Текст книги "Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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'I am surprised that he should have become enamoured of such a woman.' B*

'Actresses have a great appeal for the very young and she is reckoned a beauty.'

'She is undoubtedly that/ agreed Maria.

'And clearly well aware of it. I give her another three months. They say His Highness is already wavering.'

'Poor woman! What will she do then?'

'Find another protector, I dareswear. That is usually the way of such women.'

'I am sorry for her. She is so pretty, too.'

'You waste your pity on such a woman, my love. I wonder what influence the Prince will have on political issues. I have heard that he is seen often in the company of men like Burke and Charles James Fox.'

'So it would appear,' said Maria, 'that he does not spend all his time with the actress. He must be interested in politics to have such men as his friends.'

'This could be so.'

'And do you think he will be on our side?'

Her husband smiled. 'The Prince will always take sides against his father. But the King gave his assent to our Bill nearly two years ago, so doubtless His Highness would not have given his if he had an opportunity of doing so, which fortunately he has not. He will have to wait until he is twenty-one before he can have an influence on politics ... and that is three years away.'

'Is he so young then?' said Maria.

'Very young. Six years younger than you, Maria.'

'Six years.' That was about the time she had married Edward Weld! She had seemed very young then. She was silent, thinking of the Prince who caused such distress to his father and who was very wild and gay and, so it was said, extremely charming and undeniably handsome.

Poor woman, she thought again, as a vision of the woman in the Mall rose before her, over-dressed, her hair heavily powdered, her face a mask of rouge and white lead.

The subject was distasteful so she changed it.

'How gratifying it is that that cruel law has been changed. I remember my parents talking about it long before I went to France. One of the most cruel aspects was that which enabled

the son of a Catholic turned Protestant to take over his father's possessions. Just imagine if Walter, John or Charles had done that. What a dreadful law!'

'All laws against minorities are monstrous. But we are fortunate in our king, Maria. He has always stood for tolerance and he is a good man. I know many people laugh at him ... call him "Farmer George" because he is fond of the land, and "The Button Maker" because he is interested in handcrafts. They call him dull because he is a faithful husband—but I think he is a good man.'

'But a good man is not necessarily a good king. What of the Colonies? I fancy King George has played an important part in that disastrous affair.'

'You have a point there, my dear,' Thomas admitted. 'But I was referring to his tolerance. He has protected Methodists and Quakers in the past—and I believe he has always been sympathetic towards us.'

A servant came in at that moment to announce that Sir Carnaby Haggerston had called.

Maria rose to greet her brother-in-law and drew back in dismay when she saw how agitated he was.

'Lord George Gordon is mustering the Protestant Association and I've heard that he is inciting them to rise up against the Catholics of London. My God, I pray we are not going to have riots here ... as they've been having in Scotland.'

'Impossible,' said Thomas. 'The Protestant Association is a worthy body. I'm sure of this.

'But,' said Haggerston, 'I hear that Gordon is a madman.'

Maria sat at an upper window in the house in Park Street. Terror had struck London and she knew that at any moment the mob might come running into this very street, stop at this very house, break down the doors and destroy or burn their possessions.

Thomas had urged her to leave London, but that she would not do. It was his duty, Thomas said, to stay here. The houses of his friends had been looted and some of their priests were in danger. He must do all he could to get them removed to places

of safety. He would not be true to his Faith if he ran away to the country to hide himself there. Besides, who knew when these riots would spread even into the country. But he deplored the fact that Maria was in the centre of the trouble.

Maria for once was in disagreement with her husband. Her mouth set into firm lines, for Maria could be very firm when she considered it necessary to be, and she said: 'If you stay in London, Thomas, I shall stay too. You may need my help.'

And Thomas found it impossible to persuade her.

The trouble had seemed to break out suddenly. At the heart of it was mad Lord George Gordon, an insignificant younger son of a noble house, good looking, a bon viveur, a Member of Parliament who could not get himself taken seriously.

That, Maria had said to Thomas, was at the root of the trouble. Lord George was determined to call attention to himself no matter if he laid waste half London to do so. He was a Protestant, and when he had been elected President of the Protestant Association of England he believed he had that chance. He announced his intention of bringing about the repeal of the Catholic Act, that Act which had given the rights to Catholic subjects of England which had so long been denied them. He had spoken in Parliament where his diatribes had not been given serious attention; he had had an audience with the King which had brought no success.

To a man such as Gordon, obsessed by the need to call attention to himself, these rebuffs only strengthened his resolution. The Parliament and King rejected him; very well there was the mob.

The nightmare days followed. Members of the Protestant Association collected in St. George's Fields; they marched round the fields singing hymns and holding banners aloft; but it was not the orderly members of the Association who would be of use to Lord George; it was the mob he collected on his march to the Houses of Parliament. Beggars, criminals, prostitutes, all looking for sport and chiefly gain, joined the throng which had grown to over twenty thousand.

'No Popery!' they shouted. They flung mud at the carriages of Members of Parliament; they waited outside the House while Gordon entered it; but they were not interested in talk;

they wanted action. Many did not know what the point at issue was but they screamed the parrot cry of 'No Popery'; and the pillage began.

Maria shivered; looking out she could see the red glow in the sky. They were burning Catholic chapels and the houses of well-known Catholics. The Fitzherberts were not unknown. When would their turn come?

A carriage drew up at the door and Frances stepped out and hurried into the house. Maria ran down to greet her.

Trances I To come through the streets!'

'But Maria, Carnaby is out ... I know not where ... and I could not stay in the house alone. I had to be with you. So I took a chance. Oh, Maria, it was terrible. I saw houses ablaze ... the houses of our friends ... What will happen next?'

'How can we know? Sit down and have a glass of wine.'

The servant brought it. Was she watching them furtively? The girl was a good Catholic—she would not have been employed in the household if she were not—but what were the servants thinking? It was the rich Catholics who were the targets for the mob.

Frances drank the wine and looked at her sister, asking for comfort.

'It cannot go on,' said Maria.

'Why not!' demanded Frances. 'They could burn the whole of London. They have attacked the house of a magistrate who attempted to warn them that they were breaking the law. On my way here I saw seven big fires. Oh, Maria, Maria what next?'

'They will have to stop it. They will have to call out the Army.'

'Then why do they not? What do they let this go on for? The mob has freed the prisoners from Newgate; they have set the prison on fire. Felons are walking the streets. What will become of us.'

'That's something we never know from day to day—Gordon riots or not. It is no use agitating yourself, Frances. It does no good. At any moment we may be called upon to play our part and we have to be ready for that.'

'Where is Thomas?'

'He is out ... helping our friends. He is trying to get some of the priests out of London. It is their only hope.'

'They would have no compunction in murdering them,' said Frances. 'Listen.'

The shouts seemed to be coming nearer, the red glow in the fire more fierce.

Maria prayed silently that no harm should befall her friends, her sister and herself. If the riots spread to the country ... she thought of the house in Brambridge and her father, that poor helpless invalid, and the boys. What of Uncle Henry who would, like Thomas, not stand idle? And men like Thomas who were taking an active part in all this were the ones who were in most danger.

Thomas must be safe. How she wished he would come in.

The shouting had become more muted.

'They are not coming this way/ said Frances.

Maria sighed with relief. But where was Thomas?

It was midnight when he returned; his clothes were singed and blackened by smoke and he was exhausted.

Maria cried: 'Thank God you are home.' She did not ask questions; it was imperative to get him to bed. She would not allow the servants to wait on him, for how did one know whom one could trust?

'I must wash this grime from me, Maria/ he said.

'I will prepare you a hot cordial while you do so/

Bathing exhausted Thomas and before he could drink the cordial he was asleep.

In the morning Maria was alarmed by his looks; he had lost his usually healthy colour and he coughed incessantly. She wanted to call a physician, but Thomas said it was only a chill and would pass. There was work to be done. More of the priests were in acute danger and it was the duty of men such as himself to bring them out of it.

But when he tried to rise from his bed he could not do so and Maria decided that whatever he said she was going to call a doctor.

She was scarcely aware of what was going on outside because Thomas was very ill, through an inflammation of the lungs; Maria was at his bedside day and night listening to his delirium.

Meanwhile the rioters were threatening St. James's Palace and the Bank of England, and the King, realizing drastic action was necessary, called in martial law. The troops fired on the mob and after several hundred rioters had been killed, order was at last restored.

The Gordon Riots were over.

But Thomas Fitzherbert was very ill indeed: and even though the fever subsided, he did not regain his former good health.

With the coming of that winter as his health did not improve, Maria decided to take him to the South of France where a warmer climate might be beneficial. They took a villa near the sea where Maria devoted herself assiduously to his comfort. But it was no use. Thomas's lungs seemed permanently affected.

Never before had Thomas realized what a blessing his marriage had been. In Maria he had the perfect nurse. Every hour of the day she devoted to him; she would sit with him at the open window looking out over the sea and talk about events in England, for which Thomas was homesick. Not so Maria. Those early years in France had given her a love of this country and she would not have objected to settling there altogether.

But as the winter wore on it became apparent that Thomas was no better in France than in England and that far from improving he was growing steadily more feeble.

He grew anxious about Maria's future, knowing what had happened in the case of her first marriage, how the will which would have left her very comfortably off had never been signed, he was determined that nothing like that should happen again.

He told Maria that he had made a will and that if he died she would be a comparatively rich woman.

Maria said that she did not wish to talk of such an unlikely eventuality, but he insisted that she did.

'The estates at Swynnerton and Norbury will have to go to my brother Basil. They were left to me with that provision. It is always a male heir who must inherit ... and if we should have no son ...'

Maria nodded. The hope of children was one which she had been obliged to subdue, for it was almost certain now that Thomas would never father a child.

'But that will not prevent my looking after you, Maria. The lease of the house in Park Street is not part of the family inheritance. That shall be yours, with all the furniture in it, also my horses and carriages, and in addition there will be an income of two thousand pounds a year—so, my dear, although you will not be as rich as I should like to make you, you will be well provided for.'

'Oh, Thomas, do not speak of these things.'

'Nor will I again. This is settled. I can now have the consolation of knowing that if I should die, you will be comfortably placed.'

'Nonsense,' she said sharply. 'You are not going to die. When the spring comes...'

But the spring came and there was no change in Thomas's condition. His cough grew worse and when she saw the blood on his pillow she knew.

That May he died. He was only thirty-seven; she was twenty-five years old—and once more a widow.

An Evening at the Opera

She was no longer young; she had been twice widowed; and now she was completely free to live the life of her choice. Deeply she missed Thomas; she thought affectionately now and then of Edward her first husband; but she discovered that freedom was pleasant. She was no longer beholden to anyone and she had enough money to live in the utmost comfort.

She did not return to England when Thomas died, but stayed on in Nice, and when she had a desire to be once more in Paris she decided she would stay there for a while. What joy to be back in Paris, the city of gaiety which she had once loved so much. To ride through the streets in her carriage, to mingle with the fashionable people in the Bois, to visit the dressmakers, to meet friends on the fringe of the Court, all this was interesting. But Maria wished to do something practical and since Thomas had died for his Faith (for his work during the riots, she insisted, had been the beginning of his illness) she would found a house where Roman Catholic ladies could find refuge in Paris if life was not tolerable for them in England.

She grew a little saddened during her study in Paris, for she soon discovered that it was not the same as it had been a few years back. There was an air of brooding tension in the streets which she was quick to sense. The people hated the Queen and this was made obvious by the unpleasant cartoons in which she was depicted. In spite of the fact that a little Dauphin had

been born the murmurings continued and Maria began to think of returning to England. Moreover, her family were writing to her and asking her to come home where, they pointed out, she could live in the utmost comfort; and Maria, growing more and more sensitive to the atmosphere in her beloved Paris, and feeling a little homesick, crossed the Channel and decided to look for a house near London.

Marble Hill was not for sale, but Maria had no wish to buy it since it could be let to her, and as soon as she saw it she was eager to begin the tenancy.

Ideally situated in Richmond, it had been built by the Countess of Suffolk, mistress of George II, and been called Marble Hill because it stood on the top of an incline and was of dazzling whiteness; on either side it looked down on lawns and chestnut trees and from the windows a very fine view of Richmond Hill could be seen.

Here, Maria thought, she could indeed settle and be content. She had no desire to entertain lavishly; she assured herself, her friends and her family that she preferred to live quietly.

She was too beautiful and accomplished to shut herself away from the world was the general opinion, and Lady Sefton, a distant relation on Maria's mother's side, was soon calling at Marble Hill. She wished, she said, to launch her charming kinsman into London society. Maria protested, but so did Lady Sefton.

'Why, my dear cousin,' she said, 'you are far too young to live the life of a recluse. I was talking to the Duchess of Devonshire aboutyou and she is eager to make your acquaintance.'

'My dear Lady Sefton ...'

'Oh, come, Christian names between cousins. Isabella if you please.'

'Well, Isabella, I have no great desire to go into society as yet. I am happy here in Marble Hill and my friends and family are frequently with me.'

'When Georgiana Cavendish asks to meet people they are expected to be delighted. Moreover, you will be so interested in her. She has the most exciting salon in Court circles. Every-

one ... simply everyone of interest is there. Fox, Sheridan ... even the Prince of Wales.'

'But my dear Isabella, I am a simple country woman.'

'What nonsense! I never knew anyone more poised. You are not going to waste your talents on the desert air of Richmond, cousin, I do assure you. I shall not allow it. You shall come with me to the opera, I insist. Why you have a place in Park Street. What could be more convenient. It was clearly meant.'

Maria wavered. She did like society. It might be that she would soon tire of the quiet life at Marble Hill, and enjoy meeting the famous people of whom she had heard.

'So it is settled,' said Lady Sefton. 'You will come to Park Street; and I shall show you off in my box at the Opera. I think society is going to be very impressed, for, my dear Maria, you are not only a beauty, you are such an original one. No one at Court or in society looks quite like Maria Fitzherbert.'

Maria prepared for her visit to London. She would miss the fresh air of Richmond, she reminded herself. Well, she was not far away and it would be simple enough to come back whenever she wished; moreover, she would enjoy a stay in London; and it was as well to make sure that all was well in the Park Street House. She would need clothes, but would arrange that in London. Yes, she was looking forward to a little town life.

But the country was charming; she loved to stroll along by the river towards Kew on these lovely spring days when the trees were budding and the birds in full song.

One day when the sun was shining she slipped a cloak about her shoulders and not bothering to put a hat on her glorious hair, worn loose and unpowdered, she strolled out into the sunshine.

There were very few craft on the river; she supposed that it would be be busier between Kew and Westminster, with so many people going back and forth between the royal palaces. That was another reason why Richmond was so restful.

She paused suddenly; she heard the sound of laughing voices; a small party of men and women came into sight. She would have turned back, but they had seen her and she did not

want to have given the impression of avoiding them. She noticed at once that these people were most elegantly dressed, their hair powdered, their coats of velvet and satin. A party she guessed from the Court, strolling out from Kew Palace.

One young man of the party stopped suddenly a little ahead and made a gesture as though bidding the others not to walk beside him; the rest of the party slackened their pace and as he approached Maria she saw the diamond star on his coat and a suspicion came to her that he must be a very distinguished personage indeed.

He was young, fresh complexioned, blue-eyed, inclined to be a little plump, rather tall and undoubtedly handsome.

As she approached he gave her the most elaborate bow she had ever seen. She bowed and quickening her step, hastily walked on and took a path winding away from the river. She did not look back; her heart was beating faster; she wondered briefly whether she was being followed. But no. She could hear the voices of the party she had just passed; they were still on the towpath. By a round-about way she came back to the river. She was relieved that there was no sign of the elegant party. She had guessed of course who the young man was who had bowed so elegantly. It was none other than the Prince of

Wales.

# # #

Now she was pleased that she was going to London for she had a notion that if she strolled out along the towpath at precisely the same time the next day she would encounter the same party.

She did not wish for that. The Prince of Wales had already acquired a rather dangerous reputation where women were concerned; he took a delight in romantic adventures. She was sure that he would have thought a chance meeting on a tow-path a most amusing meeting place. But Maria Fitzherbert was no Mrs. Robinson. Yes, it was time she appeared in society as a reputable matron of irreproachable character.

No sooner had she settled into Park Street than Isabella Sefton descended on her. They must pay their suggested visit to the Opera, but first Isabella wished to launch her dear Maria into society through a ball she was giving the next day.

It was pleasant to be in a society which was more glittering than anything she had experienced before, though Isabella assured her that her ball was homely compared with those given at Devonshire House or Cumberland House ... to say nothing of Carlton House.

'You are not suggesting that we shall be invited to Carlton House!' cried Maria.

'It would not surprise me in the least,' laughed Isabella.

Maria thought a little uneasily of that encounter on the river bank; but perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps that elaborate bow was the manner in which he greeted any of his lather's subjects. After all, he had to woo their popularity; and the most elegant of bows would be expected from royalty. She had heard that his father, the King, strolled about Kew and talked to people as though he were a country squire.

She was surrounded by admirers. Not only her beauty was admired, but the fact that she looked so different from everyone else. The women with their powdered hair, their elaborate styles, were not dissimilar; but Maria Fitzherbei t was different. Not only was her hair unpowdered but her complexion, which was flawless, was untouched by rouge or white lead; she had a delightful combination, the youthful skin of a young girl and the fully developed bosom of an older woman. It was impossible not to notice her. Maria Fitzherbert, because she was different from all other women, was the belle of the ball.

The next day a paragraph appeared in the society columns of the Morning Herald. It said:

A new constellation has lately made an appearance in the fashionable hemisphere, that engages the attention of those who are susceptible to the power of beauty. The widow of

the late Mr. F... h t has in her train half our young

nobility; as the lady has not, as yet, discovered a partiality lor any of her admirers, they are all animated with hopes of success.'

When Isabella brought the paper to show her Maria was annoved.

'It is absurd. I have only just arrived. And to talk of my partiality. It is quite ridiculous.'

'Such notoriety is something we all have to endure when we become famous, Maria.'

'Famous. For appearing at a ball!'

But Isabella laughed. Maria was fascinating. She was so different.

Maria surveyed the audience from the Sefton box at Covent Garden. Many eyes were on her. Perhaps, she was thinking, I will curtail my stay in London. It would certainly be more peaceful at Richmond; or perhaps she would go to stay for a while at Brambridge or with Uncle Henry.

Then she was aware of the changed atmosphere in the theatre. She was no longer the focus of attention. Something was happening.

Isabella leaned towards her and whispered, 'This is to be a royal occasion.'

And into one of the boxes opposite stepped a glittering figure. His coat was of black velvet spattered with blue spangles and on his breast he wore a flashing diamond star.

A cheer went up as he came to the edge of the box and Maria saw a repeat performance of that most elegant bow; he was smiling at the audience which greeted him with such warm affection. So she could no longer doubt that the gallant young man she had met on the towpath was the Prince of Wales.

He sat down and leaned his arms on the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.

Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.

It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.

Isabella was chuckling.

'Ha, ha cousin,' she whispered. 'I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.'

'This is most... embarrassing.'

'Many would find it most flattering.'

'Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.'

The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.

Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.

But not Maria Fitzherbert.

The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if this was not due to them.

Maria said quietly but firmly, 'I shall leave at once, Isabella. My chair will be waiting.'

Isabella was amused. She wondered how deeply the Prince was affected. After all, Maria must be about six years older than he was. Mary Robinson it was true had been about three but she was only twenty-one at the time of that liaison and Maria must be about twenty-seven or eight—the Prince twenty-one.

'Very well, my dear,' she said. 'But you will certainly meet him at someone's house sooner or later.'

'Not if I return to Richmond,' said Maria.

Her servant was waiting with the chair and she gave instructions that she was to be carried with all speed to her house in

Park Street.

• • #

As her chair was carried through the streets she was more disturbed than the occasion warranted, she told herself. Perhaps he had not been looking at her. Perhaps it had been a mistake. That paragraph in the paper had made her imagine that she really was as fatally attractive as the writer had made her out to be. He had been bored with the Opera and had merely diverted himself.

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill

They had arrived at the house and thankfully she alighted, but as she did so she saw another chair entering the street.

She hurried into the house, her heart beating fast. The door was shut. She felt... safe.'

But she could not resist going to the window.

She saw the chair stop; someone alighted.

Oh no, she thought. It is not possible!

But it was. He was standing there in his spangles and diamonds.

The Prince of Wales, like some lovesick country swain, had followed Maria Fitzherbert home.

&&t

Adventures of a Prince

During the summer of 1783 when the Prince of Wales was approaching his twenty-first birthday he believed that he was the most fortunate man in England, and he was surrounded by men and women who confirmed him in this belief. He was at last escaping from the restraint which his puritanical parents had put on him, and was free to be the companion of the most brilliant men in the country; he could indulge his passion for architecture in Carlton House, that old ruin which his father had flung to him and which he was fast converting into the most elegant residence in Town; he could run his own horses at Newmarket; he could take his place in the House of Lords; and he could, without any attempt at secrecy pursue the greatest diversion of all—women.

Let the King splutter his threats and warnings; let the Queen alternately scold and declare her sentimental fondness for her first born; they could not deter him. He was the idol of the people, the quarry of every fashionable hostess—for no ball was of any significance without him—and almost every woman longed to be his mistress. There were a few exceptions; Geor-giana, his dearest Duchess of Devonshire, among them, but this only made this most delightful of all occupations the more piquant, and while he could sigh for the unattainable he could always soothe himself with the eagerly accommodating.

Life was very good that summer for the Prince of Wales.

Some months before he first set eyes on Maria Fitzherbert his Uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, had suggested he come down to visit him at a house he had rented from a certain Dr. Russell and which was situated in a little fishing village called Bright-helmstone.

'What,' demanded the Prince of Wales of his equerry, the Earl of Essex, 'should I want of a little fishing village called by such a name as Brighthelmstone?'

'I have heard of the place, Your Highness/ answered Essex. 'It is also known as Bredhemsdon/

'Which is no more pleasant to my ear than the other,' retorted the Prince.

'No, sir, but they say the sea bathing there is very beneficial to the health—and it is not so far from London to make the journey tiresome.'

Sea bathing! thought the Prince, and touched his silken neckcloth. Recently he had been affected by a slight swelling of the throat and he and Lord Petersham had together designed a neckcloth which would completely hide it. Hence neckcloths in exquisite designs and colourings were the height of fashion now. The Prince's physicians had suggested that sea bathing might be good for his throat; he had not taken the idea very seriously, but Essex's remark reminded him of it.

'I confess it would be amusing to see how my aunt Cumberland amuses herself in a fishing village.'

'I am sure, sir, that where the Duchess found herself there would she find amusement.'

The Prince laughed aloud. He was fond of the lady who had inveigled his uncle most unsuitably into marrying hep, and being banished from the Court because of her. She was a fascinator—a woman of wide experience; the very manner in which she fluttered her eyelashes which had become a legend since Horace Walpole had referred to them as being a yard long, was in itself a promise. The Prince delighted to call her by what seemed to him such an incongruous title as 'Aunt', and as she was constantly urging him to honour Cumberland House with his presence he had seen her and his uncle often since he had been free to do so—much to the chagrin of His Majesty, of