From where they stood, they could see the throne, and the look of ennui on his Majesty’s face made Hester guess that he found the ode at least as tedious as she did. It was no more fulsome than a prologue read before a play to thank the author’s patron for his support, but its blatant flattery, purchased at the price of truth, naturally robbed it of any wit. Whether the King understood his laureate’s words or not, however, his counselors had insisted on all the forms being observed.
As soon as recitation was over, Isabella grabbed Hester by the arm. “Come on. Let’s get our curtsies over. Once we’ve paid our respects to his Majesty, we can find our friends.”
“And mind you do it properly,” Mrs. Mayfield said, giving Hester a vicious poke between the shoulder blades, as she bustled behind her through the crowd.
A low murmur had been resumed in the room. Until her moment before the King was behind her, Hester hesitated to look around, but she was tempted to do so by the curious sights. His Majesty’s “young Turk” as everyone called him, a dwarf by the name of Ulrich, was seated on a perch very near the King’s chair, dressed in clothes so fine as to rival any lord’s. One of Ulrich’s many servants, provided by the King, hovered behind his perch.
Isabella’s wish for haste could not do away with the necessity of waiting their turn. His Majesty’s chair was surrounded not only by aristocrats who had come to pay their respects, but by members of his German household. His Turks, Mehemet and Mustapha—who some said were slaves, and others insisted were not—stood behind him dressed in their turbans and exotic robes. They both had been made Grooms of the Chamber, an honour with a handsome salary, which many of George’s English subjects would have been glad to have for themselves. Just as some of England’s ladies would have wished to be his mistresses, if he had not brought his old ones along.
Hester saw Madame Schulenburg standing with her cluster of ladies. She thought the lady, standing near the throne and fanning herself from the heat, with chins like stair steps down her throat, must be the King’s other mistress Madame Kielmansegge, the Elephant, as scurrilous pamphlets had named her. Hester tried to find a family resemblance between this lady and the King, and to her consternation found one. But, she told herself, there was still no reason to believe the rumour of incest. Not yet, at least. Perhaps it would have been more credible if the lady had been beautiful, but, then, Hester did not find the King very alluring, himself.
At the age of fifty-seven, he was past that time of life when every prince would be called handsome. His figure had spread a great deal more than his portraitists allowed, but in painting him slimmer than he was, they had exercised no more discretion than Queen Anne’s painters who had trimmed her enormous girth by several percent. George sat, acknowledging his birthday greetings with about as much pleasure as a rock on a riverbank, as courtier after courtier bowed or curtsied before him. Beside him, Caroline of Anspach, more courteous than he, made introductions and translated painful exchanges between the English subjects and their king.
Before long, it was Isabella’s turn to make her curtsy. Harrowby, who had paid his respects that morning along with the officers of state, foreign ministers, and grand nobility, made the King another bow. His mother-in-law followed. Then Isabella drew Hester forward and in torturous French made it known that she would like to present her cousin, Mrs. Hester Kean. The King gave a nod, his boredom most painfully clear. Then, Hester, who had been told by Harrowby precisely what to say, thanked King George in her serviceable French, going on to convey the birthday wishes of all her cousin’s family for his long and happy reign.
At the sound of these intelligible words, the King visibly perked up. “Ah, vous parlez français, mademoiselle. C’est excellent.” He went on say that he was astonished at the number of his new subjects who did not, and he asked her if she had lived abroad.
Thrown momentarily by his German accent, Hester finally grasped his meaning and replied in kind, “No, your Majesty, I have never left England, but I have applied myself to learning the tongue. I am happy to find it useful.”
“French is useful, yes. Better dan de nonsense ve just heard. But you should ask my daughter-in-law vat she tinks of poetry and so on.”
“Your Majesty does not care for it?”
The King turned to Caroline, who had been listening with one ear to their conversation while engaged in her own. Now, being summoned, she gave Hester a look that assessed her even as she welcomed her with a smile.
“Tell dis lady, Mademoiselle—”
“—Kean,” the Princess supplied, bestowing an even more gracious smile.
“—vat I tink of dese poets and painters of yours.”
His tone was scathing. Hester had the impression that she had walked into the middle of a family argument of some kind.
Caroline’s smile had turned stiff. “I fear the King is not a great admirer of either art.”
“Your Majesty does not care for painters?” Hester asked, unable to help herself.
“I hate dem. De only ting vorse iss a poet.” He gestured disgustedly at the poor poet laureate. “Gentlemen should find someting vorty to do vit demselves—like musick—und not try to force deir scribblings on me. Do you tell me you care for dem, mademoiselle?”
Hester did not know the proper response to make. She was trying to decide if the King was jesting, when Mrs. Mayfield, who was fidgeting because of her exclusion, gave Hester another hard jab in the ribs.
“Make him our wishes, Hester, and don’t rattle on so,” she hissed.
“I have already paid him your compliments, Aunt. I now am answering his Majesty’s question about art.”
Princess Caroline intervened in English. “You must pardon your niece, Mrs. Mayfield, but his Majesty is always charmed to meet a young lady who can converse with him with such ease. You must bring Mrs. Kean to see him again.”
Hester was forced to hide her smile, as her aunt nearly choked on the protest that sprang to her lips. This was one occasion on which she could not disparage Hester in favour of her daughter.
“Yes, your Highness.” Mrs. Mayfield curtsied. “As your Highness wishes, of course.”
The Princess gave no sign of having noticed her resentment. She gestured for Hester to bend and kissed her on both cheeks. “You are welcome at our Court, Mrs. Kean. Both you and your beautiful cousin. But I do not see her.” She looked around, and her tone underwent a subtle change. “Oh, yes. There she is, speaking to his Royal Highness, who is charmed with her, of course. You must both of you come to play at cards one evening.”
With a half-turn of her head and a graceful flick of her wrist, she summoned one of the ladies clustered behind her chair, a tall, fair lady with a tranquil expression. “What do you think, Mrs. Holland, my dear?”
The Princess directed the lady’s gaze to where her husband stood chatting with Isabella. “I was saying that Mrs. Kean should bring her cousin, the lovely Countess of Hawkhurst, to play with us one evening. Do you not agree?”
The Prince, indeed, seemed to be more than enchanted with Isabella. As Hester turned, she saw him chuck her cousin under the chin and whisper some words in her ear. Isabella giggled at what surely had been a prime piece of gallantry. Harrowby was beaming to see his wife so admired by a prince, but Hester thought her cousin would do better not to encourage his Highness overmuch.
No such worry appeared to bother the Princess of Wales, however, who regarded Isabella the way a mother might inspect a potential playmate for her son. As she looked for Mrs. Holland’s reaction, though, a hint of malice seemed to taint her smile.
Nothing disturbed the tranquility of that lady’s face, however, as she agreed with her royal mistress and asked her if she would like her to extend a particular invitation to Lady Hawkhurst.
But the subject was exhausted. The King had lost interest the moment they had switched into English, and noticing his ennui, the Princess waved Hester and her party on. As they retreated from the King’s presence, he roused himself to advise
Hester to learn German, too. She curtsied and thanked him for his condescension.
Not to like paintings! Hester was still amazed as she and her aunt followed Isabella through the standing ministers and gentlemen ushers to the other side of the room. She had the sinking notion that a great many of the things that had been said about King George could be true. How one could live surrounded by beautiful objects and not admire the artistry that had created them was beyond her imagination. She considered that he might have shown some interest in learning English, instead of resenting his English subjects for not speaking French. She wasn’t certain either that she wanted to learn German, if it would mean that she would be called upon to entertain him. Since last autumn, when George had been crowned, the news-sheets had carried advertisements for books that could teach one German, but she vowed to ignore them.
She tried to hide her disappointment with the King, as ladies and gentlemen parted for the Earl and Countess of Hawkhurst and their retinue. Hester had not got used to sharing this glory—though the number of visitors who came daily to pay their respects to Harrowby, of gentlemen who attended both Harrowby’s and Isabella’s levees, and of evening visitors had begun to accustom her to her cousin’s importance. Even here at St. James’s where nearly every peer was in attendance, their attention was still solicited, for Harrowby was rich, and many would hope that by flattery or persuasion, either Isabella or he could help them get a place at Court.
Mrs. Mayfield had passed along Madame Schulenberg’s message about the money that would be required to support her niece. With skillful manipulation, she had managed to make it sound as if the King’s mistress had asked for it before any mention of Dudley had been made. And Harrowby, as gullible as ever, had come away with the impression that La Schulenberg had requested it of him because she knew she could depend on his loyalty. The sum was not small, but Harrowby had swallowed his protest and had ordered James Henry to see that it was paid. Hester was glad she had not been around to witness James Henry’s reaction.
With so few days between his arrival and the Birthday, Dudley had not been able to arrange for suitable clothes to be made in time. All the tailors had been rushing to complete orders they had already received, for not only were the courtiers to be dressed, but their servants in new livery as well. Dudley might have resented missing today at Court if he had not heard of the public ball at Lambeth tonight. With that area’s reputation, Hester could not even imagine the level of rowdiness and lewdness that he was likely to encounter. She preferred not to imagine it, but the prospect had not appeared to daunt her cousin at all.
They had progressed only a little way down the room before they met Lord Lovett. He was with Colonel Potter, who looked as dour as before. The two made a space for them, Lord Lovett taking his place behind Isabella where he could whisper in her ear, and Colonel Potter pinning Harrowby to himself.
Hester wondered what Colonel Potter had done after leaving them on the night of the riot. She recalled her promise to James Henry to try to discover his political leanings, but here, the opportunity for learning was not great. They had to stand while others were received and to keep their voices low since the occasion was strictly ceremonial.
She was standing next to Isabella, so she overheard most of Lord Lovett’s attempts to entertain her. Though he had not acknowledged Hester’s presence, she was very aware of him. He had dressed with his usual magnificence, choosing not to powder his black, shoulder-length peruke. He had the good taste to know that black became him, with his heavy, dark brows with their cynical arch, his striking white skin, and thickly lashed eyes that were as deep a blue as violets. Tonight he had set these off very well with a habit of black satin embroidered with silk and jet beads. The glistening threads traced a pattern of birds and leaves over his waistcoat and coat.
He ignored his own handsomeness to whisper gallantries to Isabella, provoking outbursts of laughter, which she had to suppress.
“I trust you have paid your respects to his German Majesty?” he inquired, on a sardonic note.
The change in his tone made Hester glance nervously around her, but no one had heard but Isabella and herself.
“Yes.” Isabella pouted at the disagreeable thought. Then she lifted a hand to send her softly spoken words back to him. “At least, Hester did. Lud, but I’m glad she speaks French! I don’t know what I should say to him otherwise.”
“Mrs. Hester speaks French?”
Hester could not prevent herself. She ventured to peek at him over her shoulder.
Lord Lovett was staring at her, obviously startled by the news. A sweeping gaze took her in thoroughly for the first time that day, and he seemed to remark the improvement in her hair and clothes. With a graceful bow, and a quirk of his eyebrows, he signaled his appreciation of both her appearance and her achievement, which provoked her unexpected flush.
She turned back to face the throne as he said, in his lowest voice, “I shall have to keep her French in mind, then—shall I not?—in case the admiration I feel for my Lady Hawkhurst inspires me to utter indiscreet words of love.”
Isabella gave a delighted gasp, before smothering it.
After a few moments Lord Lovett resumed, and Hester had the feeling that he was speaking to her now as well as to her cousin. “It will not be easy having a monarch who cannot speak our native tongue. Let us hope that his Majesty’s tutors will soon correct the problem.
“Did the King converse with you, Mrs. Kean, or did he simply wave you on as he does the more provincial among us?”
Hester did not know whether he numbered himself in that class, but she answered softly back to him, “He did speak to me...of his regret that not more of his subjects spoke French, and of his dislike for poetry.”
“Alas ...” Lord Lovett’s sigh made her struggle to hide a smile...“it’s no wonder, then, that poor Mr. Gay has been cooling his heels for so many weeks at the bottom of the Backstairs, in spite of his admirable ode to the Princess. And here, he imagined it was because she had requested it in Hanover and he had taken too long to write it. But, in all justice to Mr. Gay, a poet must be inspired.
“What else did his Majesty say?” he asked.
“That he is not fond of paintings either.”
She could imagine the humourous twist on his lips, when he hissed, “Hélas, indeed!—as I am persuaded King George would say, if he could share the sentiment. Except in Hanover, of course, when one presumes he speaks German and not French. Are we to go without paintings, too? I fear this will be a reverse.”
Harrowby, who was standing to Hester’s left, must have heard this for he shuffled with unease. Hester glanced over at the Colonel’s face and saw sneering grin.
Harrowby sidled closer to address Lord Lovett. “Well, I’m sure that if his Majesty don’t like ‘em, then none of us should. Hey?” He gave a nervous laugh, which quickly turned into a cough.
Lord Lovett conceded this with a sober inclination of his head, but the arch of his brow belied the gesture. “Very reasonable, my lord, I am sure.” He was whispering more loudly now. “We must none of us wish for anything his Majesty chooses to disapprove. Such loyal sentiments will serve us all in good stead.” Then, under his breath he added, “And though some of us might wish him otherwise, we shall undoubtedly have to make do.”
Hester felt a touch upon her hand, and when she turned, he was giving her a look of mock reproof. “I hope you did not presume to be disappointed, Mrs. Kean, to find that our new king does not have—what shall I call it—a taste for the arts?”
“I can hardly be disappointed, my lord,” she answered quietly. “I do not have the means to acquire paintings, even if I had the walls on which to hang them. And I am so new to London and its riches that I may be content for quite a while just seeing the paintings that have already been produced.”
“A politic answer. But are the artists of our day supposed to starve?”
“I believe they may find a friend in the Princess of Wales, sir.”
“Has my lady nothing to say on the subject? Should she not like to have her portrait painted by an Italian master, attracted to our Court by a generous patron? Say...a portrait of my lady as Venus?” He accompanied this gallantry with a hand upon her waist.
Isabella parted her lips and gave a sigh. “Oh, yes, if you would help me to choose the artist, Lovett.”
“But did you not hear Mrs. Kean? The painters in the kingdom are all to be banished. Now, if I were brave, I could find it in me to fault his Majesty for an opinion that would rob us of the pleasure of having my lady immortalized.” Lord Lovett drew closer to Isabella to whispered directly into her ear. “I could wish he had never come. But how were we to know what a barbarian he would be?”
While he had been talking, Hester had grown increasingly restless. The tenor of his comments had gradually changed, escalating in rancour, and now, they had left the realm of humour to cross into what might be considered sedition. She could only pray that no one but herself had overheard his whisper to Isabella. She thought she was the only other person near enough to hear. His words had been uttered in the low, seductive tones of a lover. At least—they had seemed like a lover’s to Hester, who had never had one herself. She could appreciate Lord Lovett’s seductive skills, however, for what woman would be able to resist a gallant with the courage to express seditious sentiments on her behalf? Alone herself, and merely an eavesdropper, she had not been able to suppress a thrill at the sound of his voice.
She could not even blame Isabella for wanting to flirt with him.
* * * *
That evening at the ball, the etiquette was more relaxed, but Hester felt exhausted long before it started. She had never stood for so many hours on end, and there would be no respite until the ball was over. The only promise of relief was that it was supposed to end at ten o’clock, since the next day was a Sunday, and everyone must arrive at home by midnight to avoid offending the Sunday ban on travel.
The Spider's Touch Page 7