by Lucy Worsley
Nor did the court as a whole see much cause for scandal: the prince’s grandmother thought Henrietta would at the very least improve his English.
When the Hanoverians came to London, Henrietta’s husband, Charles Howard, also managed to get a job at court. His position, though, was in the rival household of the king. Although it had been Henrietta’s foresight and initiative that had improved their material circumstances so vastly, her greedy husband had continued to think up new ways to exploit his wife.
In fact, by 1720 Henrietta had plucked up the courage to leave him, an act much riskier and more shameful then than now. She remained under constant, grinding pressure to go back to him. Threats had been made, blackmail used and letters had even been written by the Archbishop of Canterbury commanding her to return to her lawful spouse.
Another, even worse aspect of her situation perhaps aroused Princess Caroline’s particular pity, allowing her to tolerate rather than despise her rival. Henrietta, too, had had a son stolen. Eighteenth-century law and custom always favoured the father when couples separated, and her only child was in her husband’s custody.
While Henrietta failed to enjoy life in the household of the Prince and Princess of Wales, she was at least protected there from Charles Howard’s violent, alcohol-fuelled rages. She feared nothing more than being near him, and for her the antipathy they all felt towards the king’s household was intensely strong.
On the evening of 25 April 1725, she scanned the drawing room nervously, looking out for trouble. But even Mr Howard dared not make any move upon his wife in such a crowd.
For now Henrietta remained safe. Yet her bizarre position at court, poised to please both prince and princess, involved endless effort. It would only take one moment’s inattention for it all to come crashing down.
*
Last among Princess Caroline’s wing women came the unruly Maids of Honour. These well-born, unmarried young ladies, earning £200 a year, were unlikely to remain single for long. Among the current crop, Mary Meadows was the steadiest, and Sophy Howe the flightiest. Then there was the elegant Molly Lepell, of course, and the broad-minded Mary Bellenden.
The Maids of Honour were all well known to the bawdy balladeers and gossip columnists of London. When the king had ordered them all to leave St James’s Palace, the characteristic reactions of the individual maids were trumpeted abroad:
Up leapt Lepell and frisk’d away
As though she ran on wheels;
Miss Meadows made a woeful face,
Miss Howe be-pissed her heels.97
The poet John Gay placed Molly Lepell and Mary Bellenden at the very acme of desirability among the maids. Unsuccessfully touting for a sinecure at court, he offered flattery around the royal household as if it were snuff. ‘So well I’m known at Court’, he joked,
None asks where Cupid dwells;
But readily resort
To Bellenden’s or Lepell’s.98
On the night of the reconciliation, many eyes followed the wand-like Molly Lepell, including those of the old king himself. Despite the presence of his long-time mistress Melusine, his faithful May Pole, and the provocation of having to receive his son, he was enthralled by Molly’s effervescence.
Molly, though, was searching the room for the man to whom she was secretly married.
Molly’s cloak-and-dagger wedding, altogether unsuspected by the courtiers, had taken place a mere four days previously. Despite the tension and confusion of the christening quarrel, a covert romance had bloomed at Leicester House. Her love was none other than the life and soul of the chic clique at court, the droll, amusing young butterfly John Hervey.
Hervey was a real court insider. His elder brother, Carr, was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Prince George Augustus, while the card-fanatic Lady Bristol was his mother. ‘I came very early into the world’, he told a friend, ‘and had a satiating swing in the showish part of its pleasures.’ Besieged by socialites and suitors on all sides, living in the very ‘midst of a crowded court’, he nevertheless felt that he spent ‘many, many hours alone’.99 He was ripe for a relationship more meaningful than the usual courtly intrigues.
Recently, having spied out Molly’s hidden streak of vulnerability, he felt he had surely found the companion he sought. Together they could laugh at the world. He’d come to rely upon her and to love her in a manner most surprising at court: ‘above himself’.100
Yet his mother’s gambling had put the Hervey family’s finances into a very sorry state. For the moment at least Molly could not admit to her marriage, because to do so would mean sacrificing her job and salary as a Maid of Honour. She and her clandestine husband had nothing else upon which to live.
By risking her career for a love match, Molly had shown herself to be deeply unconventional among the courtiers. More surprises would surely follow from this mysterious Maid of Honour who was secretly a maid no more.
*
On 25 April 1720, it became clear that the particular battle between the two courts sparked off by the ‘christening quarrel’ had reached a stalemate. Each protagonist was bruised but not broken, and Henrietta Howard and Molly Lepell (or Hervey) had yet to find out if they had chosen wisely in hitching their fortunes to the party of the passionate but petulant prince.
George I, meanwhile, had triumphed in the matter of the apology. He still retained the little princesses in his possession, and he’d saved face by having his son once again publicly compliant. He was now resolved to beat his son and daughter-in-law at their own game of popularity. He’d lost much ground with his recent bullying tactics, so he decided instead to use the splendour of his own court as a weapon to win back public favour.
He needed to build a new battlefield: a new and more splendid palace in which to carry forward the campaign.####160###
Notes
1. Robert Halsband and Isobel Grundy (Eds), Mary Wortley Montagu, Essays and Poems and ‘Simplicity’, a Comedy (Oxford, 1977), p. 261.
2. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, ‘An Account of the Court of George I’, in Wharncliffe (1861), Vol. 1, p. 134.
3. Maria Kroll (Ed.), Letters from Liselotte (London, 1970), pp. 171–2 (23 April 1715).
4. Cowper (1864), p. 108.
5. Stanhope (1774), Vol. 1, p. 123.
6. BL Add MS 47028, f. 7v, John Percival (26 January 1715).
7. Coxe (1798b), Vol. 2, p. 60.
8. Hervey (1931), Vol. 3, p. 702.
9. Coxe (1798b), Vol. 2, p. 59.
10. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 38.
11. Cowper (1864), p. 161
12. BL Add MS 61426, f. 68r, memoirs of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough (n.d.).
13. Daniel Defoe, Reasons against the Succession of the House of Hanover (London, 1713), p. 3.
14. Saussure (1902), p. 45.
15. Franklin (1993), p. 92.
16. Saussure (1902), pp. 43–4.
17. Ibid., p. 45; Coxe (1798b), Vol. 1, p. 56.
18. Coxe (1798b), Vol. 1, p. 56.
19. BL Stowe 308, f. 3r, Lord Chesterfield’s character of George I.
20. Sheffield Grace (Ed.), A Letter from the Countess of Nithsdale (London, 1828), p. 36.
21. Duchess of Orléans, quoted in Ralph Dutton, English Court Life (London, 1963), p. 193.
22. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, ‘Account of the Court of George I’, in Wharncliffe (1861), Vol. 1, p. 126.
23. Kroll (1998), p. 181.
24. J.W. Croker (Ed.), Letters to and from Henrietta, Countess of Suffolk and her second husband the Hon. George Berkeley from 1712 to 1767 (London, 1824), Vol. 1, p. 18, Henry Pelham to George Berkeley (3 November 1717).
25. Thomas Pennant, Some Account of London, second edn (London, 1791), p. 114.
26. HMC Report on the Manuscripts of his Grace the Duke of Portland, Vol. 5 (London, 1899), p. 536.
27. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 45.
28. Cowper (1864), p. 102.
29. Coxe (1798b), Vol. 1, p. 57.
30.
BL Add MS 31144, f. 523r, Peter Wentworth to his brother (8 October 1714).
31. Hatton (1978), p. 131.
32. La Correspondence Secrète du Comte Broglie, quoted in Wilkins (1901), Vol. 1, p. 201.
33. Cowper (1864), p. 99.
34. Pöllnitz (1739), Vol. 3, p. 253.
35. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 87.
36. BL Add MS 61492, ff. 205r-v.
37. Ibid.
38. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 46.
39. RA, GEO/MAIN/53037.
40. Kroll (1998), p. 207.
41. Lord Berkeley of Stratton, quoted in Nigel Aston, ‘The Court of George II: Lord Berkeley of Stratton’s perspective’, The Court Historian, Vol. 13.2 (December 2008), p. 183.
42. HMC Portland, Vol. 5, p. 544.
43. Anon., The Criticks. Being papers upon the times (London, 1719), Vol. 1, p. 10.
44. BL Egerton MS 1717, f. 66, ‘An Excellent new Ballad, To the Tune of Chivy Chace’, sometimes attributed to John Arbuthnot.
45. Nicolas Tindal, The continuation of Mr Rapin’s History of England; from the revolution to the present times (London, fourth edn, 1758), Vol. 7, p. 169.
46. The Historical Register containing An Impartial Relation of all Transactions, Foreign and Domestick, Vol. 3 (London, 1718), pp. 30–1.
47. Anonymous reviewer of Lord Chesterfield’s Characters, The Character of George the First, Queen Caroline, Sir Robert Walpole […] Reviewed. With Royal and Noble Anecdotes (London, 1777), pp. 9-10.
48. Weekly Journal (11 August 1716), p. 495, transcript in Historic Royal Palaces curators’ files.
49. HMC Portland, Vol. 5, p. 546.
50. Sundon Forster MS 503, f. 15, Lady Cowper writing on Caroline’s behalf to Mrs Clayton (‘about the time of the quarrell’), transcript in Historic Royal Palaces curators’ files.
51. Halsband (1965–7), Vol. 2, p. 31.
52. HMC Stuart Papers, Vol. 5, p. 381 (30 December 1717).
53. Coxe (1798b), Vol. 1, p. 274.
54. Hervey (1931), Vol. 1, p. 261.
55. Lord Wharncliffe quoted in W. Moy Thomas (Ed.), The letters and works of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (London, 1887), Vol. 1, p. 394, note.
56. Quoted in Wolfgang Michael, England under George I: The Quadruple Alliance, trans. Annemarie MacGregor and George E. MacGregor (London, 1939), p. 28.
57. Duchess of Orléans to the Raugravine Louise (10 February 1718), quoted in Wilkins (1901), Vol. 1, p. 284.
58. Ralph (1734), p. 188.
59. London Gazette (8 February 1718), issue 5615.
60. TNA T 56/18, Lord Chamberlain’s warrants, p. 90 (3 April 1718).
61. TNA LC 5/157, p. 81 (12 February 1718).
62. BL Stowe MS 231, ff. 54–55 (February 1718).
63. Ibid., f. 53.
64. Kroll (1998), p. 209.
65. Hatton (1978), p. 327.
66. Frances Vivian, A Life of Frederick, Prince of Wales, 1707–1751, Ed. Roger White (Lewiston, 2006), p. 10.
67. John Brooke (Ed.), The Yale Edition of Horace Walpole’s Memoirs (New Haven and London, 1985), Vol. 3, p. 313.
68. Kroll (1998), p. 186.
69. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 32.
70. Weekly Journal or Saturday’s Post, issue 130 (27 May 1721).
71. ‘An Account of the Court of George I’, in Wharncliffe (1861), Vol. 1, p. 127; Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn) p. 31.
72. Franklin (1993), p. 92.
73. TNA LS 13/176, p. 57 (31 August 1716).
74. ‘An Account of the Court of George I’, in Wharncliffe (1861), Vol. 1, p. 132.
75. The Criticks: Being papers upon the times, London (10 February 1718), quoted in Wilkins (1901), Vol. 1, p. 319.
76. Pöllnitz (1739), Vol. 2, p. 451.
77. Stephen Taylor, ‘Walpole, Robert, first earl of Orford (1676–1745)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004).
78. Quoted in Taylor (2004); Pöllnitz (1739), Vol. 2, p. 451.
79. Cowper (1864), pp. 133, 130, 141.
80. Ibid., p. 142.
81. Hervey (1931), Vol. 3, p. 918.
82. Cowper (1864), pp. 141–4.
83. William Coxe, Memoirs of John Duke of Marlborough (London, 1819), Vol. 3, pp. 646–7.
84. William Thomas Laprade, Public Opinion and Politics in Eighteenth Century England (New York, 1936), p. 230.
85. Cowper (1864), p. 143.
86. BL Add MS 22629, ff. 8v-9r, E. Molesworth to Henrietta Howard (31 April 1720).
87. Cowper (1864), p. 149.
88. Ibid., p. 161.
89. Ibid., pp. 135–9.
90. George Louis and R. L. Arkell, ‘George I’s letters to his daughter’, The English Historical Review, Vol. 52, No. 207 (July 1938), p. 497; Cowper (1864), p. 137.
91. Cowper (1864), pp. 129–32.
92. Mary II to William III (5 September 1690), quoted in Marjorie Bowen, The Third Mary Stuart (London, 1929), p. 222.
93. Westmorland MS, 13.417, quoted in Cannon (2004).
94. BL Add MS 61492, ff. 232v–233r.
95. Halsband (1965–7), Vol. 2, p. 17.
96. Walpole, Reminiscences (1818 edn), p. 73; BL Add MS 20104, ff. 153r-v, Lady Pomfret to Lady Sundon, from Bath (19 May 1728).
97. BL Egerton MS 1717, f. 66.
98. John Gay, Poems on Several Occasions (London, 1775), p. 142.
99. SRO 941/47/4, p. 346, John Hervey to the Dean of Norwich (14 November 1732).
100. John Hervey, first Earl of Bristol, Letter-Books of John Hervey, first Earl of Bristol, 1651–1750 (Wells, 1894), Vol. 2, p. 143, Lord Bristol to Molly Lepell (2 October 1720).
THREE
The Pushy Painter
‘Courts are the best keys to characters: there every passion is busy, every art exerted.’1
(Lord Chesterfield)
If you climb the King’s Grand Staircase at Kensington Palace today, you’ll see painted figures looking down upon you from the walls. There are valets, porters, maids, pages, guards, musicians, babies and lapdogs. They whisper, glance, fan themselves, climb upon the balustrade … everyone is in motion, and everyone is watching you.
This masterpiece of mural art was commissioned by George I in a concerted effort to transform his run-down palace at Kensington and to make his court more splendid and welcoming than that of his gregarious son and daughter-in-law. The smiling faces watching and welcoming you are portraits of real servants of the king, drafted in to do the duty of making the palace buzz and bustle.
It’s a remarkable collection of portraits, celebrating a rank in society from which individuals are rarely remembered. But it was nearly never painted at all. It took luck as well as a liberal dash of talent for an outsider, William Kent, to win the job of populating the king’s staircase with characters from his court.
In 1722, the twists and turns of this particular artistic commission coalesced into a cut-throat, all-out battle that divided artistic London.
*
William Kent was a rumbustious, gluttonous, outrageous character. Throughout the royal family’s quarrel he had been studying painting in Italy. When he returned to London at the end of 1719, just before the royal reconciliation at St James’s, he found only a rainy English winter and a chilly welcome. The days were so short, he complained, and so ‘cold to an Italian constitution’ that he kept to his ‘little room’. He consoled himself by going twice a week to the opera, where he was ‘highly entertain’d’ and able to imagine himself ‘out of this Gothick country’.2
William Kent, ‘very hot, & very fat’, at work with his pen
Because of his adopted Italian ways, Kent’s numerous friends called him ‘The Signior’. His bosom buddy and patron, Richard Boyle, third Earl of Burlington and fourth Earl of Cork (1695–1753), addressed him, affectionately, as ‘Kentino’ (‘little Kent’).
The ‘little room’ that Kent used as his London bolthole was in Burlington’s grand Piccadilly home. The two had first met in Italy in
1716, and Kent’s fiery personality was the perfect foil to Burlington’s considered coolness. Kent was given unique licence to tease: in one of his sketches of the earl, a dog urinates upon the aristocratic ankle. The odd couple nevertheless had many common interests, particularly as Burlington was enormously enthusiastic about architecture and design. Indeed, some people considered that he took his interests far too seriously for an aristocrat, and ‘lessened himself’ by getting too technical.3
So the scientific Burlington and the artistic Kent lived on the most amicable terms, together pouring scorn upon Kent’s rival artists with ‘mortification – and mirth’.4 Kent wrote in one letter to his patron of their ‘living and loving together, as you and I do’, and concluded another with ‘a hundred more wild things that cannot be write’.5
Kent needed wildness, wine and sunshine to be happy. His friends teased him for his dictatorial manner about the best way to cook a steak; for entertaining himself ‘with syllabubs and damsels’; for being in love with malt liquor; for being ‘very hot, & very fat’.6 At one select party held in his little room, fourteen bottles of wine were drunk ‘in one sitting’.7 Always volatile, Kent could be touchy and ‘very umbrageous in his drink’.8
Yet he also possessed the talent and immense self-confidence that could catapult him into court circles.
As an extrovert, disingenuous character, Kent would find the court a complicated and confusing place to work. Court politics spilt over into all parts of palace life, including the remoter reaches of the Office of the King’s Works. It was only through a remarkable fluke that the unkempt Kent found himself in possession of a plum royal commission, and his enemies would do their best to take it from him.