o b464705202491194

by Cheyenne

  threatened to publish the letters he had written to her. These were bought for

  £7,000 down and a Pension of £400 a year.

  But people went on talking of Mary Anne Clarke; and it was noticed that the

  King’s health was even worse than it had been before.

  ————————

  The Mary Anne Clarke scandal had scarcely died down when another and far

  more dramatic one burst on London, This concerned Ernest, Duke of Cumberland

  — the King’s fifth son.

  Ernest was the last son the King would have expected to bring trouble. He had

  been sent to Germany to learn his soldiering where he had acquitted himself with

  honour; and when he had come back to England in 1796 he was made a

  lieutenant-general. Not only was he an excellent military leader but he had shown some skill in the House of Lords; he was an able debater and was regarded with

  respect by the Prince of Wales. The most likeable quality of the brothers was their loyalty to each other; and Ernest was determined that when George became King

  he would be beside him.

  It was the night of May 10th. Duke Ernest had been to a concert and

  according to himself, retired to bed in his apartments in St. James’s Palace. Soon after midnight his screams awoke his servants who rushing in found him in his

  bed with a wound at the side of his head. One of the servants had fallen over the Duke’s sword which lay, on the floor and was spattered with fresh blood.

  The Palace was soon aroused; doctors were sent for; and it was noticed that

  the Prince’s valet, an Italian named Sellis, was missing. One of the servants went to call him and ran screaming from the room. Sellis was lying on the floor, a razor beside him, his throat cut.

  What happened in the Duke of Cumberland’s apartments on that fateful last

  night in May no one could be quite sure but there was rumour enough. The

  Duke’s story was that a noise in his room had awakened him and before he had

  time to light a candle, he had received a blow on the side of his head. He had

  started up, and as his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness he received

  another and more

  violent blow; he had felt the blood streaming down his face as he fell back on his pillows screaming for help.

  That was all he could tell them.

  The public was excited. This was far more dramatic than the recent Mary

  Anne Clarke scandal. A royal Duke attacked in his bed; his valet murdered. There

  would be an inquest. What would come out of that? Speculation ran wild.

  The valet had a very beautiful wife. Everyone knew the weakness of the royal

  princes where women were concerned. Why should a valet attack a duke? Why

  should the valet be murdered?

  The King was becoming quite incoherent.

  ‘This terrible scandal,’ he said. ‘What does it mean, eh, what does it mean, eh,

  what? This is worse than anything the Prince of Wales ever did. Ernest— what

  does it mean— what can it mean?’

  There was one fact which kept hammering on his mind.

  The valet had a beautiful wife. He kept seeing pictures of Ernest and a woman

  — a dark woman. Italian? Oh, God, help me, groaned the King. This family of

  mine will drive me mad.

  The inquest was conducted with decorum and respect for the royal family. It

  was not easy to sort out the evidence. It seemed incomprehensible. Why should

  the valet attempt to murder the Duke and then commit suicide?

  The public had the answer. It was discussed in all the coffee and chocolate

  houses. It was simple, wasn’t it? Sellis had found his wife in bed with the Duke, had attacked him, and the Duke retaliated by murdering the valet and making it

  appear as suicide.

  It seemed the only logical answer. And knowing these princes, a very

  reasonable one.

  At the inquest the verdict of, suicide was brought in. Sellis, it was said, had

  gone mad, had attacked his master and realizing what he had done had committed

  suicide. That the Duke had been attacked was indisputable. The blow on his head

  had cut deep and could have killed him. Why the Duke’s sword should have been

  stained with fresh blood was never answered. But the people had their verdict and they were not going to be diverted from it by a mere jury,

  ‘What would happen to us, eh,’ they asked each other, ‘if we committed

  murder?’

  ‘Hanged by the neck. That’s what. But then we’re not royal dukes.’

  ————————

  The King muttered to himself as he paced up and down his apartments. ‘What

  next, eh? What next?’

  The Prince of Wales discussed the state of affairs with Lady Hertford. He was

  most humble with the lady as he needed to be for she made it clear that she would not be an easy victim. That was why he was so desperate. She was not beautiful,

  but her elegance was supreme. She was the best dressed woman in London and

  cared passionately for the cut of a gown and that the jewellery she wore should be in absolute keeping with her ensemble.

  ‘Perfection!’ the Prince would sigh looking at her. But she was frigid and

  made it clear that she had her reputation to consider. She had no need of the gifts he could bestow for she was the wife of one of the richest peers in the country. He might win her by accepting her advice but he was supposed to be a Whig and she

  was the most ardent of Tories.

  This made the pursuit of her full of difficulties and the more exciting because

  of it.

  But she was most gracious when he talked politics and if he were to ask her

  advice she became almost affectionate, so different from Maria. There could not

  have been a woman less like Maria. Was that why he was attracted? He knew he

  wanted them both. But he had Maria. Maria was his affectionate and devoted

  wife; there was no need to pursue Maria.

  But he was madly in love with his elusive frigid fashion plate.

  Now she listened with interest to the state of the King’s health.

  ‘It grows worse, I hear,’ she said. Her eyes glinted. ‘It could mean that he

  cannot live much longer.’

  A king! she thought. Power! The Tory party triumphant! That was a consideration. But while King George III was alive it was a mere dream and Lady

  Hertford was not a dreamer; she liked cold reality.

  She would not talk of the King’s death. That was unwise; and she was a

  shrewd woman.

  ‘It could mean a regency,’ she temporized.

  ‘If I became regent,’ he said, ‘there is nothing I would not do that you asked.

  You would be at my right hand. How fortunate to have the most beautiful woman

  in England for my chief minister.’

  And the Fitzherbert? wondered Lady Hertford. A Catholic. Inwardly she

  shuddered. She did not believe in the emancipation of Catholics, which of course

  the Prince did at the moment. It was not only the Fitzherbert influence but he was a man of tolerance— weakness she called it.

  But if he even came to power— through the Crown or the Regency— she

  would certainly feel more friendly towards him.

  The Prince realized how interested Lady Hertford was in the possibility of a

  Regency; and he wanted her to understand that this possibility was by no means

  remote.

  ‘I heard that my father remarked on his way to open Parliament that he was

  going to begin his speech by My Lords and Peacocks. I believe they were in a state of apprehensio
n expecting him to carry out his threat.’

  ‘But he did not,’ said Lady Hertford. ‘If he had that would have been the end.’

  ‘He has deteriorated terribly in the last weeks. These scandals about Fred and

  Ernest —’

  Lady Hertford pursed her lips. She did not like scandal. The Prince had been

  about to tell her of an incident which had been reported to him of how when the

  King had inspected the royal yacht, his eyes had fallen on an exceptionally pretty woman whom he had approached and regarded in manner which was alien to

  what was expected of him.

  ‘My word,’ he had exclaimed, very audibly, ‘what a pretty bottom! I’d like to

  slap that bottom.’ Those watching had choked with laughter and the King had

  sought to embrace the young woman who had quickly extricated herself, made a

  quick curtsey and run off.

  Such incidents in public meant that he must be near breaking point.

  Poor father, thought the Prince with compassion. But he did have to retire, it would mean the Regency.

  And if the Regency were his, he believed, then so would be Lady Hertford.

  Lady Hertford to satisfy his need for romance— always so strong in him; and

  Maria to go home to like a nice warm featherbed— always his great comfort in

  life, his wife, his soul— but to whom he had grown accustomed so that he must

  seek romance elsewhere.

  ————————

  When Caroline heard of the Prince’s penchant for Lady Hertford she shrieked

  with laughter.

  ‘He’s a fool, of course,’ she told Lady Charlotte. ‘He’d be wise to keep to

  Maria. He doesn’t realize when he’s got a treasure. They say he sits and looks at Madam Hertford with tears in his eyes and longing in his expression. And that

  Maria Fitzherbert is very angry with him. They quarrel, and she has a temper, our paragon. Not that I can’t understand that— married to that trying man. But it

  makes me laugh— oh, it does make me laugh, Lady Charlotte my dear, to think of

  these fat middle-aged people behaving like young people in love.’

  She wanted to hear how the romance of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s husband

  progressed. And she asked everyone who came to see her to tell her what they

  knew.

  ————————

  They could not keep the news from the King any longer. Amelia was very ill.

  With the coming of the autumn she contracted what was known as St. Anthony’s

  Fire.

  The fact that the King’s jubilee was being celebrated made this even more

  tragic to him. Fifty years since he had ascended the throne— fifty years of

  anxieties and fears which had grown greater as years passed. Looking back he

  could not remember everything that had happened; but two things stood out in his

  memory; the loss of the American Colonies, and the scandals of his family. He

  had failed somewhere. All his efforts to be a good man and a good king had not

  brought him success. He had become a tragic old fellow.

  ‘More dead than alive sometimes,’ he mumbled. ‘And oh, God, I wish I were

  dead for I am afraid I am going mad.’ He was half-blind, tormented by desires for women which he had never fulfilled in his youth because he was so determined to

  be a good husband to a wife whom he had never wanted, worried by his children,

  and now he faced the greatest tragedy of all: his darling Amelia was dying.

  Yes, he must face it. She was going. She could not live.

  Everyone knew it although they were trying to keep it from him. They had

  said: ‘Amelia can do more for him than anyone else. Amelia can soothe him,

  comfort him.’ And so she had with her frail delicate beauty and her soothing

  voice and

  her love for him which had made all his sufferings worthwhile.

  He sent for her physicians.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ he cried. ‘Don’t try to delude me. You understand, eh,

  what? I want to know the truth. Is my daughter better? Is she, eh, what?’

  ‘She is as well as can be expected, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I expect her to be well. Is she as well as that? Tell me. Save her life. Is it too much to ask, eh, what? Go back to her. What are you doing here? You should be

  with her. Go to her— Tell her— Tell her—’

  And he covered his face with his hands.

  The physicians looked at each other. He needed their services as much as his

  daughter.

  The Princess Mary came to him, her face blotched with tears. It was Mary

  who had loved Amelia best of all his daughters and who had scarcely left the sick room. That made him love Mary.

  ‘What is it?’ he cried as he stumbled towards her.

  ‘Papa, she would like to see you— now.’

  He went to her room. She smiled at him. Poor Papa, who looked so wild with

  his jutting white brows and his red face. But he was her good kind father who had also doted on her and been charmed by her and whom it had been her duty always

  to soothe and comfort.

  ‘Dearest Papa, I am going to leave you.’

  He nodded and the tears began to fall down his cheeks.

  ‘You must not grieve for me, Papa. I have had a great deal of suffering and

  shall be past all pain.’

  ‘My darling!’

  ‘And I know you love me well enough to be glad of that. Dearest Papa, I have

  had a ring made for you. I have it here. See it is a lock of my hair under crystal and set round with diamonds. Give me your, finger, Papa. Will you always wear it

  and remember me?’

  She put it on his finger. He stared at it through his tears, holding it close to his eyes that he might see it clearly.

  ‘My darling child— my best loved—’ he began.

  But he could say no more. He was remembering the day twenty-seven years

  ago when she had been born and all the joy she had brought into his life.

  ‘No,’ he cried, ‘not this— I cannot lose you. Anything— anything but this.’

  And he kissed the mourning ring and watching him, smiling, she sank back on

  her pillows.

  The Princess Amelia was buried at Windsor with great pageantry.

  In his apartments the King gave way to his grief. He had lost his love, his

  darling, and with her his sanity.

  No Place for Mrs. Fitzherbert

  THE Prince of Wales had decided to celebrate his inauguration as Regent with

  the most dazzling of spectacles. This was to be held at Carlton House. Many

  members of the French Royal family, who were in England at this time, were to

  be guests; and there was talk of nothing else but this extremely grand occasion.

  Maria, melancholy in the house in Tilney Street, wondered whether she would

  receive an invitation. Miss Pigot watched her anxiously.

  Thank God, she thought, for darling Minney, who made up for so much. And how could Prinney be so tiresome? What could he see in that woman Hertford?

  How could he compare her with Maria?

  But he was infatuated by the creature and the talk about them was growing

  more and more insistent and the more so it became the sadder was poor Maria.

  They did not discuss this in front of Minney of course, but when they were

  alone Maria said: ‘I doubt that I shall receive an invitation.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ cried Miss Pigot. ‘How could his wife not be invited?’

  ‘Quite easily because it is clear that he does not consider me to be his wife.’

  ‘Now that’s talk I won’t listen to. He does. He’s
straying a bit now, I’ll

  confess, but that’s because he does think of you as his wife and he thinks he can have his little games and come back to you.’

  ‘He could be mistaken,’ said Maria with a show of temper,

  But how pleased she was when she received her invitation! Her pleasure was

  brief, however, because she soon learned that at the fête, there was to be a royal table at which the Prince would sit with his special guests including members of

  the French royal family. For the remainder of the guests there would be a buffet—

  for two thousand people had been invited— and those who used the buffet would

  naturally have to serve themselves.

  ‘Of course you’ll be at the royal table,’ said Miss Pigot. ‘How could it be

  otherwise?’

  ‘It could very well be otherwise,’ said Maria grimly. ‘But I shall see that it is not. I am going to discover whether or not I am expected to get my own supper at

  that buffet.’

  ‘How can you find out till you get there?’

  ‘Oh, can’t you see that this would be the ultimate humiliation? I have presided

  at dinners where that woman was the guest of honour because he wished it. But I

  will not consent to this. And I am going to Carlton House to ask him.’

  Miss Pigot was nervous, but Maria insisted and called at Carlton House where

  she demanded to see the Prince.

  He received her with some surprise but with a show of affection.

  ‘I have come to ask you where I am to sit at the banquet?’ she asked.

  He was embarrassed. How could he explain that Lady Hertford did not expect

  her to have a place at the table and that he must please Lady Hertford? Maria

  should understand. It was not that he did not love her; but he was under the

  influence of the fascinating Lady Hertford and he must obey her wishes.

  Maria did not make it easy. She was looking at him with cold dislike— yes,

  actually dislike.

  He said, ‘You know, Madam, you have no place.’

  ‘None, sir,’ she answered curtly, ‘but such as you choose to give me.’

  With that she left him— uneasy, embarrassed and angry with her for not

  understanding that he could not displease Lady Hertford.

  She returned to Miss Pigot in a state of melancholy. ‘This is the end, Piggy.

  This is really the end. I can endure no more.’