Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  As for Frederick, he was happy as usual to see his brother’s popularity and to take second place, which was one of his most endearing traits and was one of the reasons why they were the closest friends.

  Now, to ride through the park side by side, made him feel free. They might have equerries in front and attendants behind but they could forget them and chat together like two young men out to take the air, unencumbered.

  The Prince was talking of the perfections of Mary Hamilton, but Frederick was aware that his brother was not insensible to the charms of some of the ladies who passed by. There were some beauties. Very different from the young women who made up the household at Kew – with one or two exceptions of course like Harriot Vernon and Mary Hamilton. Beautiful ladies in hoops and feathers, with tight bodices cut low to disclose exquisite necks and bosoms, brocade and silk gowns open in front or looped as a polonaise to show an ornamental petticoat. They were rouged and patched and made a brilliant picture in their big straw hats decorated with flowers and ribbons. And all eyes were on the elegant Prince who sat his horse so skilfully and those eyes were so languishing and, yes … inviting … that he found his attention straying from his pure love and an excitement possessed him.

  ‘Riding here like this, I feel free, Fred. By God, what the devil are we doing allowing ourselves to live like children in the nursery?’

  And just at that moment a carriage came bowling towards them, a very ornate coach bearing the royal arms, and seated in it was their uncle the Duke of Cumberland who, perceiving them, immediately called to his coachman to stop.

  He alighted and approached the Prince with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Your Highness, my dear, dear nephew. Forgive the intrusion but I cannot pass you by without the greeting due to your rank when I long to give you a warmer one. When all is said and done I am your uncle.’

  Cumberland! thought the Prince. The rebel. The uncle who was concerned in the Grosvenor scandal and had such a fascinating wife!

  Cumberland had taken the Prince’s hand and was kissing it with emotion.

  ‘And … Your Highness Prince Frederick. This is a happy day for me.’

  ‘We are pleased to have an opportunity of speaking with you, Uncle,’ said the Prince warmly.

  ‘I knew you would be. I trust this will be no isolated meeting. The Duchess and I have talked of you often … with tears in our eyes. We feel for you so much … my dear, dear nephew.’

  Uncle Cumberland was determined to be friendly and the Prince had been right when he had said he was susceptible and ready to accept friendship when offered. Uncle Cumberland had quarrelled with the King and the Prince could well understand that, for his uncle represented the great exciting world outside the royal nurseries. He was implying by his words, his looks and his manner that he felt the Princes were badly treated by the King; they were shut away from the world, treated like children. What could be more humiliating to young men of seventeen and sixteen.

  ‘We hope you will do us the great honour of allowing us to entertain you sometime. There are men … and women …’ Just a little avuncular leer suggesting the delight this could be. ‘… charming men, beautiful women … witty, worldly … who long to make your acquaintance. They have caught glimpses of you now and then … in public places, and been enchanted. But it is not enough, nephews, it is not enough. Why at Drury Lane … where Sheridan’s School for Scandal has been playing to packed houses … there is the most delightful little play actress I ever set eyes on. Mrs Robinson is the most beautiful woman in London and London abounds with beautiful women. You should be meeting the world. It’s a shame to keep such charm … such elegance shut away at Kew. What a coat! What cut! What shoe buckles! I swear I never saw the like … Why Your Highness is the leader of the ton … and shut away at Kew. I have said too much. Why, nephews, I fear I am the most indiscreet man you ever met. But I let my concern for you run away with my tongue … and my pleasure too … my deep, deep pleasure in this encounter.’

  The Duke of Cumberland touched his eye with the corner of his lace kerchief and the Prince of Wales was a little affected too.

  ‘Well, I must not delay you. We are being watched. This will mayhap be reported. I shall be in even greater disgrace. But it’s a sad world when a loving uncle cannot have a word with his two handsome nephews. Adieu, my dear, dear boys.’

  ‘Let us rather say au revoir,’ replied the Prince.

  Cumberland kissed first George’s hand, then Frederick’s; and went back to his coach.

  The Prince’s eyes were shining as they rode on.

  ‘Why,’ he demanded, ‘should we be kept shut away? Our uncle is right. We should be out in the world. We should not be living like children. I tell you this, Fred, I’ll not endure it much longer. The day is fast approaching when I shall demand my freedom. And when I have my rights I shall visit our uncle. It was most affecting, was it not? Why should he be kept from us merely because he fell in love with a woman.’

  ‘Lady Grosvenor was a married woman.’

  ‘Ah, love!’ sighed the Prince. ‘How can we be sure where it will appear. Is one supposed to wait for it to come suitably … as our father did with our mother. I hear our uncle’s wife is a most fascinating woman, Fred. I should like to meet her.’

  ‘It will never be permitted.’

  The Prince pressed his horse into a canter.

  ‘All that, Fred,’ he prophesied, ‘will shortly be changed. You will see.’

  Command performance at Drury Lane

  RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, twenty-eight years old, witty, brilliant and the most successful playwright in London and manager of the Drury Theatre, was on his way to Buckingham House for an audience with the King. He knew what this meant: a royal command performance, always good for business. He was well aware that it was no use offering The School for Scandal. He laughed inwardly, thinking of some of the epigrammatical gems of that piece, of the screen scene, of his adorable but rather naughty Lady Teazle, and imagining the reception this would get from humourless George and Charlotte.

  He was going to offer them The Winter’s Tale. It would have to be Shakespeare although he knew full well that the King found the great playwright dull: Still, his subjects expected him to see Shakespeare. Shakespeare was respectable, which seemed a little odd to Sheridan as some of the lines came into his mind – but Shakespeare had his place in the literature of the land and his poetry made up for his bawdiness. Any of the Restoration plays with their cynical approach to marriage would be definitely unsuitable for the King.

  Arrived at Buckingham House Sheridan was conducted to the King’s apartments and in a very short time was granted an audience.

  ‘Mr Sheridan, it is good of you to come.’ The King was always considerate to his subjects and behaved with an absence of arrogance. The epithet homely was apt.

  ‘At Your Majesty’s pleasure,’ replied Sheridan with a courtly bow.

  ‘You will have guessed why I asked you to come, Mr Sheridan, eh, what?’ Sheridan was about to speak for one did not realize when first in the King’s company that the queries were merely rhetorical. The King went on without a pause: ‘We are thinking of coming to the theatre … the Queen and myself in the company of the Prince of Wales.’

  In the company of the Prince of Wales! Sheridan felt excited. This would indeed be an occasion.

  ‘Drury Lane will be honoured, Sir.’

  The King looked pleased. He enjoyed doing good turns and he knew how these theatre people liked a command performance. They were rare. He preferred the opera and a good concert; but it was his duty to see a play now and then.

  ‘The point is,’ said the King, ‘what will be played for us? It should be something in … er … good taste, eh, what?’

  ‘The utmost good taste, Sir.’

  The King looked quizzically at Mr Sheridan. He had heard that this young man was a little wild in his habits. There had been some elopement, he believed; though why he should have heard these bits of gossip
about a theatre manager he could not imagine. Except of course that Mr Sheridan had taken the town by storm with that play of his. It was his wife of course. One of the finest singers in the country. Mrs Sheridan made Mr Sheridan more respectable in the royal eyes.

  ‘Well,’ said the King, ‘what would you suggest, Mr Sheridan?’

  ‘Has your Majesty decided on Shakespeare?’

  The King looked scornful. ‘Sad stuff … most of it,’ he said. ‘Eh? What?’ Mr Sheridan was pleased not to answer. The King went on: ‘But the people of this country seem to have made a god of the fellow. Mustn’t say a word against him. He’s perfect, so they tell me. I don’t see it, Mr Sheridan. I don’t see it.’

  ‘Then, sir …’ Sheridan’s eyes were alight with hope. Why not? Mrs Abington would have to play Lady Teazle of course. And what a player! And Mary Robinson … dear, exquisite Mary Robinson would be Maria … as they were before. Mary would want to play Lady Teazle … but she wasn’t up to the part really … lovely as she was to look at; and for all her cruderies Abington was an actress to her fingertips whereas Mary owed her success to that incomparable beauty. Incomparable but not quite. His own Elizabeth, the wife with whom he had eloped … had perhaps a greater beauty than Mary Robinson’s, but more ethereal. Elizabeth? Mary? Elizabeth would always be first but Mary was so alluring; and a man whose career necessarily brought him into the company of so many desirable women could not be expected to remain faithful to his wife even though she were delightful, understanding, virtuous … in fact all that a wife should be. Elizabeth would understand his weaknesses. But his thoughts were straying. A royal command performance for The School. It would be the crowning triumph and what fun to watch the royal disapproval of the wit … though would they grasp it? What would prim George and dull Charlotte make of the wittiest play in London? How amusing to discover.

  The King had interrupted: ‘Yes it must be Shakespeare, Mr Sheridan. The people expect it of us.’

  Sheridan sighed. ‘I believe Your Majesty does not greatly care for tragedy, so I will not suggest Macbeth.’

  ‘Can’t stand the stuff. People killing each other all over the stage, eh, what? I call that even worse than the rest of the fellow’s plays, Mr Sheridan.’

  ‘Then Your Majesty would perhaps care to see The Winter’s Tale. A charming story of virtue rewarded, Sir. And we have a very good production of this play. It is a favourite of mine, if Your Majesty would allow me to express my opinion. It is a play for the family, Sir. One could take one’s children and not be dismayed.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘The Winter’s Tale. I remember it. A silly story, but as you say nothing to offend.’

  ‘I have an excellent actress in the part of Perdita, Your Majesty. She has been delighting my audiences for some little time and I am sure will please you.’

  The King grunted, implying that he was not interested in actresses. But the voices in his head were telling him that he would enjoy seeing this beauty perform.

  She made quite a name for herself as Juliet, Your Majesty; and since then has been a favourite of the public.’

  ‘Good. Then let it be The Winter’s Tale, Mr Sheridan.’

  ‘Sir, the players will be enchanted … and a little nervous, I dare swear. I shall take the first opportunity of letting them know the honour that awaits them.’

  The King smiled, in a good humour. He liked giving pleasure and discussing the visit of his family to the play was more comforting than those interviews with his ministers.

  *

  Sheridan went back to his house in Great Queen Street … that house which was far more expensive than he could afford. But he was by nature reckless and extravagant.

  He went straight to the drawing room for he knew that he would find Elizabeth there at the harpsichord. She invariably was because it was essential for her to do a great many hours practice a day. She was reckoned by the musical world to have one of the most enchanting voices of all time.

  He was right. She was there; and she rose at once to greet him, coming forward her arms outstretched. Even now her beauty struck him afresh and he had to stifle a feeling of shame for the infidelities he had practised since their marriage. Not that she would not understand. Not that she would ever withdraw the comfort of her serene presence. Elizabeth was a saint – and how could a man like Richard Sheridan live up to the high ideals of a saint?

  ‘Elizabeth my love.’ He kissed her hands; he did not have to feign affection; it was there, rising up, swamping all other emotions temporarily whenever he saw her. ‘What do you think? I have just come from the presence of His Majesty, King George III.’

  ‘A royal command performance?’

  ‘You have guessed rightly, my dear.’

  She drew him on to the sofa and said: ‘Come, tell me all about it.’ Her lovely face was framed by soft dark hair, the sweet mouth and the lovely long-lashed eyes under delicate but beautifully arched brows, glowed with interest.

  Sheridan then gave an imitation of his interview with the King, exaggerating it, mocking both himself and the monarch so that Elizabeth laughed immoderately and begged him to stop.

  ‘The outcome of this historic interview is, my love, that we are to play The Winter’s Tale for the royal family. And the Prince of Wales himself will be present.’

  ‘This is a sign that the Prince will be seen more frequently in public.’

  ‘Papa holds the knife that will cut the apron strings. It is poised, but the cut has not yet been made.’

  ‘I am sorry for His Majesty. He is so good, really, Richard.’

  ‘Alas for the good! They suffer so much. Unfair of fate is it not? It’s the wicked who should suffer.’

  He looked at her wistfully and she understood; but she smiled brightly. She would not show him that she often wondered where he was when not at home; that she trembled when she saw the accounts which came too frequently to Great Queen Street. She did not reproach him for those gambling debts which sucked up most of the profits from Drury Lane. But she was constantly worried about money.

  ‘Well, my love,’ he said, ‘this should bring in the cash. You know what a help these performances are. Everyone will want to see The Winter’s Tale because the royal family did. And, by God, we need the money.’

  She knew it. She helped with the accounts at Drury Lane; and she knew too that they could have lived in comfort – indeed, luxury – but for her husband’s wild extravagances.

  There could be a way out of their difficulties. She herself could earn money. Her voice could have been her fortune and was on the way to becoming so before her marriage. She had been offered twelve hundred guineas to sing for twelve nights at the Pantheon but her husband’s pride would not allow her to do this.

  It was something Elizabeth could not understand. How much more dishonourable to run up bills which one could not pay than to allow one’s wife to sing for money. But Richard had his pride. Pride indeed. One of the seven deadly sins. Pride insisted that he must consort with rich men, that he must gamble with them, that he must do all that they did, though they were rich and he must needs earn his living.

  But she could not understand Sheridan; she could only love him.

  She did not remind him that the theatre was doing well, that he himself had a brilliant future before him. She would have been happy to live as they had in those ecstatic days of their honeymoon in the tiny cottage at East Burnham; but that of course was not what Richard wanted. He needed the gay life of London – the theatrical world, the literary world, the wits, the men and women of brilliance to set off the sparks which lighted his talents.

  ‘It will have to be a superb performance,’ he said; and she was astonished at the manner in which he could throw aside all financial anxieties at the thought of the production. ‘We must go into rehearsal right away. Nothing but the best, Elizabeth.’

  ‘And will Mrs Robinson perform?’

  He did not meet her eye. He wondered how much she knew of his relationship with the be
autiful actress. He felt angry suddenly. He was a man of genius, wasn’t he? She could not expect to apply ordinary standards to him. She should know that however much he strayed he always came back to her. He would never cease to love her; he knew there was not a woman in the world like her. Wasn’t that enough? Mary Robinson was beautiful … in a different way from Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s beauty was of the heavenly variety – ‘as beautiful as an angel’, they had said of her. But a man of genius must experience the world. He cannot spend his life among angels.

  He spoke irritably. ‘Of course. Of course. Why not? She’s our biggest draw.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth calmly. ‘I merely wondered whether she was experienced enough.’

  ‘Experienced? She’s been playing for more than three years. Her Juliet was an immediate success.’

  ‘I see. So she will play Perdita.’

  ‘Perdita it shall be.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t delay. I must tell them of this great honour. We must begin our preparations at once.’ He stood up uneasily. Was she wondering whether his affair with the actress was still going on? Did she know it had ever existed?

  That was the trouble with these good women. One could never be sure how much they knew because they met all calamity, all disaster and the deceits of others, with a calm tolerance which, although it smoothed out the difficulties of life, could be damnably exasperating.

  He embraced her with fervour and her response was immediate. She had sworn to love him and naturally she kept her vows.

  ‘I had to come home to tell my Elizabeth first of all,’ he said.

  Then he was out of the house and as he called for his chair his anxieties fell from him. It was only when he entered the house that he remembered what it had cost and that a great deal of the furniture was not yet paid for. It was only when he was in the company of his wife that he remembered his sins.