Orkney’s options were suddenly thrown wide open and the political symbolism of his choice made more pronounced than it would have been a few years earlier. However, he did not show any immediate affinity with the new style of garden. The first designs he commissioned on his return to England were from Claude Desgots, chief garden designer to Louis XIV and very much part of the old French school. Desgots produced plans in exactly the formal, symmetrical style that the new school was reacting against: the parterre beds were to be planted in elaborate patterns; the colour scheme was to be based around the yellows and creams and purples of honeysuckle and syringa; and rows of oaks, elms and chestnuts were to be planted down the length of the platform. Orkney eventually discarded Desgots’s extravagant and no doubt costly designs. When he remodelled the parterre ten years later, it wasn’t according to the Frenchman’s plans at all. Instead, his ‘quaker parterre’ – which he jokingly referred to as such because of its restraint and sobriety – was much more in keeping with the nascent ‘English’ style.5 He replaced Desgots’s ornate beds with a rectangular grass sward 1,000 feet in length; he forwent Desgots’s oaks and chestnuts in favour of a simple border of elms alone; in place of Desgots’s yellows and creams and purples, he opted for a muted palette inspired by the surrounding landscape. Equally, the subdivisions and enclosing walls of Wise’s designs had been abandoned in order to create a bold view over the edge of the platform and across the valley.
It is tempting to see Orkney’s final design as a result of his background: he had been brought up in a Scottish Protestant household, at a time when Protestantism north of the border had a reputation for being particularly severe; he had spent his working life in the austere surroundings of army camps and billets. In fact, his decision was, as ever, not precipitated by the courage of his own convictions, but by the advice of a stronger-minded friend: in this instance, Alexander Pope himself. Pope roamed his friends’ country seats every summer, advising them on planting and design. ‘I have above a month strolling about in Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire, from garden to garden,’ he recalled.6 It was under the influence of Pope that Orkney’s plans for the garden became simpler and more naturalistic.
Pope was very concerned with the utility of gardens, and satirised estates that were at the same time costly to maintain and unproductive. In his Epistle to Burlington he lamented the choices of his contemporaries who failed to make use of their land: ‘Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil / Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle / ’Tis Use alone that sanctifies Expence / And Splendor borrows all her rays from Sense.’ Pope must have approved of Cliveden’s cultivated land and vineyard; as a further nod to practical usage, Orkney’s final parterre featured a circle of turf where his horses could be exercised.7 The friends continued discussing planting plans for years to come, as is seen in Pope’s letter from his villa in Twickenham, itself a site for 18th-century horticultural pilgrimage, on 4 October 1736: ‘I shall be a good part of ye Winter in London, & there I can have the pleasure of planning and drawing Schemes, as well as of seeing and consulting yours, ag[ain]st the next Planting Season. We may so far enjoy Cliveden, inspite of bad weather; and it may have some merit, in sacrificing to the place before I enjoy it.’8
At the same time as he was discussing the parterre with Pope, Orkney also commissioned Charles Bridgeman to build an amphitheatre, cut from the side of the cliff above the Thames. Amphitheatres of this sort were typical of Bridgeman’s ‘transitional’ phase, between the formality of his apprentice work and the fully fledged naturalism of his later style. He had designed a similar one for Claremont. Orkney considered asking Bridgeman to design the whole garden, but once again financial constraints got in the way and the cost of the amphitheatre alone worried him: ‘Bridgeman makes difficulties of nothing I told him if I thought it had been the one Half of what I see it will cost I believe I never had done it,’ he wrote on 2 October 1723.9
In designing his own garden with expert advice rather than hiring a professional to do the whole thing, Orkney was participating in a growing Whig trend. All good Whigs liked to think of themselves as horticultural innovators, believing the garden of a country estate to be a sophisticated canvas upon which to write their own political manifesto – and the earl was no exception. Nor did the Orkneys think themselves above the physical labour of garden work: the family spent time together in the garden, digging and planting. One touching account of Orkney’s time in the garden with his daughter Harriet survives. ‘I have been with Harriet this fortnight at Cliveden struggling with rain and wind to get my trees planted that I may not lose a year,’ Orkney wrote to his brother.10 It is one of the few records of the Orkneys’ interaction with their children.
Orkney also used the garden to celebrate his military achievements. One of his more whimsical plans was to commemorate the Battle of Blenheim by planting trees in a way that resembled the arrangement of armies in the field. The plan was never realised but the victory of 1704 was nevertheless memorialised in the construction of the Blenheim Pavilion. What happened at Cliveden was part of a wider phenomenon. Several other generals from the War of the Spanish Succession also built or developed their own country ‘retreats’ when they came back to England. While Blenheim Palace is the most famous example, a more revealing one in this instance is Viscount Cobham’s house at Stowe, which like Cliveden was not funded by government money, and was a renovation rather than a new build. Two of the architects employed by Cobham, James Gibbs and Giacomo Leoni, were also employed by Orkney at Cliveden, and their designs exemplify the fashion among returning generals for commemorative architecture. Leoni’s design for Cliveden’s Blenheim Pavilion, which was built around 1727, is similar to parts of Vanbrugh’s stable courtyard at Blenheim palace; military trophies are carved on the pavilion, and obelisks rest on cannon balls at either end of the parapet. Leoni also designed the Octagon Temple, which stands on the west side of the parterre. Four designs were produced, and Orkney characteristically chose the least ornate, dispensing with roundels, garlands, niches and busts.11
The houses built by returning military leaders can be seen as part of a larger aristocratic fashion for using country estates to commemorate one’s travels. Many young aristocrats who took the Grand Tour in this period also built or remodelled stately homes on their return to England, and veterans of military and cultural tours alike used their homes to exhibit art and statuary acquired during their time away. Just as Orkney advertised his military achievements with a tapestry of the Battle of Blenheim in the main hall at Cliveden, (it still hangs in the great hall at the house today), so Sir Francis Dashwood, remodelling West Wycombe Park, celebrated his own travels and education in the entrance hall, which he decorated ‘as a Classical atrium, giving it a trompe l’œil ceiling… modelled on one in the southern adyton (unlit chamber) at the Temple of Bel (the Levantine god Ba’al) at Palmyra, Syria.’12 Park buildings such as pavilions and temples offered opportunities to both sorts of builder: Orkney’s Blenheim Pavilion and Octagon Temple had their equivalent, at West Wycombe, in various neo-antique features: a reconstruction of the Athenian Tower of the Winds, a Music Temple, and even a milestone copied from that in the Roman Forum.
In the century after Orkney remodelled the gardens at Cliveden, a distinctively ‘English’ style of gardens would arise out of the naturalistic austerity that marked Charles Bridgeman’s transitional work. Under the guidance of Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown, English gardens removed the corset that man had imposed on nature and allowed the countryside to sweep in. Whole artificial landscapes – including follies and carefully contrived ‘wildernesses’ – appeared across the grounds of country houses. The English garden would be exported internationally as le jardin anglais, der englische Garten, il giardino inglese. ‘English’ landscape gardens, and their political implications, would be imitated by German princes who wanted to state their independence from the Holy Roman Empire, and later became popular among Italians who wished to express their op
position to Napoleon’s imperial ambitions.
By bringing together utility and ornament, the practical and the splendid, Orkney stamped his unique mark on Cliveden’s grounds. A man of few words, he managed to express himself most eloquently – his need for solace in a rural setting, his appreciation of design and even his martial prowess – in the gardens of his country estate. Today the spirit of Elizabeth’s husband is evoked by the unswerving terrace walks above the river, and the restrained elegance of the planting, set against the natural drama of the Thames.
Chapter 9
‘IT WAS AS IF HIS MAJESTY HAD LIVED HERE’
IN THE SUMMER of 1717, Elizabeth was expecting the most dignified of guests. Queen Anne had died on Sunday 1 August 1714 and at four o’clock that afternoon George Ludwig of Hanover had been proclaimed king as George I. There were many individuals who, in terms of blood, had a better right to the throne than George, but these potential heirs were Catholic and their claims had been pointedly overlooked in the Act of Settlement, which was passed by Parliament in 1701. As Anne’s health went into inexorable decline, the army steeled itself for Catholic opposition to George’s accession, and following the announcement of the queen’s death, the nation held its breath. Emergency protocol was initiated; the Privy Council called out the militia, put a fleet on alert and placed the States General on standby to send military aid. Ports were closed and Catholics’ weapons were confiscated. But such fears proved unfounded and George’s accession went ahead without a glitch.
George I brought Elizabeth and Orkney further into the royal sanctum. The Whigs had been firm supporters of the Hanoverian accession and it was to be expected that they dominate his first ministry. As a newly appointed Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Orkney was in prime position to befriend the new king, whose insistence on loyalty and efficiency, which alienated other courtiers, endeared him to the former military commander. At the beginning of his reign, the king conducted a private lifestyle, dining alone and seldom participating in social events. This was made more noticeable by the lavish lifestyle of his son, George, Prince of Wales. From the summer of 1717, in an effort to make the king more popular and challenge the social prominence of the Prince of Wales, George I’s ministers advised him to up the ante on his social schedule. When the royal family went to Hampton Court for the summer in July 1717, George dined in public every day with 15 or more guests, chosen by Orkney.1
Soon Elizabeth was also involved in orchestrating the king’s social crusade. In November 1718, a newsletter reported: ‘The Lady Orkney did all the honours of the Court at Hampton Court, and now at St. James, preparing the tables, making the parties.’2 Elizabeth became the quintessential court hostess, supervising a dizzying array of amusements. She planned nightly dinners for 50 or 60 guests, as well as drawing up guest lists for the twice-weekly balls. So much claret was spilt on the carpet at one such event that it was deemed necessary to provide a protective cloth for future events, to prevent further damage.3 The misanthropy of Elizabeth’s earlier days had given way to a new-found enthusiasm for society. Towards the end of her life, Elizabeth was evidently coming to terms with the reality that political power and social influence went hand in hand.
In 1724 George stayed with the Orkneys at Cliveden. The visit had been planned for some time; Orkney had written of it six months previously. On 7 September the London Gazette recorded:
The King dined at the Earl of Orkney’s at Cliveden about seven miles from hence [Windsor], attended by divers of the Nobility and Gentry. At His return hither in the evening, this Town was all illuminated, and he was received here with loud acclamations of joy; as he had been in the several villages through which he passed.
Elizabeth was thrilled with the seamless execution of both royal visits, writing that she was ‘told that things were in order, that it was as if his majesty had lived here’.4
The appeal of Cliveden and the Orkneys carried through to the next generation of royals. In 1727, George II succeeded his father, and on 30 July 1729, he came to stay with his wife Queen Caroline and their son Frederick, Prince of Wales. The Gloucester Journal for 5 August 1729 reported: ‘Her majesty, the Prince of Wales, the Princess Royal and the Duke, were splendidly entertained at Dinner by the Earl of Orkney at his seat at Cliveden near Slough in Buckinghamshire.’ Caroline was well-read, charming and witty, and her skill at playing cards matched Elizabeth’s; she ‘was never half an hour without saying something shocking to somebody and generally very improper discourse for a public room.’5 In other words, she was very much Elizabeth’s sort of woman.
When strolling around the gardens at Cliveden on a normal day, Elizabeth wore a simple petticoat-style gown with a frontfastening bodice and white lace cuffs. She tied a white linen kerchief around her neck, and covered her head with a little straw hat. For such an important occasion as a royal visit, however, she was obliged to look the part. She dusted off her silk mantua, which she had bought for an inordinate sum, much to the consternation of her parsimonious husband. She was not at all comfortable in its constricting bodice and found the richly embroidered pagoda sleeves, with their voluminous pleated cuffs, cumbersome in the extreme. The ritual of heaving oneself into a formal gown was tedious, time-consuming and as far as Elizabeth was concerned, utterly pointless. Elizabeth’s figure had continued to swell over the years and as a result cinching her waist into the buckled belt of the girdle was unmitigated torture. The presence of royalty also necessitated more sophisticated headgear, in the form of a cumbersome, ornamental hat festooned with feathers which obscured her vision. She longed for the comfort of her everyday uniform, in which she could actually breathe. Elizabeth may have become more sociable with age but her profound disdain for the frivolities of fashion had endured.
Unlike Anna Maria, who had performed her levee with sensual pleasure, Elizabeth eschewed the preposterous ceremony. The notion of starting each day by gossiping with a stream of visitors while wearing nothing but a negligee appalled and enervated her. She also had little patience for the intricacies of hairstyles.
Despite feeling suffocated in her formal attire, Elizabeth was determined to make Queen Caroline’s visit a triumph. She had been planning the stay for weeks and had considered every detail. She had even laid out a special arrangement of stools for the royal family, because she knew that the princess royal (Anne, the king’s eldest daughter) liked to sit as she would if she were playing the card game quadrille. This did not go down well with Lord Grantham, Chamberlain to the Queen, who ordered that the seating should be put away as there was to be no distinction between the ladies and the princesses. Grantham was also dissatisfied with the presentation of the table, and demanded it be layered with two thick tablecloths.6 The food presented further problems. The second course of sweetbreads and egg fricassees was brought out prematurely and left by the fire, so by the time the queen was ready to eat, it did not look ‘well dressed’.7
Elizabeth was mortified by this succession of faux pas and was convinced the stay had been an unmitigated disaster. But Caroline and George did not seem perturbed and greatly enjoyed the evening, returning home at four the next morning.8 Elizabeth’s letter to Mrs Howard, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, shows not only her changing attitude to royalty and royal ceremony, but her astute level of self-awareness regarding this transformation. Whereas previously she had ‘turned my mind in a philosophical way of having done with the world’, she could now see that she had ‘deceived’ herself, and felt involved with – and even sentimental about – court life. ‘We all agreed her majesty must be admired; and, if I may use the term, it was impossible to see her and not to love her,’ she enthused. ‘For I am vexed and pleased with the honours I have received.’9
There were a number of factors that might have influenced Elizabeth’s new-found sentimentality. It may have been that she had mellowed with age and was now acting with the self-assuredness of an older woman; it may have been that the Duchess of Marlborough’s retreat from court life had give
n Elizabeth the confidence to move in court circles again; perhaps it was simply that she admired Queen Caroline on a personal level. Regardless, it could not have happened without her Thames-side estate. Cliveden had been the vehicle in which Elizabeth could manage her progress from royal whore, spurned and vilified by one queen, to society hostess, entertaining another.
Chapter 10
‘THE SHOCK IS GREATER THAN I EVER HAD IN MY LIFE’
IN AN ERA where the life expectancy for an aristocrat was around 60 years, Elizabeth remained robust and active well into her seventies.1 Controversial to the last, she continued to provoke reverence and ridicule. Lady Mary Wortley watched Elizabeth heaving herself with considerable effort into the coronation of George II, and described a ‘mixture of fat and wrinkles’ with a ‘considerable pair of bubbys a good deal withered, a great belly that preceded her’.2 However, even in old age, Elizabeth retained her ability to communicate disdain in ‘the inimitable roll of her eyes’. We can imagine her with ‘grey hair, which by good fortune stood directly upright’, sitting across from Wortley at Westminster Abbey as they listened to the first performance of Zadok the Priest, an anthem composed for the coronation by another Hanoverian immigrant, George Frederick Handel.
The twilight years of Elizabeth’s life were marred by heartache. Five years after the coronation, her daughter Harriet, who had once planted trees with Orkney at Cliveden, died of a ‘Mortification in her Bowels.’ ‘Our afflictions are great,’ Elizabeth wrote to her bereaved son-in-law John Boyle, 5th Earl of Cork, ‘we mourn for ourselves, in this terrible loss.’ She concluded, in an outpouring of grief and maternal pride, that ‘though human she was so near perfection’.3 Elizabeth was overwhelmed by the injustice of her daughter’s untimely death and eloquently expressed the plight of a parent having to deal with the loss of a child. ‘My age & youth made me hope I should not have had this great conflict between nature and reason,’ she wrote.4 Lord Orkney too was devastated by the loss. In a letter fraught with emotion, he described Harriet as ‘so extraordinary a mother, valuable to all that knew her… this shock is greater than ever I had in my life.’5
The Mistresses of Cliveden: Three Centuries of Scandal, Power and Intrigue in an English Stately Home Page 15
