A Most English Princess: A Novel of Queen Victoria's Daughter

By Clare McHugh

"In this sweeping, immersive novel, Clare McHugh draws readers into the mesmerizing world of the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria – Princess Vicky – as she emerges into a powerful force in her own right and ascends to become the first German Empress.” —Marie Benedict, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Woman in the Room  

Perfect for fans of the BBC's Victoria, Alison Pataki's The Accidental Empress, and Daisy Goodwin's Victoria, this debut novel tells the gripping and tragic story of Queen Victoria’s eldest daughter, Victoria, Princess Royal.

To the world, she was Princess Victoria, daughter of a queen, wife of an emperor, and mother of Kaiser Wilhelm. Her family just called her Vicky…smart, pretty, and self-assured, she changed the course of the world.

January 1858: Princess Victoria glides down the aisle of St James Chapel to the waiting arms of her beloved, Fritz, Prince Frederick, heir to the powerful kingdom of Prussia. Although theirs is no mere political match, Vicky is determined that she and Fritz will lead by example, just as her parents Victoria and Albert had done, and also bring about a liberal and united Germany.

Brought up to believe in the rightness of her cause, Vicky nonetheless struggles to thrive in the constrained Prussian court, where each day she seems to take a wrong step. And her status as the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria does little to smooth over the conflicts she faces. 

But handsome, gallant Fritz is always by her side, as they navigate court intrigue, and challenge the cunning Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, while fighting for the throne—and the soul of a nation. At home they endure tragedy, including their son, Wilhelm, rejecting all they stand for.

Clare McHugh tells the enthralling and riveting story of Victoria, the Princess Royal—from her younger years as the apple of her father Albert's eyes through her rise to power atop the mighty German empire to her final months of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780062997616

Clare McHugh

Clare McHugh is the author of A Most English Princess, a historical novel about the family of Queen Victoria, and The Romanov Brides. A former newspaper reporter and magazine editor, McHugh graduated from Harvard College with a degree in European history. She currently lives in London and in Amagansett, NY. 

Book preview

Prologue

Kronberg im Taunus, February 1901

Fritz Ponsonby shifts uncomfortably in the corner of the carriage, trying to find an easeful place to rest his head, and pulls his overcoat tighter. Even with the luxuries provided the royal party—a large private yacht for the channel crossing and plush sleeping compartments on the train to Frankfurt—the trip overnight from London has been taxing, and he feels queasy and his temples throb. Private secretary to the new king, he’ll have a full day’s work to do when they arrive. Beside him, softly snoring, is Francis Laking, a Harley Street physician, whom the king enlisted for this visit to his ailing sister, the dowager empress of Germany. The morning sun shines brightly but the air is very cold. He listens to the jingle of harnesses and the clopping of horses’ hooves as they pull five carriages up the hill. Finally, his eyes close.

A sharp turn to the left, and Ponsonby is jostled awake. Laking, too. The carriage judders to a stop at a high iron gate and soldiers approach on both sides, peering in the windows. After the vehicle lurches forward again, Ponsonby can see helmeted men marching four abreast in a courtyard on the left. Ahead, under an ornate stone entrance portico, he spies a cluster of officers. As the first carriage—the king’s—trundles up to the door, the whole file halts. Ponsonby cranes his neck and watches two footmen dart forward to help out the honored guest. A small band somewhere out of sight strikes up a hearty, unrecognizable oompah-pah tune.

No ‘God Save the King’? asks Laking.

Not Wilhelm’s style, Ponsonby answers. Only he is lord and master in Germany.

A stocky figure Ponsonby recognizes instantly as the German kaiser steps forward to embrace his uncle. In brown tweeds and soft homburg hat, the English king looks strangely incongruous, mousy, a mere civilian surrounded by military brass.

We have come to an armed camp, the doctor observes.

Apparently so, Ponsonby replies.

THE KING PLANS to stay at Schloss Friedrichshof, his sister’s castle near the village of Kronberg, for only six days. He won’t absent himself from England any longer, during these, the first weeks of his reign, when so many in London watch to see how he will be different from his mother, Queen Victoria, who occupied the throne for sixty-three years.

Ponsonby can’t suppress a smile as he’s escorted across the baronial, wood-beamed entrance hall and up a set of wide red carpeted stairs. What a contrast this royal residence is with the king’s own home in Norfolk—poky, stuffy Sandringham, reminiscent of an undistinguished Scottish golf hotel. From the outside the Schloss looks like an amalgam of an Italian Renaissance palazzo and a medieval castle, with a Gothic roof and tower, and Tudor-style timber framing on the side wings. But inside it’s modern country house deluxe: light oak paneling; vaulted ceilings painted cream; well-proportioned, airy rooms furnished handsomely with elegant Biedermeier pieces and velvet-upholstered chairs. Entering his third-floor room, he notices the white-tiled bathroom off to the left, and ahead a broad, curtained bed that he longs to crawl into; beside that a plush roll-arm sofa, two tall windows overlooking the Taunus mountains, and a desk set in front of a large stone fireplace. Someone, thoughtfully, has lit a fire.

His valet, Barlow, is hanging three suits and his dinner jacket in the wardrobe on the far side of the bed. Ponsonby sits down in the desk chair and sighs. No possibility of a nap. He feels oppressed already by the voluminous paperwork that will arrive daily from London, need careful reading, and require answers dispatched back to the capital, and to British legations abroad. He inquired about bringing along an equerry, or at least a shorthand clerk, but the king refused—pronouncing, Fritz, this is a purely personal visit. The new sovereign hasn’t yet grasped that he is never off duty and traveling with a small staff is no longer practical.

Still, Ponsonby didn’t insist, so now he’s stuck.

ONCE DR. LAKING examines the dowager empress, he confirms that her cancer has advanced beyond cure, to the bones. He has turned his efforts to easing her constant, agonizing pain, since the German doctors seem to have little relief to offer. Because she is too weak to leave her suite, the king spends an hour there with her each morning, and another in the afternoon. Ponsonby pictures the diminutive empress instructing and advising, even shaking an admonitory finger at her brother from time to time, while he smokes and listens with an affectionate smile.

On the afternoon of the third day, Ponsonby is deciphering a telegram from Whitehall at his desk when a footman knocks and enters to say the empress wishes to speak with him. Getting up to follow the man, his stomach twists anxiously—not the worries of a nervous courtier but the dread of a fond acquaintance, for the empress is his godmother, and he’s known her most of his life. Mortal illness will have changed her, and indeed, ushered into a sunny, apricot-colored lounge a few minutes later, he encounters a shrunken figure, clad in a simple gray smock, a black crocheted shawl over her shoulders, sitting supported by cushions on a chintz sofa, head bobbling slightly. Her face is yellow and swollen, her eyes closed, and her mouth fixed in an ugly grimace.

"Warten Sie mal, says a nurse, standing next to the sofa. She’s just had an injection. It requires some short time to take effect."

Ponsonby’s throat tightens and his nose starts to run. Twenty years previously on a spring afternoon the empress, then a mere crown princess, came on a visit to his mother’s workroom in the Norman Tower at Windsor and he saw her for the first time. He recalls her light rose scent, the red woolen dress and dainty hat she wore, her kindness to him, an ungainly and self-conscious youth. Ever after—they’ve met on two dozen or so occasions—he felt that somehow she’d taken his measure and concluded he was capable, worthy of notice. Terrible to see her skeletal, barely upright, and confined to the faintly sour fug of this sickroom.

She opens her eyes and looks up. Fritz, dear, the empress whispers, forgive me. I have been slow to properly welcome you to Friedrichshof. She closes her eyes again.

Your home is beautiful, Ponsonby says.

Please sit, she says, reaching a trembling, wasted arm over the cushion tower to indicate a place on the right. "I will speak to my godson now, Fräulein, thank you," she says to the nurse.

He’s settled beside her, and the empress lays a hand on his forearm. Her sweet smile evokes her former self.

I watched my father build two splendid houses. I was so fortunate to have the chance to build one of my own, she said.

You were more inspired by Balmoral here, I would say, than Osborne.

Yes, although nowhere is lovelier than Osborne.

You were not tempted to build at the German seaside?

With Bad Homburg so close, I could count on a stream of English guests, my brother most constant. She smiles again. The famous casino at the Rhineland spa town of Bad Homburg—five miles distant—was frequented for years by the erstwhile Prince of Wales.

It’s a great pleasure for all of us to be here, Ponsonby says.

My brother and I have had excellent talks. But I don’t quite take in that he is king now.

His Royal Highness is himself still adjusting, I believe.

And not to be with my mother at the end. I cannot tell you how I suffered when the news came. She shakes her head.

I imagine, Your Royal Highness.

I try to believe that the queen and I were together so much and so often that it doesn’t matter that I was absent in the last days.

Yes.

My son boasts he cradled his dying grandmother. The empress’s tone is ironical.

He maneuvered himself into position by the bed and sat propping her up with his right arm, my mother recounts.

Determined to be foremost even at that bedside! she exclaims.

Picturing the kaiser pushing in at a most inappropriate moment, they both laugh.

Maybe their merriment alarmed the nurse, for now she’s back. You mustn’t stay long. She’s easily tired, she tells Ponsonby sternly.

But the empress raises her hand slowly. No, no. I need a few more minutes.

The nurse scowls and departs. The empress closes her eyes and sits silent for a while. Gathering strength perhaps. When she opens them again she says, almost casually, I need you to do something for me, Fritz dear. I need you to take charge of my letters and take them back to England.

Letters?

Letters I received, and those I sent to my father and my mother, during the years I’ve lived here. When I was last in England I retrieved from Windsor the ones I wrote. I thought to use them for a book. No time now.

Ponsonby looks away. Too distressing to acknowledge that.

She pats his arm. Dear Fritz. Listen now. Tonight, late, I will have them brought to your room.

He nods.

No one must know that they will be taken away. When I am dead my son will send men to search my papers, taking what he wants burned. Remember, after my husband . . .

He nods again, recalling that dreadful episode at the Neues Palais, nearly thirteen years ago now.

Keep them, and in future, well, I hardly know. May I give them to your care?

A pleasure, ma’am, I’m happy to do so. He hears his voice quavering.

She responds with another light pat. And if I don’t see you again, you will greet your mother, she says.

Yes.

And do not despair.

No.

The Catholics call that the unpardonable sin. As your godmother, I can instruct in such matters. She smiles. It’s remarkable: she looks so dreadful and then her smile is from the soul, still aglow.

He’s on the edge of a sob but fights it back. He must answer her dignity with his own. Yes, Your Royal Highness.

Goodbye, Fritz, God bless you.

He rises to his feet and bows before leaving.

IT SHOULDN’T COME as a surprise, Ponsonby supposes, back at his desk, that the antipathy long extant between mother and son endures, even now that she’s on death’s doorstep. The two look at the world completely differently. Such a tragedy, all liberal Europe agrees, that the empress’s late husband, Kaiser Friedrich, enjoyed only the shortest of reigns. And since that noble man was replaced by his son, the continent’s most powerful nation has a volatile, attention-seeking man-boy at the helm, constantly flexing his muscles. Far from floating above politics, he shamelessly supports right-wing parties. Bismarck, whose wars forged the German Empire, afterward used his diplomatic wiles to keep the peace. No German minister today has his finesse, and all must contend with their erratic, irascible kaiser.

Outside his window, Ponsonby hears the rhythmic, leathery stomping sound of soldiers marching in parade, as they do here at all hours. The troops are not the local garrison, he understands, but members of the kaiser’s personal guard dispatched from Berlin now that the empress’s illness has entered its terminal stage. A half-dozen plain-clothed men called pursers have been installed inside the castle, in an office off the main hall, and they seem to do nothing all day but prowl the passageways and spy on the comings and goings of the empress’s guests. Ponsonby encounters them from time to time, traveling in pairs. The men smile, but malevolent purpose stews below their courtesy. It will be a delicate thing, removing the empress’s letters from the castle undetected.

DINNER IS SERVED as usual at eight, the king at the head of the table with Princess Sophie and Princess Moretta, two of the empress’s daughters, on either side of him. They dote on dear Uncle Bertie, laughing at his remarks, vying to refill his whiskey glass. The kaiser sits at the foot, holding forth on a new naval ship design. He has brought along scrap paper and between courses sketches out the vessels’ features for his dinner companions—General von Kessel and Rear Admiral von Müller—who appear to hang on every word, every drawing. Ponsonby understands that, in private, the German military leaders mock their blustering, intemperate kaiser, but tonight these men make a very convincing show of fealty.

After dinner, when the rest of the party heads to the library to smoke and play cards, Ponsonby returns upstairs. He attempts to focus on the documents and telegrams piled on his desk, but he’s distracted, watching the clock. Time crawls. The clock strikes midnight and then one. Maybe he misunderstood the empress.

A quiet knock. "Herein," he says.

Four men come into the room, each pair carrying between them a large box, the size of a trunk but flatter and wider. The boxes are covered with black oilcloth and bound with heavy beige cord, obviously new. Affixed to the side of each box is a blank white label. The men are stablemen, dressed in open shirts, wool trousers, and tall boots. They lay the boxes down at the far end of the room and leave without a word to him. It’s like a strange, mute play of two minutes’ duration.

When the empress spoke of letters, Ponsonby imagined a half-dozen bulky packets that could be concealed in his personal luggage. These boxes will have to be explained.

Ponsonby finally rises from the chair and writes on the label of one Books with care. On the other China with care. Then he adds his address: Cell Farm, Old Windsor, England.

THE NEXT MORNING, when Ponsonby emerges from the bathroom, still drying his face with a towel, his valet is standing staring at the boxes. What are these, sir? Barlow asks.

He gives his cheeks a final rub, tosses the towel on a side chair, and says offhandedly: Ah, Barlow, these are some things I bought as we passed through Bad Homburg. When we are departing put them in the back passage with the dispatch boxes and my portmanteaux.

Certainly, he says, uncertainly.

A quarter of an hour later, Mr. Fehr knocks on his door. Fehr is the king’s courier, in charge of moving everything and everyone attached to the sovereign efficiently from one place to another. Barlow has obviously wasted no time passing on his concerns.

I must say I am surprised, sir, that, as very clear instructions were given to all the servants that items that came into the castle had to be reviewed by me or by the chief purser, we now appear to have two boxes of goods that no one has previously inspected. How exactly did this happen? Fehr asks.

Scanning his mind for a response, Ponsonby alights on indignation. Isn’t it enough, Fehr, that every time I return to England I am grilled by Custom House officers who want a list of every single thing of value I have acquired abroad? And then they dispute the value I put on each? Now I am obligated to justify my purchases to you, standing in my bedroom? Is that what you are asking me to do? The whole song and dance right here?

Fehr looks shocked. The king’s upstanding private secretary, whose father was the queen’s upstanding private secretary for thirty years before him, is attempting a bit of petty smuggling? It takes a minute but then Fehr adjusts. Oh, yes, of course, sir, I understand, sir. We will just keep it between us, sir, and don’t concern yourself with the Custom House men this time. I will handle them, he says.

Much obliged, Fehr, says Ponsonby, walking him to the door, where they shake hands. As he watches Fehr retreat down the hallway, he wonders what the man imagines the boxes contain.

Rattled, he lays his forearms down on the desk to rest his head for ten minutes before returning to work.

ON THE MORNING, two days later, when the king is departing for London, the kaiser sees them off. He presides at the foot of the stairs talking loudly about the relative merits of the German railroads versus the English ones, and his own prowess as a railway engineer and, for that matter, as a sailor and a horseman. The king is still upstairs saying a final goodbye to his sister, and Ponsonby listens and nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he monitors suitcases, dispatch boxes, baskets, and trunks passing through from the back landing, across the entrance hall, and out the front door, where three wagons wait to be filled. At last, the two boxes containing the letters go by, looking conspicuously different from everything else. Ponsonby sees servants place them, one on top of the other, on the back of the last wagon. The grooms throw canvas covers over the first two wagons, and tie these down, but the third wagon, closest to the door, remains uncovered. Surely someone will notice the anomalous boxes and insist on investigating? He spots Fehr out there, chatting with the grooms, at one point casually leaning his elbow on the top box.

The kaiser drones on, oblivious to the loaded wagons other than to welcome evidence that the English visitors are leaving. He can’t imagine that Ponsonby, essentially a servant, would dare intrigue against him here, in Germany, where all quiver at his command. As for the empress, he long ago sidelined her, and now she is dying. The kaiser’s not thought his mother might call upon the loyalty and discretion of a friend to remove from beneath his nose letters he’d like to destroy forever.

Ponsonby is swaying slightly, straining to betray nothing as the anxious moment stretches on and on. Then, without warning, a pair of grooms throw a cover on the last wagon, and it rolls away. Exhilaration and relief course through him. Together they—he and she—have thumbed their noses at the odious kaiser. In future those who seek to pass judgment on his godmother will have to contend with her own testimony.

The first carriage, ready for passengers, rolls in under the portico. Fehr bustles through the door and whisks by Ponsonby with a brief nod, heading for the back hall. There’s a heavy step on the stairs, and Ponsonby looks up to see the king descending, his nieces following behind, white handkerchiefs pressed to their weeping eyes. The king’s face is grim and set. He gives his nephew a quick, wordless embrace. Then he takes Ponsonby by the elbow and says, Come, ride with me. I want to speak of other things now. And they are off.

LATE THE NEXT afternoon Ponsonby arrives at Windsor railway station with all his luggage, having been helped onto the local train at Paddington by a skeptical Barlow and a friendly porter. He had wired ahead to his wife and asked her to send the local drayman to the station with his wagon. At Cell Farm his wife looks on as he and the driver, between them, ferry the boxes up the stairs and into the attic, and stack them under the eaves.

The boxes remain there, unremembered and unremarked upon, for twenty-seven years.

Part I

Daughter

1

The Isle of Wight, June 1847

Vicky stood in the dining room of Osborne House, legs wide apart, balled fists on her hips, striking what Mama called her little madame attitude. She scowled up at a large painting on the wall. Some months ago Papa had declared it time a portrait be made of them all, and she recalled the artist, Herr Winterhalter, coming to Windsor to do sketches of everyone in the family. But she’d never imagined the finished picture would look anything like this.

Herr Winterhalter had placed Bertie right in the center next to Mama—who had her arm around his shoulders—while Vicky was pushed far down into the bottom corner, watching over Lenchen in her cradle. It was as if Bertie were eldest and best, which was certainly not true.

Vicky was the oldest in the family, and the cleverest, everyone knew. Mama and Papa often wished aloud that Bertie would be more like Vicky. In the mornings, when she and Bertie went to visit Mama and Papa in their tall bed hung with emerald-green curtains, and Papa read poetry aloud to them or talked about the Greeks and the Romans, Bertie would fiddle with the wooden soldier he carried in his pocket and sometimes pluck at the knots of the silk bedcover. Mama snapped: Bertie, don’t fidget while Papa is speaking. Look at your sister, she is not fidgeting.

At such moments Vicky would beam at Papa and he would beam right back. He didn’t have to worry about her not listening. What a good and pretty girl she was, Papa often said. And while Mama never praised as much, she liked to summon Vicky to sing for her ladies, or recite, or speak in French. Her accent was much admired, also the way she could express herself so clearly in English and in German.

Of course, Bertie spoke German, too—they all did. Papa had come from Germany to marry Mama. She called him angel and because of him, Mama said, she had forgotten all about her sad childhood, when, without brothers or sisters, she’d lived with only Grandmamma and her governess for company in Kensington Palace. Her own father had died and Grandmamma had been very anxious to keep Mama, who was heir to the throne, far away from bad influences.

Why were you heir? Vicky had asked her once.

Because my uncle King William had no children, Mama said.

How did Grandmamma keep the bad influences out? Did she lock the door?

Mama laughed. This is too complicated for a child to understand, Puss. Grandmamma tried, I will say that.

Now Mama was queen, and Papa helped her. Perhaps because she’d had no papa, Mama could be very irritable. And she didn’t seem to care for little children, though she had so many. After Vicky, who was six, came Bertie, five, and Alice, four. Then Affie, really Alfred, who was two, and a new baby, Lenchen, whose proper name was Helena. Because she was eldest, Vicky was the Princess Royal, so much better than being plain Princess Alice like her little sister. But Bertie was a boy, the oldest boy, and that appeared to be best of all. Mama called him the nation’s child and Papa talked about his special destiny.

How very aggravating—vexing and not right. As Vicky stared at Herr Winterhalter’s picture she began to wonder how things could be arranged differently. Papa always said royal persons must be dutiful and committed to the welfare of the nation. Mightn’t it be her duty to explain to him the better way? No use talking about this with Mama. She never had patience for long, serious discussions, as Papa did.

Vicky cast her eyes around the room, thinking. Like the picture, most everything in it was new. The long mahogany dining table gleamed, highly polished, with eight matching chairs lining either side, like soldiers at attention awaiting people to come in to eat and converse. A thick flowered carpet had been laid down underfoot. The walls were painted a rich blue, the color of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the senior knighthood of England. Papa had designed this house on the Isle of Wight for them because he didn’t like how at Windsor there were no proper walled gardens for children to play in, and ministers and tradesmen paraded in and out all day long—which was so very disruptive. He pronounced: We are a growing family and we need a home that is comfortable, peaceful, and most of all private. But Papa had made sure Osborne House was properly regal and fittingly decorated. One of his very favorite pieces, a Roman bust of a lady, had been placed in a white alcove on the dining room’s far wall, directly opposite a large window. Vicky admired how graceful and confident the lady looked, wearing a diadem, presiding over the whole high, elegant space.

Now she walked over to the window and peered out at the terrace and the lawn that rolled down to the sea. The sun shone and she could catch tantalizing glimpses of sparkling water between the far trees. She could ask Papa to take her to the beach. That was a good idea. To talk and to look for shells. Vicky had started a collection, and Papa’s eyes were sharp—he always spotted good ones. She hurried off to find him.

A SHORT TIME later they set off hand in hand. Only a few ladies before Mama have been queen, Vicky began as they walked down the gravel path.

"Ja, if you mean queens in their own right and not married to kings," Papa replied.

Why?

Because a king’s sons have precedence over a king’s daughters in the succession; you know this. Remember Henry the Eighth and how he searched and searched for a wife who would bear him a son?

But in the end Elizabeth was queen. And she was very able and commanding.

"After her younger brother, Edward, died, and her elder sister too, she ascended, ja."

Papa, I am the elder sister of Bertie, she said, glancing up to check he was listening to this important point.

That’s true.

And as it was good that Elizabeth was queen, don’t you think it would be good for me to be?

To be queen of England?

Yes, after Mama.

So you wish to kill off not only poor Bertie, but Affie as well? her father asked lightly.

I do not wish them to die, she explained. I think the rule should be the eldest is always heir. That’s fairest.

Oh, Puss. She saw him smiling now. He shouldn’t.

This works especially well for our family, she told him. Because I am clever and Bertie, well, he’s rather silly.

Papa laughed now.

Bertie doesn’t care about what you and I care about, Papa, Vicky went on, not liking the laugh. Books and poetry and behaving properly. In truth she frequently wished not to behave properly, but appearing less naughty than Bertie had many advantages.

Ah, this matters not, her father said.

Why not? Bertie won’t mind. He thinks I will be queen someday and he’ll be like you and help. He often says this!

He’s a little boy still.

That’s why now is a good time to change things. You could tell the prime minister. He always listens to you.

Papa laughed again and squeezed her hand. Don’t worry, he said. You’ll have your own important job to do. Mama and I discuss it sometimes—the best future for the queen of England’s eldest daughter.

So you don’t want me as Mama’s heir? You prefer it be Bertie? She dropped his hand and stopped walking to stare directly up at him.

He stopped too, and looked down at her, serious now.

"Ah, liebe Vicky, your question is not reasonable. God made you and your brother as you are. One a girl and the other a boy. It is our duty—mine and Mama’s—to educate you and bring you up honorably and arrange for a purposeful life equal to the high station to which you have been born."

So you don’t choose me?

You can’t be chosen.

Can’t?

Males will always come first in the succession, he said.

Her brows squeezed together and her arms and hands tightened. She was so much better than Bertie. Papa knew that, and yet he didn’t care? He was happy she’d be pushed aside? Something deep inside her chest seemed to rip and she began to cry. Papa crouched down and she felt him catch her raised wrists before she could beat her fists against him.

"Vicky, no, no, mein Kind. You mustn’t cry."

It’s so unfair.

Your life will be beautiful.

She just wept.

I promise, your position will be worthy of not only who you are but how you are, said Papa, trying to embrace her, but she wriggled away from him.

Your excellent mind and your determination—these cannot be wasted, he said next.

She cried more.

The world is very big, and I will find the right place for you. Please, Vicky, won’t you stop crying?

Through tears she saw him, at her eye level, gazing over sympathetically, and she did love him although what he said was very wrong.

I suppose I might, she said finally, the ripped feeling beginning to fade.

He held out his white cotton handkerchief, and she took it. After a minute he asked: Aren’t we going to look for shells, after all?

No, I want to go and sit on the oak bench.

Dozens of trees had been cut down during the building of the house, and Papa had had one made into a long bench, with a high back, for the beach.

Sitting down side by side, they looked out at the sea—today a wavy carpet of blue and green patches with occasional flecks of white where the wind stirred it up.

What do you think will happen, Papa?

To you? he asked. His voice was gentle.

Yes, me.

Perhaps you will marry a king who lives in a different country, where they need you. Only God can guide us.

Vicky considered this. If she were queen she’d sit on a throne like the enormous one in Buckingham Palace where Mama sat sometimes. But who would be beside her? Would he look like Papa? She hoped he wouldn’t look like those naughty uncles of Mama’s, the old kings of England. They’d had fat red faces and wore stiff white wigs. She wouldn’t want to marry anyone like that.

She leaned against Papa, resting her cheek on the scratchy wool of his jacket sleeve. After a minute he put his arm around her, pulling her closer. The afternoon was breezy, and puffy cloud castles glided by above. In her mind’s eye all the days of her future stretched out ahead so far she couldn’t see the end, but she felt herself embarked, being carried slowly forward on the stream of time, buoyant and alive.

2

Windsor and the Isle of Wight, 1848

Papa required everything to be correct; he often used that word. And Mama preferred things nice and quiet and she hated to be fussed. But Laddle was different. She’d sit by the window doing her cross-stitch and let Vicky and Bertie overturn the toy chest on the nursery floor. She’d watch as they set up opposing armies of wooden soldiers and laugh when they mowed them down with sweeping arms. Laddle, whom everyone else called Lady Lyttelton, lived with them in the nursery, taught them to read and write, and told them stories from the Bible. Her thick hair was brown and wavy, arranged splendidly on the back of her head. Her smile was serene, but her eyes saw everything. One rainy afternoon, Bertie and Vicky dropped the cows and sheep and horses from the toy farm out the window to see which animal fell quickest. Now Flora has to go and bring back all of those toys, children, and get wet along the way. It hardly seems fair, does it? she asked.

What else is Flora doing? Vicky answered back.

Laddle tut-tutted and said: I expect better from you, Princessy. Which made Vicky stomp away until it was time for tea. But mostly she and Laddle were friends. At the end of the day they said prayers together and discussed God’s commandments. Laddle was very high, Vicky had heard, although what that exactly meant she wasn’t sure. Something about the sort of religion Laddle preferred. Her teacher liked to say that in life nothing was more important than being kind. And Vicky always thought, yes, but how very nice and important it was to be the Princess Royal.

ON A SIDE table in his study at Windsor, Papa kept open a large atlas with smooth, heavy pages that Vicky liked to stroke, and carefully turn over, one after another. Because it was such a fancy book, it had a lovely clean, woody smell. The large map of Europe stretched over two adjacent leaves, and sometimes Papa asked them to find Britain, and Vicky and Bertie could point to it, high in the left corner, the island nation colored a pretty shade of pink. Papa would put his finger on a teeny-tiny green place lower down, near the binding, and say: "That’s meine Heimat, Kinder. That’s Coburg."

But where is Germany? Vicky asked one day. Isn’t Coburg in Germany?

Papa shook his head. That’s the problem, Puss. Germany isn’t one nation. In almost forty different lands people speak German. All these, he said, and he traced a big circle on the open pages.

Germany should be united like Britain, or like France, he continued, pointing to the yellow country right across the narrow band of water from Britain. The French are the neighbors of the Germans but France has been one nation for a long time and has become very strong. Earlier in this century France invaded Germany and managed to get all the way over here, to Russia. Papa pointed to a large gray country on the right.

Then what happened? Bertie asked.

The Russians fought and pushed them out. Then the Prussians joined in. Prussians are Germans who have sizable territory along the Rhine, but mostly here in the east. He pointed to a potato-shaped country colored bright blue. The Prussians eventually allied with the British and at the battle of Waterloo the French were defeated.

Are the French still our enemies? asked Bertie.

No, we are friends now, Papa said. And that’s a good thing.

Are we friends with all Germans? asked Vicky.

Some are easier to get on with than others, said Papa, smiling.

Do you wish you lived back in Coburg? asked Bertie.

"Ach, I miss it sometimes, very much."

But your duty is here, Papa, in England, with Mama and with us, said Vicky sternly.

That’s true, Papa said. Still, I can never forget the dear home place.

PAPA HAD ONE particular friend, Baron Stockmar, who was German too, and also from Coburg. But he was queer looking, much shorter than Papa, with a wrinkled face and spindly bowlegs. One day when he came to Windsor he and Papa went into the library, and hours passed.

Vicky got impatient. We will invade, Bertie, she said.

Won’t Papa be angry? asked Bertie.

He’s talked long enough with the baron, she said. It’s our turn now.

They ran along the passageway and burst in through the library door. The men went right on conversing. She shouted: Here we are. Don’t you want to sing with us?

They paid no attention. She nudged Bertie toward the pianoforte.

Go and play, said Vicky.

Bertie ran over and began banging on the keys.

Then Papa stood up. This is not a moment to play music, he said, and he walked over to the piano, closing the lid after pushing Bertie’s little hands away.

Let’s show the baron what you’ve learned since last time he was here, Papa said. Vicky loved this. The baron would ask questions and Vicky and Bertie would answer. Mostly it was she who answered. Bertie didn’t know many Bible verses, and she had more history, too—she could say all the English kings and queens.

She ran to the sofa to perch between the baron and Papa, sitting up straight and ready. But this time the baron asked something odd: Who is the most admirable being in the world?

Vicky immediately said, My papa, and cuddled closer to him.

Bertie, who had squeezed in between Vicky and the baron, looked troubled. Finally, he said, Mrs. Bumps.

Papa laughed a big, ringing laugh.

Who is this Mrs. Bumps? asked the baron.

She’s not a person, scoffed Vicky.

She’s a dog, a golden retriever who belongs to Colonel Seymour, one of the equerries, said Papa, still grinning.

Why did you choose her, Prince? the baron asked.

She is friendly and has a beautiful coat. Seymour gave her a collar that has a little picture of Mama attached to it. That makes her noble, he replied solemnly.

Not a good answer at all, said Vicky. We need other, different questions. Surely you can do better, Baron.

You are very commanding, little princess, said the baron, smiling.

I am not little princess. I am the Princess Royal, said Vicky.

There was a knock on the door and a footman entered. The carriage is at the door, Highness.

"Kinder, we will have time later for other questions, said Papa. I’m going out with the baron. You return to the nursery." Putting a hand on each of their backs, he propelled them gently forward.

Bertie ran ahead, and as Vicky trailed behind she overheard the baron say: The heir, he has a fine disposition, Prince. That is something.

BACK AT OSBORNE for the summer, Papa declared they were old enough to learn to swim, and he had a bathing area marked out with ropes on their beach. She learned quickly, but Bertie and Alice clutched at Papa for days. Finally, they could swim too, and clamored to go often. Even Mama liked to bathe, and Papa had had a special bathing machine constructed for her. She climbed up stairs into a little wooden hut to change clothes, then the hut rolled down the sloping rails of the bathing pier so she could step out the other side and slide right into the sea.

Bathing cheered Mama up. She had had another baby, called Louise, and she complained she was still very unwell. Papa urged her to rest and enjoy the sunshine and do her painting en plein air. Mama loved painting and had had a small easel made for Vicky exactly like her big one. The art master, Monsieur Corbould, came occasionally from the Royal Academy in London to give them lessons. So strange to see Mama following closely what he said, trying earnestly to improve. Mama listened to Papa of course, but really only to him and Monsieur Corbould.

Papa and Mama never wasted time inside when the weather was fine. But on wet days Vicky would find them working at their side-by-side desks in the upstairs study. Large despatch boxes from London sat open on the floor next to Papa’s desk, and he’d take papers out to read, and then he’d pass them to Mama to sign. She would be writing a letter, to her half sister Feodora in Germany, or to Grandmamma, the Duchess of Kent, back at Windsor. She’d put the letter aside when Papa told her to sign a paper, writing VR in large initials and rolling over them with the rocking blotter. On some papers Papa would write, in pencil, comments he thought Mama should add. Mama would carefully copy over Papa’s words with a pen in her own handwriting. After the ink had dried, Mama would erase any trace of Papa’s pencil. You are so very clever, my darling, thank you, she’d say, or just lean over to kiss his cheek.

One morning Lord Russell, the prime minister, arrived at Osborne with some other ministers. They milled about in the front hall, while Vicky and Bertie sat unseen behind the half-open door to the billiards room.

Russell, after such a long journey it would be courteous if Their Royal Highnesses received us immediately, said a tall, thin man, still wearing his top hat.

Patience, Graham. The queen is likely retrieving her husband from the grounds. He’s forever busy with one project or another, the prime minister replied.

Why not simply converse with her?

No point. Haven’t you heard me say it a hundred times? She has the title, he does the work.

All the men chuckled.

Vicky didn’t like that, the sound of their laughing about the queen.

She works, too, doesn’t she? Vicky asked Papa later, recounting the exchange.

Indeed she does, and she has much good sense, he said.

But sometimes Mama says she wouldn’t know what to do if you were not here.

"Mama didn’t have the education I did, Vicky, so it is important that I advise her. What is more, I am a man, and I watch out that those other men, the ministers, they do not try to be a little pfiffig—tricky—with her."

She is queen! She orders them what to do!

It’s not so simple. Sometimes they are sneaky. They propose plans that are not wise. Or pretend that they can do what they want without consulting her.

They would dare? She put her hands on her hips and looked up, indignant.

As queen she rules together with the prime minister, the Parliament, and the ministers. It’s a delicate dance, and when everyone dances the correct steps, then things are smooth. But I look carefully at what they do and keep them from treading on Mama’s toes or taking the wrong steps.

You have to guard her against naughty ministers?

Protect and defend her. Also uphold standards. The sovereign cannot expect to long enjoy his, or her, elevated position without doing that.

I would do that if I were queen.

Perhaps it will fall to you, as it has to me, Vicky, to share in the work.

And keep things correct?

To use your life and your position for the general good, he said, smiling his lovely, kind smile.

ON A HOT day in June Papa announced a special guest was arriving. His name was Prince Wilhelm of Prussia and Papa said the children should call him Uncle Prussia, because he was royal as they were, and a distant cousin. Vicky imagined a jolly, affable man in a suit of bright blue, like the color of Prussia in Papa’s map book. Instead Uncle Prussia turned out to be bulky and stern, with large bushy gray side whiskers, wearing a gray army uniform.

Papa urged her to talk to the prince and make him feel welcome. So she told him about her pony Trixie, her lessons with Laddle, and how Papa had taken them to the farm next door to Osborne House to see the sheep being washed before shearing.

Those sheep hated their baths and they squealed, and tried to get away, she told Uncle Prussia, paddling her arms to show how the animals scrambled. One escaped and went running down the lane, and only after the farmer’s boy ran after and jumped on top of its wet back could he drag it back.

Bertie and Alice remembered that naughty sheep, and they laughed and laughed. But Prince Wilhelm appeared perplexed by everything she said.

When Papa came to the nursery to say good night she told him the prince must be hard of hearing or didn’t understand her German.

No, Puss, I believe you surprise him, her father said. He’s not sure what to make of such a lively, confident girl as you are.

He doesn’t like girls like me?

"He definitely should. But, liebe Vicky, you are einmalig—like no one else."

Is that good?

Very, very good.

UNCLE PRUSSIA WAS restless indoors and preferred to be out riding and hunting, always wearing his same gray uniform. He insisted on taking the largest horse from the Osborne stable. Papa and the grooms organized a special Prussian-style shoot for him: lots of deer from all over the island were herded together in a pen, and then when Uncle Prussia was ready, the grooms drove the deer toward him and he shot them. He killed a tremendous number.

Bertie had gone with Papa to watch, and he came back to the nursery very sad. Those deer didn’t have a chance, he said.

In the evenings Papa talked to Prince Wilhelm for hours about Germany. It’s all very interesting, Papa told them one morning after Uncle Prussia had gone out. "We discuss the united nation that must come into

Reviews for A Most English Princess

[poopy_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I wish I had read this book back when I was in high school and struggling with AP European History! Technically this is a novel, but it is based in fact. Reading the story of Queen Victoria's oldest child, Princess Vicky, and her life as the wife of Crown Prince Fritz of Prussia (later Kaiser Frederick III) helped this American understand so many things about Europe better: why there are/were so many German princes and dukes, just where Prussia is/was, where Bavaria is/was, the conflicts that led to the Franco-Prussian War that led to WWI that led to WWII, and Otto Von Bismark's role in all of it - even what it means to have a "von" in the middle of your name! It also showed Vicky's impact on many of these things through her husband and her eldest son, Kaiser Wilhelm II.The book did start out kind of slow, with Vicky's childhood as the daughter of Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg, one of the countries/prefectures that later united under Prussia to become Germany. The book paints the relationship between Vicky and her father as very close - she, her father's favorite of all his and the Queen's children; her father, meanwhile, could do no wrong in Vicky's eyes, setting perhaps an impossible standard for all other men to meet. The Queen, though, is portrayed as being a remote and self-centered mother.Once Vicky marries and moves to Prussia with her husband (known as Fritz), I found the book much more compelling. She and Fritz had a true love match, just like her parents, Victoria and Albert. However, Vicky was a bit of a scholar and had ambitions to make Prussia/Germany more like England in terms of the populace having representation in parliament, voting rights, etc. And since she did not have complete control of the country as her mother did of England, her road was much more rocky. Since she so adored and admired her father, she wanted to emulate him in terms of continuous study and keeping busy with enriching projects. She saw her role as that of continuous improvement of herself and her adopted country of Prussia, and abhorred gossip or just sitting around, which many of the then royals seemed to want her to do. She did not want to be just another pretty face!On top of this, her first child, Wilhelm (eventually Kaiser Wilhelm II), was born with a disability. I also have a child with a disability, and all of the parts that discussed her worries about him really hit home with me. By all accounts, the role that a united Germany played in Europe after the Franco-Prussian war was somewhat precarious, since it sat between two former enemies, with France on one side and Russia on the other. It was held together by the strength and cunning of Otto von Bismark, who, himself, needed to be held in check by a strong leader. The book tries to make the point that because Vicky was busy worrying about Wilhelm's weaknesses, she perhaps didn't encourage his strengths to the point where - once he became Kaiser - he could cope with the delicate balance that Bismark orchestrated. Once it fell, the domino effect then started WWI which then started WWII, and so on. I do think it's extreme, however, to blame "cold mothering," for lack of a better term, for WWII, which seems to be the inference of the author.All in all, I really enjoyed this look into history from a personal viewpoint and from a mother's viewpoint. Obviously, since this is a novel, conversations and feelings, etc., are imagined or made up entirely - but the tone of them "feels" real, and you feel like you are in the palace or the carriage or on the train or at the banquets, etc., with the characters, rather than reading out of a textbook. Perhaps history classes could take heed and incorporate approaches that included more reading like this, hmm?I also really liked that there were several words in this book that I actually had to stop and look up the meaning of in a dictionary! I read about a book a week, along with multiple periodicals/articles, and my reading tastes stray widely across many levels and topics, and I write every day. I also have a Master's Degree - and I include that only to let you, as a future reader, know what my experience level with the written word is. This book was not difficult to read in terms of being way over my head, but the fact that it included words I did not know surprised and delighted me. I always like to increase my vocabulary!!So, if you want to increase your knowledge of the political atmosphere in Europe surrounding the Franco-Prussian War, WWI, and WWII; the formation of modern Germany and what led up to it; AND learn about the early life of Queen Victoria's oldest daughter, all while increasing your vocabulary and getting a glimpse into what it's like to be the mother of a child with a disability, I would definitely recommend this book!!Thank you to the author, William Morris and Eidlewiess for a free Advanced Reader's Copy and the opportunity to read and review it. All opinions in this review are my own and offered independently, without consideration of reimbursement.

[wagner5sarah35 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I knew the general outlines of the life of Queen Victoria's eldest daughter, but this novel brought them to life and reminded me that she was also the mother of Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany. Called Vicky throughout the book, she was raised in England and married the heir to the Prussian throne at a young age. Vicky could be demanding and this comes out in her treatment of her oldest son, Wilhelm, whose complicated birth causes permanent damage to one of his arms. The medical treatments attempted range from ineffectual to cringeworthy and together with the uncompromising demands Vicky placed on him, I could start to see how Wilhelm became the man he was. This book made for interesting reading, although it could be a little slow at times. I would definitely recommend it for those interested in exploring 19th-century Europe through historical fiction.