by Jean Plaidy
‘I am constantly hearing of the Prince of Wales,’ said Cumberland.
Startled lights appeared in the Queen’s eyes. What had George been doing now? What new scandal?
Cumberland saw their alarm and delighted in it.
‘The people dote on him. He is so handsome. That is what I hear.’
The Queen breathed more easily. ‘He is a very good-looking boy.’
‘And a scholar too.’
‘He was always good with his books. He speaks several languages fluently.’
‘German is one, I hear. Our ancestors all spoke that fluently, but George is fluent in French, Italian and English too. And a classical scholar.’ Cumberland raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘How did we produce such a genius, George?’
The Queen looked pleased. A discussion of the Prince’s perfections always delighted her.
‘He’s apt to be wild,’ murmured the King.
‘In that he does not take after his father … nor his mother. But it’s youth, George, only youth.’
‘Then the sooner he grows up the better, eh, what?’
‘I am so looking forward to being presented to him.’
The King’s lips were set in stubborn lines.
‘You cannot see the children,’ he said.
‘Oh, but …’
‘I make it clear, eh, what? You cannot see the children.’
Cumberland looked downcast and bewildered. But the King repeated: ‘I said you cannot see the children. You heard, eh, what? You cannot see the children.’
Cumberland remembered what a stubborn old mule George had always been. Let him get an idea and there was no moving him. There was something adamant about the way he spoke. So he could do nothing but take his leave and report to Mr Fox that in spite of being received he had made little headway.
*
The Prince was developing a great fondness for his sisters and could not let a day pass without visiting them.
‘It is pleasant,’ said the Queen, ‘to know that there is such affection between them.’
Even the King grunted when she told him and said he was glad George was at last realizing his responsibilities.
If they could have seen the Prince’s absorption in his sister’s attendant they would have felt less satisfaction; but Mary Hamilton was no Harriot Vernon.
She had told the Prince as much.
‘No matter what my feelings I should never do anything which I considered detrimental to my honour, Your Highness.’
The Prince had seized her hand and cried passionately: ‘Do you think I should ask it? Your honour is more important to me than my own life.’
Chivalry was now the rule of his life and those adventures which had gone before seemed crude and coarse. Pure love was the only true love; it was much better to dally on the road of romance than to reach the climax, for when one did romance very often fled.
Mary was beautiful and so wise, being twenty-three years old, six years his senior. She had enormous eyes, a slightly tip-tilted nose and plump cheeks. She laughed often and infectiously. She was perfect. She admitted to a fondness for the Prince. Was it love? he asked eagerly. Yes, it was love. But not gross love. She would not allow him to demean himself nor her.
Several of the ladies in the Princesses’ apartments reminded her of Harriot Vernon.
‘The Queen sent for her one afternoon. Within an hour her bags had been packed and she was gone. Be careful, Mary.’
Mary needed no warning. She was going to be careful.
‘All that I have to offer you,’ she told the Prince, ‘is pure, sacred and completely disinterested.’
‘I know,’ he answered. ‘If it were possible I would ask you to marry me.’
‘We know full well that is impossible,’ replied the practical Mary. ‘Perhaps you will not be content with what I have to offer.’
The Prince was on his knees. He was fond of extravagant gestures. He asked nothing … nothing … but to be able to serve her for the rest of his life. ‘You will forget me in time,’ Mary told him sadly.
‘Never, never.’
She shook her head wisely. ‘If you did forget me I should regret that we ever formed a friendship, but I should not complain.’
‘I shall never allow you to leave me,’ he declared. ‘How could I endure to be parted from one whom I not only love with enthusiastic fondness but dote on and adore beyond everything that is human.’
‘It delights me to hear Your Highness express such sentiments, but I must tell you that I could never be your mistress. My honour is dearer to me than my life … even than you are to me and …’
The Prince interrupted her.
‘You need say no more. I would sooner go to immediate perdition than attempt to do anything that would be detrimental either to your reputation or your honour and virtue.’
Mary sighed with happiness.
‘Then you truly love me.’
‘You could not doubt it. But I must have something. A lock of your hair in a plain setting and on this shall be engraved the date of that most important event … your birth. You shall have engraved a message to me and I shall have one engraved to you. Shall I tell you what mine shall be, “Toujours aimée”.’
‘I think this would be unwise.’ Mary was imagining the lock of hair falling into the hands of Madam von Schwellenburg and being carried to Queen Charlotte. The thought of Harriot Vernon had become an obsession with her. People were dismissed from Court within an hour if they became a nuisance; and the Queen had shown clearly what she thought of those unwise women who allowed the Prince of Wales to become enamoured of them.
The Prince was going on rapturously: ‘And you must allow me to present you with a bracelet. Please … just a plain one and on it I shall inscribe a message for you. I have decided on it “Gravé à jamais dans mon coeur”.’
‘This could be dangerous.’
‘Dangerous.’ His eyes sparkled at the thought. ‘I would face the whole world for your sake.’
Maybe, she thought, but he would not be called upon to do so. Possibly only the King, who would reprimand him and tell him to mend his ways. Whereas for Mary Hamilton it would be banishment and disgrace. She did not remind him of this, for she had no wish to spoil the idyll by mentioning such practical matters; but she must never be carried away by the charm of the Prince unless she wanted to rush headlong to ruin.
A passionate but platonic friendship would be delightful, but there it must end.
‘You must not be too impetuous,’ she warned him.
‘Impetuosity. Ardour. No word is too strong to express my feelings. I see beauty, accomplishments … in fact everything in you that could make your Palamon happy.’
In his romantic way he had called himself her Palamon and she was his Miranda. And when she thought of the passionate letters – and he loved to write letters, for no sooner did he find a pen in his hand than he must use it, and he enjoyed the flowery sentences which he wrote with ease – she was terrified.
‘You must write to me as your sister,’ she told him. ‘Only then can I receive your letters.’
‘No matter what your Palamon calls you, my Miranda, you are the love of his life.’
So fervently did he speak that Mary was deeply touched and a little afraid of her own feelings.
She knew that it was going to be difficult to keep her friendship with the ardent young man on the only possible plane which could ensure her remaining at Court.
*
The King’s mood had lightened a little. He had been at odds with his government for some time and the friction between them was all due to the disastrous affair of the American colonists.
‘I would accept any ministry,’ he had said, ‘that would keep the Empire intact, prosecute the war and treat me with the respect due to the King.’
North was continually pointing out that times had changed. North was a weakling. Always in the background of the King’s mind was that blackguard Charles James Fox. Up to no good, tho
ught the King. He likes to plague me. There was a distant kinship between them because, through his mother, Fox was connected with the royal family, on the wrong side of the blanket it was true, for Fox’s mother, Lady Caroline Lennox, was the great-granddaughter of Charles II by his Mistress Louise de Quérouaille; and sometimes Fox reminded him of pictures of his royal ancestor.
It was all very disturbing, but he had received news that Admiral Rodney had defeated the Spanish fleet at Gibraltar and that Sir Henry Clinton had had some success in the southern colonies. Fox and his supporters might declare that these were no major victories and it was true that there was nothing decisive about them, but the King was pleased to have news of them and it set his mind at rest a little.
He could go to Kew with a good conscience and give his mind to domestic matters.
What a joy to visit his model farm, to stroll in the country lanes and receive the curtsies of the country women while the men touched their forelocks as they would to any country squire; to visit the nurseries and see the little ones and make sure that Lady Charlotte Finch was obeying his orders with regard to their eating habits; to take the babies on his knee and caress them. Mary and Sophia were adorable and the elder girls were charming. There at Kew he could be at peace. He could rise early in the morning and light the fire which had been laid for him the night before and then get back into bed and wait until it warmed the room. His servants might laugh at his simple habits but he did not care.
Then he would talk with Charlotte and perhaps walk a little with her in the gardens. She would talk about the children and her Orangerie and how she had found a new way of saving the household accounts.
It was all so … soothing.
Of course there was one subject which gave them cause for alarm – the Prince of Wales – and they must talk of him frequently.
As he sat in the Queen’s drawing room alone with her like a simple married couple – he spoke to her of the Prince.
‘He is much less wild lately,’ said the Queen happily. ‘He has become so attached to his sisters. It is most touching.’
‘H’m,’ grunted the King.
‘It is truly so. Augusta tells me he is constantly in their apartments. He is so fond of her and Elizabeth – and so interested in all they do.’
‘No more chasing maids of honour.’
‘That is all over.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It gave me some sleepless nights.’
He thought of those nights when his imagination had not let him rest, when he had dreamed of women … Cumberland’s women, Gloucester’s women and the Prince’s women.
‘It was just a little youthful folly, I am sure. He is over that. After all he is so brilliantly clever. Everyone says so.’
‘They’ll say these things of princes, eh, what?’
‘It is true,’ insisted the Queen.
‘He’ll be eighteen soon … agitating for his own establishment … fancying himself a man. He’ll not get it.’
The Queen thought that was a matter for Parliament to decide, but she refrained from commenting. Long experience had taught her that she was not expected to offer opinions on any political matter – and her eldest son’s coming of age was certainly that. All that was expected of her was that she bear children. She might keep her household accounts and had the power to dismiss her maids. That was all.
Perhaps, thought the Queen, if I had not been so busy being a mother I might have insisted on having some say. But it was too late now. George would never allow it; and she was becoming increasingly afraid of upsetting him, for when he was upset his speech grew faster than ever, the ‘ehs’ and ‘whats’ multiplied and that queer vague look came into his eyes.
Charlotte was sure that the most important thing was to keep the King calm; and today he was calmer than she had seen him for some time. She must keep him thus.
‘We should be seen about together,’ said the King. ‘Best place to be seen would be the playhouse. We’ll have a royal command performance, eh, what?’
‘With George accompanying us. That would be an excellent idea.’
‘So I thought. I’ll send to that fellow at the Drury Lane Theatre. Sheridan, eh?’
‘You mean you would command a performance of his play.’
‘I don’t like the name of it, and I hear it’s immodest. The title’s enough to tell you that: The School for Scandal. It’ll have to be Shakespeare, I dare swear. Sad stuff, Shakespeare. Never could see why there had to be all this fuss about it. But it would have to be Shakespeare. The people expect it.’
‘Well, you will ask this Mr Sheridan to submit some plays for your choice.’
‘Yes, I’ll do this. And we will have a family party, eh, what? Good for the Prince to be seen with us. Friendly, family party … I’ll send for this Sheridan and when I’ve chosen the play we’ll go to the playhouse. It’ll show we’re a united family, eh? And the Prince of Wales is but a boy yet, what?’
‘I think,’ said the Queen, ‘that it is a very pleasant idea.’
*
The Prince had shut himself into his apartments in the Dower House to write to Mary Hamilton.
There was one little doubt which was beginning to worm its way into his mind. It was a most romantic love affair this – but he did find that his eyes kept wandering to other personable young women. Not that his eyes had not always thus wandered; but there was a difference. A very disturbing thought had come to him. Would it be very unromantic, while devoting himself to his soulful love, to have a little fun with young women who did not set themselves such a high standard as Mary did?
He dismissed the thought as unworthy. So this love affair must be perfect. He must stop thinking of indulging in light frivolity with other women. The only one in the world who mattered was Mary Hamilton.
He looked at his reflection in the ornate mirror. It really was a very pleasing reflection. In his blue velvet coat which brought out the blue in his eyes, he was undoubtedly handsome. No one could look more like a prince.
He sat down to write a description of himself to Mary. It would amuse her, he was sure:
Your brother is now approaching the bloom of youth. He is rather above normal size, his limbs well proportioned, and upon the whole is well made, though he has rather too great a penchant to grow fat. The features of his countenance are strong and manly …
He rose and looked at himself again, changing his expression several times, laughing and frowning, looking pleading as he would to Mary and haughty as he would when entering his father’s presence. He continued:
… though they carry too much of an air of hauteur. His forehead is well shaped, his eyes, though none of the best and although grey are passable. He has tolerably good eyebrows and lashes, un petit nez retroussé cependant assez aimé, a good mouth, though rather large, with fine teeth and a tolerably good chin, but the whole of his countenance is too round. I forgot to add very ugly ears. As hair is generally looked upon as beauty, he has more hair than usually falls to everyone’s share, but from the present mode of dressing it, from the immense thickness necessarily required for the toupees and the length and number of curls it makes it appear greatly less thick than in reality it is. Such are the gifts that nature has bestowed upon him and which the world says she has bestowed on him with a generous hand.
He stopped to laugh at himself. This was amusing. He was beginning to see himself very clearly indeed. But to look in a mirror and write of what one saw was one thing; to assess the character quite another.
He took up his pen.
I now come to the qualities of his mind and his heart.
He paused, put his head on one side and began to write rapidly:
His sentiments and thoughts are open and generous. He is above doing anything that is mean (too susceptible even to believing people his friends and placing too much confidence in them, from not yet having obtained a sufficient knowledge of the world or of its practices), grateful and friendly when he finds a real friend. His heart i
s good and tender if it is allowed to show its emotions. He has a strict sense of honour, is rather too familiar with his inferiors, but will not suffer himself to be browbeaten or treated with haughtiness by his superiors.
He sighed. What a lot of virtues he seemed to possess. If she believed this Mary would surely find him irresistible. But he would not have her think he was boasting or wished to influence her unfairly. Indeed he would perhaps more likely win her esteem by giving her an account of his faults. Now for his vices, he went on. He hesitated. It was a strong word.
Rather let us call them weaknesses. He is too subject to give vent to his passions of every kind, too subject to be in a passion, but he never bears malice or rancour in his heart. As for swearing, he has nearly cured himself of that vile habit. He is rather too fond of wine and women, to both which young men are apt to deliver themselves too much, but which he endeavours to check to the utmost of his power. But upon the whole, his character is open, free and generous, susceptible of good impressions, ready to follow good advice, especially when he receives it from so affectionate and friendly a sister as you are.
He stopped again; the vices had somehow turned themselves into virtues. But that was exactly how they seemed to him. He was a good young man – or he would be to those of whom he was as fond as he was of Mary.
Mary, adorable Mary, who had inspired him with such a noble passion. No wonder he felt good when he wrote to her.
Adieu for the present. I will finish this in my next. I have been too favourable I fear for my manifold faults, my dearest, dearest Friend; I shall try to correct them, for you shall ever find me ready to lend an attentive ear to your advice. Great imperfections and faults I have, but ingratitude towards you shall never be reckoned among them. My attachment to you shall never cease with my life.
*
It was very pleasant to ride in Hyde Park in the company of Frederick. The people recognized him at once and cheered him as he passed. He always acknowledged their acclaim with a bow that was not only gracious but friendly. He wanted them to know that it was his desire to be liked by them. There was nothing of the German about him; he was entirely English. His father was the first of the Georges to speak fluent English, but he had somehow remained a German. There was nothing Teutonic about the Prince of Wales; he had all the gaiety and charm of the Stuart side of the family and the people recognized this in him.
