Caroline the Queen

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Let me see this!’ George Augustus snatched the letter and dropping his breeches held it with both hands.

  ‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered. ‘Then it is so!’

  ‘Your Majesty.’

  The new King stared at Sir Robert without seeing him. Already there was a new arrogance, Walpole noticed. The transformation from powerless Prince, kept deliberately in the background by a father who despised him, to King of England, was taking place.

  This one could be more difficult to handle than his father, thought Walpole.

  ‘As Your Majesty’s minister I would have your orders,’ said Walpole quietly; and he felt that the very clock on which the King set such store, not because it was a valuable piece, which it undoubtedly was, but because it registered all-important time, had stopped, waiting for what would happen next, for the following seconds could reveal whether the King would keep his father’s trusted minister.

  The moment dragged on. What was going on behind the prominent blue eyes? Was the new King remembering past discrepancies? What had he, Walpole, said when, as Prince of Wales, George Augustus had sought the Regency during his father’s absence from England? ‘He doesn’t deserve it. We’ve done enough for him; and if it were to be done again we would not do so much.’ Such remarks were apt to be carried back, and these Guelphs were vindictive by nature. They never forgot a slight.

  Walpole could see that the King was remembering.

  It came: ‘My orders?’ he said. The blue eyes narrowed. His mind was ranging over his ministers and his choice fell on a favourite of his, Sir Spencer Compton. He shouted: ‘You vill go to Chiswick, Sir Robert, and take your orders from Sir Spencer Compton.’

  Walpole bowed. This was the end. The verdict had been given. He was dismissed. He had been right to guess that the new King would want to settle old scores. Take his orders from Spencer Compton. It was an insult.

  But there was nothing to do but bow himself out. The new King looked at the clock.

  ‘It is not time yet to rise, I vill finish my sleep,’ he said; and as Walpole made his way to Chiswick, the King went back to bed.

  * * *

  Charlotte Clayton, flushed scarlet, came into the Queen’s chamber.

  ‘Your Majesty!’ she cried.

  Caroline was on her feet.

  ‘It’s true. I heard every word. The King died on his way to Osnabrück.’

  ‘Dead!’ whispered Caroline. Her eyes were brilliant. The tyrant removed. The way clear. ‘I must go to the ... to the King.’ She spoke the words triumphantly.

  ‘He has returned to bed, Your Majesty. The time for rising has not yet come.’

  Charlotte was laughing at him. Never mind. It was ridiculous of him. He was a King and he went to bed to finish his nap!

  She walked past the woman and into his bedchamber. He was certainly not sleeping.

  ‘I have heard.’

  ‘That you are Queen of England?’

  ‘That you are the King.’

  He got out of bed. ‘Veil,’ he said, ‘that old rogue has gone at last. I thought never vould he die.’

  ‘And you, George Augustus, are now the King. That is von thing he cannot stop.’

  ‘He can stop nothing now ... the old scoundrel.’

  ‘Ve should be on our way to Leicester House. There vill be so much to do.’

  ‘I have dismissed that fat ox Valpole. He vill now know he has been von fool.’

  Caroline was alarmed. Walpole may have abused her and her husband at times; he may not have kept his promises; but they needed brilliant men about them if they were to rule wisely and safely; and she believed Walpole to be the most astute politician of his day.

  ‘Dat is von pity,’ she declared.

  ‘Vot you say?’

  ‘He vill be your enemy.’

  ‘But I am the King now. It is not for me to fear men, but for them to fear me.’

  ‘He is clever.’

  ‘And I am von fool?’

  She had gone too far. She would have to be even more careful now.

  ‘You vill be such a king as the English never have before had. They vill be vishing to see you now.’

  He smiled at her. He was very fond of her. She was his good and docile wife. Occasionally he must reprove her for her tendency to instruct. But she was a good woman, a good wife; and she knew who was her master.

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘together vill ye go. The King and the Queen.’

  ‘I must not forget,’ she said, ‘that I must be in mourning ... just a little. For ven there is a new king an old one must die.’

  It was a warning to him. Accept your subjects’ homage, ties; but do not show too blatantly how delighted you are by your father’s death. It’s true that you are, but it might appear unseemly. Even the most cynical people honour the dead for fear there should be some truth in the belief that they sometimes return.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘this you must not forget.’

  She had made her point; now she would go to her apartments; her woman should dress her. In what? she wondered. Black bombazine. That would be discreet and black was becoming to her fair skin.

  She would ride through the streets; the people would be pleased; these English were always pleased at the prospect of revels; and a new king meant a coronation.

  And while she rode she would be thinking of how she could make the new King see that he must not dismiss his most brilliant statesman for the sake of settling old grudges.

  The news was spreading quickly through the city. The apprentices scarcely waited for their masters’ permission to run into the streets; the merchants were close on their heels; from windows women leaned out shouting to each other.

  The new King and Queen were coming this way.

  The ballad singers were at every corner; there was not a Sedan chair to be had for the nobility were all on their way to Leicester House to pay quick homage. They were part of the jostling crowds which filled the streets about Leicester Fields to which it was believed the new rulers would make their way.

  The habitually noisy streets were now deafening with shouts and cries; the tin trumpets of the newsmen were heard now and then above the babel; the long brooms of the crossing sweepers had become formidable weapons; the gingerbread woman was doing good business in contrast to the knife and scissors grinder whose services nobody wanted on a day such as this. Old Colly-Molly-Puff the pie-man had sold out his trayful and was fighting his way back to his home for more; the pickpockets were busy and the crowd was screaming with laughter at the man whose wig had been stolen, he couldn’t tell how; but those in the know understood that the man who was carrying a small boy on his shoulder might know something of its whereabouts, for the small boy carried a basket and it was very likely that the wig had been whipped off its owner’s head and placed in that basket and was now being carried fast to the wigmaker who would pay a good price for it. The little shoe-black was almost crushed to death; the even smaller chimney-sweep could see nothing either. But at least they were part of the merry, roistering street scene which had become charged with a new hilarity and excitement because the old King was dead and a new reign was about to begin.

  And then there was a shout for silence.

  ‘They’re coming. They’re coming.’

  And there was the carriage with the little King in his tall wig and a touch of mourning, looking solemn yet secretly delighted, as well he might, for everyone knew how his father had hated and humiliated him—and now old George was dead and here was young George to take his place.

  He was a German too, but at least he knew how to smile and he could speak English—after a fashion. He was fond of England, which was more than his old father had been; and he had a wife living with him and giving him children. The old one had had a wife too, but he’d treated her badly so it was said, sent her into exile because she took a lover. Who could blame her after taking one look at George! And there was the old man making no secret of his scandalous relationship with his two comic Ger
man mistresses, known in the London crowds as the Maypole and the Elephant—one tall and thin, the other short and fat, both old, both ugly—and a few young and pretty ones to make a bit of variety. That was all very well. It gave them something to laugh at; but they’d never liked German George; and they were prepared to like this George, who seemed half English anyway.

  And the Queen? Yes, they had an affection for the Queen. She was always affable; she loved the English, she said; she’d rather live on a dunghill in England than return to Hanover. That was what they liked to hear. When she had walked—and she walked often—she would talk to anyone she met and however humble they were, she would show an interest in them and their lives. Moreover, they had been sorry for her when the old King took her children from her and only allowed her to see them when he permitted it.

  A cheer for the Queen.

  So, on through the streets to Leicester House rode the new King and Queen.

  * * *

  In St James’s Palace three girls were impatiently awaiting a summons.

  Anne, the eldest, who was eighteen, had always dominated her sisters and now she announced that it could not be long before they were sent for.

  ‘This will make all the difference to us. We shall no longer be kept here like children. We shall live gaily as princesses should.’

  Amelia who was two years younger than her sister Anne clasped her hands together and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Husbands will be found for us,’ she murmured.

  Anne looked at her critically and Caroline, the youngest, being only fourteen, always took her cue from Anne.

  ‘Husbands, of course,’ said Anne. ‘But I shall only accept a king. Nothing less will do for me.’

  ‘Do you think they will find enough kings for us all?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Of course,’ snapped Anne. ‘But because of The Quarrel nothing has been done. Now you will see how different everything is going to be.’

  ‘Mamma will be delighted to have us back with her,’ said Caroline. ‘And how glad I shall be It’ll be wonderful to live under the same roof with them ... as we always should have—but for Grandfather.’

  ‘I’m not sure that it will be wonderful,’ put in Amelia slowly.

  The others turned to her. Amelia was the beauty of the family; she had inherited a little of the Stuart features and she had her mother’s fine complexion and abundant hair; she lacked Anne’s arrogance and was healthier than Caroline.

  ‘But why not?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘I am not sure of Papa. The things one has heard ...’ Anne burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Papa is a vain little man.

  Everyone knows it. But Mamma is well respected.’

  ‘Anne,’ cried Caroline, shocked, ‘you are talking of the King.’

  The two elder girls began to laugh.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Anne. ‘That is what makes life suddenly exciting. Old Grandpapa is dead and Papa is King. We are more important because believe me it is better to be the daughters of a king than the granddaughters of one.’

  ‘We shall all be together,’ said Caroline. The whole family ...’

  ‘Don’t hope for too much,’ warned Amelia.

  ‘Well, we shall join our brother and sisters—but young Mary and Louisa are just silly babies,’ said Anne.

  ‘They could hardly be much else being four and three,’ put in Amelia.

  ‘So very much younger than we ar!’ sighed Caroline. ‘As for William, everyone knows that he is a spoilt little beast.’

  ‘Mamma adores him, I believe.’

  ‘And Papa.’

  ‘Idiot! Papa adores no one but himself. He flies into a temper if his pages don’t powder his periwig as he likes it; and he goes round the Palace complaining because the housemaid has put a chair in the wrong place. This, my sisters, is your future King.’

  Caroline giggled obediently as she always did when Anne expected it; but Amelia said: ‘And you should be careful. We were spied on before ... how much more so we shall be now.’

  ‘Let them spy. We’re the King’s daughters now.’

  ‘But Papa would be very angry if he heard you. You know how he always has to be flattered.’

  ‘Never fear, I shall do the flattering when it’s needed, but I must have the joy of saying what I really think behind his back.’

  Caroline laughed obediently and Anne smiled, acknowledging her appreciation.

  ‘It’s natural that Mamma should love William; after all he’s a boy,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ put in Anne, ‘our eldest brother will soon be here. They’re bound to send for Fred.’

  ‘Fred!’ mused Amelia. ‘I wonder what he’s like.’

  ‘A horrid little German, you can be sure.’

  ‘Well, he has spent all his life in Hanover.’

  ‘Poor Fred!’ sighed Caroline. ‘They call him Fritz over there.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he’s a regular little Fritz.’

  ‘You must not make yourself hate him before you sec him, Anne,’ warned Amelia.

  ‘I don’t have to make myself. I do already.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Imagine him. He was seven years old when Papa and Mamma left Hanover and they haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘What would he be now?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Over twenty ... nearly twenty-one,’ said Anne. ‘He’s two years older than I.’

  ‘Do you remember him, Anne?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, I think I do ... a little. He was very spoilt. He had rickets for a long time and couldn’t walk ... but that was before I was born. They called him Fritzchen and it was quite sickening the fuss they all made of him.’

  ‘So you were jealous?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘Of course. I wanted to be the eldest ... and a boy ... so that in time I could be Prince of Wales. Then Queen Anne died and Grandpapa came to England and after a while Mamma brought us girls, but Grandpapa wouldn’t allow Fritzchen to come. He had to stay behind and look after Hanover.’

  ‘What, at seven?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘He was a figurehead. Grandpapa was quite fond of Fritzchen, which is saying something, for he wasn’t fond of anyone else ... except the poor old Maypole. I wonder what she is doing now.’

  ‘I’m sorry for her,’ said Amelia. ‘It must be terrible to be a king’s mistress and be important and then suddenly he dies ... and nobody cares about you any more.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her. She looked after herself very well, I’m sure.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about money. It’s rather strange that a man like Grandpapa could be faithful to a woman like that—for all those years. And she was terribly ugly too. I heard she was almost bald under that awful red wig.’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly faithful. That reminds me. Mistress Anne Brett must be feeling very sorry for herself. Do you know she threatened to speak to Grandpapa about me because I wouldn’t allow her to alter the arrangement of this palace. What is she thinking now, do you imagine?’

  ‘She’s busily packing and preparing to leave, I’ll swear,’ said Amelia.

  Anne threw back her head and laughed. Caroline did the same.

  ‘It’s a small matter,’ said Amelia. ‘Scarcely worth feeling triumphant about. The point is that everything will be different for us. Our parents will come here ... we shall all be together. Instead of being two separate families, there’ll be one. The family will be reunited; we shall be with our little brother and sisters. And Fred will most certainly come home.’

  ‘When?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Very soon. After all he is Prince of Wales now. Fancy that! Fritz who has never set foot in England is Prince of Wales.’

  ‘I know why you hate him,’ said Amelia. ‘You would like to be Prince of Wales.’

  ‘How could I be?’

  ‘You could be Princess of Wales,’ said Caroline. ‘And if there were no boys ...’

  Anne stood up and raised her eyes almost ecstatically to the ceiling.<
br />
  ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘if I could be Queen of England, if only for one day, I’d be willing to die the next.’

  ‘Anne!’

  ‘It’s true,’ she declared. ‘And I’m sure I’d make a better ruler than Fritz ... or Papa ... or Grandpapa. There was a Queen Anne of England. I was named after her. They call her good Queen Anne.’

  Amelia stood up. ‘Listen. You can hear the sound of trumpets. Papa and Mamma are passing through the city.’

  The girls were silent, listening.

  * * *

  Sir Spencer Compton came in all haste to Chelsea. He was a worried man. Greatly as he appreciated the honour the King had done him, he was a little uncertain of his ability to hold the high office which was being thrust upon him, and now right at the beginning of his new duties he was confronted by a task which he was incapable of performing, and he feared he was going to show not only the King but the whole Court that he could not compare with Walpole.

  It was the simple matter of the King’s Speech which it was his duty to prepare and he had no idea how to do it.

  There was one man who knew exactly what should be said and what left unsaid; that man was Sir Robert Walpole.

  Walpole had, when informing him that the King had dismissed him and told him to take his orders from Sir Spencer Compton, assured the latter that he would be willing to help in any way possible. Well, here was a way in which he could help.

  ‘I have come,’ said Sir Spencer, ‘to ask you to write the King’s Speech, because for the life of me I have no idea how it should be done.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Walpole. ‘I will do it immediately and it shall be in your hands in good time.’

  ‘I am indeed grateful,’ Sir Spencer told him.

  When he had gone Walpole went to work on the speech, amused and gratified that his services should be so quickly needed; but there was a desolation in his heart, for he was already realizing how much power meant to him and he felt deeply depressed because it seemed that he had lost it forever.

  Even in the streets they would already be talking of his fall. He was not so clever as he had thought he was. He had been so sure of himself that he had neglected to fawn on the Prince of Wales and the Prince of Wales was now King. He was not sure of the new Queen; he had displeased her now and then, but she was too clever a woman to bear long grudges and in the last years they had appreciated each other.