Indiscretions of the Queen

by Виктория Холт

  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 de
ar 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 to amuse the child; she showered affection on her and it was returned and meanwhile she knew that the Prince was making all sorts of plans to keep them apart and that but for the intervention of the King he would have done so.

  She discovered a gift for modelling in clay and her first effort was to make a head of her daughter.

  ‘To remind me of you, my angel,’ she said, ‘when you are not with me.’

  Charlotte was intrigued and sat as still as she could while her mother worked; then when the sitting was over they would play rough games— for Charlotte was a tomboy— until it was time for the little Princess to go back to Carlton House.

  So, thought Caroline, deprived of my own child for long periods, I must have my adopted family to keep me from grieving. Because she thought that the sea would provide her boys with a career she made the acquaintance of Admiral Samuel Hood who was the Governor of Greenwich, Hospital; and through him she met a man who was to have an important effect on her life. This was the dashing sailor, Sir William Sydney Smith, always known as Sir Sydney, a man who immediately attracted Caroline because he had the manner of an adventurer and was indeed one. He had fought many a sea battle and could tell a stirring story, so he was cordially welcomed to Montague House.

  Caroline was entranced and made no secret of her interest in the sailor. He must come again to Montague House, she told him, when he was in the neighbourhood.

  ‘That, Your Highness,’ he replied, ‘could be any time you invite me, because I am staying for a while in the house of my friend Sir John Douglas.’

  ‘And that is nearby?’ Caroline wanted to know.

  ‘Very close to Montague House. Your Highness has doubtless seen the house on your trips around. In fact, it is the nearest to Montague House. You should meet the Douglases; they are an amusing pair. John Douglas was with me at Saint Jean d’Acre. That was when I was taking care of the defences. Those were stirring days. I could tell you some tales. It was just before I took over command of Alexandria. I remember the news coming in that Bonaparte had stormed Jaffa.’

  The Princess’s eyes shone with excitement. If she could not have a large family of children to care for she would like to travel about the world, see strange places, enjoy the company of exotic men and women.

  ‘Well, my friend Douglas was with me. And now I’m ashore for awhile, I’m staying with them. Lady Douglas is an enchanting creature. She has recently had the most delightful child.’

  ‘A child.’

  ‘A baby daughter. A pretty and engaging creature I do assure you. Your Highness would enjoy meeting the mother and child.’

  ‘That I should,’ said Caroline, ‘and doubtless I will as they are such near neighbours.’

  Such a cold day, thought Caroline. How she wished that she was in one of those hot and sunny spots which dear Sir Sydney talked about with such enthusiasm. Still, her destiny lay here. She had come to England to be a Princess of Wales, one day a queen— though she trusted that would be a long time hence, since it could only be on the death of the King.

  She felt restless so she sent for Miss Hayman and told her she was going to walk.

  ‘Alone, Your Highness?’

  ‘Yes, dear Hayman, alone.’

  It amused her to see the shocked look in dear Hayman’s eyes. They should be used to her by now. She was not treated like a Princess; she was not allowed to live in Carlton House; therefore she would behave like a country lady and go walking alone if she wished.

  In her mauve satin cloak and yellow half boots she looked very colourful.

  Would Maria Fitzherbert say she looked a little too flamboyant? Well, Maria my love, I am the Princess not you! ‘Now, my love, bring my sable cap and I’ll be off.’ When the cap was brought she set it jauntily on her head. ‘There, my dear, the Princess of Wales takes the air — unescorted— but not desolate. Because it is as she wishes and as she commands.’

  ‘Your Highness—’

  ‘No, my dear, I do not need your company. I am going alone.’

  She left Montague House smiling as she went. She knew exactly where she was going. She would call on Lady Douglas and see the enchanting child and perhaps Sir Sydney Smith if he were there.

  She found the house he had described. How did one call? Did one walk straight up to the door and knock? That was what she had done in Brunswick when she had wished to call on humble folk. But this was not Brunswick; and there she had merely been the Princess Caroline, daughter of a small ducal house.

  Perhaps the Princess of Wales should have a different approach.

  She put her hand on the gate and hesitated; then she stopped and walked up and down along by the iron railings. What does it matter how I get in? It only matters that I do. An attractive young woman had come out of the house and approached Caroline. Opening the gate, she asked: ‘Do you want something? Can I help you?’

  ‘Are you Lady Douglas?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I thought you must be. I hear you are the mother of a very beautiful little girl.

  May I see her? I love children.’

  ‘Madam—’ began the startled woman.

  ‘Sir Sydney told me about her. Sir Sydney Smith. He was at Montague House, you see.’

  ‘Montague House— but that is—’

  Caroline nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I am the Princess Caroline— Princess of Wales.’

  ‘Your Highness!’

  ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony. Ask me in, please.’

  ‘My— my humble house is at Your Highness’s service.’

  ‘Well, come and show me your little daughter.’

  So that was the beginning and Sir Sydney was right. The child was enchanting. As for Sir John and Lady Douglas, they were delighted to have the honour of entertaining Her Royal Highness. And while they gave her refreshment Sir Sidney arrived; and then there was a joyful encounter between him and the Princess It was a very entertaining visit and Sir Sidney begged leave to escort her back to Montague House, which permission she willingly gave.

  The Douglases were hopeful, they told her, that they might again have the pleasure of Her Highness’s company and that they hoped that next time she came she would give them warning so that they might have the opportunity of entertaining her in a fitting manner.

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Caroline. ‘I’ve been most fittingly entertained! I want no ceremony— you shall come to my next Party at Montague House and certainly I shall come again. We are neighbours.’

  When Caroline had left with Sir Sydney the Douglases looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘I feel I’ve dreamed the last two hours,’ said Lady Douglas.

  ‘I always heard she was eccentric.’

  ‘Who would have believed that she— that woman— was our future Queen!’

  ‘The stories we’ve heard must have been true.’

  ‘What an adventure!’ said Lady Douglas. She looked at her husband. He was a brave man and had not done badly; he had been given a pension after the part he had taken with Sir Sydney in the defence of Saint Jean d’Acre; but she was the strong one; she had always led the way and he had always followed.

  When she had suggested that the gay bachelor,
Sir Sydney Smith, should live in their house when he was ashore, he had raised no objection and if he knew of the relationship between herself and Sir Sydney he raised no objection to that either. He was no raiser of objections and that suited Lady Douglas and Sir Sydney very well indeed.

  But the Princess of Wales— to call on them like some humble village woman!

  ‘I hear you have a beautiful daughter!’ mimicked Lady Douglas in a thick guttural accent. ‘What an extraordinary thing!’

  ‘You found her— attractive?’ asked Sir John.

  ‘I would say she is an attractive proposition rather than an attractive woman,’

  said Lady Douglas with a smirk.

  ‘You think this could bring good fortune to us?’

  ‘I intend to see that it does. Good Heavens, can’t you imagine what it could mean to us? Friends in high places! My dear friend and neighbour is Madame Caroline. She’s crazy; she’s wild; she behaves in the oddest way— I grant you that. But she is still the Princess of Wales.’

  ‘Sydney seemed taken with her.’

  Lady Douglas turned away to hide the frown.

  ‘He would have to be taken with the Princess of Wales, wouldn’t he? So have you to be— and I. So have we all, if we’re wise.’

  Lady Douglas left her husband and went to her room as she said to think of what could come out of this.

  From her window she watched for the return of Sir Sydney and when he came back and up to the rooms which had been set aside for him, she was waiting for him in his bedroom.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s a fantastic thing. I can scarcely believe it.’

  ‘She’s a fantastic thing, you mean.’

  ‘Tut tut, Lottie. You’re talking of the Princess of Wales. Remember that.’

  ‘I trust you remembered it.’

  ‘Now what does that mean?’