“Very good, Your Royal Highness.” Sir Percival whispered to Wallis, “You are in charge of privy duty this morning.” He had to hide his amusement because of the horrified expression on the man’s face.
“Is anyone going to help me,” snorted the Prince as he attempted to get off the bed. He resembled a beached whale as he rolled this way and that on the vast mattress.
“But of course, Your Royal Highness. Dawson, Wallis, chop chop,” said Sir Percival. The three men promptly advanced toward the bed. “One, two, three…heave.”
The Prince Regent stood swaying before them in his linen nightshirt with his initials emblazoned in red silk on the right-hand side of the garment. His face was red flushed from the exertion of lifting his corpulent frame off the bed, or was it because he and the Duke of Uxbridge had indulged in too much food and drink the previous evening? Most probably both.
The preceding evening’s dinner that was more of a banquet of lucullan proportion had consisted of two double portions of partridge, trout, and four beefsteaks (one of the regent’s favorite foods), each in their own savory sauces. Phenomenal amounts of vegetables accompanied this bacchanalian feast. The two men had shared copious amounts of champagne, wine, and brandy throughout the evening.
“Your banyan, Your Royal Highness,” said Sir Percival, bowing, and proffering a burgundy red silk garment for the prince to slide over his bulk. The regent smiled, clearly satisfied with the garment that was the epitome of elegant morning dress in Regency England. It was a taste the English had picked up on in the Orient.
“What would I do without Jonathan Meyer? He does make the finest clothing, you know.” The Prince pirouetted on the spot in imitation of a spinning top. “Mm, we might have to call upon him again. This is rather snug around the midriff – I think he made a mistake with my measurements.” His face lit up. “I shall summon Beau Brummell; he will know what to do. It was he who recommended the man as a tailor in the first place, you know.”
With those words, the prince marched off in the direction of the privy like a charging bull. Following close on his heels went Wallis. The two other men quickly busied themselves with the preparations for when the prince returned. Sir Percival had trouble getting over the prince’s hubris – it was evident to him that the regent had grown in size since he last wore the vestment.
“No, no, no, I shall first have breakfast, Waverly,” commanded the prince on his way back from his visit to the loo. He flapped his hand frantically at the clothing held in his direction as if a nest of hornets had just inhabited them.
“But of course, Your Royal Highness…will it be the usual?” asked Sir Percival, dreading the prospect.
“Yes, yes, I think it shall. Arrange for it to be brought to me in my dining room,” said the prince almost salivating onto the carpet and rubbing his hands with glee.
The prince’s route took him along the entire length of the lower ground floor at Carlton House that was composed of a suite of low ceilinged rooms, which included a gothic dining room, a library, a Chinese drawing room, and an astonishing gothic conservatory constructed of cast iron and stained glass.
This suite of rooms was equipped with folding doors that provided impressive enfilade when opened. Like most mornings, the doors were closed. However, when open, the entire length could be used for one enormous banqueting table. All of the ground floor rooms faced the elaborate garden fronting the Mall.
By the time Sir Percival arrived, the Prince Regent was already attacking an assortment of foods as if it would be his last meal. His breakfast consisted of two pigeons and three beefsteaks, three parts of a bottle of mozelle, a glass of dry champagne, two glasses of port and a glass of brandy.
Sir Percival watched on in consternated horror throughout and shuddered at the denouement of the meal. He had never been to Africa, but he could imagine that a pride of lions feasting on a carcass had nothing on the prince regent. The two footmen standing in the chamber stared straight ahead, knowing of the prince’s wrath should they be caught ogling.
“Ah, that’s better,” said the prince, emitting a contented burp, flowering his words. “Waverly, I shall be having my medicine now.” He gnawed on a bone in an attempt to find another tasty morsel – to his great chagrin he was unsuccessful.
Sir Percival nodded to one of the footmen who promptly jutted into action. Within moments, he returned with a small vial neatly presented on a silver salver.
As well as alcohol, George, the regent, was also addicted to laudanum, a liquid form of opium. He’d take 100 drops in preparation for a public appearance, enough to knock most people senseless. There was no limit to his desires, nor any restraint to his profusion.
The regent lifted his bulk from the seat. The action looked like a volcano prior to eruption. “Waverly, I shall get dressed now.”
Sir Percival bowed as the prince promenaded past him, back in the direction of his private suite. He already dreaded the next hours. It was his least favorite part of the day.
Chapter 2
Carlton House – The Adoubement
Amelia Carlyle stepped out of the carriage in front of Carlton House. She was with her father, Mr. Thomas Carlyle Esquire and her mother, Felicity. She had never been to visit the prince regent before. Her gaze shifted upward in an attempt to take in the vast structure before her.
The building faced the south side of Pall Mall, and its gardens abutted St. James’s Park in the St. James district of London. John Nash, who was busy altering the layout of London on the Prince Regent’s request, included the location of Carlton House in his plans. The soon to be ceremonial route from St. James’ Park to Regent’s Park, via the newly established Regent Street still under heavy construction to Portland Place and Park Square were based on the position of the front entrance to Carlton House.
It was as the regent wished since taking on the formal task of representing the monarchy after his father, who had been declared unfit for the role due to the illness that some called madness. George the Third was known as the man who had lost the American colonies. However, he was much loved by the populace nonetheless.
Behind Amelia, there were more transports waiting to discharge their eager passengers. All around her, the coachmen yelled, “Ya, ya…” and clicked their tongues as they coaxed their horses forward with the lash. The procession was endless. Everybody of note had been bidden to the Regent’s home to witness the knighting of the men who had done their bit for king and country.
Amelia’s father was one of those men. It had always been his lifelong ambition to come so far. Thanks to his ownership of a shipping company and his adept handling of that asset, he had attracted the attention of Prime Minister Robert Banks Jenkinson, 2nd Earl of Liverpool, who had suggested to the Prince Regent that he receive an accolade to reward him for his efforts.
Amelia did feel proud and to a certain extent happy for her father. A large proportion of her father’s ships supported the war effort against Napoleon by supplying the troops on the Iberian Peninsula with much-needed food, medicine, and other victuals. Of course, Amelia knew that he made a hefty profit on the side–what astute businessman wouldn’t. Yet, that was not what worried her.
Their relationship was a contentious one at best. His continuous efforts to marry her off above her station were a cause of great concern to her. So far, she had been fortunate that no prospective suitor had yet been found. But what would happen after he had made that first step up the ladder of advancement?
Amelia could not help but feel that fate was rounding on her like a pack of wolves ready for the kill. Oddly enough, despite her twenty summers, she had not yet been launched into society. She assumed that her father had a reason for that. He always was good at chess. This knighthood was all he needed to strategically plan his next steps of advancement. Now, he could flaunt his wealth to any impoverished lord, viscount, earl or duke and sell off his most prized asset to the highest bidder – namely me, she thought.
“Well, come on, daughter.
It won’t do to dawdle. The Prince Regent will not wait for us,” said Amelia’s father happily.
“Yes, Father. I was just looking at the building. ‘Tis rather impressive.”
Her father arched his eyebrows. The gesture made him look slightly comical on his chubby face. He stood tall and was as bulky as a tree trunk. Every time he spoke, his jowls would wobble with his every utterance. In a way, his stout physique was a perfect reflection of his vast fortune – his key to unlock the greed among the nobles.
“Come on, Felicity…Amelia…” With those words, he marched up the steps to Carlton House, skipping as Humpty Dumpty might on a wall.
Amelia took one last look at the exterior of Carlton House before following her mother and father into the building – it was awe-inspiring, to say the least, comparable to a smaller version of the Palace at Versailles in terms of opulence.
The Prince Regent held a quasi-separate glittering alternate court to that of his parents at Buckingham Palace since the 1780s. The residence had recently been redecorated for the second time since the prince became regent in 1811 to encompass even more space. In London, the residence was referred to as a house. On the continent, many a European might suggest that it was more of a palace than anything else.
Amelia and her parents walked through a hexastyle portico of Corinthian columns that led to the main foyer. This room was flanked to either side by anterooms. Carlton House was very unusual in that the visitor entered the house on the main floor. Most unlike many of the mansions of the time, which followed the Palladian architectural concept of a lower ground floor.
Amelia could not take her eyes off the opulence of her surroundings. To her sides, more elegantly dressed men and women passed her by in an eager attempt to get inside. The women were resplendent in different colors of fine silks and damask. The men, as Beau Brummell, the epitome of the Regency dandy suggested, were far less ostentatious in their dark coats, white shirts, colored cravats, and trousers.
Their route took them through the foyer and on toward a two-story lit entrance hall. Passing it, they moved on to the grand staircase where Amelia and her family followed the others down the steps in the direction of the throne room.
“Stop fidgeting, Amelia,” hissed her mother. “It is most unladylike. Someone might think that you have never been here before.”
“But I haven’t, Mother…and neither have you if I might add,” she countered, receiving a hostile look from her mother.
Resuming her perusal of her surroundings, she gulped. Being interested in the classics and art, Amelia could not believe what she saw. It was a paradise for anyone with a more discerning disposition when it came to all things beautiful.
Besides the magnificent and opulent Louis XVI-style French décor and furniture, a superb collection of works of art adorned the walls of Carlton House. The prince regent collected many of the finest paintings for his main residence.
He was renowned for patronizing modern artists: Gainsborough, Stubbs, and Reynolds. With Sir Charles Long and the Third Marquess of Hertford acting as his art advisors, the Prince Regent also bought paintings from the old masters: Rubens, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Cuyp, and Jan Steen. He may be a bon vivant and a spendthrift, but the Prince definitely has taste, thought Amelia.
“This is unbelievable, Mother – look,” Amelia said, demurely indicating with her hand at the walls and marquetry wall tables as she continued following the flock of people to the throne room.
Her mother took no notice of her daughter’s antics – to her all that mattered was her husband’s advancement; she could barely organize the rush of excitement in her mind: who was she going to invite first? Or should it be a garden party? Or maybe something more formal – yes, we shall have a banquet in the prince’s honor. She decided at last.
Amelia was primarily interested in art, humanities, and geopolitics; all her mother cared about was station. This was the greatest day in Felicity’s life. She soon would be Lady Carlyle, 1st Baronet of Windom. She had used her onetime beauty to ensnare a man with potential, and had achieved that with flying colors. She was attractive, but in a bland way that would not entice undue attention.
And there he was as the small family shuffled into the throne room that like the rest of the residence was opulently decorated in Louis XVI-style French décor. The other invitees stood in a semicircle around the Prince Regent, his mother, and two footmen holding vigil slightly behind him.
Amelia gulped as she watched her father being directed away from them to a group of four other men who were also to receive their titles in due course. With eyes the size of saucers, she followed her mother to a free spot next to a lady and gentleman who looked almost as regal as the prince himself. Amelia cringed when her mother attempted to engage them in conversation even though it was openly apparent that they had no interest whatsoever in conversing with her.
She decided to calm down and focus her contemplation on the prince. While she was doing this, her eyes fell on a gentleman who had his gaze glued to her. He was handsome in a strange sort of way. However, his privileged heritage was there for the world to see – thin scowling lips, his head raised high, displaying a sort of aloof bearing when he looked at her. It was as if life itself had become so predictable because he always got what he wanted. Amelia looked away quickly and watched the prince regent who seemed as bored as sin.
A notoriously vain man, the prince Regent wore a whalebone corset under his shirt and a bright-yellow waistcoat and a claret-colored tailcoat, displaying his medals. An especially high cravat helped to disguise his double chins and fleshy jowls. On his head, he wore a chestnut-colored wig.
On his face, makeup had been carefully applied to make him look quite handsome despite his enormous size. It was common knowledge that it took the prince three hours to get laced into his corset and dressed so that in the end, he resembled a great sausage stuffed into a pastry covering.
“I see you found the most eligible bachelor in London, Amelia,” whispered her mother.
“I don’t quite know what you mean?”
“Don’t be coy with me. I saw you looking at him – handsome isn’t he.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
“I don’t know; he has something decidedly evil about him.” She turned to her mother. “Anyway, we are here for father and not to launch me into society.” Amelia pleated her brow when she saw a slight smirk flitter across her mother’s lips. What’s she got planned now? she thought, knowing of her mother’s caprices.
Amelia’s mother wore the most superb dress of ruby velvet and white satin; the draperies in every part trimmed with a rich imperial gold border, and a profusion of splendid gold tassels that were rope trimmed with pointed lace. On her head towered a matching ruby turban inlayed with jewels and feathers.
Next to her, Amelia was more modestly dressed in terms of color and the amount of jewels on her person. Her dress was primarily white with pale pastel shades adorning her flanks. Her silky dark hair was elaborately fashioned. Her natural hair color burnished in obsidian splendor and was tied up on the top of her head in a tuft of elaborate chignons to reveal her long slender neck. A white feather completed her ensemble.
Looking around the elaborately decorated throne room, Amelia wanted nothing more than to escape her predicament. Her body felt so constricted by all of the skirts, hoops and trains on her frame. She felt like the feathered former host – the ostrich. Like the bird, her person was rounded and full because of the skirts that were enhanced with panniers that stood out very wide on either side of her body but leaving the front and back flat. The only thing that differentiated her from the bird were its spindly legs.
All around her, the women’s clothing was so elaborate, displaying a broad swath of beautifully embroidered fabric. Amelia could not see the point of it all. She was a loyalist or a monarchist, yes, but why did Queen Charlotte, the regent’s mother, insist on this pathetic pageantry?
In France, or when a private function was hosted
in England, women would wear garments with the ‘empire silhouette’ imitating the ensemble worn by the former Empress Joséphine Bonaparte. These loose, formal dresses had a fitted bodice ending just below the bust, thus giving the appearance of a high waist, and a gathered skirt reaching the ankles.
This is ridiculous…I know that papa is receiving his knighthood today…and yes…it is an honor. But why do I have to look like a stuffed meringue? she thought. Amelia hazarded a glimpse at the queen. She gasped. She had never seen her before. She could not believe how unattractive she was. Her nostrils were too wide, her complexion overly pale and her forehead exceptionally low.
Amelia immediately chastised herself for being so insensitive. Queen Charlotte had always been an extremely dutiful wife to the mad king, providing him with fifteen children. The prospect made Amelia shudder – the poor woman must have been constantly pregnant.
This thought made Amelia study her dress more closely. She ran her dainty hands down the sides of the skirt, pressing slightly until it flounced back. She frowned. She very much resembled a young debutante. What was on her parents’ mind? she wondered.
A Pure Lady for the Broken Duke_A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 29
