Indiscretions of the Queen

by Виктория Холт

  And doing this and walking now and then and dreaming of the following year when she would have her baby, she felt life was tolerable.

  The Prince had left her in Brighton and gone to Carlton House. Lady Jersey accompanied him and during her stay in London was summoned to audience with the Queen, who wished for a detailed account of Caroline’s behaviour in Brighton.

  ‘So she is with child,’ said the Queen. ‘It has not taken long, and I believe that the Prince has not been the most devoted of husbands.’

  Lady Jersey smiled sycophantically. It was clear that she herself was pregnant, and doubtless through the Prince. But Lady Jersey was a discreet woman, and Lord Jersey would accept paternity, so there was no need for propriety to be outraged.

  ‘I congratulate you on your own condition,’ went on the Queen.

  Lady Jersey thanked Her Majesty and said she welcomed this addition to her family.

  ‘I trust it will not mean too long an absence from your duties.’

  ‘I can assure Your Majesty that my desire to serve will not allow me to absent myself for longer than is necessary.’

  The Queen nodded. ‘And how does the Princess spend her time?’

  ‘She walks a little rides, and writes a great many letters home.’

  ‘Ah. Letters.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I am told that she sometimes laughs herself almost into hysteria when writing letters to her family.’

  The Queen s eyes narrowed. ‘It would doubtless be interesting to know what those letters contain.’

  Lady Jersey’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘If it were in my power to inform Your Majesty of that, I should believe myself to have done my duty.’

  It was a dangerous subject— one which should only referred to in the most oblique terms.

  But it was clear to Lady Jersey that this was a command from the Queen.

  It was Mrs Harcourt who called Caroline’s attention to the fact that Dr.

  Randolph, a member of the household was shortly leaving for Germany.

  ‘It occurred to me that Your Highness might have some special commission for him.’

  Caroline declared that the doctor might carry some letters to her family. When was he leaving?

  In the next few days, was the answer.

  Caroline sat down at her table and wrote home. This was her revenge. She would tell her mother about Charlotte, the dumpy ugly Queen who reminded her of an old duck waddling out with her ducklings following her in order of age. She told of the cool reception she had received at the Queen’s hand; and that the Princesses, her sisters-in-law, were a spineless collection of old maids. They hadn’t a will between them. Mamma said: Persecute George’s wife, so they did their silly best to persecute.

  As for the King he was kind and she liked him, though everyone said he was mad. The Prince of Wales was a poor husband and they weren’t to believe the stories they heard of his good looks. He was very fat and even the special corsets he wore couldn’t hide his paunch. She could tell them that the English branch’ of the family would do well in a circus; She sealed the letters and sent for Dr. Randolph.

  ‘Dear Dr. Randolph.’ She smiled, Lord Malmesbury would reprimand her for her freedom of address. ‘Dear Dr. Randolph,’ she went on, ‘I have heard you are leaving for a journey and will be passing through Brunswick.’

  ‘It’s true, Your Highness.’

  ‘Then would you please take these letters to the Court there? They should be delivered into the hands of the Duke and Duchess and Madame de Hertzfeldt.’

  Dr. Randolph bowed, accepted the letters and told the Princess that she could rest assured that they would be delivered with all speed.

  Lady Jersey smiled at the doctor in the slightly coquettish manner in which she regarded all men.

  ‘Dr. Randolph,’ she said, ‘I hear that you are about to leave for Germany.’

  ‘It is true,’ replied the Doctor.

  ‘And the Princess has honoured you with a commission?’

  ‘She wishes me to carry some letters to her family.’

  ‘I see.’ Lady Jersey’s smile widened. ‘A very important Person is interested in those letters.’

  Dr. Randolph said: ‘Madam, they have been entrusted to my care. I could not lightly hand them over to any— person.’

  ‘Not lightly, Dr. Randolph. But there might be a perfectly reasonable way in which this would come about.’

  ‘I cannot see how this could be.’

  ‘It is for you to decide. The personage who wishes to see the letters is of the greatest influence. She has the power to bestow rank on those who wish for it, preferment— honours of all kinds.’

  ‘Preferment?’A Bishopric dangled before Dr. Randolph’s imaginative mental eye. Preferment indeed! For handing over a packet of letters. The important personage was of course the Queen. One had to obey the Queen. There was not only the hope of preferment if one did, but the fear of reprisals if one did not. The Queen, who for so many years had been a nonentity had now become a power in the land, and she was a vindictive woman who would be implacable in her revenge.

  If Lady Jersey— and everyone knew on what terms that woman was with Her Majesty— went to the Queen and told her that Dr. Randolph could have put the letters into her hands and failed to do so, that would be the end of Dr. Randolph’s hopes of advancement. Who knew, it might be the end of Dr. Randolph’s career.

  ‘So—’ said Lady Jersey opening her beautiful eyes provocatively.

  ‘Madam, you who are in the service of the great will doubtless have some suggestion to offer.’

  Lady Jersey was only too willing to explain.

  As the post chaise carried him out of London on the way to Yarmouth Dr.

  Randolph was thinking of his Bishopric.

  It was really a very simple matter. He only had to obey instructions. His great fear was that something would go wrong. Caroline did not notice that the letters were not returned to her.

  No. Lady Jersey was very efficient where her own advancement was concerned; and as this was his too, so mu he be. She left Brighton for Carlton House, there to await the birth of her child; and so eager was she for this event that she had little thought for anything else.

  He alighted at the inn and there was the messenger waiting for him as had been arranged.

  When Lady Jersey gave birth to a boy she laughed. Let her! She had already had a brood of children. What was one more? Caroline was not vindictive and if Lady Jersey had been ready to be her friend, she would have forgotten everything that had gone before and have settled down to cosy chats about babies.

  ‘Sir, there is disturbing news. Mrs. Randolph has been taken ill and the doctor believes it to be very grave.’

  But Lady Jersey was determined not to be friendly. She was eager, as she said, to keep the Princess in her place. Lady Jersey had the approval of the Queen who recognized her as a good servant; the manner in which she had diverted Caroline’s letters into the Queen’s hands was an example of her good service.

  And reading those letters was not likely to make Her Majesty feel any more friendly towards her daughter-in-law.

  Low, vulgar creature! thought the Queen. What folly ever to have let her come into the country! Everything should be done to make her as uncomfortable as possible. As for the Prince he could scarcely bear to hear her spoken of. The Queen laughed grimly; their mutual dislike of his wife had made a new bond between them. They were almost allies.

  Dr. Randolph took the letter which was handed to him. He had rehearsed the scene during the journey to the inn. He put his hand to his forehead and said: ‘My God, what shall I do? What can I do? There is nothing to be done but return home.’

  ‘Your Highness seems to be carrying a girl,’ Lady Jersey told Caroline.

  ‘While the horses are being prepared I will write a letter and I wish you to take it with all speed to Lady Jersey in Brighton.’

  ‘You would know,’ retorted the Princess, ‘being so clever.’

&n
bsp; ‘It is the method of carrying the child.’

  His hands were trembling a little as he wrote the note. N had had grave news of his wife’s illness and was returning home at once. He must therefore postpone his visit to Germany. Lady Jersey would remember that he had been entrusted with a packet of letters by the Princess of Wales. He was wondering now whether he should entrust them to another traveller, who should be chosen by the Princess, or return them to Lady Jersey to hand to the Princess, and was now leaving for London where he would await Lady Jersey’s instructions. He trusted there would be no delay as he was anxious to return home to his sick wife.

  ‘Well, it is to the grandmothers we must turn to learn of these things,’ replied Caroline.

  Lady Jersey saw that there was as little delay as possible. Grandmother indeed! thought Lady Jersey. At least she could be more proud of her appearance than Caroline could of hers.

  She had spoken to the Princess of Wales who wished that the letters be returned to her. Dr. Randolph should therefore return the packet addressed to Lady Jersey at the Pavilion. They could be sent from London to Brighton on the post coach which set out from the Golden Cross Inn, Charing Cross.

  ‘Experience is always so valuable,’ said Lady Jersey; and while Caroline was thinking up a suitable retort, asked leave to retire.

  Dr. Randolph sighed with relief, put the packet on the coach-post and returned home to his wife who was spending a few days in bed which she would have found a little irksome but for the promise of future glory as wife to the Bishop.

  When she was alone, Caroline thought of the baby.

  ‘Girl or boy,’ she murmured. ‘What do I care? It’ll be my very own child.

  And when it comes— perhaps even these last months will have seemed worthwhile.’

  Caroline lay in her bed. Her time had almost come. Soon now, she thought, I shall have my very own baby. She had longed for this all her life. When she had visited the homes of humble people and delighted in their children, she had dreamed of the day when she would have her own. And now it was to happen. But she was in an foreign land. She had a husband who did not care for her.

  She laughed at the expression. Did not care for her! He loathed her. He could not bear to look at her. As for her mother-in-law, she would be delighted to see Caroline sent back to Brunswick. She was alone in a foreign land, without friends, for there was no one here whom she could trust the King perhaps— but he was a sick old man and his position alone made him remote But when the baby came it would be different She and the child would be together.

  Would they? She had heard the women talking. They had all said that royal children saw little of their parents. Their education was taken care of by their governors. Nonsense! she had told herself. I would never allow it. I would fight for this as for nothing else. And she would win. She was sure of it. There was one thing she had discovered about that precious husband of hers. He hated scenes— unless he could play the injured party, unless he could be the one who wept and suffered.

  He certainly did not want to partake in scenes with her. He only wanted to avoid her.

  She had put this to use when she had shouted at him. ‘Have your mistress by all means! But keep her out of my sight!’ He had looked as though he were going to faint with horror and had waved a perfumed kerchief before his nose as though to revive him or remove the odours of her person. But it had worked. Lady Jersey was less in attendance.

  One of these days I shall insist that she leaves me altogether, Caroline told herself. But why brood on Lady Jersey when this cherished being was already announcing, in an unmistakable manner, his— or her— intention to come into the world.

  A baby, she thought ecstatically. A baby of my very own!

  The Prince of Wales paced up and down the chamber. Assembled there were the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King’s chief ministers of Church and State waiting for the birth of an heir to the throne.

  Caroline’s labour had been long and she was exhausted; the Prince was in terror that the child would not be healthy or would be born dead There must be a child. He kept murmuring to himself: There must be. I could never— The suspense was unendurable.

  At last they heard the cry of a child. The Prince hurried into the lying- chamber.

  ‘A girl, Your Highness. A lovely healthy little girl.’ There was no doubt of her health. She was bawling lustily.

  Caroline lying in the bed, completely exhausted, cried out: ‘My baby. Where is my baby?’

  They laid the little girl in her arms.

  ‘Mine God,’ she said, ‘it’s true then. I have a baby.’

  ‘A little girl, Your Highness.’

  ‘Mine God, how happy I am!’

  The Prince was happy too. A boy would have been better, of course but there was no Salic law in England and the succession was secure.

  He embraced the Archbishop; he shook hands with all who came near him. He was a father. He had done his duty.

  I shall never be obliged to share a bed with that woman again, he thought.

  The Royal Separation

  THE Prince could not hide his relief.

  He explained to his friend and Master of his Household Lord Cholmondeley: ‘I was terrified that something would go wrong. I cannot tell you, my dear friend, what the birth of this child means to me. If you could know all that I have suffered.’

  Tears filled his eyes at the thought of his suffering, then he shuddered thinking of his wife. She seemed to him gross and vulgar and because she was so different from all that he admired in women she reminded him of the most perfect of them all: his dear Maria.

  Oh, to be with Maria again, to be settled and happy; to return to her, often a little intoxicated as he used to be in the old days, to be aware of her concern, to listen to her tender scolding. Oh, Maria, goddess among women, why had she allowed him to marry this creature!

  He turned to Cholmondeley: ‘If you could understand—’

  Cholmondeley assured his master that he did understand; and he realized therefore that the birth of this child relieved him of a hateful burden.

  ‘I shall be grateful to this daughter of mine until the end of my days,’ said the Prince. ‘Pray God I never have to touch the woman again.’

  ‘There should be no necessity, Your Highness. The child is healthy.’

  ‘May she remain so. I have no intention of following my mother’s example and producing fifteen of them. Fifteen! It’s a joke. What a pity my parents were not more moderate. hey would have saved themselves a good deal of trouble.’

  Cholmondeley could scarcely answer that without being guilty of les majesté so he remained silent.

  The Prince was not expecting answers. He was in one of his lachrymose moods, full of self-pity; in a short while he would be talking of Maria Fitzherbert.

  Cholmondeley believed that Lady Jersey must be a very clever woman— a witch perhaps— to be able to ding to her position as she did considering the Prince’s obsession with Maria Fitzherbert.

  But the Prince was not looking healthy. His face— usually highly coloured— had a tinge of purple in it. A bad sign, Cholmondeley had noticed before. Well, it had been an emotional time; perhaps another bleeding was necessary.

  ‘Your Highness is exhausted. It has been such a trying time. Do you not think you should rest a little?’

  ‘I feel tired,’ admitted the Prince. ‘Bring me some brandy.’

  Cholmondeley went to do the Prince’s bidding and when he, returned he found the Prince slumped in his chair. As he appeared to be suffering from one of those fits to which he was accustomed, Cholmondeley sent for the physicians.

  The Prince, they said, was indeed ill, and bleeding was immediately necessary as it was the only effective way of baling with these unaccountable turns of his So the Prince lay on his bed, pale from much blood letting; and rarely had he seemed so wan and feeble.

  The news spread through the Court: The Prince is seriously ill. He felt so feeble; he had no strength left. He ha
d never felt quite so ill before in the whole of his life.

  He asked that a mirror be brought and when he saw his face lying on the pillows, so white and drawn, so unlike his usual florid complexion, he was sure he was dying.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he said. ‘I want to think.’

  And when they had left him he lay thinking of the past— thinking of Maria.

  That first meeting along the river bank and he had known that she was the only woman who was going to be of importance in his life. He had always known it.

  Why had he allowed himself to be led astray?

  Maria had refused him countless times. Good religious Maria, who believed in the sanctity of marriage and could only come to him through marriage. How right she was! And at last the ceremony in that house in Park Street— and the happy years.

  He should have stayed with Maria. He should never have allowed himself to be seduced from her side. Only with Maria lay happiness. And he had broken her heart.

  But all the world should know now in what light he regarded her. He was dying and he was going to tell the world.

  He called for paper.

  ‘I am going to make a will,’ he told Cholmondeley, and seeing the expression on his friend’s face he went on: ‘There is no point in hiding the truth. There may well be little time left to me. Do as I say.’

  The paper was brought.

  ‘This is my last Will and Testament,’ he wrote. And the date: ‘The tenth day of January in the year of our Lord 1796.’

  He wrote that he left all his worldly goods to ‘my Maria Fitzherbert, my wife, the wife of my heart and soul,’ who although she could not call herself publicly his wife was so in the eyes of Heaven and his. She was his real and true wife and dearer to him than the life which was slowly ebbing away.

  Everything— everything was for Maria. Miss Pigot was not forgotten. He had already settled five hundred pounds a year on her for the rest of his life and it was his dying wish that on his death his family should provide a post for her perhaps as a housekeeper in one of the royal palaces.

  He wished to be buried without pomp; and a picture of Maria was to be buried with him; it should be attached to a ribbon and hung about his neck; and when Maria died, he wished that her coffin be placed beside his and the inner sides of both coffins removed and the coffins soldered together in the manner employed in the burial of George II and his Queen Caroline.