by Tracy Borman
Caroline remained in a fragile condition, miserable at being separated from her children, the three young princesses Anne, Amelia and Caroline, and the newborn prince, George William, who had literally been taken from her arms. She was also anxious about what the future now held for her and her husband, and urged the Prince to write another conciliatory letter to his father, apologising for any offence that he had caused by this ‘misunderstanding’. George grudgingly consented, but the ensuing dispatch had no effect: his father declared that he had had enough of the couple’s insincerity to make him vomit. He did relent a little, though, and sent word to the Princess that if she was prepared to leave her husband then she would be welcome to live with her children at St James’s. Caroline replied indignantly that her children were ‘not as a grain of sand compared to him’, and that she would stay with him at all costs. The sacrifice of leaving their children was, however, keenly felt by both the Prince and Princess. A few days after their expulsion, they returned in secret to St James’s and snatched a few moments with them. The King was furious when he found out and sent a severe reprimand to his son, warning him that in future he must apply for permission to visit – and that even then it was unlikely to be granted.2
Much as he might have wished to, George was unable to remove his son from the line of succession or deprive him of the £100,000 allowance that he received from the civil list. He therefore sought ways to humiliate him. The Prince and Princess were denied their guard of honour and other marks of distinction, and foreign ambassadors and envoys were advised that if they visited the couple, they would not be received at St James’s. The same went for all peers and peeresses, privy councillors and their wives, and other officials at court. Orders were also sent to all those who were employed in the service of both the King and the Prince that they must choose between them, and ladies whose husbands were in the King’s household were likewise to quit the Princess’s.3 Henrietta had already made her choice, but those who had served in the royal household for many years were thrown into a great quandary. Among them was the Duchess of St Albans, who was forced to relinquish the most prestigious post in Caroline’s household so that her husband could continue in service to the King.
Worst of all, though, was George I’s insistence that the royal grandchildren must remain at St James’s. His stubbornness on this matter was to have fatal consequences. Deprived of his mother’s milk, the newborn prince’s fragile health began to falter. The King’s ministers urged him to relent, aware of the damage that would be done to his public profile if the child died. He eventually agreed that the Princess might attend her son, but found the thought of her presence at St James’s so repugnant that he sent the infant to Kensington. The little prince’s condition deteriorated rapidly in the damp confines of this palace, and he died the following day. He was buried in Henry VII’s chapel in Westminster Abbey – and with him, it seemed, any hope of a reconciliation.
Public sympathy was now firmly with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Grieving for their son, they had the additional burden of knowing that they would have to find a new residence. It was neither convenient nor appropriate for them to stay in the house of a servant for long, and although Lord Grantham had done everything possible to make them comfortable, their circumstances were ‘much straitened’ from what they had been at St James’s. So cramped was their accommodation, in fact, that they were obliged to sleep in the same room – a highly unusual circumstance for a couple of royal blood. This meant that the Princess’s ladies would have to see the Prince in a state of undress in order to attend their mistress. Horace Walpole recounts that one evening, when both George and Caroline were ill with chickenpox, Henrietta sat in between their beds and read them to sleep. Such discomforts apart, Lord Grantham’s house was also unsuitable for receiving officials and distinguished guests, and before long their court began to dwindle. ‘Many waited on them at their first going to Lord Grantham’s,’ it was reported, ‘but few since.’4
The Prince therefore started to look for a suitable alternative, and soon afterwards took Savile House, a handsome – if rather small – mansion in Leicester Fields (now Leicester Square), and ordered the removal of his effects from St James’s. The size of the house meant that it, too, represented only a temporary base. Fortunately, however, the building adjoining it, Leicester House, was also vacant, and the Prince was able to secure it for the sum of £6,000. He and the Princess duly moved there on 25 March 1718, accompanied by their households.
The distinguished history of Leicester House made it a fitting residence for the royal couple. It had been built by James I’s famous ambassador, Lord Leicester, in the early seventeenth century. In 1662 it had had its first royal tenant, in the form of George II’s great-grandmother, Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and then played host to Peter the Great on his visit to England. It was a spacious two-storey house, fronted by a large courtyard and situated on the north side of Leicester Fields. Inside, it boasted a fine staircase and a series of handsome reception rooms, ideal for entertaining the couple’s guests.
Before long, Leicester House had become a magnet for members of London’s most fashionable society. At all hours of the day and night, the courtyard was crowded with coaches and sedan chairs, lords and ladies in sumptuous costumes and powdered wigs, and all manner of servants, footmen, bearers and stablemen. Disaffected Whigs and Tories also flocked there, eager to further their political ambitions by showing allegiance to the Prince. ‘The most promising of the young Lords and Gentlemen of that party [the Whigs], & the prettiest & liveliest of the young Ladies formed the new court of the Prince and Princess of Wales,’ recounted Horace Walpole.5
The Prince and Princess entertained even more lavishly than during their regency at Hampton Court. As well as drawing rooms every morning, there were receptions, balls and assemblies three times a week. On the rare occasions that no formal entertainments were held, the couple showed themselves at the theatre, opera or other public place, always surrounded by a magnificent suite of lords and ladies. London’s social scene was more vibrant than it had been since the accession of the Hanoverians. ‘As for the gay part of town, you would find it much more flourishing than you left it,’ Lord Chesterfield told a friend. ‘Balls, assemblies and masquerades have taken the place of dull, formal visiting-days.’6
In cultivating such a brilliant court, the Prince and Princess were effectively throwing down a gauntlet to the King in the battle for public opinion. He was quick to respond. With a substantial effort, he forced himself to abandon his natural reserve and threw open the doors of St James’s for drawing rooms, balls and assemblies several times a week. Anxious to attract a good attendance, he extended the invitation to anyone who was well enough dressed to be admitted by the footmen guarding the doors, and also opened up the road through St James’s Park to ‘all coaches without distinction’.7 When he moved to Hampton Court for the summer, he ordered that the festivities must eclipse those of the previous year. He held assemblies every evening, balls twice a week, and even endured the ordeal of dining in public every day.
But for all of George I’s efforts, his court did not even come close to rivalling that of his son. One regular at St James’s noted with some despondency: ‘[I] went to court but there were so few people the King did not come out so I went home.’ Even Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a stalwart supporter of the King, complained about the monotony of his entertainments, which she said comprised ‘a perpetual round of hearing the same scandal, and seeing the same follies acted over and over’.8
Eventually the King tired of the pretence, and in May 1719 he set off once more for Hanover, leaving the few English noblemen and women who had not already deserted his court to make their way to Leicester House. The Prince was triumphant, and he and his wife launched themselves into the task of entertaining London society with even more vigour than before. During the summer months they repaired with their court to Richmond Lodge, which the Prince had acquired at around the same time as their L
ondon residence.
Rebuilt ten years earlier, the Lodge was an elegant country retreat set in the beautiful landscape of the Old Deer Park in Richmond, to the south of the present-day Royal Botanic Gardens. Bordered on one side by the River Thames and situated amidst some of the best hunting ground in England, the Lodge’s main attraction was undoubtedly its location, particularly as it was also only eight miles from London. It had previously been owned by King William III, who had lavishly furnished the interior with damask curtains, velvet beds and rich mahogany panelling, much of which still remained. But the house had only ever been intended as a hunting lodge, and despite the enlargements carried out by its subsequent owner, James Butler, 2nd Duke of Ormonde, it was still rather small for a royal residence. Accommodation for members of the household was therefore in short supply, and most were paid ‘lodging money’ for whatever shelter they could find. A terrace of four houses was later built on Richmond Green for Caroline’s Maids of Honour, but in the meantime they were obliged to take their chances with the rest. As a Woman of the Bedchamber, Henrietta fared rather better, for it was essential that she had ready access to her mistress, so she was one of the lucky few who took up residence with the royal couple in the Lodge itself.
No sooner had the Prince and Princess of Wales moved to their new summer retreat than Richmond became one of the most fashionable places to live outside London. ‘This town and the country adjacent encrease daily in buildings,’ Daniel Defoe observed in his Tour Thro’ . . . Great Britain, ‘many noble houses for the accommodation of such, being lately rais’d and more in prospect.’9 The spa waters of Richmond were suddenly discovered to have miraculous healing qualities, and a pump room was swiftly built to serve the crowds of well-bred ladies and gentlemen who now flocked there, along with an assembly room, ornamental gardens and a lavish new theatre on the Green.
For the royal party, the chief pleasure during the day was hunting, a pastime to which the Prince was greatly addicted. The Princess usually watched from the safety of her chaise, but her ladies did not escape so lightly and were fully expected to take part. Henrietta wrote to her friend John Gay: ‘We hunt with great noice, and violence, and have every day a very tolerable chance to have a neck broke.’10 The evenings were passed with supper parties, cards or music, with the occasional visit to the theatre, and the gaiety that prevailed was reminiscent of that first summer at Hampton Court.
For the ladies and gentlemen of the royal households, this was truly the best of times, and for none more so than Henrietta. She threw herself with almost reckless abandon into the wide range of diversions that were on offer, and was reported to have lost £100 at the card tables during the first few weeks of her stay. On the evenings when there was no formal entertainment, the brightest stars of the court all flocked to the intimate supper parties she held in her rooms, and these soon became legendary. ‘The apartment of the bedchamber woman in waiting became the fashionable evening rendezvous of the most distinguished Wits & Beauties,’ recounted her friend Horace Walpole.11
Some of the acquaintances she had made at Hampton Court two years before now became her close confidants. Principal among them was Alexander Pope, who was soon a regular visitor to both Leicester House and Richmond Lodge. Henrietta possessed all the qualities that Pope most admired in a woman. She had a lively wit and intellect, and was always eager to hear his latest poetry and prose. Pope was also drawn to women who had endured hardship, and he was aware of what Henrietta had suffered at the hands of her husband since they had last met. The combination of her quiet strength and vulnerability invoked his compassion and admiration in equal measure.
Of all her friends, Pope was the most genuine. As a Roman Catholic, he was barred from public office and therefore did not seek advancement at court through her influence; rather, he frequented it because he enjoyed being at the heart of fashionable society. He had also set himself firmly against the royal family by sneering at them in his poems and satires. If anything, this served to increase his appeal for Henrietta, who secretly shared much of his disdain.
Pope’s affection for her soon found expression in verse. ‘I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend,’ he wrote in his poem ‘On a Certain Lady at Court’. ‘Not warp’d by passion, awed by rumour, Nor grave through pride, or gay through folly; An equal mixture of good humour And sensible soft melancholy.’ The last line proves that, unlike many of Henrietta’s other acquaintances at court, Pope was not fooled by her cheerful disposition. He knew that it disguised a deeper unhappiness, caused by the cruel treatment that she had received from her husband and by the separation from her son. He referred to it again in a letter to a friend, in which he said that there was ‘an air of sadness about her which grieves me’, and went on to declare how much he admired the way she put her own unhappiness to one side for the sake of her companions: ‘I have a sort of Quarrel to Mrs H[oward] for not loving Herself so well as she does her Friends: For those she makes happy, but not Herself.’12
For her part, Henrietta delighted in Pope’s company. Trusting few at court, she found a welcome release in being able to confide in him. The same was true for Pope, who described her to another of the ladies at court as ‘the most trusty of Friends’.13 Henrietta was also greatly diverted by her friend’s witty conversation and irreverent verse. One of his most amusing poems was written as if from his beloved dog, Bounce, to Henrietta’s lapdog, Fop:
We Country Dogs love nobler Sport,
And scorn the Pranks of Dogs at court.
Fye, naughty Fop! where e’er you come
To fart and piss about the Room,
To Lay your Head in every Lap,
And, when they think not of you – snap!
On his visits to Mrs Howard’s apartments, Pope was often accompanied by Charles Mordaunt, 3rd Earl of Peterborough and Monmouth. The Earl’s military, political and diplomatic careers had won him many honours, but he had always refused to bow to convention. He had joined the navy at the age of twenty, but had disagreed with the strategies followed in the war against Spain, so had promptly built his own ship – a forty-six-gun privateer that he named Loyal Mordaunt. This almost caused a diplomatic incident, because the Spanish feared that he would use it to attack their fleet and complained to Charles II, who ordered Peterborough to remain on dry land. The Earl had actively opposed Charles’s successor, James II, and had been instrumental in paving the way for William of Orange to seize the crown in 1688. But his notoriously volatile behaviour made the new queen suspicious. ‘Lord Monmouth is mad,’ she confided in private, ‘and his wife who is madder, governs him.’ This wife was Carey Fraizer, whom Peterborough had been obliged to marry hastily and in secret after getting her pregnant.
The Earl had returned to favour at court after the accession of Queen Anne, and had been appointed Commander-in-Chief of her fleet in the war against Spain. He had subsequently been employed in various diplomatic missions on the Continent. But his unpredictable behaviour had made the British government nervous, and he had been recalled in 1714. ‘It was impossible that a man with so much Wit as he shew’d, cou’d be fit to command an Army, or do any other Business,’ observed Pope. The new Hanoverian King evidently shared his opinion, for Peterborough was instructed not to appear at court.
Following the split in the royal family, however, he became a regular guest at Leicester House. Now aged sixty, this ‘rusty hero and roué’ was still one of the liveliest gallants at court. His high spirits were matched by fast living, and he was as fond of drinking and gambling as of flattery and flirtation. On one occasion, he had driven his horses so hard that his coach had overturned, injuring him seriously enough to make him ‘spit blood’. His friends had been so concerned for him that they had daily expected to hear news of his death, and were astonished when he made a rapid recovery. ‘He outrode it, or outdrank it, or something, and is come home lustier than ever,’ marvelled one of them. Peterborough’s extraordinary energy and restlessness still led him on many ov
erseas ventures, and he seemed to be forever flitting between the Hague and Vienna, Madrid and Copenhagen, or similarly far-flung places. Swift once said of him that he must know ‘every prince in Europe’s face’, and that he ‘Flies like a squib from place to place, And travels not, but runs a race.’14
Peterborough was an instant hit at court. His witty conversation and irrepressible flirtatiousness delighted the Princess’s ladies. Horace Walpole described him as ‘one of those men of careless wit and negligent grace who scatter a thousand bon-mots and idle verses’. None of the ladies received more attention from him than Mrs Howard. A self-confessed ‘superanuated gallant’, he was some thirty-one years her senior, but displayed the energy of a teenager as he laid siege to her affections with flattery, verse and letters. The latter ran to dozens of pages and were filled with wildly romantic sentiments. ‘Your eyes were not more fatall to me the first Time I saw them, then my own have been false to my heart ever since,’ he wrote, ‘if I have not told you a thousand times yt I dye for you, this I might speak with truth to the Lady who has seized my soul.’
Apparently consumed by love, the Earl claimed that he trembled every time he came near the object of his affections: ‘the first moments I approach her I can hardly speak; and I feel myself the greatest fool in nature nere the woeman in the world who has the most witt’.15 He continued this theme in his ‘Song’ to her: