I, Victoria by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Author:Cynthia Harrod-Eagles [Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Genre Fiction, Historical, Romance
Amazon: B00LTUC8V4
Publisher: Piatkus
Published: 2014-09-03T21:00:00+00:00

Sunday the 16th of January 1842 – oh, how I remember that date! We had been to Claremont for a few days, for I was badly in need of rest and change. My second child had been born less than a year after Pussy; I had had a wretched pregnancy and a difficult birth; and having had two children in twenty-one months of marriage, I was exhausted and depressed, and my poor nerves were so chafed that I could hardly bear myself. Since the boy was born, everything seemed to irritate me, and though I tried so hard to control my temper, it only made it worse when I lost it – as if every annoyance was stored up like an explosive shell in a magazine, which all finally went off together.

When we reached the Palace that Sunday we went straight up to the nursery to see Pussy. She had been a lusty baby for the first nine months of her life, but in the autumn of 1841 she had begun to ail and lose weight; her food disagreed with her, she was often sick, and cried and was fretful. She was given the very best of everything: Clark decreed she should be fed none but asses’ milk – which was the richest, richer than Jersey even – together with chicken broth and the finest arrowroot. As the food was so rich, to avoid overloading her little stomach it was measured out carefully to her in small amounts and at long intervals. But still she did not thrive.

The nursery was stiflingly hot, too hot for my comfort, but it was the understanding in those days that cold air was fatal to babies, so I did not question it. Certainly the new baby seemed to like it: he lay quietly in his cot, staring ahead of him with those dark-blue eyes, peacefully blowing bubbles and moving his limbs slowly like an underwater creature. (Even now poor Bertie reminds me somewhat of a large fish – slow-moving and glassy-eyed.)

Pussy was a different matter. As soon as we came through the door we could hear her whimpering, and as I bent over the cot, I could smell by the sour odour that she had been sick again. I turned to the nurse, who had got up hurriedly from the fireside at our appearance.

‘How has the Princess Victoria been, Roberts?’

‘Much the same, madam,’ Mrs Roberts said, curtseying. ‘She brought up her last feed, I’m afraid.’

Albert bent over the cradle and stroked his daughter’s hollow cheek with the back of one finger. ‘How pale and thin she is,’ he said, and I could hear the anxiety in his voice. ‘Poor little Puss!’ The baby whimpered again, turning her eyes up to Albert’s face as if in appeal. ‘See how she looks at me! Poor baby, she’s so hungry.’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘This regimen does not suit her, you know.’

I knew – he made no secret of it – that he did not agree

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