Betsy and the Emperor

by Anne Whitehead

  At about this time the Balcombe family moved from Plymouth to the Devon village of Chudleigh. It is not clear why they moved, except that house rentals were bound to be much cheaper in the village, and it was still only 23 rugged miles from Princetown; if the Dartmoor School of Industry became a reality, Balcombe’s family could remain in Chudleigh while he rode to work at the prison.

  Lowe’s concern to monitor the Balcombes’ activities diminished after Napoleon’s death and his useful documentation of them became only occasional. With the uproar over the ‘St Helena plot’ subsiding, they were rarely mentioned in the newspapers, so in an era twenty years before the first official census, only major life events such as births, deaths and marriages could help trace such a family. Only one of those events was to occur and be recorded within the next few years.

  Three weeks after Napoleon’s death, his faithful companions—the Count and Countess Bertrand and their children, Count de Montholon, the valets Marchand and Saint-Denis, Dr Antommarchi, the newly arrived priest Abbé Vignali—and the few remaining French servants of the Longwood establishment all made their departure from St Helena on the storeship Camel.6 None of them had ever loved the island; some of them had loved its prisoner. As the great rock receded, none would have felt regret—except surely Marchand, abandoning his mistress and the child he had (perhaps) sired. A blue-eyed boy with a very large head . . . Even Count de Las Cases’ precious papers were leaving the island at last. Lowe had written to Bathurst that it occurred to him that Las Cases ‘will probably be claiming them, on hearing of the event that has happened here’. He was sending the documents to Bathurst, with safety copies on a second ship.7

  Lowe had made an embarrassing admission to his lordship. After all his complaints about the Russian commissioner, he had been obliged to accept him as his son-in-law. Count Balmain’s offers to his stepdaughter Charlotte were ‘of the most flattering & advantageous nature’ and Lady Lowe was in favour. The couple had been married on 26 April 1820, followed by a celebration at Plantation House. Lowe now described Balmain as ‘honourable, gentlemanlike & agreeable’.8 The secretary Gorrequer made a sarcastic comment in his thinly coded diary on how much Lowe ‘had changed his tone after Bear’s proposal’.9

  It was another two months before Lowe could leave the island. He was having a difficult time, in dispute with the East India Company over various issues.10 A ‘Secret and Confidential’ letter from the directors, written three days before Napoleon’s death, was on its way to him. It was a scorching rebuke, listing all the areas in which his administration was viewed as wanting. ‘We cannot suffer Ourselves to be thus dictated to as to the manner in which we may chuse to seek for Information relative to our affairs at St Helena . . .’ They rejected Lowe’s remarks that they were influenced ‘by the ex-parte opinions or advice of any Person whatever’. They trusted that he had not ‘intentionally shewn Disrespect’ and that he would ‘on mature reflection be convinced’ that he had ‘been led into Error or Misconception’ and that ‘this unpleasant Correspondence will here terminate’.11

  It was apparent that Lowe could never hope for a future appointment from the East India Company. But before he quitted the island he had the gratification of receiving an address from the British residents, gratefully acknowledging ‘the consideration, justice, impartiality and moderation which have distinguished your government’. They particularly praised him for abolishing slavery in a colony where the practice had existed for so long, ‘proof of our entire confidence in your concern for our welfare’.12

  The Third Plymouth and Dartmoor Railway Act of Parliament received royal assent at the beginning of July 1821, making financial provision for the building of a 620-yard tunnel. Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt hosted a festive ‘breakfast’ for as many people as cared to attend at the planned station of Roborough Down on Dartmoor, where horses would be changed and stabled.13 The Balcombes as shareholders were bound to have been present to show their enthusiasm and to meet new people.

  Village life at Chudleigh may have seemed limiting for the young Balcombe women, particularly for someone as bright, spirited, attractive and sociable as Betsy. However, there are indications that the family was not isolated from society, for she somehow made the acquaintance of one of Devon’s more interesting residents, Thomas Leversidge Fish, who spent a few months of each year at his extraordinary home, ‘Knowle Cottage’, in neighbouring Sidmouth.14

  Fish was 36 years old in 1821, personable, immensely wealthy and a bachelor. Betsy may have met him at one of Sir Thomas’s levées, which a few society people attended, but, more than likely, curiosity led her to visit Knowle Cottage with her mother and sister, just like scores of other tourists. Fish opened it to the public, free of any entry charge, on the first Monday of every month during the season when he was in residence, July to October.15

  Sidmouth, with its dramatic red sandstone cliffs sheltering the beach, had become a fashionable watering place for the upper and middle classes during the Napoleonic Wars, when they were prevented from going to the Continent, and especially so since the King’s brother the late Duke of Kent—with his wife and their little daughter Princess Victoria—had adopted it as a favoured holiday spot.16 In 1810, it had been a quiet fishing village with a population of 1252, but by 1821 this had more than doubled.17 The rich arrived and built fashionable houses, calling them ‘marine villas’ or ‘cottages’.

  The grandest, most eccentric, most beautiful, most famous and least ‘cottagey’ was Fish’s Knowle Cottage, also known as ‘The Knowle’. This very rich and very eligible bachelor had purchased it that year, 1821, as a neglected deceased estate. Even then it was a grand property of some 14 acres, described in the auction listing as ‘an elegant marine residence . . . situated on a beautiful eminence commanding extensive prospects of the surrounding country, and boundless views of the ocean’.18 Fish then set about restoring the house and grounds; hired gardeners, craftsmen and artists; and began expending his fortune on fine furniture, statues, vases, chandeliers and stained glass. He raided Europe, an extravagant and tasteful collector, the William Randolph Hearst of his day. In the gardens, Fish created ponds, fountains, Gothic arches, conservatories, a huge aviary and a large private zoo, importing rare plants, birds and animals from all over the world. The Knowle became his obsession, and he was happy to share its wonders with the breathless public free of charge, once a month, weather permitting, when he was in residence.

  Soon Fish had a nickname—denoting both his wealth and his generosity—‘the Golden Fish of Knowle Cottage’. Mothers of marriageable daughters all over the county were alert to his arrival in their midst. Jane Austen’s opening to Pride and Prejudice—‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’—was still a truism in 1821. Fish was rumoured to earn some £20,000 a year, although no one was quite sure what he did when he was away from Sidmouth.

  The Balcombe women, and even William, would not have been able to resist a visit. Like all the sightseers, they would have been astonished. The local guidebooks described the road to the house as ‘overshadowed by exuberantly rich foliage’ and leading to an entrance park with the most exotic collection of animals: ‘Alpacos [sic], Gazelles, Indian buffaloes, Cape sheep, Georgian axis and other deer; antelopes, Cashmere goats, Marmoset monkeys and kangaroos’. A domed aviary with tropical plants and palm trees within was said to provide ‘a sumptuous place of confinement’ for rare foreign birds: ‘emeus [sic] from New Holland, seven feet high; pelicans of the wilderness, parrots, gold and silver pheasants, Peruvian cockatoos, paroquets, demoiselle birds, crown birds from Brazil, macaws, American, French and English partridges, a stork of Egypt, Virginian and cardinal nightingales, and fire birds from Africa’.19 Peacocks strutted uncaged about the lawns and flaunted their fans.

  The Balcombes had 30 rooms of the ‘cottage’ to explore, starting with the main suite, ‘one hundred feet in length, with two elegantly painted glass bay windows,
which give light to the splendid apartments’. There were chandeliers, lamps, paintings, marble busts and bronzes. A dazzling collection was laid out on 70 tables, a glorious clutter of Parisian and Geneva clocks, Dresden china, oriental vases, carved ivory, Florentine boxes, ‘everything necessary to ease and enjoyment’. The guidebook rhapsodised: ‘It is impossible not to be struck with the contemplation of the wealth that has been expended and the taste which has been displayed.’ The Balcombes would have been struck by that too. They would have seen ‘an elegant basin ewer of opal, which cost 300 guineas, manufactured at Dresden for the Empress Catherine of Russia’, and then the item which may well have brought them to the attention of the owner, ‘an exquisite specimen of carved ivory, late the property of Josephine Buonaparte, which occupied a place in the chapel at the Palace of St Cloud’.20

  Betsy, or another of the family, might have exclaimed about this and soon their particular connection with Bonaparte would have come to the attention of Fish. Or else, as an aesthete, a cultured man with an obvious interest in history, he heard about their Bonaparte connection, their friendship with Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, and even their rumoured royal bloodline, and sought them out himself. In some such way the friendship with Betsy must have begun. But it continued. She and her family and Tyrwhitt would have been guests at the ‘splendid dinner’ he occasionally hosted for ‘the nobility and gentry of Sidmouth and its vicinity’.21

  Betsy must have seen Fish on many occasions, for in an 1834 Guide to Illustrations and Views of Knowle Cottage is this passage, amusing in its bizarre historical inaccuracy: ‘On one of the tables there is a magnificent piece of topaz, which once belonged to Bonaparte; it was given by him to Miss Balcombe, the daughter of the Governor who preceded Sir Hudson Lowe, at St Helena, and presented by her to Mr. Fish, when on a visit to him. The exiled Emperor was living at the Governor’s house whilst Longwood was in a state of preparation, and the young lady having the honor of beating him at a game of chess, he rewarded her with this splendid specimen in return.’22

  For Betsy to present Fish with a ‘magnificent topaz’ that Napoleon had given her was more than generous. News of her former friend’s distressing death had only recently reached her, so to part with the gem was a precious gift. But perhaps she could already see herself as mistress of The Knowle, with its peacocks, collections of treasures, luxuriant gardens and vistas to the sea. To become Mrs Thomas Fish would raise her in rank to a level to which she felt entitled, and it would solve all her parents’ financial problems. Perhaps her gift of the topaz was not a sprat to catch a mackerel, but a mackerel to catch a Golden Fish. If so, this Fish was one that got away. The relationship did not progress. Betsy must have felt hurt and rejected, and vulnerable to the next man who might more readily seem to appreciate her charms.

  It may not have been personal. The thought would never have occurred to her that Thomas Leversidge Fish Esquire was perhaps not inclined towards the female sex, except for platonic friendship. His aesthetic sensibilities and contentment to live alone among his vast collections, adding to them each year, refining and redesigning his gardens, acquiring new exotic animals and birds for his menagerie, might suggest this.23

  He continued to open his house for viewings for the next 40 years. He never married. An obituary after his death in 1861 remarked on his solitary life and noted that his wealth had come from owning 400 public houses or ‘pubs’.24

  CHAPTER 27

  MARRY IN HASTE . . .

  The official coronation of George IV, postponed from the previous year because of the Queen’s trial, took place on 19 July 1821 with as much pomp and fanfare as his courtiers, including Sir Thomas, could contrive. After the King’s disastrous attempt to divorce his wife, he hoped to erase the embarrassment and improve his public image, as historian Steven Parissien has observed, ‘by casting himself as the embodiment and inspiration of a newly-confident and militarily-successful nation’. He had always had a reluctant admiration for and sense of rivalry with his old foe Bonaparte, ‘and intended to outshine Napoleon’s imperial coronation of 1804’.1 A tailor was even sent to Paris to measure the former emperor’s robes, to ensure that George’s were longer and more splendid.

  On the great day, Westminster Abbey was decked out with all the trappings of Tudor pageantry. But the grandeur of the occasion was somewhat marred by Queen Caroline’s attempt to gatecrash it. (Caroline actually had a ticket of entry, ‘sent to her by the Duke of Wellington, who seems to have been struck with sympathy for her predicament’.2) A public riot had been anticipated if she was not crowned as well, so guards had been placed at each door of the Abbey to bar her entrance. However, it was said that ‘the sight of her on foot, jostled by the rabble, frantically but vainly rushing from door to door, evoked nothing but catcalls from the spectators’.3 Blocked at every entrance, by the Lord High Chamberlain’s orders, she left in her carriage, admitting defeat. Queen Caroline was said to be ‘destroyed’ by her public humiliation. Her former counsel at her trial, Henry Brougham, thought she had ‘lost incalculably’ for ‘getting out of her carriage and tramping about’.4 Her health deteriorated from that time.

  After the five-hour ceremony, the 312 invited guests proceeded to Westminster Hall for a sumptuous banquet. Continuing the Tudor theme, trumpets announced a young man on horseback in Elizabethan armour. He rode his horse between the tables, but unfortunately the horse ‘defecated dramatically’.5 The Duke of Wellington was naturally more stylish; his friend Mrs Arbuthnot noted how he ‘performed to perfection his duty as High Constable, riding a white Arabian horse up to the King’s table and backing out again. Lord Anglesey said he was “the only man in England who can back his horse down Westminster Hall”.’6

  The King had been crowned at last, with enormous pageantry and expense, never to be attempted by succeeding monarchs. After the banquet, even the gold plate and silver cutlery were plundered by drunken guests.

  Since the brutal Battle of the Boyne of William of Orange in 1690, no British monarch had dared visit his dominion of Ireland. But George IV had always professed himself to be ‘Irish at heart’ and wished to attempt a conciliation of the fractious religious and political differences. On 6 August, just over a fortnight after the coronation, he boarded the royal yacht at Portsmouth for his state visit to Ireland.7

  Given that the King was a covert admirer of Napoleon, it was a strange coincidence that his yacht passed the storeship Camel, bringing Bonaparte’s closest companions to England after their long sojourn on St Helena. John Bull magazine reported: ‘When the Royal yacht passed through Spithead, immediately on coming abreast of the Camel store-ship (on board of which were the suite of the late Ex-Emperor Napoleon) His Majesty, with the usual urbanity that ever marks his noble character, condescendingly sent Sir William Keppel, and others of his suite, on board, to inquire after the health of Madame Bertrand and her family, as also the health of others, the attendants of Napoleon. They fully appreciated the high honor done them.’8

  The royal yacht put in at Holyhead in north Wales, where a messenger brought the King news of the Queen’s sudden death. Caroline had not fulfilled her threat to ‘live some years to plague him’ and George did not pretend dismay. But he took the advice of the Home Secretary and interrupted his journey, staying a few days at Lord Anglesey’s house as a token of bereavement. He wrote to Sir William Knighton—with whom he had become confidential, still cool with Tyrwhitt over the issue of the Queen’s trial—that ‘the Hand of God had bestowed a blessing’ upon him.9

  Napoleon’s former companions were obliged to disembark at the naval base at Portsmouth, but were greeted by onlookers with enthusiasm and interest. According to Marchand, ‘the population was curious to see men who had remained faithful in misfortune’. The customs officials were respectful in examining Napoleon’s relics, his ‘silver, legacies and uniforms’.10

  The Bertrands and Montholon went to London, taking rooms in Brunet’s Hotel, Leicester Square. They were overwhelmed by visitors wishi
ng to show their support and learn of Napoleon’s last days. No doubt the Balcombes were anxious to see their old friends, but travel was expensive, they were financially distressed, and they must have feared official ire. There would have been little time anyway, for within the fortnight the French were provided with passports by their embassy in London and on 16 August sailed for their homeland at last.

  Three weeks earlier, on 25 July, Sir Hudson Lowe and his suite had left St Helena on the Dunira. Lowe took with him a great deal of furniture, including many pieces from Longwood ‘bought for a derisory sum’, and a vast hoard of documents. He wrote to Henry Goulburn before sailing, requesting special treatment by customs on his arrival, to avoid his boxes ‘being broken open & examined’.11

  On 14 November, Lowe had the gratification of being presented to King George IV. As he bent low to kiss His Majesty’s hand, ‘the King took hold of his and shook it heartily, saying, “I congratulate you most sincerely upon your return, after a trial the most arduous and exemplary that perhaps any man ever had. I have felt for your situation.”’12

  ‘But evil days were now before him,’ according to Lowe’s apologist, William Forsyth. ‘The partisans of Bonaparte could not forgive the man who had had the guardianship of his person, and for six long years discharged the duties of his trust with such firmness and fidelity. The floodgates of abuse were opened against him, and he had to endure insinuations and attacks the most painful to an honourable mind.’13 Lowe was having a bad time of it. He also had difficulty obtaining the remuneration he considered owing from the East India Company. He complained to Bathurst that ‘no Pay or Allowance whatsoever was granted to me by the East India Company, until the day of my landing, though my Commission as their Governor & Commander in Chief had been signed & delivered Seven Months preceding’.14