by Cheyenne
unfaithful wife.
She laughed at the thought. He provides enough infidelity for one family, she told herself. What she enjoyed doing was shocking people, making them
speculate about the wild and immoral life she led; let them make up fantastic
stories about her and her lovers. They were now linking her name with that of
Pergami. Let them! She loved Pergami in her way. He was a good chamberlain
who managed her affairs with skill; he amused her; he was a very good friend.
But he was not her lover and there was no sexual relationship between them. Nor
would there be with any man.
There was something she kept from people. She did not want to think too
much about it herself, but there was a mysterious recurring pain in the region of her stomach which at times she found almost unendurable. Then it would pass
and she would attempt to forget it. She had mentioned it to her doctor but he
could not say what it was and, like her, hoped it would pass. She was fifty-two
years of age. When she removed her wig and the white lead and rouge she looked
like an old woman. Scarcely one to indulge in riotous behaviour with lovers of all classes.
Poor Caroline! she would say to herself. You dreamed of so much and you realized so little. The next best thing was to pretend to the world that one lived gaily, unconventionally and scandalously.
It amused her. So forget encroaching age, alarming symptoms of pain. Slap on
the rouge and the feathers, the pink tights and the white lead— and pretend. It was the next best thing.
She left the Villa d’Este and came to Pesaro where she took a villa
overlooking the Adriatic Sea.
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She missed the Villa d’Este because she had made it so beautiful. How dared
he send spies to attempt to trap her! But for that, she would still be there. He was not content with refusing to live with her, not content with humiliating her in
every way possible; he must make trouble among her friends and servants by
setting them to spy on her.
She was angry with him. But if he wanted scandal, he should have it. The
more outrageously she behaved the more amused she was.
‘He’ll hear of this,’ she cried gleefully. ‘Let him. I want him to. He’ll be
shocked and mortified. Let him be. Wasps leave their stings in the wounds they
inflict. And so do I.’
She was entertaining lavishly. She rode out in her shell-like chariot; she
would sit bowing, smiling, exposing her short fat legs in their pink tights. She
talked to all kinds of people and when the children ran after her carriage she threw money to them. People gathered along the roads to see her pass; she was the wild
Princess of Wales.
The Empress Marie Louise came to Parma and had taken a brief residence
there. She was in a similar position to Caroline, wandering the Continent looking for solace; and with her was her son who had been King of Rome, and as Caroline
rarely went anywhere without Willikin in attendance, the similarity was
increased.
Marie Louise was different from Caroline in one respect though; she was very
conscious of her royalty and loved to stand on ceremony, a trait which aroused
Caroline’s spirit of mischief. The more regal Marie Louise became, the more
ribald Caroline would grow.
The climax to their friendship came when the ex-Empress invited the Princess
to a dinner party at her mansion in Parma. It was a very ceremonial occasion.
Caroline had been rouged and leaded and appeared in multi-coloured feathers.
She was received by the ex-Empress and the guests were made to understand
that they should leave the two royal ladies to talk together before joining them in the banqueting hall. She and Caroline sat together before a fire on two ornate
chairs. Caroline’s short legs did not reach the floor; she was very bored with the Empress’s conversation which was mainly concerned with past grandeur and, as
she moved impatiently in her chair, tipped it back and falling with it, remained
convulsed with laughter while her legs waved wildly in the air.
The Empress shrieked; several of her suite came running to see what was
wrong; and the sight of the Princess of Wales toppled on the floor, her skirts
about her waist, her legs waving in the air, so dumbfounded them that they could
only stand and stare.
The Empress kept repeating again and again: ‘Madame, you alarm me.’
And Caroline unnecessarily prolonged the occasion by remaining in her
inelegant and ridiculous position.
She was at length helped to her feet, convulsed with laughter, her face scarlet
under her rouge, her wig awry.
She insisted on repeating the story at dinner, her accent thickening as she
explained the situation.
‘I fell mit meine legs in the air. I stay just like this and she—’ She nodded to
the Empress. ‘All she can say is: Mon Dieu! Comme vous m’avez effrayé. ’
The incident was repeated. With anyone else it would have been unbelievable,
but not with Caroline.
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She thought often of her daughter. Dearest Charlotte would soon give birth to
a child. She longed for news of her. Charlotte wrote to her now and then and she
was always the affectionate daughter. Caroline was melancholy sometimes
thinking of her.
She would repeat again and again to Pergami the story how Charlotte had left
her father to run away to her mother.
‘She loved me, my, little Charlotte. There was no doubt, that. Nothing he
could do could alter it.’
Dear headstrong creature, she had jilted the Prince of Orange and married a
Prince whom she loved— Leopold Saxe-Coburg.
Charlotte had written to her of her joy in the marriage. Leopold was handsome
and good, he was her choice and she was the happiest of Princesses.
Happy indeed, thought Caroline and rejoiced.
She would talk of her daughter to the Countess Oldi with whom she had
become very friendly during her eastern travels.
‘I’m so happy because my dearest daughter will know the joy that has been
denied to me. She loves her husband and he her, and I think that must be the
greatest blessing in the world I missed it, dear Oldi, and I am so happy that she has found it. How can I be sure? Oh, I know my Charlotte. She would never
pretend. Her letters overflow with happiness it makes me laugh aloud just to read them— real laughter this time, Oldi— the laughter that means you are happy.’
The married pair, she learned, had acquired Claremont as their country house
and there they were spending the happy months of waiting. For Charlotte had
written the glad news; she was going to have a child.
Dearest Charlotte, mused Caroline. To think of my baby with a little baby.
This is all she needs to make her happiness complete. I hope this child will be the first of many. I can imagine the excitement in England about the birth. You see, this child could be a King or Queen of England. The bells will ring; the guns will boom; and there’ll be bonfires In the streets. The people loved my Charlotte. And her father— oh, he’ll be pleased too and so will the old Begum though she
disapproved of darling Charlotte— because she was my daughter, I suppose. And Charlotte disapproved of her. But she’ll be glad. And the King— poor mad King.
I don’t supposed he will even know. I could weep to think of him. He was the only one in the
whole family who showed me kindness., Oh, it makes me wish I was
there. For the first time, Oldi, I wish I were back in England.
Each day when she rose she would sit at the window overlooking the sea.
‘I wonder how Charlotte is,’ she would say. ‘Her time must be near. She will
write to me and tell me all about her little baby. Poor darling, I hope it is not a difficult labour.’
When any messengers came the first thing she thought of was letters from
England.
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‘Any day now,’ she said to the Countess. ‘It must be soon. Unless of course
she miscalculated. How like Charlotte. But over this, I should not have thought
so. She has become more serious since her marriage— I sense it in her letters.
Fancy! It is three years since I saw my daughter. There’ll be news soon. She’ll
write. I shall hear all the news about the most wonderful baby in the world.’
And still she waited to hear.
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She would never forget that morning.
She liked to glance through the English newspapers and had them brought to
her. They lay on her table for some time before she picked them up and then she
settled idly to skim through them.
She opened one and stared at the page. No! She was dreaming.
This could not be true.
‘On November 5th after a long labour the Princess Charlotte was delivered of
a fine large dead boy. She died shortly afterwards.’
Birth and Death
THE whole country was in mourning for the Princess Charlotte. The Prince
Regent shut himself in his apartments.
He could face nobody— not even Lady Hertford. He wept bitterly. He forgot
his disagreements with his daughter; he only saw her now as his beloved child.
Sir Richard Croft, the accoucheur, had come to him in an utmost demented
state. The Prince had tried to comfort him and himself at the same time.
‘They tell me the child was perfect— perfect— and a boy.’
‘It was so, sir. And his features were undoubtedly those of your family.’
The Prince turned away and wiped his eyes. ‘I cannot bear to think of it. Pray
leave me to my grief.’
Sir Richard went away and in the streets the people recognized his carriage
and booed him. The rumours were already spreading through the town that he had
been careless; he had not done his job as he should; he was responsible for the
death of their beloved Princess.
The Regent gave way to tears and at the back of his mind was the thought: It
is even more important now to rid myself of that woman. It’s not too late. But for her, I could marry again, get another son. They must bring me news of her
misconduct. Why can’t the obvious be proved?
But it is necessary now— necessary.
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The Queen was at Bath taking the waters. She had been unwell lately, and her
doctors had suggested the visit. Her daughter Elizabeth had accompanied her and
they had taken three houses in Sydney Place for themselves and their attendants.
She was glad that her relationship with the Prince Regent was better than it
had been for many years. The old battles were done with. He had mellowed, she
told herself, and perhaps she was no longer seeking power. It was all his now,.
and her feelings towards him were like those she had had when he was a child,
when he had been her favourite.
He had married that odious woman and she would like to see him free of her;
not that he needed to marry now that he had a child and this child was about to
bear another. She hoped it would be a boy which would please the people and
make them love their royal family again. There was nothing like a child to do that.
She remembered how they used to crowd round young George when he was a
baby and cheered when he was wheeled into the Park.
How different they were towards him now. Only a few months ago when he
returned from the opening of Parliament the mob had surrounded his carriage and
thrown mud and all sorts of ill smelling rubbish at it. He had sat in it, ignoring the smell, his scented handkerchief at his nose, a figure of elegance and disdain.
Some people said that a bullet had been fired at him although the sound of it was not heard, so loudly was the mob shouting. They found a hole in the woodwork of
the coach though.
Such scenes were frightening. One could never be sure when the mob would
get out of hand.
But all that was over for a while. The people would be thinking of the new
royal child. The bells would be ringing out and there would be general rejoicing.
She hoped she might have a hand in bringing up the child. It certainly should not be left to flighty Charlotte.
She was eagerly awaiting news of the birth. It must be soon now.
Lady Ancaster, one of her ladies-in-waiting, had come to read to her as she
did at this time every day. How strange she looked.
‘Is anything wrong, Lady Ancaster?’
‘Your Majesty—’ Lady Ancaster had begun to sob.
‘It is Charlotte— is it?’
Lady Ancaster tried to speak but could not do so. ‘Something has gone wrong.
The child—’
Lady Ancaster looked at her helplessly. ‘Born dead—’ murmured the Queen.
And she knew the answer.
‘Charlotte—’
Still that look of blank misery.
‘No! No!’ cried the Queen.
But he knew it was true. Charlotte was dead.
Lady Ancaster was startled into action. She ran to get assistance, for the
Queen had fainted.
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They were saying in the streets that wicked old Queen Charlotte had planned
this. She had always hated her young namesake. Why should one so young and
healthy die in childbirth?
And what had Sir Richard Croft to do with it?
Why, the old Queen and the accoucheur had plotted together. They were
determined that Charlotte should die so they had poisoned her. Sir Richard had
neglected her. He had bled her too much. He had weakened her when he should
have strengthened her. Who was Sir Richard Croft anyway? The son of a
chancery clerk who had become a fashionable doctor.
Wait till they could lay their hands on the old Queen. Wait until they could
meet Richard Croft face to face. They had been hoping for a royal birth and the
accompanying festivities— and all they would get was a funeral.
Sir Richard Croft blew out his brains and the people were satisfied. After that
there was no more talk about the murder of Princess Charlotte and her child.
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When the funeral was over the Prince Regent retired to Brighton there to think
of the future. He wandered through his ornate rooms and took comfort from all
the splendour which was his creation. And all the time he was haunted by a
shadow— the shadow of the woman who was his wife. While he was married to
her he would know no peace and he longed as never before to be rid of her.
Why would no one help him? Why was it impossible to find just the evidence
they needed?
He was determined that he would rid himself of Caroline.
No price was too high to be paid to be free of that woman. He would marry
again. This time he would choo
se his bride.
He often thought of Maria. The greatest mistake of his life might have been
marrying Caroline but to leave Maria was almost as grave. They should have been
together. She would have comforted him now. He still thought of her at times like these. Lady Hertford— nor any of them— had ever had the solace Maria had to
offer.
But it was too late to think of Maria now. She was older than he was and he
was no longer young. But not too old to beget a child. And he must. The country
needed an heir and he must provide it.
And how?
Now here he was back to the beginning. He must rid himself of that woman.
He went to see the Queen. She received him with great affection. It was
pleasant to contemplate that the enmity between them was over. Now they were
in perfect accord and she knew why he had come to her.
‘If I died tomorrow, the Duke of York would be King.’
‘With a barren wife who is not long for this world,’ remarked the Queen.
‘And William— he’s living with his large family of Fitzclarences at Bushey.’
‘He, should marry and so should Kent,’ said the Queens ‘This sad affair has
brought home to us how necessary it is for every member of the family to do his
duty.’
‘I will summon them all,’ said the Regent. ‘Their duty must be pointed out to
them.’
‘So many children,’ mused the Queen, ‘and not an heir among them.’
‘If Charlotte and the child had lived—’
‘Ah, yes, you did your duty, painful as it was.’
‘Painful, indeed,’ echoed the Prince.
‘I always thought it was a pity you took that one instead of my niece Louise. I
knew it was wrong at the time. Alas!’
‘Alas!’ repeated the Prince. Then he added briskly: ‘I will speak to my
brothers. They must marry without delay. As for myself—’
‘As for yourself—’
‘I don’t give up hope. She is behaving in the most outrageous manner. We
must have proof soon.’
‘Oh pray God it will come,’ said the Queen piously.
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It was not difficult to persuade the Dukes of the need for them to find wives as
quickly as possible. They were no longer very young, any of them— and marriage