How do you bag a part in Victoria? Simple — write yourself in!
That’s what screenwriter DAISY GOODWIN did, as the gloriously named Lady Buggins — the woman who (accidentally) shaped history
Here’s a blushworthy confession from someone who has made a career behind the scenes: as a little girl, I wanted to be an actress — or, rather, a film star. My father richard was a film producer behind classics such as Murder On The Orient express, Death On The Nile and A Passage To India, and I spent my childhood on film sets gawping in wonder at stars such as Bette Davis, elizabeth Taylor and Ingrid Bergman.
Witnessing the reverent hush that preceded these Hollywood beauties wherever they went, I decided that theirs was definitely the career path for me.
sadly, as I grew up, I realised I don’t have the face, figure or acting talent to be a screen goddess, so I settled for a life behind the camera, first as a TV producer and now as a screenwriter.
And I’ve loved it, wholeheartedly. But a little part of me, I admit, has hankered after my moment under the spotlight. As I was writing the ITV series Victoria, which tells the story of the young queen, I wondered: could there, somewhere in the machinations of 19th-century court life, be a tiny role for me?
I found the answer in the comically named Lady Cecilia Buggins, whose part was small and — dare I say it — perfectly formed, but also a cameo representing a splendid insight into the wondrous intricacies of royal Family history.
Lady Cecilia was the wife of the Duke of sussex, one of Victoria’s many uncles. But she was the Duke’s second wife, and — crucial to my plot — their marriage was morganatic. This means the spouse does not share the rank of their husband or wife.
Under the terms of the royal Marriages Act, the Duke was not allowed to marry a non-royal — even an aristocratic one — so poor Lady Cecilia, though she was the wife of a royal Duke, was not allowed to take her allotted place at court or appear at state occasions.
Luckily for poor Cecilia, her chance to escape social siberia — and, in the process, help shape British history — came when Victoria married her beloved Albert.
Because the Queen’s husband-to-be was from an obscure German principality, he was only a serene Highness, a notch below the more exalted royal Highness he became when he married Victoria.
THe rest of the royal Family still looked down on him, however, and refused to give him the right of precedence. Their disapproval signified much more than family tensions — at state occasions, Albert could not walk beside his wife, but had to make way for the Duke of sussex, who was keen to hold on to this privilege.
Victoria was incensed by this snub and determined to find a way to give Albert what she saw as his rightful place by her side. Her answer to the conundrum came in the form of a cunning manoeuvre.
she made Lady Cecilia the Duchess of Inverness — a significant promotion in rank — on condition that the Duke of sussex allowed Albert to take precedence over him.
sussex’s love for his wife overcame his pride and the deal was done: a delighted Lady C became a Duchess, while Albert was bumped up the hierarchy to take his place beside Victoria.
To me, the whole episode perfectly captured the way jostling for power and status gripped the court.
What’s more, I saw in the story of Lady Cecilia’s social triumph an opportunity for me, as a middleaged screenwriter, to don a tiara (long my secret fantasy) and fulfil my childhood dream.
I was in good company — Alfred Hitchcock famously made 39 cameos in his films, and Colin Dexter often appeared in Inspector Morse, Lewis and endeavour, the TV dramas inspired by his books.
Nervous about suggesting myself for the part, I didn’t pluck up the courage to do so until the very week the scene was due to be filmed. (As it wasn’t written as a speaking role, it would have been filled by an extra on the day.)
To my surprise, the director and producer were thrilled. They weren’t thinking of my star quality — just the budget. As the writer, I wouldn’t expect to be paid.
No matter — the next day I found myself stripped to my knickers in the costume hire house, being squeezed into a corset.
The voluminous fashions of the 1840s weren’t flattering to the middleaged woman — or to any woman who doesn’t share the elfin beauty of Jenna Coleman, who plays Victoria — but with a corset I had some pretensions to a waist.
We settled on a dress in maroon silk, which, by Victorian standards, seemed a little short.
Thus, on a freezing Friday in March, I caught the first train to Tadcaster in North Yorkshire, where the series was filmed in a converted aircraft hangar, made over as the interiors of a recreated Buckingham Palace.
I was handed thermals — essential for filming in a draughty hangar — to put under my corset.
(The female cast members complained about the corsets, but I am tempted to wear one every day. The problem is you need a lady’s maid to stand behind and tug the laces tight.)
But I abandoned all vanity in the make-up truck. As the team scraped back my fringe into a hideous but authentic Victorian up-do, the face in the mirror looked even older than my 54 years. even my tiara couldn’t hide the fact I looked a frump.
BUT I was prepared to sacrifice everything for my art, so I bravely said nothing. On set I took my place by my screen husband, played by the brilliant David Bamber (the oily Mr Collins in the BBC adaptation of Pride And Prejudice).
As the cameras rolled, we started to walk down the grand staircase to be greeted by the Duke of Wellington, played by Peter Bowles.
swamped by my swirling skirts, I thought I might pitch head-first down the stairs had I not David’s arm to grip onto.
Our scene was brief but revealing, showing Lady Cecilia being received at court as a Duchess for the first time. Wellington is shocked to see Cecilia before the situation is explained and he is forced to congratulate me on my new rank.
As the day went on, I realised I could wring far more drama out of the moment and, in the process, make my role a speaking part.
‘Duke!’ I haughtily reply to Wellington’s congratulations, flinging a lifetime’s theatrical ambitions into the word. Later, I earnestly thank Victoria for being allowed to attend.
Lady Cecilia, I had decided, should be visibly triumphant about her new status, so I kept an exultant smile fixed on my face throughout filming, which became progressively harder by the 20th take.
Yet even as my cheeks ached, that old theatrical magic worked its spell. strangely, as I made my curtsey (so deep that it looks on screen as if I have fallen over!) to Jenna Coleman playing Victoria, I really did feel I was in the presence of royalty, such is her talent.
At that moment, Jenna was every inch a queen. My blush and stammer as I tell her how pleased I am to be there were quite genuine — on the first take, at least.
I didn’t dare view the raw footage, but waited until I could see the finished cut. I watched it with my father, sitting with my hands over my eyes, horrified at the size of my nose and my dowager’s hump. Afterwards, I turned to Dad — a veteran of film, remember — and asked what he thought. ‘But which one were you?’ he said. My own father hadn’t recognised me! I couldn’t have asked for a better review.
I have been left with an even greater respect for actors — and extremely thankful I have reached middle age more than a century after Victoria’s reign when, alas, a frump had nowhere to hide her frumpiness, except, perhaps, under an even more frightening hairdo.