by Cheyenne
He was thinking of that other ceremony which had taken place in Mrs.
Fitzherbert’s house in Park Street. That was a real marriage; this was a farce and he yearned for Maria, whom he knew he should never have left— and he had
done so for the sake of Frances Jersey! If he had left her for marriage to this
woman, it would have been a different matter, for this could be blamed on the
exigencies of State. But he had deserted her for Lady Jersey whom he was
discovering to be worthless in spite of her fascination. He was a traitor to Maria.
He despised himself and he longed for an opportunity to tell her so.
And here he was at the altar about to be married to a woman he hated. Yes, he
did hate her; he hated her fiercely. He could see no virtue in her. To him she was utterly repulsive and even the fumes of brandy which dulled his brain and his
senses could not free him from the horror he visualized in the marriage bed.
How different that ceremony in Park Street and the ecstasy which had
followed!
Oh Maria, Maria, you have deserted me!
But that was wrong. He had to admit it. It was he who had deserted Maria.
Is it too late? But of course it was too late. Here he was at the altar and Dr.
Moore, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was about to conduct the ceremony.
He knelt while the Archbishop began to say those words which had been said
before in a house in Park Street, when he had made his responses with a joy as
great as the revulsion he now felt.
The Prince was feeling dizzy; the brandy was having its effect though it
relieved his feelings very little. He heard the Archbishop asking if anyone knew
of an impediment why they might not be lawfully joined together in Holy
Matrimony; and in that moment he saw Maria’s reproachful eyes begging him to
remember.
He stumbled to his feet. He must get away. He could not go on with this.
There was a sudden silence in the chapel. All eyes were on the Prince of Wales;
all wondered what drama they were about to witness.
Then the King rose from his seat and stepped up to stand beside the Prince.
‘For Heaven’s sake,’ whispered the King, ‘remember what this means.’
‘I—’ began the Prince, his face creased in his misery, the ever-ready tears
springing to his eyes.
‘It’s too late— too late—’ whispered the King. Wretchedly the Prince nodded
and once more knelt beside the Princess.
Dr. Moore was aware of the cause of the Prince’s distress. Who in the chapel
was not? Everyone had heard of the marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert.
The Archbishop proceeded with the ceremony and when he came to the
injunction to the bridegroom to forsake all others but his wife, he repeated it.
There was a tense expectancy throughout the chapel. Until the ring was on the
Princess’s finger, many believed that the Prince would stop the ceremony.
But at last it was over, and the Prince of Wales had been married to Caroline
of Brunswick.
Organ music filled the chapel and the choir began to sing:
For blessed are they that fear the Lord.
O well is thee! O well is thee! and happy shalt thou be.’
And the chorus:
Happy, happy, happy shalt thou be.’
The Wedding Night
THE bells were ringing all over London; from the Park and the Tower, the
guns were booming; people stood in little knots in the streets and talked of the
marriage of their Prince of Wales. Many had seen the huge wedding cake which
had been driven to Buckingham House and which was so enormous that it filled a
whole coach.
The Prince, whose antics never failed to cause comment— although lately it
had been adverse comment— was married at last to a German Princess who
would one day be his Queen. Now the heirs would come along and if he were
anything like his father and the Princess of Wales like the Queen, there would be plenty— and to stare jokes were made— coarse but friendly. The Prince was
pleasing them more today than he had for a long time.
And what, asked some, of Mrs. Fitzherbert, the lady who had caused such a
stir when the great question in everyone’s minds had been: Is she or is she not
married to the Prince?
The Queen held a drawing room and it was seen that she was noticeably cool
to the bride. Caroline was going to get no help from her. It was also noted that she received Lady Jersey graciously, which was strange on such an occasion.
That lady was pleased with the way everything had happened, although there
had been that horrible moment in the chapel when everyone thought that the
Prince would refuse to go on with the ceremony. Now he was safely married to a
wife whom he loathed. What could be better? This would give her complete
ascendancy— particularly as the fact that he had been publicly married was a
death blow to his liaison with Mrs Fitzherbert— the rival whom Lady Jersey most
feared.
But Caroline had looked rather splendid in her glittering wedding dress; and
the Prince must spend the night with her.
Alarming thought! For who could say what might happen in the privacy of the
bedchamber? The Prince’s revulsion might turn to acceptance— which it must of
course— and suppose he came to like the woman a little!
Lady Jersey was determined to make the Prince’s revulsion complete on that
wedding night; she was reminded of something which one of the ladies of Charles
Il’s seraglio had done when she feared a rival. Was it Nell Gwyn? She believed it was. That was a more ribald age of course but for that very reason the Prince of
Wales might be less amused than King. Charles had been. She gave orders that
the pastry which was to be given to the Princess of Wales should be impregnated
with a very strong close of Epsom Salts, explaining to the cooks that there was an old maxim that if the bride were a virgin this ensured conception.
And so the family supper party took place. The Princess plied with too much
spirits— as arranged by Lady Jersey’s spies and servants— was brash and over
excited‚ the Prince looked on sombrely and drank steadily throughout the
banquet.
He had eyed his bride mournfully and declared to his neighbour that the only
manner in which he could face the ordeal before him was through a haze of
intoxication.
The ceremony over, it was time for the bride and groom to leave for Carlton
House.
The King, with tears in his eyes, embraced his new daughter-in-law, with
deep feeling he wished her well. The Queen kissed her cheek coldly and muttered
her wishes perfunctorily, but her eyes, Caroline noted, were as cold as a snake’s.
She was glad to be rid of them all at Buckingham House and in the coach with
her highly intoxicated husband.
————————
Mrs. Fitzherbert sat in her drawing room at Marble Hill where she had
remained all during the morning. Miss Pigot looked in every few minutes, her
eyes anxious.
This was his wedding day.
Miss Pigot knew that in her heart Maria believed that the wedding would
never take place. How could it when he already had a wife?
Miss Pigot was not so sure. She kept thinking of that occasion only a day or
so ago when he had ridden by the ho
use several times, hoping for a sign from
Maria. If she had given that sign, Miss Pigot knew that everything would have
been so different. He had wanted Maria’s support then and she had not given it.
Miss Pigot shook her head. She regarded these two— the Prince and Maria—
as her very dear wayward children who could have been so happy together and
yet were constantly hurting each other.
‘Come and sit with me,’ said Maria. ‘You fidget me— wandering about like
that.’
Miss Pigot sat down.
‘He’ll never do it,’ said Maria. ‘I’m sure he never will.’
Miss Pigot shook her head. She thought of all the arrangements, the
ceremonies in the streets. Was it possible to bring over a foreign princess, after she had undergone a proxy marriage and then refuse to go on with the ceremony?
Yet he would have done that, she was sure, if Maria had just given that one
sign.
‘He can’t,’ went on Maria. ‘It would be a bigamous marriage.’
Not in the eyes of the State, Miss Pigot wanted to say sadly . Dearest Maria, you are not married to the Prince in the eyes of the State.
But Maria believed she was married to the Prince no matter in whose eyes.
Miss Pigot knew that Maria was hoping that a messenger would come to her
here at Marble Hill with the news that the ceremony had been stopped. That was
what she was waiting for.
‘Had you lifted the curtain, had you shown him yourself standing at the
window ready to welcome him—’ began Miss Pigot.
‘I could not. The first move had to come from him.’
‘But it did. Didn’t he show that he had come out to Richmond to see you?’
‘How could we be sure that he had come to see me?’
Miss Pigot laughed. ‘Why else should he come riding out here like a
madman?’
‘Oh, Piggy, this could be the end!’
‘It won’t be, my dear. Whatever happens it won’t be.’
‘She will be the Princess of Wales— the Queen of England. Well, I could
never have been that, could I?’
They were silent; ears strained for the sound of horses’ hoofs.
‘They would be at St. James’s now,’ said Maria. ‘The ceremony would be
beginning— Do you think—’
‘We shall hear,’ soothed Miss Pigot.
————————
They sat listening. Miss Pigot was aware of an intense melancholy. How
could it be otherwise? How could he refuse to go through with this ceremony?
She knew him, for she loved him even as she loved Maria. He was her splendid
boy— spoilt, selfish and lovable. And now he was unhappy, she was sure of that.
Oh, why had he been so foolish as to leave Maria for that wicked Lady Jersey!
But then he had always been foolish, always impulsive, always acting in a way
which would bring sadness to himself and those who loved him.
No two people could have been as happy as he and Maria had been— in the
beginning. She had shared in that idyll; she had wanted to preserve it for the two people she loved best in the world. And they had smashed it between them like
two petulant children, for Maria was not entirely blameless with her dignity, her determination not to give way and finally those outbursts of temper. Such a
melancholy spectacle it had been to see that union disintegrate; and there was that dainty monster, that wicked Jezebel, Grandmamma Jersey waiting to step in.
And now— this.
They would hear soon. They must.
Yes, those were horses’ hoofs. Maria was sitting tense, her face alight with
hope. She really did believe that he had refused to marry this Princess, and that he was coming back to her.
Miss Pigot was at the window. She saw the horses pulling up; the carriage
was stopping at Marble Hill.
‘It is my Lord Bradford,’ she said to Maria, who still remained seated, a rapt
expression on her face. Lord Bradford, who had been Orlando Bridgement when
as a young man he had taken part in that ceremony at Park Street! The Prince had
commanded him to stand outside the door and warn them if anyone approached
because Prime Minister Pitt would have had the power to stop the ceremony if he
had heard it was taking place.
It was appropriate that Bradford should come now.
The footman was at the door. ‘My lord Bradford—’
Maria rose and held out her hands. Miss Pigot took one look at Bradford’s
face and knew.
‘The Prince of Wales has been married to Caroline of Brunswick,’ said
Bradford.
Maria swayed a little. Miss Pigot ran forward and caught her.
‘She has fainted,’ she said to Lord Bradford.
————————
Caroline surveyed the bridal chamber in Carlton House. ‘It’s grand enough,’
she said.
The bridegroom looked at her disdainfully.
‘Well,’ she cried, ‘you’ll have to like me a little bit tonight, won’t you?’
She recoiled before the look of loathing in his eyes. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘And I’m not so very much in love with you.’
He swayed about the room. And she thought of how she had dreamed of her
wedding night; it should have been with Major von Töbingen but that was all
over. Instead she had this man of whose attractions she had heard so much— and
he had turned out to be a fat drunken creature who hated her.
‘I doubt many have had a wedding night like this one,’ she said, and she
began to laugh
But duty must be performed. Even he was aware of that.
He turned to her. She was laughing her loud vulgar laughter.
‘Oh, changing your mind?’ she asked.
————————
So the consummation took place.
She is even more repulsive than I believed possible, he thought. Oh God, why was I ever lured into this?
She was sitting up in bed, shaking the hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s all so
romantic,’ she mocked.
He staggered out of the bed. He could not bear her near him.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘where are you going? To Madame Jersey?’
He did not look at her. His one thought was to get away from her as quickly as
possible. The room was whirling about him. Too much brandy, too much wine.
He felt sick and ill.
He wept, thinking of that day in Park Street; it was winter and they had ridden
off to Richmond together; the roads were icy and they had had to pause at
Hammersmith— a romantic inn, supper by candlelight.
Maria, Maria, why are you not with me? Why have they married me to that
vulgar slut in the bed?
He had reached the fireplace. How his head ached! He felt so dizzy.
He put out a hand to the mantelpiece to support himself, missed it and fell, his
head close to the grate.
He was to intoxicated to get up. He did not care. He preferred the hard floor to
a bed shared with Caroline. She had got out of bed and stood looking at him.
‘All right, you drunken sot,’ she cried. ‘Stay there. Spend your wedding night
under the grate!’
A Child is Born
‘So,’ said Caroline, ‘they call this a honeymoon!’
They had travelled down to Windsor from Carlton House and there spent two
weeks. The Prince, having and up his mind that as soon as Caroline was pregnant
his duty towards her and
the State ended, had one purpose in mind; and only the
thought of the freedom which would come with success gave him the necessary
enthusiasm to achieve that end
Caroline was deeply wounded. She would, if it had been possible, have
attempted to make their union a happy one but she had no notion how to please
him, and when she tried to do so only succeeded in making herself more repulsive
in his eyes.
He hated her. Every time he looked at her he remembered that he had been a
traitor to the woman he really loved. He tried to forget Maria by becoming more
and more attentive to Lady Jersey who was enjoying the situation and had no idea
how often Maria Fitzherbert was in his thoughts. Her attitude towards Caroline
was haughty as though she were the Princess of Wales and Caroline her lady-in-
waiting.’ Caroline had never been meek and such a situation was scarcely likely
to curb her impulsive eccentricity.
The Prince decided that he would take his bride to Kempshott Park and with
him should go some of those friends. Who would amuse him most and lift him
out of his gloom.
Perhaps Kempshott was not a very good choice with its memories of Maria. It
was here that he had spent many happy times with her and although she had never
actually lived in the house, for with her usual discretion she had occupied a
cottage and the estate, she had chosen the decor for the drawing room and had
planned much of the gardens. He had been very happy with Maria at Kempshott,
and he took a savage delight in remembering those days and comparing the
woman he thought of as his true wife with the one who bore the title of Princess
of Wales.
But he also had at Kempshott one of the best packs of foxhounds in the
country and there he kept his best hunters. He could, at Kempshott, play the
country squire as his father used to enjoy doing at Kew and Windsor— but
whereas the King had dressed and behaved like a country gentleman, the Prince
was never anything but the Prince of Wales.
The country people were less fickle than those of the Capital. They did not
joke so much as his expense. There were no lampoons and cartoons, no bawdy
and disrespectful gossip such as that which went on in coffee and chocolate
houses.
He was married and that seemed a good thing to the country folk. As for the