Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill: (Georgian Series) (15 page)

In a few days time they would be together. How affected she had been when she had seen him lying there on the couch! He could have no doubt of her feelings then.

At last he was happy. Maria could not hide her love for him. The most happy time of his life was about to begin.

When they arrived at Southampton’s place a messenger from London was there.

He had come, he said, with a letter for Lord Southampton and had been instructed by Mrs Fitzherbert to put it into no hands but his lordship’s.

The Prince smiled happily. He thought: She is writing to Southampton to thank him for the part he played in our little ceremony. My dearest Maria is as happy as I am.

‘Read it now, Southampton. Read it now,’ he said, smiling blandly.

As Southampton read he turned pale; as he opened his mouth as though to speak, and yet said nothing, a sudden fear touched the Prince. ‘What is it? What is it?’

‘Sir, she has left the country. She reproaches me for … for taking advantage of the situation …’

The Prince snatched the letter. Maria’s handwriting danced before his eyes. She had been the victim of a hoax, she had written, but she had not been deceived. She did not admire Lord Southampton for attempting to delude her, nor for imagining she was such a fool that she could be deluded. She was therefore reverting to her original decision to leave the country, and by the time he received this letter she would be on her way.

The letter dropped to the ground. The Prince’s face had grown scarlet with anguish; he stalked into the house, past the members of the household who, having been warned of his coming, were waiting to give him an appropriate welcome.

He paced round the hall not seeing anyone. In vain did Southampton try to comfort him. He shouted; he wept.

‘Pray remember your weak state, sir …’ murmured Southampton.

But the Prince could only think of one thing: He had believed she was about to be his and she had gone – he did not even know where.

The King in his bedroom at Kew Palace awakened at five in the morning as was his custom and got out of bed to light the fire which his attendants had laid overnight. Then he returned to bed to allow the room to warm up before he rose and attended to the State papers which were on a table awaiting his attention.

Since young Mr Pitt had taken office he had consoled himself that the Government was in good hands. Mr Pitt was like his father had been, a trifle arrogant but courteous in his conduct to the King, yet somehow conveying the fact that while he was Prime Minister he intended to manage the country’s affairs without royal interference. He might ask for the King’s approval, but this was a formality and the King realized it. How different from Lord North was Mr Pitt! But then if he had been like Lord North the country’s affairs could not have been so skilfully managed.

The American Colonies … The King groaned at the thought of that major disaster. Rarely had Britain suffered such a humiliating setback. It would be remembered against him and North for ever. Any good he had done for his country – and he had given it a lifetime of service – would be weighted against that tragedy.

Never, never shall I forget it, thought the King. Where did we go wrong? At what stage could some action of mine make it turn out differently?

Back went his thoughts over the past. Little incidents chased themselves in and out of his mind, leering at him suddenly, mocking him, laughing at him until he thought they were
mischievous pages who had broken into his bedchamber to play a game called Mocking the King.

What ridiculous thoughts came to him nowadays.

But once he had been strong. He had believed that a king should rule. In the days of his youth when he had been greatly in awe of his destiny and had believed that he would never be able to mount the throne without Lord Bute behind him, his mother had continually admonished him: ‘Be a king, George.’ Those words had haunted him in his dreams and when he had in fact become a king, when he had begun to take a grasp of State affairs, he had said: ‘Very well, Mother, I will
be
a king.’

And he had tried to be.

When the country had been against continuing the war with the Colonists and he had wished to go on he had wanted to choose a cabinet and set himself at the head of it. That aroused even docile North to protest.

‘Your Majesty is well apprised that in this country the Prince of the Throne cannot, with prudence, oppose the deliberate resolution of the House of Commons. Your Royal predecessors have been obliged to yield to it much against their wishes in more instances than one.’

That was the situation. In this country one was a king but no King. One was governed by a body of men called the Parliament and the King could be plagued by them. There were men like the Pitts. Old Pitt had been a brilliant statesman; to him could be accredited the founding of the Empire. Looking back that was plain enough; and his son Pitt the Younger was such another.

Poor old fool that some would think me, mused the King, I have sense enough to see that.

But these men of integrity such as the Pitts made up for their honesty with their arrogance. Young Pitt was an able man; he knew it; and he was determined to govern with concessions to none. Pitt blamed North’s subservience to the King for the loss of the Colonies, and would have no interference with
his
Ministry.

‘Young puppy,’ thought the King and was immediately sorry. Mr Pitt was no puppy: he was a brilliant statesman. Age had nothing to do with it. He had inherited that touch of genius
from his father and he, the King, should be glad of it.

Moreover, Mr Pitt was in opposition to Fox and anyone who was in opposition to that man was a friend of the King’s. Fox! The King’s eyes bulged at the thought of that man. He more than any other was responsible for the sins of the Prince of Wales. He had heard that wherever the Prince was, there was Fox. The Prince doted on Fox; he confided in Fox; he treated Fox like a father; and there was that arch villain always at his son’s elbow, teaching him to drink, to gamble and to live an immoral life with women. Mr Fox thought this was the way a gentleman should live and the Prince was eager to learn.

Merely thinking of the Prince of Wales made the King’s brain whirl. ‘What next, I wonder,’ he said aloud. ‘What next, eh, what?’

He rose from his bed. The room was warm enough and he would start brooding on the activities of the Prince of Wales if he stayed there in bed. Better dress and look through the papers on his desk and be in time to take a dish of tea with the Queen.

He dressed thoughtfully. There were no ceremonies of the bedchamber at Kew. He was glad to escape from all that and it was the reason why he so enjoyed being at ‘dear little Kew’ as Charlotte called it.

Here he lived like a squire in a country village, and at the same time like a king of a little German Court whose law was absolute. Neither the determination of Mr Pitt nor the villainies of Mr Fox could interfere with life at Kew. If the King made some regulation then the household must obey, and no carping politicians could remind him that the King must submit to the rule of Parliament.

So at Kew he would make his rules.

He was horrified when he looked at himself nowadays. In spite of all the exercise he took and the careful manner in which he watched what he ate, he was growing fat. It was a curse no members of the family seemed to be able to avoid. It was unfair. After all his efforts to keep his body supple and agile, there was that disgusting paunch. His eyebrows had turned white and they were the more conspicuous because of his high colour. He was always depicted in the cartoons as being fatter than he was and he would be seated at a table
laden with such foods as he had denied himself all through his life.

‘It’s the family tendency to grow fat,’ he said; and he made more rigorous rules in the nursery.

And while the people sneered at him and lampoons and cartoons were circulated in the streets about him they admired the Prince and cheered
him.
That gambler, that drinker, that frequenter of prizefights, that
puppy
who was always chasing some woman or other – and in the most public manner – was admired.

And here he was back at the Prince of Wales.

But, he reminded himself, here at Kew it is different. Although he was not able to control the Prince of Wales he would see that those members of the family who were still under his control should toe the line. Frederick was in Hanover, learning to be a soldier; William was at sea; Edward would soon be going to Germany to study soldiering. That left only Ernest, Augustus and Adolphus among the boys at home – and the girls, of course, from Charlotte the Princess Royal who was eighteen to the adorable baby Amelia who was one, six girls in all. Quite a family, and he was going to see that they did not go the way of their eldest brother.

Though where I went wrong I fail to see. Perhaps I should abdicate. I lost the Colonies. Am I fit to be King? I sired the Prince of Wales. Am I fit to be a father? Well, the Princesses were a credit to him; they always sat so meekly in a little row and spoke when spoken to. They would be his comfort, and particularly his adored Baby Amelia. They must take care of her, he had told the Queen; the deaths of little Alfred and Octavius had been a terrible blow to them both. But there were thirteen left to them. Charlotte had been a good mother and a good wife, so he must not think of other more beautiful women. He wished he could get Elizabeth Pembroke out of his head. She was a beautiful woman, and she was at Court, which made it rather more important not to think of her.

He came to Kew for rest and relaxation. He liked being at Kew; he liked Windsor too; both places were a refuge. At Kew and Windsor the people came out to see him when he rode past their houses. They dropped curtsies to him as though he were a country squire; and he would stop and ask how the crops
were this year, and he could talk knowledgeably about the land, too. He ought to have been a farmer, some said.

But what was the use of trying not to think of the Prince of Wales. His son was in debt, and now there was some talk of his infatuation for a widow. The whole town was talking about it, singing songs about it.

It was no use trying to think of State papers. He would go and see the Queen.

The Queen was at breakfast with her daughters.

Charlotte, the eldest and Princess Royal, looked healthy enough; the others were a trifle pale. He looked at them anxiously for some sign of the family plumpness. He supervised their nursery diet in person; it was the same which had been in force when the Prince of Wales was lord of the nursery. Meat only on certain days and then all the fat was pared off; and if a fruit pie was cooked the pastry was not served to the children – only the fruit; but they could have as many greens as they wished. And they must take fresh air in plenty; they must walk, for exercise was good for them.

He was fond of them, but they were wary of him. It seemed he had gone wrong with his children as well as with his ministers.

‘Good morning,’ said the Queen and the girls stood up and curtsied.

He smiled at them. ‘Having breakfast, eh, what? Eh? And not over eating, I hope. Don’t want to be fat. Family tendency.’

The Queen said that it was not a tendency of her side of the family to be fat, and it might well be that the girls would take after her. ‘Will Your Majesty take some breakfast?’

‘Nothing but a dish of tea for me,’ said the King.

‘It is not enough,’ scolded the Queen as she scolded regularly each morning and no one took the remark seriously.

The King drank his dish of tea and the Princess Royal thought how boring it all was and wondered when they would find a husband for her and she could escape.

She knew that outside the family circle people laughed at the King and Queen. They called them dull and boring; and to listen to their conversation one must agree.

‘How time flies,’ the King was saying.

‘I am always quarrelling with time,’ replied the Queen. ‘It is
so short to do something and so long to do nothing.’

‘It is long when we are young and short when we grow old.’

The Queen was looking pointedly at her daughters: ‘Nothing angers me so much as to hear people not know what to do. For me I have never half enough time to do things. What makes me more angry still …’ A sterner look at Princess Charlotte this time – ‘is to see people go up to a window and say “What a bad day it is! What shall we do on such a day as this?” “Do?” I reply. “Employ yourselves and then what signifies a bad day?”’

How dreary it all is! thought Princess Charlotte. No wonder George went wild when he escaped. Who wouldn’t? And now he’s chasing that widow and everyone is talking about him. Lucky George! I wish he would come here more often. I wish he would talk to us. The only time he ever came to see us was when he imagined himself in love with Mary Hamilton and that was because she happened to be one of our attendants.

What was the latest news of George? Perhaps the King and Queen would talk of him and forget their daughters were present.

But they did not, of course. They were talking of the festivals which the King had started this very year and which meant that everyone must be as enthusiastic about music as their Majesties. And I am not, thought the Princess. She was still a little resentful because the King had said she must have a concert for her birthday celebrations when she would rather have had a ball. ‘Not like music,’ the King had said. ‘Well, Papa,’ she had replied boldly, ‘I do not think I have an
ear
for it.’ ‘No ear for it! What’s that mean, eh? what? You’ll have to
grow
ears for it. Music is something you have to learn to like.’ And the Queen: ‘His Majesty is quite right, Princess Royal. He expects every member in the family to love music.’

How wonderful to be married! As soon as they find a bridegroom for me, she thought, I will start making my wedding dress. I will put every stitch into it myself and all the time I sew I shall be telling myself: I shall soon be free.

She looked at her sister Augusta, who talked too much when their parents were not present and was impatient with the ceremonies of dressing; she allowed her women to dress her exactly as they wished and indeed were it not for them would
look a positive scarecrow. As for Elizabeth she did not feel so irked by their restricted lives as the others; she could shut herself away in her room and write poetry. Mary and Sophia were too young to know very much about what they were missing.