by Deryn Lake
Yet deep down, too deep for the thought even to be acknowledged, Sarah knew that the owner of such honest china-blue eyes as King George’s, would be hard put to it to hurt or deceive a living soul.
*
“He’s too gullible,” said the Princess Augusta firmly. “My son is an innocent abroad. It is your duty, my dear Bute, to see that he does not fall into the hands of that scheming Lennox girl.”
“But Madam,” answered the Earl, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it delicately, “he has already confided in me and given his solemn promise not to marry an Englishwoman.”
“Be damned to that,” the Princess replied sharply. “I still don’t trust that Fox clan.”
Bute sighed silently, knowing his assurances were about to be ignored. The Princess of Wales had loathed Fox from the moment he had opposed her Regency should the old King die before the heir to the throne attained his majority. As things had turned out, of course, George had been of age when his grandfather had finally gone, but the Princess had none the less remained unrelenting. As far as she was concerned Fox was as self-seeking and wily as his name.
“No,” she went on forcefully, “we must have a decent German girl as we always have. Bute, find some suitable names. I believe he is still drawn to Sarah Lennox and it is high time we acted.”
“Very good, my dear,” he answered, and this time kissed her on the mouth.
The rumour that he had been Augusta’s lover since the death of her husband was absolutely true. For John Stuart, Earl of Bute, born into the impoverished Scottish nobility, made up for his lack of funds by an overweening ambition, and his obvious stepping stone to advancement had been the bed of the Princess of Wales. Four years after the death of Prince Frederick — lovingly known as Fritz to his intimate circle — the nonentity who hovered in the shadow of the Princess had become one of the most important men in the country, promoted Groom of the Stole to the new Prince of Wales. Furthermore, he had risen to be George’s friend and adviser, a father figure of enormous influence.
“You are very naughty,” admonished Augusta now, “we are discussing George’s future.”
“You may safely leave His Majesty to me,” Bute answered lazily, fondling the Princess’s breasts with a long and elegant hand.
“How dare you,” said Augusta, but she was smiling.
“I dare because I love you,” he murmured smoothly. “Does Madam have a spare hour this afternoon when I may prove it?”
“If I say yes will you get rid of that awful Lennox girl once and for all?”
“Consider it already done,” replied the Earl of Bute as he led the Princess of Wales, not protesting at all, towards her bedchamber.
*
The shadow of the disagreement between Henry Fox and Sarah Lennox hung over Holland House for several days, days during which she kept to her bed, declaring a cold, and he stumped about the mansion or rode round the estate with a bevy of servants looking for signs of an errant lover. As is always the case in such circumstances it was Caroline, his wife, who bore the brunt of the situation, attempting to run the household and heal the breach simultaneously. But in these strained conditions Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways showed her true worth and offered to take over all day-to-day business while Caroline concentrated on being a full-time peacemaker.
“They are both such strong personalities,” sighed the older woman, returning from Sarah’s room with an untouched tray of food.
“Yet Mr Fox is right. I have no time for John Newbattle.”
“Ah, but the more we tell Sarah that the more determined she will get.”
“That is the way of the world,” answered Susan, and smiled wistfully.
“I hope she will not be foolish and refuse to come to the February ball.”
“I hope so too. For that will be my last sortie with you, dear Lady Caroline. This morning I heard from my father that he wants me to return home for the summer.”
“Well, you have been with us a long time. I am sure they are all missing you at Redlynch House.”
“I dare say they are. But perhaps the fact that I am leaving could be my excuse to get Sarah to join us.”
It was, in a way, a form of kindly blackmail, but whether Sarah saw through the ruse or not was not certain. In any event, she graciously agreed to accompany Susan on her very last rout of the season and rose majestically from her sick bed to the great relief of her elder sister. Mr Fox, for his part, consented to remain tactfully at home having extracted a promise from Caroline that she would faithfully report back every look and gesture that passed between Sarah and the King.
“I’ll see that beastly puppy boy put out of countenance if it’s the last thing I do,” he whispered in his wife’s ear as she left the house.
“Well, he won’t be present. One can only attend by special invitation and he won’t have one for certain.”
“Surely you don’t think rumours about Newbattle and Sarah have reached His Majesty’s ears already?” asked Fox fearfully.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m positive Bute would be only too agog to pass on tittle-tattle.”
“Oh pray God no,” Fox groaned, and rolled his eyes heavenwards.
But for once the face of that tall, most elegant of kings, was unreadable as George III stood in his receiving room while the line of guests paid their respects then made their way past him into the ballroom. Watching with narrowed eyes and feeling like a court spy as a result, Caroline Fox could see nothing between the young couple that could be interpreted as anything more than ordinary friendship as Sarah swept one of her spectacular curtseys and the King graciously inclined his head. Just for a second, though, it suddenly occurred to Caroline that His Majesty was up to something, for momentarily those bright-sky eyes of his darkened then dropped. But a minute later he was as normal and she put it down to her overeager imagination. Gathering the ladies of her party round her, Caroline made her way in to the ball.
Obviously every effort to dazzle had been made this evening for a brilliant sight greeted the eye of the beholder. A thousand candles shone in glittering chandeliers, each prism washed especially for the occasion, covering the dancers with rainbows as they moved to the sound of the musicians, who sat in the gallery above. All Polite Society was present and as a result high fashion was much in evidence. Velvets and satins, rich with embroidery, transformed even the plainest of men; while the ladies, powdered, patched, and rouged, sparkled with jewels, some even having diamonds scattered in their hair.
“Pretty company,” remarked Lady Albermarle, Caroline and Sarah’s aunt, who was staying in town.
“Everyone who’s anyone is here, as they say.”
“Vying for the King’s attention, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” answered Caroline and had the good grace to blush, thinking of the recent contretemps at Holland House about which Lady Albermarle knew nothing.
A round of applause brought her attention back to the evening ahead and she saw that the dance had just ended and partners were being engaged for the next. Almost immediately, the Duke of Marlborough and Lord Barrington’s nephew were asking permission of the two older ladies to lead out Sarah and Susan and, with her aunt gone to join old friends, Caroline found herself alone. So it was that she saw the King quietly enter the ballroom and stand for a moment looking round.
Fox’s wife knew everything then; knew that he was in love with her sister, that he had made up his mind to do something of moment about it, that he was wrestling simultaneously with a problem which was making him wretched. Caroline’s heart went out to the young man and she took a guess that somewhere in the coil lay the heavy hand of the Princess of Wales and, slightly more subtly, that of the Earl of Bute.
The music ended once more and there was an audible swish as the ladies spread their skirts and took their seats, preparing to flutter and flirt behind their fans. The gentlemen began to stroll and it was at this moment that Lady Susan, quite unprepared for what was about to happen, went to join La
dy Albermarle on the opposite side of the ballroom to Caroline and Sarah. But no sooner had she sat down than everyone round her rose and Susan saw that the King, smiling and charming, had sought her out. Somewhat flustered as she had never before had a conversation with him, Susan curtsied and smiled.
“My dear Lady Susan,” he began, drawing her to one side so that they were out of hearing range of Lady Albermarle, who was craning forward, one hand actually cupping her ear.
“Your Majesty?”
“I hear that you are going back to Somersetshire.”
“Yes, it’s true, Sir. I leave town in a few days time.” She was dying to ask him how he knew this but didn’t quite have the nerve.
“That is a great shame for I am sure you will be missed. When do you plan to return?”
“Not till the winter, Sir. But when exactly I’m not certain.”
The King smiled mischievously, a trait that Susan would not have associated with him. “And is there nothing that would bring you back before?”
The girl stared at him blankly, wondering where this line of chatter could possibly be leading. “I don’t know of anything, Sir.”
“Would you not come to see the Coronation?”
“Oh yes. I hope I would be able to come and see that.”
George’s face grew mysterious. “I hear it is very popular my having put it off.”
Susan nodded silently, fearing that she was about to get into political deep water.
“You see, the Coronation will be a much finer sight when there is a queen,” the King continued meaningfully.
Wondering if she was starting to see the thread behind the words, Susan answered, “To be sure, Sir.”
His Majesty narrowed his large eyes. “I have had a great many applications from abroad but to be honest I don’t like any of them. Yet strangely I have had none at home which, of course, I should like much better.”
‘So that’s it!’ thought Susan frantically. ‘It’s like a dream. He wants to marry Sarah. Oh, good God!’
The King stared across the room to where the Beauty sat, laughing and talking, unaware that he was looking at her. “What do you think of your friend?” he said in a lowered voice. “You know who I mean. Don’t you think her fittest?”
“Think, Sir?” repeated Susan, terrified of putting a foot wrong, stalling for time.
The King looked her straight in the eye. “There will be no Coronation until there is a queen, and I think your friend is the fittest person for it. Tell her so from me.”
With those words he crossed the ballroom and bowed his head to Sarah, who shot to her feet in consternation. Looking over in Susan’s direction he spoke in Sarah’s ear and after a few moments she, appearing immensely surprised, nodded and curtsied. His Majesty, obviously satisfied, then walked away.
‘Was that a proposal of marriage I heard just now?’ thought Susan wildly, ‘or have I lost all reasoning power? And if it was an offer, why was it made through me? Oh dear, oh dear. I can think of nothing worse than playing a king’s Cupid.’
But she had no further time to sort out her ideas. The music had begun again and the Master of the King’s Horse, the Duke of Rutland, was making his way over, asking Lady Albermarle’s permission for Susan to dance with him. Burning with impatience, Fox’s niece hardly knew how to contain herself as she plodded through a minuet, the Duke unquestionably being the most terrible dancer in the world. A private conversation was obviously going to be out of the question from now on. However, Susan did manage to whisper, “I must talk to you about the King,” only to be answered with a supercilious smile from Sarah which the older girl found intensely annoying.
And this annoyance was doubled when, on arriving home, her friend announced that she was vastly tired and made straight for her bedchamber without waiting to hear a word of what Susan had to say. Indeed it was Caroline, her straight features lit by curiosity, who said, “What did His Majesty say to you so earnestly this evening?”
Susan hesitated, then decided she was too young to handle such a weighty matter alone. “I think that perhaps, dearest Caro, I should tell you all before Mr Fox.”
“The light is still burning in his study. Do you wish to speak with him now or can it wait until morning?”
“I believe it would be better at once. I feel heavy with responsibility.”
“Gracious!” said Caroline, gleaming with anticipation.
“I can’t understand it,” said Fox, shaking his head as everything was told. “Is it a joke? For, if so, it’s a very bad one. I wonder, can His Majesty possibly be serious?”
“I felt that he was,” Susan answered truthfully.
“But it’s such a strange way of going about things. Why use you as his ambassador? Why not come directly to me?”
“Because he is afraid of Bute’s spies,” Caroline put in with certainty. “They’re everywhere, watching any move the poor creature makes. If he was seen talking to you in a serious manner, Henry, it would be all round Court in five minutes.”
Fox looked thoughtful. “You may well be right, my dear. His Majesty has been tied to his mother’s apron strings so long he might at last have grown weary of them and be pulling at the knot. I believe he may be learning guile and cunning.”
“What shall I do?” asked Susan. “Should I tell Sarah?”
“Oh yes, you must. It is your duty. But there is one thing that we must all watch for in the face of these new events.”
“And what is that?” asked Caroline.
“We must be extra vigilant for any sign of Newbattle. That beastly boy could ruin everything.”
“He’s hateful,” said Susan, very violently for her. “I much prefer the King. He’s altogether nicer.”
“But there’s none so blind as those who think they’re in love,” Fox said gloomily.
“Perhaps Sarah will come to her senses soon,” Caroline suggested hopefully.
“I’m not so sure. Newbattle made such a set for her she is puffed with vanity as a result.”
“Think of preferring him to His Majesty,” said Susan, shaking her head. “It’s like comparing a monkey to a lion.”
“But monkeys perform tricks,” countered Fox solemnly. “I’ll swear we’ve not yet heard the last of that poxy fellow.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” sighed Susan. “I would so love to see Sarah as Queen of England.”
“Sister to the Queen!” said Caroline, and laughed joyously at the very thought of it.
*
“If I may speak boldly, Sir, it is my view you are now being made a fool of,” said the Earl of Bute succinctly.
“Why?” asked the King, his voice strangely quiet.
“Because the object of your affections, whom I long since warned you against if you remember, Sir, is playing you false.”
There was no reply and Bute wondered if he had gone too far with the royal puppet who sat, back turned, gazing out of the window, averting his face and the china-blue eyes that revealed all from the man he termed “dearest friend”. And there was indeed a long silence before George spoke.
“Why do you say this?” he asked eventually.
“Because Lady Sarah Lennox, who obviously still fills your thoughts, Sir, is being courted by Lord Newbattle, Ancram’s son.”
The King’s shoulders twitched but he said nothing.
“No good can come from hankering after the girl,” Bute persisted. “You promised that you would put her from your mind but still have not done so. And your mother is firmly of the opinion that you should now be choosing a German bride, Sir.”
George turned violently. “I don’t want one, Bute. I am not drawn to anyone but Lady Sarah. I know what promise I gave you but I fail to see your objection to an English queen. I’m damned if I do.”
The Earl stood silently, thinking that he had never seen his malleable charge quite so angry or so strained, and just for a moment panicked, wondering if his vast influence might be diminishing. Then he rallied like a true Scot and c
ame in on the attack.
“There is no Englishwoman well born enough. As King it is expected that you marry a princess. This motley collection of minor nobles’ daughters cannot provide a fitting consort.”
“May I remind you,” hissed George furiously, “that Lady Sarah’s great-grandfather was Charles II.”
“And may I remind you that your great-grandfather, George I, was begged by the English people to take the place of the Stuart dynasty? How could you marry one of their blood, Sir? You would be a laughing stock.”
“As I am already,” His Majesty muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I said as I am already for being under the influence of both yourself and my mother. I’ll choose my own bride, I swear it.”
“Have it your way,” sighed Bute wearily. “But it seems foolish to me to bring about a constitutional crisis over one who does not love you.”
“I know the mood of the people better than you,” George retorted sharply. “There’ll be no crisis. An English queen would be a popular choice. Anyway, Lady Sarah cares for me. I know it.”
“If I can prove to you that she is having a liaison with Newbattle will you change your mind?” Bute asked, the slightest note of desperation tingeing his voice.
“If I thought I had no chance of winning her, obviously yes.”
“Then such evidence will be found.”
“Dear friend,” said the King, more firmly than he had ever spoken to Bute in his entire life, “tittle-tattle and gossip will not suffice on this occasion. I shall want proof positive before I ever believe ill of Lady Sarah Lennox.”
And with that he got to his feet and left the room, leaving the Earl to stare after him, realising for the first time he was in the grip of a dangerous situation, that someone with equal power to himself was making a rival bid for the loyalty and affection of the King of England.
*
Driven underground by the edict of Mr Fox, John Newbattle’s courtship of Sarah Lennox predictably became even more intense. Banned from the house or even from communicating with her, the feckless youth went complaining to his sister, Lady Louisa, whose husband George was Sarah’s brother.