by Tracy Borman
Buckinghamshire was both enchanted by his new country and amused by its eccentricities. He described it all to his aunt back in England, who derived real pleasure from his witty and colourful accounts. The weather was a constant theme. ‘As yet everything is covered with snow,’ he wrote during his first spring there. ‘The river has the appearance of a Broad Street and on Sunday is covered with thousands of people who resort there to see Sledge races and Boxing Matches.’
The following year, he had grown more used to the harshness of the climate. ‘The Russian spring is begun, that is to say, it freezes all night and thaws all day. Early in the morning you travel upon ice, but all the rest of the day the streets are canals,’ he wrote. He still marvelled at the brevity of the warmer months, describing the summers as ‘very concise’, and observing that ‘What we call three seasons are in great measure united here – Spring, Summer and Autumn when the weather is particularly favourable will together make nearly four months.’ As well as being ‘concise’, summer brought other irritations. Writing to his aunt one hot August day, he complained about the flies that had descended upon the city, ‘three of those animals (the purpose of whose existence I can as little account for as of my own) taking their evenings walk upon my forehead’.11
The food, traditions and etiquette of the Russians were of even greater fascination to John than his typically English obsession with the weather. When his aunt informed him of a likely betrothal that she had heard about between an English lady and a Russian count, he offered the following advice to the bride: ‘She must learn Russ, eat mushrooms, fryd in rape oil and pickled cucumbers in Lent; she must forget to courtesy and learn to bow, she must wear red without measure, dance Polish dances, and drink Chisterskij, Quash and Burton Ale, the nature of the first two her dear man will inform her of, the last she will know is the produce of England.’12
On another occasion, he described a Russian wedding that he had attended. He had witnessed every part of it: from the bride’s dressing party to the wedding ceremony itself and the evening entertainments that followed. While he spoke respectfully of the overall ‘dignity and solemnity’ of the occasion, he could not resist expressing his amusement at one of the more extraordinary events of the day. Just before the company had set out for the church, the mother of the bride had ordered all those present to be seated and the doors of the room to be closed ‘as a prognostick of the future tranquillity of the new marry’d couple’. Unfortunately, however, a young child of the family had ‘burst out into a most violent fit of roaring’, which, the Earl observed, ‘seem’d to me a much apter emblem of what might hereafter insue’.
For all his bemusement at the unusual customs and climate of St Petersburg, Buckinghamshire was clearly enjoying his time there to the full. ‘I find myself so much fatigued this morning with dancing last night with the Maids of Honour, that it is with difficulty I can undergo the fatigue of writing,’ he observed in one letter to his aunt. In another, he described a lavish reception that he had hosted at his apartments, which had been ‘one of the prettiest Balls & cheerfullest evenings I ever was a Party to’, and had included twenty ‘interesting’ young women.13
So energetically did the Earl enter into all the social diversions the city had to offer that he scarcely had any time for his official duties. Indeed, these seemed to present an irksome distraction, and on the rare occasions that he did turn his attention to them, he showed neither enthusiasm nor initiative. He had clearly hoped that his secretary would undertake most of this work for him, in the same way as his servant in the English court carried out the duties required by a Lord of the Bedchamber. He was therefore extremely frustrated to find that the man who had been appointed to him was rather incompetent. ‘My secretary, is the most disagreeable, illiterate, underbred, wretch in the Universe,’ he complained. ‘I am forced to do almost everything myself, tho’ I pay him two hundred pounds per an. which is full double the usual stipend.’14 The Earl begged his aunt to use her influence with the politicians back in England to find him a more diligent replacement.
Henrietta did what she could to help him, but her efforts were in vain and he was obliged to endure the less appealing aspects of his posting, as well as enjoying its many pleasures. She performed what was arguably a greater service, however, by looking after his young wife, who was feeling a little neglected by her new husband. A few months before his departure, she had given birth to a daughter, whom they had christened Harriet. Lady Suffolk sent her nephew regular reports of his young family’s health, and was clearly delighted to have another child to care for. ‘Lady HH is a very fine Child,’ she told him, ‘very Healthy, forward on her feet and takes great pains to be so with her Tongue.’ The little girl had apparently inherited some of her father’s capacity to entertain, for one of Lady Suffolk’s acquaintances described her as ‘the most amusing little Creature I ever saw’, when she encountered her at Marble Hill.15
Lady Suffolk also kept her nephew informed of political events back in England, although she always pretended that these were far beyond the comprehension of his ‘affectionate old aunt’. ‘What passes in St Stephens Chaple [the Houses of Parliament] and other matters [are] much to heigh and intricate for my capacity either to judge of, or even to Comprehend,’ she insisted in one letter. The insincerity of such protestations was proved by the well-informed insights she provided him with, all of which were based on the conversations she had had with the various high-standing politicians among her acquaintance. The Earl trusted his aunt implicitly and relied upon her advice as he tried to maintain his influence in England. ‘There is no person but yourself whom I can talk with confidence upon my situation,’ he assured her.16
But for all Henrietta’s efforts, she was not able to conceal from the English ministers that her nephew was failing to make any progress with the Russian alliance, despite having been there for almost two years. In August 1764, they issued him with an ultimatum: either get the stalled negotiations moving or return to Britain. The Earl knew that such a difficult mission was beyond his capability, and reluctantly agreed to relinquish his position. As he prepared to take his leave from the country that had provided him with so much entertainment over the previous two years, he wrote sorrowfully to his aunt: ‘Whatever pleasure a man may promise himself in breathing the air of his native soil and renewing his antient connections, yet the approach of a moment when you are to take eternal leave of those with whom you have lived in an agreeable familiarity and a state of mutual benevolence, cannot but be painful to a feeling mind.’ The prospect of seeing his wife and infant daughter again apparently offered little compensation, and he was full of foreboding about the situation that would face him when he returned home. ‘What welcome I shall meet with in England except from my own family seems to me rather uncertain, as from the extreme negligence with which my friends have corresponded with me, I almost suspect I shall find myself a little upon the footing of a stranger.’17
He was right to be apprehensive. Upon arriving back at court in spring 1765, he was greeted by a rather cool reception from several of his former acquaintances. What was worse, the King seemed to show a growing disapproval of him. His sharp wit and irreverent manner jarred with the more formal behaviour expected in George III’s court (not to mention in government) and he often caused offence. Lady Mary Coke once heard him give an address in front of the King in the House of Lords, and noted in her journal that evening: ‘His manner is not pleasing.’18
Despite the failure of his mission to Russia, Buckinghamshire was offered the ambassadorship of Spain the year after his return. He felt that his position at court was too fragile to leave it, however, so declined. Nevertheless, he remained eager for advancement, but his lack of influence, coupled with his increasing alienation from the King, made this an unlikely prospect. Finally, in November 1767, he was dismissed as Lord of the Bedchamber following his support of a failed plot concerning George III’s American dominions. He would have to wait almost a decade before anothe
r appointment in government would come his way.
The Earl of Buckinghamshire’s correspondence with his ageing aunt continued with the same frequency after his return to England. He was clearly grateful for the care she had taken of his wife and child, and sent regular accounts of their life at Blickling. His return there had brought him little joy at first, for political events in Norfolk seemed to be conspiring against him as much as they had in London. ‘I am sorry to find that I have made myself so many enemy’s in Norfolk,’ he lamented to Lady Suffolk. ‘Would I had never seen Blickling!’ But he soon succeeded in patching up local relationships, aided in no small part by the plentiful victuals that the county had to offer. He recounted to his aunt how he had dined with the new local sheriff ‘upon Venison Swan & Turkey’, washed down with ‘copious draughts of . . . a coarse homely liquor’. He had managed to remain sober enough to find his way home, and had arrived in time to see ‘the Chit’ (his young daughter Harriet) before she had been put to bed.19
John soon settled down into a life of tranquil domesticity with his family. His wife bore him three more daughters in successive years, between 1767 and 1769, and he doted on them. Having all but given up on his political ambitions for now, he turned his attentions to a programme of repair and modernisation at Blickling. Sharing his aunt’s passion for architecture, he threw himself into the task with alacrity and kept her fully informed of progress. ‘There is no person in the universe to whom I more willingly communicate my Idea’s and no Ideas than to your Ladyship,’ he assured her. ‘The alterations in the Eating Room go on, Gothick it was, & Gothick it will be, in spite of all the remonstrances of Modern Improvers upon Grecian Architecture. The Ceiling is to be painted with the Lives of Cupid & Psiche, cupid is to hover exactly over the centre of the table to indicate to the Maitre d’Hotel the exact position of the Venison Pasty.’ He went on to describe the loss of the ‘Nine Worthies’ – a set of classical statues that had previously adorned the Great Hall – but assured his aunt that they would be replaced by figures from Blickling’s distinguished past. His knowledge of architecture was evidently greater than his knowledge of history, however, for he observed: ‘as Anna Boleyn was born at Blickling it will not be improper to purchase her Father Henry the eighth’s Figure (which by order is no longer to be exhibited at the Tower) who will fill with credit the space occupy’d by the falling Hector’.20
Buckinghamshire’s natural energy and exuberance ensured that the works at Blickling soon became more ambitious than he had originally planned. Within a few months, he was supervising a whole host of workmen, and was clearly in his element – although he admitted that paying their bills was a good deal less diverting. His aunt followed the progress at her childhood home with great interest. In spite of failing health and fading eyesight, she faithfully answered each of his letters, and the duel of wits between the elderly lady and her spirited nephew was reminiscent of her correspondence with the likes of Chesterfield and Peterborough many years before. ‘Another letter from the Old Woman!’ she began one, mimicking her nephew’s irreverent terms of address, before scolding him for writing such dull accounts of domestic life at Blickling, which she claimed were an unworthy successor to the lively descriptions he had sent her from Russia. John, meanwhile, scoffed at her ‘extensive notions of liberty and the high prerogatives of the female world’, and argued that if women were left to follow their own inclinations with regard to such important matters as choosing a husband, ‘nineteen times in twenty they will choose wrong’.21
Henrietta’s nephew provided a much-needed diversion in a life that was increasingly beset by ill health and financial hardship. Although she was hardly destitute, the loss of her royal pension upon George II’s death had left her with considerably less money than she had had before, and the cost of maintaining her house and servants was becoming ever more burdensome. John provided for her as best he could, sending her regular parcels of bread, coal and other staples from Blickling. But these were not enough to sustain her, and frequent bouts of illness put a further strain on her meagre funds, requiring as they did the services of doctors and apothecaries. To her old complaints of deafness and headaches were added painful attacks of gout in her joints and even in her eyes, which often laid her low for several days at a time. Her correspondence is littered with concerned enquiries from her friends and family, and hardly a month seemed to go by without some fresh cause for discomfort. Lady Suffolk made light of her illnesses, telling her nephew John: ‘I would flatter myself I shall soon be so [healthy]; but head and eyes love contradiction and will not agree with me.’22 Her growing frailty was clear to all, however.
Nothing was a greater source of comfort to Lady Suffolk during these difficult years than the presence of Henrietta, daughter of Dorothy and Charles Hotham. The girl had come to live with her at Marble Hill in 1763, when she was eight years old. This was some considerable distance from her parents’ estate in East Yorkshire, fifteen miles north of Hull, but Lady Suffolk was still revered by Dorothy and her brother John after the happy childhood she had given them at Marble Hill, and both had absolute trust in her abilities as a guardian. ‘You will tell Miss Harriet [Henrietta] I have but one piece of advice to give her,’ wrote John soon after the girl’s arrival there, ‘that is, to act as you would have her, tell her to try it only for three days, & if at the end of them she do’s not confess she never pass’d three days so agreeably, Let blame light upon your most truly affectionate Nephew.’23
Henrietta Hotham was a precocious child, and lively to the point of waywardness. Like John, she had inherited her great-aunt’s intelligence and humour. Lady Suffolk was instantly charmed by her and did everything she could to ensure her comfort and amusement. She transformed the bedroom next to her own into Miss Hotham’s private chamber, furnishing it with a fine walnut dresser and a ‘cloaths chest’ in the latest ‘India’ fashion. From this room, the young girl could look out across the gardens or watch the coaches and promenaders who passed by on the road beyond. Lady Suffolk also employed a maid to attend to her every need, and ensured that she was given all the elements of a young lady’s education – including dancing, music, reading and embroidery.
But young Henrietta had little patience for such refined pursuits, preferring instead to swim in the river with the local boys or run around doing animal impressions. ‘I can grunt like a Hog, Quack like a Duck, sing like a Cuckoo,’ she proudly told her parents, although she admitted that her great-aunt had cautioned her that such behaviour was only acceptable for spinsters.24 The model of propriety that Lady Suffolk presented was not at all emulated by the young girl. In vain, the former had tried to instil some sense of decorum into her wayward namesake by placing a seat in the garden where she could ‘retire and meditate’. Miss Hotham would have none of it, however, and instead scrambled up the nearest tree when she needed some solitude.
Lady Suffolk pretended to be exasperated by such conduct, but she was secretly delighted with her young charge and was soon a slave to her every whim. Her friends were equally indulgent towards this charming new addition to the household at Marble Hill – and none more so than Horace Walpole. He paid as assiduous a court to her as he did to his old friend, and delighted in composing poems and rhymes for her amusement. He even went to the trouble of printing one of these, ‘The Magpie and Her Brood’, at his publishing house at Strawberry Hill. When the coronation of George III took place, he invited Miss Hotham as his special guest to witness the procession from a friend’s house in Palace Yard. She adored him in return, and her great-aunt ensured that he was often among the company that gathered at her riverside home.
Another frequent guest was Lady Suffolk’s old friend William Chetwynd, who soon became equally besotted with her young charge. A good-natured rivalry developed between him and Walpole as they fought to outdo each other in devising games and pranks to keep the girl entertained. ‘Mr Chetwynd I suppose is making the utmost advantage of my absence,’ surmised Walpole during his visit to Paris i
n 1765, ‘frisking & cutting capers before Miss Hotham, & advising her not to throw herself away on a decrepit old man. Well, well, fifty years hence he may be an old man too, and then I shall not pity him, tho I own he is the best-humoured lad in the World now.’25 This ‘lad’ was in fact an old man of eighty, while Walpole was approaching fifty, and it is amusing to think of the two men prancing around for the sake of the young girl’s gratification.
Henrietta Hotham’s presence breathed new life into Marble Hill. She was always the centre of attention at her great-aunt’s parties and gatherings. Horace Walpole described one such occasion, New Year’s Day 1764. The girl had been thoroughly spoilt with gifts from Lady Suffolk and her friends, including a smart new coat which she insisted on wearing for most of the day. Lady Temple, who was among the company, planted a little box on her dressing table. Upon seeing this, the girl seized it ‘with all the eagerness and curiosity of eleven years’, and was overjoyed to find ‘A new-year’s gift from Mab our queen’. When she came downstairs, she found another sealed note lying on the floor, and squealed with delight when she discovered that it was from the ‘fairies’ who had left her the ring. The jest continued into the following day, for when Lady Temple again called upon her friend, she was accosted by Miss Hotham bearing a note from ‘Oberon the grand, Emperor of fairy land, King of moonshine, prince of dreams . . . Baron of the dimpled isles That lie in pretty maidens’ smiles.’ This had been composed with the help of Lady Suffolk and Will Chetwynd, who looked on in amusement at Lady Temple’s being thus outwitted.
