King George V
Part Three, Chapter Thirty-One: Peace from Panic
At Gloucester House in Weymouth, Princess Mary was enjoying a much-needed period of rest and recuperation. So content was she in her seaside residence that she had asked to be excused from the Easter celebrations at Windsor so that she might stay a little longer. It appeared that she too was feeling a little frustrated by prolonged exposure to Princess Agnes’ effervescent personality and so she hid way in Dorset, ensconced in her salon, wrapped in a fur blanket and engaged in her favourite pastime – eating. She was just working her way through a second plate of toasted crumpets topped with thick slices of Irish cheddar when her rather creaky butler announced that she had a visitor.
“That is incorrect”, Mary declared, “Calling hours are not upon us. What I have is an
intruder. See them off at once Ives”.
Ives stood stock still. A wiry relic with a slight hunch, his face rather resembled a sheep asleep.
“IVES”, Mary bellowed, in accommodation of the old man’s deafness, “SEND THEM AWAY”
“Can’t Mum”, Ives replied sadly, “Is the King’s man”. [1]
“What?”, Mary quibbled impatiently, “Who is Mr Kingsman?”
“King’s Secretary Mum”, Ives explained, “Outside he is. Wants to see you”.
Mary lowered her plate and wiped her buttery fingers on her blanket.
“Phipps?!”, she called out, “Phipps, is that you out there?”
“Yes it is Your Royal Highness”, Phipps called back through the wall.
“Merciful heavens”, Mary cried, rolling her eyes, “Show him in Ives…SHOW - HIM - IN!”
Phipps walked in unprompted and made his way over to Princess Mary offering a little bow. The Princess extended her hand, which he kissed, and then waived him to a chair opposite her.
“Phipps, Mum”, Ives intoned gravely.
“He is already IN”, Mary shouted.
“Beg pardon Mum?”, Ives replied.
“HE IS ALREADY – oh it doesn’t matter Ives, leave us. YOU MAY LEAVE US”
Ives shuffled silently from the room. Phipps stifled a giggle.
“The burden of servants”, Mary sighed, “And what brings you here? I doubt it is the sea air”.
Phipps nodded. In truth, he had acted entirely on impulse after a sleepless night, asking Major Smith to cover for him with a tale of a stomach ailment before Phipps dashed to Paddington Station bound for Bristol before a long carriage ride to Weymouth. Exhausted and a little shaken, now he had arrived at his destination he was somewhat unsure as to where he should begin. Though he was not technically a servant, it was equally not his affair to involve himself in the private affairs of the King or of his family. Yet as many before him, he believed his duty went far beyond the constitutional role of the Crown he was engaged to support, especially if that role may be hampered by a degree of personal unhappiness on the part of the Sovereign. Phipps was discretion personified and it is testament to his understanding of the limitations of his role that he did not seek to try and rectify the disagreements between George V and Princess Agnes personally – that would have been overstepping the social and professional boundaries that must always be recognised and respected.
Yet Phipps knew there was one person he could discuss the worrying developments at the Palace with who would not reproach his interest but who was also far better placed than he to try and resolve matters – that person was Princess Mary. She listened studiously as Phipps recounted what had occurred between the King and his intended, he explained what the Duchess of Anhalt-Dessau had told her daughter about George’s relationship with Baroness Wiedl and he recounted the ordeal of the ill-fated dinner party at Buckingham Palace which left the King in a very sour mood indeed. Patiently, Mary waited until Phipps was done and then, she held up her hand and rang a small bell. This time, a house parlour maid appeared suitably attired in a black dress with white lace apron and cap.
“Your Royal Highness, Ma’am”, the young girl said as she bobbed politely. Mary narrowed her eyes.
“Which one are you?”, she barked from across the room, squinting, “Ethel, is it?”
“Enid, Ma’am”, the poor girl replied.
“What peculiar names girls have these days”, Mary said incredulously, “Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully child. I am to go to Windsor first thing in the morning. Have my trunk prepared and my carriage called”.
“Yes Ma’am”, Enid replied.
“And tell Ives he is to go and stay with his sister whilst I am away”, Mary added, heaving herself up from her chair on two sticks, the fur blanket tumbling to the ground, “And may the Lord have mercy on her soul…”
Meanwhile at Windsor, totally unaware of his aunt’s impending arrival, the King was doing his best to avoid his fiancée in her wing of the castle, the pair having travelled together but in a distinctly cold atmosphere where the couple barely exchanged two words. Once arrived, the King’s Household separated from that of the Princess with Major Smith and Lord Beauclerk accompanying George to the Augusta Tower and Colonel Arbuthnot and Bessie Knollys lodged with Agnes in the State Apartments – though here there was a clear indication that Agnes was not Queen yet. Rather than use the apartments reserved for the Queen consort, she was instead accommodated in the Cornwall Tower which hadn’t been used for years. Agnes thought the Cornwall Tower small, old fashioned and uncomfortable but she seemed to sense that perhaps she had gone too far in asserting her independence with George and made no complaint. Though in time, Agnes would certainly never shy away from making her views on her surroundings known even if they did cause unpleasantness and upheaval. When she became Queen Dowager some forty years later, it was expected that Agnes would leave the “big house” at Lisson and vacate the private apartments at Buckingham Palace in favour of Marlborough House. Agnes refused to budge from either royal residence, much to the irritation of her stepson. [2]
The King’s guests at Windsor that Easter included Lord Melbury, the Maynards, the Earl of Burlington and his sister Lady Fanny Howard, Admiral John Colville (known as Jock, he was also 9th Lord of Culross) and his wife Lady Anne Colville, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, Princess Mary Adelaide of Cambridge, the Dowager Duchess of Clarence and the Dowager Duchess of Sussex. Amid all the traditions associated with Easter, the Royal Family observed a unique one – tolerating the endless complaints of the King. Every year as clockwork, George would become sullen in the immediate days before the celebrations began and was only truly cheered when it was all over. Traditionally the Royal Family spent Easter at Windsor but tradition also dictated there should be no blood sports on Easter Sunday – this meant there would be no shooting and as a result, George regarded Easter weekend as “a horrible waste of a good house party”. [3]
Fortunately the ladies of the family were far more cheerful as they didn’t shoot anyway and instead they happily gathered to crochet lace or to settle at bead work – traditional English Easter observances. There was one custom however, which George absolutely adored in spite of himself and which marked the high point of the holiday: the annual Windsor Egg Roll. Egg rolling, a German tradition, was first introduced in Britain in the early 1800s, though not by Queen Charlotte as urban legend has it. Though the late Queen did not bring the Easter Egg Roll to Britain’s shores however, it was certainly embraced with enthusiasm at Windsor. George V had enjoyed the game as a child and now, his own children threw themselves into with great gusto, much to the King’s delight. Special eggs painted with “M-L”, “V” and “W” were provided for the Princess Royal, Princess Victoria and the Prince of Wales – the latter’s egg decorated with the Prince of Wales’ feathers on the reverse – and the King wrapped each of these in a ribbon so that he could present them to his children ahead of the race. However, the day before the egg roll, news came from the Nursery Floor at Windsor which stopped the King dead in his tracks and rocked him to his core.
Winterhalter's portrait of the Prince of Wales, painted in late 1845.
Lady Maria Beauclerk, Governess to the Royal Nursery, sent an urgent message to the King asking him to come to the nursery floor at once. The Prince of Wales was unwell. The royal physician, Dr Alison, had been called to assess the situation and when George dashed to his son’s bedside, he found Alison mid-examination. The little Prince, now three years old, had a barking cough, a high temperature and cried out constantly causing him to descend once more into a fit of prolonged hacking. Alison diagnosed croup. The very word acted like a jolt to the King’s chest.
“I know croup”, he said quietly, “Eddy had croup”.
In 1825, the King’s younger brother had indeed been diagnosed with croup, though doctors at the time were seriously concerned the little Prince was suffering from diphtheria. Prince Edward recovered from his illness (though he tragically died in an accident at Buckingham Palace a short time later) but in 1845, many considered croup to be just as deadly as diphtheria because the more severe forms had yet to be curtailed by vaccination. But equally as dangerous as the croup itself was the standard treatment given by New Georgian doctors. The first course of action was to employ the use of a croup kettle which spouted steam into the room for hours at a time so that the moist air could relieve mucus. But in some children, this was not enough and doctors might then consider a course of emetics, the idea being that if they vomited the mucus (as much as half a dozen times a day), their breathing would be improved. This often led to dehydration which made the situation worse and thus, many children died from the very medical intervention which was supposed to save them.
But there were more severe – and far more dangerous - treatments than purging. Some children who did not respond to the use of a kettle or emetics were given mercury or opium and in very rare and desperate cases, tracheotomies were regarded as a last resort. By 1832, French physician Pierre Bretonneau was endorsing the use of tracheotomies for diphtheria and by 1845, his student and assistant Armand Trousseau had performed hundreds in trying to save children from the severest cases of croup. Not only was the operation incredibly stressful to small children, but it also opened the door to other infections as a result of surgery. In other words, a diagnosis of croup was extremely frightening to any parent in the 1840s, just as it was to George V that Easter weekend. All celebrations were cancelled with the exception of a private church service on Easter Sunday morning where prayers for the Prince of Wales were to be added to the liturgy. Estate employees and members of the general public were not to be welcomed into the castle environs to greet the Royal Family and the traditional luncheon held for nearly 150 in St George’s Hall was abandoned. Those who were not related to the King left Windsor with only members of the Royal Family remaining behind, all suspended in a state of anguish and worry as they awaited news from the nursery floor. [4]
George was beside himself and as he knelt by his son’s bed, he wept and prayed aloud. He thought of his younger brother. Had Eddy lived, he would have celebrated his 20th birthday a month earlier. The King’s thoughts wandered to the kind of young man the Prince might have been. Would he have had the army career denied to George? No. He would no doubt have followed Uncle William into the navy. Water. The King shuddered. Then his mind was filled with images of Sunny, how she’d been so terribly pale and exhausted as she held the little Prince now breathing heavily and looking just as drained as Louise had been in those final hours. He could almost feel Sunny’s presence in that room. George remembered how he’d walked from her death bed to the nursery, to see their new-born child. He had made a promise to himself then that he would do all he could to protect little William from harm, to ensure he thrived and lived the long and happy life denied to Sunny…and to Eddy. And yet now, as his son lay gravely ill, he could do nothing. Once again, the King faced the horrifying thought that another of those he loved most was about to be cruelly taken from him. Tears splashed down his cheeks as he became lost in memory and then suddenly...
Princess Agnes had been out walking in the Great Park when a footman rushed to her to tell her of the Prince’s condition. Without a word, Agnes ran across the sodden grass, the bottom of her skirts soaked through and her boots caked in mud. Her bonnet came loose and fell to the ground as she dashed along the South Terrace and darted toward the Nursery Floor as fast as her legs could carry her. She burst into the room where the Prince lay, the King by his side, Agnes’ hair was loose, her brow was pouring with sweat and her clothes were crumpled and wet. Without a word to George or Dr Alison, she flung open the windows and then seized the Prince of Wales from his bed, placing him on her lap and leaning him forward, gently rubbing his back with her hand. She began to sing softly. Wide-eyed, the King went to admonish her but Dr Alison gently placed his arm on George’s shoulder as the Prince of Wales stopped screaming. [5]
“Do not worry Sir”, Alison whispered, “His Royal Highness is in the best of hands”.
For the next two days, Agnes refused to leave the nursery. Though the King had to concede defeat and retire to his bed for a few hours, the Princess quickly silenced any who suggested she might do the same, “I am where I should be”, she said, “And here I stay”. The nursery nurses looked on as Agnes bathed the little Prince, swirling menthol into the water which released a strong aroma of peppermint and beeswax into the room. Every hour, on the hour, Agnes filled the croup kettle herself from the nursery pantry and as the water boiled, she scooped out a cup or two to brew weak tea for William to drink when it had cooled. Slowly but surely, the rasp in the Prince’s breathing left him. His cough slowed. His temperature came down. After a few hours rest, the King returned to the nursery and was amazed by what he saw. There was the Prince of Wales, sitting on the floor, chortling and chuckling as he and Agnes played with some wooden blocks. Alison examined the Prince. He was fully recovered. The King was left speechless. Lady Maria Beauclerk took her charge and Dr Alison followed her out, leaving George and Agnes alone together in the nursery. Agnes must have been exhausted yet she did not show it.
For a moment they stood in silence, avoiding eye contact. Then, the King rushed toward Agnes and embraced her, holding her tightly as he wept; “You saved my boy. You saved him”.
Agnes comforted the King. She made to speak but she now became acutely aware of just how tired she really was.
“Look at you”, the King said kindly, “You’re exhausted, come my darling, let me take you to rest”.
And so, the King helped his fiancée along the corridors until they reached the Queen’s Private Apartments. He laid her on a settee in the morning room and covered her with a woollen blanket. Then, he sat beside her and held her hand tightly.
“Nessa…I…I wish to apologise…”
Agnes nodded slowly.
“The fault was mine Georgie”, she said softly, “I’ve behaved so very badly, I really do feel very wretched about everything. But I…I believed something terrible and perhaps I was wrong to do so…”
“I know what you believed”, George replied, stroking her hair, “But you must believe me when I tell you that there is no truth to it, to any of it, none whatsoever. It’s simply that…”
“Yes?”
“I have thought much these past few days about those I have lost”, George said, his voice breaking a little, “My poor brother, Eddy. Dear Uncle William, such a wonderful old man, you would have liked him very much I think. And Lottie…well, I lost her in a different way…but Sunny…well…Sunny….they all left me quite alone you see. And I really didn’t have anyone to confide in or to rely upon, to listen to my troubles…to tell me when I was wrong…”
“Oh Georgie”
“Rosa is as dear to me as a sister”, the King said quietly, finally broaching the issue once and for all, “And I know that others, those with poisonous minds, seek to betray that friendship and offer it as something which it never was and which it never shall be. Rosa is my friend. But you…you are to be my wife…and I love you in a way I have never, and will never, love her. I want you to remember that Nessa. Promise me you shall remember that?”
Agnes smiled gently.
“I already knew it my darling. Deep down”, she replied, “I just…needed to hear you say it…”
The King kissed her and continued to stroke her hair as she drifted off to sleep. That night, Agnes slept soundly and the King had much to be grateful for.
So it was that Princess Mary’s mercy dash to Windsor was in vain, though she was glad to see that amends had been made and that the King and the Princess were “as sympatico as two turtledoves”. Once again, George and Agnes walked the corridors of Windsor hand in hand and to celebrate their good fortune, the King decided to throw an impromptu gala at the castle the following weekend so as to allow their guests to return and enjoy royal hospitality at its best.
Some 500 miles away in Hanover, the Armaghs had much to celebrate too. That Easter marked their first at Herrenhausen as the Viceregal couple and there was the added joy of it being the first Easter they celebrated as a family with their infant son Prince George Augustus. They attended a church service at the Royal Guelphic Chapel before a public parade, the Countess handing out small wooden hand painted eggs to the children whilst the Earl handed out ribbons to young debutantes who affixed them to their straw bonnets. There were military bands and pony rides and the atmosphere was one of great enjoyment, the engravings from the day proving very popular in England where all could congratulate the new Viceroy of Hanover for settling into his new position so well. However, this snapshot of a Kingdom at play belied the stirrings of something that was about to shatter the image of Hanover as a Ruritanian paradise. [6]
After the Easter celebrations, the Hanoverian parliament sat once more and after 6 months of backroom discussions, a private member’s bill was introduced by Emil Tebbel, a liberal from Bothfeld. The
Viceroyalty Act 1845 had the support of 23 members – though not from the ruling party - and came as a huge shock to the conservative establishment. The bill opened with a loyal address to His Majesty King George V (thereby avoiding any accusations of causing insult to the Sovereign) but what followed sought to curtail the monarch’s powers in his “Other Kingdom”. The Act sought to amend the 1819 constitution of Hanover which gave the Sovereign the ultimate authority to appoint a Viceroy for Hanover and instead, demanded that in the future such an appointment be considered a “nomination” instead. Thereafter, parliament would vote on the candidate who could only be appointed as Viceroy if he won two-thirds support of its members. Furthermore, and wishing to avoid a repeat of the lengthy tenure of the Duke of Cambridge, term limits were to be imposed with a Viceroy only eligible to hold office for two terms of five years, either consecutively or non-consecutively. Those in favour insisted that Hanover must evolve her system of government to reflect the will of the people for though Hanover’s constitution had been modelled on that of England, in practise the Kingdom was administered more as an absolute monarchy than a constitutional one.
The Earl of Armagh.
The proposed reform to the Viceroyalty was not intended as an assault on royal authority, indeed, when the bill reached the ears of the Earl of Armagh he said he believed the bill was practical and that he welcomed the notion of his appointment being approved by the people’s representatives. [7] But the vast majority of the Hanoverian parliament did not feel the same way and the bill was howled down in a flurry of angry roars. Needless to say, it did not proceed to a vote but the Tebbelites (as they became known) had the backing of very prominent liberal figures, such as William Albrecht. Albrecht was well known to George V as in 1840 he had caused outrage when he appeared to criticise the King for failing to visit Hanover when he paid a trip to Germany with Queen Louise at that time. Initially furious with Albrecht, the King relented, saw that he was reinstated to the University at Göttingen and then embarked on the creation of Hanover Week to repair the estranged relationship with his Hanoverian subjects which the Professor had highlighted. Now, Albrecht signed his name to a letter endorsing Tebbel’s 1845 bill.
But this time, rather than being ostracised by his colleagues, six other Professors at Göttingen followed Albrecht’s example. These were Friedrich Christian Dahlmann (a liberal reformist from Wismar), Georg Gottfried Gervinus (a historian from Darmstadt), Wilhelm Weber (a physicist from Wittenberg), Heinrich Ewald (an orientalist from Gottingen) and Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm (better known to history as the Brothers Grimm, the popular storytellers of folk tales). Though the Earl of Armagh had sympathy with their cause, there was very little he could do if the Hanoverian parliament did not adopt and approve the bill Emil Tebbel and his supporters had introduced. However, as the debate spilled out onto the streets, a huge number of Hanoverians came out in support of Tebbel and his proposals. They felt it high time that they had a say in their system of government and whilst nobody wished to dispense with the monarchy, or indeed the Viceroy, the idea that the King could simply install a family member to the highest position in the land to serve as long as he liked without recourse to their parliament seemed incredible. But it also spoke to the fact that Hanover’s constitution had only ever been brushed up a little since the first was granted in 1819. The changes since did little to improve things in the Kingdom and those of a more liberal view felt that if that approach didn’t change, Hanover might one day find itself in a position where the personal union with the British Crown was no longer tenable. As Wilhelm Weber put it; “Why should it be that the King’s subjects in England enjoy a better system of government than the King’s subjects in Hanover, for are we not equal in our loyalty to His Majesty?”.
In London, the Hanoverian Chancery received word of the rumblings in George V’s “Other Kingdom” at the worst possible time [8]. The Head of the Chancery, Count von Ompteda, was now over 70 years old and had served in his post for almost 15 years. It had never been an office he had aspired to but his loyalty to the Crown demanded he accept it. Just as the Duke of Cambridge had stepped back from his role in the Hanoverian government, so too was Count von Ompteda casting an eye to his future. Whatever time he had left to him, he wished to spend it at his home in Celle which for many years he had only ever been able to visit for a few months of the year. Before he could retire however, Ompteda had to recommend a successor to the King. Whilst the Count longed to end his tenure as Head of the Chancery, he had no choice but to delay for he could not bring himself to nominate the successor the Hanoverian parliament had made clear it wanted. As with the Viceroy, the parliament in Hanover had no constitutional role to play in the appointment of the Head of the Chancery but there was no doubt in the minds of the ruling conservatives that there could be only one candidate for the position they could accept. His name was Count George zu Münster. Münster was born in London in 1820 during his father’s tenure as Hanoverian minister to the Court of St James’. Having studied at the University of Göttingen with the sons of George III, Ernst zu Münster entered the public service of the Electorate of Hanover and rose through the ranks until he was appointed Head of the Chancery. In this role, Münster was charged with overseeing the fortunes of the German assets of the House of Hanover and was most successful in promoting them at the Congress of Vienna in 18115 which saw the Electorate elevated to a Kingdom. His son, George zu Münster, had followed in his father’s footsteps by studying at Göttingen but when George was just 18, his father died and George inherited the family estates as well as a hereditary seat in the Hanoverian parliament. From that time on, Münster continued the family tradition and joined the Hanoverian diplomatic service but he also upheld the family’s politics. He held strong Guelph sympathies and was known to be a passionate conservative, far more reactionary perhaps than Ompteda but very much in the model of his illustrious father.
It may be for this reason that Ompteda did not consider Münster a suitable successor for the post of Head of the Chancery. This was not the reason he gave to Münster’s supporters of course, rather he said that Münster was still very young and had little experience of the Chancery in London in adulthood. Ompteda proposed his own candidate whom he felt was far more appropriate; his nephew, Count August Christian von Ompteda, then serving as an auditor in the Chancery. August Christian was twice Münster’s age, he had assisted his uncle well and he was moderate in his politics, though still aligned himself with the conservative majority. This suggestion did not go down well with the ruling class in Hanover. Though they objected on the grounds of nepotism (somewhat hypocritically), their real opposition to Ompteda’s nephew taking the post was that they wanted a strong, conservative voice in the Chancery who could react with force and authority when confronted with liberal calls for reforms such as the
Viceroyalty Act. The conservatives did not believe August Christian had the determination – or even the conviction – needed to do so and they threw their weight entirely behind Münster. Yet Ompteda feared that far from holding back the liberal surge in Hanover, Münster’s brand of conservatism would only serve to exacerbate tensions and risk plunging Hanover into crisis. Ahead of a private audience with George V to inform him of the situation regarding the
Viceroyalty Act, Ompteda finally made his decision – he would do nothing. If his retirement, which he had already indicated to the King was forthcoming, was mentioned, Ompteda would simply defer and say he had not yet considered it enough to submit his resignation. It bought time. But that was all.
At Windsor, George V knew nothing of the stirrings in Hanover as he and Princess Agnes (ably assisted by Princess Mary) began to put the finishing touches to their wedding plans. The date was finally set for Friday the 11th of July 1845 – nearly two months after the King’s preferred date of the 2nd of May. This delay had nothing to do with the couple themselves or even the availability of the Abbey, rather it was to accommodate one guest whom the King was determined would attend his wedding – the Tsarevna of Russia. Maria Georgievna had been reunited with her brother in Germany and the Netherlands but she had not returned to England since her marriage five years earlier. At that time, it was made clear that the public animosity toward Russia may cause unpleasantness for the Tsarevna if she visited England too regularly but nobody could have imagined that she would stay away from her birth country for quite so long. Simply put, two pregnancies and a complex new role to adopt had left Maria Georgievna with no real inclination to return to London even though she always considered herself to be thoroughly English. Before the May date was proposed, word came from St Petersburg informing George V that, with regret, the Tsarevna could not possibly leave Russia for the next three months.
The Russian Court was once again in mourning. Grand Duchess Mikhailovna, the daughter of Grand Duke Michael Pavlovich to whom the Tsarevich was so close, died at the end of January 1845. The Grand Duchess had married Adolf, Duke of Nassau in 1844 but just as with the poor Grand Duchess Alexandra Nikolaevna (known as Adini) less than six months earlier, Elizabeth died shortly after giving birth to a stillborn chill. Court mourning in St Petersburg had been declared in the first week of February and would last for 90 days after the funeral, so neither the Tsarevich nor his wife could even think of leaving Russia until that concluded – which it would in the first week of May when the King hoped to marry Princess Agnes. The King was frustrated but as no invitations had been sent out and as no wedding date had been made public, the wedding date was pushed back so as to allow his sister and her husband to attend. Having settled this with the Archbishop of Canterbury, the King remarked (rather insensitively), “Now let us hope we shall see no more Grand Duchesses go to their eternal reward before we walk up the aisle or else we shan’t be married until we are eighty in the shade” [9].
The King and Princess Agnes now engaged in a tradition well known to many couples – opening the can of worms on whom they should invite to their wedding and whom should be left out. Swallowing his pride, George accepted that he must invite his cousin Victoria. Though he had ignored her fervent apologies since
that letter had been received, he knew the public would expect to see her in the procession and besides, it was a state occasion to which the Dutch would naturally expect an invitation. He was adamant however that Victoria and her husband could not be accommodated at Buckingham Palace and would have to go elsewhere. In the end, they were pushed into the Dutch Embassy in South Kensington which appalled Victoria and which she complained about for months thereafter. Meanwhile, the Anhalt-Dessaus had problem relations of their own.
The Duchess of Anhalt-Dessau was insistent that her erstwhile stepfather, the Duke of Cumberland, should be invited. She was not particularly close to him but she knew the King loathed him. Frederica was livid when the King said if the Duke of Cumberland came to the wedding, he would not. But she won out on other demands. Just as George V threatened to boycott his own wedding if his uncle was present, so did Frederica insist that she would stay at home if two of her brothers-in-law were invited. These were Prince George Bernard and Prince William Waldemar. Both had married morganatically, George Bernhard to a woman of lesser nobility and William Waldemar to a commoner. They were never to be received in Dessau when the Duchess was present and they could only visit their brother Leopold IV when Frederica was in Berlin visiting her Prussian relations. Agnes was not particularly close to either of her uncles and agreed to her mother’s wishes but in doing so, she also unwittingly approved the remainder of her mother’s list which saw nine Prussian families invited who would vastly outnumber the Anhalts. On the groom’s side, the Hesse-Kassels were also invited but there remained the question of the Mecklenburg-Strelitzes. George dearly wanted his former parents-in-law to attend his wedding but Grand Duchess Marie refused to consider it and so even though an invitation was sent to Neustrelitz, only the King’s cousin Augusta and her husband Hereditary Grand Duke Frederick William came to London for the occasion.
Princess Agnes had, until now, been kept away from making any decisions concerning her own wedding but there were certain things only a bride could choose. These included her wedding gown, her bouquet and how she might wear her hair but she was also allowed to select her own bridal party. When she presented her list of bridesmaids to Princess Mary, the old girl looked up at Agnes sternly and said, “My dear, this is not a bridal party – this is a regiment”. Agnes had selected the Princess Royal, Princess Victoria, Princess Maria Anna of Anhalt Dessau, Princesses Adelaide Marie, Bathildis and Hilda of Anhalt-Dessau and Princesses Marie Louise and Maria Anna of Prussia. The eldest was to be Princess Mary Adelaide of Cambridge (at 12 years old) and the youngest was to be Princess Anna of Hesse and by Rhine (at just 2 years old). Agnes insisted that she had only added to the British representation to the names which her mother had sent her and keen to avoid a dispute, Princess Mary sighed and agreed. Therefore, Princess Agnes would be marched to the aisle accompanied by no less than ten bridesmaids – all wearing the same shade of lavender, which Agnes declared delightful and which Princess Mary said would give them the appearance of “a troop of plums waddling through the Abbey”. Mary was particularly concerned about Princess Mary Adelaide of Cambridge; “for she is so very enormous for her age, she is bound to look quite ridiculous in such a colour” [10]. Agnes suggested the bridesmaids might wear cream-coloured sashes to break up the lilac hue she favoured but Mary vetoed this on the grounds that “they shall probably get them doused in custard or something similarly unpleasant at the wedding breakfast”.
The wedding breakfast itself was to be held at Buckingham Palace directly after the wedding but then came the question of the honeymoon. The King proposed two weeks be allocated to the couple which Agnes suggested they might spend at Burg Rheinstein where they first met. But George had other ideas. Following his trip to Scotland, he had met with Lord Aberdeen to discuss the possibility of his acquiring the remaining lease on Balmoral. Aberdeen was only too pleased to accept this, the house being vacant and in need of a reliable tenant – and who could be better suited to that task than His Majesty the King? But George also wanted something else – Birkhall. Lord Aberdeen had never resided there and instead, had opened Birkhall to private tenants. Sir Reginald and Lady Isabella Crosbie, now in their 60s, had lived at Birkhall for thirty years on a gentleman’s agreement but now, the King wished to acquire Birkhall along with the remaining lease on Balmoral. It was agreed that the King would pay £20,000 (the equivalent to £1.2m today) to Lord Aberdeen to secure a lease of 5 years on Balmoral and to buy Birkhall outright. When the lease on Balmoral expired, the King would pay Aberdeen another £20,000 to buy Balmoral outright and link the two estates. Sir Reginald and Lady Crosbie were rather unfairly evicted from Birkhall and unbeknown to anybody, the King sent a team to Scotland to give the house a much needed facelift. [11]
The Birkhall Estate, 1845.
Birkhall was to be Agnes’ wedding gift from the King and though he made mention only of honeymooning in Scotland (which Agnes was only too happy to agree to), the Princess could have no idea that she was about to visit a property which would become her favourite of all royal residences, so much so that when George V died he bequeathed Birkhall to Agnes in her own right so that she might always have use of it. From the moment she arrived, Agnes fell in love with Birkhall and said that the surrounding estate reminded her of her home in Dessau. Over the years, she would extend and remodel Birkhall and though the King spent time with her there on occasion, it was understood from the very start that Birkhall was a place for Agnes to be as independent as she wished. The house was very much her private fiefdom and she was under no obligation to receive anybody there she did not wish. When the King was away for extended periods of time or during the summer months when her diary allowed, Queen Agnes would retreat to Birkhall, a place she always called “my darling little house”. Of course, Princess Mary knew that the King had it in mind to take Balmoral as a house in Scotland and news that the royal couple would honeymoon there did not surprise her. But she urged a word of caution at the same time; “Wasn’t that a little expensive Georgie?”, she asked soberly, “After all, you still have so much to do at the Park…and what of the house in Dorset?”. The King told his aunt not to be such an old hen. He could easily afford Balmoral and after all, the government agreed it was advantageous for the Sovereign to have a permanent residence in Scotland. Mary remained unconvinced.
There was one final set of arrangements to be made ahead of the King’s marriage but this had nothing to do with gowns, bridesmaids or Scottish estates, neither was something the King or his intended could settle. Now that the government had survived a confidence vote, the King formally asked his Prime Minister to appoint six ladies of the bedchamber to the soon to be established Queen’s Household. Such appointments often took time to confirm and it was hoped that (the bridesmaids being purely for show), these ladies might serve as attendants to Princess Agnes on her wedding day. Lord Melbury agreed, though we might wonder if he ever thought his appointments would take up their roles given that his government could fall at any time. Still, after careful thought, he sent his list to the King. The most senior appointment would be that of the Mistress of the Robes who by convention was to be a Duchess. It was privately communicated to the Prime Minister that he should not consider the Duchess of Sutherland who had previously held the role as she had served the late Queen – and had been present when she died. Also vetoed was the Duchess of Argyll because her husband had been divorced and that would never do. The honour of serving the new Queen consort as Mistress of the Robes was therefore offered to Mary FitzRoy, Duchess of Grafton, wife of the 5th Duke, a former Whig MP and who now sat on the government benches of the House of Lords.
The remaining five ladies were not required to be of ducal rank but Melbury was advised he should not choose only those ladies married to incumbent members of the Cabinet as Prime Ministers were wont to do. To this end, Melbury’s final choices were:
- Katherine Villiers, Countess of Clarendon (wife of the Lord Privy Seal)
- Mary Pelham, Countess of Chichester (wife of the Postmaster General)
- Mary Brougham, Baroness Brougham and Vaux (wife of the former Lord Chancellor)
- Mary Fox, Baroness Holland (wife of the former Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster)
- Lady Harriet Anson, daughter of the 1st Earl of Lichfield and sister of Anne Anson, the former lady in waiting of Maria Georgievna who married the Earl of Wemyss in 1843.
When this list was given to Princess Agnes, she laughed “Goodness me, what a lot of Marys I have!” and this inspired her to give each of her ladies a nickname as she considering using their surnames or territorial designations to be unfeminine. The Duchess of Grafton therefore became
May, whilst the Countess of Chichester was known as
Jilly (taken from her middle name, Juliana). Mary Brougham was
Daisy, whilst Mary Fox became
Gussie (for her middle name, Augusta). The remaining ladies were also given nicknames so that they did not feel left out of the future Queen’s affections. Katherine Villiers became
Katy whilst Harriet Anson became known as
Shula – though nobody, even Lady Harriet, could understand why. With these offers extended and accepted, the ladies of the future Queen consort were to assemble at Marlborough House for a tea party so that they could get to know their charge a little better. But as they gathered, there was one more to their number who was finally well enough to return to society.
Walking behind Lady Anson in a bright green satin gown and a matching hat trimmed with ostrich feathers stood Baroness Wiedl. She sank into a low curtsey before the Princess who paused for a moment before extending her hand. Rosa dutifully kissed it.
“My dear Rosa”, Agnes said calmly, “How wonderful it is to see you again…”
In a hushed whisper in the back row of the assembled ladies, Lady Holland leaned in toward Lady Anson.
"Do you suppose it is a truce, then?", she said with a naughty smile.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean...", Lady Anson lied. She only hoped Lady Holland was right.
Notes
[1] ‘Mum’ for ‘Ma’am was quite common – in both senses of the word – and etiquette/housekeeping books from this time explicitly state that ladies of the house should discourage servants from calling them ‘Mum’ instead of ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Madam’. Here however, I think Mary has accepted this is a losing battle with poor Ives!
[2] In a similar way to Queen Alexandra in the OTL in 1910 when she point-blank refused to leave Sandringham House forcing her son and his family to live in a smaller cottage on the estate. This infuriated George V but despite being a King-Emperor, he could not shift “Mother Dear” from the home she loved.
[3] I believe this tradition is still observed today but certainly it was very much honoured in 1845.
[4] The croup treatments here are all researched from medical journals of the day and would have been known to Alison.
[5] This isn’t miraculous intuition on Agnes’ part. It was often felt prudent for young princesses at the German courts to learn a certain amount of nursing for common illnesses as they would most likely experience them in their children when they married. In the OTL, Agnes enjoyed this and for the rest of her life, she committed herself to nursing – the study of it and the foundation of hospitals etc. So again, we begin to see more of her character and interests which she might develop in TTL in her new role in England.
[6] This section is how I believe Hanover would have developed if it was still in personal union. I’ve invented this bill and those who proposed it but there’s inspiration here from the OTL Göttingen Seven (who make an appearance in this chapter) and from the clash which took place between the arch-Tory Duke of Cumberland as King Ernst Augustus and his more liberal subjects.
[7] We know that the OTL George V of Hanover was far more open to liberal reforms than his father had been.
[8] Again, entirely invented as the progression of the PoD where Hanover remains in personal union. In the OTL, Ompteda’s tenure as Head of the Chancery ended in 1837 when the personal union ended.
[9] A popular phrase of the period meaning when someone is in the twilight years of their life.
[10] Cruel but poor Mary Teck was always the butt of family jokes for her enormous size. Indeed, they called her “Fat Mary” – some of them to her face.
[11] Loosely based on the way Balmoral was acquired by Prince Albert in the OTL.