by Jean Plaidy
She was aware that she lacked the handsome looks of many of the women with whom the King surrounded himself. Lady Conyngham who was always very prominent at all functions might be considerably older than Adelaide, but she knew how to be beautiful by candlelight at least, and she rarely appeared in the bright light of morning. Nor did the King, who was growing more and more conscious of his ageing looks; and all the glittering ornaments and decorations he could put on to his beautifully cut garments could not hide the fact that his body was becoming a grotesque travesty of what it had been in his youth. The swelling in his neck necessitated a neckcloth so vast that it almost suffocated him; there were times when his gout was so painful that he could not put his foot to the ground. But for Christmas he needed to charm his guests, so he was bled – not too profusely this time – and lived very quietly for a few weeks in readiness for the festivities.
Adelaide was a little overwhelmed by the Pavilion – as indeed everyone was who entered it. It changed continuously for the King could not conquer his passion for beautiful objets d’art, nor for building, so there was always something new to be admired and the King took an almost childish delight in his treasures.
The newest acquisition was the wonderful bathroom the pipes of which were connected with the sea. This enabled him to enjoy the sea-water baths which had so delighted him in the days of his prime. When he had first discovered the spot and transformed little Brighthelmstone, the tiny fishing village, into royal and fashionable Brighton, he had taken his dips in. the sea attended by old Smoker – the dipper who respected no person, not even the Prince of Wales, and who had been christened by the Prince himself, the King of Brighton.
Those days were over. The Prince of Wales had become Regent and then King and as he passed from one glorious role to the other he had shed his youth and handsome looks. He had been too fond of indulging his tastes – too much rich food, too much good wine. And women? No, not to excess. He had had many mistresses but he had always deceived himself that he was in love with them. And one thing he had never lost throughout his life was the power to deceive himself.
Adelaide found the ordeal less trying than she had feared, for the King exerted all his magic to make her feel at ease; and since she was at his side so often he had the opportunity of charming her.
Lady Conyngham was very sure of her position, flashing the new sapphire which the King had given her and which was reputed to be part of the State jewels. She was a little arrogant because while she enjoyed occasions like this and, without doubt, the gifts and honours she received as the King’s mistress were well worth having, the King’s growing desire to live in retirement was very tiresome, and there had been times when she wondered whether the disadvantages did not outweigh the advantages.
The fact that the King needed her more than she needed him gave her a sense of such self-importance that being a rather foolish woman she could not help showing it.
She was extremely unpopular among the King’s enemies who looked upon her as a royal extravagance and by his friends who regarded her as a harpy.
Adelaide did not like her, although Lady Conyngham considered Adelaide too insignificant for her notice.
As the days passed Adelaide thought longingly of the simple life at Bushy with the children she had staying with her. Louise must be missing her, though the baby was too young to do so. Perhaps the noisy FitzClarences discussing their always interesting affairs missed her too.
The Pavilion was almost unbearably hot, being overheated because the King felt the cold. In the evenings there was usually a concert in the Music Room, and there the King liked to lie on a couch and listen; consequently the guests were expected to do the same.
The Music Room during a concert, thought Adelaide, with its oriental decor, its almost suffocating heat, its occupants stretched out on sofas, was like a room in a Sultan’s palace. And there, benign, enormous, in complete harmony with the surroundings he had created, lay the Sultan himself – King George IV.
Yes, it would be a great relief to go back to family life at Bushy.
One Step Nearer
IT WAS NOT to be expected that the ambitious Duke and Duchess of Cumberland had cut themselves off from affairs in England. Though it was true that since Queen Charlotte had ordered them to leave the country, they had done so, they had watched what was happening with the greatest interest.
‘Soon,’ Ernest told Frederica, ‘it will be necessary for me to go back.’
‘We have lost the throne for our George,’ replied Frederica sadly. ‘That fat child at Kensington Palace seems as healthy as a child could possibly be.’
‘She may not always remain so.’
‘That’s true. And Adelaide is not going to produce – that much is evident.’
‘I hear that George is very ill. In fact no one would be surprised if he went at any moment. And Frederick is not much better. They are both puffed up with dropsy.’
‘There’s still Clarence.’
‘Curse Clarence! He’s the stumbling block.’
‘No. It’s that fat child, Victoria they are calling her now. And I believe her dear Mamma is giving herself such airs that the family is a little put out with her.’
‘One thing,’ put in Ernest, ‘I shall be a king before I die. King of Hanover. Little Victoria cannot have Hanover. Thanks to the Salic law they’ll not have a woman ruler – not even darling little Victoria.’
‘I’ll swear that infuriated Mamma Kent.’ The Duchess’s lips tightened. ‘And to think that our beautiful George would be King of England were it not for that girl. It’s maddening.’
‘Quite maddening,’ agreed Ernest.
‘And is there nothing that can be done about it?’
They looked at each other cautiously. There were means of preventing precocious children from coming to the throne. There were methods which were unmentionable – even to such as they were; not exactly for moral reasons but because they could never be sure who might overhear them. Besides, such ideas were futile at the moment. That was the point. At the moment.
Kent, Clarence and then Victoria – and if they all failed to reach the throne, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland – with his son George to follow.
It was a brilliant prospect – if it were not for the lives between.
‘The time will come,’ said his Duchess, ‘when it will be necessary for us to go to England.’
‘In due course,’ replied her husband.
And he saw himself – as she saw him – the crown on his head. King of England. And why not? Only two ageing brothers stood between him – and a plump, spoiled little girl, of course.
Adelaide and William had settled down to a quiet domestic life. They had travelled once more on the Continent. She had kept Ida’s children with her and Ida made no complaint; with them and the FitzClarence family she felt that she was indeed a mother. Louise relied on her, was unhappy when not in her company and was even resigned to her affliction for she was sure that it had brought her and Aunt Adelaide closer together.
The romances of the FitzClarence girls – always confided to Adelaide – were a source of continual excitement. Mary was now married to Captain Fox of the Holland family, and Sophia, the eldest of the girls, had announced her engagement to Sir Philip Sydney; only the two younger girls, Augusta and Amelia, were not yet engaged, and they were only twenty-one and eighteen.
‘My word,’ said William, ‘if Dorothy could see her family now, she would be delighted. And there is one thing that would please her more than anything else and that is to see how fond they are of their stepmother.’
Dear William. He might be tactless but he had a good heart; and she must be grateful for it.
He had a great liking for card games and in the evenings would sit playing Pope Joan with Adelaide, Louise and any members of the FitzClarence family who happened to be available. He would chuckle when he won, although the stakes were never more than a shilling a night. How his brothers George and Frederick would have laughed a
t his simple pleasure. But Adelaide found it endearing.
And from her place on the wall Dorothy smiled down on the woman who had taken her place in Bushy House.
The King’s health was deteriorating; he had gone to his cottage at Windsor and was living there in as much seclusion as was possible. He suffered acutely from gout and dropsy and there were times when his legs and feet were so swollen that he could not put them to the ground.
He occupied his time by planning the restoration of the castle which at that time could only be lived in if one was prepared to face the utmost discomfort. The constant interviews with the men he had selected to carry out the task, the vision of what the castle would be like when restored by him, sustained him considerably and made him forget his pains.
But it was not a very happy existence. He hated to be seen by his subjects. Such ridicule had been heaped on him and he had to admit that even the most elegant clothes could do little for the mass of flesh he had become. The desire not to be seen became an obsession. He had trees planted around The Cottage so that no one could see any part of it; and he always had servants stationed at certain spots to prevent any trespassers invading his privacy. He even had certain glades in the forest shut in for his special use; and when he rode back and forth to Brighton and London he did so in a closed carriage, so determined was he not to be seen by his subjects; only his friends, his ministers and those who could not be prevented from seeing him, were allowed to do so.
Art, music, literature still delighted him; and when he was at the Pavilion there were many concerts in the Music Room where he and his guests lay on sofas and were entertained by the greatest musicians of the day. He could be momentarily happy on such occasions and relied on his innate elegance and charm to carry him through; but when he reached the privacy of his apartments and saw his reflection he would be overcome by depression.
Only the thought of beautiful things could give him pleasure, and he could only soothe himself by planning fresh alterations to the Pavilion and Carlton House. But, he thought, shall I be here to enjoy them? Not for long, he feared. But the restored Windsor Castle, the glories of Carlton House and his magnificent Pavilion would be his epitaph. In the generations to come people would say: ‘His subjects reviled him but he was a man of exquisite taste.’
He was worried about Elizabeth Conyngham. She had been acting rather strangely lately. The fact was that he had seen little of her. He had been spending so much time in bed, not rising until the afternoon, and then driving out into the secluded glades of the forest accompanied by very few people; sometimes she was there but not always. And when he questioned her absence he heard that she had a headache, or she was slightly unwell.
When he expressed concern she would visit him and explain that it had only been a slight indisposition and she was well again. But she had changed; and he was alarmed.
He knew her very well. She was a stupid woman really. It was six years since he had deserted Lady Hertford for her and he was not sorry to have parted with that lady; but he had now to admit that the relationship with Elizabeth Conyngham was not what he had hoped for.
He sighed. He needed women – or rather one woman over whom he could sentimentalize. It had always been so, all his life; and now that he was forced to spend so much time incapacitated and could brood on the past he saw so clearly how different life would have been if he had never parted from Maria Fitzherbert. She would have remained faithful to him. She was faithful by nature. It was Maria’s religion which had come between them.
‘Ah,’ he moaned, ‘I never should have parted with her.’
He became morbid picturing how different it would have been if Maria was here in The Cottage now; he could imagine the pleasant domesticity. She would talk to him intelligently – something Elizabeth could not do if she tried – and they would discuss her adopted daughter Minney’s affairs, for Minney would have been his daughter as well as Maria’s. What a comfort she would have been when he had lost Charlotte.
Once he had thought that if he could be rid of Caroline he would be perfectly happy. And now he was – and he was far from content.
Elizabeth Conyngham was handsome; he did not deny it. She had great feminine charm – but she was a fool.
Yet he could not lose her, for if he did he would be without a mistress. Oh, there might be others who would be willing, but he was too romantic to accept what could not at least appear to be romance. What woman could be expected to fall in love with a mountain of flesh that was in a state of rapid decay merely because it wore a crown?
The worst of being intelligent was that one had to face moments of truth like that. And here he was, tired, old and alone – with the truth.
No, his only hope of a little comfort was to keep Elizabeth – at least outwardly – as his mistress. Even if there was no woman to love him, he must delude himself now and then into believing that there was.
Oh, Maria … how different if you were here! Maria was not the woman to turn away because her husband had grown old and ill. That was the difference. He was Maria’s husband and nothing could alter that. Why didn’t Maria realize it? Why didn’t she come back?
It was time to rise. His attendants had come into his bedroom to ask his pleasure. Yes, he would get up.
Later that day he found himself in the company of Madame de Lieven, the wife of the Russian ambassador, a lively woman who although far from beautiful was decidedly fascinating. He was attracted by her and even as he talked to her and considered the defections of Elizabeth Conyngham he was wondering whether it might not add some spice to life to begin a courtship of her. That of course would infuriate Elizabeth and it would give him some pleasure to do that.
Madame de Lieven, who loved gossip, had noticed that the relationship between the King and Lady Conyngham was a little strained and she thought how amusing it would be to discover the truth of the matter and to pass it on to her friends. She loved writing letters and was proud of her reputation for having intimate knowledge of scandals, royal and otherwise.
She it was who brought up the subject of Lady Conyngham.
‘I see that she is not present this evening, Sir.’
‘I believe her to be suffering from some slight indisposition.’
‘Is that so? I saw her but yesterday and she seemed extremely well.’
‘Then perhaps her health has deteriorated since then.’
‘She was most animated,’ went on Madame de Lieven, ‘and greatly enjoying the company.’
There was an insinuation in Madame de Lieven’s manner which made the King feel that he must pursue this.
‘It was excellent company, no doubt.’
‘The most excellent … at least so much was evident from Lady Conyngham’s manner. Lord Ponsonby, you know, has returned from Corfu. He was present. I believe that he and Lady Conyngham were once old friends.’
Lord Ponsonby! thought the King. He had heard when he had first become friendly with Elizabeth that Ponsonby had been one of her lovers. He had not paid a great deal of attention. A woman like Elizabeth would be certain to have had many lovers.
And Ponsonby was back in England and Elizabeth was suffering from constant minor ailments which prevented her from sharing the King’s company as frequently as in the past.
‘Ponsonby is a most handsome man,’ went on Madame de Lieven mischievously.
‘I have heard that opinion expressed before. Was his wife with him?’
‘No. She was not present on this occasion. So … he had more opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with old friends.’
Stupid Elizabeth, he thought. Did she think he would not hear? And if she wanted to go … let her. She was a foolish woman in any case.
‘He is a clever fellow, this Ponsonby.’
‘He is said to be.’
The King was silent for a while and then he went on: ‘Madame de Lieven, I can talk to you very confidentially.’
‘Sir, I am honoured.’
‘I have always respect
ed your intellect, Madame de Lieven, which is a great attraction when one is surrounded by somewhat stupid people.’
‘Stupid people, Sir?’
‘A stupid woman,’ said the King in a sudden anger against Elizabeth Conyngham because his gout had started to be very painful and Elizabeth did not care and he should never have allowed Maria Fitzherbert to leave him.
‘Your Majesty cannot be referring to … Lady Conyngham?’
‘I am,’ said the King shortly.
‘But … she is Your Majesty’s very good friend. I believed … and so did others …’
‘Things are not always as they seem. I find the woman a stupid bore. She is handsome, physically attractive but mentally she is an ignoramus; she bores me with her chatter. I am tired … tired … tired …’
‘Your Majesty!’
He laid his hand over hers. She was an attractive woman. She was a woman of the world. She did not possess the fair good looks which he had always admired, but her conversation and wit would make up for her lack of beauty. Not that she was an unattractive woman by any means. There were rumours of her very romantic relationship with Prince Metternich. She was elegant and worldly.
Yes, he would be pleased to replace Lady Conyngham by her.
Madame de Lieven was alarmed. She had merely been maliciously amused by the King’s mistress who couldn’t make up her mind what to do – stay with the King and enjoy the glory or leave the King and enjoy herself. The silly empty-headed creature had been debating that for some time; but she would not do so much longer because the handsome Ponsonby, romantic figure from the past, had come forward to make up her mind for her.
Poor King! thought Madame de Lieven. But no woman in her right senses would agree to become his mistress just because Elizabeth Conyngham had decided she was bored with the job. And that it was indeed boring Madame de Lieven was well aware. He was leading the life of an invalid – bed till the afternoon, a little drive in the forest, cards. Ugh! thought Madame de Lieven.
‘I have long admired your elegance and wit,’ said the King.