by Jean Plaidy
It would be, she said, a sort of royal progress.
A royal progress! The phrase appealed to William.
Trust Adelaide to think of the right thing. How she had developed under his guidance. To think that when he married her he had believed that the alliance with the House of Hanover might have gone to her head. No, she was steady and reliable, his Adelaide; and he couldn’t have had a better wife.
He was very pleased with life. But he would be more pleased when the crown was placed on his head and he was proclaimed King of England.
The Duchess of Cumberland had joined her husband and his son George was with her. George was immediately taken into Adelaide’s circle of young people and the boy was charmed with his aunt. He was given presents and made to feel very welcome and his parents looked on with amusement.
They were staying at Windsor where the Duke of Cumberland had become the closest confidant of the King. The Duchess too was often in his company: he found her clever and amusing.
Lady Conyngham was not very pleased with the Cumberlands. She had been contemplating leaving the King and would have done so if she could have found a means of effecting it easily; but now that she saw her place being usurped by the Duchess of Cumberland she was angry.
The King was very old, she reasoned. He could not live much longer. She should remain with him until the end now. There might be quite a few perquisites to fall into her hand for the King was very lavish with his jewellery and who would be able to say whether such and such a piece had been given to her or not.
No, she was going to stay to the end and she was not going to be pushed out by the Duchess of Cumberland.
The Cumberlands carried a sinister aura wherever they went. No one could quite forget that during their past they had both been suspected of murder.
They had a standard of morals all their own. They were undoubtedly allies, yet that did not mean that they were faithful to each other.
The Duke of Cumberland was known to be engaged in a haison with Lady Graves; the Duchess did not object in the least; and in fact had the King not been so old and incapable of such conduct, she would most certainly have attempted to become his mistress.
They understood and they had one aim which made any other desire that might come to them of the greatest insignificance. They wanted the throne of England – first for the Duke and then for their son George.
The situation amused them. An ailing king with clearly a short time to live and when he was dead between them was merely William (Silly Billy as they called him) and Victoria.
If the situation had been straightforward, if there had been no lives between, they could not have experienced the same stimulation and exhilaration which the present state of affairs gave rise to.
When they were together they discussed the way things were going.
‘William,’ said the Duke, ‘is playing straight into our hands.’
‘Trust William.’
‘Behaving like an idiot. He can scarcely open his mouth without showing his impatience for George’s death.’
‘That may upset George, but however upset he is he can’t alter the succession.’
Her husband’s eyes narrowed. ‘Successions can be altered.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘Our father was put away; he went into retirement and George became King – in all but name.’
‘You can’t mean they would put William away?’
‘Why not … if he behaved like a madman?’
‘But he’s just a fool.’
‘There is a very fine line between folly like his and madness.’
‘You would never get others to see that point.’
‘Then, my dear, it will be my job … our job … to make them.’
Frederica laughed. However much she might be attracted by other men and Ernest by other women, they still found each other the most exciting person in the world.
‘A terrible misfortune has come to the country,’ said the King, holding a handkerchief to his eyes. ‘I have just had word that Canning is dead.’
Lady Conyngham was scarcely listening. She was bored with politics; but she was glad of course that the King was confiding in her instead of in the Cumberlands. He had just received the news and was very upset about it.
He rambled on: ‘Of course there was a time when I was set against him. He was very friendly with the Princess of Wales.’ (He never thought of Caroline as the Queen; to him she remained the Princess of Wales.) ‘At the time of the Delicate Investigation he was visiting her frequently; and when the Bill of Pains and Penalties was brought forward he was on her side. Some said he was her lover. Who knows? With that woman one could never be sure of anything. And when he became my Foreign Secretary I don’t mind saying now that I could not endure the fellow. But that changed. He had such good taste; he was the sort of man with whom I could find an understanding. No, I cannot believe that he could ever have been the lover of that creature. One did not have to spell things out with him. He had a quick mind; a great eloquence; he was one of the most brilliant men of our day.’
Lady Conyngham yawned and wondered whether to have her sapphires reset with the new diamonds the King had given her, or wear them as they were. Canning’s death meant nothing to her.
‘And now he is dead,’ went on the King. ‘I have lost a good friend as well as a great minister. And what can I do but ask myself what would Canning have wished me to do in such sad circumstances? He would have wished me to send for men whom he trusted. That is so. Don’t you agree with me, my dear?’
‘Oh yes, I agree,’ said Lady Conyngham.
In accordance with what Canning would have wished the King sent for Lord Goderich and offered him the office of Prime Minister.
But it was soon clear that Goderich was no Canning; the choice was a bad one and ‘The Goody’ as the press called Goderich was soon in difficulties.
A few months after his appointment he called to see the King and in tears informed him that he could no longer carry on.
‘My dear fellow,’ said the King, ‘then you must resign.’
With that he passed Goody his handkerchief to dry his eyes and decided that there was nothing to be done but call in the Duke of Wellington.
One of the most romantic men in the country was Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. After the battle of Waterloo it was inevitable that he should be the country’s hero. Who had rid them of the enemy Napoleon, the villain who had cast a shadow over Europe for so long? The answer was Wellington. Nelson had beaten the Corsican at Trafalgar but he was still able to plague Europe for ten long years after that. But with Waterloo came the eclipse of the arrogant conqueror. Everyone must admire Wellington if he were the most ill-favoured man in England. But he was not. Tall and spare of figure, with aquiline nose and keen grey eyes, always immaculately dressed, he was not only handsome but, also romantic.
He was married, and the story was that he had married out of chivalry. As a young man he had fallen in love and the lady of his choice, Kitty Pakenham, had declined his offer of marriage at which he had gone away and devoted himself to his career in the Army. When he had gone Kitty regretted having let him go and decided to mourn her loss for the rest of her life. Some years later the news of this reached him and being the romantic man of chivalry he wrote to her and asked her to marry him.
‘I have been a victim of the smallpox,’ she wrote. ‘I am very different from the girl you wished to marry. I have lost my looks and you would be shocked if you saw me. Do you still wish to marry me?’
There was only one reply a chivalrous man could make and he made it. It was not for her beauty alone that he had wanted to marry her. So they were married and he was soon regretting his impulsive action; and when the war was over and he came into politics and made the acquaintance of the fascinating Mrs Arbuthnot he was more in the latter’s company than that of his Duchess. But so discreet was he that although it was considered appropriate when inviting the Duke to invite Mrs
Arbuthnot too and to place them side by side at dinner, no one was absolutely certain whether or not she was his mistress.
There was Mr Arbuthnot, that very respectable Tory gentleman, who was one of the Duke’s greatest friends, and surely this could not have been the case if the Duke had taken his wife?
Of course Mr Arbuthnot was years older than his beautiful wife; and she was a strikingly intelligent and intellectual woman. Mr Arbuthnot himself said that ministers discussed State affairs before her – not only because they could trust her discretion but because she often had valuable advice to offer.
So it was with the Duke. He could talk to Mrs Arbuthnot; he enjoyed her company as he could no one else’s; and the poor doting Duchess, who had been married for chivalry, must accept this and make the best of it. She was half blind in any case and declared often that she could not see her husband’s ‘precious’ face as clearly as she would like. She had her sons whom she adored and who treated her without respect, obliging her to fetch and carry for them and generally making a slave of her. But all this she accepted as she did the Duke’s attitude towards her, for he, accustomed to commanding an army, liked to issue orders as to how the house was to be run and the guests entertained.
It was to Mrs Arbuthnot he turned when he was selected as Prime Minister.
She was delighted, of course, and certain of his success.
‘A Ministry with Wellington and Robert Peel as its leading lights,’ she cried, ‘is certain to be a great one.’
William was delighted at the appointment of Wellington.
‘A great hero,’ he told Adelaide. ‘I have always admired him – almost as much as I did my dear friend and colleague, Nelson. The talks we had! There was a man! One of the greatest England has ever known. I was at his wedding. Ah, he thought he’d done a very fine thing when he married Frances Nesbit. It was one of the few mistakes he ever made.’
‘He was openly unfaithful to her,’ said Adelaide.
‘Ah, but with a fellow like Nelson you have to make allowances. He was not a promiscuous man. And Lady Hamilton was a fascinating woman … fascinating! The greatest sailor … and Wellington the greatest soldier! Mind you, I never thought the Army was so important to the country as the Navy.’
‘Spoken like a sailor,’ said Adelaide with a smile.
‘A great fellow for reforms, Nelson. He was one of the few commanding officers who spared a thought for the men. He used to say, “Look after the men and they’ll look after England.” It’s true – and by God, Adelaide, that’s what I intend to do. Now I think promotion should be given by merit. There is too much command given through influence. Nelson was against it. He would talk for hours about the disaster that sort of thing had brought to the Navy. I want to pension off some of the older men so that I can have a chance of bringing the younger ones forward. That’s how it has to be. This means money but I shall put the plan before the Treasury.’
‘I am sure,’ said Adelaide, ‘that you are going to reform the Navy.’
William was delighted. He saw himself as the great reformer.
Admiral Sir George Cockburn was scarlet with rage.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘Our Lord High Admiral going over our heads to the Treasury. Promising pensions without consulting the committee! What does he imagine he is? Dictator of the Navy? Why does he think the Board has been set up? To take orders from him?’
The Board agreed with Sir George.
‘Doesn’t he know why this office has been created? It’s to give him some standing in case – which God forbid – he should inherit the throne! Reviewing the Navy in the Royal Sovereign! Harmless in its way but unnecessary expense. But when he sets up his own rules and attempts to carry them out without referring to the Board, that, Gentlemen, is something we cannot endure. Now he has set up a commission on gunnery – about which we have not been consulted. I think we have him here. He has far exceeded his power. I shall have to inform him of this and humbly – I suppose – beg His Royal Highness to toe the line.’
Sir George was not a humble man. He was a sailor and accustomed to speaking his mind.
‘The fellow’s crazy,’ he said. ‘Ever since the death of the Duke of York the possibility of his own position has gone to his head. Gentlemen, it is agreed that I write to the Lord High Admiral and convey to him the displeasure of the Board and inform him that he must desist from taking any action of importance to the Navy without consulting it?’
This was unanimously agreed.
The fact that William was at loggerheads with the Board of Admiralty was soon common knowledge.
The Duke of Cumberland, meeting Sir George Cockburn, casually alluded to the matter.
‘Trouble with my brother William, I hear?’
‘His Highness is over zealous,’ said Sir George with a rare caution.
‘Oh, you call it that. I have heard it said that William is just a little mad.’
Sir George relaxed. ‘It might seem so from his actions.’
‘We have to watch William,’ said the Duke confidentially. ‘We have often said – in the family – that we feared he might go the way of his father.’
Sir George was pleased. By God, he thought, Cumberland is right. And we don’t want a madman running the Navy … or trying to.
When William received Sir George’s letter he was furious.
‘Upstart!’ he cried, forgetting Sir George’s long record. ‘Who the hell does he think he’s ordering? I’ll have him know that the Lord High Admiral is not taking orders from him!’
He hoisted his flag on the Royal Sovereign and set off along the coast to continue his grand tour which had been interrupted by the death of Prime Minister Canning; and in this again he was defying rules, for he should have asked the Board’s permission before taking the Royal Sovereign.
Once again there came a letter of protest from Sir George.
Now the battle had begun in earnest.
He rapped Sir George across the knuckles in a manner which the Admiral found intolerable.
Your letter does not give me displeasure but concern to see one I had kept when appointed to this situation of Lord High Admiral constantly opposing what I consider good for the King’s service.
It was too much to be borne. Here was this fool – for Sir George could call him nothing else – who had been given this office simply because he was the heir apparent, believing that he could come in and take command over experienced sailors. Now he had had the temerity and insolence to tell Sir George Cockburn that he had allowed him to remain, as though he, occupying the sinecure – for it was nothing else – of Lord High Admiral had control over all the British Navy!
He was indeed a madman.
There was only one action to be taken. Sir George must appeal to the Prime Minister, with whom William was already in correspondence demanding the dismissal of Sir George Cockburn. He wished, he said, that Rear-Admiral the Honourable Sir Charles Paget be appointed in his place.
There was nothing Wellington could do but lay this letter before the King, who was extremely irritated by his brother’s folly.
It was inevitable that Cumberland should be at hand when the letter arrived. He had been expecting it. He believed that his pointed observations towards Cockburn had strengthened him in his determination to stand no nonsense from William – not that he would not have stood firm in any case; but the fact that one of the royal brothers believed William to be suffering from a touch of the late King’s malady was added support.
William could not have played better into Cumberland’s hands. But then, it was because of William’s nature that the idea had come to deal with him in this manner.
‘You look weary, George,’ said Cumberland. ‘Disturbing news?’
‘It’s William.’ The King passed the Duke of Wellington’s letter to his brother.
‘Conflict between Sir George and our Lord High Admiral, eh?’
‘William has no sense,’ said the King.
‘A very true s
tatement, alas.’
‘Sometimes I wonder what he’ll do next.’
‘What’s going to happen about this?’
‘I hope Wellington will be able to sort it out. William can be stubborn as a mule. I shall have to write to him and explain, I suppose. Oh, what a bore.’
‘And so unnecessary when there are important State matters with which to concern yourself.’
‘He’s a good fellow, William. He just has a genius for being ridiculous. It was always the same. That long affair with Dorothy Jordan meant that she kept him in order; and now Adelaide does much for him. He is lucky with his women.’
The King sighed – ready to begin an account of his own misfortunes in that direction. But Cumberland was not interested in that. This affair between William and Sir George Cockburn was not over yet. It must become common knowledge. It must be discussed in public. The press would use it, of course. He must make sure that they did so in the correct way.
William is going mad, that was the theme. Who but a man who was not quite balanced would behave as he did? People only had to remember his ridiculous behaviour in the past; his attempts to get married; his long, rambling speeches in the House of Lords; and now he believed, because some high order had been pinned on him, that he could command the dismissal of George Cockburn, the King’s own Privy Councillor, himself appointed to give advice to the Lord High Admiral.
Like the late King, William was capable of the wildest actions.
There were new stakes in the betting clubs. They concerned the Duke of Clarence.
What were the odds against his being in a strait-jacket before George’s reign was over?
And then … the little Princess Victoria.
Yes, thought the Duke of Cumberland sourly, and then the Princess Victoria.
Those were days of speculation.
The King was not expected to live, but he had been in that state for several years. He had the constitution of an ox, it was said. No other man could have endured all the dosing and bleeding he had suffered and still be alive. He had led a life of indulgence; he had eaten unwisely and drunk too much; he had kept late hours; he had burdened himself with debts and they must have caused him anxiety; his adventures with women were notorious. He had married Maria Fitzherbert morganatically and his marriage with Queen Caroline had been the most extraordinary in the life of British royalty. He ought to have died years ago – but he still lived on, near death one day and the next in excited consultation with architects planning improvements to Carlton House and the Pavilion, Buckingham House and Windsor Castle, in addition to which he was conferring with Nash whose Regent Street, Carlton House Terrace and terraces of Regent’s Park he declared to be some of the finest architecture in the world.