by Jean Plaidy
Cartoons were in circulation depicting her with the Prince; they were often ribald, often bawdy. Mr Robinson was not forgotten either; he was known to the public through the horns without which he was never depicted. Every time she went out it was to find a crowd waiting outside the house; women came forward to touch her gowns, feel the material, comment on its cost; some would make jocular remarks about the Prince’s prowess as a lover. These she ignored and she would return to the house crying: ‘Armistead. I am exhausted! Oh, how vulgar the people are!’
And Armistead would say: ‘Yes, Madam.’ And despise her mistress more than ever. She was so false, thought Mrs Armistead. No one could have loved this interest she aroused more than herself. As she did, why not admit it, for this pretence of finding it tiresome was so stupid. In fact the more Mrs Armistead felt her independence, the more she despised her mistress. Lord Dorset had been very kind and considerate. At length he had prevailed upon her to accept a little present. A little present indeed! She was mixing in the right society, for what was little to such a gentleman was a great deal to Mrs Armistead. She reckoned she had enough to invest in a little house. Why not? A roof over her head. What could be wiser? And she would furnish it with simple good taste – and it should be as different from this gilded mock palace in Cork Street as a house could be.
It was inevitable that the King should hear not only of his son’s visits to Cumberland House but that he was keeping a young actress in Cork Street.
‘Small wonder,’ he said to the Queen, ‘that I can’t sleep at night. I have had ten nights without sleep thinking of that young rake. No good, eh? What?’
‘Your Majesty will speak to him?’ suggested the Queen timidly.
‘No good,’ said the King sadly. ‘Too late. My eldest son … the Prince of Wales, is a … profligate, a rake … he keeps a play actress. You see, he’s gone over to my enemies … eh, what? Took the first opportunity. Always knew we’d have trouble with him. Keeping a play actress! Gambling! Going to see Cumberland when he knows that I …’ The King was too distressed to continue. He could only look at the Queen and whisper, ‘Eh? What?’ again and again so that she wanted to stop her ears and shout to him to stop, because she was so frightened to see him in that mood.
*
Perdita was faintly uneasy. Was the Prince changing towards her? Did he treat her with more familiarity? Was he using the bad language which she so deplored more frequently?
He was constantly at Cumberland House and she was not invited. Sometimes he talked of his aunt in a manner which disturbed her.
‘By God, what a woman! I’m not surprised my uncle flouted my father for her.’
It was as though he were comparing them. Surely he could not compare her with that coarse-spoken woman!
But she was at least a Luttrell … a noble family. ‘How strange,’ she had said, ‘that a woman of noble birth should be so coarse.’
‘She’s damned amusing,’ retorted the Prince.
‘For those who like vulgarity, yes.’
Had she seen the look he gave her she might have been warned, but she did not; she had a glimpse of herself in a distant mirror and was admiring the blue satin bows on her white dress.
‘I personally could never endure it.’
The Prince did not answer; he was studying the buckles on his shoes with a sullen expression.
He left early although she had expected him to stay the night. And he gave no excuse for going.
So she was anxious; but the next time he saw her he was all devotion. Gently she reminded him of all she had given up for his sake. She did not want him to take her for granted. Her husband … well he was not much to relinquish, but she had loved her child and although the little girl lived not far away with her grandmother and she could see her now and then, the devotion she gave to the Prince left her very little time.
The Prince would suggest they sing together or perhaps take the air. He liked to ride with her through the Park and the crowds came to watch them, for she must be exquisitely dressed on these occasions and they made a colourful picture.
Even she was cheered on occasions like that.
Sometimes he would stay away from Cork Street for several days; and then he would come in a mood of such gaiety that she could not doubt that he was happy to be with her. He would stay for several days and nights and declare that all he wanted in the world was to be with his Perdita.
She loved to ride in the Park, St James’s or Pall Mall, in her newest creation – always a different ensemble for she could never appear twice in the same; she would be most exquisitely powdered and patched; her face flowerlike with its contrast of rouge and white lead. Sometimes she was in frills and ribbons, at others she would wear a flowing cravat and a tailored coat, the very masculinity of which only accentuated her femininity. In satin and brocade, in muslin and linen, dressed simply in a hat resembling a sun bonnet or in a fashionable hat spilling feathers down her back and round her face, she always provided excitement for the spectators and there were crowds to see Perdita Robinson as they called her on parade. As she passed some called after her coarse enquiries but members of the Prince’s circle doffed their hats and bowed low as they went past on foot or rattled by in their carriages; and members of the King’s circle looked through her as though she did not exist.
She would return home, as she said, ‘exhausted’, and walk up and down her bedroom declaiming: ‘Am I a peepshow for people to peer at? How I long for the quiet and peace of obscurity.’ And, as Mrs Armistead reported to Mr Fox, savouring it all with relish.
She had ordered a new carriage and when it arrived she was delighted with it. No one could fail to notice it and to realize that its owner must be a very important person indeed. It was scarlet and silver; and the seat cloth was decorated with silver stars. It was lined with white silk and scarlet fringe. On the door had been painted a basket of flowers beneath which was a wreath and her initials M R in silver. The wreath had all the appearance, particularly from a distance, of a coronet, which was exactly what Perdita had intended.
She was delighted with her carriage and went everywhere in it. When it was seen outside shops people would gather round it, recognizing it, so that they might have a glimpse of her when she came out.
If the Prince was in love with his life so was Perdita with hers; but whereas he was all gaiety and high spirits, her method of enjoying life was to dramatize it. She would talk to Mrs Armistead of her child for whom she said she longed; and indeed Mrs Armistead believed she did miss little Maria, for she was fond of her. But it was absurd, commented that practical lady in her private thoughts, to choose a way of life and then complain because one had not chosen another.
It cannot last, thought Mrs Armistead. Most certainly it cannot last. And then what? Where shall we be? The debts which were accumulating were alarming, but Perdita was becoming like her lover and gave no thought to them. She was the mistress of the Prince of Wales and no one denied her credit.
Mrs Armistead often thought how differently she would have behaved had she been in Perdita’s position. There would have been no debts. Quite the contrary. Mrs Armistead would have had a nice little fortune tucked away by now. In her own small way she was not doing badly. Lord Derby had shown interest and the Duke of Dorset had not lost his; so she had her little house in Chertsey very pleasantly and safely waiting for her.
A refuge! How unusual it was for a lady’s maid to compare her position so favourably with that of her mistress.
But this was, of course, no ordinary lady’s maid.
Blackmail
THE PRINCE HAD sent word that he would be visiting Cork Street that evening. A quiet evening, he said, merely a few friends, Fox and Sheridan among them.
Mrs Armistead would arrange the evening; they no longer had to hire their footman but Mrs Armistead thought they should have more servants for this occasion. Because of the excellent qualities Perdita was constantly discovering in her lady’s maid she was delighted when s
he had suggested she should take over the arrangement of dinner parties; and Mrs Armistead performed these duties with distinction. Now she set herself to plan the meal and order the wine … plenty of it. What drinkers Mr Fox and Mr Sheridan were … and the Prince was beginning to rival them.
‘Madam,’ declared Mrs Armistead, ‘you must rest during the afternoon so as not to be too tired.’
Perdita agreed that this was so.
‘The Prince is so full of high spirits,’ she said fondly.
‘And expects Madam to be the same.’
‘Ah yes, indeed. Sometimes I long for a quiet retreat, Armistead. A little house in the country …’
‘It would not suit His Highness, Madam. He has just escaped from a little house in the country. Kew, to be precise.’
Perdita looked coldly at her maid. There were times when she thought that the woman was inclined to forget her place.
There was no time to reprimand her for there was a loud knocking on the door.
Perdita gazed at Mrs Armistead. ‘Who can it be?’
‘The footman will discover, Madam.’
They were soon in no doubt, for the visitor did not wait to be announced but strode straight into Perdita’s bedroom. It was Thomas Robinson, his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot.
The creature is drunk, thought Mrs Armistead.
‘Where is my wife, eh? Where is my lady wife?’
Perdita lay back on her pillows looking as though she were about to faint.
‘Why have you come here?’
‘Why should I not? I have a right.’ He looked at the coronet into which the curtains were gathered above the bed and sneered at it. ‘So this is the bed where you frolic with His Highness? You don’t think of your husband then, I’ll warrant.’
‘I prefer never to think of him.’
‘I daresay, I daresay. So do most whores.’
Perdita flinched and blushed scarlet. ‘How dare you! How dare you! Go away.’
‘Why? This is where I belong. It’s my wife’s house … and what’s hers is mine.’
‘No,’ cried Perdita, too upset to act. ‘Go away, Thomas. Go away, I beg of you.’
‘Would you make it worth my while if I did?’
‘Yes … yes … yes …’
‘Now you’re talking. I’m in debt. I want some money. I want it now.’
‘Armistead! Armistead!’
That excellent lady was at the door listening, and appeared immediately.
‘Bring … bring …’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Robinson, ‘bring all you have … and that won’t be enough. Why should I be jeered at? Why should I see my picture all over the place? And not a good likeness either. Me in horns!’
‘We all have to suffer from these scandal sheets … I more than most!’
‘Well, you deserve to. I don’t.’
‘When I think of all the serving girls … the dirty sluts …’
‘Compensation, Mrs Robinson. So you’ve still got that lady’s maid. She’s a sly piece … and not all that unbedworthy either.’
‘Thomas. For God’s sake be silent.’
Mrs Armistead had overheard. So even he had noticed. She was not displeased. She had brought a few pounds for the man and she told him that this was all there was in the house. Perdita shot her a grateful glance and once more asked herself what she would do without Armistead.
When the lady’s maid had left the room, Perdita said: ‘You have what you have come for … now go.’
‘I don’t intend to go. I like this little place. Why should I live in my little hovel while the wife of my bosom has a snug place like this?’
‘Please, please go at once.’
But Mr Robinson sprawled in a chair and regarded the tips of his boots, a sly look of determination on his face.
‘I want some compensation for losing my wife,’ he said in a whining voice.
‘You have … as you said. Your kitchen sluts.’
‘Even they have to be kept and living’s costly.’
‘So it’s money you want. Well, you’ve had it.’
‘I want it regularly. I want to know where I stand. I want an allowance from you. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve a right.’
‘If you will go away you shall have it.’
He nodded slowly and began to haggle over the amount.
She lay back on her pillows thinking: Go away. Leave me. If he were here when the guests arrived what would happen? The Prince would be annoyed. But Thomas Robinson would never dare. He was a coward. He was a braggart. He would go before they came. But he was in a truculent mood. He had clearly been drinking. And she needed to rest. Late nights with the Prince were beginning to leave their mark – very slightly it was true – but she had noticed faint shadows under her eyes this morning.
Go! she wanted to scream. Leave me in peace.
But the more she showed her agitation the more advantage that gave him. She was ready to promise anything if only he would go.
‘Then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘And I want it regularly remember.’
‘You shall have it. I must rest now. I am very tired.’
‘Yours is an exhausting profession.’
She did not answer that and he continued to sit there leering at her.
At length she said: ‘Well, you have what you want.’
‘Partly, but not entirely.’
‘Pray, what do you mean?’
‘I like this place. There’s plenty of room here.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No, only a husband with rights.’
‘Do you think your presence here would be tolerated?’
‘Not welcomed probably, but that wouldn’t worry me.’
‘Thomas, I beg of you to go. If you stay here … you will ruin everything.’
He still continued to leer at her.
She closed her eyes; she had a horrible vision of her guests arriving to find this unkempt drunken sot sprawling in her house. Mr Robinson of the cartoons, husband of Perdita.
She was distracted. What could she do? The more she showed her terror the more determined he would be to plague her. She thought of some of the people who were coming tonight – outwardly her friends, but a woman in her position had to face a great deal of envy. It was everywhere – in the lampoons, the wicked verses, the eyes of women who called lewd names after her. Everything she did was noticed. They would say Mr Robinson has moved in with his wife. Ménage à trois. And the Prince would never tolerate it.
And what can I do? she asked herself.
Mrs Armistead came into the room. She was a little flushed and breathless and looked as though she had been hurrying.
‘Madam,’ she said, ‘Lord Maiden is here.’
Perdita looked alarmed and glanced in horror at Mr Robinson, but Mrs Armistead said firmly: ‘I will show him in.’
Mr Robinson said: ‘So you receive men in your bedroom, do you?’
‘Don’t be a fool. I am not alone here.’
‘No, your husband is here to protect you. Ha! ha!’
Mrs Armistead appeared with Lord Maiden, exquisitely dressed as usual in a light brown velvet coat with gold frogging. He kissed Perdita’s hand and turned to Mr Robinson.
However truculent the latter had felt before the entrance of Lord Maiden, he could not prevent himself being overawed by the elegance of dress and manners, and as Lord Maiden treated him with the utmost courtesy – and interest – his mood changed completely. He was ingratiating and pleased to be noticed.
While Perdita lay back on her pillows exhausted, the men talked and after a while Lord Maiden suggested Mr Robinson come with him to a club he knew that they might continue their interesting conversation.
Mr Robinson was delighted and both men took their leave of Perdita.
When they had gone, she cried: ‘Oh, what a stroke of good fortune. I shall never be able to thank Maiden enough. And the manner in which that creature went … as meek as a lamb.’
; Mrs Armistead said demurely: ‘It was certainly a stroke of good fortune that I found Lord Maiden at his residence.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, Madam. When I saw that Mr Robinson intended to stay I slipped out of the house and went to Dean Street. As I say it was fortunate that his lordship was at home. I told him that Mr Robinson was here and in what mood and begged him to come at once and dislodge him. This he did. He will take him to some club or tavern and there ply him with drink. So I do not think we need worry ourselves this evening with Mr Robinson.’
Perdita sighed. She must endure Armistead’s familiarities now and then; she really was a most excellent servant.
*
The incident had unnerved her. She could not help thinking that but for the prompt action of Armistead Mr Robinson might be at this moment in the house. The Prince noticed her lack of spirits and chided her affectionately.
‘You look tired, my angel,’ he whispered.
Oh God, she thought, and looked for the nearest mirror.
‘Smile,’ urged the Prince. ‘You’re more beautiful when you smile.’
And she fixed her features into a false smile which could not deceive any.
Perdita was melancholy by nature, thought the Prince, faintly critical. He was comparing her with his aunt Cumberland and the very thought of her made him smile. She could always amuse him. She was so full of gaiety always and never failing to come up with a quip which brought tears of mirth to the eyes. And Georgiana, the lovely Duchess of Devonshire – there was another. His eyes grew soft at the thought of her. She was a beauty and no mistake. Of course Perdita was the queen of beauty – but so damned melancholy. Then that lady’s maid – Mrs Armistead – he had asked her her name the other day and she had curtsied so prettily … Well, elegantly, he would have said. It was a curtsey that would have become a duchess and she was a handsome woman too. Not perhaps his ideal of beauty; he liked dazzlers like Georgiana, Anne Luttrell … and Perdita; but that waiting woman had something.
