Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill: (Georgian Series) (7 page)

Maria prepared for her visit to London. She would miss the fresh air of Richmond, she reminded herself. Well, she was not far away and it would be simple enough to come back whenever she wished; moreover, she would enjoy a stay in London; and it was as well to make sure that all was well in the Park Street House. She would need clothes, but would arrange that in London. Yes, she was looking forward to a little town life.

But the country was charming; she loved to stroll along by the river towards Kew on these lovely spring days when the trees were budding and the birds in full song.

One day when the sun was shining she slipped a cloak about her shoulders and not bothering to put a hat on her glorious hair, worn loose and unpowdered, she strolled out into the sunshine.

There were very few craft on the river; she supposed that it
would be busier between Kew and Westminster, with so many people going back and forth between the royal palaces. That was another reason why Richmond was so restful.

She paused suddenly; she heard the sound of laughing voices; a small party of men and women came into sight. She would have turned back, but they had seen her and she did not want to have given the impression of avoiding them. She noticed at once that these people were most elegantly dressed, their hair powdered, their coats of velvet and satin. A party, she guessed, from the Court, strolling out from Kew Palace.

One young man of the party stopped suddenly a little ahead and made a gesture as though bidding the others not to walk beside him: the rest of the party slackened their pace and as he approached Maria she saw the diamond star on his coat and a suspicion came to her that he must be a very distinguished personage indeed.

He was young, fresh complexioned, blue-eyed, inclined to be a little plump, rather tall and undoubtedly handsome.

As she approached he gave her the most elaborate bow she had ever seen. She bowed and, quickening her step, hastily walked on and took a path winding away from the river. She did not look back; her heart was beating faster; she wondered briefly whether she was being followed. But no. She could hear the voices of the party she had just passed; they were still on the towpath. By a round-about way she came back to the river. She was relieved that there was no sign of the elegant party. She had guessed of course who the young man was who had bowed so elegantly. It was none other than the Prince of Wales.

Now she was pleased that she was going to London for she had a notion that if she strolled out along the towpath at precisely the same time the next day she would encounter the same party.

She did not wish for that. The Prince of Wales had already acquired a rather dangerous reputation where women were concerned; he took a delight in romantic adventures. She was sure that he would have thought a chance meeting on a towpath a most amusing meeting place. But Maria Fitzherbert was no Mrs Robinson. Yes, it was time she appeared in society as a reputable matron of irreproachable character.

No sooner had she settled into Park Street than Isabella Sefton descended on her. They must pay their suggested visit to the Opera, but first Isabella wished to launch her dear Maria into society through a ball she was giving the next day.

It was pleasant to be in a society which was more glittering than anything she had experienced before, though Isabella assured her that her ball was homely compared with those given at Devonshire House or Cumberland House … to say nothing of Carlton House.

‘You are not suggesting that we shall be invited to Carlton House!’ cried Maria.

‘It would not surprise me in the least,’ laughed Isabella.

Maria thought a little uneasily of that encounter on the river bank; but perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps that elaborate bow was the manner in which he greeted any of his father’s subjects. After all, he had to woo their popularity; and the most elegant of bows would be expected from royalty. She had heard that his father, the King, strolled about Kew and talked to people as though he were a country squire.

She was surrounded by admirers. Not only her beauty was admired, but the fact that she looked so different from every everyone else. The women with their powdered hair, their elaborate styles, were not dissimilar; but Maria Fitzherbert was different. Not only was her hair unpowdered but her complexion, which was flawless, was untouched by rouge or white lead; she had a delightful combination, the youthful skin of a young girl and the fully developed bosom of an older woman. It was impossible not to notice her. Maria Fitzherbert, because she was different from all other women, was the belle of the ball.

The next day a paragraph appeared in the society columns of the
Morning Herald.
It said:

‘A new constellation has lately made an appearance in the fashionable hemisphere, that engages the attention of those who are susceptible to the power of beauty. The widow of the late Mr F … h … t has in her train half our young nobility; as the lady has not, as yet, discovered a partiality for any of her admirers, they are all animated with hopes of success.’

When Isabella brought the paper to show her Maria was annoyed.

‘It is absurd. I have only just arrived. And to talk of my partiality. It is quite ridiculous.’

‘Such notoriety is something we all have to endure when we become famous, Maria.’

‘Famous. For appearing at a ball!’

But Isabella laughed. Maria was fascinating. She was so different.

Maria surveyed the audience from the Sefton box at Covent Garden. Many eyes were on her. Perhaps, she was thinking, I will curtail my stay in London. It would certainly be more peaceful at Richmond; or perhaps she would go to stay for a while at Brambridge or with Uncle Henry.

Then she was aware of the changed atmosphere in the theatre. She was no longer the focus of attention. Something was happening.

Isabella leaned towards her and whispered. ‘This is to be a royal occasion.’

And into one of the boxes opposite stepped a glittering figure. His coat was of black velvet spattered with blue spangles and on his breast he wore a flashing diamond star.

A cheer went up as he came to the edge of the box and Maria saw a repeat performance of that most elegant bow; he was smiling at the audience which greeted him with such warm affection. So she could no longer doubt that the gallant young man she had met on the towpath was the Prince of Wales.

He sat down and leaned his arms on the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.

Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.

It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.

Isabella was chuckling.

‘Ha, ha cousin,’ she whispered. ‘I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.’

‘This is most … embarrassing.’

‘Many would find it most flattering.’

‘Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.’

The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.

Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.

But not Maria Fitzherbert.

The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if this was not due to them.

Maria said quietly but firmly, ‘I shall leave at once, Isabella. My chair will be waiting.’

Isabella was amused. She wondered how deeply the Prince was affected. After all, Maria must be about six years older that he was. Mary Robinson, it was true, had been about three but she was only twenty-one at the time of that liaison and Maria must be about twenty-seven or eight – the Prince twenty-one.

‘Very well, my dear,’ she said. ‘But you will certainly meet him at someone’s house sooner or later.’

‘Not if I return to Richmond,’ said Maria.

Her servant was waiting with the chair and she gave instructions that she was to be carried with all speed to her house in Park Street.

As her chair was carried through the streets she was more disturbed than the occasion warranted, she told herself. Perhaps he had not been looking at her. Perhaps it had been a mistake. That paragraph in the paper had made her imagine that she really was as fatally attractive as the writer had made her out to be. He had been bored with the Opera and had merely diverted himself.

They had arrived at the house and thankfully she alighted, but as she did so she saw another chair entering the street.

She hurried into the house, her heart beating fast. The door was shut. She felt … safe.

But she could not resist going to the window.

She saw the chair stop; someone alighted.

Oh no, she thought. It is not possible!

But it was. He was standing there in his spangles and diamonds.

The Prince of Wales, like some lovesick country swain, had followed Maria Fitzherbert home.

Adventures of a Prince

DURING THE SUMMER
of 1783 when the Prince of Wales was approaching his twenty-first birthday he believed that he was the most fortunate man in England, and he was surrounded by men and women who confirmed him in this belief. He was at last escaping from the restraint which his puritanical parents had put on him, and was free to be the companion of the most brilliant men in the country; he could indulge his passion for architecture in Carlton House, that old ruin which his father had flung to him and which he was fast converting into the most elegant residence in Town; he could run his own horses at Newmarket; he could take his place in the House of Lords; and he could, without any attempt at secrecy, pursue the greatest diversion of all – women.

Let the King splutter his threats and warnings; let the Queen alternately scold and declare her sentimental fondness for her first born; they could not deter him. He was the idol of the people, the quarry of every fashionable hostess – for no ball was of any significance without him – and almost every woman longed to be his mistress. There were a few exceptions; Georgiana, his dearest Duchess of Devonshire, among them, but this only made this most delightful of all occupations the more piquant, and while he could sigh for the unattainable he could always soothe himself with the eagerly accommodating.

Life was very good that summer for the Prince of Wales.

Some months before he first set eyes on Maria Fitzherbert his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, had suggested he come down to visit him at a house he had rented from a certain Dr Russell and which was situated in a little fishing village called Brighthelmstone.

‘What,’ demanded the Prince of Wales of his equerry, the Earl of Essex, ‘should I want of a little fishing village called by such a name as Brighthelmstone?’

‘I have heard of the place, Your Highness,’ answered Essex. ‘It is also known as Bredhemsdon.’

‘Which is no more pleasant to my ear than the other,’ retorted the Prince.

‘No, sir, but they say the sea bathing there is very beneficial to the health – and it is not so far from London to make the journey tiresome.’

Sea bathing! thought the Prince, and touched his silken neckcloth. Recently he had been affected by a slight swelling of the throat and he and Lord Petersham had together designed a neckcloth which would completely hide it. Hence neckcloths in exquisite designs and colourings were the height of fashion now. The Prince’s physicians had suggested that sea bathing might be good for his throat; he had not taken the idea very seriously, but Essex’s remarks reminded him of it.

‘I confess it would be amusing to see how my aunt Cumberland
amuses
herself in a fishing village.’

‘I am sure, sir, that where the Duchess found herself there would she find amusement.’

The Prince laughed aloud. He was fond of the lady who had inveigled his uncle most unsuitably into marrying her, and being banished from the Court because of her. She was a fascinator – a woman of wide experience; the very manner in which she fluttered her eyelashes, which had become a legend since Horace Walpole had referred to them as being a yard long, was in itself a promise. The Prince delighted to call her by what seemed to him such an incongruous title as ‘Aunt’, and as she was constantly urging him to honour Cumberland House with his presence he had seen her and his uncle often since he had been free to do so – much to the chagrin of His Majesty, of course, who believed it was just another trick of his son’s to plague him, which in a way perhaps it was.

At least his uncle had had the courage to marry the woman of his choice, thought the Prince, whereas his father, the King, by all accounts had meekly given up Lady Sarah Lennox for the sake of that plain German Princess, Charlotte, who was the mother of that large family of whom he, the Prince, was the eldest son.

Yes, he would go to Brighthelmstone or whatever they called it. Perhaps Essex should be one of those who accompanied him. They were good friends, he and Essex. The Earl had served him faithfully as go-between in the affair of Perdita Robinson – Lord Maiden he had been at that time, having recently inherited his earldom. Maiden it was who had carried those letters between them, arranged those assignations on Eel Pie Island and persuaded the lady to do what she had intended from the first – surrender.

The Prince smiled cynically. He would never again be caught in that way. But it was no fault of Essex that Perdita after promising to be the love of his life had turned out to be nothing but a sentimental bore – and a scheming one too. The Prince flushed with anger even now, remembering the humiliating scene with his father when he had had to confess that his ex-mistress was threatening to publish letters which she had in her possession and which had been written by the flowery but very indiscreet pen of the Prince of Wales.