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.