Consider the Chinese parlour, the blue velvet closet and crimson drawing room, the silver dining room and most magnificent of all, the throne room with its gilded columns displaying the Prince of Wales’s feathers. Even what he called his own intimate apartments— these facing the park— were fit for a king as well as a Prince of Wales. No, George was too fond of his royalty to give it up even for Fitzherbert.
George was above all self-indulgent; his emotions were superficial and even the affection he bore for the incomparable Fitzherbert had not prevented his deserting her for the momentarily more alluring Lady Jersey. He was not the man to resign his hopes of the crown for the sake of a woman. Imagine George, wandering about the Continent in exile an impecunious prince whose debts would never then be settled by an understanding if somewhat tutorial Parliament; and how could George live but in the most extravagant manner? He was born to elegance; he was a natural spend-thrift; he could never understand the value of money. He was only aware that he wished to surround himself with beautiful things and that as Prince of Wales and future King of England he had a natural right to them.
And who was Frederick to criticize his brother? Had he not been forced into marriage for the very same reason?
So now he sought to comfort George by embellishing his picture of Caroline.
She was really quite charming, and bright and intelligent, he thought. To tell the truth he might have decided to marry her himself, but she wouldn’t have him.
Of course he was not the Prince of Wales. He remembered particularly her beautiful hair. It was very light and abundant. The Prince was very fond of beautiful hair, was he not?
The Prince nodded and thought of Maria’s abundant honey-coloured curls.
She had never powdered it although it was the fashion to do so; but had worn it naturally. But then of course few women had hair to compare with Maria’s.
The fact was in all ways no woman could compare with Maria.
He would always think of her as his wife.
Oh, damn these debts. Damn cruel necessity which snatched Maria from him and gave him in her place a German Frau. Yet it was Lady Jersey who had driven him from Maria.
But it was not serious, he told himself. I never meant it seriously. It was Maria who had taken it so. But the Duke of York had comforted him considerably.
His betrothed was not a monster, it seemed; she was not hideous like poor Fred’s wife; she was not marked by the pox like that arrogant creature; and she would not bring an army of animals to perform their disgusting functions on the gilded couches of Carlton House.
Frederick, seeing that his mission had been accomplished and that he had succeeded in bringing some relief to his brother, took his departure.
The Prince sought further comfort from Lady Jersey, but he did not find it.
How different, he was thinking, it would have been with Maria.
Frances was beautiful, there was no doubt of that. She was small, slim almost to girlishness and he was fond of fleshy women; but she was widely experienced for she was nine years older than he was and in that respect she resembled the type he favoured. Maria was six years older; he always found women older than himself so comforting. Not that there was much comfort in Frances, though she was exciting; and he was just a little afraid of her. The softness of Maria was lacking; so was the deep affection Maria had always had for him. But he had said goodbye to Maria and was now devoting himself to Frances.
Frances was a sensual woman; physically she excited him; she always made him feel uncertain; that was her forte. He always believed that she could provide greater satisfaction than any woman ever had before; and her strength was that while she did not, the promise of future eroticism remained.
That was what had attracted him and lured him from comfortable, deeply loving almost motherly Maria. And even as his heart called out for Maria he could not go and beg her to return to him because Frances Jersey stood there between them mocking, sensually alluring and, he feared, irresistible.
She did not try to placate him as so many women did. Now she said to him: ‘I cannot understand why you are so glum. You have nothing to lose by the marriage— and everything to gain.’
‘You are forgetting what marriage may entail.’
Frances laughed aloud. ‘Dearest Highness, I have a husband, as you know. A very complacent husband at this time who is always eager to serve his Prince so we need not concern ourselves with him. I have had two sons and seven daughters. I am even a grandmother. I confess I am a very young grandmother.
But you cannot say that a life so worthily spent in replenishing the earth could possibly be without experience of what marriage entails.’
‘But I am to marry a German woman— I confess I don’t like the Germans.’
‘I obviously cannot share your Highness’s aversion, for someone for whom I entertain the most tender passions has descended from that race.’
‘Germans!’ went on the Prince. ‘My father married one. And consider her.’
‘I have always found Her Majesty most gracious.’
Frances chuckled inwardly. How amusing Prim and proper Charlotte actually approved of her son’s relationship with his mistress.
In fact Frances had received instructions from Lady Harcourt. She was to lure the Prince from Fitzherbert, for only then would he consider marriage— and was high time he was married, he had to provide that heir to the throne, for his brothers were proving themselves strangely backward in doing so.
The Duke of York, estranged from his Duchess, was clearly not going to be of any use. William, Duke of Clarence, the next son, had set up house most respectably— at least as respectably as such arrangements could be— with that enchanting actress Dorothy Jordan but naturally there was nothing to hope from there. Another brother Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, had just emerged from a big scandal, for he had married secretly in defiance of the Marriage Act which decreed that no member of the royal family could marry without the consent of the King until he reached the age of twenty-five (Augustus Frederick had been twenty), and the marriage had been null and void even though the lady in his adventures was about to give birth and was of noble lineage, being the daughter of the Earl of Dunmore and claiming royal blood from her ancestors.
No, there was no hope from his brothers so clearly it was the duty of the Prince of Wales to provide heirs to the throne.
The Queen had known this could not be done while the Prince adhered to Mrs. Fitzherbert; so the relationship had to be broken. Since Frances had a good chance of doing that, the Queen gave her approval to Frances’ activities.
Which showed, thought Frances cynically, how morals could be cast aside for the sake of the State— even by the most virtuous of ladies.
But Madam Charlotte would be very angry with her dear little spy Frances Jersey did she but know how Frances had persuaded him to take this Brunswick woman rather than the Queen’s own candidate from Mecklenburg-Strehtz. For the Queen had a niece from her native land, and how she would have liked to see that young woman Princess of Wales!
Alas, she was charming; she was exceedingly pretty; and she was intelligent, so Frances had heard; and if Frances was going to retain her power over the Prince— which she had every intention of doing— she naturally did not wish him to be provided with a charming and pretty wife.
So the Brunswick offering was Frances’s choice. She had heard that the creature was gauche, wild and, most heinous sin in the eyes of the Prince— not very clean in her habits, washed infrequently, hardly ever bathed and rarely changed her linen. Frances intended that the Prince should be disgusted with his bride, spend enough time with her to provide the heir, and for the rest find his pleasure and recreation in the arms of Lady Jersey, for Lady Jersey loved power and next to power, she loved worldly goods. The mistress of the Prince of Wales, if she were clever, could receive these in plenty; and no one— least of all herself — would deny the fact that Lady Jersey was a clever woman.
The Queen wo
uld never know that she had influenced him to take the Brunswicker. Poor Charlotte thought this was just another example of her son’s determination to plague her. Silly Charlotte! thought Lady Jersey, to imagine that she would work for her. Frances never worked for anyone but herself.
‘Now,’ said the Prince, ‘we shall have two German fraus at Court. I think that is two too many.’
‘If you had taken the Queen’s choice, it would have been exactly the same.
And Frederick gave a good account of the woman, I believe.’
‘I wonder whether he was trying to comfort me.’
‘I hope so. It is the duty of us all to do so.’
‘Oh, Frances, I dread this marriage.’
‘Stop thinking of it then. There are more pleasant subjects, you know.’
She was giving him one of those oblique looks of hers, and he was beginning to feel the excitement which had led him to desert Maria ‘Why should you worry?’ Her voice had taken on that deep husky note full of suggestions which he always hoped to understand. ‘I shall be there,’ she added, ‘to take care of you.’ And she thought: And of our little Brunswicker! But the Prince was completely under the spell of Frances Jersey and was, if only temporarily, able to banish the thought of the marriage from his mind.
Which was exactly what he wished to do.
Maria Fitzherbert had arrived back from the Continent with her friend and companion, Miss Pigot, who lived with her and shared all her triumphs and misfortunes. There was no comfort to be found abroad, Maria had decided‚ and so she might as well return to England. She had no desire to take up residence in her house in Pail Mall (which the Prince had given her) nor in her house at Brighton.
But Marble Hill at Richmond had always been her home and she had suggested to Miss Pigot that they return to it and live there quietly Miss Pigot understood. Dear Maria had no wish to go into society, for if she did how could she avoid meeting the Prince of Wales; and if he were to cut her (he would never do that) or if he were to be less than loving, which he undoubtedly would be since he would be everywhere in the company of Lady Jersey, how could Maria endure to meet him? For in Maria’s eyes the Prince of Wales was her husband according to laws of her church this was so; it was the State— due to that Royal Marriage Act brought in by the Prince’s own father— which would consider that the ceremony that had taken place on December 15th of the year 1785— a little less than ten years ago— was no true marriage.
Miss Pigot often thought how much happier Maria might have been if she had gone to the country after the death of Mr. Fitzherbert and stayed there‚ then the Prince of Wales would never have met her, never have made up his mind that he could not live without her‚ and Maria would doubtless have married some pleasant country gentleman who would have adored her and made her comfortably happy for the rest of her life.
She had said this to Maria who had shaken her head sadly. ‘At least I had those happy years, Piggy. I suppose I should be grateful for them. And you’re fond of him too. You know you are.’
Miss Pigot admitted that this was so. He was charming, and when he kissed one’s hand or bowed, he did it so beautifully that he made one feel at least like a duchess. And when he thanked one for some small service, the tears were often in his eyes as he spoke of his gratitude or affection. Who could not be affected by such charm? Not Miss Pigot. Nor indeed Maria.
And my goodness, thought Miss Pigot, Maria had stood out against him. It was only when he pretended to kill himself— Hush; she must not say that. Maria believed he really had tried to kill himself. She often spoke of it now remembering how much in need of her he had been. Dear Maria, let her believe that, if it gave some comfort. Poor soul, she needed all the comfort she could get.
As for Miss Pigot she believed he had been over-bled. His physicians were constantly bleeding him because when he became too excited and gave vent to violent passions he was apt to fall into a sort of fit which bleeding seemed to alleviate. An over-bleeding, thought the practical Miss Pigot, and the blood on his clothes and the pallor of his face— well, if he said that he had tried to thrust a sword into his side and kill himself because Maria refused him— why shouldn’t she believe him? But after that she had gone away and stayed abroad for a year; and then she could stop away no longer. And he had remained faithful to her all that time, which, Miss Pigot conceded, must have demanded a great deal of restraint on his part— knowing him— or a great affection. The affection was there.
Our dear charming Highness loves Maria as much as he can love anyone, Miss Pigot said to herself. That is why it is such a pity that this has happened.
For whom else would he have gone through that ceremony in Park Street?
There was a real parson to perform it and so it was a true marriage. And hadn’t he treated her as his wife? Everyone who wished to please him had been obliged to recognize Maria as the Princess of Wales. He had been devoted to her. But then of course there were other women.
How could he manage without women— different women? The two things in life he loved best were women and horses; and women were a good length ahead.
That clever Mr. Sheridan had said of him that he was too much the lover of women to be the lover of one.
How true! How sadly true! But Maria— clever maternal Maria— had understood her prince. She had accepted his infidelities, not happily of course, but as a necessity, until Lady Jersey had come along.
Who would have thought that that— grandmother, nine years the Prince’s senior, could so enslave him? But Lady Jersey was a clever woman. She had no intention of taking second place to Maria; she had therefore set out to destroy Maria’s influence with the Prince. And she had succeeded.
But it won’t be forever, Miss Pigot was sure. He will be back. I feel it in my bones. And Maria, wounded as she never had been before, had made no protest. How like Maria. She was always so dignified. A Queen— if ever there was one, thought the loyal Miss Pigot. She had not raged against him as most women would have done She had taken her congé with outward serenity. If he no longer wants me, then I will remove myself from life— since that is what he wants. Miss Pigot had believed that he would come back; that he had written that letter telling her that he would not see her again on an impulse when he was under the influence of that wicked woman. But Maria had accepted it. Miss Pigot would never forget the day she came back from the Duke of Clarence’s house with the letter which had been delivered to her there. She was like a sleepwalker. Stunned, that was it. Oh, how could he be so cruel— so wicked! What had made him do such a thing? To write to her there so that she must receive her dismissal before all those people; and when she had no notion of what was to happen either?
Hadn’t he been writing to her only the day before as his Dear Love?
He, had dismissed Perdita Robinson in the same way— by letter. But that was because he hated scenes and Mrs. Robinson according to hearsay had made scenes at the end of their relationship. True, Maria and he had quarrelled. A woman would have to be a saint not to quarrel with such a publicly unfaithful husband, for whatever the State said, Maria believed him to be her husband. So perhaps that was why.
And she had gone abroad.
‘You should have stayed,’ she had protested at the time.
‘What!’ Maria had cried. ‘Stay— like a dog waiting for a whistle from its master?’
Oh, yes, Maria was proud. But what comfort was there abroad? Maria could not bear to stay in France— that tortured country which had been like a second home. to her because she had been educated there; but it was all so sadly changed since the revolution and she could not find there the peace and solace she sought.
So they had come back to Marble Hill and here they were.
Maria had always been particularly fond of Marble Hill— a fine house which had been built by Lady Suffolk, one of the mistresses of George II, as a refuge for her old age when she should no longer please that monarch.
It had delightful grounds which had been planned
by Bathhurst and Pope, and the flowering shrubs, particularly in the spring, were charmingly colourful. Maria loved the lawns which ran down to the river and were bounded on each side by a grove of chestnut trees. From the grotto, a feature of the garden, there was a very pleasant view of Richmond Hill. One glance at the house explained why it had received its name; perched on an incline it really did look as though it were made of marble, so white was it; and it owed its graceful appearance to those excellent architects Pembroke and Burlington.
Maria was sitting in her drawing room, a piece of embroidery in her hand, but she was not sewing; she was looking wistfully out over the lawns to the river.
Miss Pigot came and sat beside her, and Maria forced herself to smile.
‘How dark it is getting— so early,’ said Maria. ‘The winter will soon be with us.’
But she was not thinking of the weather.
‘You might as well say what’s in your mind, Maria,’ said her faithful companion. ‘It doesn’t do any good to bottle it up.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘If you’re thinking of him you shouldn’t try to pretend you’re not. Is there something on your mind?’
Maria was silent. ‘It can’t be true,’ she said. ‘No, of course it’s not true. And I am thinking of him. I thought going away would help to cure me, but I fear I never shall be cured.’
‘He’ll come back,’ said Miss Pigot firmly. ‘I just know he will come back.’.
Maria shook her, head. ‘I would not have believed it possible that he could have written to me in that way— so cold— after all these years— after—’
‘It was done in a had moment, Maria my dear. He’s breaking his heart over it now, I shouldn’t be surprised.’
‘I should, Piggy, very. He is at this moment with Lady Jersey, not giving me a thought— or if he is to congratulate himself for being rid of me.’
‘Now you don’t believe that any more than I do. He’d never feel like that.
He’s had a little flash of temper. And you know, my dear, you have lost yours once or twice. In your quarrels you haven’t always been the meek one, have you?’
Indiscretions of the Queen Page 6
