Текст книги "The Prince and the Quakeress "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Augusta dried her tears. She had lost dear Fred, but there were compensations. There was power and there was Lord Bute.
‘Your dear kind Papa left a paper which he would have given to you on your eighteenth birthday had he lived. But now that he has...gone...he would wish you to have it at once, for, my son, you will have to grow up quickly. You will have to learn to be a King. You understand full well what your father’s death means to you...what changes it has brought ill your position.’
‘Yes, Mamma,’ said George mournfully.
‘Then we will read this paper together, shall we? We will see what instructions dear kind Papa has left you ‘
‘Yes, Mamma.’
She opened the papers and spread them on the table, and together they read:
‘Instructions for my son George drawn up by myself for his good, that of my family and for that of his people, according to the ideas of my grandfather and best friend, George I.’
Augusta looked at her son significantly. ‘You see, he did not trust his father, our present King, your grandfather. Ah, his grandfather was always a good friend to him. How different it would have been if he had been his father...’
‘It was a pity they had to quarrel,’ George said.
‘Anyone would quarrel with the King,’ replied Augusta fiercely. ‘We shall have to be very careful to avoid trouble now we no longer have your dear Papa to care for us.’
George read what his father had written:
‘As always I have had the tenderest paternal affection for you, and I cannot give you stronger proof of it than in leasing this paper in your mother’s hands, who will read it to you from time to time and will give it to you when you come of age or when you get the crown. I know you will always have the greatest respect for your mother...’
‘I hope it too,’ said Augusta. He took her hand and kissed it.
‘You know it, Mamma.’
‘Bless you, my son.’ She glanced down at the paper with him. ‘Your father was always a man of peace,’ she said. It was only when the need arose that he would take to arms. He was very different from his younger brother, the Butcher Cumberland.’
‘If you can be without war let not your ambition draw you into it. A good deal of the National Debt must be paid off before England enters into a war. At the same time never give up your honour nor that of the nation. A wise and brave Prince may oftentimes without armies put a stop to the confusion, which ambitious neighbours endeavour to create.’
Reading these instructions George began to have a deep sense of responsibility. Before he had always believed that there was plenty of time for him to learn. He had never before seriously thought of being King of England. It was something for the very distant future. His father had been a comparatively young man with at least twenty years to live, and twenty years in the opinion of a thirteen-year-old boy was a lifetime. And now here he was with an ageing grandfather, given to choleric rages, who could die at any moment—the only barrier between young George and the throne. It was an alarming prospect.
He must learn all he could as quickly as possible. He must study these papers. He read feverishly; he must balance the country’s finances; he must understand business; he must seek true friends who would not flatter him but tell him the truth. He must separate the thrones of Hanover and England and never attempt to sacrifice the latter for the former as both his grandfather and his great grandfather had done. Uppermost in his mind must be the desire to convince Englishmen that he was an Englishman himself, born in England, bred in England, and an Englishman not only through these matters but by inclination. Never let the people of England believe for a moment that he saw himself as a German whose loyalties were first for Germany.
Frederick finished his injunctions by recommending his mother to his care and also the rest of the family, his brothers and sisters.
‘I shall have no regret never to have worn the crown if you do but fill it worthily,’ he ended.
George lifted eyes swimming with tears to his mother’s face.
‘But, Mamma, it is almost as though he knew he were going to die.’
‘Sometimes these revelations come to us,’ she answered. ‘You see how he loved you, how he loved us all. You will want to do all that he wished, I know.’
‘Yes, Mamma,’ answered George fervently.
‘He would have wanted me to guide you, my son, for he had more faith in me than in anyone.’
‘I know it, Mamma. I feel so young, so...so unworthy.’
‘Trust in me, my son. Rely on me and all will be well.’
‘It is what I want to do above all else.’
She kissed him warmly; he was hers to mould; and he was the future King.
• • •
It was characteristic of the King that his resentment towards his son should not end with the latter’s death. In the presence of the widow and children he allowed his sentimentality to get the better of him; but he was not going to change his attitude now.
Frederick was a young puppy who ought to have remained in Hanover. He would have liked to see William, Duke of Cumberland, King of England, and if it had been possible to make him so, he would have done it. It was what dear dead Caroline would have wished. Perhaps it was not too late now. That boy George was a simpleton. Prince of Wales indeed’ When there was William, a fine figure of a man, the hero of the ‘45, and people could say what they liked, it was William who had saved the throne and driven that Stuart puppy yelping back to his French masters. William was the man who should take the throne, not a young puppy scarcely out of his nursery, son of that impudent rascal who ought never to have been brought to England.
Of one thing the King was certain—there should be no fine funeral honours for Fred. No grand ceremonies was the order. Let no one forget that although he was the King’s son and Prince of Wales he was no friend of the King’s. A simple funeral, then, with none of the nobility—who considered themselves the friends of the King—to attend. There would have to be some lords to carry the pall and attend the Princess, he supposed, but let it rest there. He wanted everyone to know that he considered the death of his eldest son no major calamity.
So the funeral of Frederick was less of an occasion than it was expected to be; and as when the cortege came out of the House of Lords it was raining there were not many who cared to stand about in such weather to see it pass on its way to the Abbey.
Bubb Dodington was indignant. Bubb was like a man demented. The Prince should have had better medical attention, he declared; the Prince should have had great funeral honours. Poor Bubb! He was worried as to what the future held for him. He had been the Prince’s ardent supporter and friend, so it was hardly likely that the King would look with favour on him. And what else was there? A young boy Prince of Wales, thirteen years old, and a Princess Dowager who had never opened her mouth except to agree with her husband.
His only hope was to attach himself as speedily as possible to the Princess Dowager, to seek to advise her, and if possible to keep the rival Court alive which could form a nucleus about the new heir and guide him in the way he was to go.
It was a sad state of affairs.
The indifference of the people showed clearly that they did not share Bubb’s views. Frederick Prince of Wales was dead. Just another of those Germans, said the people. The whole lot of them were not much use, and it was a pity they had ever come here. If Bonnie Prince Charlie had not been a Catholic...But he was, and at least the Germans were Protestants, and they were comic enough to provide a little amusement now and then.
The people were laughing at Frederick’s epitaph which delighted them so much that it was spoken and sung in every place where men and women congregated; in fact, it nude Frederick more popular in death than he had been in life.
‘Here lies Fred
Who was alive and is dead.
Had it been his father,
I had much rather;
Had it been his brother,
Still better than another;
Had it been his sister,
No one would have missed her;
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation.
But since it’s only Fred
Who was alive and is dead,
There’s no more to be said.’
The Face at the Window
The King received the Duke of Newcastle, his chief minister, who was immediately aware that His Majesty was not in the best of moods.
He had just officially created his grandson Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester; and he was wishing, as he had so often, that William had been his eldest son instead of Frederick; then his rather vacant young boy would not now be heir to the throne.
William would have been so much more suitable. A strong King; a man who could lead his army against the country’s enemies. He was not very popular at this time, it was true. But that was because the Scots had spread evil stories of his savagery at Culloden; but he would win back their favour. It had always been dear Caroline’s wish…because it was his wish, and he and Caroline had always seen eye to eye, he believed.
He continued to mourn her. He would never forget her. He loved her more now that she was dead than he had when she was alive. Or so he believed. It was easier to in any case, for now he need not be continually watchful that she was not appearing to be cleverer than he was. She had been something of a blue stocking, his Caroline; or she would have been if he hadn’t kept her in order.
His thoughts were straying from that young puppy George to discuss whom he had summoned Newcastle.
The King did not greatly like Newcastle. Sir Robert Walpole had been the minister he had loved—although when he had first come to the throne he had dismissed him ignominiously, only to take him back immediately; and he had always refused to admit that it was the clever scheming of his Queen Caroline which had brought about this most satisfactory state of affairs. But the days of Sir Robert were over and here was Newcastle.
Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, was an ambitious man and one of the richest in the country. He had inherited his title at the age of twenty-two and through his marriage great wealth. He had attained his ministerial post largely through his wealth, for he was by no means brilliant and his habits made him appear ridiculous. He rarely walked, but trotted as though in a great hurry to arrive at his destination; he appeared restless and uncertain; he rarely finished what he intended to; he was continually fussing without achieving his goal. One of the Court wits had remarked: ‘The Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it.’
As a young man he had supported the House of Hanover, even before the death of Queen Anne; and George I had selected him to be godfather to a son of George II, who because he was a friend of his father’s had hated him and had picked a quarrel at the baptismal ceremony. This had resulted in starting the famous quarrel between George I and George II, who was at that time Prince of Wales. The King had never liked him. Still, in spite of his faults, he was more honest than most and if he irritated the King, so did most of those who surrounded him.
Now he was saying in his ridiculous squeaky voice: ‘Your Majesty, it will be necessary to offer some guidance in the Prince’s education.’
This was exactly what the King himself was thinking, so he was slightly less irritated by Newcastle than he usually was.
He grunted.
‘It would be well...er...to er...remove His Highness from his mother’s care, to bring him here and to have him under Your Majesty’s surveillance.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said the King. ‘But I promised his mother she should keep him.’
‘If we could bring him under Your Majesty’s surveillance...’
The King hammered the table violently and the veins stood out at his temples. ‘I’ve told you, Newcastle. I’ve promised the voman. She’ll have the puppy...I’ve told her. Could do nothing else ven she was crying for her husband. She’s to keep him vith her and the rest of them, too.’
‘Yet, Your Majesty...’
‘Oh, be silent, you fool. The boy stays with his mother.’
‘Then if Your Majesty would consider appointing new tutors...tutors whom Your Majesty would choose...’
‘Ah, that’s a different story. If his grandmother vere here...’ The King looked mawkish. ‘There was a voman. I could trust her. I can trust no one else...’
Newcastle thought: She would have led you by the nose while she told you she was following you. Wasn’t that always her way?
‘She vould agree vith me that ve couldn’t take the boy from his mother.’
‘North should go, Your Majesty. Perhaps Your Majesty would consider substituting Lord Harcourt for North.’
The King considered the point, heartily wishing that he had not promised the Princess that she should have charge of the Prince.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ve’ll send the present lot packing, Newcastle, and appoint new ones. The boy struck me as being ignorant, Newcastle. Ignorant!’
‘It’s to be expected, Your Majesty, in the care of a woman.’
‘Bring your suggestions to me, Newcastle. Talk vith your council. Then ven you have them I’ll acquaint the Princess vith the names of the Prince’s new tutors.’
When Newcastle left the King the Duke was congratulating himself.
Very soon he would have the Prince surrounded by those whom he could trust to support him. If the King should die suddenly, the new King must have been imbued with the right ideas, which meant that he must have been brought up to respect the excellence of the Duke of Newcastle.
• • •
George was disturbed by the changes in his household. Dr. Ayscough had been dismissed and his place taken by Dr. Hayter, Bishop of Norwich. He did not dislike Hayter whom he considered sensible; he was the illegitimate son of the Archbishop of York, a very merry man, who enjoyed the company of women and did not allow his calling to interfere with his pleasure. George knew nothing of this; he would have been horrified if he had. Not that he knew much of the world; he was an idealist and was innocent enough to believe that his grandfather’s Court was full of people with similar ideas.
Lord Harcourt had taken the place of Lord North whom Frederick had appointed shortly before his death; he was proficient in little except hunting and drinking—neither of which accomplishments were of much use to the young Prince nor of any great interest to him. His sub governor was Andrew Stone, a brother of the Archbishop of Armagh; and George Scott remained as sub-Preceptor.
The Princess resented these changes and George was aware of her dissatisfaction as he struggled manfully to learn but without much success.
Augusta expressed her disquiet to Bubb Dodington who was constantly in attendance on her.
‘They teach him nothing,’ she declared.
And Bubb did not suggest for one moment that the Prince’s ignorance might in some measure be due to his inability to learn.
‘Oh, the difficulties of bringing up a Prince without I husband to help one!’ she sighed.
But even as she spoke she was conscious of warm satisfaction. She was not so desolate as she liked people to think.
She had her friends. And there was one...
Their relationship had progressed since the death of Frederick, as indeed it was natural that it should.
He was discreet but purposeful; and she had no wish that he should be otherwise. From the first moment he had entered that tent on a certain rainy day she had never wished him to be any different from what he was.
When she had been mourning for Fred, on that first day when she was stunned by the terrible shock and had not yet begun to realize all it implied, she had been conscious of him close to her.
He had waited for her to recover a little, only betraying by a touch of the hand, the softest caress, the meaningful glance that he was standing by waiting.
And then as the days passed he had become a little more daring, taking those little steps nearer and nearer towards complete intimacy—a state neither of them would have considered while the Prince lived. Fred might have his mistresses, but a Princess was different. She had been solely Fred’s wife until the end; even now she was carrying his child.
When that was born...then she would consider herself free.
Bute knew it even as she did. There was in the air a delicious awareness of the future. This little bridge to be crossed to...paradise.
So she allowed herself to be angry with George’s new tutors, knowing that very soon there would be one who not only would be closer to her than the husband she had lost but would also be guide and father to her son.
• • •
Four months after the death of Frederick, Augusta’s child was born; it was a daughter and she named her Caroline Matilda. As Augusta lay in bed, the child beside her, she reflected that this was the end of a phase; and in some measure it was like stepping out of captivity. Already in the last four months she had begun to feel alive as never before. She was a person of importance; she could form her own opinions; no need now to wait until her lord and master voiced his views before she declared her own. Now she could think as she liked, speak as she liked.
This would be the last of her children. That saddened her a little. She liked children; and she was pleased with her brood. They should be hers, entirely hers, she thought passionately; and no one—no King on Earth—was going to take them from her.
They might say that children in such a position needed the guiding hand of a father. They should have it; for she knew of one who would be to them all that a father could possibly be. He would be waiting now...As soon as she was well; as soon as she was able to receive him...The time to which they had both looked forward with such intense longing was very close.
It was perhaps a little unseemly to be thinking of that now, while she lay abed with the Prince’s child. So she would direct her thoughts from such imminent joys and think as the patent of fatherless children should.
George! Her thoughts could always come uneasily to him. She did not like his tutors. And why should she tolerate those she did not like? Why should she allow the boy’s grandfather to dictate to her? She was his mother; she cared for him as his grandfather never could care for anyone except his silly stun ting self. No, she was going to take charge of George’s upbringing, and no one was going to prevent her.
She thought of George’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather. Women! That was their chief pleasure and occupation. There was a strong streak of sensuality in the family; and George must be protected from it.
George at the moment was an innocent boy who knew little of the world. It was true he was just entering into his teens, but he was exceptionally innocent. She was going to keep him like that. He should not mingle with the boys of his own age who inhabited his grandfather’s Court. I hat place was a sink ol iniquity. How long would George keep his innocence there?
No, George was going to be protected, and she his mother would protect him.
What a glorious future! She was free to make her own life. She had done with childbearing and she had a fine family to show for the arduous years. She had cast off her yoke and now she would do what she wished. And one thing she wished was to control her son, the Prince of Wales, so that when the time came for him to be King of England his mother would be beside him—the true ruler of the country.
There might be one other to stand with her. He was coming to see her now. A little unorthodox. Oh, but he had been such a friend of the Prince of Wales!
His presence filled the bedchamber—such poise, such authority, such looks.
His smile was tender.
‘I trust Your Royal Highness will soon be restored to perfect health.’
‘Thank you, my Lord Bute. I am sure this will be so.’
Lingering looks, full of plans for the future.
This was living as she had never lived before, thought the Dowager Princess of Wales; this was freedom.
• • •
It would have been a pleasant enough household but for the dissensions among his tutors, thought George. But there was continual intrigue in the schoolroom. This was one of the penalties of being Prince of Wales.
He and his brothers and sisters never" met people of their own ages because their mother was afraid that they would be contaminated. She wanted to keep her children pure and innocent, she said, and saw no reason for bringing to their notice the unpleasant side of life before they need be faced with it.
She wanted George to confide in her—her and dear Lord Bute who was in constant attendance. No one could have the children’s welfare more at heart than dear Lord Bute and she wanted them to know it. But George knew this very well; his adoration for Lord Bute almost equalled that of his mother for the noble lord. Every problem he discussed with his dear uncle; and no one had ever been more kind; never did he show the slightest exasperation when George failed to grasp a point; he would explain it in several different ways to make it clear. George was contented as long as he had his dear Mamma and dear Uncle Bute close at hand. He was aware though of the trouble between those dear people and his tutors, Lord Hal court and Bishop Hayter always seemed to be putting their heads together to annoy Mamma and Lord Bute. He was conscious of the way these two ignored Mamma—and Lord Bute—when they came to the schoolroom and how they always tried to denigrate or shrug aside as worthless anything either Mamma or Lord Bute suggested.
George sometimes felt that he was like a bone between growling dogs. He knew very well whom he wanted to care for him.
‘I don’t know what those men are doing here,’ said Mamma again and again. ‘I should like to know what they teach you. Stone is a sensible man and so is Scott, but they are in subordinate positions and cannot raise their voices against those two.’
George said mildly that Lord Harcourt was always pleasant to him, to which his mother replied that this was doubtless because the man knew his pupil would one day be King and he felt it expedient to be, but she did not trust him; and she feared that what he wished to teach George above all else was to distrust his own mother.
‘That he could never do, dearest Mamma,’ cried George.
‘I know that, my son. You may not be clever with books but you have the good sense to recognize your friends. And there are two on whom you can always depend—your mother and dear Lord Bute.’
‘I should indeed be a fool not to know that.’
‘You are my own child. Your mother would always be your best friend...and Lord Bute too.’
‘Lord Bute is as a father to me. I love him dearly.’
‘It pleases me to hear you say it. What a wonderful man he is! What should we do without him? It was a fortunate day for us when the rain brought him into our tent.’
‘Mamma, I often think of Lady Bute.’
‘Why should you do that?’
‘She is his wife, and wives and husbands are usually together...sometimes.’
‘Oh, she is happy enough. She lives in London. I doubt not he visits her now and then. She is a fortunate woman. Did you know he has given her fourteen children in as little time as it takes to have them?’
‘I always thought,’ said George fervently, ‘that he was a wonderful man.’
‘So you see,’ said the Princess firmly, ‘Lady Bute has nothing of which to complain.’
• • •
Newcastle, watching the situation in the Prince’s schoolroom with close attention, was well aware of the growing influence of the Princess Dowager and Lord Bute. It was dangerous, he decided. Each week the future King grew more and more devoted to those two; and when he stepped out of the schoolroom, possibly to the throne, he would be completely conditioned, a puppet of theirs. What Newcastle desired was that the boy should be a puppet of his, and it was the task of the tutors, Harcourt and Hayter, to bring about this desirable state of affairs.
But they were not succeeding.
Summoned to his presence for consultation they declared that the odds were against them. The Prince was constantly in the company of his mother and the man everyone now believed to be her paramour. It was too strong an influence to be easily broken. Moreover, Scott and Stone were on the side of the Princess and Bute.
‘Then,’ said Newcastle, ‘as we cannot get the Princess out of her son’s household, and while she is there so will her lover be, we must at least rid ourselves of Scott and Stone.’
This presented a problem, because neither Harcourt nor Hayter were greatly concerned with the studies of the Prince. They left that to the professors. Scott and Stone were the learned gentlemen.
‘There are other learned gentlemen,’ declared Newcastle. ‘Get rid of those two and we will find them.’
Hayter said that Stone read strange books and was constantly preaching tolerance. It might not therefore be difficult to pin on him a charge of being a Jacobite.
‘There you have it,’ said Newcastle. ‘There’s your chance. Use it.’
• • •
The people of England—and in particular London—had an inquisitive attitude towards their royal family. They jeered, they sentimentalized, they took sides. A young and innocent Prince had their sympathy and interest. He was a charming figure, fatherless, in all probability destined to be their King when a young man. They wanted to know how he was being treated; they wanted fair play for George; and surrounded by such a set of villains as his family were, they believed the situation needed their watchful attention.
The old King was a rogue. The sooner he died the better. He was a German, a little red-faced man without charm, and only happy when in Hanover. He had even brought a mistress over from Germany, implying that English women weren’t good enough! Of course he had his share of them, but to bring a woman from Germany and make her Countess of Yarmouth and set her up as his mistress-in-chief...it was simply not patriotic. He was old—and who ever wanted an old King? Oh yes, they were waiting impatiently for young George. A good boy by all accounts. And not bad-looking. He was tall—not like his little grandfather; fair skin, blue eyes, rather vacant expression and sullen-jawed; but he couldn’t help that, being a German. A pleasant boy on the whole, and the old fellow couldn’t die quickly enough for the people.
But he was young and there would be jostling for power. The rumours about the Princess were interesting. This Lord Bute seemed to be in constant attendance on the lady. For what purpose? They could guess, and whether it was true or not they were going to believe it was because it was more amusing that way. Bute and the Princess on one side—Newcastle and his henchmen on the other. There was going to be conflict; and this was what the people found amusing.
In the coffee and chocolate houses the latest gossip was discussed. The Whig writers vied with the Tory writers and the witty results of their labours brought great pleasure to all who read them.
So the conflict round the Prince was common knowledge and everyone waited to see who would be triumphant—Newcastle or the Princess Dowager.
The storm broke when Hayter came in and found George reading.
George was not a great reader. He was slow; but he was painstaking and if he took a long time to get through a book, at least he had read every word.
Scott and Stone had encouraged him to read. He should read history they assured him; the subject most necessary to Kings. He should have a good knowledge not only of his own country’s affairs but also those of his neighbours.
‘Your Highness is absorbed,’ said Hayter pleasantly.
George looked up, trying to bring his mind from the book’s subject to the Bishop.
‘It is an interesting book,’ said George. ‘Mr. Stone recommended it and I am glad he did.’
‘May I see?’ asked Hayter.
‘But certainly.’
Hayter looked. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Revolutions d’Angleterre! It’s by a Frenchman!’
‘It makes it doubly valuable...improving my knowledge of the language at the same time.’
‘At the same time as imbuing Your Highness with Jacobite sympathies?’
‘Jacobite sympathies...’ George Hammered, ‘But I could never have sympathies against my own family.’
‘Unless they were presented to Your Highness so cleverly and attractively, that you felt them to be the truth.’
‘But...’
‘Your Highness says that Mr. Stone gave you this book.’
‘Yes, but he thought...’
‘I must ask Your Highness to allow me to take this book.’
‘I have not finished...’
‘Nevertheless my duty impels me to take it.’
‘I...I...’
‘With Your Highness’s permission...’
George was always unsure how to deal with a situation of which he had had no experience, so he allowed the Bishop to take the book from him; he sat staring before him wondering what fresh trouble was about to break.
• • •
On his way to his mother’s apartment he met one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Chudleigh. He blushed as he always did when he met her; she seemed to him such a wonderful woman. She must be about eighteen years older than he was, but he felt more at ease in the company of women older than himself than in that of younger ones. And Elizabeth seemed to possess the qualities he most admired. She was one of the most self-possessed persons in his mother’s entourage; she was flamboyant and beautiful, always resourceful, not caring a jot for all the scandal that surrounded her, and there was plenty of that. Only recently she had appeared at a ball at Somerset House as Iphigenia for the sacrifice, and her gown—or lack of it—had caused such a stir because it had appeared that she was naked. In truth she had been clad in flesh-coloured silk so tight that it gave the appearance of being a skin and this was decorated in appropriate places by fig leaves. She had laughed at the storm such an appearance had aroused.
There were many scandals about Elizabeth and often wondered why he liked her so much. He did not usually care for people who were talked of. It was his grandfather perhaps who had brought scandal to Elizabeth’s name, for he had been taken with her when she first came to Court and had presented her with a watch which had cost thirty-five pounds. Whether she had been his mistress or not George was unsure. There were many women who did refuse the King’s attentions; and although this irritated him, it did not necessarily result in their being banished from Court. Long ago the Duke of Hamilton had been greatly enamoured of her and they actually became engaged before he was sent off by his family on the Grand Tour. That romance came to nothing—it was foiled, some said by a maiden aunt of Elizabeth’s who had intercepted their correspondence and withheld it so that they both believed the other had broken the promise to remain faithful. Exciting events would always circulate about Elizabeth. She was doubtless engaged in some secret adventure at this time; but all the same she had time to spare for an uncertain boy.
