by Amanda Scott
Gillian’s eyes began to twinkle in response to the princess’s infectious grin. “Must you, madam? Your mood does not seem compatible with such a task.”
“It is not. Oh, I have written much that is submissive—all about a daughter’s duty to her father and such stuff as that—but I cannot and will not submit to his ridiculous demand that I marry the Prince of Orange in September.”
“Oh dear.” The princess’s mood matched her own feelings so exactly that Gillian could only commiserate.
“Indeed. I asked to see the marriage contract, you know, and my dear father refused—said it was no business of mine! Or William’s either,” she added conscientiously. “It is between Papa and the King of Holland, he says, and I am merely to submit. Submit! I detest that word! Particularly since I have it on excellent authority that I am meant to live in Holland, not merely to visit the place.” Her skirts moved, and she bent to pat the little white greyhound as it emerged from under her chair. The dog looked curiously at Gillian, but then moved off to find a quieter spot to sleep. Charlotte went on bitterly, “They even say my firstborn son will be returned to England at the age of three to be raised as crown prince, whilst my second will be raised as future monarch of Holland. Can you imagine? All this decided without a word to me. Heiress to the throne of England, and not only must I submit, but I am to have nothing to say to the future of my own children!”
“It is vastly unfair, your highness,” Gillian agreed sincerely.
“More than that, it is intolerable,” said her highness flatly. “I won’t do it.”
Gillian felt a tremor of fear. Surely the princess meant to stir up a wasps’ nest! A maidservant brought refreshments, and Gillian, hungry again despite her large luncheon, helped herself to a date bun, nibbling daintily as she watched the princess frown over her task. At last, Charlotte sat back with a sigh and laid her quill aside. Scattering silver sand across the paper, then blowing it clear, she picked up the result of her labors for a final appraisal.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “That will do.” Handing the paper to Gillian, she grinned. “See what you think.”
Rapidly, Gillian scanned the letter. Its tone was as submissive as could be. The princess declared herself the Regent’s obedient subject and affectionate daughter whose only wish was to serve and obey. There was a great deal more to the same effect, but not by the longest stretch of imagination could her words be construed as an agreement to wed the Prince of Orange.
“Your highness,” Gillian said hesitantly once she had done reading, “does not the Regent expect something a trifle more specific?”
Charlotte chuckled. “I daresay he does, but he’ll not get it from me. I have quite made up my mind. I will never wed William of Orange. I might have succumbed to Papa’s wishes earlier, particularly if he had not been so adamant about my going to live in Holland. But now … now that I have met dear Leopold, no matter what concessions Papa might make, I could not agree to marry Orange.”
“I think the Regent will be displeased.”
Charlotte’s bubbling laughter filled the room. “I think you must be a mistress of understatement, Miss Harris.” Her laughter faded soon enough, though. “He will be apoplectic. Nevertheless, I know of no way by which he can force me to wed where I wish not to do so. They tried to tell me otherwise, you know.”
“Otherwise?”
“Indeed.” Charlotte nodded. “Some minion of Papa’s said I must obey, said it was the law. But when I asked him to put the notion in writing that I might show it to Lord Broughham and others amongst my advisers, he refused, so it came to naught.”
“I am glad of that, your highness, but in point of fact, if your father orders you to marry, will you not have to obey?”
“I suppose I would, if he were truly to force the issue. But,” she added, shrewdly, “I daresay he will not, for he greatly fears the scandal. Our subjects tend to support me against him anyway, you know, and on an issue like this one, there is no doubt but that they’d rally to my banner.”
Gillian could only agree. There was no comparison between the princess’s popularity and Prinny’s lack of it. “But I still think you are very brave to stir his temper like this, madam, because he is bound to fly into a pelter when he receives this letter.”
Charlotte sighed. “I know,” she said, “but I must defy him. I cannot consider any other man for my husband—not since meeting Leopold.” She clasped her hands, and there was a hint of girlish rapture in her voice. “Ah, Miss Harris, if only you might meet him, you would see for yourself!”
Miss Harris agreed that Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg must be very handsome and a pearl among gentlemen, but by the time she left Warwick House, she could only be worried about the princess’s future. She did not have Charlotte’s confidence in her ability to flout the Regent’s wishes, and she very much feared that her highness was riding for a fall. So great was her worry, in fact, that she herself braved Landover’s potential displeasure in order to raise the subject at the dinner table that evening.
She did not plunge straight into the heart of the matter, of course, for she was uncertain what his attitude toward her might be. She had not seen him at all since the previous night’s dinner and had half expected him to dine out tonight. But he had not, and her spirits lifted when she and Mrs. Periwinkle descended to find that he was waiting to escort them into the dining room.
Gillian was at pains to show him that she was no longer angry with him, and Landover was not so tactless as to make reference to her behavior of the past two days, so by the time they had finished off the vermicelli soup, tender veal cutlets, and mushrooms in béchamel sauce, Gillian was in perfect charity with him again. The footmen began laying the second course, and she wrinkled her nose at a side dish of potted lampreys but brightened at the sight of the strawberry tarts.
Landover himself provided her with an opening by commenting that things seemed almost dull in town now that all the hubbub over the visiting monarchs had died away. “I only hope you ladies will not be bored by the comparative inactivity before Prinny’s Vauxhall fete,” he said. “He put it off to the first of August in order to separate his own celebration of peace from the state visits. Besides, after all he put up with from his guests, I think he will welcome some peace and quiet.”
“I doubt he’ll get it,” Gillian said with a small frown, as she tried to decide between a dish of haricots and a dish of broccoli. She chose the broccoli, then looked up to discover both her companions looking at her expectantly. “The Princess Charlotte is about to stir coals,” she said with simple directness.
“I was given to understand that she’s already stirred some,” Mrs. Periwinkle said with a little smile. Gillian looked at her curiously. “Whilst we were away,” she explained. “Broadsides. Even one caricature they labeled ‘the Devonshire minuet’ that showed her dancing with Prince Leopold. Others that suggested she was toying with his highness of Orange.”
“Oh dear,” Gillian said, distressed. “No wonder her father is displeased.”
“He is furious,” contributed Landover. ‘Those little gems’ greeted his return to London. My personal favorite was one of the most blatant, called ‘the Dutch toy.’ It shows the princess whipping a top with the letters P.O. painted on it, while Prinny is entering the room behind her, armed with a birch rod. I’m sure his highness was tempted to emulate his own caricature when he saw that one.”
“Well, he may do so yet,” Gillian replied frankly. “She was ordered to write him a letter of submission, and I’m certain he meant that she must submit to the marriage, but she says she cannot and will not do so. And I for one don’t think she should have to marry that dull stick when she could have someone as romantic as Prince Leopold.”
“Gillian!”
“Never mind, ma’am, I’ll deal with this.” Landover waved away a dish of chocolates and nodded to the footman offering to replenish his wineglass. “You are to stay strictly out of this business, Miss Harris, an
d you are not to let me hear you refer to his highness of Orange in such terms again.” He was not angry, and his voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable undertone that told Gillian he meant to be obeyed. She subsided immediately, having no wish to fight with him and fearing he might forbid future visits to the princess if she was not careful.
“I’m sorry, Landover. I should not have said that. But her highness is easily as stubborn as her father, I think, and you must admit that to force England’s crown princess to live in Holland is going beyond what is permissible.”
“‘Such duty as the subject owes the prince,’” quoted Mrs. Periwinkle, shaking her head gently, “so does the daughter owe her father.”
Landover’s eyes twinkled. “Surely that refers to the duty a wife owes her husband,” he teased. “Matters have not yet progressed so far, my dear ma’am.”
Nothing daunted, Mrs. Periwinkle insisted that it was all of a piece. “For when they do marry, she must go where William wills, and if a daughter does not owe her father the duty a subject owes her prince, then things have changed a great deal more in this world than I was aware of, Landover. And the Princess Charlotte is both subject and daughter, much as she would like to think of herself only as future monarch. She owes him double duty!” She turned to Gillian as though she expected protest, which indeed was already forming itself on that young lady’s lips. “It is true, my dear. Prinny is no more a favorite with me than with most folks, but he has had a hard life, and despite the fact that people tend to rally round the Princess of Wales and her daughter, they have both given him as much grief as he has given them. And furthermore, in this instance, he is in the right. It is as much his duty to arrange a suitable marriage for her as it is hers to submit. He has done his part.”
“Well, if that’s all there is to being a father—”
“That’s enough, Gillian,” Landover interrupted firmly. “No one thinks much of Prinny as a father, and everyone feels sorry that the princess is not given more freedom to behave as other girls her age behave. But it is no affair of yours, and if you wish to pursue your friendship with her highness, you must agree to stay out of it.” She shot him a mutinous look, but instead of taking her to task, he merely shook his head with a little smile. “Don’t look at me as though you think the end of that friendship would be my doing. Just use your head. How do you think Prinny will react if he thinks you are influencing his daughter against him?”
“But I wouldn’t!”
“Your own interpretation of your actions is of very little consequence, I’m afraid. His is the only one that would matter.”
Mrs. Periwinkle nodded in agreement, and the subject was dropped. Gillian was certain that they were mistaken. The Regent had never been anything but kind to her, and she could not believe that he would punish her for a friendship with his daughter. She would certainly exert every effort to avoid “influencing” Charlotte, as Landover had called it. She did not do that sort of thing anyway. Had she not tried to impress upon her highness that she was about to enrage the Regent? Surely, that could only be seen as an attempt to support him. It could in no way be interpreted as support for the princess.
Landover was only trying to interfere with her activities again. He had never approved of her visits to Warwick House, and now he was simply trying subtler methods to curtail them. But she would be loyal to Charlotte, no matter who tried to come between them. She liked her and felt sorry for her. A girl Charlotte’s age ought to be enjoying life, ought to be dancing till the small hours and falling in and out of love. Just because she was a royal princess was no reason to treat her as though she were some sort of hostage to be auctioned off to the highest bidder!
Yet that was just what Prinny did, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do about it. Consequently, for the next few days, Gillian lived in a state of trepidation, wondering what would happen as a result of Charlotte’s so-called letter of submission. Rumor was rife, but everyone seemed to agree that the Prince Regent was in a grand fury. He had heard that Prince Leopold virtually haunted Warwick House, that he shadowed the princess’s carriage whenever she drove in the park. Then word flitted about that it was not Prince Leopold at all but another prince, Augustus of Prussia, who followed the princess about, that the Prince Regent actually liked Prince Leopold. Gillian hid a smile when she heard that one.
On Monday evening, she heard that the princess was ill, and on Tuesday morning she sent her a note, wishing her a speedy recovery. Her own day was spent paying calls with Mrs. Periwinkle, as usual, and there were plans to attend a rout and then a small, select supper party followed by dancing at Lord and Lady Cowper’s in the evening.
Landover decided to dine at White’s with some of his friends and invited Sir Avery to join them. Avery accepted the invitation with alacrity, bound to show his mentor how well he was behaving, while Mrs. Periwinkle and Gillian enjoyed a cold collation early in the evening and then retired to their separate bedchambers to prepare at leisure for the entertainments to follow. Ellen was putting the finishing touches to Gillian’s hair when Bet, hesitantly and with a puzzled countenance, stepped inside the room.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Gillian, but there be a young person below as is wishful to speak wi’ ye.”
“A young person, Bet? For heaven’s sake, who can it be at this hour? Someone’s servant?”
“No, miss. She be dressed well enough, but Elbert, the younger footman, ye’ know, he says she come in a hackney, miss. She wouldn’t give a name either, miss, just says she must speak wi’ ye. Says tell ye it’s urgent.” The maidservant spread her hands with a small shrug that denied responsibility for such odd goings-on Gillian smiled at her.
“Where have you put this young person, Bet?”
“In the side parlor across from ’is lordship’s study, miss. Do I tell ’er t’ come back tomorrow?”
“No, no, if it’s urgent, I must at least speak with her,” Gillian said.
“I’ll come with you, Miss Gillian.” Ellen spoke firmly, but Gillian shook her head slowly.
“I have the oddest feeling, Ellen, that I should deal with this business alone. I’m quite sure I shall be perfectly safe.” Ellen was reluctant to let her go, but Gillian brushed aside her worries and hastened downstairs to the tiny parlor. The sight that met her eyes upon opening the door justified all her odd feelings.
“Your highness!”
Charlotte turned a tear-ravaged face to greet her. “Bless you, Gillian! I was afraid I’d be turned from the door, but I dared not give my name. There will be a great enough dust over this as it is, I’m afraid.”
“Sit down, madam.” Gillian literally pushed the younger girl toward a chair. “You look dreadful. Something awful must have happened.” Another thought occurred to her. “The maid said you came in a hackney coach!”
A tiny smile forced its way through Charlotte’s pain. “All the way from Cockspur Lane. ’Twas a great adventure.” She sighed. “I ran away, Gillian. I could think of nothing else to do. But once I got away, I could think of nowhere to go that would be safe from him.”
“The Regent?”
Charlotte nodded. “’Tis that stupid letter. It put him in a towering rage.”
“But you expected that!”
“I know.” She sighed again. “I found, however, to my personal shame, that I could not face him in such a fury. He sent for me yesterday.”
“We heard you were ill.”
With a shrug, her highness explained that it seemed the thing to say at the time. “My brave Notti went to see him by herself. She said he was very cold, very bitter, and very silent. Poor Notti tried to explain that all the rumors about Leopold and me are simply not true, and he said he knew that much, thank you, that Leopold is an honorable man. Oh, Gillian,” she added, leaning forward in her chair to emphasize her words, “I must tell you that I was pleased to hear even that much from him.”
“But he has not given his approval to a marriage between you, I daresay.”
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Charlotte sagged backward again. “No, of course not. That would require a miracle. He commanded that I go to see him today unless Dr. Baillie went to him personally to say that I was not capable of walking over.”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed,” Charlotte grimaced. “Dr. Baillie quite naturally said I was perfectly capable. But really, Gillian, I was too ill, too affected—it was impossible. Notti persuaded me to write to him instead, entreating that he come to me. We hoped that once he saw I was truly ill, he might have some sympathy and would not begin by blasting away. But I might as well have gone to him.”
“He blasted?”
“For three quarters of an hour! The things he said! I tell you, I was in agony over them. But that is not the worst. He has dismissed all my ladies, all my servants!”
“Not Miss Knight!”
“Even Notti. And oh the pain of telling her, Gillian. She has been so devoted to me, and he said she must leave tonight! At once! He apologized for the inconvenience but said he had need of her room!” Tears welled in the princess’s eyes again, and Gillian was at a loss for words. But Charlotte dabbed her face with a lacy handkerchief and sniffed. “He has appointed a new household for me, but I am to be confined at Carlton House for five days and then remove to Cranbourne Lodge. That’s smack in the middle of Windsor Forest, Gillian, and I am to be allowed to see no one but the Queen! And she is to come but once a week. Papa said if I did not go immediately tonight to Carlton House, he and the new women would remain with me. And, Gillian, he says if I do not submit properly this time, he will thrash me. Me!”
Gillian caught her breath, and a momentary thought of what Landover might have to say to all this sent shivers down her spine. She collected herself with difficulty. “Are you not perhaps making matters all the worse by running away, your highness?” she asked gently.
