by Jean Plaidy
‘I don’t despair of a divorce.’
‘And she had the impertinence to accost Augusta. I don’t blame Augusta. She speaks no English. She did not understand that I … that we … that you … have forbidden her to come to Court.’
The Regent looked uncomfortable. He had not forbidden Cumberland’s wife to come to Court. He had met her once or twice and thought her an exciting woman. It was the Queen who had refused to receive her. But he did not intend to raise controversial issues now.
The Queen said: ‘That she had dared do this so … upset me. It brought on this attack. It was such … defiance.’
The Regent nodded sadly. He had been reminded of Caroline and once he got that woman into his head he could not get her out. He had sent his spies into her household on the Continent; there was an Italian, Bergami … a kind of majordomo. Was that man her lover? If he was there was every hope that he could divorce her; and then … he would marry again. Some fresh young princess, as exciting as Frederica, Duchess of Cumberland, as beautiful as Augusta, Duchess of Cambridge. Why should his brothers be married to women like that while he had the nauseating Caroline … for more than twenty years he had been tied to her. The years of my youth wasted! he thought dramatically.
‘And,’ the Queen was saying, ‘I cannot allow it to pass. I want to show them my disapproval. I am sure you will approve of this. I am sure you will not wish me to be aggravated by the continued presence of that woman in the country.’
‘Dearest Madre,’ he said, ‘anything that soothes you must be done.’
A triumphant smile gave a grotesque look to the Queen’s yellowish face.
‘I will let Ernest know that he is expected to leave England with his wife … immediately. And that is an order.’
‘So,’ said Frederica, ‘we are ordered to leave.’
Ernest grimaced. ‘And you have only yourself to blame for that, my dear. Your curiosity got the better of you.’
‘But not of Augusta. The girl would not give away her secrets.’
‘So your little encounter was a wasted effort.’
‘Such efforts are never really wasted. I shall not be sorry to go back to Germany. Although, of course, this is the field of action and when the brides of Clarence and Kent arrive the battle will really begin.’ She laughed. ‘But one doesn’t have to be in England to produce the future King. That is what your dear Mamma seems to forget. And although I should have enjoyed staying for a while in Claremont, which Leopold so graciously offered to us, I am not really sorry to go home.’
‘In Germany we have to rely on news from England.’
‘Don’t worry, as soon as one of the contestants is pregnant we shall hear. But I intend to forestall them; and once I am to bear the future King of England even my wicked old aunt won’t be able to keep me out.’
‘Speed the day,’ said Ernest.
‘I have a feeling that it will not be long in coming. And Augusta … I think she was … or will soon be. But what chance will hers have against ours? How clever of you, my Ernest, to get born before Cambridge.’
‘Cleverer still if I’d managed to outdo Clarence and Kent.’
‘Never mind. It makes the fight all the more interesting when the odds are against you.’
But for all she said, Frederica was chagrined to be so dismissed from England by her malevolent old aunt.
Double Wedding at Kew
ADELAIDE WAS APPREHENSIVE. This was a different marriage from Ida’s. Ida had been in love and able to return home easily, whereas she was so far away that they could not visit each other comfortably. There was something final about crossing the sea.
The Duchess Eleanor was uneasy too. It was for this reason that she had refused a proxy wedding and was determined to accompany her daughter to England; she was glad that she had von Effa and von Konitz with her, for she was sure that she would need their services.
Adelaide was on deck when land was sighted. She stood, her eyes shielded, waiting for the moment when her new country would be more than a hazy white cliff in the distance. Her mother came to stand beside her.
‘Very soon now, Adelaide,’ she said, ‘you will be stepping ashore … on to your new land. It is a solemn moment.’
‘A very solemn moment,’ agreed Adelaide.
‘The Duke of Clarence will be waiting to greet you … impatiently.’
Impatiently? wondered Adelaide. She had heard rumours that he had refused to marry because the allowance Parliament offered was not large enough. So could he be said to be impatient?
And he was fifty-two. He had been notorious for his love affairs – like most of his brothers. He had lived for twenty years with a charming actress. And there had been other women. What would he think of a plain young woman whose appearance had not been enhanced by a long sea voyage? She hoped he would not be there to greet them. A little respite would be desirable.
Now she could see the land more clearly. Away to the right were the treacherous Goodwin Sands where many a ship had foundered. She had heard that sailors on watch at night declared they could hear the cries of those long dead who had been swallowed by the Sands. And here were the white cliffs of Dover and St Margaret’s Bay.
Nearer and nearer came the land. They came ashore at a little fishing village called Deal.
When she discovered that no member of the royal family was waiting at Deal, the Duchess Eleanor was annoyed. Was this the way to greet the princess who might be the mother of a king? She had heard that the royal family treated its new members churlishly; and they were having proof of this.
I am glad I insisted on accompanying my daughter, she thought.
Poor Adelaide. She looked pale, tired and in no mood to face a bridegroom who might be critical. As she might well be of him, thought Duchess Eleanor grimly.
How much better, how much more civilized if he had had the grace to come and woo her as the Duke of Kent had the Princess Victoria, who would be arriving in England at the same time. There was to be a double wedding. But she was not coming to a stranger, as poor Adelaide was. It seemed that there had been a courtship, and the Duke of Kent and his Victoria already had an affection for each other.
I would rather have had Kent for Adelaide, thought Eleanor, although Clarence undoubtedly has the first chance.
Out of the little houses which straggled along the front the people came to see the arrival of the Princess from Saxe-Meiningen. ‘Another German,’ they murmured. ‘Always Germans.’ But it was an exciting time with so many royal weddings; and Deal was pleased that Adelaide had first come to their town.
The dignitaries of the town were there to greet her – but no bridegroom, nor any member of his family. The speech of welcome was difficult to understand, but Adelaide had been assiduously studying her English since she knew she was to marry the Duke of Clarence and it was the Kentish accent which made the words unintelligible.
But if there was not a royal welcome there was at least a bed and hot food; and what Adelaide felt she needed more than anything was a good night’s sleep.
They put up at an inn near the sea and although it was July the wind rattled her windows all night and she could hear the waves crashing on the shingle below. She slept fitfully and her mother came into her room soon after dawn and sat on her bed and looked at her somewhat fearfully.
‘The journey has only just begun, Mamma,’ she said.
The Duchess nodded. ‘I wondered whether we should come ashore when I realized that they had sent no one to welcome us.’
‘The people of Deal were kind.’
‘That at least is something to be grateful for, but I’ll swear they are astonished that we should be treated so churlishly. I have been informed though that they have sent two coaches in which we and our suite may travel to London.’
‘At least we should be grateful for that,’ said Adelaide.
That day they set out in the coaches for Canterbury where they passed a night and the next day left for London.
No
one cheered them on their way; no one was aware that the young woman who was seated in the leading carriage with her mother and two ladies-in-waiting might one day be their Queen.
No lodgings had been assigned to them so they drove to Albemarle Street and there put up at Grillon’s Hotel.
Von Konitz was angry; he discussed with von Effa what move should be made. It was an incongruous situation. The bride of a royal Duke to arrive and no one to greet her!
He would despatch a message to the Prince Regent without delay.
Meanwhile Adelaide was shown to a room in the hotel and when she looked in the glass at her pale face with the somewhat muddy complexion she was relieved that there had been no one to meet them. There were shadows under her eyes which looked strained; they were never very strong at the best of times. Her hair was fair, though not golden or flaxen as Ida’s had been but yellowish, almost lemon colour. She needed a little time to recover from the strain of the journey.
And even when I have, I wonder what he will think of me? she asked herself.
So she was here, thought Clarence.
He had heard that she had arrived in Deal with her mother and that was two days ago. She had spent a night in Canterbury and was now at Grillon’s Hotel.
There was no turning back.
It was strange that he who had been trying to get married ever since he had said goodbye to Dorothy Jordan was now on the verge of undertaking that adventure – and had no great desire for it.
He was not anxious to see her for some reason. He kept thinking of Dorothy and that night when he had first seen her as Little Pickle on the stage of Drury Lane. What a delightful creature she had been! Many believed her to have been the most charming woman in England. She had grown fat and they had quarrelled – and all about money. That was the only real disagreement between them. How happy they had been in the early days of their association! Here at Bushy all the children had been born and grown up. His children, on whom he doted.
His new wife would have to understand that he had no intention of giving up his children. They were Dorothy’s legacy to him; he loved them; he was proud of them; and they had been brought up to know that he was their father.
He hoped it had all been explained to her that when she married him she would have to accept his ten illegitimate children.
He believed she would; he had received one or two letters from her when they had been betrothed and he was impressed by the good sense with which she wrote.
He had said to George FitzClarence, his eldest son: ‘I think we shall get along well with your stepmother. She seems a sensible woman. I don’t think she’ll be over-dazzled by the prospect of becoming the Duchess of Clarence.’
No, she would accept the family; she, who came from a tiny dukedom must be overawed at the prospect of marrying a son of the King of England. He often thought of himself as a future King of England, for neither George’s health nor that of Frederick was very good – and if they died … without heirs … he would be King William, and Adelaide would not be unaware of that.
She was in her twenty-sixth year. It was quite young – at least when compared with a man over fifty. He should be looking forward eagerly to the nuptials. But was he? He was not sure. He had set his heart on Miss Wykeham. But of course that would have been unsuitable; but what a jolly, bouncing, healthy female Miss Wykeham was! He believed she would have presented him with a son at the earliest possible moment.
But he must forget her; he must do his duty. It was what he had said to Dorothy at their parting; and he would not forget that in a hurry either. In any case there was the family to remind him.
They would live at Bushy, dear Bushy, which was more like a gentleman’s country house than a palace, but none the worse for that. Bushy would be their home then and the ten FitzClarences her stepsons and daughters.
We must start as we intend to go on, he told himself and going to the window and seeing his son George in the park with his brother, Frederick, bawled in the voice he had used at sea: ‘George! Hi, George! Come here. I want to speak to you.’
If the servants heard they would shudder. That was not the manner in which the Prince Regent – that arbiter of good manners – summoned people to his presence. But William was a rough sailor and had no intention of changing his manners. People must get used to them. They should be by now.
George came and stood before him. William’s eyes grew sentimental as he looked at his eldest son. He was very handsome in his military uniform. He had a look of Dorothy about him, and William flattered himself – for George was very attractive – he was not without a resemblance to his father.
‘George,’ he said, ‘your new stepmother is at Grillon’s. Go and welcome her.’
‘You mean I’m to go?’
‘Why not? You’re her stepson.’
‘Won’t she expect to see you?’ The FitzClarence children never stood on ceremony with their father although, regarding themselves as royal, they could be arrogant enough with others.
‘It may be she will; but she will see her stepson instead.’
‘What about her mother and the statesmen they’ve brought with them? Will they be pleased?’
‘It’s a gesture, you see. It’s like saying to her: See, this is your new family. I want her to understand that she’s to be a stepmother as well as a wife.’
George thought it a good idea that she should be made aware of the importance of the FitzClarence children in their father’s life and said he would set out at once.
William watched him leave.
In due course, he said to himself, I shall put in an appearance. Poor girl, she must be overwrought. An ordeal to come to marry a stranger. She must be terrified of the impression she may make on me.
It did not occur to William to wonder what impression he might make on her. He was, after all, third son of the King, with a fair chance of wearing the crown.
George FitzClarence arrived at Grillon’s and was conducted to a room where he was received by Adelaide and the Duchess Eleanor.
He announced himself: ‘George FitzClarence, son of the Duke. He suggested I should come to welcome you.’
The Duchess Eleanor’s face was a mask of disapproval, but Adelaide smilingly held out her hand.
‘You are the eldest son.’
‘Yes – and there are ten of us – five boys and five girls – even numbers, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Adelaide. ‘Even numbers will be easy to remember.’
‘My father wants to present us all to you.’
‘And I shall be eager to meet you all.’
‘We’re not all at Bushy at the moment. The girls are most anxious to meet you.’
‘All five of them?’ asked Adelaide.
The Duchess Eleanor could not understand her daughter. This was an affront. Was the Duke of Clarence deliberately trying to insult Adelaide? The idea of sending the son of his mistress to greet his future wife!
And Adelaide did not seem to see this. She was talking to this FitzClarence man – who could only be a year or so younger than she was herself – as though she found his conversation entertaining and there was nothing disgraceful in his being here.
‘Tell me about your brothers and sisters,’ Adelaide was saying.
‘There’s Henry, a year younger than I. He’s in the Army now although he did join the Navy at first. Following in Father’s footsteps, you might say. But he didn’t care for it and transferred to the Army. There’s Frederick – also a soldier and the handsome one of the family. Adolphus is in the Navy, and then there is Augustus. He’s the youngest boy and is only thirteen, although Amelia is the youngest of us all, aged eleven.’
‘And the girls?’
‘Sophia, Mary, Elizabeth, Augusta and Amelia.’
‘I feel I know something of the family already.’
‘My father will be pleased. He said he wanted you to like us.’
‘Did he say that?’
The Duchess Eleanor said: ‘I believe
someone is arriving. I should hope it is the Duke of Clarence.’
‘I hardly think so … yet,’ said George FitzClarence and strode to the window.
The manners of these people! thought the Duchess Eleanor. Is this what my daughter is expected to endure in England?
‘Oh, it’s Uncle George,’ announced FitzClarence. ‘My namesake.’
‘Uncle George …’ stammered Adelaide.
‘The Prince Regent,’ announced George.
Now the Duchess Eleanor could not complain of the lack of good manners.
He had entered the room – a glittering personage, his diamond star blazing on his mulberry velvet coat, his white buckskin breeches gleaming, his chins carefully hidden by the swathed silk of his cravat; his nut-brown wig was an elegant mass of curls; the most delicate of perfumes came from him; and his bow was a masterpiece of perfection.
He held out both hands – delicately white, discreetly flashing with diamonds – in a gesture of informal friendliness.
‘My dear dear sister. So you have come to us at last.’
The little nose was humorous, the eyes shrewd. He – that connoisseur of feminine beauty was thinking: Poor William, she’s a plain little thing and her complexion is very bad.
Maria Fitzherbert’s complexion had been the most dazzling in the world – completely naturally so. He had noticed it the first time he had seen her on the towpath near Richmond, years and years ago. And her hair was golden like the corn in August. This young woman reminded him of Maria by what she lacked.
Poor William!
But he said: ‘Enchanting! Enchanting! And I trust you are well looked after here?’
‘Your Highness is gracious,’ said the Duchess Eleanor. ‘The Duke of Clarence has not yet called but he sent his … this gentleman … to welcome us.’
The Regent gave a surprised look in the direction of George FitzClarence. What a tactless fool William was! If there was a wrong thing to do William could be relied upon to do it.
Well, he would save the situation as he was well able to do; he was delighted to see that even the mother was in awe of him. So charmingly he set them at their ease and chatted light-heartedly about the family, what they must see in England, how delighted he was that they had come.