by Jean Plaidy
He was proud of his brother.
Poor George, he was a little sad about Maria Fitzherbert, but their connection was severed and he was devoted to Lady Hertford.
George had explained to William. ‘I love Maria,’ he had said. ‘I always shall. It’s this damned religion of hers. If she hadn’t insisted on marriage… But the main point of contention is that she’s a Catholic. How could the Regent have it said that he was married to a Catholic? It would be enough to shake the throne. We have to consider that, William. All of us.’
Was he reminding William that like the rest of them he had his duty?
George was receiving his guests, magnificent as ever, the diamond star glittering on his coat. Then he led the way into the banqueting hall with its treasures, its works of art. The table was a work of art too, with a stream running down the centre in which gold and silver fishes swam.
It was during the banquet that William became aware of the beautiful young woman. She was exquisitely gowned, animated and in conversation with a young man who appeared to be paying court to her.
‘Who is the young lady?’ asked William of his neighbour.
‘Did not Your Highness know? She has caused quite a stir since she has come to court. She is Miss Catherine Tylney-Long, daughter of the late Sir James Tylney-Long.’
‘I’m not surprised that she causes a stir. She is very beautiful.’
‘Oh, it is not her beauty which causes a stir, Sir. It is her fortune. She is worth £40,000 a year.’
‘£40,000 a year!’ cried William. ‘She must be one of the richest young ladies in England.’
‘That is the general opinion, Your Highness.’
‘And who is that who is talking to her so earnestly?’
‘Wellesley-Pole, Your Highness. Lord Maryborough’s son.’
‘Is he related to the Duke of Wellington?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Interesting,’ said William; and he thought: £40,000 a year. And a beauty too. Young, lovely and rich.
When the banquet was over he asked that Miss Catherine Tylney-Long be presented to him. He found her even more charming than he had believed possible. Witty, amusing, not the least impressed by the interest of a Royal Highness, in fact very diverting.
He insisted on keeping her at his side, much to the chagrin of Wellesley-Pole, but the young lady seemed to enjoy this; and it was a gratifying experience.
He was very loath to leave her and when he said good-bye he had discovered what functions she would be attending and decided to making a point of being there.
He did not go to Bushy afterwards, but to his apartments in St James’s.
I have been leading a strange life for a royal prince during twenty years, he thought. I have forgotten what it is like to be in fashionable society. People noticed it and did not like it. A prince should live like a prince not like some bourgeois gentleman dominated by domestic concerns.
Everywhere he went there too was Catherine Tylney-Long. So beautiful, so enchanting and so… rich. He could not think of her without thinking of £40,000 a year, and what it would mean to him.
He realized that he was in love. He was in love with the beautiful face and figure of Miss Tylney-Long and her beautiful income.
When thoughts of Bushy crept into his mind he pushed them away. Twenty years was a long time to be faithful to one woman and princes had more temptations than most men.
He could not expect Miss Tylney-Long to be his mistress; her family would never agree to that, but doubtless if he offered marriage they would be overcome with delight. Their heiress would become a Duchess and no ordinary Duchess because it was just possible that if anything happened to Charlotte, one day Miss Tylney-Long would be Queen of England.
William remonstrated with himself. What am I thinking of? What should I tell Dorothy and the children? How could I possibly go down to Bushy and say: ‘I’m going to be married.’
And yet… he was a Prince and he had his duty. His mother was constantly instilling that into him. His duty… his duty… to marry a beautiful young girl and £40,000 a year!
Debts were mounting. He dared not think what he owed. If he married he would get a settlement and his debts would probably be paid by a government grant. They would be delighted, for everyone must be rather uneasy while there was only a young girl to follow her father. If Charlotte died without offspring what would happen to the House of Hanover?
It was his duty to marry… and to marry Miss Catherine Tylney-Long.
He went to Carlton House to see his brother.
George had changed since he became Regent. He was very much aware of his greater responsibilities, and less approachable. Matters of State occupied him a good deal. He was keeping the old government in power, much to the disappointment of his friends, and it was clear that he was going to act cautiously at first. He had made an impression among the artistic section of the public by letting it be known that he intended to support them as his father had so lamentably failed to do. He was serious, aware of new responsibilities, but none the less ready to listen to William’s troubles, good brother that he was.
‘I am in a dilemma, George,’ said William. ‘It sounds incredible and foolish at my age. But I have fallen in love.’
‘It is never incredible or foolish to fall in love,’ said George.
‘Do you think that? I am relieved. She is young and very beautiful. Miss Catherine Tylney-Long.’
‘And rich,’ said the Regent.
‘I admit that that is no bar to marriage.’
‘So you want to marry her?’
‘There would be no other way of gaining her favours…’
‘Or her money,’ added the Prince. ‘Forgive me. There is so much talk of money about me that it is constantly in my mind. So you have fallen in love with this delightful girl and want to marry her. What of Dora and the children?’
‘That is what worries me. But I think Dorothy would see reason. She is very fond of me.’
‘Perhaps for that reason she would be reluctant to let you go.’
‘I have long been disturbed because I have failed to do my duty by the State. The Queen is constantly making it clear to me that I should marry. It would be my duty to make sure that Dorothy and the children were well taken care of and then…’
‘So you really want to marry Miss Tylney-Long?’
‘I am aware,’ said William, ‘that I should need your consent. But somehow I don’t think you would withhold it. You have always deplored the Marriage Act.’
‘If you wished to marry Miss Tylney-Long of course I should not withhold my consent.’
William was suddenly light-hearted. ‘George, you have made up my mind for me.’
‘I hope not. I hope your feelings for the young lady have done that.’
‘Of course. Of course. But you have always been the best of brothers… kind and helpful… always ready to make my concerns your own.’
The Prince looked sad and William knew he was thinking of Dorothy and the children. He had always been fond of them all.
‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you will be very gentle with Mrs Jordan.’
‘George, you know I will. I have a great affection for her.’
The Prince nodded. He was thinking how sad it was that so many men found it impossible to be faithful to one woman; and he was thinking of himself as much as William.
‘There is one thing,’ he said at length. ‘Before you begin your courtship of Miss Tylney-Long you should make your arrangements with Mrs Jordan.’
‘You mean… tell Dora now?’
The Prince looked sadly at his brother and nodded.
‘It is the only way,’ sighed William.
It was inevitable that Dorothy should hear rumours. The name of Catherine Tylney-Long was constantly being mentioned. Who was this lady? she wanted to know. One of the richest heiresses in England, was the answer. There was a great deal of angling going on among the fortune hunters, and no wonder. Such a prize was
not to be won every day.
Wellesley-Pole was reckoned to have caught her fancy, but the Duke of Clarence seemed to be at those functions which she attended, which was strange when it was considered how he had been hiding himself from society for years.
One day Dorothy went in a library to read the papers; she did not go out much when she was on tour because she was so well known that it was difficult for her to evade the stares of passers-by; on this occasion she had evidently remained incognito, for two women were discussing the Duke of Clarence and Dorothy Jordan.
‘It’s over,’ said one to the other. ‘Fancy! After all these years.’
‘Has he left her, then?’
‘Oh, yes. Left her and the children.’
‘Ten of them. Fancy. What a family!’
‘And now he’s chasing that young girl, that heiress. She’s very beautiful, they say, and the Jordan is now fat and fifty.’
Dorothy was unable to resist the temptation of speaking to them. She said: ‘I could not help hearing you mention my name.’
They stared at her, overcome with confusion.
‘I was very interested to hear your comments,’ she said. ‘You know so much more of these matters than I do.’
With that she left them.
There had always been these scandals. It was not the first time she had heard that William was considering leaving her; and more frequently the gossip had concerned her. There had been many occasions when she had been accredited with lovers.
William was writing to her regularly, sending her news of the children. Everything must be as usual.
She was not sleeping well. She would wake in the night and think of the acrimonious words they had exchanged over the girls’ dowries. William had never forgotten that she had made a legal matter of his debts even though she had explained again and again that it was only the girls’ money that had to be treated in this way. Everything else he had had from her he was welcome to.
Money. It had been the constant theme of their life together. Was it to be the reason for their parting? Money! She dreamed of it; and when she awoke the words were ringing in her ears: ‘One of the richest heiresses in England.’
She was playing at Cheltenham when she received a letter from William.
He believed that her engagement there had finished but she had arranged to stay one more night to play Nell in The Devil to Pay for the benefit of one of the actors, and she was about to go on when the letter arrived.
She read it and could not believe it. It was as though all the rumours she had overheard came echoing back to her. It’s not true, she thought. It can’t be true.
Feeling sick and faint she gripped a chair for support. There were the words written in William’s familiar handwriting. He wanted to see her immediately and he wished her to meet him at Maidenhead for the last time.
For the last time. Oh, God, she thought. What does it mean? She thought of the women in the library, all the gossip of the last months, all the sly allusions in the papers.
It couldn’t be. There was some other explanation.
She must go to him at once. She could not play tonight. But what of Watson’s benefit.
She must play tonight, but as soon as the play was over she would go to Maidenhead, for she could not endure the terrible suspense longer than was necessary.
‘Mrs Jordan on stage!’
The familiar cry. The call which must always be obeyed.
She stumbled on. Strangely enough she did not forget her words; she played so that no one would guess that her thoughts were far away. At Maidenhead. At Bushy with the children. With William.
She thought: My carriage is at the door. As soon as the curtain falls, I shall not stop to change my clothes. I will go in Nell’s costume. I must know… soon or I shall die.
She felt near to fainting; but she tried to think of poor Watson who was so urgently in need of his benefit.
The audience did not notice her abstraction. So many times had she played Nell that she could play her absentmindedly. But when she came to the scene when the character of Jobson says: ‘Why, Nell, the Conjuror has made you laughing drunk!’ before which words she fell into fits of laughter, she found it impossible to laugh and to her dismay – and that of Jobson – she burst instead into tears.
Jobson’s presence of mind saved the scene.
‘Why, Nell,’ he said, ‘You’re crying drunk.’
Such quick wits brought her relief, reminded her of the need to go on playing no matter what the trouble.
And so she played through to the end and when the curtain fell hurried out to her carriage and drove through the night to Maidenhead.
He was impatiently awaiting her arrival in the inn at Maidenhead which he had chosen for their rendezvous.
‘Why, William,’ she cried, when she saw him. ‘What has happened? You are ill.’
He looked at her and shook his head. He was almost weeping.
‘I did not understand your letter. “For the last time.” What does it mean?’
He hesitated, seeking for words and failing wretchedly to find the ones he needed.
‘It has to happen, Dora… dear Dora, it has to be.’
‘You mean we are to… part?’
He nodded.
‘But why… why… after all these years?’
‘It… it has to be.’
‘You have been ordered? The Regent has… ?’
He said: ‘Dora, we have to bear this… together.’
‘We have borne so much together, William, these last twenty years. If we are together I can endure anything.’
‘But not… living together. We have to separate. I have to marry. My mother, Her Majesty the Queen… has made my duty clear to me.’ He started to speak very quickly. ‘There is only Charlotte. The Regent has refused to live with his wife. Fred’s wife is barren… They tell me that it is my duty…’
‘To marry…’
‘Before it is too late.’
‘And that means…’
‘That we must part.’
She thought: I am going to faint. But I must not. I must be strong. I must try to understand. I must be brave.
‘The children…’
‘They will all be taken care of. You will be taken care of.’ Again that almost pathetic eagerness to assure her that all would be well.
‘But now… after all these years…’
‘Dora, believe me, I shall always love you. But I have my duty to the State… to my family. This has been gradually borne home to me. I have to do my duty.’
She was silently groping her way to a chair that she might sit.
‘So you will marry.’
‘I must, Dora.’
‘And you wish to marry?’
‘It is no wish of mine. I am in debt. I cannot go on like this. My creditors will not allow it. And I must do my duty to the State and my family.’
It was like a theme. Duty to State and family; and if that were not enough: Money.
‘I see,’ she said slowly.
He came swiftly to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I knew you would. You have always been a wonderful woman. Dora will understand, I told myself.’
Understand? she thought wildly. That this is the end of my life? I cannot lose him, for to lose him is to lose everything… everything that I care for. She had always known that it was not fame she wanted. It was her home, her husband, her family.
‘The children,’ she said faintly.
‘All taken care of. You must not worry. It will all be drawn up legally. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘Nothing to worry about! I am to lose you… and there is nothing to worry about?’
‘I shall not separate the children from you,’ he said. ‘You shall see them whenever you wish. You will have an income. I shall see to this. I shall have it all drawn up… You are all right? You are feeling ill?’
‘I am feeling,’ she said, ‘as though my life is ended.’
‘Th
e lovely little nice angel’
THERE HAD, SHE reflected, never been a time in her life for happiness; now there was no time for grief. How often during those happy hours she had spent at Bushy had she been reminded of the transience of the peace she was enjoying? Always there had been the contracts to fulfil, the money to earn. Now sick and weary, wanting to do nothing but to shut herself away from the world, she dared not give way to the momentary comfort of mourning; she must think of the children’s future.
The elder boys were away from home, but the younger ones were there. She had their future to think of. William had said it would be secure, but how far could she trust William? All the time when she had believed him to be the faithful husband – in every way but one – he had been planning to leave her.
Bushy – with its lovely lawns, its gracious rooms, the home that she had loved as she would love no other, was where the happiest days of her life had been spent. It had changed – with her life. The servants were different. They looked at her covertly. They knew. Did they always know… before one knew oneself?
The little ones shrieked their joy to see her.
‘Mamma is home,’ cried nine-year-old Molpuss. He hugged her. How long, she wondered, shall I be able to keep him? How long before he is taken away to train for the Navy?
Elizabeth, Augustus, Augusta and Amelia. She kissed them all in turn.
‘And where is Sophie?’ she wanted to know.
‘She went away with Papa,’ she was told, and her heart sank.
Was he planning to take the children away from her, too?
Her lips set firmly. She would never allow that. Oh, yes, there was no time for grief. She had to fight.
That day the girls and their husbands came over. Fanny with Alsop, her eyes alert with speculation. She distrusted him and had always known he had married Fanny for what he could get. Poor Fanny! Then Dodee and Edward March. She liked Edward best of all her sons-in-law although she thought that perhaps Colonel Hawker would be a better friend to her. He was after all most knowledgeable of affairs; he had moved in the circle which she had frequented with William. It would be different now, she supposed.
