Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill: (Georgian Series) (10 page)

‘Your Highness has not only a sense of the ridiculous but a sensitive heart,’ said Fox.

As soon as he saw the Major’s remorseful manner the Prince hastened, to reassure him.

‘This is a bad business, Major, but I have some good news for you. Sheridan is not dead. I have had it from the … er surgeon. He will live.’

‘Your Highness, I am indeed glad to hear that.’

‘I thought you would be, Major. Alas, our passions get the better of us and lead us to rash actions.’

‘It’s true, but it is a terrible thing to kill a man outside of war.’

‘Well, you can assure yourself that the fellow will live. Come here to dine tonight and I will have here a gentleman who will give you the fullest information as to his condition.’

‘I don’t know how to thank Your Highness.’

‘Believe me, Major, I have understood your actions all along.’

The Prince had the satisfaction of seeing the Major retire in a happier mood that that one in which he had arrived.

The Prince received Major Hanger yet again at Carlton House.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I shall send for the gentleman who can give you the information you need.’

He signed to a page and Sheridan came into the room.

‘But …’ stammered the Major, blinking at the playwright. ‘What means this? I thought I had killed you!’

‘Oh,’ cried Sheridan, ‘I am not quite good enough for the world above. I am not yet fully qualified for this one below. So I thought it better to postpone my departure a little longer.’

‘But … I saw you fall. How could I have fired straight at you and you not …’

Sheridan turned to the Prince and said: ‘I have no doubt His Highness will explain.’

‘Major,’ said the Prince, beginning to laugh, ‘you have been the victim of a little plot of mine. It was I who conceived the idea and knowing you for the good sport you are I am sure you’ll enjoy the joke.’ He explained it all; how he had selected Sheridan to write the letter, how no balls had been put into the
pistols, how both seconds were in the plot, and how the surgeon had been the Prince himself.

The Major listened in silence and then burst out laughing. His body shook with his guffaws and the Prince and Sheridan joined in.

‘You see, we’ll have this situation turning up in one of Sherry’s plays. If so, Sherry, I claim credit.’

‘If it should, Your Highness shall have it. It would bring people crowding to the theatre. Co-author – His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales …’

‘Major, if you could have seen your face. I trust when you do fight a duel you will allow me to be present.’

‘Your Highness shall certainly be there.’

‘We’ll drink to it. Come.’

They sat and drank and the Prince grew very friendly as the evening progressed. Major Hanger had provided him with the most amusing diversion of his lifetime; Sherry had made it all work out like a play; they were his good friends; they would have many a laugh together in the future.

The Prince sang songs from Sheridan’s plays and it was a very convivial evening.

After that Major Hanger was admitted into that very intimate circle of the Prince’s friends which included Fox, Burke, Sheridan and Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

With the coming of spring the Prince thought of the pleasures of sea bathing and how amusing it would be to repeat his visit to the little Sussex fishing village.

He sent for his major-domo, Louis Weltje – an odd little German who came from Hanover and was of a most unprepossessing appearance.

The Prince liked Weltje; he trusted the little German, and as he had picked him up himself, liked to feel he had made a discovery and found himself an excellent servant. He had come across Weltje during one of his adventures when he had roamed the streets incognito. Weltje had kept a gingerbread stall at which the Prince and his friends had paused to buy.

The gingerbread had proved to be excellent and the Prince declared it was the best he had ever eaten, and conversation with the owner of the stall disclosed him to be a native of Hanover.

‘The place where the King comes from,’ said the little man with a grin. ‘What could be better than that? I thought to make a fortune but people over here don’t know how to eat.’

‘You mean you’re a cook, do you?’ asked the Prince.

Louis Weltje had nodded his great fishlike face and said: ‘You liked my gingerbread, didn’t you, sir. I’m wasting my talents on gingerbread.’

‘What else can you cook besides gingerbread?’

‘You name it, sir, and I’ll cook it as I’d be ready to wager you had never tasted it before.’

‘Sauerkraut and sausages?’ asked the Prince sceptically.

‘If you’d a fancy for it, sir. But to my mind you don’t look a sauerkraut man. Fond of fine delicacies, that’s you, sir.’

‘You may call at my house tomorrow and you’ll be given an opportunity to cook, if you wish.’

‘I’ve been waiting for an opportunity since I came here.’

‘You can present yourself to the kitchens at Carlton House tomorrow, I’ll see that you are well received.’

The Prince passed on, leaving Weltje staring after him. It was the sort of encounter which he enjoyed; and this had proved to be a worthwhile one. Not only was Weltje a first-class cook but he had other talents; he could manage the servants’ hall, for in spite of his short broad body and his remarkably fishlike face, he had an undeniable authority and the Prince had soon made him his major-domo.

Now he told Weltje that he had a liking for a certain fishing village on the Sussex coast and would not object to spending the summer there.

‘It will be difficult to find a suitable house for me to rent,’ he explained. ‘From what I saw of it the only possible one was that of Dr Russell on the Steyne which the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland were using.’

‘I will find a suitable residence for Your Highness,’ promised Weltje.

‘You will be a wizard if you do.’

‘Your Highness,’ said Weltje, with a clumsy bow. ‘I
am
a wizard.’

That very day he was driven to Brighton, put up at the Ship Inn and in his usually efficient way took stock of the town. He examined all available houses; his progress was discussed in the streets and the lanes; this was going to make all the
difference to the town. Royalty was going to adopt it. Louis Weltje at length found a residence which although not suitable would be adequate, he thought, for a short duration.

He went back to London to report.

‘I have found a house for us, Your Highness, although it is not the residence I should wish.’

‘I did not expect you to find a palace, Weltje.’

‘No, sir. Nor have I. But I think when we have furnished it suitably and have the servants there it will suffice until we can build our own.’

‘Build our own,’ cried the Prince; and laughed, for the idea of building his own house in Brighton had been fermenting in his mind for a long time.

That summer the Prince was up and down from Brighton. The people on the route would hear his horses galloping by and rush out for a glimpse of him, a glorious sight in his fine blue or green coat, the diamond star flashing on his left breast; his beaver hat set at a jaunty angle on his frizzed hair.

They called a greeting as he passed which he never failed to return.

Of course his coming completely changed Brighton. It could no longer be called a little fishing village. Prices shot up; the inhabitants went on complaining that things weren’t what they used to be and secretly they all agreed that it was good for the town to have the Prince interested in them. Now that the Prince had shown that his liking for the place was more than a passing fancy came the fashionable world of London; the price of property was doubled and every little tradesman from the crab and lobster seller to the old cobbler seated in his window overlooking the Steyne put up his prices.

‘We’re fashionable Brighton now,’ they said to each other. ‘Brighthelmstone is gone. It’s Brighton. Royal Brighton.’

There was an air of expectancy in every street. The local people grew accustomed to seeing fine ladies and gentlemen strolling about Brighton. Once a week there was a grand ball at the Castle Rooms and the people would stand outside to see the glittering jewels and the fine gowns of the ladies and the magnificence of the gentlemen, under the Prince’s leadership, rivalled them. The Prince loved the play so therefore he
visited the play house; but the local show, once he had become accustomed to its rural flavour, was not good enough for him, so companies had to come down from London. There was cockfighting in the Hove Ring; and boxing matches too, for the Prince greatly favoured this sport; and of course there were constant expeditions to the races.

Adventurers crowded into Brighton. Cardsharpers, strolling musicians, gipsies … they all believed they could make their fortunes in the town which the Prince had made his own.

Each day during the summer the bathing machines could be seen being pulled up and down the shingly beach; and the shouts of the bathers as they were seized and dipped by the stalwart attendants could be heard all along the front. Each morning when he was in Brighton the Prince went into the sea.

His friends were always thinking of some new practical joke, which might amuse him, some new form of gambling. They wagered on every conceivable occasion. They would command the local people to run races that they might wager together who would be the Winner; they performed wild mad exploits if someone bet them they could not do them.

Brighton had certainly changed with the coming of the Prince.

But as he told Weltje, Grove House was all very well and his major-domo had undoubtedly found him the best available house in Brighton, yet still it was not quite a royal residence.

‘We’ll never get that, sir, till we build our own,’ Weltje told him.

The Prince agreed it was true and began to think about a house of his own more seriously than ever.

Sometimes at dusk the Prince liked to take off his fine coat on which he wore the dazzling diamond star and, changing into an ordinary buff-coloured jacket such as might be worn by any noble gentleman, take a solitary stroll alone along the beach.

He was not sure whether on these occasions people did not recognize him or respected his privacy; but it was pleasant to escape now and then from the perpetually watchful eyes of subjects, however loving.

It was during one of his lonely walks that he saw a young
woman sitting on the beach, her back against a groin, engrossed in the aimless pastime of throwing stones into the sea.

She wore a cloak, but the manner in which she lifted her arm to throw the stone was graceful and the Prince ever ready to investigate feminine charms, approached her.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Are you alone then?’

‘Until this moment, sir,’ she answered with a pertness which assured him that his identity was certainly unknown; even strange young women do not speak to the Prince of Wales in that manner.

‘You are too pretty to be alone.’

‘La, sir, and I see you are too forward to be.’

The Prince was amused. ‘A very good reason why you should allow me to exchange a few words with you.’

‘I could scarcely prevent it,’ she retorted.

He sat down beside her and was delighted, for the hood had fallen back a little to disclose an extremely pretty face.

‘Should you be out alone at this hour?’

‘Clearly not, sir, since it enables strangers to believe that they can … accost me.’

She made as though to rise but he held out a hand and laid it gently on her arm. ‘Please do not go … just yet. Stay and chat awhile. There is no harm done.’

She hesitated. ‘If my guardian knew that I was out …’

‘So you have escaped?’

‘I cannot bear to be caged. I ran away … but only for an hour or so. I shall have to go back.’

‘You live in Brighton?’

She shook her head. ‘We are here because it is so fashionable to be here … now that the Prince of Wales favours it.’

‘So your family is here because
he
is here.’

She nodded. He saw that she was very young. That was piquant; he had never been in love with a woman younger than himself before.

She grimaced. ‘Oh yes, we must go to Brighton because His Royal Highness is at Brighton.
I
wish His Highness anywhere than at Brighton, I can tell you.’

‘Thank you for the information. But why are you so set against His Highness’s coming here?’

‘Because if he weren’t here I shouldn’t be here, and if I
weren’t here I shouldn’t have met …’ She stopped.

‘A chance stranger on a beach?’

She burst out laughing; she had very pretty teeth. ‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of
you
.’

‘How cruel of
you
.’

‘Why should it be cruel? I don’t know you.’

‘We are going to change that, are we not?’

‘Are we?’ She was on her feet, for as he had spoken he had made an effort to take her hand. But she was too quick for him. She turned gracefully on her toes – not easy on the shingle, and poised for flight looked over her shoulder at him. He was on his feet.

‘You are not going?’

‘But I am. Goodbye … stranger.’

‘But …’

‘But I may be here tomorrow … at the same time …
if
I can get away.’

She ran off swiftly.

A rather amusing adventure, he thought, as he walked back to Grove House.

Her name was Lottie, she told him; but she would tell him no more. Where was she staying? Where did she live?

‘Women,’ she answered pertly, ‘should be mysterious. I’m not very old, but I know that.’

‘You succeed in being very mysterious.’

‘Tell me, do you know the Prince of Wales?’

‘I would say I was on reasonably good terms with that gentleman.’

‘Then doubtless you know my guardian.’

‘Tell me his name.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I daren’t do that.’

‘Dare not? Why?’

She was mischievous suddenly. ‘It would spoil the mystery.’ Then she was suddenly in tears. She was afraid they were going to marry her to an old man … a rich old man. He was a suitable match and she hated him and what was she going to do about it? What could she do?