Текст книги "The Prince and the Quakeress "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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‘Oh yes...yes, I know.’

‘Then this is my advice. Plead a little sickness. I will have the doctor prepare a sedative for you...something which will make you sleep. You have had a terrible shock. When you awake tomorrow you will feel refreshed and you will be able to see these things in a new light.’

‘I shall never see Hannah’s loss in any other way than the bitterest misfortune of my life.’

‘My dear Highness, believe me, time helps. In a few months’ time the pain will be less acute. I can assure you of this. Pray do as I tell you. Rest now...and rely on me. I shall be with you. And when you are in any dilemma, any need of help...I beg of you trust me.’

George nodded blindly and allowed Lord Bute to send for the doctor. His lordship explained that a mild sedative was all the Prince needed and when it was administered he helped the Prince to bed and sat in his room until he slept.

• • •

‘How did he take it?’ asked the Princess Dowager.

‘As I expected. He can’t grasp it, of course.’

‘At times I think he is such a fool.’

‘Poor boy! He is too innocent for this world.’

‘When I think of what this could have led to, I shiver with fear and shudder with mortification.’

‘Let us be grateful that we learned of it in time.’

‘Do you think this will be an end of the matter?’

Lord Bute shrugged his shoulders and looked melancholy.

‘At least,’ he said, ‘now we are out of die dark. We can take care of him now.’

‘It’s clearly time he married.’

‘Clearly time. But this will mean that there must necessarily be some delay. He has to recover from his broken heart.’

The Princess made an impatient sound.

‘Poor George I’ sighed Bute. ‘But the sooner we have found a suitable wife for him the more comfortable we shall feel.’

The Princess grimaced. And what would be the effect of a wife on George? If a simple little Quakeress could lead him to such heights of folly what could a Princess, probably brought up to be a Queen, do?

Whatever happened they must keep a firm grip on their young Prince; and it was shattering to both to know that such a calamity could have occurred without their knowledge.

George should be carefully watched in future.

It was clearly very necessary with such a simple honest young man.

• • •

George could not believe that Hannah was dead. The more he thought of the extraordinary story Lord Bute had discovered, the more incredible it seemed

‘Why,’ he cried again and again, ‘I am sure she would have sent for me. She would have wanted to say goodbye. She would have wanted to hand the children to me; she would have wanted assurances that I would care for them ‘

‘She knew you would care for them.’ Bute pointed out.

And George at least agreed that that was so.

‘I must see this man...what is his name? This priest.. .’

‘This...er...Zachary Brooke.’

‘Yes. You have seen him. I must do the same. I must hear the story from his lips.’

‘Your Highness cannot doubt my word?’

‘Oh...no...no! But I must see him. I want to hear how it happened. I want to see her tomb. I want to pray there. Don’t you understand?’

‘Certainly I understand.’

‘Well, then, I will go and see him.’

‘Would Your Highness like me to accompany you?’

‘Oh yes, please. And today...’

‘I’m afraid that would not be possible. It will be necessary to find out when the Reverend Brooke can see us.’

‘When he can see us!’

‘You will not go as the Prince of Wales, remember. I do not think he is aware...At least I am not sure of that. Your Highness, now that this dear lady is dead, there can be no point in raising scandal. You see that, I am sure. No good can be served by making this matter public. You have your duty to the crown...’

‘Yes, I see that. I must do my duty. That at least is left to me.’

‘A high and noble destiny. You will find it will be your consolation, your solace. Allow me to investigate this matter and in a day or so we will go to Islington to see the Reverend Zachary Brooke.’

• • •

The Reverend Zachary Brooke received his distinguished guests with many expressions of respect, and it was clear that, in spite of Lord Bute’s comments, he was aware who his visitors were.

‘It is no use attempting to hide our identity,’ said Lord Bute, smiling at the Prince. ‘Your face has become too well known.’

The Reverend Zachary Brooke declared that it was his pleasure and duty to serve his future King in any capacity in which he was called upon to do so.

‘The lady you buried here...’

‘Ah yes. So young and beautiful.’

‘You were with her at the end?’

‘I was called to her.’

‘Who called you?’

‘I believe she had asked for me. The gentleman who was dealing with her affairs sent for me.’

‘Who was this gentleman? What was his name?’

The Reverend Zachary Brooke wrinkled his brows. ‘It slips my memory...’

‘Was it Pearne?’

‘It could well have been. Now Your Highness mentions it, I believe it was.’

‘I see,’ said the Prince. ‘Take me to her grave.’

He and Lord Bute were led into the churchyard to I grave above which a stone had been erected. It was clearly a very new stone and as the Prince examined it he gave a cry of dismay because the name on it was not that of Hannah but Rebecca Powell.

‘This is not the grave.’

The priest nodded. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘But that name...’

‘Will your lordship explain?’

Lord Bute assured him that he would.

‘This is the grave,’ he said. ‘There are reasons why the name on the stone is not that of the lady who is buried here. I will talk to you on the way back. But at the moment rest assured that you are standing at the grave you have come to see.’

It was too bewildering, thought the Prince; it was like a nightmare that was made up of one fantastic scene after another. No sooner had he entered that empty silent house than the phantasmagoria had begun and it went on and on growing wilder and more macabre with every fresh image.

Oh, Hannah, Hannah, he thought, are you indeed under that stone? Is it true that I shall never see you again?

Lord Bute touched the priest’s arm and they left him there.

• • •

On the way back to Kew, Lord Bute talked of the future. A King’s life belonged to his people. He knew that the Prince was a man who would take his duties seriously. He must put the past behind him. He must forget this episode. It was sad in the extreme; it was regrettable. But had the Prince thought of what would happen if Hannah had lived?

He was the Prince of Wales, shortly to become the King of England. His marriage was a solemn affair. Did he not realize this?

Could he have presented a lady of the people—however accomplished, however good and charming—to his people and said: ‘Here is my Queen. We have several children already, born before wedlock and although we have lived together for five...six...or was it seven years?...we have only just sought the benefit of clergy on our union.’

Oh no. That was not the way for a King to treat his people.

He must think first always of the good of his people. He must never for one moment act without considering them. This was one of the penalties of kingship. There were blessings; but a King’s duty to his people came before anything else.

Lord Bute believed that when the Prince had grown away from this tragedy, when he saw it in its right perspective he would begin to see God’s hand in this; and he would cease to mourn as bitterly as now he could not help doing.

‘Hannah would have made a great Queen,’ said George.

‘There is no doubt of it,’ soothed Lord Bute. ‘But it was not the will of God.’

And that was something George had to accept.

A Sad Farewell

All through the summer months George mourned his loss. Sometimes he would awake from a dream in which he had heard Hannah, calling for him. Sometimes he dreamed of a grave in an Islington churchyard…of a new stone on which the words Rebecca Powell had changed to Hannah’s name. There was one nightmare which recurred now, in which he was digging up the grave; in this dream he exposed the coffin; he tore off the lid and there smiling at him was a woman who was not Hannah.

That dream was the most disturbing of all.

He never mentioned his dreams to Lord Bute. It was not that his dearest friend was not sympathetic; it was not that he murmured one reproach; but George himself felt a certain guilt because he had never confided in his friend, who had been everything a father could be to him.

The one person to whom he could most easily talk was his sister Elizabeth and he went to her room as much as possible. She was spending almost the whole time in bed, for she was more easily fatigued than ever. When he expressed anxiety over this she would smile and say: ‘It’s my miserable old body, George. But never mind. Such as I have to live for the spirit.’

And what a spirit she had. She never complained; her face would light up with joy when he visited her, as though he were conferring an honour; he felt humble in her presence and at the same time completely at ease.

He could tell her of the dreams. She listened with rapt attention. ‘As time passes they will cease to haunt you,’ she assured him.

Once she told him—this was some time after that visit to Islington when he had ceased to think of Hannah every moment of the day: ‘George, perhaps it was for the best.’

‘For the best!’ He was aghast.

‘Oh, my dearest brother,’ she begged, ‘imagine it. You, the Prince of Wales...to have married in this way. The people would never have accepted her.’

‘If you had known Hannah...She was so good...so gentle...’

‘I know, George, but they expect a Prince...a King...to marry a Princess, and do you think Hannah would have been happy...as a Queen I Imagine all the scandal, the intrigue. It was no life for her. No, George, I think she would have been unhappy, and you would have been unhappy to see her so. I know it seems hard to accept now, but I do believe that everything has happened for the best. The children are well cared for. You have seen them?’

‘Yes,’ said George. ‘They seem to have accepted their new parents without question.’

‘Children do. Thank God that they are so young. And perhaps in time you will come to thank Him for the way everything has turned out.’

‘Never,’ cried George.

But Elizabeth was sure; and she knew something which he did not; he was already growing away from the tragedy. If, she thought, he could have said goodbye to her, if he could have given her that last embrace at her death-bed, if the affair could have been neatly labelled Finished, it would have been easier to forget.

Mysteries have long lives, thought Elizabeth.

• • •

Elizabeth Chudleigh was in a quandary. She had very successfully skated over the thin ice of her relations with the Princess Dowager. The Princess avoided her as much as possible, but when they did encounter each other coolly affable. I am safe there, thought Elizabeth grimly.

But her luck was out—or was it? She could not make sure. Clever people never waited for luck to come their way; they find a means of making it do so. That was the way she had always worked.

She had her certificate of marriage; the entry was safe in the register; but that irritating old man the Earl of Bristol refused to die. In fact he had recovered and looked as though he would continue to survive for several more years.

‘And I do not grow younger!’ sighed Elizabeth. She had to admit she was well past her first youth. While one remained in the lower thirties one could, if one were clever enough, continue to be young, but when one hurried towards forty...ugh! And she still had not the title she longed for.

A complication had arisen from another direction. A certain gentleman had been casting his eyes on her and she had no doubt that he was becoming definitely dazzled. This was amazing, for he was not young and was scholarly, not the kind to indulge in riotous living; yet he was definitely interested in her—and she in him...he because she was one of the most unusual women at Court, one of the most beautiful-people would admit that—and one of the most outrageous. And she because of his exciting title. He was Evelyn Pierrepont, Duke of Kingston.

But she had told the Princess Dowager of her marriage to Hervey. She had gone to Larnston and forged the certificate and made that old man Annis reinstate that page in the register. What bad luck. If only the Duke of Kingston had come into her life before she had done that.

Now what? Old Bristol clinging tenaciously to life and seeming to be good for years yet; and in the horizon the most glittering prize—the Duchess of Kingston.

She admired her bold adventuring spirit, but she had always admitted that there was one quality which had brought her trouble more than once: her impulsiveness.

She must curb that. Then she would not mention her marriage to anyone else. She would imply to the Princess Dowager that she wished it kept a secret; and that lady must obey because she, clever Elizabeth Chudleigh, knew so much that the Princess would not wish to be brought to light. Then she would very gradually enslave the Duke of Kingston—being reluctant at first, but not too reluctant—leading him on, yet holding him off. She had summed him up. He was not accustomed to women—not women such as herself, in any case. Perhaps she would become his mistress...in due course. And once she had done that she would make herself so necessary to him that he would wish for marriage.

The Duchess of Kingston! It was a pleasant title. She preferred it to the Countess of Bristol. It would have to be fought for, but then, she had always enjoyed a fight. And the dear silly young Prince had put all the trump cards into her hand, so she had all the advantages. All she had to do was curb her recklessness and the game was hers.

• • •

September had come. George was at Kew a great deal in the company of Lord Bute; they rode together and constantly they talked of the future. In this way, contemplating his great destiny, George thought less of Hannah. He was beginning to realize, although he would not admit this even to himself, that Elizabeth was right when she had said that Hannah would not have been happy at Court. More and more he understood that. When he considered how much he had to learn—he who had lived all his life at Court—he saw at once that Hannah would never have fitted in.

But he could not bring himself to admit that everything had turned out in the best way possible. Bute had hinted at it once or twice.

‘There will always be Jacobites,’ he had said, on one occasion. ‘One of the most dangerous blows that can be struck at a crown is to have more than one claimant. And if a family divides as yours did when James II was turned from the throne by his nephew William of Orange and his daughter Mary, there is sure to be trouble. Remember the ’45. It is not so far back. Then your grandfather might so easily have had to retire to Hanover, leaving England in the hands of the Stuart.’

‘James II deserved his fate, I believe. He would not conform to the wishes of the people.’

‘Ah, I see Your Highness has learned his lessons. One must strive to keep the goodwill of the people. One must never put oneself in the position of earning their disapproval. It is so easily done. One false step...’

George flushed and patted his horse’s head. He knew what Lord Bute meant. The marriage with Hannah could have been as fatal to the crown as James II’s religion. One had to be careful.

He wanted to be a good King. It was strange how accustomed to the idea of kingship he had grown. At one time the prospect had terrified him. He had even wished he had been born a younger brother...or perhaps of another branch of the family...perhaps not royal at all. Lord Bute’s son. That would have been pleasant. But then, Lord Bute spent more time with him than he did with any of his own family.

Now, however, with every day he was becoming more accustomed to the prospect of ascending the throne. And during that summer and early autumn he found that he was dedicating himself to an ideal; it gave a new meaning to life. It was the best possible means of forgetting Hannah.

• • •

A message was brought to him that his wished to see him without delay.

He hurried to her and found her in bed, wan, frail and in pain.

‘My dearest sister, what is wrong?’

‘Oh, George, how glad I am that you have come. I am in great pain...and I believe I am about to die.’

‘This is nonsense. Where are the doctors?’

‘They are in the anteroom. I told everyone that I wished to be alone with you.’

‘Then we will be together, but do not talk of dying because that is something I cannot endure.’

‘We have always been good friends, have we not, George?’

‘The best. You are going to be well. I shall see that you are. I shall be with you...night and day. Nothing will induce me to leave you.’

‘My dearest of brothers, my greatest regret is to leave you.’

‘Stop! You are not leaving me.’

‘I am in such pain, George. They say it is an inflammation of the bowels...but I do not know.’

‘Can they do nothing?’

She shook her head. ‘I believe they have given me up.’

‘This cannot be. Not you...too...Elizabeth.’

‘You still mourn for her, George?’

He nodded.

‘Please, try not to be too sad, brother. Life is too short for sadness. Mine was. I am eighteen and you are three years older. It is young to die...but I am not sorry to go. It was a poor body, mine. It gave me no pleasure to look at it. My soul is glad to leave it. Poor humped miserable flesh and bone.’

‘Do not talk so, Elizabeth.’

‘I wish to cheer you, brother. I want you to know that nothing is entirely bad. I am leaving this life, but although I shall be lost to those I love—and particularly you, George, I leave this malformed body of mine. I shall be free. I shall be as a bird which has just found her wings. Think of that, George, and do not be too sad. You have a great destiny before you. You will be King of England. And you will be a good king because you are a good man. Perhaps I shall be looking down on you from Heaven. Oh, George, if it were in my power to guide you, to help you...I should do it. Now you are weeping. You grieve to see me go. But do not grieve for me, George, and do not grieve for Hannah. It is for the best, I assure yon it is for the best...everything that has happened.’

‘Do not talk. You tire yourself.’

‘I must talk, George. There is little time left. Promise me that there shall be no autopsy on my body. When I am gone let it rest in peace.’

‘I promise,’ said George.

‘Our mother may wish it...but I have your promise and you will not allow it.’

‘I swear it, dearest Elizabeth.’

‘Now give me your hand, George. Know this: I die happy. There is only one thing I regret, brother, which is that I shall not live to see you King. One more promise. Promise to be happy. Promise to put the past behind you. Marry, George. Raise a family. Have no secrets from the nation. Oh, George, if only I could be with you...’

He sat by the bed. Why should this happen? Why should she, who was only eighteen years old, be chosen to die? Why had he lost Hannah?

Why...why? There seemed no justice in life. The young to die so early...the aged to go on and on wishing for death which eluded them like a mischievous child they were trying to catch.

The tears silently fell from his eves and when Lord Bute came into the room he found him sitting thus beside the body of his dead sister.

• • •

‘An autopsy?’ said the Princess Dowager , "Of course there must be an autopsy. Elizabeth died so suddenly. Three days ago she was well...as well as she normally was, that is. There must be an autopsy.’

‘It was her wish that there should not be.’ laid George.

‘Nonsense,’ retorted his mother. She was too ill to be reasonable. It is expected.’

The Prince glanced at Lord Bute. ‘I promised my sister,’ he said. ‘I shall keep my promise. She did not wish it.’

‘And the King?’ asked his mother. ‘Is he going to allow this...this...lapse?’

Lord Bute said: ‘The King is getting too old to concern himself with such matters.’ He smiled at George. ‘It is the Prince’s wish that he should keep his word to his sister and I am sure, Madam, that when you escape a little from your grief you will agree with His Highness that the Princess Elizabeth’s wishes should be respected in this matter.’

How wonderful he was! thought George. So good, so kind. Did a man ever have such a friend! His mother shrugged her shoulders.

‘I suppose you are right...’

How easily she accepted Lord Bute’s decisions, although she still treated him, the Prince of Wales, as a child.

When I am King it will be different, thought George. And everything will be all right if Lord Bute is beside me when I ascend the throne.

Later he thanked his friend for his assistance.

‘I had promised her. I was determined to see that her wishes were carried out, no matter what the objection.’

‘I could see it. And I was determined to do all I could to see that your wishes—and those of the Princess—were respected.’

A stubborn streak in our George, Bute was thinking. I must warn Augusta.

‘Our mother bears our common loss surprisingly well,’ said George.

A reproach. Augusta would have to be a little more careful. George was a man of twenty-one and surely he had shown them how he could act on his own initiative in that disastrous affair of the Quakeress. Pray God they have heard the last of it. But Bute was not altogether certain of that.

What they had learned was that they must keep a closer watch on the Prince of Wales—and without appearing to do so. Yes, he must warn Augusta to remember constantly that they were no longer dealing with a child. And when they had a King to consider, the dangers would be greater.

‘Thank you...thank you once again,’ George was saying. ‘I know you understand. I cannot stop thinking of her. I have been trying to read this morning and find it impossible. She meant a great deal to me and we always planned we should be together for the rest of our lives. You see, she always said no one would wish to marry her and she counted that a blessing because it meant she would stay at home with me. And she is gone.’

Bute nodded.

‘I understand your sorrow, but I tell you now as I did on that other recent and so sad occasion, it is your preoccupation with your destiny which will place you above these early sorrows.’

‘You will always be beside me...to help me?’

‘As long as you need me...so help me God.’

George smiled. He had lost Hannah; he had lost Elizabeth; but he still had his dear friend, Lord Bute.

George, the King

One could not mourn forever, particularly if one were a Prince, continually in the public eye. Elizabeth had not been a well-known figure at Court because her physical disability had kept her to her own apartments; therefore her passing was scarcely noticed. The Princess agreed that there should be no autopsy and as the King was scarcely aware of the death in the family, George had no difficulty in seeing that his sister’s wishes were respected.

The Prince must attend levees and banquets which, Lord Bute was the first to point out to him, were actually given in his honour and if he failed to attend, those who had gone to such trouble to prepare such entertainments would consider their efforts wasted. So sighing George allowed himself to be dressed in his rich garments and he appeared at these functions where everyone was ready to pay him homage; for not only was he Prince of Wales, but he was young, and the people adored him and believed it would be a great day for England when he ascended the throne. He was not ill-tempered like his grandfather; he spoke English like a native; he was gracious, even modest, and with his fair skin and blue eyes was almost handsome, for when he smiled the heavy sullen Hanoverian jaw was scarcely visible and as his invariably pleasant he was voted a veritable Prince Charming.

Life was becoming tolerable. Occasionally he visited the children, but those visits were becoming more rare. As Bute pointed out it was not wise to venture into Surrey too often because he was under continual surveillance. It might be discovered where he went and he must realize that the affair of the Quakeress had come to an end. It was a true marriage and he would never love anyone as he loved Hannah that was understood—but as a man of the world he would understand that it was best to behave as though it never happened.

But he would never forget, George reiterated.

In time! Bute promised him. And Bute—that oracle of wisdom—was always right.

George knew that his mother and Lord Bute were out to find a bride for him. Perhaps that would be as well. He would many and have children...it would he pleasant to have a family which he did not have to hide away.

His friend Elizabeth Chudleigh was giving lavish parties and she always declared that, for her at least, they were spoilt unless he attended. She would throw him languishing glances and he would find her invitations irresistible. The solemn old Duke of Kingston was her very good friend and they were always seen together. Many said that she was his mistress, but there were always people to whisper unkind things about Elizabeth. He knew her for a kind and sympathetic friend. And she was so beautiful. He was discovering how much he liked beautiful women.

When he thought of women now he no longer saw Hannah’s lovely but rather melancholy face. He saw brilliant Elizabeth Chudleigh’s or that other Elizabeth who was the Countess of Pembroke. Her husband, the tenth Karl, was his groom of the Bedchamber and had been for some years, which meant that George was able to see a great deal of the Countess. There was a woman he could have been very fond of. She was older than he was, but so had Hannah been and he liked older women.

The Countess had recently given birth to a son and he had been congratulating them warmly. But sometimes the Countess was a little sad. He hoped the Earl was kind to her; he was not sure that he was. There were rumours that he was unfaithful. Poor Elizabeth Pembroke! He would be ready to comfort her if she needed his comfort. In fact, he often thought of himself comforting lovely Elizabeth Pembroke. It was a pleasant reverie.

And then something very startling happened, something which a few months before he would not have believed possible.

At one of his levees he was confronted by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He gasped. She was so enchanting; her skin was so fine, her dark hair abundant; her eyes perfectly shaped and her teeth showed white and even, when she smiled. It was difficult to know why she could be so lovely; it was not so much a beauty of feature but of expression, animation...colouring...he did not know what; he only knew that he was looking at the loveliest girl in the world and that the prospect excited him.

‘Who is that beautiful creature?’ he demanded of the man who stood next to him.

‘Lady Sarah Lennox, Your Highness,’ was the answer.

‘Who...who is she?’

‘The Duke of Richmond’s sister, Sir. Just returned to London from Ireland where she has been living for some time.’

‘Why did she live in Ireland?’

‘I believe she is an orphan.’

‘And she is no longer living in Ireland? Where now does she live?’

‘At Holland House, Sir. Her eldest sister married Henry Fox and she lives with them.’

‘I see. That is very interesting.’

‘Your Highness wishes her to be presented to you?’

‘No...no,’ said the Prince uneasily.