Текст книги "The Prince and the Quakeress "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

‘But music is the best of all,’ put in George. ‘It is the only subject at which we seem to make much progress. Mr. Desnoyer is pleased with us.’

The Duke sat smiling expansively at his nephew.

‘You boys should be learning to become soldiers, not prancing about with Mr. Ruperti and scraping violins.’

‘We play the flute and the harpsichord,’ George explained.

‘You should learn how to command an army; you should study the niceties of strategy. Wouldn’t you like to be a general?’

Edward said he would, but George was silent. He hated the sight of blood and did not care to think of men dying. Dying was not a noble glorious thing; people did not merely fall down dead; they suffered. He hated to think of people’s suffering, and worst of all, himself suffering or inflicting it.

All the same Uncle Cumberland was a fascinating figure and as they rarely saw their relations from the King’s Court a visit like this was an event.

He was a good talker and even made war sound fascinating. He drew his chair up to the table and said he would explain to them what had happened at a certain battle, the result of which had put their family firmly on the throne.

‘For, nephews,’ he said, ‘we came within danger of losing the throne. Your grandfather was ready to fly to Hanover; he had his valuables packed, and with his friends was ready to leave. And the rebels had come as far as Derby.’

‘To Hanover!’ cried Edward. ‘Do you mean, Uncle, that the people would have sent us away?’

‘Aye, sent us packing and put the Stuarts back on the throne. Our enemy the King of France had sent Bonnie Prince Charlie over to drive us away, and they were as far as Derby. Think of that. All the way from Scotland. Here, where are your maps-Now, I’ll show you. This is where the rebels were. It was November. I advanced to Stone, hoping to meet them. They were soon on the retreat.’

His big hands were on the maps; his voice was low and intense; he glorified war himself, and his very single minded ness fascinated the boys.

‘Now …The hand, big, brown, powerful, ranged over the map. ‘I drove ‘em back here...right to Penrith...right over the border. This had taken time and it was now December. I attempted to cut them off at this point, but there were too many for us. I had good men...’ His face softened. George could believe that he had good men. He would see that they caught his enthusiasm, his passion for war. It was apparent as he talked that this was a man who would know no fear...and no mercy. His eyes glowed; he was reliving that occasion all over again, and George had the impression that he was hoping the Pretender would come back or that someone else would give him an opportunity to save the crown for the House of Hanover.

‘We were all that winter in Scotland,’ he said. ‘Can’t do battle in the winter, boys. It’s cold up there. Spring’s the best time for battle. But there are bigger problems for a commander than battle. Ah yes. How he’s going to feed his men? How’s he going to get them where he wants? That’s the nightmare, boys. The battle...that’s the glory.’

‘Many die...’ began George.

‘Do you know how many they lost at Culloden, boy?’

George shook his head.

‘Good God, and they’re supposed to be educating you! Two thousand rebels! And our losses? You must always set one beside the other. That’s how you calculate the extent of your victory. Three hundred and forty loyal English gentlemen lost their lives at Culloden, boys. But we got two thousand of them. It’ll be long before that scum raise a standard against our King, I can tell you.’

George was silent. ‘What is it, boy?’ demanded his uncle.

‘George doesn’t like people being hurt,’ explained Edward.

That made Uncle Cumberland rock with laughter. ‘So that’s the way they’re bringing you up, is it? Dance with Mr. Ruperti! Music with Mr. Desnoyer! French and German with Mr. Fung! By God, what you boys want is to learn to be men, I’ll teach you a few things about living.’

‘But this is dying,’ interrupted George.

That made Uncle Cumberland laugh louder. In breathless tones he told the story of Culloden and how the bloody battle had gone. Even George was caught up in the excitement, and Cumberland looking from one to the other of the flushed faces was well pleased.

‘I’m going to get Sir Peircy Brett to tell you how he encountered the Elizabeth on the high seas. That’s a story well worth hearing. You’ll learn what it means to defend your country and that’s what you’ll have to do, boy, when you’re King, which will be one day. Now the Elizabeth...she was a French ship. She was convoying the small frigate with their Prince Charlie on board and she was carrying the ammunition. Sent by the King of France, boys, to defeat good Englishmen, he hoped. Much chance he had.’

‘When there was a Cumberland to defend us,’ cried Edward, and received a warm look of approval from his uncle.

‘And not only a Cumberland, boy. There are men like Peircy Brett in England too. He was in command of the Lion...sixty guns. Elizabeth she was a ship of twenty-four. And Lion sighted Elizabeth and went into the attack.’

‘And sank her?’ cried Edward.

‘Hey, wait a minute, boy. You want it too easy. It was a bloody battle...’ George saw the gleam in Uncle Cumberland’s eyes. ‘What slaughter! It was indeed a bloody battle. Lion was a wreck when it was over. Forty-five killed and one hundred and seven wounded.’

‘But that was our ship.’

‘Yes, you have your losses in battle. But Elizabeth was fit for nothing. She couldn’t go on. She had to limp back where she’d come from...and she was carrying supplies. So...their Bonnie Prince Charlie landed in Scotland, an impoverished adventurer...not the well-equipped young conqueror the King of France sent out. That’s battle, boys. That’s war. We lost Lion, but the purpose was achieved. I can tell you this: the loss of Elizabeth was as important to our victory as Culloden.’

George was thinking of the battle at sea; the shrieks of dying men; the blood there would be blood on the decks...on the cold cruel water. No, he did not like it, although he was fascinated.

‘I’ll get Brett to tell you the full story one of these days,’ went on Uncle Cumberland. ‘It’s a tale you boys should know. I’ll take you with me to camp. You, George, should know how to defend your crown. Now...’ He had pulled the map towards him. This was the map of Europe. He was going to tell more stories of battles and blood. This was living, he was thinking; the boys’ education was being neglected; battles were of more importance than hypothetical problems about non-existent watermen.

He had the map spread out before him when the Prince and Princess of Wales came in accompanied by Lord Bute and Lady Middlesex.

‘Ha, ha, brother,’ cried Uncle Cumberland, getting up and kicking his chair back. ‘And my sister...’ He took Augusta’s hand and kissed it. George, watching, saw that his father was displeased and as his parents were always in agreement, so was his mother.

Cumberland ignored Lord Bute and ran his eyes swiftly over Lady Middlesex. He liked women; in fact, gambling and women were what he enjoyed next to making war; he had never married; and had no desire to; but that had nothing to do with his fondness for the opposite sex. Lady Middlesex he knew was a favourite of Fred’s—a clever woman but too short, too dumpy and her skin was as brown as a walnut; someone had once said she was as yellow as a November morning and by God, they were right. Fred, like his father and grandfather could not be said to choose his mistresses for their beauty.

‘We did not know that you were here,’ said Frederick mildly. He disliked his brother, but was too good-natured to show it. ‘We should have been advised.’

‘I wanted no ceremony. So I slipped into the schoolroom and gave my nephews a lesson.’

‘They look as if they’ve enjoyed it,’ said Lord Bute.

The Duke raised his eyebrows; he was surprised that an attendant should have expressed an opinion. He disliked the fellow in any case. He had heard be had a great influence unh the Prince of Wales and that he accompanied them everywhere. The Prince commanded him to attend on the Princess while he enjoyed the company of Lady Archibald Hamilton, Lady Middlesex and Lady Huntingdon. It made four some, a little bourgeois community. Frederick liked to live simply at Cliveden. It would have to be different when he ascended the throne, which Cumberland hoped would not be for a long time. Fred as King was a project which did not appeal to him.

Augusta was clearly pregnant, so Frederick was doing his duty in spite of the ladies. She looked well content with the arrangement, too. A stupid woman, thought Cumberland; but a docile one. She never raised her voice against Fred. She was very different from their mother. Cumberland was sad, thinking of the Queen’s death. She had doted on him and had done her best to have Fred passed over for him. He was the son both his father and mother would have liked to see mount the throne. But Fred was the eldest, and although his parents had done their best to keep him in Hanover and had not allowed him to come to England until he was twenty one, he was Prince of Wales, and nothing was allowed to interfere with that.

Well, Fred could keep his yellow-skinned mistress; he could keep his docile wife; but the education of the boy who would one day be King of England was surely a matter with which the family should concern itself. George was doubtless a good boy, but he was obviously a simpleton. He should be taught something about life. They should try to make a soldier and a man of him. Cumberland would speak to his father about the boy and if King George said his grandson must be educated in a certain manner, then so it would be.

Cumberland turned away from Lord Bute as though he had not spoken and said he would like to have the chance of teaching the boys something about the strategem of war.

Frederick replied that the boys had the best tutors in the country and he and the Princess were very pleased with their progress.

Cumberland nodded ironically and replied that he was sure of that—that the Prince and Princess of Wales were pleased, he meant.

Then Frederick suggested that as the time set for his sons’ lessons was not yet at an end, he and the Princess should show the Duke the gardens at Cliveden, as he was sure he would find something there to interest him.

• • •

Trouble in the family. It was distressing. George wished that they could all be friends together and that his grandfather did not hate his father, and that when an uncle called it could be an occasion for rejoicing rather than for anger, for he was well aware of the indignation this impromptu visit had aroused.

His mother talked of his uncle. He was a crude man, a brutal man. He liked bloodshed. When she spoke Uncle Cumberland’s name she did so with loathing. He loved war, this uncle. It was not so much that he wished to save the crown as that he wanted to kill...for the sake of killing. He liked the sight of blood; he liked to see men suffer. The people called him The Butcher.

The Butcher? George shivered at the name.

The Butcher, repeated his mother. That was when they heard of all his cruelty at Culloden. Oh, when he had returned from that battlefield they had shouted for him in the streets. They had reverenced Duke Billy, as they called him; but when they heard what had really happened, the cruelty he had delighted in practising they called him ‘Butcher’.

‘It is a hateful name to be given to a man,’ said George.

‘Hateful indeed,’ replied his mother. ‘Why, when it was proposed that he should be elected an Alderman of the City...this was after Culloden, one of the aldermen said: "Let it be of the Butchers." So you see that is how the people think of him. Once when there was a disturbance at the Haymarket Theatre he lost his sword and the people started to sing: "Billy the Butcher has lost his knife." That is what the people think of your Uncle Cumberland. How different he is from your father. Did he tell you that your father wanted to take command of the forces that went against the Pretender? Of course, your grandfather wouldn’t hear of that. He wanted all the glory for the Butcher. How different it would have been if your father had obtained the command. There would have been victory just the same—but glorious, not shameful victory. Did your uncle tell you that your father obtained the release of Mora MacDonald, that your father is a kind, human man, who is tolerant in his ideas?’

‘He did not,’ said George. ‘He did not mention that lady. Who is she?’

‘She is a brave woman. She is mistaken, of course, because she supported the Stuarts. But then, she is Scottish and knew no better.’

‘Uncle Bute is Scottish.’

A soft look spread itself across the Princess’s face. ‘You should not mention his name in the same breath as that woman’s. His loyalty to us is all the more to be admired because he is Scottish.’

‘Oh yes, yes, Mamma.’

She was a little embarrassed under his gaze. She said quickly: ‘I was telling you of Flora MacDonald. She helped Charles Edward Stuart to escape and was captured and brought to the Tower. It was your father who pleaded for leniency for this woman; he pointed out that she was a simple creature who was led astray. He obtained her freedom. He is a good tolerant man.’

‘I’m so glad Papa did that.’

‘You should be glad you have such a good kind Papa. And I can tell you this, your Uncle Cumberland is no friend to him. His great desire is to take the throne from him. He hates your dear kind Papa simply because he was born before he was and so is Prince of Wales. What do you think of any man who can hate your dear kind Papa? Must he not be a rogue to do so?’

George agreed. Only a rogue could hate dear kind Papa.

• • •

Augusta was brought to bed of another boy—her fifth.

He was christened Frederick William and it was decided, to George’s consternation, that he was to be one of the sponsors. It was his first public duty and he was terrified that he would make a fool of himself. It was easy to confide his fears to Lord Bute who did not laugh at him but told him that there was nothing to fear, and actually explained the whole ceremony to him. It was very simple, said Lord Bute, and if there was anything George feared at any time he would be honoured and delighted if he would come and tell him about it.

‘I will,’ declared George.

His father would have been kind, but Lord Bute always seemed to sense his uncertainties and be ready with his comfort before it was asked. And his mother was so pleased when Lord Bute offered his advice. ‘It is as though you had two kind fathers,’ she would say. ‘You are a fortunate Prince.’

Fortunate indeed, thought George, when he remembered the stories of how his grandparents had left his father in Hanover when they came to London and how he had had to threaten to elope with his cousin before they would bring him to London. What disaster if that had happened! He would not then have married Mamma. And what would have happened to him and Edward, and William and Henry, and Augusta and Elizabeth, to say nothing of this newest arrival to whom he was to act as sponsor.

Grandfather had given his permission which it was necessary to receive, but fortunately he was away in Hanover, where he so often was.

‘Long may he stay there,’ said Papa, and Mamma echoed his words as she always did.

So fortunately the old King would not be present at the ceremony; and with kind Papa to help him—and, of course, dear Uncle Bute—it might not be such an ordeal.

‘You will have to get used to ordeals like that,’ his sister Augusta, who was a year older than he was, told him brusquely, and he knew she was right.

But it passed off well. He did what was expected of him and no one remarked that he was shy and gain he; and his voice was quite steady when he pronounced that his little brother was to be called Frederick William.

• • •

That year they played the tragedy of Lady Jane Grey in the theatre of Cliveden. Nicholas Rowe had written it very appealingly and there were tears shed when the lovely Jane was led to the executioner’s block.

There was the excitement of rehearsals and learning one’s part; and Uncle Bute was so very good at anything concerning the theatre.

He was constantly with the family and Edward and Augusta whispered that many unkind things were said about him, but George could not believe that anyone could find anything unkind to say about Uncle Bute.

Papa was as fond of him as Mamma was. He was always saying, ‘Where’s Bute?’ And when he said he wanted to walk in the gardens with Lady Middlesex he would tell Lord Bute to accompany the Princess. Papa and Lady Middlesex would disappear for quite a long time, ‘walking the alleys’ as Papa called it. Mamma seemed very happy at such times because she did so enjoy walking with Uncle Bute. Although Papa and Lady Middlesex disappeared for a while Mamma and Lord Bute could be seen together in the gardens, always talking and laughing together, Mamma’s voice a little higher, a little more German as it was when she was pleased or excited. And then after a very long time if Papa appeared with Lady Middlesex the four of them would be very contented together.

Once when Uncle Cumberland called to see them he came to the nursery as he had on that other occasion and George had shrunk from his embrace because he could not stop thinking of him as The Butcher. He was aware of the sword at his uncle’s side, and in his imagination George saw it dripping with blood.

Uncle Cumberland was aware of this change in his nephew. He drew back in dismay. He said: ‘Oh my God, what have they told you about me?’

And he was too sad even to talk of wars.

George was sorry, for he hated trouble in the family.

When his father heard that the Duke had gone away he said: ‘Good riddance. We don’t want him here.’

Yet George could not believe his uncle was such a villain when he saw him face to face and he continued to think of him for a long time...sometimes as the Butcher with the sword dripping blood and others as the jolly uncle who was one of the most generous members of the family.

Papa was, he said, becoming a little anxious about their educations, and busied himself drawing up an account of how their lessons should be regulated.

They were to get up at seven o’clock and be ready to read with Mr. Scott from eight until nine. Then they must study with Dr. Ayscough from nine till eleven; from eleven to twelve Mr. Fung must take over and from twelve to half past Mr. Ruperti would be in charge. After that they could play until three, when dinner was taken. Mr. Desnoyer came three times a week at half past four to instruct them in music; and at five they must continue the study of languages with Mr. Fung until half past six. At half past six until eight they must be with Mr. Scott again; at eight they took supper and must go to bed about ten o’clock. On Sundays George and Edward would be instructed by Dr. Ayscough, with their two sisters, on the principles of religion.

This was a rigorous timetable and one which was not closely adhered to. It was typical of Frederick that having drawn up a list of stern rules he could feel he had done his duty, and when he decided that a game of tennis or cricket would be good for the boys, or it was time they performed another play, he happily interrupted the curriculum he had so carefully arranged.

At this time he introduced Francis, Lord North, into the royal nursery to take charge of his sons.

One bright March day George, with some of the family, went to watch his father at tennis. It was a most exciting game but it was brought to an abrupt end when one of the balls struck Frederick in the eye. There was immediate consternation. In dismay Augusta hurried to her husband, and George stood staring, not knowing what to do. But in a short while Frederick was telling them that it was all right. ‘Just the shock of the moment,’ he said.

However, he did not want to continue with the game, and went to his apartments to lie down for a while.

Augusta accompanied him, and Lord Bute took Frederick’s place on the tennis court.

• • •

That blow from a tennis ball seemed to affect Frederick adversely. In the first place he developed an abscess and he was so low in health that he had a bad attack of pleurisy. From this he recovered and was well enough to go to the House of Lords. It was a cold day and hot inside the chamber; when he returned to Carlton House he changed into lighter garments and lay down to rest on a couch in a room which opened on to the gardens. As a result he caught a fresh cold, and this undermined his health still further. The abscess flared up again and he declared himself to be in great pain.

He was taken to Leicester House and there Augusta called in the doctors. The Prince was suffering from the abscess, they said; and he had a touch of pleurisy; they expected he would recover shortly.

Frederick seemed contented to have Augusta beside him, but he whispered to her that he was uneasy about George.

‘George!’ cried Augusta. ‘He is well.’

‘He is young,’ replied Frederick, ‘and my father is an old man.’

Augusta cried out: ‘Do not speak so. It will be many years before George comes to the throne.’

But Frederick was obsessed by a premonition that it would not be long.

He said: ‘I have a paper for George. It is in my desk. I wish you to give it to him if I should be unable to do so myself.’

‘But of course you will give it to him.’

But Frederick shook his head. ‘You have been a good wife to me,’ he said. ‘Bute will advise you.’

He saw the tender smile touch her lips and he was pleased. He had not been faithful to her. Let her find some consolation if she could. It had occurred to him lately that there was a great deal in Augusta which neither he nor others appreciated. Perhaps Bute did. She was not the gullible fool many believed her to be.

‘The paper for George is in my desk,’ he said, and even as he spoke a spasm of pain crossed his face.

‘Augusta,’ he said, ‘send for Desnoyer...I’d like him to play a little for me. He has a way with a violin which pleases me.’

Augusta sent for the children’s music master and when the man came Frederick smiled at him and bade him play.

In the Prince’s bedchamber the candles guttered; the Prince lay back on his pillows, his face drawn and yellow; Augusta watched, telling herself he would soon recover. It is a good sign that he asked for the music. In the shadows the doctors waited: Wilmot, Taylor and Leigh, with Hawkins the surgeon—some of the best medical men in the country.

He’ll soon be well, thought Augusta, soon taking ‘little walks in the alleys’ with Lady Middlesex while she herself enjoyed one of those stimulating and most delightful sessions with Lord Bute.

The Prince began to cough; the violin stopped; the doctors were at the bedside.

Frederick put his hands on his heart and said: ‘I feel death close.’

Augusta rose in her chair and snatched up a candle.

‘My God,’ cried Wilmot, ‘the Prince is going.’

As Augusta held the candle high and looked at her husband, she saw the glazed look in his eyes as he sank back on the pillows.

He lay still; she stood staring aghast, and it was some time before the numbing realization came to her that she was a widow.

• • •

There was gloom in Leicester House. Everyone was shocked. Frederick was only forty-four years of age. His father was still alive and looked as if he were good for a few more years. And Frederick was dead. His eldest son was but a boy—thirteen years old. Who would have believed this possible, seeing Frederick on the tennis court, acting in plays, fishing with his children, sporting with his mistresses. It was incredible

The Princess Augusta remained stunned. She would not move from her husband’s bedside. She sat in her chair there and no persuasion could move her. It was as though she believed that by remaining there she could by the very force of her desire to bring him back breathe some life into him.

‘Frederick...’ she murmured, from time to time. ‘It can’t be...You must be here. What will become of us...of George, the children...of me?’

In the background of her mind was that grim shadow, that old ogre, the King. Who would protect her from him now? What would he decide to do? What if he determined to take the care of the children out of her hands! This was like a nightmare.

She covered her face with her hands, hoping that when she uncovered it she would see Fred lying there in bed smiling at her, telling her she had had a bad dream-.

But there he was, still, unlike himself. Oh, the honor of looking at the dead face of a loved one! The terrible realization that he will never speak again, that he has gone out of this life forever!

‘No, Fred...no!’

She felt the child move within her...Fred’s child. In four months’ time that child would be horn. Only five months before this man had begotten the child and now he was dc

And the future? It was dark and menacing.

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. She turned sharply. Lord Bute was looking down at her, tenderly, lovingly.

‘Your Highness will make yourself ill,’ he said.

She shook her head and placed her hand rapidly over the one which lay on her shoulder. Hastily she removed it. One must be careful. The very thought of the need for care started to lift her out of her misery. John was here, dear John Stuart, Earl of Bute.

She rose and with him left the death-chamber.

• • •

George walked up and down trying to fight back his tears. It was easier walking, he found; if he threw himself on to his bed he would break into wild sobbing; and he must remember that to give way to his grief would be childish.

Dear kind Papa was gone! He could not realize it. He had known Papa was ill; he had been present when the tennis bail had hit him and that had started the tragic business. But to die...never to see him again! It was more than he could bear. This was the first real sorrow. His father had died in pain, and he could not bear the thought of people in pain. When two workmen had fallen from the scaffolding at Kew he had been overcome with horror and had been affected for days. But this was his own dear Papa.

What would become of him, what would become of them all?

His grief was overpowering; there was nothing but his grief.

Then it was invaded suddenly by another emotion—one of stark terror.

Now that his father was dead he, George William Frederick, was Prince of Wales.

• • •

The King came to Leicester House, setting aside enmity at such a time.

The children were summoned to his presence and he stared at them all, but chiefly at George. He was a terrifying old man—little, it was true, but with a red face and prominent blue eyes, and he spoke in broken English.

‘Vere is the Prince of Vales?’

And George must stand before him for scrutiny. ‘Don’t be a frightened young puppy. Prince of Vales now...How old are you, eh? Thirteen...Remember now you are the Prince of Vales.’

But there were tears in his eyes, for he was a sentimental old man for all his high temper; he saw that Augusta was genuinely grieved and tried to comfort her. The woman was a fool. Caroline had said so...his own dear wife, Caroline (and there was no woman fit to unbuckle her shoes) had said so. But fool as she was, she had been fond of Fred and any woman who could have been fond of that villain (mustn’t speak ill of the dead) of that...puppy, must be a meek woman. She’d need help in looking after the children and he’d see she got it. By God, she should do as she was ordered in that respect. But in the meantime she was a woman grieving for her husband and he knew what it meant to lose a spouse.

‘Do not cry, my dear,’ he said. ‘Try not to grieve. I know how you suffer. I lost my own vife. Your mother-in-law...the best voman in the vorld. Ven I lose her I lose heart...’

Augusta thought: Yes, you old hypocrite, and all the time you were mourning for her you were thinking of how you could bring Madame Walmoden to England, and all the time you were pretending to be so fond of her you were deceiving her with other women. As Fred was...but Fred was kinder...and Fred was dead.

The King patted her knee comfortingly, and beckoned to his grandsons.

‘Come here, young fellows. Be brave boys now. Obey your mother and remember you are the grandsons of a King.’

Augusta said quickly: ‘Your Majesty will, I know, out of your goodness of heart not take my children from me. I have lost my husband...to lose my children would be unendurable.’

She was on the verge of tears and the King’s eyes were swimming too. Augusta was alert in spite of her grief. Now was the time to get this important matter settled, she was well aware, while he was in a sentimental mood. Once he had gone away and remembered that Fred was a villain whom he had hated, that she had always been her husband’s ardent supporter, he would set some plan in motion to take her children from her. Now was the moment then, while he was in a sentimental mood and could not in all decency deny such a request to a grieving widow.

‘Your Majesty, who understands my loss as few others can, will grant me this. Your Majesty, you will leave me guardian of my children. It is the only thing which can console me now.’

The King nodded.

‘So it shall be,’ he said.

Augusta sighed with relief and was aware of triumph. Fred was dead, no longer there to overshadow her. Now was the time for the true Augusta to emerge.

• • •

Augusta sent for her eldest son. She was seated at her table and there were papers before her; when she saw George she rose and held out her arms.

He ran into them and she embraced him crying: ‘My poor fatherless boy.’

George wept with her and as he did so thought of his father lying dead in his coffin and the pain he must have suffered before his death. He wept bitterly for the loss of that kind man and the fact that his passing had made him Prince of Wales. There was a difference in being Prince of Wales and the son of the Prince of Wales. He had sensed it immediately. He was expecting a summons hourly to appear before his terrifying grandfather.