by Deryn Lake
“By Christ, it’s not the end. It’s not, it’s not!” George shouted at her wildly, and threw his riding crop across the room so hard that it hit the wall behind his mother’s head.
“How dare you!” screamed the Princess furiously, leaping to her feet.
“And how dare you!” her mild, obedient, dull son thundered back, and kicking over a chair that lay in his path stamped from the room, crashing the door behind him.
Augusta burst into loud and violent tears. “Mein Gott, he has gone mad. Bute, do something! The wretch is deranged I tell you.”
Her German accent, always noticeable, now became extremely pronounced and her long thin nose went the colour of a beetroot.
Bute looked lofty, a habit that many found heartily sickening. “Calm yourself, Madam,” he said soothingly. “I shall go to him shortly when he has quietened a little. I shall point out to him that duty comes before all …” This was said with a roll of his fine eyes heavenwards. “… and he will soon see the error of his ways.”
“I’m not so sure,” Augusta answered, blowing her nose with a trumpeting blast. “The minx has obviously got some hold over him. Himmel, if she has taken away my boy’s virginity —”
“Now, now, dear lady, do not distress yourself. All will be well, I assure you.”
Red-eyed, she peered at him. “Do you promise me this?”
“I do.”
But as the Earl marched purposefully towards the King’s bedroom, his face was set in a frown. He had never seen his puppet, his infatuated pupil who adored his tutor above all others, in such a mood of furious determination. His creature seemed ready to slip from the iron fist.
‘Pox on the girl,’ thought the Earl as, with only the most token of knocks, he strode into the royal bedchamber.
The King lay face down, fully dressed, and he was weeping, though whether with rage, wretchedness or a combination of the two, Bute was not certain. Yet whatever the cause, the King was ashamed of his tears and wiped his eyes with his sleeve before glancing up.
“Sir,” said the Earl, combining a look of concern with one of asperity, “what can I do to help you?”
“Let me marry Sarah Lennox,” replied George surprisingly.
It was a classic case of a compliant child, always good, always dutiful, finally rebelling against its parent. But Bute stood his ground, knowing that his years of influence could not vanish quite so quickly, that all he must do was weather the storm.
“Indeed I am sure that would bring you much personal joy, Sir,” he answered, and saw the King look at him, not expecting this tack.
“But that is not the lot of Majesty,” Bute continued intoning grandly. “As you once wrote, Sir, you were born for the happiness or misery of a great nation and consequently must often act contrary to your passions. Now, alas, the truth of this remark has finally come home.”
“But why?” said George, sitting up. “Why should marriage to the woman I love be disastrous for the nation? I’ve told you before, dear friend, a British woman would be a popular queen. I am the first truly English King. Born in London and proud of it. The days of German Queens of England should be at an end …”
“Only a foreign princess is of sufficiently high rank,” the Earl persisted. “And only a foreign princess is above British politics. Sir, I put it to you, if you married a Fox your government would be in total disarray.”
“But I love her,” said George, suddenly pathetic. “I cannot face the future without her. She is my destiny.”
“Your destiny is to rule wisely, Sir. You will never do that with the Fox clan pulling the strings.”
“Nobody pulls my strings,” the King retorted furiously. “Nobody, do you hear? Good night to you, Lord Bute.” And he turned his back.
The Earl quite literally rocked-on his feet, stunned that his compliant pupil seemed ready to break free of his fetters at last.
“Good night, Sir. I shall attend you in the morning to discuss what should be done about the Princess Charlotte,” he answered stiffly. And with that Bute bowed and withdrew, much alarmed by the turn of events.
*
Since childhood it had always seemed to Sidonie that the standing stones of Avebury held a magic all their own, that they were warm to the touch whatever the climatic conditions around them. And today, sitting in the hot May sunshine, sheep grazing round her, her back against one of the stones of the inner south circle, she could feel a unique sense of wellbeing only to be found in her home village. Next to her daughter, Jane Brooks had set up her easel and was painting the stones in watercolour, not very well but gallantly, observed by two ladies in summer dresses and hiking boots. Looking at the scene, Sidonie smiled at the Englishness of it all and wished she could stay longer than just a weekend.
“I wonder what the stones were for? Do you know?” one of the visitors was asking Jane, while the other bit firmly into a bar of chocolate.
Sidonie’s mother shook her head. “Nobody does, I’m afraid. But it is generally believed it was a temple or place of worship. It was enormous apparently, with great avenues leading to it. In fact it is the largest circle of its kind in Europe.”
“Gracious, fancy that. I suppose it’s very ancient.”
“Again, nobody’s sure, but it is thought to date from 2500 to 2000 BC.”
“How pagan,” said the chocolate-eater, steadily munching. “Has it anything to do with Silbury Hill, do you know?”
“I should imagine so.”
“What is Silbury?” asked the first one.
“A burial vault,” Sidonie put in dreamily, half asleep as she was. “I’ve always thought it must be.”
“Oh how thrilling. Has it never been excavated?”
“An attempt was made some years ago to bore a tunnel to the centre but it failed,” Jane answered.
“I like that idea,” said the second woman, finishing her chocolate and starting another bar. “So there might still be someone lying in the middle.”
Sidonie slowly opened both eyes. “It’s a queen, I think. Lying in a gold sarcophagus, her skeletal hands crossed on her breast.”
“Ooh, how romantic. You ought to write.”
“I’ve enough problems without that,” the musician answered, and laughed.
“You’re in a funny mood,” said Jane when the walkers had eventually moved on. “Where did you dream up all that queen stuff?”
“It’s Finnan’s fault,” answered her daughter, closing her eyes again. “He’s incurably romantic and believes in a land beyond the mists.”
“Good heavens. How extraordinary.”
“Oh, he’s that all right.”
Jane glanced at Sidonie shrewdly. “He’s got you interested, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell. He was happily married and would be now if his wife hadn’t been killed in a motor accident. He’s been on his own for about three years and I suppose he was getting lonely. I was in the right place at the right time.”
“And that’s all there is to it?”
“If you’re asking if he’s proposed marriage the answer’s no. I enhance his life to a certain extent but no further. And to add to the general hopelessness of the situation he’s off to Canada soon on a research project and that, I suspect, will be that.”
“How very defeatist.”
“Of him or of me?”
“Of both of you. If he’s fond of you he ought to make a move. If you’re in love with him why don’t you tell him so? He might think you’re strictly a career girl.”
Sidonie was wide awake now, sitting up and hugging her knees. “I’m terrified of being rejected. I simply couldn’t bear it if he said thank you but no thank you. I really have fallen for him, I’m afraid; hook, line, sinker, the lot. I know just how Sarah must have felt.”
“Sarah who?”
“Oh, someone I once knew,” Sidonie answered vaguely. “Well, what did she do about it?�
�
“Got herself rejected, though not so much by the man himself, more by his mother.”
“I didn’t know that sort of thing still went on in this day and age.”
Sidonie grinned mischievously, a lovely humorous smile which Jane adored. “It doesn’t much.”
“So you’d rather suffer in silence than risk the congé.”
“What a lovely word that is. I must start using it more often. Yes, I’m afraid that’s the truth. I am too smitten with Finnan to risk pushing my luck.”
Jane sighed. “What complicated times we live in. Bring back the good old Debs Delights and arranged marriages I say.”
“You’re probably right. Into the cattle market at the beginning of the season and out again at the end of it leading a bull by the nose.”
“Not quite how I’d have put it, but yes.”
“You know,” Sidonie said, suddenly serious, “I don’t believe things are really any worse now even though they appear to be. I used to think it was easier in the past, particularly for women in the eighteenth century, but I don’t any more. It was just as difficult for them to make a match with someone they really loved.”
“But there was freedom of choice, wasn’t there?”
“Within strict limits. There was hell to pay if they married anyone considered unsuitable. Look at the row that broke out when Caroline Lennox went off with Henry Fox.”
“What makes you bring them up suddenly?”
Sidonie went slightly pink. “I’ve been reading up on them. They used to live in Holland House, which obviously interests me as the flat’s so near it.”
“And how is the flat?”
“Wonderful. When are you coming up?”
“Very soon. I’m dying to get a look at the Irish doctor.”
“I’ll invite him in, and Jannie. She really is amazing, straight out of a play.”
“Terribly intense?”
“Terribly, but awfully kind and good. I’m sure she’s a reincarnation of Marie Stopes.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Jane, as she began to pack away her painting things. “She sounds unbelievable.”
“The whole place and everybody in it is. It’s almost like living in a dream.”
“What an odd description. Why do you say that? Is the house haunted?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“By whom?”
“A girl like me who was a bit of a fool when it came to men.”
“I agree that you have made one mistake, Sidonie,” Jane answered severely, “but don’t write yourself off for all time. If you are a fool about men, stop being one. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yes, Mother,” said Sidonie, pretending to be chastened, “I’ll mend my ways at once.”
*
Rumour was flying everywhere. Palace gossips, purporting to be in the know, swore that the King had set his heart on Sarah Lennox and that a proposal of marriage was imminent. Others said that this was nonsense, that the Princess of Wales had already sent for a German girl, and that Mr Fox’s hopes would soon be dashed. It was all highly intriguing. At the Drawing Room on 18th June, 1761, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. One gentleman had even gone so far as to have magnifying lenses fixed in his quizzing glass in order that he might note everything of interest that took place.
That morning the two young people at the heart of all this speculation and conjecture felt they hardly knew how to conduct themselves. The King was frantic, informed by his mother that Fox had been ordered to send Lady Sarah out of town and that the girl would most certainly not be present.
In a frenzy of desire and despair the King dressed beautifully, hoping against hope that Sarah would come, determined that if she did he would settle things between them once and for all despite the obstacles his mother would most certainly put in their path. And yet, he realised, to converse privately with Sarah, should she be there, would be almost impossible for his sister Augusta and her lady-in-waiting, Lady Susan Stewart, hovered at his elbow, preparing to listen to every word he said.
“Go away!” hissed George, moved to rudeness by this arrant invasion of his privacy.
“Shan’t!” Augusta replied, every inch her mother’s daughter.
“I order it. If you do not stand aside I shall have you removed,” he countered.
And her brother looked so angry that the Princess thought better of it and, though she continued to remain close by, behaved somewhat more discreetly.
Sarah, when the King finally saw her, seemed to have stepped from a rainbow, wearing soft shimmering colours, her dark hair woven with matching ribbons, her eyes radiant as she looked at him. George knew then that he could never be happy without her, that he must have her for his wife. Not caring that her sister, Lady Emily Kildare, obviously expecting a child but cheerfully flaunting it, was close enough to see and hear, he practically pulled Sarah from her curtsey and remained handfast with her.
“Oh, my dear,” he said emotionally, “I am more than delighted that you are here. I was told you were to go out of town. If you had gone I should have been miserable. For God’s sake think of what I hinted to Lady Susan Fox-Strangeways before you went to the country. You know what I mean, don’t you?” he added in a whisper.
Sarah nodded. “I believe I do.”
In the lowest voice she had ever heard, the King murmured, “Think of it if you love me.”
Then that part of the encounter came abruptly to an end. The beau monde swept up, all craning necks, and even the quietest of conversations became an impossibility. His Majesty, obviously much put out, was seen to be drinking more than usual and Emily, whose child was leaping wildly, forcing her to sit down, became seriously worried as to the outcome of the day. She had never seen anyone more obviously in love than the King, and she had never seen anyone so frustrated at not being able to express it.
‘There’s going to be prodigious trouble,’ she thought and laid her hand to her body to quiet the dancing babe.
The Drawing Room wore on, Sarah surrounded by sycophants, the King never taking his eyes off her, regardless of to whom he was speaking. He was clearly in his cups, albeit moderately, and getting more reckless with each passing minute. Yet even this mood could not come to his aid. As far as Sarah was concerned he could look but not speak as courtier after courtier, some deliberately, others not, crowded in on him seeking the royal attention.
‘He’ll explode in a minute,’ thought Emily, but even she was not prepared for what happened next.
The Drawing Room was reaching its end and soon the King would depart, thus signalling that everyone else should go. A general farewell at this stage was all that was customary but most of those present presumed that this would not be enough in the case of Lady Sarah, and they were not to be disappointed. With his blue eyes blazing adoration, His Majesty swept up to her and caught one of her hands between his.
“For God’s sake remember what I said to Lady Susan before you went to the country, and believe that I have the strongest attachment,” he said loudly, his expression, or so Sarah’s sister described it afterwards, both serious and fervent. Then, without another word, the King left the room to the sound of an audible gasp.
“Was that a proposal?” whispered Emily as they curtsied.
“I believe so.”
“It was couched a mite obscure, if I may venture.”
“I know. His Majesty just will not come out with the words.”
“He had little chance today. That was probably the best he could manage.”
Sarah blushed. “But he and I have been alone —”
Emily’s eyebrows tilted up.
“— and still he said nothing.”
“Then he must be made to do so,” said Lady Kildare firmly. “I shall write to Mr Fox and tell him as much.”
“Oh, Emily, where will this all end?”
“With you ascending the throne of Great Britain and Ireland if I have anything to do with it. Now, let’s get to work.”
&nb
sp; Good as her word, Lady Emily Kildare, despite the lateness of the hour and the fact that she was extremely fatigued, wrote a joint letter to her eldest sister Caroline and Mr Fox and sent it round to Holland House by special messenger. It arrived at exactly thirty minutes before midnight, but Fox, on tenterhooks, was waiting up for it and took the communication to his study where he scanned its contents immediately.
“‘… believe that I have the strongest attachment’,” he read. “The last words were spoken extremely loud, and the whole with the greatest seriousness and fervour.”
“’Zounds and ’Zoodikers,” bellowed the Paymaster into the stillness of the sleeping house. “He must intend to go further. There can be no mistaking this!”
And he charged upstairs to wake his wife and tell her that, at last, the King was in good earnest.
“It’s marriage. Caro. He wants marriage with Sarah.”
“Then why doesn’t he say so?”
“He will. Your sister has no option now but to pin him down.”
And so it was decided, after much family discussion, that on the very next occasion when they spoke alone, Sarah was to ask His Majesty if he could explain himself more fully. It would have been an ordeal for a woman twice her age and the girl found the whole idea thoroughly distasteful and said as much to Susan in a letter which she wrote the day before the next Drawing Room.
“After many pros and cons it is determined I go tomorrow, and that I must pluck up my spirits, and if I am asked if I have thought of what he said —” She crossed the last three words out, “— or approve, to look …” She did not dare put his name for fear the letter might fall into the wrong hands. “… in the face, and with an earnest but good-humoured countenance say that, I don’t know what I ought to think!”
Sarah sighed, wrote some more about all that she was expected to do to draw His Majesty out and then ended, “I am working myself up to consider what depends upon it, that I may me fortifier against it comes — the very thought of it makes me sick in my stomach already. I shall be as proud as the devil, but no matter …”
*
“Good for you,” said Sidonie aloud. “These bloody men!” She read Sarah’s postscripts with a wry smile, thinking how little anything changes.