Текст книги "The Prince and the Quakeress "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
The trouble with these geniuses, thought the king, was that they believed they had some prerogative to speak then minds. They gloried in it. They boasted of it. These honest men! The unpleasant truth was that a King could not do without them. Mr. Pitt was such a one.
‘The puppy was caught asleep, I heard, at Hastenbecke...The French surrounded him and he would have been taken but for the prompt action of Colonel Amherst.’
‘One of the officers I recommended to Your Majesty, you will remember. Yes, he did good work. The Duke’s position was not a happy one at Hastenbecke, Sire, and I dare swear you knew that some compromise would have to be made. Bremen and Verden had to be saved and the troops brought out of danger. It was the loss of the duchies and all those men...or Hanover.’
‘Hanover,’ wailed the King. ‘It has a special place in my heart, Mr. Pitt. I spent the first years of my marriage there, you will remember.’
Aye, thought Pitt, and courted Madame Walmoden there too, and sent the Queen accounts of your courtship in that delectable spot.
‘You will, then, understand my feelings.’
‘Indeed yes, Sire.’
‘So that is why I can’t wait to get my hands on that...puppy.’
‘Sire, Hanover is temporarily lost. It is a small electorate. I believe Your Majesty penned your signature to the orders which were sent to the Duke to sign the convention.’
‘I thought the Duke would make a stand.’
‘Against orders from home, Sire?’
‘The Duke calls himself a soldier, Mr. Pitt. I had not thought he would lose Hanover. I believed that he would have fought to the last man to save Hanover.’
‘But, Sire...’
The King glared at his minister. ‘That was my belief, sir.’
Mr. Pitt despaired. What could one do with a man who believed what he wanted to believe, who twisted the facts to suit his own taste. Bremen and Verden had had to be saved at the cost of Hanover...why did he not admit it? Because he could not face the fact that Hanover was lost, and that he had agreed to its loss. Why? Because he was sentimental about Hanover. Because there he had lived in the first days of his married life, because there he had courted Madame Walmoden.
Pitt despised the little man, but shrugged aside his duplicity. There were more important matters ahead than the assessing of a King’s character—which would doubtless prove not worth the trouble.
‘It is a small electorate, Sire,’ he repeated, ‘and there is Canada and America...needing our attention.’
• • •
Hanover lost! It was terrible. It was unthinkable. The King wept with emotion, thinking of the Alte Palais where he had lived in his boyhood; the old Leine Schloss where assassins had murdered his mother’s lover, the Count of Königsmarck, Herrenhausen where his grandmother had lived for so long and dreamed of becoming Queen of England. In the hands of the French!
I cannot bear to think of it, he mourned.
He had given his consent that it should be signed away. It was like betraying his family. He could imagine Caroline’s eyes regarding him sorrowfully. What would she have said could she have been here? He could hear his father’s voice cursing him in German.
George II of England who had lost Hanover to the French! He would not admit it...even here in the seclusion of his own apartments. It was not he who had lost it. It was that blockhead...Willie...who had been Caroline’s favourite son. Her Duke of Cumberland whom she had said so many times she wished had been the eldest of the family instead of Fred. They had agreed that Willie would have been the better King. Willie had been brought up in England; he spoke English like an Englishman. He had always wanted to be a soldier. Willie had been their darling as a child. So bright...so loving. Different from the canaille Fred Caroline had declared. And now William was the one who had sold Hanover to the French. But the fault was William’s, for no one was going to blame him, the King.
He had already forgotten that he had agreed with his German Council to save Bremen, Verden and the armies. The English had known nothing of this. None of their business, snorted George. But Mr. Pitt had known. Mr. Pitt was one of those men who were aware of everything.
It was a false step. He saw that now. Willie should have fought. He should have ignored the instructions of the German Council backed by his father.
It was true that after his agreement with the Council the King had had his misgivings and had even drafted a letter to Willie telling him to fight to hold Hanover at all costs.
He rummaged in a drawer and found a draft of the letter. It had never been sent, but its existence seemed to exonerate him, since it was a command to the Duke of Cumberland to fight and hold Hanover.
‘I wrote that,’ cried the King triumphantly. ‘I told him to fight.’
• • •
The Princess Augusta was secretly delighted. ‘Hanover lost!’ she cried. ‘This is Cumberland’s doing.’
‘It will be interesting to see His Majesty’s reactions to Billy the Butcher now,’ replied Bubb Dodington who was often her company and that of Lord Bute.
‘This is the son he would like to have seen King,’ added Bute.
‘Constantly comparing him with Fred,’ agreed Bubb. ‘I remember Fred could not stand the sight of him.’
‘And I don’t blame him. The Butcher! He would like to get our George under his wing.’
‘And teach him how to be a soldier, I don’t doubt,’ retorted Bute with a sneer.
‘And throw away his kingdom to the French,’ put in Augusta.
‘It strikes me,’ said Bubb, ‘that we’re well rid of the place. It was constantly draining the exchequer and was not much good to us.’ He shrugged and changed the subject. ‘The Prince seems to have grown up lately.’
‘Grown up!’ cried the Princess, alert. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I thought I detected a change in His Highness. A certain dignity...which wasn’t there before. He seems to carry his head higher...Pleased with life and yet...’
‘And yet, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Bubb ‘he seems a little preoccupied with his thoughts.’
‘George never has any thoughts,’ said the Princess sharply. ‘At least, if he has any misgivings he would bring them at once to one of us.’
‘Then I daresay he has already told you of his...cares.’
‘He confided in us,’ said the Princess shortly.
‘In everything!’ added Bute.
• • •
When the Duke of Cumberland arrived at Court he was dumbfounded to find the cold reception which awaited him. He did not expect the welcome of a conquering hero naturally, but he had acted on orders and had obeyed the King’s command, although it was contrary to his own inclinations. He was no coward; he had never been one to withdraw from a battle, even when the cause was hopeless. And in this instance he believed there had been a chance.
Baron Munchausen, the Hanoverian Minister in England, was so incensed by the loss of Hanover that he wanted to call a council and have the Duke’s behaviour examined. He declared he had copies of the letters he had sent to the Duke. These would show that in surrendering Hanover the Duke had used his own initiative and that there had been no orders from St. James’s to do so. But Mr. Pitt–a man who had little friendship for the Duke–was the one to defend him. Hanover was temporarily lost, was Mr. Pitt’s reasoning; the Duke had surrendered it on orders from London; there was no point in denying this just to save some people’s faces. The deed was done; Hanover was lost; the best way of dealing with the matter was to face up to the truth; and the truth was that the Duke had acted on orders; England had for the time being lost a small electorate of little account; and her prospects on the American continent were promising.
‘Bury the past and over its grave build up the future; in that way it will soon be forgotten there is a grave there.’
But Baron Munchausen could only cry: ‘But this is Hanover!’
Mr. Fox had known of the Duke of Cumberland’s arrival and had come in readiness to greet him. Fox and Pitt were of one mind on this matter. The Duke was being used as a scape goat and they, being men of honour, were offering him their support. Pitt was against nepotism which he saw as the downfall of the army and therefore of the country, and was firmly opposed to the appointment of a commander because he was a King’s son; but Cumberland was a brave soldier, and he being unfairly treated in this instance, albeit by his own father. Mr. Fox agreed with him in this matter—so Fox was there to support the Duke.
Fox was a politician of brilliance, though he lacked Pitt’s eloquence; in fact he was a poor speaker, hesitant and unable to express himself with grace; but he had a sharp mind and was a match for any orator, even Pitt, by his calm reasoning powers. He never attempted to rely on rhetoric; reason was his weapon. He and Pitt admired each other; they were two ambitious men, tremendously envious of each other’s success; and Fox was more popular than Pitt, whose affectations irritated many. But they recognized the other’s talents and in this affair they stood eye to eye.
The Duke thanked Mr. Fox for being at Kensington to meet him when he was informed of the reason why the minister had come.
‘I am well in mind and body,’ the Duke told him; ‘and I have written orders in my pocket for everything I did. And now, Mr. Fox, you should take your leave as I do not wish it to be said that I have taken the advice of anyone on what I plan to do.’
Fox understood this and retired, but the Duke must have been extremely comforted to know that he had powerful men on his side.
• • •
The King hearing that his son was in Kensington Palace became more irascible than usual. He had to see the fellow, the fool who had lost Hanover. But in his heart he knew that the reason why William had not fought to save Hanover was because he had been commanded to give it up. George would not admit it. He could not face the fact that he was the King to have lost Hanover. It had to be someone else’s fault. Caroline had always shielded him. She had let him believe that suggestions were his when they were hers or Walpole’s. It had been such a comforting way of life. And here he was an old man...without Caroline—and Hanover lost.
‘A plague on them all,’ he muttered. He wanted to be young again...in Hanover, with Caroline his young wife. The happy days, he thought of them, letting memory skilfully paint them in bright colours for him. Caroline...Caroline...no woman worthy to...Amelia Walmoden was a wonderful woman...his Countess of Yarmouth...she would offer him some comfort for the loss of his Caroline.
But now there was this fellow...this Cumberland...this Willie come home...in disgrace. ‘Yes, sir, disgrace, I say. You lost Hanover...the home of our fathers...and you lost it.’
It was the only way he could bear to look at it. Though it had seemed the only alternative they had had to save Bremen and Verden. They had had to save the army. It was either that or Hanover.
‘Yes, yes...but I could not have lost Hanover, Caroline, could I? You would see that. Didn’t you always see everything.’
He looked at his watch. He was to go and play cards with the Princess Amelie, his daughter as he always did. If he did not hurry he would be late. Unthinkable. He was never late.
Amelie...Emily as they called her in the family...she getting old now, and she was sour. She had wanted Grafton. It had caused her mother some concern the way Emily had run after Grafton. Perhaps they should have found a husband for her. It was difficult with Princesses...not much royalty left abroad and it had to be Protestant royalty, which limited the choice. Either that or someone at home. The girls ought to have been given Englishmen. Why not? That would have been better than letting them go unmarried and turn sour like Emily.
She greeted him with a show of affection when he readied her apartments. The cards were ready.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us play.’
‘We are ready, Father,’ Emily replied.
He said quietly: ‘Your brother is in the palace.’
‘I know, Father.’
‘He’ll be coming to cards tonight. Don’t leave me alone with him.’
‘No, Father.’
‘It’s an order.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The game began and when the Duke of Cumberland came into the room the King did not look up, but he was aware of him, for he muttered: ‘Here is my son who has ruined me and disgraced himself.’
The Duke of Cumberland was scarlet with mortification, but he could not approach his father unless given permission to do so and after that remark the King gave no sign that he aware of him but stolidly went on playing cards. Nor could the Duke leave the assembly until the King rose and dismissed the company by his departure.
It was eleven o’clock and as soon as the King had left the card-room the Duke went at once to the apartments of the King’s mistress, the Countess of Yarmouth.
The Countess was an inoffensive woman whose main purpose was to please the King and keep her position; she made few demands on him and this was why she held her place. She was a little avaricious, but apart from trying to make money by selling honours she had few vices. She therefore received the Duke kindly for she was eager to help him, knowing that he had been unjustly accused.
‘Madam,’ said the Duke, ‘I have come to ask a favour of you.’
‘My dear Duke,’ she replied, ‘you know I will do everything in my power to help you.’
‘My father will listen to you. I want you to break this news to him as agreeably as possible that I am resigning my post as Captain-General and the command of my regiment.’
‘Oh no, you cannot. It is too much.’
‘In the circumstances, Madam, there is nothing else I can do.’
‘I pray you don’t make this decision so hastily. Give yourself time to think.’
‘Begging your pardon, Madam,’ he replied, ‘I have not come here to ask your advice, though it is kind of you to offer it, I merely wish you to pass on this news to the King in the manner less likely to disturb him.’
‘I wish to help...and since you ask me this...I can only do it. But I think perhaps you are over hasty.’
‘I have been falsely accused, Madam. I have no alternative but to resign.’
‘Then there is nothing I can do but obey your wishes.’
• • •
The King arrived at his mistress’s apartments at the appointed time.
He saw at once that she was distressed and that did not please him. He had come to her for comfort, not to be fretted. He frowned but she said: ‘I must tell Your Majesty at once that the Duke of Cumberland has been to see me.’
‘The puppy!’
‘Sire, he is determined to resign his post. That is what he has asked me to tell you.’
The King’s face grew purple. ‘This will be a nice scandal. He must be stopped.’
‘He seemed determined,’ said the Countess, her face puckered with anxiety. ‘But Your Majesty has had a trying day. Should you not shelve the matter until you have...rested.’
The King looked at his watch. He did not intend to spoil this meeting with his mistress.
‘The puppy will have to he brought to heel,’ he said.
‘I am sure Your Majesty will soon have him where you wish him to be.’
This was her most attractive quality: she always made him feel a wise and great man. In fact he felt more comfortable with her than he had with Caroline, although he would not admit that now.
‘I’ll deal with him,’ he said; and shelved the matter as she had hoped he would.
What a soothing, tender creature she was. He was lucky to have found her!
• • •
The King wanted no trouble, He demanded that ‘secret papers’ be brought to him and he feigned to study them. He then announced that he thought better of the Duke of Cumberland than he had, and he believed that there was no need to continue with this farce of a resignation.
But the Duke was determined. He would treat his father with the respect due to a King, for he was a royalist by nature; and having seen the ill effects of quarrels on the royal family’s prestige he did not want to add to that.
He had nevertheless made up his mind that he could no longer take a command in an army in which he was obliged to obey the orders from the Council and his father, and then take the blame when they were unsuccessful.
He had been deeply wounded; he saw only one course of action open to him: resignation; and nothing was going to prevent his taking it.
• • •
The Duke of Cumberland had resigned. The hero-villain of Culloden was no longer in command of the army.
His passion in life had been the army and now he was no longer of it. The action of his father had made it impossible for him to retain his position. But this was no family quarrel. The Duke robbed of his position, of his career through the action of his father, continued to pay him the utmost homage in public.
He now turned appealingly to his nephew. He hoped that the Prince of Wales would allow him to bestow on him that affection which he yearned to give.
The Princess and Lord Bute told themselves that they must watch the Duke of Cumberland.
Joshua Reynolds Calls
The Prince of Wales was very proud of having a daughter and could not resist talking of her to those in the secret.
‘How I wish I could see her!’ sighed his sister Elizabeth.
‘And how I wish you could. Perhaps I could take you one day.’
‘Everyone would recognize my poor body if I attempted to call on her.’
‘If she met you she would love you as I do.’
‘I hope that one day I shall.’
‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t see her,’ declared Edward.
The Prince of Wales considered this. ‘No...I suppose not. Hannah might be a little reluctant. She is very retiring.’
‘Tell her I would not harm her. I should only love her...since you do.’
George beamed on his brother and sister with the utmost affection.
‘Have you ever thought of having that portrait painted?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Who would paint it?’
‘Anyone would...if you asked them.’
‘Wouldn’t it be dangerous?’
Edward said: ‘If one is going to be afraid of danger one will never arrive at anything. It would not be one half as dangerous as abducting a Quakeress at the altar.’
‘I...I scarcely did that.’
‘Oh, come, brother, you are too modest.’
‘I have seen the work of Joshua Reynolds,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It is quite miraculous.’
‘I do not understand painting much...’ began George.
‘Elizabeth is right,’ corroborated Edward. ‘I have heard it said that he is the greatest living painter. None but the best would be good enough for the Prince of Wales.’
‘I should like her portrait to be painted,’ mused George.
‘Hush,’ whispered Edward. ‘Here comes our sister Augusta.’
Elizabeth began talking hastily about a piece of embroidery on which she was working. Augusta looked suspicious. A strange subject, she was thinking, for Elizabeth to discuss with her brothers. These three were always together, always seeming to share secrets, and Augusta had been told by her mother to try to discover what George talked about to his favourite sister and brother.
But, of course, they were silent as soon as she appeared. It was always so.
But George had something on his mind. It was obvious that he had some secret. She wondered what. It would be a triumph if she could discover it and report to her mother and Lord Bute. They would be so pleased with her.
George smiled at her absently. He had never greatly cared for his sister who was a year older than he was and apt to be resentful that she had not been born a boy, in which case all the honours which were his would have been hers.
George was thinking: Joshua Reynolds, why not?
• • •
A portrait, thought Hannah, as she dressed with the help of her maid. Thou hast become a vain and empty-headed woman Hannah Lightfoot.
She would not think of herself as Hannah Axford, and preferred to regard herself as a single woman rather than as that. She dreamed sometimes that Isaac Axford came to claim her, that he crept into this bedroom while she slept and that she awakened to find him standing over her.
The bedroom was becoming more and more ornate as the years passed. In the early days she had tried to keep it simple, for every now and then her upbringing would assert itself; then she would suffer terrible feelings of guilt and see the gates of hell yawning before her.
Had her marriage to Isaac been a true marriage? Sometimes she liked to think not. On the other hand, sometimes she must believe it was a true marriage when it seemed less shocking for a woman who had been through the marriage ceremony to have a lover, to be a mother, than for one to experience these things who had never been married at all. Then the thought of Isaac as a husband horrified her.
One fact was clear to her: she could never be truly happy. She loved her Prince; he was charming, never failing in his courtesy to her, giving her the respect he would have given to his Queen—yet the load of sin was on her, and she could never shift it.
And now a portrait.
She could imagine her uncle’s stern face if he knew. To dress herself in satin, to sit idly while her face was reproduced on canvas. What vanity. What sin.
But my sins are so many, she thought. What is a little vanity added to them?
In her nursery lay her daughter—her idolized child. Born in sin, she thought. What will become of her? But all must go well with her, for was she not the daughter of the Prince of Wales?
She had a suspicion that she was again pregnant. She had not told the Prince yet. She understood him so well and he was so good that their sin worried him as much is it did her, although he was not a Quaker and had lived his life at a Court which in Quaker circles was another name for debauchery.
What a beautiful gown this was! She thought of the day the seamstress had brought in the material and how it cascaded over the table in the sewing-room...yards and yards of thick white satin.
‘Oh, Madam, this will become you more than any of your gowns.’ And the woman had held it up to her and draped it round her and Hannah had swayed before the mirror, holding the stuff to her as though it were a partner in a dance. Then she had caught sight of her flushed face in the long mirror. Even such a mirror would have been considered sinful in her uncle’s home. And she though: What have I come to?
But even so, she could not help being excited by the white satin and when the sewing-woman had made those enchanting blue bows with which to adorn it she had expressed her delight.
And now she was going to be painted in this gown by a great painter.
Her maid had slipped the white satin gown over her head and stood back to admire.
‘Oh, Madam, this is truly beautiful. The most beautiful of all your gowns.’
Hannah’s gaze returned to the mirror. I am always looking in mirrors, she told herself. Yet she could not look away.
She had changed since the child’s arrival; the hunted look was less apparent in her beautiful dark eyes. She was more serene. Odd, she thought, for the sin is greater now. I have passed on the sin to an innocent being and that my own child.
‘You like this dress?’ she said to the maid. She must remember not to use the Quaker thee and thou which slipped out now and then.
‘Oh, Madam, it is a miracle of a dress. But it needs a beautiful lady to show it off...and you are that.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled gently. Yes, she thought. I am glad I am beautiful. And if I were meant to live humbly all my days in a linen-draper’s shop, why was I made beautiful?
It sounded like one of Jane’s arguments.
‘Tell them to let me know,’ she said, ‘immediately when Mr. Reynolds arrives.’
• • •
The painter’s carriage turned in at the private drive which led to the back of the house and was completely secluded. I his was the drive George used when he came.
Some secret woman, mused Mr. Reynolds, but he was not very interested in whose mistress this was, only whether she would be a good subject. He supposed she would have beauty of a kind, but he did not seek a conventional beauty. Nor did he wish to turn some woman, plain in the flesh, into a canvas beauty, which was often the expectation. He hoped for a subject who had something to offer, something on which his genius could get to work, so that he might reproduce her as a Reynolds portrait which would be apart from all other portraits which might be painted of her.
He was here because of the notorious Elizabeth Chudleigh. From what he could discover she was involved in almost every Court scandal, while she took care to keep her own past—which he suspected must be lurid—well hidden.
Not that he was interested in Court intrigues but he was interested in Miss Chudleigh. He had a special reason for this. As soon as he had seen her he had recognized her as a perfect subject for his art. There was a great deal more in Miss Chudleigh than met the eyes, and the artist in him itched to get something of that on canvas.
It must have been eighteen or nineteen years ago when he had first met her. He was visiting his native Devonshire and Miss Chudleigh would have been sixteen or seventeen at the time. To all she must have appeared as a ravishing beauty: to Joshua Reynolds she was a girl he must paint.
He soon made the acquaintance of Miss Chudleigh and asked her permission to paint the portrait. Miss Chudleigh’s permission was very readily obtained and during sittings he learned something of her background. She was the daughter of a Colonel and Mrs. Chudleigh, she told him. Papa was an aristocrat...but a penniless one. Mamma was not an aristocrat but she had all the spirit. He was Lieutenant-Governor of Chelsea Hospital and I was born there.’
He liked his subjects to talk; it brought out their character. He liked to watch the emotions flit across their faces as they discussed this or that incident from the past. It told him so much that he wanted to bring out in the portrait.
‘Papa married for love...an extremely foolish and inconsiderate thing to do—in the eyes of his relations.’
‘They disowned him?’
‘Not exactly. I believe if we could get back to London we might find...friends.’
If we could get back to London! This girl had been obsessed by the idea of getting back to London. She had been like a tigress in a cage, pacing up and down...imprisoned by the green fields and winding lanes, longing for the freedom of the London jungle.
‘Why did you come to Devonshire?’
‘It was all we could do. Papa died. He was rather fond of...strong waters...rather too fond. It was bad for his heart...his liver...I forget which...in any case it was bad. I was too young to remember him...but I remember London. I remember riding with my parents through the streets. The City...the sedans, the carriages, the fine ladies in their carriages and masks...I particularly remember the masks...and the gentlemen with their elegant snuff-boxes and quizzing glasses. I was young when we came here but I wept and wept for the ladies and the gentlemen and the snuff-boxes and the quizzing glasses, and the noise and mud of the streets. And it is where I must be sooner or later for I do assure you, Mr. Reynolds, the country is no place for me.’
He had nodded encouragingly. What a wonderful sitter! He would never forget her. How could he when that picture had meant so much to them both.
‘No one would help us...My mother was without the means to stay in London. It is cheaper to live in the country...and rightly so, for who would live in the country from choice?’
He smiled, remembering that his friend Dr. Johnson had expressed the same sentiments often enough. ‘Sir, the man who is tired of London is tired of life.’ There was a world of difference between Miss Chudleigh and the venerable doctor, but at least they thought alike on this point.
‘We have an income of two pounds a week. Country folk think that’s a fortune, Mr. Reynolds. We are ladies here. How could we live in London in befitting manner on two pounds a week?’
