Buckingham Palace, June 22nd, 1897

There are some moments that even the most faithful diarist does not document. I have kept a diary- my own personal friend these sixty years at least. Today, I have told it all-

the glorious events of my Diamond Jubilee Day! I have been candid, truthful, I have related the most mundane daily trivialities from bathing my dogs to the humorous faux-pas

of ambassadors at dazzling state banquets. I have detailed war, civil strife, parliamentary intrigues, and my wonder at the latest inventions of our age. My diary has been a

solace to me: as queen I am surrounded by sycophants and servants, aides, retainers, and courtly officials. I would appear to be overwhelmed by people willing ,nay duty-

bound,to receive my most intimate confidences. But this is not the case- they are not impartial, embroiled as they are in political manoeuvring, and social ambition. They all

want something from me, they are all arrivistes of sorts- they see service to me, to the Crown, as the means to their own advancement. In contrast, my diary asks nothing of

me. It is my only release- with it I can be honest. I cannot be so with another soul, at least not since he died. He, who I loved as ever any Elizabeth loved her Leicester. I am

alone

now, desolately alone, a dying bird trapped in a golden cage. So I write, I write several paragraphs in my diary every day. I have never failed to do so. It is a ritual -almost as if

since his death, I were writing to him. I can tell my diary everything- almost everything. There was one day I recall from my long life, when I forsook my diary… the day he

forsook me ….When I could not bring myself to confess the events and feelings of the previous hours. That was the day that I went to Brocket Hall….There are some moments

that even the most faithful diarist does not document….

Humiliation and sorrow- those were my feelings as I walked away from him. I had humiliated myself, I had been rejected by the man I loved or thought I loved. At twenty, in

matters of the heart, one is so unsure of one's self. I loved him truly, I believed, in a sort of hopeless devoted way which he, no doubt, thought unsophisticated and immature.

He who had lived in the world so long, had seen so much, had known so many women. What could a girl of twenty offer him- shielded and cosseted as I had been by Lehzen? He

had told me that I must keep my heart, that I could not give it to him. Why? I couldn't understand his demeanour. One moment he held my hand carefully, reverently as though it

were a precious thing and the next, he spurned it, told me I must not think of giving it to him. That I must take it back, keep it safe for another. Like a rook, he mated for life.

That statement of his destroyed me- he still loved his faithless, false wife! Whatever their marriage had been, and by all accounts from court gossip and his own previous

assertions, it had not been a happy one, he was still in love with this dead wife. Their life together was something that had gone by long before my own birth. How foolish and

youthful I felt! I had poured my own heart out to him and been told that my love was passing, fleeting, the fancy of a silly, fickle girl! Like a rook he mated for life. But he had

underestimated me- the sorrow I felt then is confirmation to me now in the more rational mellow moments of advancing age that my feelings were no passing fancy- I did love

him every bit as much as he loved his dead wife. Like a rook, I mated for life.

Marriage to my cousins George or Albert or indeed any European prince was out of the question from that day on. I found their attempts at courtship tiresome and thoroughly

ceremonial. They had no more desire to marry me for love than I had love for either of them. They were pawns in a dull predictable political game- ghastly court etiquette and

damnable duty! Why could I not be another Elizabeth? Why was it necessary that I should marry at all? Had she not reigned serene and unmarried through England's Golden

Age? But Uncle Leopold was insistent- a son must be produced. The getting of a heir , the continuation of the dynastic line, political stability, public opinion- all conspired to force

my hand! To force my hand into marriage with a man I did not love. Someone I could not love because another man, an English viscount, years my senior, infinitely my superior

in intellect, passion, and fidelity, had rejected me. Like a rook, he mated for life.

I sometimes wonder how differently events would have transpired had my Uncle Leopold not died so suddenly, the victim of an assassin's blade. His death meant that I was the

undisputed head of my family, there was no one who outranked me or could dictate to me who I should or should not marry. If my uncle had lived, would I have eventually

succumbed and married Cousin Albert to please both him and Mama? Would some other Coburg relative have been paraded before me like a joint of beef? It didn't matter from

then on… I was Elizabeth, and there was no splendid, successful dynastic match, no pitter-patter of blue-blooded baby stockings. There were only years of mechanical duty, of

regal ritual, and the heartbreaking regret that could only be assuaged by passing glimpses at official functions, or short conversations with my former prime minister. Former

prime minister- that was all the world expected him to be to me. What he thought or felt as the years passed and I remained unmarried, he never revealed. Nor could I ask him.

Our time for intimacy was over, our moment had passed, and we both returned to protocol and restraint. He was only ever another prime minister- there have been ten others

during my long reign. While he lived, I consoled myself with these glimpses of him , those brief conversations. Sometimes he looked as well and as handsome as ever, with a

ready smile for me that he could not know filled me with agonized feelings and regrets. Love is exquisite torture! How much easier it would have been if I could have hated him!

Hatred is a healthier emotion! Hatred spurs you on, love only wears you down! Sometimes he looked older though- sadder, thinner. My concerns for him grew as we both aged. I

knew he was ill long before he knew it himself. A stooping gait weighed down by too many years, the heavy ermine of stately robes , the grey tint to the skin that told of

impending sickness… I knew he would not live another year. Thank God he did not suffer long- taken as he was in his sleep without even the consciousness of his last breath!

That end was many years ago now too! How could I have lived so long without him? Nature is a resilient thing- the body endures even if the spirit does not! Fifty years later, in

the year of my diamond jubilee, I feel that my body too is failing and I will not be long for this world. I face the prospect of my own death without consort, without issue, without

my mate.

I am alone in a decaying nest and the dark shadows that waver over the branches frighten me with their sinister undulations. Soon I will fall and ,like gravity, the proximity of

death seems such a relentless terrible thing! Cowardly as it is to admit, I fear it. I fear death because I know there is no mate waiting for me on the other side. He is already

there with his Caro! Like a rook, he mated for life…..