by Jean Plaidy
‘Necessary,’ murmured the King to himself. ‘Disobedience has to be beaten out, eh, what?’ And there was young Augustus with his asthma. That had to be beaten out of him too. He was six years old, but he was already well acquainted with the cane; and it certainly seemed to help him get his breath better.
A family could be a great trial – particularly a royal family. But when they were small they were charming. A great solace, thought the King, particularly the girls. He wished there had been more girls. Dear little Sophie was a delight; and as for Mary sitting there so solemnly at her mother’s feet, she looked like a little doll. It would have given him great pleasure to have picked her up and caressed her while he explained to her that Mr Handel’s music was the best in the world. But he must observe the decorum of the drawing room.
His feet tapped in time with the music, but his mind had darted from his children to the situation in America. They’ll capitulate, he was telling himself. They’ll sue for peace … the rebels! Lord North was uneasy and wanted to give up the Ministry, but he wasn’t going to let him. Who else was there but North? Chatham dead. Charles James Fox was making a nuisance of himself – he was even more of a menace than his father had been. Nothing went right abroad … and at home there was the intransigence of the Prince of Wales. Why could he not be at peace in the heart of his family? Charlotte was dull but he was accustomed to her by now; it was true he looked with pleasure on other women … women like Elizabeth Pembroke, of course, but his emotions were so much in control that he never went beyond looking. His subjects sneered at him for being a good husband. They laughed at his interest in making buttons; in his liking for the land. ‘Farmer George’ they called him, and ‘The Royal Button Maker’. There was scorn rather than affection in these appellations. The people forgot that when he was not with his family at Kew he was closeted with his ministers making decisions on how the campaign against the American rebels was to be conducted, making decisions as to how the armies were to be deployed; discussing naval tactics. Even now he was urging Lord Sandwich to hold the West Indies at all costs. How could we continue to meet our commitments if we lost our revenue from the sugar islands? And what of home defence? What about the aggressive French and the Spaniards?
Problems everywhere he looked, and the voices every now and then whispering in his head: ‘George, are you going mad?’
And why shouldn’t a king be a virtuous husband? What was there to sneer at in virtue? It seemed to George that whatever a king did he displeased his subjects if he were no longer young. Everywhere that young rascal, the Prince of Wales went he was cheered. What will become of him I cannot think, mused the King uneasily. Ideas chased themselves round and round in his head; like mice, he thought of them … fighting each other for his attention and when he tried to look closely at them they disappeared; they turned into mocking voices that reminded him of that dreadful time when he had been ill and had lost control of his mind. Pleasant things like his model farm at Kew, his buttons, his gardens, his baby daughters represented safety. If he could have escaped from all his troubles and lived quietly, the voices might be stilled. He glanced at Charlotte … good Queen Charlotte, unexciting but safe. Sometimes he was tormented by erotic dreams of women. Hannah Lightfoot, the Quaker girl with whom he had gone through a form of marriage when he had been very young and foolishly romantic, long since dead – for which ironically he must be grateful; for while she lived she represented a threat to his marriage with Charlotte, and that was a matter to shake the whole foundations of the monarchy, for if his sons were bastards … well, it did not bear thinking of and set the voices in his head working faster than ever. And then there was Sarah Lennox – Sarah Bunbury as she had become – whom he had wanted to marry, for whom he had as he had told Lord Bute ‘burned’; but he had been obliged to marry his plain German princess because all Hanoverian Kings married German princesses; it was a duty they must observe and when the time came young George would have to do the same. So instead of his dear Hannah Lightfoot whom he had so dangerously loved in his extreme youth, in spite of flighty Sarah Lennox for whom he had so burned, he was married to Charlotte.
He was a faithful husband, but there were times when his senses were in revolt. Why, he would demand of himself, should he be the one member of the family who observed a strict moral code? His brothers … his sister Caroline Matilda … He shuddered at the memory of them. Poor Caroline Matilda whom he had dearly loved and longed to protect was now dead – and he could not be sure that her death had been a natural one – after being involved in a storm of intrigue. Married to a near imbecile she had taken a lover and with him had been accused of treason. The lover had died barbarously and she, the Queen of Denmark, had come very near to the same fate, and would have succumbed to it but for the intervention of her affectionate brother – himself, the King of England. He had been deeply disturbed by the death of Caroline Matilda. Such events haunted him in nightmares. Poor Caroline Matilda had paid a high price for her follies.
With his brothers it was a very different matter.
William, Duke of Gloucester and Henry, Duke of Cumberland, had defiantly made their scandals and brazenly shown their indifference to disgrace. Yet they did not arouse half the resentment and mocking scorn which was poured on the King for being a good husband.
Cumberland had been involved in a most disgraceful affair with the Grosvenors because he had seduced Lady Grosvenor and had – young fool! – written letters to the woman which gave no doubt of the relationship between them. George remembered phrases from those letters which made his face burn with shame – and something like envy – even now. Accounts of intimate details when they had lain together ‘on the couch ten thousand times’. His brother, who had been brought up so carefully by their mother, watched over, never allowed to meet anyone but the immediate family in case he should be contaminated, had written those words! And as soon as they escaped from Mamma’s apron strings, there they were running wild, getting into scandals like that of Cumberland and the Grosvenors. And Lord Grosvenor had had the effrontery to sue a royal duke and to win his case. The jury had brought in a verdict of £10 000 plus costs of £3000 against the Duke of Cumberland which George had had to find with the help of Lord North … out of the King’s household expenses.
And as if that were not enough, Cumberland had tired of Lady Grosvenor by the time the scandal broke and was having an intrigue with the wife of a timber merchant – a very wealthy one it was true and fortunately for the royal purse, the timber merchant was too flattered by the royal Duke’s attentions to his wife to make trouble; but no sooner had that affair been freely discussed in the coffee and chocolate houses than Cumberland had a new love and this had turned out to be the most serious matter of all, for Mrs Anne Horton, who was the daughter of Lord Irnham, was intent on marriage, and as she had according to that gossip, Horace Walpole, ‘the most amorous eyes in the world and eyelashes a yard long’, Cumberland was fool enough to marry her.
This had caused the King so much anxiety that he had done what his mother had urged him to do before her death; he had set about bringing into force the Royal Marriage Act which forbade members of the royal family to marry without the King’s consent. Too late for Cumberland … and for Gloucester it seemed, for no sooner was the Marriage Act passed than Gloucester came forward to announce that for some years he had been secretly married to Lord Waldegrave’s widow – a mésalliance if ever there was one, for the lady was not only the illegitimate daughter of Sir Edward Walpole but her mother was said to have been a milliner!
‘Banish them from Court!’ George had cried. And Charlotte had declared that she would receive no daughters of milliners. So there was an unsatisfactory state of affairs with his brothers; and since his sons were so wild, the King did wonder what trouble would come through them.
Worry, worry, worry! thought the King, whichever way one turned. Oh, if only life were just living at Kew with Charlotte and the little ones, what a happy man he would be! Wel
l perhaps not happy; he would always think of women like Hannah and Sarah and Elizabeth Pembroke with longing, but while he remained a faithful husband and lived according to his code of honour he could be serene.
The Queen was not listening to Mr Handel’s excellent music; she was thinking how handsome her eldest son was looking in his frogged coat and hoping the King would not notice how elegant he was and question the price of his garments. Charlotte was alarmed when she saw the lights of resentment against his father flare up in her son’s eyes. She had to face the fact that the relationship between them was scarcely harmonious. She had adored the Prince of Wales from the first time she had first held him in her arms – ‘A perfect specimen of a Royal Highness, your Majesty …’ Oh yes, indeed. He had bawled lustily, this wonder infant, and his health had always been of the best – except of course for the customary childish ailments. At the age of four it was true he had given her a great scare by contracting the smallpox. But he was such a healthy little rascal, he had even shrugged that aside. She liked to tell her attendants how when he was kept in bed someone asked if he were not tired of lying abed so long and he had replied: ‘Not at all. I lie and make reflections.’ The brilliance of the child! There was no doubt that he was a genius. He was clever at his lessons. He spoke and wrote several languages, French, German and Italian, fluently; he was familiar with Horace and delighted in Tacitus. He learned with ease and had a command of English which astounded his mother and dumbfounded his father on those occasions, which were becoming more frequent, when they were involved in verbal battles. The Queen was a little anxious about this beloved son and his relationship with his father. Oh dear, she sighed, I hope they are not going to follow the family custom and yet another Prince of Wales is going to quarrel with the King. Not George, she assured herself, not her handsome son George.
She often looked at the wax image on her dressing table and thought of him as a baby. He was no longer that. She sighed, wishing that he would visit her more often and now and then ask her advice.
What would she advise him on? On the sort of shoe buckle he should wear? He was mightily interested in shoe buckles. Or on the colour of his coat? Or about those matters which her woman Schwellenburg was always hinting at – his amours. ‘De Prince very much interests selfs in mädchens …’ declared Schwellenburg in her execrable English. ‘Nonsense, Schwellenburg, he is a natural gentleman.’
Was he too interested in young women? No, of course not. She refused to believe it. She refused to believe anything against George; and though she deplored the passing of his childhood when she had had some control over him, she was glad in a way that he was too old for whippings, for she had suffered to think of that delicate flesh being slashed with a cane.
Oh, George, come and speak to your mother, she implored silently. Not just as a duty. Not to bow, kiss the hand, murmur a few meaningless words and be off as quickly as you can. Not that, George, speak as a son to a mother.
She thought of the next child she would bear; but such happenings were commonplace with her. The thirteenth!
A boy or a girl? she wondered. What did it matter now? She already had seven boys and five girls. No one could say she had not given the country heirs. But she had not felt so well with this pregnancy. Perhaps it was time to give up child-bearing. The King would never agree to that, she was sure, and yet what had she been doing in the nineteen years since she came to England? Bearing children, was the answer. Thirteen of them. Oh, yes, the time had certainly come to call a halt. Not that she could bear to part with any of them. But with fine strong boys like George, Frederick and William at the head of the family – surely they had enough.
The Prince of Wales was pensive tonight. Was he wrapped up in the music? Frederick was beside him. They were inseparable those two and it was pleasant to see two brothers such friends. They seemed now as though they were sharing some secret. They were both watching one of the maids of honour who was in attendance. The Queen heard an echo of Schwellenburg’s voice: ‘De Prince very much interests self in mädchens.’ Oh, no, thought the Queen. George is a boy yet. He has always been taught such restraint.
George did not hear Mr Handel’s music, though he shared the family fondness for it. He was thinking: She is exquisite. So dainty. Such little hands and feet. He pictured her delight when he made known to her the fact that he was in love with her. He had discovered her name. It was Harriot Vernon. Harriot, Harriot, he murmured.
Fred nudged him gently with his foot because he had spoken her name aloud.
The music had stopped. The King led the applause and, under cover of it, George threw a glance at the young maid of honour which made her lower her eyes and smile. It was enough for the ardent Prince. His invitation was accepted. They must meet. Where?
‘You are watched,’ whispered Frederick.
‘Always, brother,’ sighed the Prince.
He turned to his equerry and friend, Lord Maiden, heir to the Earl of Essex.
‘I wish you to take a message to a lady,’ he murmured.
‘At Your Highness’s service.’
‘Come to my apartments,’ said the Prince. ‘I will give you all instructions there.’
Frederick listened with admiration. This time George was about to involve himself in a real love affair.
*
‘And how?’ asked Frederick, ‘can you possibly meet Harriot Vernon? You would be noticed. And you know we are forbidden even to speak to the maids of honour.’
George laughed.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I already have an assignation with the lady.’
‘Can that be true, George?’
‘Indeed yes. Maiden has taken a message for her from me and brought one back from her. We are going to meet in the gardens tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘Why do you wish to know, brother?’
‘Because I fear you will be seen.’
‘Not us. We shall meet in the most secluded spot … not far from the river. You know where I mean. We were saying only the other day few ever go there and you remember I remarked it would be a good spot for a lovers’ meeting.’
‘You think she will come?’
George drew himself up to his full height and looked most princely. ‘I know she will come, Frederick. I have her promise.’
‘And when she does …?’
George threw a kiss to his reflection in the mirror.
‘She can no more wait with patience for the encounter than I can.’
‘So tonight … at sunset …’
‘Tonight at sunset,’ echoed the Prince of Wales.
*
Mr Papendiek was playing the flute in the Queen’s drawing room at the request of the King. Not all the family were present. The Prince of Wales for one was absent. Frederick, seated next to his brother William, was thinking of George sneaking out to that remote spot in the gardens not far from the river. He was going to wear a greatcoat of Maiden’s to disguise himself and there he would await the coming of Harriot Vernon and then … Frederick’s eyes glistened. He hoped that all would go well and George would not be discovered. He wondered what would happen if he were. He looked at his father caught up in the music, and the Queen sitting placidly by. The child’s entry into the world could not long be delayed. It has been going on like this for years, thought Frederick; the family assembled here listening to the King’s favourite pieces of music; the only difference being that there was a new addition to the family. A new child to sit on the footstool at the Queen’s feet while the child who had just vacated it would sit upright on a chair and try not to fidget. So dull! thought Frederick. No change at all.
But a change was coming. He and his brother were growing up. William would soon be sent to sea. And because of this William was half excited, half apprehensive. ‘At least,’ William had said, ‘it’ll be an escape from Kew and Buckingham House.’ Lucky William, thought Frederick.
The King was in fact giving only half an ear to the music. He was thinkin
g that soon he would have to leave Kew for London. He could not enjoy the sequestered life for long at a time. The dark, clever, rather gross face of Charles James Fox came into his mind. Always plaguing him. The Foxes always had. As though they bore him a grudge for not marrying Sarah. Charles James Fox was her nephew and if ever there was a troublemaker it was that man.
And the American affair … and the French and the Spaniards … and the Government …
I’ll put them from my mind, he told himself. I’ll feel all the better for a little respite from affairs. Work all the better when I do get back to business, eh, what? Ought to be on better terms with young George. Can’t have trouble in the family. He didn’t want to talk to George. George was too smart with words. Had an answer for everything. A pleasant game of chess, that was what he would like. Even so, George invariably beat him nowadays. Nevertheless they could get a good game.
Where was George? George ought to be present on a family occasion like this.
Mr Papendiek’s solo was over; the King led the applause and when that came to an end and the musicians waited for his further instructions he declared: ‘I should like a game of chess. Tell the Prince of Wales that I wish him to join me in a game of chess.’
Frederick was dismayed. They were going to search for the Prince of Wales and would be unable to find him, unless they went to that remote spot in the gardens and then … what would they discover? He had feared something like this. He had wanted George to make some provision for such an emergency but George had merely shrugged aside the possibility of discovery. And now … it seemed inevitable.
‘Where is the Prince, eh, what?’ the King was already demanding as the chess board had been set out and he himself was putting the ivory pieces in their places.
One of the Prince’s attendants came in looking harassed.
