Chapter Text
Following her Uncle William’s declaration, Victoria was no longer permitted to leave the grounds of Kensington, not even for church. Instead, they attended services privately, within Kensington’s own chapel, and her previously small world turned even smaller.
As a precaution against assassins, Victoria was told – for, with the king’s health in such obvious decline, there was blood in the water, and there were no lengths to which some men would not stoop in order to possess the throne of England.
(This, Victoria knew to be true.)
With every day that she refused to sign That Document, even more of her small freedoms disappeared. First, her novels were taken away, then her piano and her sketchbooks and even her embroidery; her already scant studies ceased. This is a time for prayer and reflection, she was told, now that the crown was so very near.
Oh, but Victoria did reflect; she did nothing but think of the future.
. . . and she prayed.
. . . she planned.
. . . she waited.
Like Sir John said: it was all just a matter of time.
.
.
From his sickroom in Windsor Castle, King William raged against the Duchess of Kent’s continued obstinance in depriving his court of its future queen. He was ready to send the Royal Guard to Kensington and seize the princess by force, if necessary – Louise could rot in the Tower, as she was guilty of nothing less than treason, in his view. Yet he conceded to the wisdom of his wife, and agreed not to take to such drastic measures, if only for Victoria’s sake. His niece would turn eighteen in a matter of weeks, and then, everything would be different.
Princess Feodora fretted for all that she heard – and, more importantly, all that she did not hear from Kensington during those months. Letters from her sister had turned few and far between, and when Lehzen wrote to confirm that Sir John had taken to monitoring (censoring and restricting) Victoria’s post, she was incensed. If she were a man, Feodora seethed to her half-attentive husband, she would carry her sister away herself – but she was not and she could not. Instead, she wrote to her mother and begged her to open her eyes to Sir John’s machinations, but, as ever, to little affect.
Prince Carl visited England once more upon Feodora’s insistence, and he was indeed dismayed by the lack of accord he found in the house. Victoria was wholly intractable, he reported to Feodora; she did not understand everything that Sir John had done for her and would yet continue to do. Their sister needed a strong man to shoulder her burdens, now more so than ever, and Victoria’s lack of feminine modesty and inclination to submission required a heavy hand to subdue. After all, if she could not yield to the necessity of a mere comptroller now, how would she obey a husband in the future? It was, his letter concluded, quite unnatural all around.
For their part, Parliament grew increasingly uneasy for the unknown variable that was Queen Alexandrina. They were leery of a girl they'd scarcely ever seen, let alone knew and trusted to rule. There were talks of possible measures to curtail the queen’s power before her reign even began – though the prime minister insisted that, as a governing body, they would abide by the laws of primogeniture and bend the knee to Her Majesty, no matter what. The last thing that Great Britain needed was a succession crisis – especially when their next option for king was the Duke of Cumberland, and no one wanted the rule of Ernest I.
. . . Parliament could agree on so few things, but on that point, they were grudgingly of one mind.
Thus, with both Houses held in tenuous accord – for the time being, at least – Lord Melbourne attended His Majesty, and proposed a plan.
.
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It was a day of brittle calm at Kensington – insomuch as a sea could ever truly be calm amidst a storm, with great currents roiling beneath the waves and rumbling grey skies yet threatening overhead.
At breakfast, Victoria had been presented with That Document once more. Most clumsily, she'd spilled her tea, rendering the paper quite useless. Her mother had called her a heartless, ungrateful daughter; Sir John maligned her as a feckless, irresponsible little girl. Though their words lashed and barbed, Victoria hardly felt their sting. (Didn’t she?)
She refused to give them any power over her, and thus, they had none. (Didn’t they?)
From there, her wish to take a turn in the gardens was denied. Sir John said that a man had been found in the orchard, armed with a pistol, just that very morning – which had sent her mother into a fit of nerves and Victoria to clenching her teeth. Instead, she sat in the drawing room with nothing to do but stare as yet another copy of That Document was placed on the table before her.
Victoria ignored the seemingly innocuous piece of paper, and instead tasked herself with counting the tiles in the ceiling.
She’d made it to three hundred and seventy-one – though she’d had to start over when Sir John ordered Dash from the room, complaining of his supposed allergies, so furious was she for but a moment before she recovered her control – when the steward announced a caller in the form of the king’s own lord chamberlain.
“I have been instructed to give this directly to the princess.” Once admitted, the Marquess of Conyngham respectfully declined the duchess’ offer to stay for tea, and instead – most pointedly – placed a sealed letter into Victoria’s hands. “His Majesty anticipates Your Highness’ answer as soon as convenience may allow.”
“Thank you,” Victoria acknowledged his bow with (what she hoped was) a regal nod of her head. “Please tell His Majesty that I shall answer with all expedience.”
From there, as Lord Conyngham departed, she eyed the door, just as her mother and Sir John fixed their attention on the letter she held. Without wasting a single second, Victoria made an attempt for freedom, but she was not fast enough. Sir John was at her side before she could even cross the threshold. He caught and squeezed her wrist, and the letter was no longer in her grasp. She made a dismayed sound, and lunged for the letter, but to no avail. Sir John brushed her aside, and, with his opposite hand, broke the seal.
Quickly, he scanned the king’s words, while Victoria watched, her heart wild in her throat.
“What utter nonsense,” he finally sniffed, and then passed the letter to her mother with a flick of his fingers.
The duchess was hardly as sanguine in her reaction: “That swine!” she fumed, tearing the letter up and tossing its rent pieces to the ground. “That despicable man has no idea what it takes to truly parent a child. I have been her mother for nearly eighteen years, yet he seeks to rob me of what little reward I’ve had to look forward to for my efforts – right when those rewards are so close within reach!”
Slowly, Victoria knelt, and gathered the ruins of the letter. She matched the segments of parchment as best she could, and felt her breath catch to read the words penned therein. The king, already with the approval of Parliament, was offering her – and herself alone – a yearly sum of ten thousand pounds, complete with her own keeper of the privy purse, independent of her mother’s household, to manage her finances as she best saw fit. With such, she would have the opportunity to set up her own establishment in any of the royal residences listed below, although the king yet hoped that she would join him and her aunt at court, and remain there until his crown became her own.
A thrill ran through her for the words, wanting so very much to accept as she did, before -
“You may leave us, child,” Sir John waved a hand in clear dismissal. “We will answer for you, have no fear.”
Victoria felt her hand make a fist, and, for a reckless moment, she opened her mouth -
- only to obediently bow her head, and turn away.
Neither Sir John nor her mother looked up to see her leave.
.
.
Victoria stayed in the little parlor that had once been her schoolroom for the rest of the day, complaining of a headache – which did truly ail her. She had no appetite for dinner, and so, she did not go down. Instead, she sat with the last doll she'd made as a girl – No. 123 – and traced her fingers over the tinsel crown she'd once so carefully fashioned for its brow.
She felt a kinship with the wooden marionette then, and liked it but little.
Lehzen sat with her all the while, understanding her wish for quiet when there were no words that could possibly be said. (She was still not allowed to be alone, as she truly wished, while the System yet stood, but Lehzen was preferable company to the likes of Lady Flora or Lady Maria, at the very least.) So complete was their silence that Victoria almost started when a footman appeared at the door, and approached with a letter intended for Lehzen.
Victoria first paid it but little mind, all until Lehzen sucked in a startled breath to read its contents.
“It's from my sister,” Lehzen revealed – little to Victoria’s understanding. Her governess had left a large family behind in Hanover, and heard from her siblings quite often. Victoria expected half as much when the footman first arrived.
“How wonderful,” even so, Victoria attempted to smile. “From Christiane or Helene?”
“The answer may surprise you,” Lehzen handed over the letter, and Victoria tilted her head.
But she looked, and was indeed surprised to see a slanted scrawl of English words, rather than German – and written not in a woman’s hand, nor by any man she recognized. Instead, her eyes widened to read, underneath the opening explanation for Lehzen:
Your Royal Highness,
I beg your indulgence for the liberty of this letter, as there has been no formal introduction between us – but, as that is hardly my most egregious offense with this missive, I trust in Your Highness' mercy in excusing the impudence of an otherwise most humble and sincerely dutiful Prime Minister to the Crown. I regret any such subterfuge, but a small measure of deception seemed necessary for a matter of such importance. And, with that, I shall baldly state that His Majesty believes that the letter his niece was so kind as to send this afternoon may not have, in fact, conveyed sentiments that are wholly her own. I write upon His Majesty’s express instruction to inform Your Highness that the views of Parliament remain unchanged. The aforementioned Monies & Freedoms are yet still promised, and shall be available for Your Highness to claim at your discretion. It is the Prime Minister’s honor to serve at Your Highness’ pleasure in this and all things – now and, if God so wills, soon to come.
Your Baroness has instructions for how to mark her correspondence for my attention – until then, I remain your respectful and devoted servant, etc.
Viscount Melbourne
Victoria read the letter through a second and then a third time again before she looked up, and met Lehzen’s steady gaze.
“Would you like to add a note to my reply?” her governess asked – mindful, Victoria then understood, of the footman who loomed at the door. “Your voice is always a welcome one back home.”
“I hardly know what to say,” Victoria finally answered, just as carefully. "But I shall think on my reply and let you know when I am ready; thank you, Lehzen.”
She would be eighteen soon. Then, perhaps . . .
In that moment, however, she refolded the letter with careful hands – wishing that she could keep it, but knowing that she dare not. She handed the paper back to Lehzen, and watched as the letter was tucked away in the book her governess was reading.
Yet, even though the physical evidence of her supporter may have disappeared, the assurance of his words remained.
Victoria looked back out the window once more – not in longing from within the walls of a prison, but rather, in anticipation of her imminent release.
For the first time in far too long, she no longer felt alone.
.
.
She remembered The Letter when That Document was placed before her at breakfast.
She remembered The Letter when Sir John called her a spiteful, witless girl, doomed to plunge the mightiest kingdom on earth into ruin with her stubborn, selfish recalcitrance.
She remembered The Letter when That Document was placed before her at supper.
She remembered The Letter when her mother scorned her as pitiless and thankless, and her brother chided her as shortsighted and naïve.
She remembered The Letter when That Document was thrust upon her when all she wanted to do was sleep away her now constant headache and pangs born of distress, but her tormentors kept her up late and woke her early, trying to catch her in a moment of weakness.
She remembered The Letter when Lady Flora counseled that she would be seen as an ignorant, irresponsible child if she was not properly guided in the first days of her rule. Not only would she be risking a regency in short, as Sir John desired, but overreaching control in long (even in permanence) over her reign if she gave the Court of St. James’ any reason to think her incapable of acting in all ways as a monarch should.
She remembered The Letter when she heard Sir John’s attendants whispering, wondering how such a flighty, silly girl could ever be Queen of England.
(She remembered The Letter when she wondered much the same.)
She remembered The Letter when she went to bed, still seventeen years old -
and prayed for her Uncle King to survive the morning through
- and awakened as a woman of eighteen, finally free of them all.
.
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My dearest Wilhelmina,
Today, I reached a point of utmost interest in our mother’s diaries – the passages from the day she turned eighteen. I am at a loss as to what should be made available for publishing, and what should be kept for our family alone. Or, perhaps, that decision should not belong to the likes of us to determine – as Mama belonged to all of England, and thus, are not her words the property of its body when they come so from Her heart?
I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the matter – tell John that Canada shall stand without him, and make your way home to us soon, or else I shall have to cross the ocean to you, and then who will keep His Majesty in line? His head is entirely too big for his crown as it is.
(His Majesty has just sighed to remind me that he is also My Majesty – but as he is my brother, first and foremost, I shall tease him as I see fit until the end of days.)
Yet, back to the matter at hand. Regardless of the eventual fate of these journals, I have copied over the best excerpts for your current enjoyment – as I know that you will cherish them just as much as I do.
Mother begins, with her earliest drafts of a reply to The Letter:
To His Lordship, The Prime Minister,
Her Royal Highness writes to inform the Crown’s most loyal First Lord that his previous letter was greatly appreciated and most kindly received. Her Highness is indeed desirous of leaving her mother’s
controlhousehold and setting up her own establishment.I will happily live in a hovel if I am indeed alone.
I hope that there are several staircases, wherever I may ultimately move to, so that I may run up and down each and every flight! I will eat tarts by the dozens, and invite ALL of my cousins (except for my German cousins, or maybe just Ernst) to dine and dance every night. I will waltz with whomever I wish, and marry or not, however I so choose, and grow as fat or as thin as nature ultimately decides is natural of me. FURTHERMORE -
Perhaps somewhat understandably, Mother chose to start over:
Lord Melbourne,
Her Highness wishes to inform the Prime Minister that she is indeed desirous of accepting the offer that Parliament was so kind as to propose. Now that I am eighteen, I want nothing more than to prepare myself for the duties that shall soon be incumbent upon me as heir presumptive to the throne, upon receiving which I shall -
Oh God, but what if I can’t do this? I may be eighteen, but I am nowhere near who or what I should be – I am not who ENGLAND needs me to be. And I am so angry, I am SO VERY ANGRY all the time. An angry, stupid, ungrateful chit of a girl – how can a queen be those things? A queen is NOT those things! I cannot, I MUST NOT, but how may I instead -
You see, my dearest sister, why I hesitate to publish these words? I do not wish to encourage those naysayers who still criticize Mother’s reign . . . and yet, how many young ladies in the world would benefit from hearing such honest words from a woman as great as Queen Victoria? I think . . . I think that we both know what Mother would say.
(We certainly know what Father would say.)
Yet, I digress. Again, she started anew:
William Lamb,
Thank you for writing to me as myself, and seeing through the lies of those who are supposed to have my best interests at heart.
So few are those who have ever done so – and MEN even fewer still. It may have just been your duty – maybe you didn’t give a second thought to the letter you penned – but it has been my great comfort during these most trying days, so much so that I -
Foolish girl, but do not take back power from the likes of THAT MAN just to give it to another.
And again:
Her Glorious Majesty Alexandrina the Great, Queen-to-be of Great Britain and Ireland and Those Lands Sworn to the Crown accepts on behalf of Parliament their Excellent & Kind promises of Most Joyous Freedoms, and hereby banishes Mr. Conroy to New South Wales and strips him of any and all previous titles
and his awful wig too-
And, jotted beneath:
If not New South Wales, then at least back to Ireland? Mother can go with him for all I care – all the way to Hades!
would she, do you think? if she had to choose between him and me, would Mama really leave me behind in order to
And then, in the margin:
(Is the Tower still in use to punish traitors to the Crown? I write of the Prime Minister to inquire for most relevant & important . . . Reasons.)
Oh, but how I am torn between tears and laughter! I miss her so, just as I know that we all miss . . . so much time has passed, yet it feels like Father, too, was with us only yesterday. Mother always kept him alive for us, and I feel like I am mourning him over anew. (My greatest comfort is in knowing they are together now, and shall always be.) I wish that you were here to laugh and cry with me – though I shall later show these to His Majesty, and we will then both laugh and cry and long for you together!
. . . although our brother is a boor, and has just informed me that your husband is doing quite well for the Crown in Canada, and I shouldn’t be tempting one of the few ministers who do not give him a headache back home. Insufferable fustilarian! If I was not such an old woman myself, I’d find a frog to put in his bed. Yet, perhaps . . .
Await my next letter, Mina, for a further update.
With all my love – and love to John and the children,
Alice
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In the year of 1837, however, any and all such letters were ultimately never sent.
For, in the days immediately following her birthday, King William IV took ill to his bed, and from it, he was not expected to rise.
. . . nor did he.
.
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Victoria was long awake, the morning she became queen. She had roused some time after midnight, as if taken by a sudden sense of knowing, and had not been able to return to sleep. Thus, when the sunrise flushed grey across the overcast horizon, and Lehzen appeared at her shoulder, a finger pressed to her lips as she beckoned her from bed, quietly so as not to awaken her mother -
- she knew.
Her knowing was confirmed by the deep, reverent curtsy that her governess dropped into as soon as they were alone in the hall.
“Your Majesty,” Lehzen breathed – and oh, but it was so right that she, her most stalwart defender and dearest companion was the first to address her as such – her normally stern voice thick with emotion.
Victoria felt tears burn at her own eyes – with grief and relief and anticipation and dread all for a moment overwhelming her – as she bid Lehzen rise as her first order as queen. With that moment of obeisance thus passed, she reached for the older woman, and Lehzen folded her into her embrace as if she was still a child. She clung to her governess, weeping, and allowed herself to be Victoria the girl one last time before composing herself to face the rigors of the day as Victoria the queen.
For her true war, in many ways, had only just begun.
.
.
She was still in her nightclothes and dressing gown to greet the archbishop and lord chamberlain and receive the official news of her uncle’s passing and her own ascendance. She had gone down the stairs, quite unattended – thrilling all the while for that smallest of defiances – to receive them, wholly alone.
Her mother was furious; Sir John even more so.
Yet Victoria ignored them both, and instead ordered her belongings to be taken to the Blue State Room – which had not been in use since the time of Queen Anne, now well over a hundred years ago. Her mother squawked for her decree, while Sir John merely frowned, as if considering just how far she was going to test them with her newfound independence. Victoria tilted her chin, and fought not to let her satisfaction bloom across her face like a sunburst.
Sir John conceded that small battle, and instead raised his sword for another: “We shall have to decide your regnal name,” he went on, as if she had not spoken to begin with. She made to answer, and yet he raised his voice to speak over her: “Elizabeth, perhaps, or Anne? Georgiana, even, would do quite nicely.”
“Elizabeth II sounds most regal,” Lady Flora simpered to agree, and her mother smiled such a smile at Sir John that it made Victoria's jaw clench to observe. “That would be a reminder of a great queen.”
A reminder, Victoria thought, but not one of her own making.
“Your father wanted to call you Elizabeth, before your awful Uncle George had his way,” her mother encouraged. “You would honor poor Edward so, choosing Elizabeth for your name.”
Yet she had not been named Elizabeth, no matter her father’s desires, and this was not the first time she’d fought this fight. Sir John had applied to Parliament to have her name legally changed once her Uncle William became king, but she'd held fast to keep the name she’d been Christened with then, and she refused to be parted from it now. Sir John knew as much, she thought, and, as such, she wouldn’t deign to have this conversation again – nor was she required to, now that she was a sovereign and independent queen regnant.
(Still, she had little liking for the sound of Queen Alexandrina, and she rather thought that she preferred . . .
. . . but that was not something she would tell Sir John, nor her mother; that was her own decision to make, and she’d make it when the time was right.)
Sir John, rather predictably, did not take her refusal well.
“This is not a game!” he shouted – loud enough that her mother jumped, and even Lady Flora’s plaster-cast smile cracked for but a single moment. “You thoughtless girl – but do you think that the English will accept to be ruled by a foreigner named Alexandrina – and what kind of a name is Victoria, to any people now living? There’s a reason your uncle cursed you with that name from the first, and you would allow him his victory from the grave?”
“Yet it is the name I was Christened with,” Victoria stood taller than she truly was, and fought to keep her voice from trembling. “I will rule with the same name Almighty God already knows me by – and no other.”
Sir John took a menacing step forward – but, instead of retreating (and refusing to flinch), Victoria inhaled, and held up a hand.
“You have our permission to withdraw.”
Silence met her decree – until, finally, Sir John and her mother and Lady Flora and each and every attendant usually tasked with supervising her every waking moment finally withdrew, having no other choice but to obey, now that she was queen.
And then she was at last left alone – gloriously alone! – to bleed her ears of any and all poison that yet remained.
Victoria stayed as such until Lehzen entered again, and announced the approach of her prime minister.
.
.
Lord Melbourne was the first of her ministers to attend her at Kensington in order to reaffirm his loyalty to the Crown. Victoria watched from the window, her fingers soft against the fine gauze of the curtains, wanting to observe his arrival without being seen in return.
When asked, years later, for her initial impression of William Lamb, she would have to confess that she noticed but little of his person (the angles of his face and the shape of his eyes and the lines of his body). Instead, her breath stuck in her throat to watch Sir John intercept her prime minister – hardly even giving the man time to dismount before stalking forward and flicking his forked tongue with sweet venomed words. Melbourne’s back was to her, so she could not see his reaction – but she feared what it may be, knowing Sir John as she did. Even her brother and Uncle Leopold listened to Sir John over her, to say nothing of this stranger, and she feared that, no matter what The Letter had once promised . . .
. . . no, no, no, that single thought pulsed in time with her very life’s blood, and she prayed: oh, please, God, let him be mine alone, knowing, above all else, that she needed this one man to be on her side, lest her reign ended before it even begun.
(What a prayer to have answered, in both her intended meaning and by many blessings more.)
.
.
Yet, in that moment, she responded to her sickly churning fear and the heady freedom of her nascent authority and even the slightest suspicion of a man poised to dominate her with an ever sharp tongue and teeth bared to bite.
Lehzen insisted upon a chaperone; Victoria declined. (Though she would later, only naturally, be curious as to what her governess knew of her prime minister’s disreputable ways.)
Lord Melbourne was admitted, and he dropped to one knee before her to bow and kiss her hand. (Leaving her curiously breathless for the gesture, in a way she hadn't felt with the lord chamberlain or the archbishop.) She looked down, rather than lifting her chin as she perhaps ought, and fixed him with her gaze.
His own eyes were a pale shade of green, she noticed, and quite striking – he was quite striking – though that thought was neither here nor there.
With his head still respectfully bowed, he stood and offered his condolences for her uncle’s death. She chose to parry offensively, remarking that she had been fond of her uncle and would miss him – even if he did have the strangest opinions on whom she should marry.
“I believe that His Majesty favored the Prince of Orange,” Melbourne agreed – obviously taken aback by her candor, but not, she thought, in any way displeased.
So she scoffed, and spoke her mind: “A prince with a head the size of a pumpkin? No; I think not.”
(And she did not mean the size of Prince Alexander's head in the physical.)
For that, Melbourne coughed in a way that she suspected concealed a stronger reaction – and the small smile that seemingly defined his countenance at rest (as if he was secretly amused by a thought that no one else could know) then hooked for a flash of a truer emotion.
“I see Your Majesty has a keen eye for detail,” he did not at all attempt to correct her, but instead, she thought, rather agreed. (To more than just the physical, even, as far as Prince Alexander was concerned.)
That gave her courage, and she watched him as closely as he watched her – with the each of them wary, perhaps, but growing less so as their conversation continued.
Until, finally:
“I believe that you know Sir John Conroy,” she spoke to boldly confront what she had seen from the window. Her shoulders went rigid, even as she held herself as if she wore armor instead. She refused to falter in this – she could not, and so, she would not.
Melbourne tilted his own head, and observed her carefully. “We are acquaintances, ma’am,” he acknowledged. “I believe that he would like to be your private secretary.”
For that, she could not help but seize with fury. “That is out of the question!” she snapped, willing herself not to sound girlish and shrill, but ultimately unsure of her success. “He means to run me as he runs my mother, and I will not allow it.”
Yet, instead of offending her prime minister with her forthright reply – and most unfeminine determination to decide her own course – she saw his own eyes shadow for but a moment before the expression passed. She thought that maybe . . . just maybe he understood her, and, even more tantalizingly, he did not like what he understood on her behalf. (He had implied as such in The Letter, after all.)
“Then you must have someone else,” Melbourne took her furor in stride, and she released a breath that she had not first realized she'd been holding.
“If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion,” yet he continued, and she inhaled again, “perhaps I may act as your secretary for the time being? I see that your dispatch boxes have already arrived, and the business of government waits for no one. It may seem overwhelming at first, but, with a little guidance, I am sure that you shall soon become the master – or, rather, the mistress – of it all.”
At the word guidance, she fought not to bristle; she had too long fought off one snake to so easily welcome the presence of another, and so she said with all of the haughtiness she could muster: “Thank you, Lord Melbourne, but when I desire guidance I shall ask for it.”
Yet, rather than taking offence for her tone – a tone that would have invariably sent Sir John into a temper – she thought that he looked . . . pleased by her assertation. How was he so? Victoria grappled with the entirely alien creature before her. Why was he so?
“Of course, ma’am,” he bowed. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, for overstepping my bounds; that was truly not my intention.”
No, pleased was the wrong word, she finally decided: instead, he looked absolutely delighted for her display of independence. His reaction disarmed her, filling her with uncertainty.
. . . how was she supposed to respond to such a man? She had not known that such men even existed, let alone could exist for her.
“I shall not disturb you any longer, but I would be remiss not to remind Your Majesty that there is a meeting of the Privy Council upon the morrow. They will convene prior to your proclamation, and it is customary for the monarch to say a few words at the beginning of such meetings.”
Even so: “I am well aware of my responsibilities, Lord Melbourne,” she declared archly. (She pushed him again.)
Yet, to her continued surprise, his eyes fairly sparkled . . . and he did not push back. Instead: “I am delighted to hear it, ma'am. Good day to you.” He gave a last deep bow – one that somehow felt slightly teasing as compared to his earlier obeisance – and then backed from the room as protocol demanded, that small smile still lingering as he finally turned, and left her alone.
Victoria’s knees felt weak, and she sank down rather suddenly on the nearest chair. Melbourne’s remark about the Privy Council had taken her aback. She knew it was her Constitutional duty to preside over meetings of the Council, but a speech . . .
. . . her stomach heaved, and, for an awful moment, she thought that she would be most embarrassingly ill.
But she had no time to indulge such mortal failings. Instead, as the bells in the village of Kensington continued to toll – announcing the death of the king, and the rise of a new queen – she found her feet again, and called for Lehzen to bring her parchment and ink.
She had a speech to draft, it would seem.
.
.
Hours – though she would defend herself by saying that she had met with several of her ministers throughout the day, all of whom had seemed dull and unremarkable as compared to her first meeting with Lord Melbourne – and several crumbled sheets of paper later, Victoria had progressed no further than My Lords.
She hardly knew if my lords was even the proper form of address to begin with – after all, the Archbishop of Canterbury was not a lord, nor was Sir Robert Peel, who was the leader of the Opposition in the House of Commons. How was she to refer to them all collectively, as one body?
Sir John would know – but a public humiliation in any non-adherence to protocol was infinitely more preferable than humbling herself before That Man.
She never would again, if she could help it.
Yet, regardless of her determination, she was about to give up the matter as being entirely hopeless – she would simply have to improvise upon the morrow – when the steward arrived with a letter.
“With Lord Melbourne’s compliments,” Penge bowed to offered her on a silver salver. Victoria accepted the letter, and after a moment’s consideration (perhaps she shouldn’t even open it), she broke the seal.
Your Majesty,
Lord Melbourne sends his most respectful regards, yet it has occurred to him that Your Majesty may not yet be familiar with all of the protocol surrounding speaking to the Privy Council, as Your Majesty has not yet had the pleasure – and your most humble Prime Minister uses that term with some hesitance – of meeting that most august body. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of drafting a few notes that Your Majesty may find of interest when composing your own speech. It goes without saying that the Duke of Cumberland will be in attendance, and His Grace is rather a stickler for such protocol.
The warning, she thought, was clear: there were many who were not only waiting for her to fail, but rather anticipated her failure – and her Uncle Cumberland was foremost amongst them. She would – and she must – stand on her own two feet, but she could not let her pride precede a fall, either.
With that ominous thought weighing heavily upon her mind, she bit her lip as she skimmed the rest of the letter, finding it conversational in tone, and informative without being instructive. Lord Melbourne merely placed the bricks before her; now, all she had to do was build.
Somewhat settled – and exceedingly grateful in a way that she warned herself yet to temper – Victoria put her pen to paper with a renewed sense of determination.
My Lords Both Spiritual and Temporal, she began with the proper address, and then let the words flow from there.
.
.
That evening, all of England was abuzz with speculation and chatter – if not the entire world.
“Is the girl truly a dwarf?” Lord Lyndhurst was the loudest amongst his fellow Tories at Whites to guffaw. “That must be why she never attends court – and when she does, she’s hardly been taller than the furniture to notice!”
Lord Hastings – who had it upon the authority of his sister, Lady Flora – chuckled to add: “She is not quite a dwarf, but may as well be – she’ll need a stool to sit her own throne! It’s a pity that one useful Hanoverian trait of stature has quite passed Her Majesty by!”
“I’ve heard that the dear child is simple – she cannot even read and write,” Lady Lilford lamented in the great salon of Holland House. “The strain of the crown is unnatural for any woman, I fear; how shall this sweet dove bear it?” Lady Holland had snapped her fan and most pointedly dismissed that bit of commentary as nonsense – yet, those words and their like still continued to spread.
“Does she have a German accent?” Lord Melbourne – who dined at Brooks that evening to present a confident face for the rest of his party – found himself asked time and time again. “I’ve had it on good authority that she doesn't speak English at all, nor does she even understand our language!”
Melbourne, for his part, only responded with “you’ll have to see,” knowing, as he knew, that to deny any rumor was only to see its increase. The gossips would find out for themselves, soon enough, just how wrong they were – and he would delight to see each and every one of their eyes opened by their new queen.
To Lady Portman only, did he whisper the truth of his first impression: “She is going to take the world by storm, Emma – and we shall be privileged to watch her rise.”
.
.
Victoria at last stood before her Privy Council – with a queen’s crown (her queen’s crown) upon her brow and the blue royal sash slanted across her black mourning gown – feeling like a green sapling amidst a forest of black-trunked trees with silvery leaves. Yet she found her courage to begin her speech – even when her Uncle Cumberland grunted to interrupt, “speak up, ma’am, you have the voice of a mouse,” before she managed to complete a single sentence. A titter of laughter dared for the comment, and Victoria felt her throat threaten to close.
For a moment, she feared that she could make no further sound at all, so dry was her mouth – but then she found his eyes at the forefront of the crowd, and for the tiny nod Lord Melbourne gave and that ever-present, secret little smile . . .
She spoke, and every man present listened – and heard.
When her speech was finally (blessedly) through, she sat on her first makeshift throne to formally receive her councilors' allegiance. She was grateful that her prime minister was first in line. He dropped to one knee before her, bowing to kiss her hand, and she whispered a soft, “thank you,” knowing that he would understand.
“For what, ma’am?” sure enough, Melbourne's eyes glittered, even as he said in quiet reply, “You're a natural.”
She could have flown on those words, and when the next councilor in line bowed before her, she was entirely distracted – so much so that it took her a moment to understand that the councilor (an elderly gentlemen, at that, who did not look at all comfortable holding his kneeling position on the hardwood floor) was not immediately rising.
With a flutter of panic, she understood that he was waiting for her to acknowledge him by name – a name that she hardly knew, as foreign as the court was to her in its entirety.
Her uncle’s smile, she noticed, was very satisfied indeed. Across the room, a single whisper sparked, and then turn into a murmur, like the first raindrops pattering before a storm.
Victoria was about to open her mouth and ask for his name – she did not want to add insult to injury, but she was absolutely determined to come to know each and every last one of her councilors, even if that meant a moment of embarrassment for them both. Yet she did not have to inquire when she heard, low and muttered by her ear: “Viscount Faukland, ma’am.”
Relief fissured through her like a freshwater spring, and though she did not turn to acknowledge Lord Melbourne – who had taken a subservient position, standing just behind her and to her left, his hands clasped behind his back and his head and shoulders respectfully lowered – she knew that he understood. She was so very grateful to have been saved from such a public blunder during her very first appearance as queen.
They carried on in like manner through each and every lord, clergyman, and statesman, until: “I believe this councilor needs no introduction,” Melbourne quipped before turning away, and, sure enough, Victoria saw her Uncle Cumberland approach as the last of her lords.
For a moment, the duke's eyes flickered to her crown before he sneered quite boldly down at her face. She returned his gaze as imperiously as she could, reminding herself that he could be as angry as he wished – for she was the sovereign now, and he was not.
“Uncle Cumberland,” she greeted informally, and rather pettily enjoyed the way he sank to one knee in a clearly grudging gesture. His great, tall form (and aged knees) did not lower easily, and his already red face flushed even further, throwing the dueling scar over his right eye into stark white contrast. He kissed her hand, and then released her as if her touch burned.
Good, she rather hoped it did.
“Your Majesty,” Cumberland, indeed, sounded as if he spoke around hot coals to acknowledge her as such. Victoria, for her part, only raised her head higher.
“I should be congratulating you on your own throne, Uncle,” Victoria said sweetly – but most pointedly. “When do you depart for Hanover?”
The look he gave her, she thought, could have pickled a cucumber. “I am in no hurry," he answered stiffly. "My first allegiance is to the English throne.”
"What a shame," Victoria replied blithely. “I am sure the people of Hanover will be sorry to hear that.” Next to her, she could feel Melbourne's amusement and approval, even if she did not dare turn to observe his countenance.
“The people of Hanover can wait," her uncle fairly scathed. "There is yet much to attend here . . . much that can, and may yet happen, before I will be content to leave for my new home.”
The threat in his words was more than apparent. Victoria leaned forward – attempting to remind herself of the ground she had won when that ground could just as easily be lost again, but yet unable to ignore whispered words like assassins and regents, which had haunted her for years now. Taken by that tide with all the force of an ocean swell curling to break upon some rocky seashore, she opened her mouth to retort -
Yet: “Perhaps it is time to have the proclamation read?" Melbourne used her moment's hesitation to respectfully interject, and she drew back, her cheeks pinking as she realized that she had been saved from yet another blunder. "A crowd has long been gathering, no matter the inclement weather – some expedience may not be amiss, to outpace the threat of rain.”
"Indeed," Cumberland mocked. "We wouldn't want Her Majesty to be splashed with a little sky water."
"Oh, I was wholly thinking of myself," Melbourne replied – in that curiously insouciant manner that nevertheless seemed to gleam from him like sharpened steel. "We old men take ill far more easily than the young, do we not, Your Grace?"
"I have the Hanoverian constitution," Cumberland loftily decried. "You may speak for yourself, Lamb – and not for a prince of the blood."
Melbourne smiled pleasantly – which only seemed to aggravate her uncle all the more so. "My apologies, Your Grace; it goes without saying that the Hanoverian constitution is well known the entire kingdom wide – which is why the people are most intrigued to meet Her Majesty now, I quite suspect. Let us not keep them waiting any longer."
He angled his body just slightly towards the waiting balcony – where the growing murmur of the crowd could yet be heard, and Victoria understood her cue.
She stood, and smoothed down her skirts. "You are indeed right, Lord Melbourne," she agreed in (what she assumed was) a regal manner. "I shall have my proclamation read now."
With that decree, her councilors filed out, and her uncle had no choice but to give way and follow suit. Many of the men took their places out on the balcony, while others departed to join the throng that had assembled below.
For a moment, she was left alone with her prime minister, and she paused, coming to a decision.
“In the proclamation, I am known as Queen Alexandrina, am I not?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She inhaled, and then declared: “For my regnal name, I wish to be called Victoria.”
“Victoria?” it was not a lapse in formality so much as it was a politician's canny evaluation on Lord Melbourne's part, to utter her given name. Still, she enjoyed the sound of the syllables from his mouth, as if he was contemplating the taste of a very fine wine. A breeze came in through the open doors, carrying with it the sound of trumpets.
“Queen Victoria,” he repeated – he approved – and she felt a thrill race through her, sparking like a lightning bolt as it lit her up from within. "I will see it done."
Melbourne bowed once more, waiting for her to pass him by so that he could take his place behind her, and she drew in a fortifying breath as a cheer started from the crowds and grew into a roar.
Answering their call, she stepped into the light, and greeted her people for the first as their queen.
Queen Victoria.