“I hardly realise even now that the King is gone, never to come back again,” Her Majesty said to me, her large eyes full of tears. “At first I felt as though any moment he might come into the room.” I could not speak for tears. “I want you to accept this souvenir from me,” and, as she spoke, the Queen handed me a brooch with the entwined cypher, A. and E. “Keep it in memory of our friendship.” Her Majesty also gave me a ruby scarf pin which had belonged to the late King and his cigarette case for my dear husband. “He was so fond of the Maharajah, and I hope your husband will wear the pin, the King often wore it,” Her Majesty told me.
I am sure Queen Alexandra would be pleased if she knew how much she is beloved by the women of India. I often speak to our ladies about her.
We lost no time in consulting specialists about the Maharajah’s health. Dr. Beasley Thorne advised a course of Nauheim treatment in a private nursing home. Luckily the Home in Inverness Terrace was not one of the abodes where sufferers experience discomfort as well as illness. The only complaint my husband made was that he felt lonely. He wrote me that unless I went and stayed with him he would not finish his course of treatment, nor remain in the Home. So I went and stayed there until the treatment was finished.
Dr. Beasley Thorne was like a father to my husband. Even when in great pain my husband’s face brightened when he saw the doctor. The Maharajah had perfect faith in this kind man, who was with him till the last. After the treatment the Maharajah went to Whitby, but he had misgivings. “I don’t feel really better, although the doctors say I am,” he wrote.
Troubles followed us in rapid succession. Baby had to undergo an operation, I lost a very faithful Indian servant, and in October my husband developed pneumonia. We were then living at 28, Grosvenor Street, but afterwards we moved into 2, Porchester Gate. Rajey had arrived in England, and his state of health worried me to distraction. I seemed beset with difficulties and dangers, and did not know what to do for the best.
In February, 1911, I took a small house, 6, Lancaster Gate, where I was ill. As soon as I was able to move I returned to Porchester Gate. Pretty was ill; in fact, it seemed to me that thick clouds were hanging over me and made my path very hard to travel. How difficult it is to smile when one’s heart is breaking!
My husband was ill during the Coronation festivities and I did not at all want to go out to parties, but he would not bear of my staying away and had beautiful dresses made for me. It was so hard to have to attend grand State parties when I longed to be at home with him. On the day I went to the Abbey I took my Jit with me, and as my husband was ill both he and I hoped that little Jit would be given a seat near me. Instead of this he was put right away somewhere and I had to sit with all the other Maharajahs. Although this was a great honour, my heart was sad and I longed to have the boy with me.
My husband rallied a little about this time and we went to Court, but his altered appearance excited every one’s sympathy. Shortly afterwards pneumonia again set in and he was dangerously ill.
As the Maharajah’s medical advisers were of opinion that change of air might work wonders, we decided to go to Bexhill, where we rented a little bungalow facing the sea. The day we left London was marked by an ominous accident. As I waited on the landing, I heard a sudden fall. I rushed up the stairs and found my husband sitting on a stair, he had been coming down when he slipped, missing about five steps. There was a great mirror at the end of the stairs. Had he gone through, the accident might have been a fatal one. “An omen, an omen,” said our Indian servants to me. “Why do you take His Highness to-day? it is an unlucky day.” It can easily be understood what a shock I received from this mishap. When we first went to Bexhill we were in great hopes that the change would do my husband good. We went for one motor drive, but after that he looked worse and did not care to leave his room. A new doctor was recommended by Dr. Beasley Thorne, a Dr. Adamson, whom my husband appointed civil surgeon of Cooch Behar. He was with us in the bungalow. I was frightened to see how sure my husband felt he would never get well. He was quite prepared to go, and his world seemed rapidly fading away from him. “Let us be happy together. My journey is almost at an end. Why do you fear death?” were remarks he often made at Bexhill.
As I saw him getting more and more ill I spoke to Dr. Thorne and sent a cablegram for my eldest girl and youngest boy to come.