She was certainly fortunate in her contented disposition; for she was fated, all through her life, to have much to put up with.  Her second marriage, with its dubious prospects, seemed at first to be chiefly a source of difficulties and discomforts.  The Duke, declaring that he was still too poor to live in England, moved about with uneasy precision through Belgium and Germany, attending parades and inspecting barracks in a neat military cap, while the English notabilities looked askance, and the Duke of Wellington dubbed him the Corporal.  “God damme!” he exclaimed to Mr. Creevey, “d’ye know what his sisters call him?  By God! they call him Joseph Surface!” At Valenciennes, where there was a review and a great dinner, the Duchess arrived with an old and ugly lady-in-waiting, and the Duke of Wellington found himself in a difficulty.  “Who the devil is to take out the maid of honour?” he kept asking; but at last he thought of a solution.  “Damme, Freemantle, find out the mayor and let him do it.”  So the Mayor of Valenciennes was brought up for the purpose, and—­so we learn from Mr. Creevey—­“a capital figure he was.”  A few days later, at Brussels, Mr. Creevey himself had an unfortunate experience.  A military school was to be inspected—­before breakfast.  The company assembled; everything was highly satisfactory; but the Duke of Kent continued for so long examining every detail and asking meticulous question after meticulous question, that Mr. Creevey at last could bear it no longer, and whispered to his neighbour that he was damned hungry.  The Duke of Wellington heard him, and was delighted.  “I recommend you,” he said, “whenever you start with the royal family in a morning, and particularly with the Corporal, always to breakfast first.”  He and his staff, it turned out, had taken that precaution, and the great man amused himself, while the stream of royal inquiries poured on, by pointing at Mr. Creevey from time to time with the remark, “Voila le monsieur qui n’a pas dejeune!”

Settled down at last at Amorbach, the time hung heavily on the Duke’s hands.  The establishment was small, the country was impoverished; even clock-making grew tedious at last.  He brooded—­for in spite of his piety the Duke was not without a vein of superstition—­over the prophecy of a gipsy at Gibraltar who told him that he was to have many losses and crosses, that he was to die in happiness, and that his only child was to be a great queen.  Before long it became clear that a child was to be expected:  the Duke decided that it should be born in England.  Funds were lacking for the journey, but his determination was not to be set aside.  Come what might, he declared, his child must be English-born.  A carriage was hired, and the Duke himself mounted the box.  Inside were the Duchess, her daughter Feodora, a girl of fourteen, with maids, nurses, lap-dogs, and canaries.  Off they drove—­through Germany, through France:  bad roads, cheap inns, were nothing to the rigorous Duke and the equable, abundant Duchess.  The Channel was crossed, London was reached in safety.  The authorities provided a set of rooms in Kensington Palace; and there, on May 24, 1819, a female infant was born.