Mrs. Trent came to say goodbye to me before they left.
“I reckon you’re glad to see the back of us,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she almost leered at me. “Now,” she went on, “the real wedding can begin.”
I watched them leave and felt quite glad because they were no longer under our roof.
The carriages started to leave and we stood at the door waving to them as they clip-clopped off into the darkness.
Then David slipped his arm through mine, and together we went to the bridal chamber in which so many of my mother’s family had spent the first night of their married lives.
The Return
I WAS HAPPY. My doubts had disappeared. David was so kind, so tender and considerate, so eager to do everything which would please me. We slipped from a long and companionate friendship to a more intimate relationship, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I had left my innocence behind me and I was glad.
When I awoke on the morning after my wedding day, David was sleeping. He had changed subtly as I supposed I had. He had ceased to be the quiet young man absorbed in serious matters. He was passionately in love with me, and I was very happy that he should be. We had always been the best of friends, but this new closeness was a comfort to me. I felt happy and secure. I believed that I was learning to know David as I had never known him before; and I daresay he felt the same about me. I had always been intrigued by that phrase in the Bible which I think says: “He came unto her and knew her.” I understood now what that meant. David came unto me and I knew David and he knew me, and we were miraculously united.
When David awoke and found me studying him, he returned my gaze with a kind of wonderment. We embraced. I knew that he felt the same as I did, and that we did not need words to express our thoughts. That was part of the new relationship which was springing up between us.
My mother studied me anxiously. I must have looked radiant for her fears vanished immediately. She held me very closely and said: “I am so glad, my dearest. Now you are going to be happy.”
She looked very like her old self as she stood waving us off.
What happy days they were! London had always excited me; the bustle, the carriages with the fine ladies and gentlemen riding in them; the shops full of exciting merchandise; the link boys when it was dark; the vitality of it all.
And now to be here with David, making plans as to how we should spend the day, seemed absolute bliss.
We stayed at the family house in Albemarle Street, so in a way it was like being at home; but it was the first time we had ever had the house to ourselves. I felt very grown-up and fancied the servants treated me with a very special deference because of my newly-entered-into marital state.
Then began one of the happiest weeks of my life—which is what a honeymoon should be, of course. I was determined to enjoy every moment, and during that time all my doubts had disappeared. I was sure I had made the perfect marriage.
There were so many interesting things to do. We liked to wander through the streets, to stroll through the market listening to the street traders; we went for trips along the river to Hampton and we rode into the interlying villages as far out as Kensington, coming back across the bridge over the Westbourne at Knightsbridge. As we passed Kingston House David told me of the recent scandal concerning the late Duke and his mistress Elizabeth Chudleigh, who claimed to be the Duchess. It had been a cause célèbre some years before.
He had many interesting stories to tell me, and I felt I was seeing London as I never had before. I loved our leisurely walks through the streets of the City when he would point out those historic spots which had been the scene of much of our country’s history. There was that spot in what had been Pudding Lane, where the great fire of London had broken out in a baker’s shop at one o’clock in the morning of a Monday and raged through the City until the following Thursday. David could talk vividly, and he made me see the raging furnace and the terrified people running from their houses, the craft on the river and finally the experiments with gunpowder which had demolished the houses straight ahead of the fire and so stopped its progress. We visited the new St. Paul’s, which had replaced the old one—a magnificent example of the work of Christopher Wren.
To be with David was like reliving history.
We strolled past Carlton House, and paused to admire the colonnade of single pillars—one of the houses of the Prince of Wales, and which had previously been the residence of Frederick Prince of Wales, who had died before he could reach the throne. Here was a link with Kingston House because the notorious Duchess had been maid of honour to the Princess of Wales—so she, too, had lived in this splendid Carlton House.
Dickon had many associates in London and some of them were eager to entertain members of his family while we were there; but because we were so newly married they guessed, quite rightly, that we would prefer to have a few days to ourselves—and they respected this. So for those first few days of that week we were alone, and I think they were the most enjoyable, which delighted me because they confirmed that I had been right in marrying David. The more we were together, the more at one we seemed to become. He was, of course, moulding my tastes to fit his; but it was gratifying that I had no difficulty in accepting his guidance. I was very happy, during those days. “The days of my innocence,” I called them later; that was when I would be overcome by a passionate desire to escape from what I had become and go back to them. Very few people must have wanted to turn the clock back more than I.
But to return to those idyllic days, I remember that evening at Ranelagh which seemed such magic. The pleasure gardens, the river at dusk, the magnificent temple with its painted ceiling, the Rotunda in which could be heard the finest music executed by the greatest musicians throughout the world. Mozart himself had appeared here. I remembered hearing my grandmother talk about that. We sat there entranced, listening to the orchestral music of Handel and Pleyel and the exquisite voice of Signor Torizziani.
There was a fireworks display of the utmost magnificence when we gazed in wonder at the scintillating rockets as they burst in the air, and were most impressed by the bombshell which exploded to release what looked like myriads of stars and comets.
“No one would think we were a country at war,” said David sombrely.
I pressed his hand and answered: “Forget war and everything unpleasant. I am so happy tonight.”
We took one of the vehicles which was run by the management of Ranelagh to pick up people in various parts of London and bring them with the minimum of discomfort to the pleasure gardens. These were imitation French diligences. I wondered why we imitated the French in so many ways, and they did the same with us, when we seemed to be such natural enemies and even now were at war with each other.
David always seriously considered my lightly made observations. So he pondered this one all the way from Ranelagh to Hyde Park Corner, where we alighted from the diligence.
Then he said: “There is an antipathy between our two countries. I think it is because we have so much respect for each other’s skills—both peaceful and warlike—and we are, at heart, afraid of each other. If we admired each other less, we should hate each other less. So we have this animosity and these occasional outbreaks of imitation when the desire to be like each other is irresistible. Remember imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”
I laughed at him and told him that he was so solemn that he made an issue out of everything.
“Really,” I said, “I do believe you should be in Parliament with Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox and the rest.”
“A career for which I should prove most unsuitable.”
“Nonsense. You could do anything you set your mind to, and as the affairs of the country seem to be in a certain disorder, surely we need clever men to put them right.”
“You overrate my cleverness,” he said. “Politicians have to be single-minded. They have not only to think they are right, they must know it. For one thing, I doubt myself all
the time.”
“That is because you are clever enough to know that there are two sides to every question.”
“Which would damn me as a politician.”
He laughed, and arms entwined, we walked the short distance to Albemarle Street.
Looking back, I am surprised by how much we did in those few days. We visited the piazza at Covent Garden and David told me how Dryden had been assaulted there because of some verses in his Hind and Panther, and how a soldier had been shot dead on the spot. He had stories to tell of so many people: Steele, Dryden, Pope, Colly Cibber, Dr. Johnson and famous names of the theatre such as Peg Woffington and David Garrick; and painters, Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller—all of whom used to frequent the piazza in their day.
I marvelled at his knowledge. I said to him: “And to think I shall be able to draw on it for the rest of my life!”
We went to Covent Garden to hear the marvellous voice of Elizabeth Billington, which was thrilling—particularly as the glittering audience included the Prince of Wales with Mrs. Fitzherbert. I was drawn to them because they seemed—as David and I were—very much in love.
I often thought afterwards of the way in which life deals with us all. It seems that even when we are at the height of our bliss, evil lurks, waiting to strike. That was one of the last performances Elizabeth Billington gave, for the next year she left the country and retired to the Continent because of scandalous publications about herself. And the royal lovers had their vicissitudes to face in the years to come, as all know now.
As for myself—I was so young, and innocent enough to believe I was going to live happily ever after.
The next day friends began to call on us. I enjoyed meeting them, but it was not quite the same as those idyllic first days.
Of course we could not shut ourselves away from events for ever. We had to face reality. There was a great deal of talk at dinner parties about what was happening in France, and there was no doubt that the people in the centre of things were very uneasy. David was deeply interested to hear the views expressed. He listened with great attention. I supposed that was why he was so clever. He never missed any piece of information, any point of view.
When we returned to the house he would sit on the bed and talk while I lay back on my pillows watching him.
“What does this mean to us?” he said. “That is what we have to decide. How is the revolution in France going to affect us here in England?”
“It already has,” I answered. “It has killed my grandmother; it has taken my grandfather’s estates; it has ruined the family, for who knows where my Aunt Sophie is? And now it has taken my brother Charlot, Louis Charles and your brother Jonathan.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But that is personal… our family tragedy. What effect is it having on our country? And that, Claudine, can have every bit as much effect on us in the future as purely personal trials. Have you noticed that no one seems to be certain… even the politicians. Who are our leading men just now? I’d say Pitt, Fox and Burke, wouldn’t you? Yet they seem to me from what they say and do in Parliament to be at variance with each other. Fox is too trusting; he believes in freedom and that a country should be ruled by its majority—which he takes to be the revolutionaries. I think Burke sees it differently. He knows that what the people of France want is equality… but they do not want liberty. Not for their enemies certainly. How many have gone to the guillotine completely innocent of anything but being born aristocrats? Burke is aware that revolution—and that means anarchy—could erupt all over Europe. And Pitt… he does not share Fox’s sympathy with the will of the people. He is a great upholder of peace, and I am sure he believes that in due course France will settle down. It is with great reluctance that he goes to war. With three diverging views, where does that lead us?”
“I don’t know,” I said yawning, “and I do believe you are not sure either. And even if you were… what could you do to help?”
I held out my arms to him and laughingly he came to me.
But if the subject was dismissed for that night, it reared its head again the very next day. An entertainment was given in our honour. I had always known that the family had vast interests in London. Whenever I came up with my mother and Dickon, there had been a great deal of social activity from which on account of my youth I had generally been excluded. Now I realized the extent of Dickon’s connections and the desire of certain people to show friendship for Dickon’s son and my mother’s daughter.
I enjoyed meeting these interesting people who seemed so poised and knowledgeable. I liked to listen to their conversation, but I did notice that it revolved round one subject at the moment.
As we sat at table on this occasion, the talk took the usual trend. Someone said something about Charlotte Corday. It was just over three months since she had been executed for stabbing Jean Paul Marat in his bath but it was still talked of as though it had happened yesterday.
“I don’t think,” said the man next to me, “that anyone has much sympathy for Marat.”
“No,” I agreed, “but many have for Charlotte Corday.”
“A brave woman. She knew she was signing her own death warrant. That takes courage.”
I agreed with that too.
Our host said: “I wonder who will be next. Danton perhaps.”
“Do you think it will come to that?” said the lady on his right.
“These people always turn against each other,” replied our host.
David said: “I feel sure that the leaders of the revolution like Danton and Robespierre will in due course be brought to the guillotine. They are all jostling for power; they are envious of each other. That is what it is all about. Better conditions for the people? Of course not! Power for Messieurs Marat, Danton and Robespierre… and the rest. And each one in his turn will be the downfall of the others.”
There was a murmur of agreement round the table.
Our hostess said: “I trust you will be able to forget these disagreeable men when you listen to Ludwig Blochermund, who is shortly going to entertain us on the piano.”
“Blochermund!” cried a fat fair lady. “My dear, how did you manage to get him? I hear he is in great demand.”
“Yes. He was performing at the Rotunda recently.”
“I did have the pleasure of hearing him there and I look forward greatly to hearing his performance tonight.”
“Wonderful,” murmured several of the guests.
After the meal we went into the drawing room in which was a grand piano and there Herr Blochermund performed to our delight.
I sat in blissful contemplation until the recital was over and just as the pianist had risen from his stool and was receiving the congratulations of his audience, the butler came in and announced that a gentleman had come to see our host, and it appeared that the matter was somewhat urgent.
Our host went out and it was ten minutes later when he returned, looking very disturbed.
He addressed us all in a tone of melancholy and said: “I know you will all be made aware of this sad news soon enough. I am sorry to spoil the evening with it, but you will not wish to be kept in the dark. The Queen of France has followed her husband to the guillotine.”
There was a hushed silence.
“So they have dared…” whispered someone.
“Both are dead now… the King and the Queen… murdered by a bloodthirsty mob,” said our host. “Where will all this end?”
The party broke up then. No one was in the mood for festivity. All of us must have been thinking of that frivolous girl who little more than twenty years before had come to France to make the brilliant marriage arranged for her, and we were all thinking: What now? To murder kings and queens makes a dangerous precedent.
As we left, our host looked earnestly at David.
He said: “Your father should be informed without delay.”
David nodded.
He said: “We shall leave for Eversleigh tomorrow.”
I was a little
hurt that we should be leaving two days before we planned to go.
“It has happened. The Queen is dead,” I complained to David. “What good can we do by going home so soon?”
“My father must know at once,” he said.
I was exasperated. “But what can he do about it?”
“There is more to this than the execution of the Queen, Claudine.”
“What more?”
We were in the carriage then, leaving London behind and riding through the open country.
“While the Queen lived there was a monarchy in France, even though a captive one. Now the monarchy is at an end.”
“There is a Dauphin.”
“A boy, poor child… in the hands of sadist torturers intent on making him suffer for being the son of a king. I tremble for him.”
“It is France, David, and this is England.”
“Everything that happens affects us all, particularly when it is happening so close to us. There are great fears in the country. Revolution is like a fire. Once it gets out of control, it spreads.”
“You mean people are afraid we might have the same thing here?”
“Very few governments in Europe have enough support from their people to feel very safe. I think we in England may be more fortunate than most. Our King is no despot. He is a gentle creature. The people wouldn’t hate him. They might refer to him as Farmer George but there is an element of affection as well as contempt in the epithet. They could not hate such a mild man… a man of simple tastes who is determined to do his duty, even if he is not very clear how it should be done. We need reforms here, and rest assured we shall get them. But the last thing we need is revolution.”
“Surely that is the last thing any country needs.”
“I really believe that in their hearts our people do not want revolution. We have too close to us an example of what it can mean. The French are merely changing one set of masters for another, and I firmly believe that many sane people would prefer the first, however oppressive. The country may have been led by men who were selfish, effete, careless of the needs of the people, too eager to pander to their own—but even they were better than these bloodthirsty power-hungry murderers who are ruling them now.”
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