Indiscretions of the Queen

by Виктория Холт

  ‘A delicate investigation,’ Mary reminded her.

  They laughed. ‘Oh, very delicate. Really, Caroline is a fool. What do you think will happen?’

  ‘Well, if it goes the way George wants it, she’ll be divorced and sent back to Brunswick. And then he’ll take another wife and if he has a son that will put dear little Charlotte’s nose out of joint.’

  ‘Which I daresay will do her no harm. That child gives herself airs.’

  ‘What do you expect with such a mother?’

  ‘And such a father!’

  ‘How exciting they make life. George has had a morganatic marriage which you would have thought was enough for anyone. But not for George. Now he has to have a Delicate Investigation!’

  The Delicate Investigation had begun. The King himself had appointed a Council to enquire into the truth of the Douglases’ allegations and this was made up of Lord Grenville, the Prime Minister, Lord Erskine, the Lord Chancellor, Lord Ellenborough, the Lord Chief Justice, and Lord Spencer the Secretary of State; and presided over by Sir Samuel Romilly, one of the leading lights of the Bar recently, at the instigation of the Prince of Wales, appointed Solicitor- General.

  There was no representation for the Princess of Wales, though Perceval was at hand to help her and advise. She had in fact not been officially warned that the investigation was to take place although an attorney, a Mr. Lowten, had been appointed to watch the case for the Prince of Wales, which meant that he was to do all he could to prove Caroline’s guilt.

  She had just put Willikin to bed— a task which she undertook herself with the utmost pleasure— when Mrs. Fitzgerald came to tell her that a messenger had arrived with a letter for her.

  She said that he was to be brought to her and when he came, she read the letter and went to her desk to write an answer.

  When the messenger had left with it she said to Mrs. Fitzgerald: ‘They are telling me that they will want the servants to appear for questioning and I have answered that they may question all they like.’

  ‘For questioning?’ cried Mrs. Fitzgerald aghast.

  ‘Why? What’s worrying you? Why shouldn’t they question them if they want to?’

  ‘If they tell the truth all should be well,’ said Mrs. Fitzgerald, but she was thinking of the many indiscretions— the light, frivolous flirtatious manner and conversation of the Princess. She was thinking of young Willikin upstairs in his bed.

  Couldn’t she see how easy it was going to be to make a case against her?

  But it was not so easy. It was true that some of the servants gave the answers which they knew the Prince of Wales would want. Several of these servants were no longer with the Princess of Wales; some had been dismissed and had a grievance; others had been sent to serve her for the sole purpose of spying.

  Oh yes, said these. They had seen the Princess behave very familiarly with men who came to the house. They had seen her kiss Sir Sydney Smith, embrace Captain Manley and speak very affectionately to Mr. Canning; she had told them not to disturb her when she was alone with Sir Thomas Lawrence. Oh, yes, they all thought this was very strange behaviour for a Princess of Wales.

  But there were other servants— good and loyal. The Princess was by nature friendly. She was warm and affectionate to everyone— even the humblest of her servants. She called them ‘my dear’, ‘my love’, ‘my angel’ even. It was a habit of hers.

  Had she been very familiar with men who called at the house?

  No more than with women. She was impulsively friendly with all.

  But right at the heart of the matter was Willikin. Who was this boy? Was it possible that he was the Princess’s son? This was the charge against her and if it could be proved that she was the mother of that boy then it would be possible for the Prince to divorce her, for not only would she have been proved flagrantly unfaithful, but guilty of treason to the State, for that boy could claim the throne; and this was where the matter was so serious.

  The Princess had declared— and some of her servants corroborated this— that William Austin was the son of Samuel and Sophia Austin; they were near neighbours of hers and the man worked in the dockyards.

  There was only one thing to be done: Call the woman whom the Princess alleged was the mother of the boy.

  Sophia came— clean, respectable, a witness whom they had to admit they could trust.

  Yes, she had had conversations with the Princess of Wales.

  ‘And was she the mother of the boy who lived with the Princess of Wales?’

  ‘If you be talking of young Willie,’ was the direct answer, ‘I am his mother.’

  ‘And your son now lives at Montague House with the Princess of Wales?’

  ‘Tis true that I sometimes have to pinch myself to believe it. But she’s an angel, that Princess. And my, don’t she love the little ones! When I was carrying Willie she came to me and I complained of having another mouth to feed. Give him to me, she said . I’ll adopt him. There! It was as easy as that.’

  ‘Do you swear that you are the mother of William Austin?’

  ‘I swear it, and if you don’t believe me you go along to Brownlow Street Hospital, for that was where Willie was born.’

  There was no refuting evidence of that sort. The Council had reluctantly to admit that there was no truth in the allegation that the Princess of Wales had borne an illegitimate son.

  They did not forget, however, that they must please the Prince. They added that, although there was no evidence to support the theory that the child, William Austin, was the Princess’s and although it seemed certain that he was not, that did not mean that the Princess was not guilty of behaving in most unbecoming manner; and in the Council’s opinion the morals of the Princess of Wales left much to be desired.

  So her enemies were defeated. They had been proven by the Prince’s friends — to be lying.

  She had forgotten that she was only exonerated from the charge of producing an illegitimate child; it was by no means proved that the life she lead was not one of immorality.

  She was made aware of this when she wrote to the King with her usual exuberance and received a very restrained letter in reply in which His Majesty stated that he could not help but be gravely concerned by her conduct.

  ‘By my conduct!’ she cried to the faithful Mrs. Fitzgerald. ‘But I have been proved to have been slandered! Oh, my dear, dear Fitz! Was ever such a poor devil in the plight I’m in? I’m a princess and no princess. I’m a married woman with no husband— for the Prince of Wales is worse than none. This is not the end, Fitz. They’ve determined to make my life a hell— all of them. Can’t you imagine the old Begum tittering away, surrounded by her virgin daughters! Let them! What do I care! But I do care about the old man, Fitz. I think I loved him in a way. He tried to be so good always. And now look at this. He’s gravely concerned— by my immorality and he isn’t going to see me. I’m going to be shut away here and forgotten. But I’ll tell you something, my dear, I won’t have it. I won’t. I won’t.’

  Mrs. Fitzgerald looked alarmed, but Caroline burst out laughing.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, my dear, I’m not going mad. Though I declare there’s enough to make me. That’s for my poor old father-in-law. God bless him. But I’m not having him turned against me! I’m going to see him. And I’ll keep on at him until I do. I shall write to him again and again—’

  ‘Your Highness, why not ask the advice of Spencer Perceval? He will know what’s to be done.’

  The Princess was thoughtful for a moment. Then she cried: ‘You’re right.

  That dear man will know— and at least he is my friend.’

  The King was decidedly worried. On all sides he heard stories of Caroline’s misconduct. The Queen believed in it and constantly referred to it. Oh, they had not proved that she had had this child but it was quite obvious that she led a very wild life. All those men calling on her at odd times of the day and night! Most peculiar! And what a way for a Princess of Wales to live! What a sad day for
the Prince of Wales, for the family and for England when George had taken the King’s niece from Brunswick instead of the Queen’s from Mecklenburg-Strelitz!

  A sad day, a sad day indeed, thought the King. But she was a pleasant woman, quite handsome in her way too. Why could not the Prince of Wales give up his wild life and settle down as an heir to the throne should do?

  He was sorry for Caroline, but how could he see her in the circumstances? It would be as though he gave his approval to immorality.

  And he had felt life was going to be better. Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar had put new heart into the nation and in him. Yet even that victory had its sadness, for Nelson had fallen and the country had lost its saviour in the moment of victory.

  He thought of the great hall of Greenwich hospital into which the public had crowded to see the coffin of the naval hero and of the funeral that followed and at which he had been represented by the Prince of Wales and his brothers. A sad occasion to follow victory. But Lord Nelson would have rejoiced because he had crippled the might of Napoleon and made England safe.

  But there was constant trouble. No sooner was the threat of invasion removed than the family was at war within itself.

  The Prince of Wales hated his wife and this was an even sadder pattern than that set by the family when father and son were fighting together. At least he had been faithful to his Queen; George II had been notoriously uxorious in spite of constant infidelity. George I— ah, there had been a sad case of husband and wife who had been enemies— But what was the use of thinking of the past? He dared not think too much.

  His head went into a painful whirl when he did so. He tried to catch at his thoughts and found them eluding him. He grew alarmed when that happened.

  I must not think of it, he told himself. And I must not receive her. On her request Spencer Perceval called to see Caroline and listened to her account of the King’s refusal to receive her.

  ‘This must not be allowed to continue,’ he told her, ‘or it will be said that you were guilty. His Majesty is treating you though you are. This must be stopped at all cost or the verdict of the people will be against you. This is unthinkable, for try as they did the Council could prove no case against you. The King must receive you. You should write again and request him to do so.’

  This she did and it brought a reply from the King. He would see her; but before the meeting could be arranged she received a letter from Windsor in which the King said that he must postpone receiving her because he had heard from the Prince of Wales that he intended consulting his lawyer with regard to the Council’s findings. Until he heard the result of this His Majesty must put off the meeting.

  When Caroline received this letter she was furious. She wrote indignantly to the King. It was with great pain that she had read his letter, she said. It was seven months since she had seen the King and now that nothing had been proved against her there was no longer any reason why he should refuse to see her. She signed herself : ‘His dutiful and affection ate but much injured subject and daughter-in-law’.

  She declared that she would be received at Court. She was not going to be thrust aside in this way. How dare the Prince of Wales, whose own life was so scandalous, treat her in this way?

  Perceval came to see her. He heard of the latest developments and said they must delay no longer. It was necessary to deliver an ultimatum. The only thing she could do was threaten to publish the findings of the Council which would enable the public to know how she had been slandered and proved innocent. They were already on her side because of their dislike of the Prince of Wales and would be ready to believe her; and neither the Prince of Wales nor the King dared stand out against public opinion.

  He dictated a letter which she was to send to the King.

  ‘As to any consequences which may arise from such publication, unpleasant or hurtful to my own feelings and interests, I may perhaps be properly responsible— but whatever these consequences may be, I am fully convinced that they must be incalculably less than those to which I am exposed by my silence—’ As there was no reply to this letter, Perceval arranged for five thousand copies to be printed of what was known as The Book; this contained a full report of the proceedings against the Princess of Wales at the Delicate Investigation.

  Then, due to a dispute concerning Catholic reform, the Government fell, and the Whig friends of the Prince of Wales were replaced by the Tories. Lord Portland was Prime Minister and Spencer Perceval was given the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer. The leading ministers were now the enemies of the Prince of Wales which meant that they would give support to Caroline. Perceval lost no time in doing all he could to reinstate her. Very soon after the new Ministry had been formed, he prevailed upon Portland and other Ministers, including George Canning, to put their names to an ultimatum which was addressed to the King.

  ‘Your Majesty’s confidential servants humbly submit to Your Majesty that it is essentially necessary, injustice to Her Royal Highness and for the honour and interests of Your Majesty’s illustrious family, that Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales should be admitted with as little delay as possible into Your Majesty’s royal presence, and that she should be received in a manner due to her rank and station in Your Majesty’s Court and family.’ Another letter followed this in which it was suggested that a suitable residence be found for the Princess of Wales which would be nearer to the royal palaces and enable her to be within easy access of the Court.

  This was something the King could not ignore. He knew if he did so, The Book would immediately be published and the people would rise up against the Prince of Wales— and perhaps the King— for treating the Princess so cruelly.

  ‘She must be invited to Court without delay,’ he told the Queen, who was wise enough to recognize an ultimatum.

  ‘It is something we shall be forced to endure,’ she agreed.

  ‘And where can she be lodged?’

  ‘As far from Carlton House as possible, I suggest. Perhaps Kensington Palace.’

  So Kensington Palace it was; but although Caroline took apartments there she kept on Montague House and declared to Mrs Fitzgerald that she was only going to Court to let people know that she was innocent of the charges brought against her, for to stay away might give an appearance of guilt. What she enjoyed most would be her stays in Montague when she could devote herself to Willikin and entertaining her friends there in her own way without the ceremony which could not be avoided in palaces.

  The King greeted her with affection and tears in his eyes. ‘My dear, how glad I am to see you! It has been a bad time— eh, what, a bad time?’

  ‘A very bad time, dear Uncle. But I hope it is over now and your feelings towards me have not changed.’

  With tears in his eyes he assured her this was not so.

  The Queen regarded her coldly and gave her only the barest acknowledgement while her eyes rested on the extravagant dress of too many colours, cut far too low. Caroline wanted to laugh at her; but she reminded herself that she must be on her best behaviour.

  The Princesses of course followed their mother and treated her with an almost cool insolence.

  And then the Prince of Wales. She looked at him almost hopefully. He was splendid, not so glittering as in the past being under the influence of Beau Brummell who had taught him his own special brand of unobtrusive elegance.

  She dropped a curtsey.

  His bow was notorious. There was no one who could perform the act with such grace. There was a breathless moment when he enacted this feat for now it was especially interesting.

  It was over very quickly— that most elegant bow— and then she was looking at the Prince’s back. He had turned and was speaking to one of his sisters.

  So— she was to be received back at Court though ignored by the Prince of Wales and the Delicate Investigation was over— but not forgotten.

  Royal Scandals

  Just before Caroline had gone to Court she had had sad news from Brunswick.

  Her
father, the Duke, had been killed while leading the Prussian army against Napoleon.

  This event had momentarily made her forget her own dismal affairs. She was very melancholy. She thought of her father and all he had meant to her in the past.

  He had been perhaps the only person she had really loved during her Brunswick childhood. It was true that it was long since she had said goodbye to him but she had never forgotten him.

  Incidents from the old days kept coming back to her; the occasion when she had pretended she was in labour, Charlotte’s wedding; the day he had told her that she need never marry if she did not wish. If only she had taken his advice, but would she have enjoyed life any more in Brunswick, at the mercy of her rather silly mother and sensible Madame de Hertzfeldt? And then she would never have had Charlotte.

  ‘Charlotte, my darling, my angel, who I am only allowed to see once a week!’

  she cried.

  And she decided then that it would have been one degree worse to have stayed in Brunswick than to have come to England in spite of being married to a husband who was no husband and determined to harm her.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald came in to tell her that Willikin was crying for his Mamma and demanding to know why she wasn’t there to amuse him.

  ‘Bring him in. Bring him in,’ she cried.

  And there was the naughty little boy to be petted and, kissed and cuddled and told that his mamma loved him and that he was her pet boy, her little Willikin.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald told Mrs.Vernon that the change in the Princess’s moods was sometimes alarming. Rarely had she known one whose moods changed so rapidly.

  She would be in the depth of despair one moment and the next shouting with joy.

  ‘That’s Willikin’s doing,’ said Mrs. Vernon.

  ‘She’s making him into a horrible spoilt brat,’ added Mrs. Fitzgerald.

  The Prince was uneasy. He had enjoyed several years of conjugal bliss with his dear love Maria, and was looking for adventure.

  Women! He adored them. But he had to be in pursuit of them; and he liked the pursuit to be difficult and not to be brought to too easy a conclusion. Maria was his life, his soul, his wife; and there would always be a place for her in his heart, but he was not meant to live a placid married life which was what Maria wanted. She and dear old Pigot would have liked there to have been cosy little domestic evenings spent at home in Carlton House. But Carlton House was not built for cosy evenings; nor was the Prince of Wales.