence family.
‘Lots of people in the streets,’ he said. ‘You’d think something was going on.’
‘Oh.’ Adelaide laid her hand to her heart.
‘Crowds shouting. Banners.’ He grinned at the Queen. ‘They don’t seem very fond of you.’
‘They blame me,’ said Adelaide. ‘As if I had anything to do with it!’
‘The people always have to have something to shout about,’ growled William.
‘By the way, Father,’ said Adolphus, ‘will you let me have a hundred pounds?’
‘What?’ cried the King, growing red in the face.
Adolphus laughed. ‘It’s to settle a debt. I bet you’d ride to the Lord Mayor’s banquet; and you see, Father, you let me down and didn’t go. So … I owe one hundred pounds.’
‘Gambling!’ said the King.
‘Now, Papa, you don’t expect a shilling at Pope Joan to suit us all.’
The King laughed. How he loved those children! thought Adelaide. They could behave as badly as possible and he would forgive them. Whenever she saw him with Dorothy Jordan’s brood she longed more than ever for a family of her very own; and now she tried not to think of that cold little stone figure carved on a couch – the effigy of her child who had once been warm flesh and blood in her arms and the delight of her life.
There was another arrival. This time it was Frederick FitzClarence bursting in just as his brother had.
‘The Government’s been defeated in the Commons,’ he said. ‘This means Wellington’s out. The Whigs will be in and that means … the Bill.’
‘Oh God help us,’ said the Queen. ‘It will be the end of everything.’
‘Stuff!’ said the King; but he too was uneasy.
The guests would be arriving at any moment. They must behave as though they were not in the least perturbed. William was not seriously so. His father had been shot at several times and so had his brother. He was not afraid of assassination; this indifference to danger was a family characteristic. They’d all had it, except perhaps George; and he used to say he was too civilised to be indifferent to violent and undignified death. Poor George! He had died in a far more sorry state than if he had been carried off by a bullet in his carriage or in the box at the opera.
No, William was not seriously perturbed. Wellington might have been defeated in the House but there would be a way out of it.
No one mentioned the Reform Bill at dinner; they knew it irritated the King. Instead he talked of the old days at sea and how he had been best man at Nelson’s wedding. Then he showed them how Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar and they were all very bored.
Dear William, thought Adelaide. I believe he is the most boring man at Court. How different from Earl Howe!
The dinner over they left the table and retired to the drawing-room where they sat and talked. The King dozed and snored faintly and everyone pretended not to notice.
He awoke with a start and looking at Lady Grey who was sitting next to him he said: ‘Exactly so, M’am! Exactly so!’ at which everyone was amazed for Lady Grey had not spoken for the last ten minutes.
The King then went to sleep again for a while, and when he awoke he said: ‘Well, well, I’ll not delay you from your beds. And I’ll go to mine. Come, my Queen.’
As everyone had to admit, it was scarcely royal behaviour.
The next day Wellington resigned and William had no recourse but to send for Earl Grey. There was great rejoicing throughout London. The Whigs would bring in the Reform Bill and the hope of every undernourished farm labourer, every worker in the towns was that the passing of the Reform Bill would bring justice to them and their kind.
Everyone was waiting now for the debate on the Bill. The King, never very stable, became ill suddenly and the Queen was terrified that his malady would be similar to his father’s. Cumberland was watchful. If William went mad, Victoria would be Queen. There were great possibilities. A country on the verge of revolution, a little girl Queen, a mother as Regent who had not exactly endeared herself to the people; and the next heir a strong man, who might have an evil reputation but who could be trusted to be a firm ruler.
Commentators were saying that this could be the end of the Monarchy in England. Riots were occurring every day. ‘Reform! Reform!’ shouted the City apprentices without knowing what the word meant.
Adelaide had never been so frightened; she discussed matters continuously with Earl Howe. Wellington must come back to power, she said. It was their only way of preventing this Bill’s becoming law and she was certain that if it did it would mean the end of the Monarchy.
Her support for Wellington became known and the people were enraged against her. Those chose her as the scapegoat. She was a dowdy old German hausfrau, they said. She was an extravagant woman who was spending the country’s money on adornments; she was arrogant; she was homely; and she was the mistress of Lord Howe.
She should take care.
‘A foreigner is not a very competent judge of English liberties, and politics are not the proper field for female enterprise and exertion,’ said an observer in The Times.
She was constantly compared with Marie Antoinette.
‘I bid the Queen of England remember that in consequence of the opposition of the ill-fated woman to the wishes of France, a fairer head than ever graced the shoulders of Adelaide, Queen of England, rolled on the scaffold.’
‘They hate me,’ she cried. ‘They hate me because I am a foreigner.’
The King recovered. She felt happier when he was well. He made less of these matters than she did.
