She was glad that Alice was at Sandringham. There was something very gentle about Alice and she and Alix had become such good friends.
‘It’s the first time in eleven years that I have spent Bertie’s birthday with him,’ wrote Alice. ‘Bertie and Alix are so kind and give us such a warm welcome showing how they like having us …’
Oh yes, it was good for the children to be together and although the girls had married abroad they could come home fairly frequently. It must be very pleasant for Alice to be in England for that poor Louis of hers was not so comfortably off as one would have liked.
I hope I was right to agree to the marriage. What would Albert have done? This was the Albert season and she sat brooding on that terrible time when he had gone to Cambridge in dreadful weather and come home to her so ill.
There was no one like him. There never would be, Blessed Angel that he was. How fortunate she had been to have twenty years of her life with him – but having known such perfection it was harder to bear his loss.
She heard that Bertie had gone up to Scarborough to Lord Londesborough’s place accompanied by Lord Chesterfield. Alix had stayed behind. The Queen could imagine what gay parties there would be up there. Oh dear, how different he was from Dearest Albert!
A week or so later there was disturbing news. The Prince of Wales had left Scarborough and was at Marlborough House and Lord Chesterfield had been taken very ill. A few days later the Prince was ill.
Bertie left London because he had desired to be at Sandringham and when he arrived there his illness had been diagnosed as typhoid fever.
The Queen could not believe it. Bertie stricken with typhoid fever, the disease which had killed his father ten years ago and at precisely the same time!
It was like a horrible pattern – a judgement.
She felt that the train would never arrive; it was snowing; she sat brooding, thinking of that terrible time ten years ago.
Brown was beside her. ‘We’re there,’ he said gruffly. He fastened the cloak about her. ‘Can’t you stand still, woman?’ he demanded, and she smiled faintly; poor Brown, he was upset because he knew she was.
The carriage was waiting. Brown helped her in and off they went to Sandringham.
The place looked gloomy. She glanced up at it; she did not like it – fast clocks and fast parties. But he was ill now – her eldest son, sick as his father had been.
Lady Macclesfield, that good faithful woman on whom Alix relied, came forward to curtsey.
‘My dear,’ said the Queen, ‘what is the news?’
‘Very bad, I fear, Your Majesty.’
‘And the Princess?’
‘She is with the Prince.’
The Queen nodded.
‘It cannot be typhoid.’
‘I fear so, Your Majesty. And Blegge the groom who accompanied His Highness to Scarborough is suffering from the same disease. They must have caught it there.’
‘You had better take me straight to him.’
Lady Macclesfield inclined her head.
‘And the Princess, how is she taking it?’ asked the Queen.
‘The Princess is wonderful,’ said Lady Macclesfield fervently.
Alix had come to the door of the sickroom with Alice.
‘My dearest children,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes, ‘what a blessing that you are together at this time.’
She kissed them both and they took her in to see Bertie. He looked unlike himself with the strange glazed look in his eyes and the unnatural flush on his cheeks.
Oh dear God, she thought, it is so like that other nightmare. And it is soon to be the 14th of December.
The very best doctors were attending him – not only the Queen’s favourite William Jenner but Dr William Gull, Dr Clayton and Dr Lowe. The whole country waited for news as the fever soared. Bertie’s failings were forgotten; he had become ‘Good Old Teddy’. He was a jolly good fellow; he liked women; he had a mistress or two, that only showed how human he was. He was a good sport; he was the sort of man they wanted to be King – and he was sick with the typhoid fever.
Forgotten were the grudges against the royal family. The Queen was with her son who was dying of the dreaded fever which had killed his father, and in the streets crowds waited eagerly for bulletins of his progress to be issued. The question on everyone’s lips was ‘How is he?’ He was better; then he was worse; there was some hope; there was no hope. Everything was forgotten but the dramatic illness of the Prince of Wales. The fact that the 14th of December was fast approaching seemed significant. It was more than that – it was uncanny.
During one of the more hopeful periods Alix went to St Mary Magdalene’s Church at Sandringham, having first sent a note to the vicar to tell him she would be there. She wanted him to pray for the Prince that she might join in but she would not be able to wait until the service was over for she must get back to his bedside.
The church was crowded and there was a hushed silence when the Princess, wan with sleepless nights and anxiety, appeared. All joined fervently in the prayers. But, commented the Press, Death played with the Prince of Wales like a panther with its victim. But while the Prince lived there was still hope. Alfred Austin, the poet, wrote the lines by which he was afterwards to be remembered:
‘
Flashed from his bed, the electric tidings came,
He is not better; he is much the same
.’
Alix, with Alice and the Queen, were constantly in the sickroom but Alix did not forget poor Blegge and made sure that he had every care and attention. Alice was a great help; quiet and efficient and having had some practice in nursing during the wars, she devoted herself to her brother and gave that little more than even a professional nurse could have given. Alix thought she would never forget what she owed her sister-in-law. The Queen, in times of real adversity, was always at her best. She would sit quietly behind a screen in Bertie’s bedroom, not attempting to interfere, only to be there in case she could be of use.
It was the 13th of December – the day before the dreaded 14th – and Bertie had taken a turn for the worse. It was a repetition so close that it was eerie.
The doctors were despondent; it was clear that they thought there was no hope. Bertie often lay as though in a coma; at other times he would throw himself about and utter incoherent ravings.
Alix said: ‘Dear Mama, you must get some sleep.’
‘Not yet,’ said the Queen. ‘After … tomorrow.’
‘Mama, it is all over,’ said Alix.
‘Oh no, my dear child,’ replied the Queen firmly. ‘When my dearest Albert was so ill I never gave up hope.’
‘But it was no use, Mama. He died. Blegge has died, Lord Chesterfield has died. And now …’
‘My dear Alix, you must be brave. He is still with us.’
She tried to comfort Alix. The poor child was almost at breaking point. It was the 13th – and everyone seemed certain that Bertie was going to die on the anniversary of his father’s death.
‘Oh God, spare my beloved child,’ prayed the Queen.