The Innocent Imposter

Chapter One 1879The train puffed slowly into Windsor. Although the station was not cleared as it was when Queen Victoria travelled, there were several resplendent officials in lavishly gold-braided uniforms to meet the Princess Priscilla, Duchess of Forthampton, and her daughter. A Royal carriage was waiting outside the station, the ladies were helped into it and they drove off towards Windsor Castle. “Do remember, Tilda,” Princess Priscilla said, “that you do not speak to the Queen until she speaks to you.” “Yes, Mama.” “And remember, take Her Majesty’s hand, curtsey right to the ground, then kiss her hand and afterwards her cheek.” “Yes, Mama.” “And listen attentively, Tilda, to everything she says.” “Yes, Mama.” “Promise me, Tilda, that you will not ask questions. You are far too fond of asking questions. I have told you that before.” “How can one learn the answers, Mama, unless one asks the questions?” “That is the sort of comment I would expect you to make. Oh, dear, I wish your Papa could have come with us! I feel you always behave in a more circumspect manner when he is present.” There was no answer. Lady Victoria Matilda Tetherton-Smythe had heard her mother say all these things not once but hundreds of times since the invitation to Windsor Castle had arrived. She had learnt from long experience that it was much the best policy to agree to everything anyone said to her and to let her thoughts follow their own course. She was thrilled at the thought of seeing Windsor Castle and she craned her neck to peep through the carriage windows. At the moment, however, there were only houses to be seen on either side of them and she had not yet had a glimpse of the massive structure whose history had excited her imagination. Her teachers had taught her that Windsor Castle had been built first by William I. He had been attracted by the position of a steep hill high above a river so that a subject and unfriendly people could constantly be reminded of their intimidating Norman conquerors. ‘They must have hated him!’ Tilda said to herself. “You are not attending to me, Tilda!” her mother said. “What did I say?” “I am sorry, Mama, I was thinking of something else.” “You are always thinking of something else!” Princess Priscilla snapped. “Do listen, Tilda.” “I am listening, Mama.” “I told you to remember that from now on you will be called ‘Victoria’ by everyone. You were christened after the Queen and it was obvious that that was what you must be called as she was your Godmother.” “I hate the name Victoria!” Tilda replied. “Your father does not like it either,” Princess Priscilla said, “which was why we started to call you ‘Matilda’. Of course it became abbreviated to the rather common ‘Tilda’.” “I like it, Mama.” “Your likes and dislikes are not of the slightest consequence. Til – I mean, Victoria.” “It’s no use, Mama,” Tilda smiled, “you will never remember to call me Victoria, whatever they may do in Obernia.” “You will certainly be Victoria to the Obernians,” Princess Priscilla replied, “and, Tilda, do remember that the Queen herself has arranged your marriage.” “I have not forgotten, Mama.” “It is a great honour. You should be very proud.” Tilda did not answer and after a moment her mother went on, “Not many girls of your age have the chance of being the reigning Princess over a country of some considerable importance in Europe.” “It is a long way – away,” Tilda murmured. She would have said more, but at that moment she had a view of Windsor Castle and she found that it was just as impressive and splendid as she had expected it would be. She found herself thinking of the Knights of old who had taken part in jousting tournaments. She could almost imagine that she could see them with their specially painted shields and richly embroidered saddles and swords whose pummels and hilts were gilded with pure gold. ‘I wish I could have been here then,’ Tilda thought. Each Knight had a fair lady whom he esteemed as a paragon of beauty and to whom he paid his vows and addressed himself on the day when the mock battles proved both his gallantry and his manhood. The horses were climbing the steep incline up to The Castle door and Tilda found herself thinking that she was following the route taken so often by Queen Elizabeth. How magnificent she had been with her fragile figure and her strong will, her graciousness and her robust beer-drinking. She had liked to hunt in the Park and was capable of killing a ‘great and fat stag with her own hand’. Everyone had acclaimed her majesty and her greatness, and yet she had never married. ‘Perhaps she did not wish to have a husband chosen for her,’ Tilda thought to herself. The carriage came to a stop outside the front door. “Now remember, Tilda, everything I have told you,” Princess Priscilla said in an agitated tone. “The Queen has not seen you for years. You must make a good impression on her.” “I will do my best, Mama.” They walked into the fourteenth century Gothic entrance hall and moved along the passages, which seemed dark but had, Tilda recognised, richly carved cornices and frames by Grinling Gibbons. She did not know why, but his carvings always excited her. The leaves, the fruit, the fish and game had a graceful symmetry and at the same time they seemed to evoke some personal response that she could not understand. She always felt the same about anything that was very beautiful and it was a feeling of excitement deep inside herself. On they went led by a solemn-faced Major Domo and Tilda knew that her mother was feeling nervous. Princess Priscilla had a habit of drawing in her lips and pressing them together when she was agitated. She also fidgeted with her scarf, her handbag and the front of her gown. ‘It’s all right, Mama. The Queen cannot eat you!’ Tilda longed to say. But she knew that such a remark would only upset her mother even more than she was already. It was, she had learnt, surprising that the Queen should be at Windsor. For years she had refused to leave Osborne where she preferred to be and where she had stayed in seclusion unseen by the public since the Prince Consort’s death. But the political events of last year and the tense situation with Russia had brought her a new vitality and what her statesmen averred was a rejuvenation. It was difficult for them to understand that the perpetual strain of the political situation and its constant calls on her judgement were precisely the tonic she needed. Hitherto Her Majesty had wailed and protested at the cruel way in which she was overworked, at the callousness of those who teased and tormented her to make exertions she was incapable of. She had been full of self-pity for the lonely lot of the ‘poor Queen’, but now there was an end to that. Instead of insisting on remaining at Osborne or fleeing to Balmoral in Scotland to the great inconvenience of the members of the Government, she had moved into Windsor Castle. Instead of having to be urged by her Ministers to greater activity, it was now she who hustled and spurred them on. No doubt the fact that she was working with Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, a Prime Minister whom she liked and trusted, was one very important reason for the change. As Mr. Disraeli himself put it later, “She gave her Prime Minister inspiration and he gave her devotion!” Whatever the reasons, it was a considerable convenience for Statesmen, politicians and relations to have the Queen at Windsor. Coming down on the train Princess Priscilla had said to her daughter, “It is a wearisome journey to Osborne and I should have hated to leave your Papa for so long.” The Duke of Forthampton, who had been uniquely honoured in being allowed, as a commoner, to marry a Royal Princess and a great-niece of the Queen, was in ill health. Doubtless the distinction he had been accorded in marriage was due to the fact that he was one of the richest men in England. Yet, while the marriage had been arranged, it had undoubtedly, from everybody’s point of view, been a success. The only tragedy was that as the Duke was considerably older than his wife – and there might have been other reasons as well – there had been only one child of the marriage, Victoria Matilda. This meant that regrettably there was no direct heir to the Dukedom. It was a surprise when the Queen remembered her Godchild when she was furthering her matchmaking plans for the eligible crowned heads of Europe. “How like Great-Aunt Victoria!” Princess Priscilla had exclaimed to her husband when they received a letter informing them that the Queen was arranging for Victoria Matilda to become the wife of Prince Maximilian of Obernia. “What do you mean by that?” the Duke enquired. “I thought the Queen had completely forgotten Tilda’s existence,” Princess Priscilla answered. “Last time we were at Osborne she never even referred to her and now out of the blue she arranges her marriage.” “It is an honour, my dear,” the Duke remarked. Princess Priscilla sighed. “I only hope that Tilda will think so too.” Tilda, as it happened had taken the news with some surprise, but she did not protest as her mother had half-feared she might. Tilda was always unpredictable. What her mother did not realise was that Tilda at the age of eighteen was finding the Forthampton estate in Worcestershire where she was incarcerated year after year exceedingly dull. It was not that she did not have plenty to occupy her mind. There were Governesses, Tutors, hobbies and crafts in which she interested herself. She also liked riding and, although she was not allowed to hunt, her father had given her two horses of her own which were spirited, quite unlike the quiet lazy animals that most girls of her age were mounted upon. Because of the Duke of Forthampton’s arthritis, which almost completely crippled him, there was no suggestion that Tilda should take part in the London Season or have a ball given for her debut as she might have expected. She was, it is true, taken to London to be presented and to make her curtsey in the Throne Room at Buckingham Palace. The Queen had been present during the first hour before she handed over such an arduous duty to her son, the Prince of Wales and his beautiful Danish wife, Alexandra. Tilda had made her curtsey amongst the first group of Royals, after which she had found the proceedings over-formal and just as boring as she had expected. It seemed to her that people spoke in a different voice to Royalty from that which they used to more ordinary folk. Because her mother came into the first category, there was no doubt that conversation with those who approached the Princess was stilted and not particularly interesting. * The Major Domo leading them through The Castle now paused. They had reached the Queen’s apartments and, after a short wait, they were shown into the drawing room where the Queen was seated in an armchair, the table beside her covered with a fringed cloth. In her shapeless but expensive black satin dress, shining black boots with elastic tops and widow’s cap, she looked, as Tilda had expected, old and rather awe-inspiring. It was difficult to realise that this little woman was the ruler of an immense Empire and that practically every Monarch in Europe was related to her. Princess Priscilla had told her daughter that the four rooms the Queen used contained almost two hundred pictures as well as many photographs of her relations. They were carried from Windsor to Balmoral or Osborne every time she moved. Tilda saw them now on a desk and on tables by the heavy damask curtains of crimson red. They stood amongst a profusion of bundles of letters, sheets of music, paperweights, inkstands, old penknives and the ‘Queen’s Birthday Book’. This was full of the signatures of her visitors, which she took with her wherever she went, so that it was sometimes mistaken for a Bible. It was difficult for Tilda to take in many details of the room or indeed of the Queen herself, for she was trying to remember all the instructions her mother had given her. The Princess was already in front of Her Majesty sweeping down to the ground in a deep curtsey and then rising to kiss the Queen’s hand and then her cheek.