The First Duchess

The story of Kitty Pakenham, who in 1806 married the First Duke of Wellington.

I told him we should meet again.
Twenty-three when first I fell in
Love with him, he twenty-seven.

My father would not bless the match.
To prove his worth Arthur set sail
To India – Seringpatam;

Assaye; returned a hero; so
Yes, said father.  April wedding
In the damp of Dublin city – 

Dim as my eyes had grown. ‘We must,’
I said, ‘Meet just once more – once more
Before I walk the aisle.’ How long

Since we last cast that loving glance?
Nine years.   I’d changed – knew I had changed.
The beauty Arthur caught in me

Had gone; the graceful liveliness
Gone too.  But he cried ‘No. No need
To meet. My feelings are unchanged.’

That glowering day, that gloomy 
Church.  I heard him murmur to his
Friend, ‘Egad, she’s ugly.’  Ugly?

I hadn’t thought he’d go that far.
We’ve done the best we can over
The years, the Duke and I.  Victor

In Portugal and Spain, and then
The nation’s feted darling
After Waterloo.  No surprise

He liked to be with ladies full
Of wit and dazzle: how could I
Outshine Mrs. Arbuthnot?  She

Who rattled about politics 
To my Prime Minister husband?
Her nicknamed her ‘La Tyranna’.

I stayed at Stratfield Saye, deep in
The folds of Hampshire; I brought up
Douro and Charles.  Two sons I gave him.

‘How long my nose is a-growing!’
Groaned his heir.  He wanted that beak – 
That eagle beak that pierced right through

Napoleon’s dream.  I couldn’t
Manage the account books – feared
The reins of the house; cared only for

My children, and the servants,
And those who sheltered
Under my charitable care.

This angered the First Duke.  His ire
Was also drawn by my grey hair,
My sad grey hair. ‘Kitty, what you need

Is a wig.’ As if he thought he stood
Addressing officers in the mess.
I bought a wig, and threw away

My battered straw hat.  I’ll admit – 
Even my boys complained I dress
In a manner unbecoming.

Now clothes no longer matter.  Here
I lie in Apsley House.  The mob
Outside cares not at all that I

Am dying now.  As my life thins
I hear the stones – like cannon balls – 
They throw at our windows, enraged

That Waterloo’s hero cannot
Abide Reform.  He’s by me now.
I place my hand around his arm;

Feel for the place.  There!  There it is:
The amulet I gave him when
We loved – young and ordinary.

I find it there, my proof of love – 
And his: he loves me still.  I touch
The hard, warm circle round his wrist.