King's Mistress, Queen's Servant: The Life and Times of Henrietta Howard

by Tracy Borman

  Henrietta was as sanguine in her reaction to the vitriol poured forth in ‘Cloe’ as she had been to Swift’s ‘Character’ some years earlier. She may have felt an element of guilt at having neglected her old friend in her happiness with Berkeley, or she may have believed that, as a man given to petulant outbursts, his rage would soon pass. She therefore expressed her affection for him by making frequent enquiries after his health and, at the onset of winter, sending him a feather-filled quilt to guard against the cold that she knew he always felt so keenly. ‘Pray tell my Lady Suffolk in the first place that I think of her every night constantly as the greatest Comforter I have, under the Edder-down Quilt,’ Pope wrote to Patty Blount that December. The concern that he went on to express for her husband suggests that he was a little more reconciled to their marriage. ‘I wich Mr Berkley lay as easy, who I hear (& am sorry for it) has had the Gout,’ he wrote.16

  But in truth, he never forgave her, either for the incident with his letters, or for her neglect of their friendship, and thenceforth they were polite acquaintances rather than close companions. They hardly ever corresponded, and only saw each other on the rare occasions that their social circles converged. Henrietta was no doubt saddened by the loss of Pope’s good opinion, but the experience with Swift had taught her that no matter how sincere such friendships seemed, their longevity could never be relied upon.

  Besides, her own affection for him had suffered something of a decline. The cause was most probably his growing attachment to Patty Blount. He was keen for the two women to become friends, and for a while it had seemed that they would be. But Patty’s awkward and, at times, insensitive nature grated on Henrietta, who was perhaps a little jealous of the hold that she had over their mutual friend. As early as 1731, she had complained to Gay: ‘I never see Mr Pope, nor Mrs Blount tho I never go to Marble Hill without sending to them: She has been ill, but was well the last time I sent; but you know she has a peculiar pleasure in refusing her friends.’ Further criticism of Pope and Patty began to creep into her correspondence, such as Lady Hervey’s rather caustic reference to Miss Blount as ‘some proud flesh that is grown to his side’, which would, she predicted ‘prove a mortification’.17

  The demise of Henrietta and Pope’s friendship may not therefore have been solely due to his sense of betrayal and neglect after her marriage to George Berkeley. Whatever the cause, it now seemed irreversible. In the years that followed, Mrs Berkeley turned increasingly to her female friends, in particular Lady Betty Germain. She had need of these when, in the spring of 1741, parliamentary business took her husband up to Yorkshire for a longer period of absence than the couple had yet endured in their marriage. The closeness and love between them had continued to deepen during those six happy years, and the prospect of being apart was even more distressing to them now than it had been when they were newlyweds. Added to this was the fact that Henrietta was again suffering from poor health.

  She had come to rely upon her husband’s kind and patient efforts to ensure her comfort whenever she had a renewed attack of the headaches that had plagued her for so much of her adult life. ‘I am company for nobody but my own husband whose vow obliges him to take care of me in sickness & in health,’ she told their friend Lord Pembroke on one such occasion. ‘I try his patience sufficiently but he expects his reward in the next world.’ In 1741, George took her on a visit to Bath in the hope that it would ease the rheumatism that had now added to her former complaint. Shrugging off concerned enquiries from friends who had heard that he was far from well himself, he assured them: ‘I have as much health as any one needs to have as leads so insipid a life. I dare not drink, making love would be ridiculous at my age and I have too much and too little money to game.’18

  George set out for his constituency at Hedon in Yorkshire in March 1741, accompanied by William Chetwynd. With the prospect of an election looming, their intention was to canvass votes on behalf of Walpole’s great adversary, William Pulteney. Anxious for Henrietta’s health during his absence, he had asked his sister to come and stay with her in Savile Street. Lady Betty had been happy to oblige, and was assiduous in the task, sending him regular updates on her charge’s health.

  The first of these caused him great alarm, for it reported that his wife had suffered a relapse soon after his departure and was now taking significant quantities of laudanum to ease the pain. Upon receiving this letter, George was on the point of turning around and coming back, but Henrietta sent him another to reassure him that she was much better and was being well looked after. She was clearly still in a great deal of discomfort, however, and only found release in sleeping for much of the day. Her reliance on laudanum now bordered on addiction, and she later admitted to her husband that although she had resisted it for some days, ‘how long my Resolution will hold God knows for the Temptation is at this moment very strong’.19

  The couple exchanged many letters during George’s sojourn in the north of England, and the sincere love and affection they shared was obvious in every page. Henrietta addressed her husband as ‘My Dear Dear little George’, while he called her his ‘Best Beast’. The bond they had developed with Dorothy and John Hobart was also as strong as ever. Mr Berkeley spoke proudly of ‘our little girl Miss Hobart’ and ‘my school fellow Jack’, and his wife noted with satisfaction that he showed the ‘greatest tenderness’ towards them.20

  With the advent of spring, Henrietta moved back to Marble Hill. Although she loved the place, she found it very lonely without her husband and longed for his return. ‘My Duty, affection, inclination and interest makes me my Dear Dear little George yours,’ she wrote from ‘Mr Berkeleys Dressing Room’ the day after her arrival.21 She did not have long to wait, for he arrived back a week or so later.

  During the years that followed, the Berkeleys settled back contentedly into the routine of their life at Marble Hill and Savile Street. Although poor health continued to plague them both, this did not prevent frequent excursions to their accustomed places of retreat and diversion. Their social circle was changing, however, as a number of their long-standing friends died in the 1740s. The first was John, Duke of Argyll, who had been a highly valued friend and adviser to Henrietta throughout her time at court. His protection had saved her from her violent first husband on numerous occasions, and his generous help with her legal affairs had helped her to secure a legal separation from Charles, as well as the purchase of her beloved Marble Hill. Their friendship had continued long after Henrietta had left court, and she was greatly saddened when she learned of his death in 1743.

  The following year claimed the life of Alexander Pope. He had long been a slave to his delicate constitution, once referring to ‘this long Disease, my life’, but in 1743, his friends noticed a marked deterioration in his health. His customary headaches increased, and he began to suffer from asthma and dropsy on the chest. He lingered until 30 May 1744, when he died at his villa in Twickenham.

  Pope had evidently not been reconciled with Henrietta before his death. Just a few days earlier, her nephew John had written casually to her that ‘Pope & Swift for you lay’d by Satyr, & join’d for once in Panegyrick’, as if to suggest that both friendships were now in the past.22 This is supported by the fact that despite her proximity to his house, she had not been among the friends who had gathered around his bedside to say their farewells. Furthermore, while Pope left gifts for various friends in his will, he left nothing for Henrietta. However estranged they had become, though, it is unlikely that she felt no emotion at his passing. Someone who had been such a close and loving friend could not be easily forgotten.

  Less than a year later, she lost another person whom she had once held dear, but who had long been a stranger. This time, her grief was real indeed, for it was her son, Henry, who died at Audley End in April 1745. She had not seen him since he had been a young boy, and had received only the occasional scrap of news about him in the years that followed. The last known reference to him in her correspondence was in 1734, when Lord
Bathurst had assured her that she could visit his castle without fear of being ‘molested’ by him. But she had never got over their estrangement, and the subsequent adoption of Dorothy and John Hobart suggests a desperation to fill the void it had created. Even though she had long since given up any real hope of a reconciliation, the news that death had finally robbed her of him for good must have been devastating. Neither was there the prospect of laying to rest the ghost of their estrangement through the next generation. Henry died without an heir, so his title and estates now passed to Henry Bowes Howard, 4th Earl of Berkshire, a descendant of the 1st Earl of Suffolk.

  Lord Bathhurst’s prediction upon Henrietta’s retirement from court, that she would be forced to live in ‘the melancholy shades of privacy’ was, sadly, now realised.23 A little more than a year after the death of her son, she lost the person whom she loved most in the world, her ‘Dear Dear little George’. His gout had been getting steadily worse during 1746, and by the autumn he was in so much pain that Henrietta took him to Bath in the hope that the waters would offer him some relief. Lady Bolingbroke met them there and was distressed to see her friend so ill. ‘Le pauvre Mr de Berkeley, qui en effet a esté fort mal,’ she wrote to the Countess of Denbigh, adding that she feared his condition was now very dangerous.24 She was right, for he died there a few weeks later, on 29 October.

  Henrietta was inconsolable in her grief. George Berkeley was, without question, the love of her life, and the eleven years of their marriage were the happiest she had ever known. She had lost not just her husband, but her closest friend and confidant. Evidence (if it was needed) that her love had been reciprocated came at the reading of Mr Berkeley’s will some months later. He had left everything he owned – property, goods and funds – ‘unto my dear wife Henrietta’.25 This had been written in his own hand and dated two years after their marriage. It served not only as a testament to his complete trust in and love for his new wife, but as a poignant contrast to the bitter, lengthy and impenetrable legal agreements that had underpinned his widow’s first marriage.

  George Berkeley’s death was afforded a rather curt notice in the papers, which, after listing his various appointments, reported simply: ‘he marry’d the countess dowager of Suffolk, but left no issue’. Meanwhile, the men hoping to succeed him as Master Keeper and Governor of St Katharine’s Hospital waited impatiently until a respectable period of time had elapsed before laying claim to ‘that smug preferment’.26

  His passing may not have excited any great public interest, but for his widow, Henrietta, life would never be the same again.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Where Suffolk sought the peaceful scene’

  * * *

  AS HENRIETTA CONTEMPLATED THE prospect of a solitary life after the death of her beloved husband, so George II was reflecting upon a political scene that had changed dramatically over the past few years. Sir Robert Walpole, who had dominated government for over twenty years, had finally been defeated by his political opponents in 1742. His regime, while it lasted, had been extraordinarily powerful. The King, and more particularly his late wife, Caroline, had given their chief minister a virtually free rein in government, and had put all the household resources at his disposal so that he could further his political ends. Walpole had, in many respects, proved equal to the trust that they had placed in him. He had achieved comparative stability and peace for the Hanoverians after almost half a century of revolution, war and political upheaval. He had managed the public finances with shrewdness and skill, furthering Britain’s prosperity by promoting trade, industry and agriculture. Above all, he had been a leader of exceptional strength: his eloquence as a speaker in Parliament and his keen sense of what mattered to the public keeping many faithful to his cause.

  But all this had come at a price. The greatest charge levelled against Walpole was that he had governed through corruption, using the Crown’s extensive patronage to buy support across government. He had also neglected the affairs of Scotland, which, given the strength of the Jacobite cause there, was a dangerous and short-sighted strategy. His policies had bred widespread distrust and resentment against the government, and the Opposition’s ranks grew steadily throughout the 1730s. An alliance of Jacobites, Tories and disaffected Whigs had begun to form under William Pulteney, and the general election of 1734 had been a clear indication that the tide of popular support was turning against the Prime Minister. The death of Queen Caroline in 1737 had further undermined his power, for she had been his most loyal ally for many years and had provided the surest route to the King’s favour. Many had expected his fall would come then, but Walpole had won enough of George II’s trust and esteem to continue in office for another five years. After the disastrous general election of 1741, however, which reduced his majority from 42 to 19, the Opposition had moved in for the kill. Walpole had known he was beaten, and had tendered his resignation on 2 February 1742. Never again would George II’s government be so dominated by one man.

  Walpole’s collapse was followed by years of political instability as the government lurched from one crisis to another, both at home and abroad. In 1743, war broke out between Britain and France, and a series of costly (and ultimately futile) military campaigns followed. This played straight into the hands of the Jacobites, who exploited the weakness of the government and the growing resentment among the British people to seize the initiative. With support from France, they launched a major uprising in 1745, spearheaded by the charismatic Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart – ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’. The Jacobite forces outmanoeuvred the British in Scotland, whose ranks had been depleted by the war on the Continent, and succeeded in capturing Perth and Edinburgh before routing the government army at nearby Prestopans on 21 September. From there, Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army advanced southwards and invaded England via Carlisle, which fell after a short siege. They progressed, unopposed, through Penrith, Lancaster, Preston and Manchester, reaching as far south as Derby, which they took on 4 December.

  The Hanoverian regime now faced the greatest threat it had ever known. Everything depended upon the loyalty of a people who were already resentful towards a foreign King who had wasted their country’s resources for years in pursuit of Hanoverian interests. Their resentment was not matched by action, however, and the general feeling of apathy towards the regime was just enough to sustain it. Furthermore, the Jacobite forces had been fatally weakened by internal divisions and the failure to coordinate with French troops, which had still not arrived as promised in the south of England. Just two days after taking Derby, they were forced to retreat northwards.

  Although the Jacobites succeeded in taking Falkirk in January 1746, the British forces, led by George II’s younger son, William, Duke of Cumberland, were steadily gaining the initiative, and won a crushing victory at Culloden on 16 April 1746. The Hanoverian dynasty was now finally accepted by the people of Great Britain, and the foundations were laid for the kingdom’s emergence as a European and world power.1

  The events that were unfolding at the centre of Britain’s political life carried no greater importance for the Dowager Countess of Suffolk than as an occasional topic for conversation with her acquaintances. Court politics had long since ceased to be of any real relevance for her, and although she had taken an interest in her late husband’s parliamentary career, and shared his satisfaction at their friend Pulteney’s triumph, after his death they mattered less and less.

  The pattern of Henrietta’s social life had also changed dramatically. Visits to the country, spa towns or other gentrified retreats had lost much of their appeal now that she could not share them with George. She spent most of her time at Marble Hill and lived vicariously through those friends who continued to enjoy the traditional social round. The Duchess of Queensberry, Lady Betty Germain and Lord Chesterfield regaled her with the latest news and gossip from Bath or Tunbridge Wells, and while many of the names had changed, the scandal remained much the same. Stories of flirtations, betrayals, elopements and
‘ravishings’ filled the pump rooms and coffee houses as much as they had in Lady Suffolk’s heyday.

  A new generation of heiresses and beaux were now playing out the familiar scenes in the assembly rooms and on the promenades, while their ageing parents, aunts and guardians looked on. Only very occasionally did the two sides mix. Lady Vere, her late husband’s niece, wrote to Henrietta in 1751 with news that Lord Chesterfield’s son, a lively young man of nineteen, had been playing court to Lady Betty Germain, who had just turned seventy. ‘He invited her to his Ball yesterday, and gave her his Place at the Play the day before,’ she related, adding that all eyes were now on the pair and that an engagement was expected daily. Another letter told of how the Earl of Bath, who was the same age as Lady Betty, had started up a flirtation with a young Maid of Honour.2 There was something faintly ridiculous about these encounters, however, and Lady Suffolk was content to reflect on former glories and leave the rest to her successors. Failing health added to her desire for a quieter, more retired life at Marble Hill, punctuated by occasional visits to her town house in Savile Street.

  Her social circle was also quite different to what it had been during the early years of her life away from court. It still included a number of old friends, such as Lady Vere and Miss Pitt. William Chetwynd, a great friend of her late husband, transferred his affection to her and proved ‘unalterably kind and zealous’.3 He was a frequent guest at Marble Hill, and she also visited him from time to time at his estate in Staffordshire. But many more of her former companions had passed away, and Lady Suffolk therefore relied upon new arrivals in Twickenham to bolster her acquaintances. Among them was Richard Owen Cambridge, who settled at an estate nearby in 1751. A witty and amiable man, he was the author of a political journal, The Scribleriad. Lady Dalkeith, daughter of the late Duke of Argyll, and Lady Denbigh, wife of the 5th Earl, also moved to Twickenham in the 1750s.