Born to Rule: Five Reigning Consorts, Granddaughters of Queen Victoria

Once there was Vicky, Alice, Helena, Louise, and Beatrice…

Now with Marie, Maud, Ena, Alix, and Sophie, we see the face of Europe change once more. Julia Gelardi’s book is a fascinating study of the lives of Queen Victoria’s granddaughters. It gets slightly difficult to read at times, because each woman’s life is chronicled along side the other. Winding is a good word for the style, but nevertheless, this book is a captivating look at another quintuple of royal kin. The first set was, of course, Queen Victoria’s own daughters, some of whom were the mothers of these powerful women…

Vicky, the Queen’s eldest child, married the Crown Prince of Prussia and gave birth to several children. Two of those children would be most significant to the political scene of Europe – Kaiser Wilhelm and his sister, Sophie, future Queen of Greece. Queen Sophie and the Greek royal family were caught in the crossfire of European politics. Deception and betrayal by major countries eventually forced them into exile, all because Greece wanted to stay neutral throughout WWI. The neutrality was seen as Greece siding with Germany, because after all, Sophie was the Kaiser’s sister. What people did not realize was that Wilhelm treated her very badly, and had exiled her from Prussia because of her conversion to Greek Orthodoxy. Hardly a close relationship.

Victoria’s second daughter, Princess Alice, was the mother of Empress Alexandra of Russia, the most tragic and famous of the five granddaughters. Alice’s early death from diphtheria greatly affected the young Alexandra, her once happy nature fading into sadness and wariness. She also became increasingly pious and withdrew into herself. We see that this is the beginning of a sensitive personality that would one day collapse further with the startling revelation that her only son and heir to the Russian throne was a hemophiliac. Alexandra would stop at nothing to help her son Alexei overcome his illness, even at the expense of her and the Tsar’s lives.

Princess Beatrice, the youngest of Victoria’s nine children, was mother to Queen Victoria Eugenie (Ena) of Spain. Ena had a wonderful marriage to King Alphonso XIII, that is until they discovered that their children carried the hemophilia gene. Alphonso blamed Ena and her family for the dreaded disease, and bolted from the marriage bed to carry out many affairs. However, Ena did her best to be a good Queen, and thoroughly immersed herself in Spanish culture. She had even become Catholic in order to marry into the Spanish royal family. Throughout political upheaval and occasional exile, Queen Ena was respected by the Spaniards and her grandson, Juan Carlos, reigns today.

Not to be outdone, two of Victoria’s princely sons produced the remaining consorts: Queen Marie of Romania was the daughter of Victoria’s son, Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh. Bertie, the future King Edward VII of England, fathered Queen Maud of Norway. Marie and Maud could not have been more different. In personalities, certainly; in countries, unavoidably. Romania was surrounded by warring countries, and suffered many of its own casualties throughout strife in the region. Norway, however, was relatively placid.

Maud began her married life as Princess Maud of Denmark, living in Copenhagen. She carried out many royal duties, but went back to England as much as possible. She loved her husband Charles, but she missed her old home. Much like her aunts Vicky and Alice, Maud regarded the English way of life as the only way to live. Soon, her thoughts of home and the visits to England would have to be put aside – her husband was offered the title of King of Norway. He accepted, and became King Haakon. Their only son, named Alexander, became Crown Prince Olav. True to form, the new Queen remained ‘Maud’.

Queen Marie’s life and outlook mirrored that of her aunt Vicky of Prussia. Her in-laws never warmed to her, but they took charge of her eldest son (Prince Carol) and made him bombastic, selfish, and hateful towards his mother and sisters. As Crown Princess, Marie tried her best to get along in her adopted country regardless, and was beloved by Romanians for her tireless war efforts. However, Marie did not have the happy marriage that Vicky came to know. Ferdinand of Romania was not faithful like his Prussian counterpart, Frederick (Fritz). Marie knew of Ferdinand’s dalliances and had her own affairs as well, most notably with Barbo Stirby. However, she and her husband, nicknamed “Nando”, worked closely to try to better serve Romania.

All in all, this is a great book and you will certainly enjoy the photographs therein. Wonderfully done.

(c) Mandy Searles
August 30, 2005

You will feel great sympathy towards Vicky, the Empress Frederick, who was an unfortunate hostage to the intrigues of the German court. Sympathy will soon give way to awe at her courage and determination to do her best while having to perform the impossible: being all things to all people…

Vicky was seen as the catalyst for change in Germany. Her parents, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert did not like the autocratic, militaristic way in which Emperor Wilhelm I was running Prussia. Instead, they visualized a united German nation with a government much like that of England. Their plan was to sow seeds of liberalism and constitutional monarchy through their daughter and her marriage to Wilhelm’s son, Prince Frederick (Fritz). In preparation for the eventual match, Vicky was schooled in politics and German life by Prince Albert. Eventually, she and Fritz would be Emperor and Empress of Prussia, and could bring about German unity.

Little did Vicky know that upon arriving in Berlin, she was at a disadvantage from the start.

As the daughter of Queen Victoria, she was encouraged to retain her Englishness yet was expected to be a Prussian wife and princess. Her efforts to raise her eldest son Willy as Prince Albert had raised her backfired. Her tendency to over-criticize (a trait passed on from Victoria) turned the young Wilhelm away, and he grew up under his thoroughly Prussian grandfather Wilhelm. Otto von Bismarck had seen his own chance to manipulate the future emperor, and along with the groveling royal court, Willy was turned into a bombastic power fanatic.

Her relationship with Fritz was not seen as loving, but as an English princess scheming to Anglicize the House of Hohenzollern. Vicky was painted as “die Englanderin”, unfaithful to Germany and a demon on the shoulder of her husband, whom she ‘manipulated’.

Hopes that Fritz’s mother, Empress Augusta, would watch over Vicky were dashed. Augusta was known to be very liberal and free-thinking, unusual for royal women of the time. In her they thought they had an ally, but both the Queen and Vicky would be sorely disappointed. The once-progressive Augusta had seen her marriage to Emperor Wilhelm unravel over the years, and as a result she became a bitter, self-absorbed woman. She gave Vicky little support in her new role.

When they finally became Emperor and Empress, Vicky and Fritz had precious little time to implement any real changes. Fritz died from cancer of the larynx three months into his reign. Upon his passing, Vicky was left alone and devoid of support or influence. Your heart cries at the unfairness of brilliant minds wasted, while Willy becomes Kaiser Wilhelm II – egotistical, manipulative, and dangerous.

Thankfully, Vicky did not live to see the destruction of the Hohenzollern dynasty when Wilhelm II pulled Germany and England into a devastating world war. After fighting his own relations across Europe, he headed into exile, never to see the throne again. Albert’s catalyst did indeed create a change, but not in the way he had expected. Germany would be unified, but the reigning royal house would fall from power, never to recover.

Mandy Searles (c) 2005

The subject on everyone’s mind in Monaco these days is marriage: Stephanie’s marriage, Caroline’s marriage, Albert’s marriage, even Rainier’s marriage. Since none of the ruling Grimaldi family is married at the moment, and since the only point in having royalty (even teeny-tiny royalty like Monaco’s) is to see them behaving just like everyone else (only more so, or less so, depending on the state of their public relations) — well, after ten years of bad press, bad luck, and illegitimate babies, you can imagine it’s time for some domestic tranquility. Someone in Monaco has to get married, and fast, if only to prove that they’re still in the game….

It was a wedding that first put Monaco on the map, don’t forget, in 1956, when Grace Kelly left her role as a Hollywood princess for a new career as Europe’s most visible and dazzling Catholic grande dame. Her death in an auto accident in 1982 left a void in Monte Carlo that nothing and no one seems able to fill. Ask anyone: Grace’s tomb is the major tourist attraction in Monaco after the palace and the casino, which pretty much sums up her role in history and the principality at large.

“She was superior in the same way that Peter Pan was superior,” says Jeffrey Robinson, a friend of Princess Caroline who serves as the Grimaldi family’s official biographer. Rainier himself speaks of the memory of Princess Grace as “the motivation, true and deep, that keeps us all going.” Friends remember how “sweet” she was before her marriage, how “lovely” and “enchanting,” and how “royal” she became with the passage of time. If, today, Rainier and his children are mentioned in the same breath with the Queen of England as the world’s most glamorous figureheads, it is thanks to Grace and to Grace alone.

I’d better clarify that: it’s really only the children who are glamorous. Rainier himself is a Mediterranean capitalist, the descendant of pirates, if truth be told, who would rather watch television and eat pizza in his underwear than attend the parties, galas, balls, and fêtes that traditionally make up the Monaco season. Periodically, since Grace’s death, he has been linked romantically with one or another hard-bitten socialite on the razzle-dazzle circuit (most notably the “Business Princess,” Ira von Fürstenberg), but no one doubts that his first devotion is to the principality — “Monaco, Inc.,” 485.87 acres of porous rock and priceless sunshine and the most valuable real estate on the French Riviera. Apart from that, the aging Prince hasn’t got a lot of “interests.”

“Let’s face it,” a woman I know is frank in admitting, “if Caroline, Albert and Stephanie were to be killed in a plane crash, which God forbid, nobody would give a damn ever again about Rainier. His face wouldn’t sell two magazines on its own.” And don’t let anyone kid you: selling magazines — selling Monaco — is what it’s all about. Nothing in the country would function at all without the Prince’s family to promote it, open it, close it, bless it, and be photographed with it. In 1982, when Grace died, the National Enquirer sent 16 reporters to Monte Carlo to cover her funeral. Earlier, when Princess Caroline married Phillipe Junot, the Enquirer offered $5,000 to anyone who would sell his ticket to the ball that preceded the wedding. (No one did.) There are only a handful of people in the world who get this kind of media attention. The Kennedys, the Windsors, Elizabeth Taylor — and the Grimaldis, whose problems make the lives of the others look like fun-time in comparison. Basically what you’ve got in the line of succession are a Bad Girl, a Good Widow, and a Nice Boy on a Bobsled.

Taking the Bad Girl first: Stephanie of Monaco — rock star, swimsuit designer, wannabe actress and full-time brat — is the Problem Child of Europe, a girl the French papers call “princesse rockeuse” not just on account of her up-and-down career as a pop singer. Karl Lagerfeld once described Stephanie as “a sporty version of Madonna.” She had made Earl Blackwell’s worst-dressed list by the time she was twenty-one. She chews her nails and likes to tell jokes — the dirtier the better.

“What did the elephant say to the naked man?” Stephanie once asked a friend of her mother’s at dinner, and when he grinned and said he didn’t know, she answered brightly, “Do you really eat out of that thing?” She is deliberately provocative, even outrageous, in her public appearances, and she hopes to come back in some future life reincarnated as a dolphin.

“I hate being a princess,” Stephanie says — but she relies on it, too, just as often, and usually at the top of her voice. She is one of those unfortunate celebrities whose garbage cans are stolen by journalists and sifted for clues. She throws out unused plane tickets, spare change, sedatives, and pictures of herself; it’s hard to get at the truth, of course, if you’re picking through hair mousse and globs of pasta. One of the nicest things I’ve heard anybody say about Stephanie is that “she has a lot of anger.” She’s made a lot of headlines, too, since surviving the accident that killed Princess Grace. She was only seventeen in 1982, when her mother’s Rover, with the two of them in it, plunged off the mountain road from La Turbie on its way down to Monaco. Many believe that Stephanie was actually driving the car, or that she and Grace were having “a raging, slapping fight,” and that one or the other of them drove deliberately over the edge. There is some horrible chatter indeed on the Riviera about Princess Grace’s final hours. The tabloids, when they aren’t making a case for Mafia or PLO involvement in Grace’s death, slyly point to suicide.

“The curve they went over is directly above a cemetery,” a reporter in Paris once told me in all seriousness. “Grace would have known that. We think she wanted to fly off to join the angels.” Stephanie has “had help” in dealing with the trauma, but it’s the kind of thing, obviously, she won’t ever get over. A couple of years ago, she had a tattoo removed from an unspecified part of her body, because it bore the name (also unspecified) of one or the other of her former boyfriends. Now she’s playing at unwed motherhood, shacking up — what else can I call it? — with Daniel Ducruet, who regularly makes headlines himself by attacking photographers, personal enemies, rival suitors, total strangers, and beating them to a pulp.

“He’s bad news,” anyone in Monaco can tell you — and they will, provided you swear not to quote them by name. “Gossip was invented in Monaco,” Prince Rainier has said, but so was the happy dictatorship, “the last oasis of peace and dreams.” If you want to live in the principality, you have to play by the rules. There’s no other way. “And when you live here,” a friend of mine observes, “you really believe that you’re protected.”

As a matter of fact, you are. There are 450 openly acknowledged policemen in the principality, serving an official population that never quite exceeds 30,000 souls. Half of these, at any given moment, are probably somewhere else, since an awful lot of them are millionaires, businessmen, rock stars, and socialites. Of the roughly 5000 people who are actual Monégasques (born there, and engaged in picturesque occupations for the sake of the tourists), most earn their living from one or another component of Prince Rainier’s hugely profitable gambling, real-estate, advertising, and corporate-convention empire. There is no crime to speak of — no street crime, anyway — and no unemployment. The principality is an industry in the exact sense. It’s a theme park, a playground, a triumph of marketing, and a model of design. It’s also a police state, where you can be thrown out for insulting the Prince and his family when you walk down the street in your diamonds.

“We have video cameras in key locations around the principality,” Rainier admits, “on street corners, in passageways and in public lifts. It’s proven very dissuasive so we’re extending the system. Let’s face it, if a fellow sees a camera on a corner he’s not going to do much because he knows the police are watching.”

They’re listening, too. Every journalist in Monaco learns before long that his phone has been tapped. Old hands tell stories about operators bursting into conversations between writers and editors, shouting, “That isn’t true!” and, “How can you say such things about the Princess!” I went to dinner with a young man who recently opened a business in Monte Carlo, and he prefaced our conversation with the most extraordinary warnings — caveats I thought had gone out with the Cold War.

“Shhhhhhh!” he kept saying, glancing shiftily around the Café de Paris. “When you talk, talk quietly!” I was not to identify him by profession or even nationality, because if I did, he told me, he would be “expelled.” He was serious: “I will be out of here — like that!” Prince Rainier has an agreement with the French government that permits him, as an absolute monarch, to exile anyone he pleases not just from Monaco, but, if necessary, from all four départements of the French Riviera. Magazines and books with a “pessimistic” view of the Grimaldis, furthermore, are banned from the principality.

“You don’t hear a negative word about any of them,” says Irish writer Genevieve Lyons, who spends part of every summer in nearby Antibes. “People on the Riviera — not just Monaco — all want Caroline or Albert or Rainier at their parties. They want their patronage, they want to lie in their sun. And the gossip mill functions so smoothly here that if you did say anything nasty about them they’d hear about it before breakfast.” So nobody’s saying anything nasty about Princess Stephanie’s new career as a mother. She and Daniel Ducruet have been giving a lot of interviews lately to say how happy they are with the baby, and how happy Prince Rainier is to have another grandson, and how happy they’re all going to be when she and Daniel finally get married, which they will, only why rush, and besides (this is Daniel talking), “Marriage is a beautiful ceremony which shouldn’t be overshadowed by any sense of obligation.” (Tell that to the ghost of Princess Grace.)

“It’s so sad, so sad,” says a friend of Grace’s in New York. People’s eyes tend to widen when you ask about Stephanie, and royalty, in general, smacks its collective brow at the mention of her name. She is such an easy target for the tabloid press that it’s tempting to overlook her very real accomplishments and her winning sense of humor. It’s also a fact that her lovers and paramours, as a rule, do not discuss her when she’s finished with them. They like her. They are loyal in that sense.

“I think there’s a sort of a myth at work here,” says the doorman of an ultra-hot nightclub in Paris where Stephanie sometimes appears. “Every girl in France dreams of being a princess who hangs out with hoodlums. All of the movies are about that, all the commercials. That’s their dream. And Stephanie lives it.”

Caroline, meanwhile, is on to something else, slowly recovering from the terrible sorrow occasioned by the death of her husband, Italian businessman Stefano Casiraghi, in a speedboat accident in 1990. (Take it from me that everyone in Monte Carlo is described as a businessman sooner or later. They’re in “real estate,” or “development,” or “import-export,” and it all means money — preferably untraceable.) For most of her life before she married Casiraghi, Caroline played the same kind of circus-princess role that Stephanie acts out now. She was petulant, unruly, sometimes stupidly defiant and shocking. Her transformation, as one of her admirers puts it in a shimmering image, “from slut to saint,” is one of the most interesting of our times, and she doesn’t mind at all anymore when she’s compared to Princess Grace.

“I can’t stand to carry the burden of her unrealized ambition,” Caroline griped about her mother in 1978, at the ripe old age of 21. She said many superior things in the first flush of her independence, when she appeared as the toast of jet-set society and quite brazenly smashed her way into marriage with the much older, cavalier, epicurean Phillipe Junot. “He works with banks,” Grace remarked (frostily, we can imagine.) Caroline tells a story now — and it’s worth pointing out that she reveres her mother’s memory — of finding Grace one day bent over a copy of the Almanach de Gotha, hunting for suitable sons-in-law among the European nobility.

“Drop him or marry him,” she advised her daughter when it came to Junot, and Caroline married him, “out of naivety,” she supposes, “or maybe in the spirit of rebellion.” Grace was appalled at Caroline’s choice of men, but she summoned enough of her accustomed generosity to give her one of the all-time glamorous weddings of the 1970s — an unforgettable occasion, to hear the guests tell it, when a great deal of cocaine went up a lot of famous noses.

“Look at my little girl,” Grace cooed as Caroline tied what proved to be the loosest of knots. “She looks just like a princess!” (Friends, befuddled, were obliged to answer, “She is, Gracie. She is a princess.”) By the time the Vatican, late last year, finally got around to granting Caroline an annulment from Junot, everyone agreed that she had paid her debt to society. Tragedy — sudden death — had sobered her twice.

“Caroline is fantastic,” says Prince Dmitri of Yugoslavia, whose own family has known the Grimaldis for years. “She’s highly intelligent, highly cultivated. She’s brilliant. She can talk about anything: politics and art and metaphysics. She really is the kind of person you’d want to have next to you at dinner.” She is notoriously more exciting, at least in public, than her unmarried brother, Albert, whose gifts lie more in the line of administration and ribbon-cutting. After Grace’s death, rumors were rife that a grieving Rainier wanted to abdicate, and that Caroline (with or without her father’s consent) would “seize the throne” from Albert. These stories, denied by the palace as “ridiculous and completely without foundation,” were rather more dramatic than the situation warranted, but there’s truth to the suspicion that Caroline’s fingers will need prying loose if and when her brother takes a wife. There is nothing false about her devotion to the duties she inherited from Princess Grace, nor was there anything “sham” about her second marriage to Stefano Casiraghi. She was heartbroken when Stefano died, pulverized with grief, and there was real concern among her friends that she might crack under the strain of her loss.

She hasn’t — she won’t. She’s taken the time to recover for real, and all of a sudden she’s smiling again, to the intense satisfaction of the tabloids and the lace-tatting Monégasques. Caroline has had a lot of help in her bereavement from French actor Vincent Lindon, her boyfriend of record, who is “shadowy” in a way that differs substantially from most of the lizards you meet in Monte Carlo. He is private. He’s actually shy, and he’s completely devoted to Caroline’s three children by Casiraghi, Andrea, Charlotte, and Pierre. Lindon is also Jewish, and would presumably need to convert to Catholicism if he wants to marry Caroline — though why the Grimaldis, looking at the record of royalty over the last ten years, would need to be sticklers for protocol is beyond the ken. It has something to do with the laws of succession, obviously: Monaco enjoys a treaty of independence with its gaping neighbor, France, which stipulates that the Prince’s family has to produce a legitimate (i.e., a Catholic) heir, otherwise Monaco becomes French territory.

This is the upshot of “the Albert Problem,” the confusion that exists in the public mind about the man who is frequently described as the most eligible bachelor in Europe. At 35, Albert of Monaco is handsome, athletic (he’s an Olympic bobsledder), a wee bit nervous, and as nice as the day is long — “the dictionary definition of nice,” says a friend of the family. “He is nice, nice, nice.” Albert is the “sweetest” of all the Grimaldis, the most like his mother, with Grace’s tact and her well-known concern for the feelings of other people. (There is a marvelous story about Princess Grace and Diana Spencer, when they met for the first time on the eve of Diana’s marriage to the Prince of Wales. Grace found her crying in the ladies’ room at a party and folded her in her arms. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll get worse.”) For a number of years after Grace died, Prince Rainier kept insisting he would give up his throne as soon as Albert was “settled and confident. It will also have to do with when Albert gets married,” Rainier explained. Albert knows that the heat is on in this regard, but so far he’s refused to succumb to the pressure. He’ll take a wife when he’s ready, he says. Or not.

“Have you talked to any of his girlfriends?” a friend of Grace’s asked me when I called. “Is he a homosexual?” She thinks he isn’t. She thinks that people just think he is. “Every time I’ve seen him, God knows,” she says, “he’s surrounded by bimbos.” There is a fierce protectiveness toward Albert on the part of all his family and friends, and while everybody wants to tell you what a nice guy he is, he remains a blurry figure, not as thrilling, somehow, as you think he might be. He’s cautious, undeveloped, out of focus.

“He wants to make you feel comfortable,” says an American woman who dated Albert in Monte Carlo. She is very pretty, a leggy blonde, like most of his former sweethearts.

“When I went out with him,” she confides, “at nightclubs, or on his yacht, wherever, there were lots of — well, it’s not that I think I’m lower-class, but … there were lots of rich people. I was never made to feel that I was less than they were.” She was also never encouraged to think that she might become the next Princess of Monaco: “I didn’t think that anything `serious’ was going to come out of it. He didn’t try to kid me, and I respect him for that. I feel that he will always be a good friend of mine. He will always be there for me if I need him.” The girl explains that she “lost it” with Albert only once, when she complained that he was hard to reach (in the actual sense).

“I never see you,” she cried. “You’re always busy!” And Albert replied with perfect sincerity, “But you see me more than anyone else I’m dating.”

“And you know what?” says his friend. “I believed him. I’d probably seen him all of twice that month. But this is the thing: he never pretended with me.” She gently rejects the suggestion that Albert might be gay. She’s a professional dancer, and she knows from homosexuals: she “would have noticed.” Albert himself has publicly denied the rumors about his sexuality, but he’s smart enough to realize that no denial he can make would satisfy the press or his eager legion of gay male fans. His photograph appears in the newspapers with astonishing regularity as he frolics in boats and on sunlit beaches with a wide assortment of bare-breasted girls. He’s been seen on the slopes, so to speak, in the company of Brooke Shields, Donna Rice, Catherine Oxenberg, and, most recently, Claudia Schiffer, but again, so far as anyone knows, there’s “nobody serious” in the picture.

“And why should there be?” asks a friend of Albert’s in New York? Albert is only 35, a little older than Rainier was when he met Grace Kelly. I asked his pal to tell me “what makes Albert tick,” and the answer came without a beat: “Girls. Girls and sports and good friends.”

Is Albert gay? I blurted out (hang the consequences!).

“I’m not going to give you any details,” his friend replied. “Let’s just say I’ve been out with him at night.” He added something I couldn’t catch about “bringing them home,” then said: “Do you think it would be easy for Albert to find a bride? It’s one thing to marry a bimbo, it’s another thing to marry someone like his mother. She was superb. She was the best thing that ever happened to the principality.” There remains the possibility that Albert is just too boring and too nice for the shark-infested waters of Monaco, but this, as so much else, remains to be seen.

Will Albert marry? Will Rainier abdicate? Will Caroline seize the throne? (Let’s leave Daniel and Stephanie out of it.)

“It isn’t a joke!” cried a well-known film producer with a house in Monte Carlo, when I ventured that none of it mattered a damn. “I mean” — he was getting a bit misty — “God bless the principality! It’s a jewel! It’s a paradise! And the more the rest of the world deteriorates, the more I realize how lucky we are. I go to church every day to pray for the health of the Prince and his family. I really pray that God will keep them safe and sane. Because that is my security.”

And you know what? I believed him.

Reproduced exactly as published by “Cosmopolitan” in July 1993. Reprinted here by gracious permission of Peter Kurth. http://www.peterkurth.com

She was the baby of the family and her story is one of my favorites. This is a picture of Princess Beatrice on her wedding day, wearing her mother’s wedding veil. Her mother, of course, was Queen Victoria. Beatrice was the only daughter—and there were many—to be given the privilege of wearing Victoria’s own veil of honiton lace…

It might seem at times that whenever you read about the royals, Queen Victoria’s name pops up somehow. That’s because Victoria really was considered the “grandmama of Europe.” That’s because her relatives—and then her children and grandchildren went on to assume many of the thrones of Europe.

But back to Beatrice…the baby. As much as Victoria moaned about being pregnant and loathed it—in the end, the pregnancy and birth of baby Beatrice was to begin one of the fulfilling relationships of her life. It all began on a chilly night in December, 1861. It was the night that young Beatrice’s father died in the Blue Room at Windsor. But this just wasn’t any father…this was Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s adored–and I mean adored–husband. The night he died, the agonized and grief stricken Queen, picked up her youngest child and carried Beatrice to her own bed, laying with her throughout the night, holding Albert’s nightclothes and clutching their youngest child. There was something special about Beatrice…in some ways she was the nearest link to Albert. Beatrice comforted her.

The baby had been a happy and carefree child, full of enthusiasms–but, as Victoria’s world crumbled on that terrible night, so would Beatrice’s personality. Never again would relatives see the confident, bubbly personality of the old Beatrice. After that night it was buried away forever, and she became guarded. I’m sure it was partly shock–seeing her distraught mother and family–but it was also partly in response to the years of mourning that went on in the daily life of Victoria’s court…crying, hushed voices, tension, melancholy, melodrama.

Each elder daughter took her turn in looking after her mother. They acted as liaisons, secretaries and precious shields, keeping away the world. Eventually, Beatrice rightfully assumed her turn. Because Beatrice was the baby, there was no question that she would stay in this needed position. Whilst her other sisters married, marriage for Beatrice could not be a consideration. Quite frankly, Queen Victoria simply couldn’t do without her. And that was that.

Beatrice lived a quiet life, in rooms near her mother. She was at the Queen’s side from morning till night, reading her letters, taking dictation and notes, keeping callers at bay and keeping her dear mother company. Beatrice was very good at it too. She naturally deferred to her mother’s authority and her life was filled with all of the things that a loving companion would naturally do. She was protective, caring and genuinely adored her mother and enjoyed being with her, for the most part. She accompanied her from Buckingham Palace to Windsor Castle, then to Osborne House and we can’t forget Balmoral Castle in Scotland. For the most part they traveled to and from the latter three homes as Victoria was much too nervous to spend too much time in London.

But there always comes a time, when…well, things change. And things changed in a big way for Beatrice. In her late twenties and already a confirmed spinster, she met Henry of Battenberg at a large family event in Darmstadt. She fell in love instantly with the very handsome Battenberg…all the Battenberg brothers were known to be very handsome. And that was that. She could be as stubborn as her mother when it came right down to it. Well, she was her mother’s daughter, wasn’t she?

She was absolutely determined to marry the man of her dreams and I must say—Queen Victoria was even more determined that things would stay just the same. There would be no marriage, the Queen decreed. She simply couldn’t do without her—she would not survive it.

But, as you saw above, the Princess was in her wedding dress and so, did it happen and if so, how the heck did Beatrice pull it off? When I tell you, you won’t believe it. We’ll leave that story for another day. See part 2: “Baby Grows Up” at: http://writerofqueens.blogspot.com

——–

Susan Flanders is the creator of Writer of Queens and Queen Victoria Revealed
Susan has studied Queen Victoria since 1988 and has most of her memoirs, letters and biographies. To Susan, Victoria wasn’t the widow in black, tucked away in a castle, she was much, much more. Visit Susan’s blogs to know more and to read part 2: “Baby Grows Up“.

Prince Harry’s girlfriend Chelsy Davy has been labeled a ‘chav’, but couturier Matthew Williamson — whose clients include Sienna Miller and Jade Jagger — says there’s nothing wrong with Chelsy’s wardrobe. He counters that people are “mean” to mock Chelsy.

Chelsy is now a public person by virtue of dating Prince Harry, and no matter what anyone says, good or bad, she’d better just get used to publicity. Meanness or niceness doesn’t matter. People are going to talk no matter what.

However, if one wants to garner good press and get compliments, not to mention respect, tight clothes and short skirts are not the way to do it.

Proof? Look at the princesses and queens of the world. Look at our very own Queen Elizabeth. Do any of these ladies dress in anything other than sheer elegance? You don’t necessarily need large jewels or tiaras to be glamorous, it’s the cut and fit of well made clothes. Having genuine style is what makes people admire you, not constant reminders that you have cleavage.

Chelsy’s reputation for her rather interesting wardrobe isn’t helped by Matthew Williamson. Speaking to the Daily Telegraph, he makes himself sound a bit dodgy. “The worst thing in the world is when people start dressing older than they are, and she [Chelsy] certainly doesn’t do that.[..]”

Dressing “older” than they are? Is he implying that older means dowdy? I suppose Mariah Carey, nearly 40, is acceptable because she wears extremely tight clothes and short skirts. Apparently, dressing “younger” than you are is fine while dressing with some class is not.

Williamson will have a fine career in Hollywood!!

Written by: Mandy
© 2006 www.mandysroyalty.org

It seems that the new Crown Princesses of Europe are all the rage. Princesses Letizia, Maxima, Mette-Marit, and Mary are admired by millions. Their fame is spreading all across the Continent, and even overseas. They are charming, elegant, intelligent, and… commoners.

People love a good romance, and when a beautiful girl marries a prince, it is the news of the century. And not only has it happened once, it has happened four times within a couple of years. Now they all have gorgeous babies to further their dynasties, accomplishing the (now) second most important aspect of a royal marriage: heirs. The top priority? Love!

It seems that Europe’s future kings are marrying for love alone and are more than willing to find the right girl outside royal circles. Today’s Crown Princesses of Europe have come from fairly basic backgrounds, but their warm personalities, maturity, and ability to relate to regular people are what seals the deal on their suitability; no title required.

With these things in mind, what do we envision when we think of the future of the British monarchy? In this day and age, it seems that leadership abilities and organizational skills acquired from higher education, along with critical people-skills from a career, is paramount.

The public was pleased when Prince Edward married Sophie Rhys-Jones, a public relations strategist. Lately, it’s Kate Middleton who has many people wondering if she will be a royal wife. Will’s university educated and press savvy girlfriend has been seen as a strong contender for the title of Princess, owing much to her fantastic relationship with The Queen.

So it seems that bucking royal tradition happens even in the steadfast United Kingdom. Girls outside the aristocracy are deemed just as suitable as a royal or blueblood. It’s not what title they have, it’s how well they can support the Monarchy and keep the positive ideals of the British royal tradition alive.

Below, we look at the wives of the Princes of Spain, Norway, Holland, and Denmark respectively and analyze their strengths and circumstances. Which of the following types would we choose for William?:

Crown Princess Letizia, Princess of Asturias and wife of Prince Felipe of Spain, obtained a master’s degree in audiovisual journalism. She then became an award-winning journalist and television presenter. Letizia had even been married once already, but she and her husband divorced in 2000. The Roman Catholic Church allowed her to marry Crown Prince Felipe because her previous marriage had been a civil ceremony.

Crown Princess Mette-Marit of Norway, whose relationship with Prince Haakon had met with some controversy due to her out-of-wedlock child and wild past, nobly claimed responsibility for her actions. After her marriage to the Prince, she attended the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London. She was also accepted as an intern at NORAD, the Norwegian government’s development organization. At the time of this writing, the Crown Princess is attending lectures at the faculties of arts and social sciences at the University of Oslo.

Crown Princess Maxima of the Netherlands was a similarly controversial choice for an heir to the throne, though it was no fault of hers. Maxima’s father Jorge had been accused of cooperating with a military junta in Argentina during a bloody dictatorship. Thousands of people had been murdered, and the question of this man being at all attached to the Dutch Royal House brought about many debates. But Dutch parliament allowed the union of Maxima and Willem to take place, and even Queen Beatrix came out in support of her son’s fiance. Maxima’s father, however, could not attend her wedding.

A former investment banker, Maxima graduated in economics from the Universidad Católica Argentina in 1995 before working for companies Argentina, New York and Europe. She speaks Spanish, English, and now Dutch – no easy feat!

Crown Princess Mary of Denmark attended Hobart Matriculation College for two years. She completed her studies at the University of Tasmania, obtaining Bachelors of Commerce and Laws (BCom.LLB) degrees. She later qualified for professional certificates in advertising and marketing. Prior to her marriage, she worked for DDB Needham in Melbourne, Young and Rubicam in Sydney, and Microsoft Business Solutions in Copenhagen. She also taught Business English at a language school in Paris!

Today’s world demands that the leaders of countries serve the people to the best of their ability, and that they should know how to reign effectively. Everything they do is criticized, scrutinized, and laid bare for public consumption. Not only will a well-educated, worldly consort will do the monarchy a world of good, but so will a well-educated heir and king. Prince William should take time to learn about political science, languages, and business. Art history is a very classical, timeless piece of knowledge to have, but in a highly developed and fast-moving world, the Prince – and the monarchy – needs to be on top of things. Now is the time!

Written by: Mandy
© 2005 MandysRoyalty.org