Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  How dared he stand there and say such a thing! He was trying to behave as a man of the world. Why, he was not out of the nursery yet!

  ‘You should take more exercise,’ said the King. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

  The insolent eyes swept the King’s figure and the King was unable to prevent himself straightening up, holding in his stomach. In spite of all his efforts he did have too much flesh there.

  ‘I would not wish the people to think I was starved as well as treated like a child,’ murmured the Prince.

  ‘Eh? What?’ demanded the King.

  ‘I said, Sir, that I should not wish people to think I was starved.’

  ‘H’m.’ The King changed the subject. ‘The people were pleased to see us at the theatre together. It was a pleasant evening.’

  A dreamy look came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘A very pleasant evening, Sir. One of the pleasantest I have ever spent.’

  ‘The play was well done, though it was Shakespeare, and not as good as some.’

  ‘They do other plays, Sir,’ said the Prince eagerly. ‘There is Sheridan’s School for Scandal, and er …’

  ‘I don’t much like what I hear of that fellow Sheridan.’

  ‘Sir, he’s a brilliant playwright.’

  ‘A bit of a profligate, I fear. He has a beautiful wife and I’m sorry to see her married to such a man.’ It was the King’s turn to look sentimental. Elizabeth Linley with the golden voice. He had heard her sing several times in one of those concerts her father arranged. A beautiful voice … the best he had ever heard; and she looked like an angel herself. One of the most beautiful women I ever saw, he thought. I’d set her side by side with Hannah … or Sarah.

  ‘He’s a friend of Mr Fox and I’ve heard it said they are the most brilliant pair in the whole of London – and act as a foil to each other.’

  ‘Any friend of Mr Fox is no friend of mine,’ said the King shortly. ‘I am very sorry to know that Miss Linley has married that fellow. Nor do I wish to go to his theatre. I was thinking of something more suitable.’

  The Prince looked scornful. What a fool the old man was, he was thinking. He deliberately turned his back on the people who would be most well worth knowing. No wonder his Court was the dullest the country had ever known. He was not surprised that his Uncle Cumberland tried to set up a rival court. It was time somebody did.

  His own turn must come soon. Was that what the old man was afraid of? The Prince’s eyes glistened. He thought of the people he would gather round him when the time came. Mrs Robinson would be there. What joy! What bliss! Mrs Robinson in pink satin with feathers in her hair – or simply gowned as she had been in some scenes of the play with her dark hair about her shoulders. He was not sure whether he did not prefer her like that than more grandly attired. Oh, no, he preferred Mrs Robinson any way. It would not matter how she was dressed. Everything she wore … everything she did was perfect.

  That was why he felt so frustrated. Here he was unable to behave like a Prince … and a Prince of Wales at that … forced to present himself to his father whenever he was summoned, to stand before him and listen to his drivel about Mr Fox and Mr Sheridan. They were the sort of men he would have at his Court. Wait … just wait until he had his own establishment. It will be when I’m eighteen. I swear I’ll not allow them to treat me as a child any longer.

  ‘More suitable,’ went on the King, ‘and I have sent for you to tell you what I have chosen.’

  Sent for you! What I have chosen! Oh, it was humiliating!

  ‘I have ordered a performance at Covent Garden – an Oratorio. Handel’s setting of Alexander’s Feast. You will accompany the Queen and myself there.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the Prince of Wales, and the King thought he detected a trace of insolence in his voice.

  ‘And now I give you leave to go and visit the Queen.’

  ‘Your Majesty is gracious.’

  The King studied his son intently; he always felt the young fellow had the advantage because he was quicker with words than he was himself. That was the pity of it, he had turned all his good points to disadvantage – his good looks, his ready tongue, his scholastic accomplishments which far surpassed those of most young men … all these were now turned into weapons to use against his father.

  ‘And don’t show her how anxious you are to run away, eh, what?’

  The Prince bowed. ‘I shall, as ever, obey Your Majesty’s commands.’

  He retired; and the King said of his son what his grandfather George II had said of his: ‘Insolent young puppy.’

  *

  When the Prince of Wales returned to his apartments he sent for Lord Malden.

  ‘I cannot understand,’ he said, ‘why Mrs Robinson will not agree to a meeting.’

  ‘Sir, Mrs Robinson is a lady of great sensibility. She is not even sure that Your Highness is the author of the notes she has received.’

  ‘But you have told her.’

  Lord Maiden lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘She cannot believe it. She still fears that someone may be signing himself Florizel. What if she agreed to meet you in some place and then found it was not Your Highness after all? I think that is what she fears.’

  ‘Then we must put an end to her fears. I will make her sure. I have it. I am to go to Covent Garden to the Oratorio. She must go too.’

  ‘Your Highness, the King and the Queen …’

  The Prince laughed. ‘My box is opposite theirs at Covent Garden. See that Mrs Robinson is in the box above the King’s and Queen’s. There they will not see her and I can spend the whole evening gazing at her.’

  ‘Your Highness, what if you betray yourself?’

  ‘Malden, I think the King is not the only one who forgets I am the Prince of Wales. I pray you make these arrangements without delay. Go to Mrs Robinson. Tell her that I beg her to come to Covent Garden and there I will give her reason to doubt no longer that those notes have come from me.’

  *

  ‘Lord Maiden to see you, Madam.’ It was the discreet voice of Mrs Armistead.

  ‘Show him in at once, Armistead.’

  Lord Maiden appeared, elegant as ever. What a handsome man he was and his eyes told her how much he admired her, and for a moment disappointment swept over her because she feared he might have come on his own account.

  He soon reassured her.

  ‘I come direct from His Highness, the Prince of Wales.’

  She forced herself to look sceptical.

  ‘Mrs Robinson, I assure you this is so. His Highness is most unhappy because he fears that by approaching you he has offended you. He wishes to assure you that this is not the case. He would die rather than offend you.’

  ‘I would not wish to be responsible for the death of the heir to the throne.’

  ‘So I thought, Madam. Therefore I hope you will listen sympathetically.’

  ‘If the Prince wishes to write to me why does he not do so in a manner which could leave me in no doubt that he is the writer of the letters?’

  ‘His Highness is romantic. He thinks of you as Perdita and himself as Florizel.’

  ‘So could a hundred other gallants.’

  ‘His Highness is determined that you shall cast away your doubts. That is why he suggests a meeting.’

  She was alarmed. She had heard rumours of the Prince’s light love affairs. If she met him clandestinely he would doubtless seek a quick consummation; and in a short time she would be known as Mary Robinson, one of the Prince’s light-o’-loves for a week or so. Oh, no. She had too strong a sense of her own worth, too much dignity. Nothing like that was going to happen to her, no matter if the Prince of Wales did desire it.

  ‘I could not agree to a secret meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘I have my reputation to consider. This happens to be rather dear to me, Lord Malden.’

  ‘Quite rightly so,’ said the young man fervently. ‘But hear what His Highness wishes. You could, I am sure, have no objection to being in a public place where he might see y
ou … and give you some sign of his devotion. I am referring to Covent Garden. There is to be a royal occasion. The King and Queen will be there and the Prince begs … implores … that you will grace the evening with your presence. All he wishes is to assure you by a look and gesture that he is your fervent admirer and the writer of these letters.’

  Her first thought was: What shall I wear? She thought of pink satin and discarded that. Blue! Lavender perhaps. She would have a new gown for the occasion. Because of course she was going.

  ‘Did you say the King and Queen will be present?’

  ‘Yes. The King, the Queen and the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘And before the King and Queen …’

  ‘Have no fear. Leave all arrangements to me. I will see that all is as it should be.’

  ‘I have not yet made up my mind whether it would be wise for me to come.’

  ‘Madam, I beg of you. The Prince will be desolate: he is beside himself with anxiety because he receives no reply from you. All you have to do is sit in the box I shall choose for you. He will do the rest.’

  ‘You plead his cause with fervour, Lord Malden. If it were your own you could not do so more earnestly.’

  ‘Ah, Madam. Would it were my own.’

  She laughed lightly. It pleased her to be so admired.

  ‘Well, I do not wish to disappoint … er, Florizel.’

  Malden kissed her hand. ‘Madam, this will make the Prince of Wales a very happy man. I must go to him at once and acquaint him with his good fortune.’

  *

  Mrs Armistead, listening, heard that her mistress was going to the Oratorio. A step forward indeed, she thought. The Prince will not rest until she is his mistress. He himself will come here.

  There would be opportunities; and when Mrs Robinson was at the height of her ambitions – loved by the Prince of Wales – there would be a chance for a woman who was both handsome and clever to climb a little too. Perhaps not to such dizzy heights as her mistress, but … perhaps so. For all her dazzling beauty Mrs Robinson was scarcely wise; whereas her lady’s maid made up in wisdom for what she might lack in looks – only compared with Mrs Robinson, of course, because Mrs Armistead, by ordinary standards, was a very handsome woman indeed.

  Her mistress was calling for her. She must show Lord Malden to the door. He scarcely glanced at Mrs Armistead so bemused was he by the more flamboyant charms of Mrs Robinson. But it would not be so with all of them.

  As soon as he had gone Mrs Robinson was calling for her.

  ‘Armistead. Armistead. I have agreed to go to the Oratorio at Covent Garden. The King, Queen and Prince of Wales are to be present.’

  ‘Madam will wish to look her best.’

  ‘I thought of lavender satin.’

  ‘Madam will need a new gown for the occasion. Something which she has not worn before.’

  ‘Exactly, Armistead.’

  ‘I think Madam … white.’

  ‘White, Armistead!’

  ‘White satin and silver tissue, Madam.’

  ‘But so pale. I shall pass unnoticed.’

  ‘Madam could never be unnoticed. I was thinking that the simplicity of your gown would be great contrast to the brilliance of your beauty.’

  Armistead stood there, eyes lowered – very neat and quite elegant herself in her black gown over which she wore a white apron.

  ‘The touch of colour could come from the feathers in your headdress.’

  Mrs Robinson nodded. ‘What colours, Armistead?’

  ‘Well, Madam, that is a matter to which we should give a little thought. This will be a very important occasion and we must make sure that all is just as it should be.’

  Mrs Robinson nodded. Oh, excellent Armistead.

  For us both, thought Mrs Armistead, who was visualizing not so much the scene at Covent Garden but what would follow … the great men who would come to this house, among whom would surely be some who would realize the quite considerable charm of Mrs Armistead.

  *

  Covent Garden! A blaze of Glory. Crowds had gathered in the streets to see the royal cavalcade. The Prince of Wales looked magnificent with the glittering diamond star on his blue satin coat. How different from his poor old father and plain pregnant mother!

  ‘God bless the Prince!’ the cheers rang out.

  The King was pleased. It was good for any member of the royal family to be popular. Good for the monarchy. As for the Queen, she was proud when she heard them calling for her son. ‘He is so handsome,’ she murmured.

  It was a glittering company. Red plush and gold braid and the finest musicians in the country; and the most notable people in the land were present.

  There was an atmosphere of anticipation engendered by the implication that now the Prince was growing up there would be more of this kind of thing, and there was no doubt that it was what the public liked to see.

  ‘It was a good idea, eh, what?’ murmured the King to the Queen. ‘The family … in public … together … in harmony.’

  The Queen thought it was a very good idea.

  *

  In her box sat Mrs Robinson, attracting a great deal of attention, for she had rarely looked so beautiful. Between them she and Armistead had decided what she would wear. The white satin and silver tissue had been a brilliant idea, particularly as her feathers were of the most delicate shade of pink and green.

  How much more elegant she looked than some of the women in their bright colours. She felt the utmost confidence as she reclined in her box which was immediately above that occupied by the King and Queen.

  And then … the excitement. The royal family were in the theatre. She could not see the King and Queen but when the house stood to attention she knew they were there. And almost immediately he appeared in the box opposite her. The handsome glittering Prince of Wales, and for companion his brother Frederick.

  Perdita’s heart began to beat very fast for no sooner had the Prince of Wales acknowledged the cheers of the people than he sat down and leaning on the edge of the box gazed with passionate adoration at Mrs Robinson.

  It was true, she thought. But of course she had never doubted it, She had pretended to give herself time to decide how best she could handle this enthralling but very delicate situation. Now she could no longer plead suspicion that the letters were written by someone other than the Prince. He was giving her no doubt of his feelings.

  The music had started but the Prince’s gaze remained fixed on the box opposite and many members of the audience quickly became aware of this. Whispers! Titters! Who is this at whom the Prince of Wales is casting sheep’s eyes? Mrs Robinson, of course, the actress from Drury Lane. The woman who had had such an effect upon him when he went to see The Winter’s Tale.

  The audience were far more interested in this byplay between the two boxes than they were in the music. They were a very striking pair for the Prince of Wales in his most elegant clothes with the glitter of royalty was the most handsome young man in Covent Garden and Mrs Robinson was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman. And the point which was so amusing was that all this was going on right under the noses – literally speaking, one might say – of the King and Queen, whom everyone knew kept the Prince so guarded that he found the utmost difficulty in following his inclinations.

  The King noticed nothing; he was absorbed by the music. Handel’s setting was perfect, he thought. Not a musician in the world to touch him … now or at any time.

  The Queen, however, was less interested in the music although she thought it was fine. She had an opportunity of gazing in uninterrupted admiration at her adored first-born. How handsome he looked! How proud she was! Frederick was a good-looking boy too, but he could not really be compared with George. She thought of his odd little sayings when he was very young. Old-fashioned he had been, never at a loss for a word. And how proud she had been of his ability to master his lessons! He was really brilliant. He had been a little wayward. What child was not? She had been upset when he had been beaten
and the King had told her she must not be foolish, for to spare the rod was to spoil the child. The King would now say that even applications of the rod had not achieved that purpose and none was more aware than herself of the growing animosity between father and son.

  She tried to catch his eye to send him an affectionate motherly smile but he would not look her way. His eyes were fixed above their box. She wondered why.

  He was smiling now; he was making strange gestures. What did it mean? Now he was holding the programme up to his face; he was drawing his hand across his forehead as though in utter despair. Extraordinary! And all this was directed somewhere over their heads.

  He had lowered the playbill and cast off his mournful expression; now he was smiling in a manner which might be described as pleading. He was leaning forward and with his right hand was actually pretending to write on the edge of the box in which he sat. What was he doing?

  The Queen had now lost all interest in the music; like most people all her attention was centred on the Prince of Wales who continued behaving in this odd manner, pretending to write; looking as though he were the most miserable of young men one moment and the most joyous the next.

  I believe, thought the Queen, he is making signs to someone.

  Every now and then the Prince spoke to his brother and Frederick too was gazing as if spellbound somewhere above the royal box.

  Then she understood.

  The first part of the Oratorio had come to an end. The King turned to the Queen. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Handel’s setting is perfect. Everything he has written has shown his genius. I find this excellent.’

  ‘I have been wondering about the Prince …’

  ‘The Prince, eh, what?’ The King shot a glance across the theatre. ‘He’s there. Glad he likes good music. One point in his favour, eh, what?’

  ‘Oh, he likes good music,’ said the Queen, ‘but he seems to be very much attracted by something above our box. I have been wondering what it can be.’

  The King frowned. Then he summoned one of his equerries who had been at the back of the box.

  ‘Who is in the box above ours, eh?’ he demanded.