by Jean Plaidy
Even the Regent had become slightly less unpopular and treated to silence in the streets instead of abuse while the whole nation waited for the birth of their darling Princess’s child.
And now … It was difficult to grasp what had happened. She felt old and ill and all that she wanted was to shut herself away and forget the tragedies of her family. But she was not the woman to do that. She had had crises enough in her life. She considered it; coming to England a plain little German princess, unwanted by the King who was in love with someone else, unable to speak the language, learning very soon that being the Queen of England meant a perpetual state of giving birth or waiting to do so. Fifteen children in a little over twenty years. All must agree that she had done her duty. It was only now that she was beginning to wonder whether she had done it too well. But her eldest son had made everything worth while … now, though it had not always been so. The only emotion in her life had been her feeling for him; true, it had come near to hatred at the time of the King’s first lapse from sanity – or at least his first public lapse – when there had been all that conflict over the Regency and she and Pitt had stood against the Prince and Fox.
Happily that was over; she had only hated him because he would not love her; he merely had to show some affection and she was at his side. She thanked God that now they had come to an understanding; they were allies; she had admitted that George had always been the most important one in her life, and he, sentimental in the extreme, overflowing with affection – providing it did not interfere with his pleasure – accepted her devotion and in return made her his friend and confidante. So as she advanced in years she had gained some comfort. The King, her husband, whom she had never loved and who had put her into a subservient position from the day she arrived in England, making of her, as she often thought resentfully, a prize cow whose only task was to produce a calf every year – was recognized to be insane; adored George was the Regent; and they were friends.
All had seemed, though not as well as it might have been if the others had done their duty, at least reasonably acceptable while Charlotte lived and showed herself able to bear children.
And this brought her back to the terrible calamity which the family had to face.
She had lost her only legitimate grandchild – and with her the baby who would have secured the succession.
Action was imperative. What were a few rheumatic pains, recurring dizzy spells? She must return to London and see George without delay.
The Regent was in Suffolk with a shooting party when the news reached him that Charlotte’s labour pains had begun. It was seemly that he should be at Claremont at the birth of his grandchild who would be an heir to the throne so he left at once.
He arrived too late to see Charlotte alive.
Like his mother he could not believe this could have happened. Charlotte had been so vital; that she should have lost the child was a minor tragedy but that she herself should die stunned him. He wept; he embraced the bewildered Leopold who was dumb in his grief, and rode back to Carlton House with the blinds of his carriage drawn.
The whole nation mourned; the people in the street spoke of Charlotte as though she had been a saint. Verses were written of her:
Daughter of England! For a nation’s sighs
A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies.
The darling of the nation was dead. There was nothing to be done but mourn.
When the funeral was over the Queen came to Carlton House to speak very seriously to the Regent.
He received her with a show of great affection and wept affectingly while he talked of Charlotte; he had spoken of little else since her death.
‘My dearest George,’ said the Queen, ‘this is a terrible ordeal for us all and you in particular.’
‘No one can know,’ murmured the Regent. ‘Not even you.’
‘I can imagine,’ said the Queen quickly. ‘But the nation’s affairs must go on and there is little time.’
The Regent was not listening. He said: ‘I have decided to go to Brighton. I want to shut myself away for a while and I am asking Gloucester to spare me Mary for a few days.’
The Queen nodded. Mary, his favourite sister, had married her cousin the Duke of Gloucester last year. Mary had been forty then and had been eagerly desiring to marry her cousin for years, but the King had been so firmly against any of his daughters marrying and in fact there were few possible husbands, the qualifications of being both royal and Protestant proving so hard to fill. Mary had gleefully married ‘Slice’ as those dreadful cartoon people had christened Gloucester (comparing him with a slice of Gloucester cheese) and although Slice was proving quite a martinet of a husband Mary preferred any husband to none at all, so was not dissatisfied.
‘Mary will be an excellent companion and you always have enjoyed her company. My dear George, I understand your reluctance to think of anything but your unhappiness, but I do believe this to be an urgent matter of State. I may not be here much longer …’
He placed his hand appealingly over hers. ‘I forbid you to say such a thing.’
Dear George! Always so charming. How much did he really care? she wondered. But he had such a charming way of pretending that he did that it did not seem to matter. She would rather have George pretending to care than the genuine devotion of any of the others.
‘Your brothers must consider their obligations,’ she said.
‘How I agree with you.’
‘Immediately. There must be no delay. They must marry and produce legitimate children before it is too late.’
‘You are right, of course. Our recent loss makes this necessary.’
‘Unless our branch of the family is to become extinct. It is so extraordinary. All these sons … and not one child among them.’
‘Their duty should be made known to them.’
‘As I said, without delay.’
‘When I return from Brighton I will put the case before them.’
When he returned. It should be now. There was not a moment to lose. But one did not argue with the Regent. He had such a sense of the rightness of everything. First he must mourn the daughter for whom he had not greatly cared during her lifetime; he must shut himself away at Brighton with only Mary to comfort him. He must play his part of bereaved father, before he gave his thoughts to reminding his brothers of their duty.
The Queen decided that there was no need for her to wait so long. She would intimate to her sons that the Regent had certain propositions to put before them; and even the least intelligent of them must realize what they were.
York
THE DUKE OF York drove down to Oatlands, the country mansion at Weybridge which was more his wife’s home than his. When they had realized, long before, that their natures were not compatible they had decided to live apart and the Duchess had consoled herself with her animals, the Duke with his mistress. The years had mellowed their relationship and once they had decided to make no demands on each other they had become good friends.
The Duke had his career in the Army and between that and his ladies he enjoyed life; the Duchess was happy indulging her eccentricities at Oatlands. The house and garden were the home of numerous animals – any stray was welcome; monkeys climbed the banisters and hung from the curtains; she had even added ostriches and a kangaroo. There was an animal cemetery, where each corpse was treated to a separate burial and an inscribed stone was placed above the beloved creature’s last resting-place. Her life was spent between caring for her menagerie and her good works, for she made the welfare of Weybridge her concern and the poor had reason to be grateful to her; she liked to sit on the lawns of Oatlands in summer sewing garments for the poor with a cat in her lap, a dog at her feet and a monkey perched on the arm of her chair. She was fond of the society of people as well as that of animals, though not so passionately, and gave weekend parties, which her husband often attended. She hated going to bed and seemed to need little sleep; she roamed the grounds of Oatlands by night with her pro
tective army of dogs around her ready to tear to pieces anyone who attacked her.
When the Duke arrived at Oatlands he found his wife very sad, for she had genuinely loved Charlotte and the Princess had paid many happy visits to Oatlands. There were no visitors this weekend; Frederica, Duchess of York, was in mourning.
But she was pleased to see her husband. Poor Frederick, she thought, he was showing signs of wear. Who could wonder, considering the life he led. Once she had thought him so handsome; she remembered when he had presented her to his parents – he so tall, she so short. What an ordeal that had been, for she had no illusions about her appearance and her new family were so critical. Smallpox had spoiled her skin and her teeth were brown and uneven but her fair hair and blue eyes had been pleasant. She had been over-elaborately dressed, with her hair piled too high and set with diamonds, and what she remembered most from that occasion were the cold eyes of her mother-in-law, Queen Charlotte, and the silver foil frills on her sleeves which were uncomfortably itchy.
But that was years ago, when the revolution had been raging in France and they had come near to being killed as they passed through that country and were recognized by the mob for royalists. Only the calm courage of the Duke had saved them. How she had admired him then! He was at his best at such moments – the true soldier, indifferent to danger. But ordinary domestic life oddly enough was more difficult than facing a mob of revolutionaries and she had quickly realized what a failure the marriage was.
They had quarrelled; she had failed to produce the desired heir; they had parted, they had lived their own lives and in time come to friendship.
This had been strengthened at the time of the Mary Anne Clarke scandal when she had left Oatlands to stand by him; and while he was facing a serious charge and was dismissed from his post it was his wife who had been with him, comforting him, disappointing the lampoon writers – for of what use was a faithful wife to them?
Now Frederick embraced her in the usual cool but friendly manner and they went into the house together.
‘The poor child,’ said Frederica, ‘the poor, poor child!’
‘I would not have believed it possible,’ murmured the Duke.
‘It is always possible. But she was so young, so full of vitality. How is the Regent taking it?’
‘Badly.’
‘Ah, poor George. Perhaps he reproaches himself.’
The Duke looked surprised. He, who always took his cue from his brother, was now ready to believe that the Regent had been devoted to his daughter and she to him. Frederica was more realistic. Everyone knew of the stormy conflicts which had raged between the Regent and his daughter. Death did not change that.
‘At least,’ went on the Duchess, ‘she married the man she loved. Oh, it was good to see them together. She was happy … at the end. Perhaps it is the way to die … at the peak of happiness. My dear, dear Charlotte! It grieves me that she will no longer come bounding across the lawns in the way she did. What a mother she would have made! I always used to think of her with many many children, though not as many as your mother had …’
‘God forbid,’ interrupted the Duke, remembering the necessity to curb Frederica’s flow which if allowed to would go on for an hour. It was one of the traits which had made it impossible to live with her. ‘But, Frederica, what I have come to talk to you about is my brothers.’
‘Ah yes, yes. They will have to marry now. They will understand this. They will not need to be told. It is obvious. Our darling Charlotte gone … No hope of the direct line. It is the duty of one of your brothers. If the King died and the Regent became King George IV and he died, you, Frederick, would be King.’
‘God forbid,’ said the Duke again, for his conversation was inclined to be repetitive and he relied to a great extent on overworked expletives.
‘It would break your heart, poor Frederick, because you could only be King if George died and you have always loved him dearly. I have heard him say often that you are his favourite brother. No, you would not be happy as King. And what of me? I should have to leave Oatlands and all my darling, darling children. What would they do without me?’ She patted the head of one of the darling children – a soulful-eyed spaniel which had leaped on to her lap when she sat down. ‘Oh no, no, it must never be. You, because of George … me because of my children here.’
He let her talk; it was less exhausting to listen than to attempt to break in. She had always been animated and that had been part of her charm in her youth and at first of course one did not realize that a virtue could so soon be seen as a vice. She laughed frequently – on happier occasions than this – and that too had begun to grate.
But that was in the past. Now he knew her for a good woman and as long as he was not expected to live with her he could be fond of her. A pity she had been unable to bear a child. If they had had a son that son would now have been third in the succession and it would have been almost certain that he would have been a King. But it was not to be and fortunately Frederica was too old now to bear children so their existence need not be disrupted.
He broke in on her talk then: ‘You know what this means. It’s what I came to talk to you about. The Queen is hinting that my brothers should prepare themselves … my unmarried brothers.’ He smiled grimly. ‘All those who are not married now have to think about getting wives.’
‘Clarence has been trying … unsuccessfully for some time.’
‘Now he will have to succeed.’
‘And Kent and Sussex and Cambridge. Cumberland is the only one who so far has obliged.’
‘Obliged! The Queen would hardly call it that. She still refuses to receive his Duchess.’
‘Poor Frederica, my namesake! How difficult it makes it when so many of us have to share each other’s name! But I do not think she cares … that she is not received, I mean. I believe she and Cumberland are devoted to each other.’
‘It’s strange to think of my brother Ernest being devoted to anyone. But love works strange miracles, they say. It would not surprise me if Charlotte’s death brings them back to England.’
‘I heard she had given birth to a daughter.’
‘Still-born. But that does not mean they won’t have more. Frederica has had children in her adventurous life, and as she is still young enough there is no reason why she should not present Ernest with a son. And now that Charlotte is no more … it might seem very important to them that they should.’
‘Ah yes, but none has become as important as you, my lord Duke.’
‘Every one of us has taken a step nearer to the throne.’
‘It will be interesting to see who reaches it,’ said the Duchess. ‘But I shall not be here to do so.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘My dear Frederick, I am nearly fifty years old.’
‘That is nothing.’
Again she lifted her shoulders. No need to tell him that she believed herself to be very ill. Would he care? Yes, she thought. A little. In any case the subject of marriage was so much more entertaining than that of death.
‘I think,’ said Frederick, ‘that I’ll go and talk this over with my brothers. When George returns from Brighton they’ll be summoned and presented with an ultimatum. They must prepare themselves.’
‘They will know this.’
‘Clarence, yes; and it will not displease him. I am thinking of Kent.’
‘Ah poor Madame de St Laurent! Do you think he will abandon her?’
‘I think it will be impressed on him that he must do his duty.’
‘The Regent is very sentimental where such affairs are concerned.’
‘It’s true, but I believe that it is the Queen who will decide what should be done; and I do not think for one moment that she will allow sentiment to cloud her judgement.’
‘If she did it would be for the first time in her life.’
Frederick nodded. He was next to George but the thought of a world without George who had been his id
ol since they shared the royal nursery at Kew was distressing. He was, he reflected, the only one of the brothers to be unaffected. He was already married to a barren woman so they could not think of marrying him to anyone else; he could not long for the crown when to receive it would mean losing his best friend and beloved brother.
Charlotte’s death had made less difference to Frederick, Duke of York, than to any member of the family – in spite of the fact that it had brought him nearer to the throne than any of them.
Clarence
THE DUKE OF Clarence was driving down to Brighton to propose to the lady whom he had decided to make his wife and he was certain of the outcome this time. He had to admit that he had been very unlucky so far. No Prince could ever have been so constantly refused. He could not understand it. Sometimes he thought it was the ghost of Dorothy Jordan mocking him from her obscure grave across the Channel.
‘Nonsense,’ he said to himself. She would be the first to wish for my happiness. Had it not always been so? She had always thought of him. Why, when she drew her salary at the theatre she would write to him and say: ‘Do you want it? Please let me know before I spend it.’
Dorothy had invariably understood as soon as he had explained his motives to her.
‘Dear Miss Wykeham.’ He rehearsed the speech he would make to his prospective bride. He enjoyed making speeches and the proposal of a Prince who was third in the line of succession was surely the occasion to make one. ‘Dear Miss Wykeham, I have something of the greatest importance to say to you. I have not a farthing to my name. I owe sixty thousand pounds. But if you would like to be a Duchess, and perhaps a Queen, I should have great pleasure in arranging it.’
There! A rough sailor’s wooing. That was after all what he was.
