o b464705202491194

by Cheyenne

  return to the Prince. But could she possibly hold out against such a weight of

  opinion? The Prince’s brothers had always been on his side so naturally since he

  wanted to return to Maria they would do their best to persuade her. But when the

  royal Princesses— whom she met at some of the houses to which she had

  received invitations it would have been churlish to refuse— actually approached

  her and hinted that the family wished for a reunion she could scarcely ignore such an approach. And when certain members of the Queen’s household suggested that

  Her Majesty had given similar hints, Maria knew that she must act.

  She now answered the Prince’s letters. She was moved by his professions of

  devotion; doubtless he knew her own feelings; but before she agreed to return to

  him she must have the sanction of the Holy See as to whether she was truly the

  Prince’s wife; and only if she were so in the eyes of the Pope could she consider returning to him.

  Knowing the delays appeals to Rome entailed, the Prince gnashed his teeth in

  impatience But he wanted Maria and he must agree to her terms.

  Each day Miss Pigot awaited the messenger from Rome.

  She was almost as impatient as the Prince. Maria waited philosophically and

  none would have guessed the turmoil within her. To go back to that early

  happiness? Was it possible?

  She would control her temper. She would need to, for he was the most

  exasperating of men. It was no use deluding herself. She loved him. Probably

  more deeply than he loved her. His emotions had always been of a superficial

  nature, but they certainly went deeper for her than for anyone else in his life. She was astonished that he had waited all this time for her to return to him. She had heard no rumours of his adventures since the dismissal of Lady Jersey. And so it

  had been in the early days when he had been courting her so if the Prince should

  decide to be reconciled to her and given her more children like young Charlotte—

  who was, she was forced to admit, a fascinating child with a gift for charming

  everybody— the odious Caroline might become very powerful indeed.

  Reports were that the Prince loathed her; but the creature managed to be

  followed by cheering crowds every time she came to London and she knew how

  the Prince wanted popularity. He might feel it was politic to go back to her.

  It must not be. And now that he had discarded dear Lady Jersey, one could

  never be sure what action he would take. It was true he was courting Maria

  Fitzherbert but the lady was holding aloof.

  She looked at her daughters and sighed. It was distasteful to have to discuss

  such matters with them but she feared there was no help for it.

  I believe,’ she said, ‘that Mrs. Fitzherbert now spends most of her time in

  Ealing, although she has taken a house in Tilney Street for her brief visits to

  Town.’

  The Princesses were alert and more attentive now than during their readings,

  their mother noticed grimly.

  ‘She is a very good woman, I believe. I have never heard ill of her.’

  ‘There has been scandal about her marriage to George, Mamma,’ said

  Augusta, and was silenced by a look.

  ‘I should like to see virtuous ladies more at Court.’

  ‘She is a Catholic—’ began the tactless Augusta.

  Oh dear, thought the Queen, Augusta would always act impulsively. Mary

  would be more tactful. Elizabeth was so much the artist, and could scarcely be

  called practical.

  Perhaps that was as much as she should say. Royal people must learn to be

  diplomatic. Her daughters should realize that she would not frown on the return of the Prince of Wales to Mrs. Fitzherbert; and that anything they could do to bring about that conclusion would have her approval.

  ‘She has never been obtrusively Catholic,’ said the Queen. ‘She has always

  behaved with the utmost decorum; and now that we have a Princess of Wales who

  is far from discreet—’

  Her daughters had understood. The Queen wished George to return to Maria

  Fitzherbert; and as George wished it and his brothers had never been anything but extremely friendly assiduously and she had run away to the Continent to escape

  him. Then he had gone through that very important ceremony of marriage which

  might have cost him his Crown— and all for love of her.

  How could she help but love such a man?

  And at last the brief arrived from the Pope himself. He had reviewed the

  marriage of George, Prince of Wales, and Maria Fitzherbert and he had decided

  that in the eyes of the Church, they were married.

  There was no reason now why they should not be reunited.

  ————————

  Maria’s house in Tilney Street was decorated with white roses, for it was

  June. This was because the Prince of Wales had called Maria his ‘White Rose’

  accusing her laughingly of being a Jacobite and wanting to see the end of

  Hanoverian Rule. White roses overflowed on all the tables. London select society

  had been invited to meet the Prince of Wales at breakfast; and this was intended

  to represent a wedding breakfast. It was the solemn occasion of Maria’s return to the Prince of Wales.

  Plump, no longer young, either of them, they were radiant. The Prince

  behaved like an eager boy. He could not take his eyes from Maria. All was

  forgiven: her temper: his infidelities. They were lovers again.

  ‘Together,’ said the Prince of Wales, ‘until death do us part.’

  The second honeymoon had begun.

  ————————

  Caroline laughed loudly when she heard of it.

  She insisted on drinking their health.

  ‘Good luck to them,’ she said. ‘Blessings on our plump pair. I am truly

  pleased that Maria Fitzherbert’s husband has gone back to her.’

  Willikin

  THE Prince’s return to Mrs. Fitzherbert was tantamount to a public

  renunciation of his marriage to Caroline. True she was the Princess of Wales and

  mother of Princess Charlotte, but everywhere Maria Fitzherbert was received with

  the Prince and apart from openly being acknowledged as such was in every other

  way his wife.

  In spite of her apparent acceptance of this extraordinary situation, Caroline

  was at heart deeply wounded. Her only friend was the King and his health was

  declining rapidly. He visited her now and then and she was allowed to visit him;

  he showed clearly that he had a firm and growing affection for her which,

  Caroline confided to Miss Hayman, was comforting.

  She was entertaining more frequently at Montague House, and was delighted

  to find that there were people who were prepared to visit her in spite of the fact that they knew they displeased the Prince of Wales by doing so. It was not only

  the Prince of Wales who was displeased but the Queen also; and as the King was

  growing stranger every day it seemed as though Caroline would not long have a

  supporter in the royal family.

  Caroline endeavoured to show that she did not care and, gay and unrestricted,

  made an effort to lead her own life. She had her beloved daughter, and Charlotte

  loved her mother however much her relations tried to turn her against her; she had her little family of poor children whose welfare was of the greatest concern to her; and she had the friendship of the King and the affection of the people who had
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  considered her very badly treated by her husband and always went to a great deal

  of trouble to show her that they were on her side.

  She felt shut in in her house in Blackheath— aloof from the affairs of the

  world which were distinctly uneasy. There was trouble with France where a man

  of tremendous ambition named Napoleon Bonaparte had risen to make a nuisance

  of himself to his neighbours— by no means excluding the English. The price of

  bread had risen alarmingly and there was general discontent among the poor

  because of this.

  One May morning the King went into Hyde Park to review a battalion of the

  Guards. Crowds had gathered to see the parade and all was going well when

  suddenly the sound of a shot was heard and one of the spectators fell to the

  ground. Crowds collected; the King asked to know what had happened and

  learned that the fallen man had been wounded by a ball cartridge. There was no

  doubt in anyone’s mind for whom that shot had been intended.

  The King was calm as always in such circumstances, having long ago assured

  himself that kings must be prepared at all times for sudden death. As for himself, since his illness he was haunted by the fear of going mad and he often told

  himself that sudden extinction would be preferable to years endured in the

  clouded world of insanity.

  ‘Continue with the exercise,’ he said, and went on as though nothing had

  happened.

  People who had witnessed the incident talked of the King’s remarkable

  courage; and that evening when he went to Drury Lane to see the play he was

  loudly cheered, but as he stepped to the front of the box to acknowledge these

  cheers a man in the stalls stood up and fired at him.

  For the second time that day the King had had a narrow escape from death, for

  had the bullet been a few inches nearer the mark it would have entered his body.

  There was a hushed silence before pandemonium broke out and the man who

  had fired the shot was captured.

  The King, however, preserved his miraculous calm and signed for the play to

  continue; he slept through the interval which was a habit of his, usually sneered at, but on such an occasion applauded.

  No one could help but admire the courage of the King and during the evening

  Sheridan, manager of Drury Lane, wrote a verse to be added to the National

  Anthem and sung to the King that very night.

  From every latent foe, From the assassin’s blow,

  God save the King!

  O’er him thine arm extend,

  For Britain’s sake defend,

  Our father, Prince and friend,

  God save the King.’

  The King listened while the audience sang this new verse several times and

  there were tears in his eyes as he did so.

  And when the would-be assassin turned out to be a certain James Hadfield, an

  old soldier who had received a wound in the head and was clearly suffering from

  delusions, the King was immediately sympathetic— as he always felt towards

  those who suffered from insanity.

  Momentarily to the people he was a hero instead of bumbling old George,

  Farmer George, Button Maker George, the butt of the cartoonists who depicted

  him talking to cottagers about their pigs and enquiring of an old woman how the

  apple came to be inside the dumpling. They were fond of old George while they

  laughed at his homely ways and his concern for small matters. The man who

  could act so calmly after an attempt on his life was in another category.

  But they soon forgot and he was old George again, parsimonious, prim, father

  of a large and troublesome family— poor old George who had once been mad and

  was likely to be so again.

  Pitt resigned and Pitt had been the King’s anchor ever since he had shown

  himself to be the ablest minister of his day and had headed a ministry at the age of twenty-five.

  The King’s constant anxieties about the state of Europe, that new menace,

  Bonaparte, and the complicated matrimonial affairs of the Prince of Wales, had

  their effect.

  He became ill— of a fever his doctors called it. But it was well known what

  the King’s fevers entailed. The Queen was in despair, while the eyes of the Prince of Wales were hopefully turned towards the Regency which had once almost been

  his and which if it had come to him would have brought him great power.

  But the King recovered— although he still acted strangely.

  Caroline was awakened one morning by her servants who announced that His

  Majesty was below and had called to see her.

  Fearing something was wrong, Caroline did not wait to dress, but in her

  unconventional manner ran down in her nightgown to greet her father-in-law.

  The King embraced her with fervour— in fact in such a manner as to alarm

  her faintly. She had long felt that he was somewhat attracted to her.

  His eyes were a little wild as he declared: ‘You have been constantly in my

  mind. Constantly. Constantly, you understand, eh, what?’

  Caroline replied that she understood and she was gratified and honoured to

  have been in the kindly thoughts of her dear father-in-law and uncle.

  ‘My poor, poor Caroline, the way in which you are treated— I think of you. I

  think of you. I have been ill— very you understand, eh, what? and I have thought

  of you. I have decided to give you the Rangership of Greenwich Park. You

  understand, eh, what?’

  Caroline sank to her knees and kissed his hand.

  He surveyed her with tears in his eyes.

  ‘All wrong,’ said the King. ‘All wrong. Treated like this. While he goes off

  with— Always been a trouble to me. Such a beautiful baby he was, beautiful

  child— always fed in the proper manner— always disciplined— and then he

  gives me sleepless nights. I’ve had ten in a row. The Rangership of Greenwich

  Park, you understand, eh, what?’

  Caroline did understand. She was triumphant. This was going to upset the old

  Begum. But the King, the dear crazy King, was her friend and so she had

  something to be thankful for.

  ————————

  Life was not unpleasant at Montague House for Caroline since so many

  interesting people were delighted to be her guests. Where George Canning was

  there was always brilliant conversation. Mrs. Canning often accompanied him;

  and there was Lady Hester Stanhope, the eccentric young woman to whom

  Caroline was very much attracted; that able politician Spencer Perceval came;

  others followed

  these; Mr. Pitt himself called on her with other distinguished Tories, for after all the Prince of Wales was notoriously Whig which meant that the Tories would

  support the Princess of Wales.

  So Caroline delighted herself by giving lavish parties in which she dispensed

  with all ceremony. She would dance with her guests, laugh with them and play

  romping games.

  No one could have behaved less like a Princess of Wales; but thier guests

  were well aware that there had never before been a Princess of Wales like

  Caroline of Brunswick.

  But what she most enjoyed were the times she spent with those whom she

  called ‘her children’. She had her school which she herself superintended and

  where the children received a good education; not as she was determined to make


  sure, an education which would give them airs and graces and good manners. Oh

  no, theirs was to be a practical education. She wanted to equip her children, who would have no fortune, to take their places in the world with a trade behind them.

  She wanted her girls to learn how to manage a house so that if they married they

  would be good wives; and the boys should not leave school without a good trade

  in their hands. She, who was so wildly impractical in most things, was entirely the opposite where her children were concerned.

  Each day they were brought to her and took a meal with her. They called her

  Mamma and had no shyness where she was concerned. They would come to her if

  they hurt themselves and she was the one who must bandage them or kiss and

  make better.

  ‘There is only one thing I regret about my children,’ she told Mrs. Fitzgerald,

  her lady-in-waiting, ‘and that is that they are not my own.’

  She spoke wistfully, for in every child she saw her own daughter Charlotte

  and lived for the hours she could spend with the little girl.

  ‘All my life,’ she told Miss Hayman and Mrs. Fitzgerald, ‘I longed for a child,

  and when I had one it was to discover she belonged to the State and not to me.

  What a tragedy! But I must not complain, must I? I have my little family and I

  think of them all as my own— all the little children I should have had if I had

  been allowed to marry where my heart lay. That was with my dear Töbingen. Ah,

  I could tell

  you of my beloved Major. He was worth a hundred princes. But he was not good

  enough for poor little Caroline. Does that not make you laugh?’

  They were accustomed now to the wild conversation of their mistress and saw

  nothing remarkable in it.

  She was busy in Montague House; her children saw to that. She turned one of

  her fields into potato land so that the produce could be sold to add to the income she spent on her children.

  She enjoyed walking round the field while the potatoes were being dug.

  ‘You see,’ she would say to her ladies, ‘I should never have been a princess. I

  should have been a country woman to marry where I wished and raise children—

  my own— a large family all my own.’

  But the happiest days were when she saw Charlotte. She would devise games