“Is still locked away,” Lucy assured me, “and I have spoken of it to no one.”
“Are you worried, my dear little Jane?” asked my husband gently.
“Don’t be,” said Mr. Douglas before I had the chance to answer. The role of protector came easily to him, and since he meant his rebuke kindly, I took it as such.
“Our King has been exceedingly fond of writing to his paramours. With the coronation approaching, his couriers are busily scouring the countryside and buying up his errant love notes. Your letter is but one of many.” Mr. Douglas smiled at me in a reassuring way.
“But will he be here tonight? The King?” I could not decide whether the shiver that swept through me was the result of being thrilled or dismayed. After all, who would have guessed that I, an orphan girl shuttled off to a charity school, would have risen so high? Never did I dream that I might glimpse the sovereign of our realm, arguably the most powerful man in the world. No matter how dissolute or disappointing, this was our liege, and he was still our ruler.
I did hope for a good look at him.
“One can never tell in advance if he’ll be in attendance, but he does enjoy performances,” said Mr. Douglas. “Rather fancies himself an amateur thespian, or so I’ve heard. If he is here tonight, he might be escorting the Marchioness Conyngham, his latest mistress. He does fall for them with alarming regularity.”
“Yes, he’s had one woman after another and is rumored to have fathered many illegitimate children,” said Lucy, “but there’s a fundamental discontent driving his actions. The only woman he has truly loved is a person he can’t keep by his side, Maria Fitzherbert, the woman he married without his father’s permission. Furthermore, dear Brother, I am sure Jane’s letter is unique, since in it the King acknowledges that he married Maria and that Minney Seymour was their own child, and therefore, an heir to the throne, albeit an illegitimate one. His affection for Minney is well-known. She is the one who nicknamed him ‘Prinny’ because as a child she could not manage the title ‘Prince.’ Thus they became ‘Minney and Prinny’ to all.” This last bit Lucy directed to me.
“Why would he dote on this particular girl when he has other illegitimate children?” I asked.
“He loves Minney because he loves her mother,” said Lucy. “Isn’t that one of the reasons parents long for children? To see their love for another person incarnate? Maria is not the most beautiful woman the King has wooed. She is six years his elder and had been twice widowed when he married her in 1785. Worse, she’s not only a commoner but a Roman Catholic! Her nose is too long and her chin too prominent, though her eyes are huge and her complexion flawless. But she has such a gentle and loving nature that everyone who meets her is captivated.”
“You speak as though you know Mrs. Fitzherbert personally,” I said.
Lucy inclined her head. “We have been friends for many years. I respect and admire her. Minney is a darling, only a few years older than you.”
“This is still confusing,” I admitted. “If Minney is Maria Fitzherbert’s daughter, why is Seymour her family name?”
“Officially, Minney was born to Lady Horatia and Vice-Admiral Lord Hugh Seymour. But that was all a sham, a way of protecting Maria from idle gossip. Moreover, as a ruse it almost went too far. When the Seymours died, one after another of illness, Minney was safe at home with Maria. But knowing the child was favored by His Majesty, Lady Horatia’s sister tried to gain custody. Can you imagine? For that I do give him credit. Our King fought the one battle of his life in persuading the House of Lords that Maria should be able to keep the girl and raise her as her own.”
“The man presents a total contradiction.” I voiced my innermost thoughts as our carriage arrived at the theater and joined the others in the queue.
“What about Caroline of Brunswick? Will she be here?” wondered Edward. “I confess I am curious about her. Surely she cannot be as uncouth as she’s made out to be.”
“Her personal habits are appalling, her lack of modesty is an affront to all women, and her behavior is unbecoming,” said Lucy. “Do you know that she has appeared in public with her breasts exposed? That she has told visitors quite plainly that she enjoys intimate relations and then she has gone on to invite her guests to join her in partaking of such?”
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
“Yet, Sister, the common folk love her,” said Mr. Douglas. “They identify with her plight. She, like them, has been wrongly used by our King.”
“When you compare them—the wife he chose for himself versus the wife his father forced him to marry—it is easy to see why the King prefers Maria,” said Lucy.
“True, and yet the King must distance himself from Mrs. Fitzherbert. Especially now when he has not yet been consecrated as our sovereign.”
“The coronation.” Edward nodded. “That is the key. He must be presented to and acclaimed by the people, before he receives our homage. Perhaps he believes that once the ceremony is over, when he has been anointed, crowned, and blessed, the populace will have no choice but to accept him despite all his peccadilloes.”
I had so much to learn. My sheltered upbringing offered me no insight into royal politics. Yes, I had studied our national heritage, but I learned it as a schoolgirl does, repeating what was told to me. None of my teachers would have ever dreamed to challenge the divine right of the King, and all its attendant privileges. Yet on a fundamental level, I had always believed that all of us were equal in the sight of our Lord. If we were, every one of us, endowed equally with his love, then it stood to reason that a monarch would be every bit as flawed and confused as the rest of us.
Perhaps even more so.
Chapter 8
A sedan chair passed us with its top propped open so that the rider’s ostrich feathers could protrude skyward. Its curtains obscured the passenger, but Lucy glanced over and said, “Dowager Lady Sefton, one of the patronesses who presides over Almack’s. I recognize the emblem on the doors and the chairmen’s livery. They’ll take her right to the front door—see if they don’t!”
As we moved along in the queue, I watched passengers step out of the broughams and curricles ahead of us. All of the women wore white ostrich feather headdresses similar to mine, which went a long way toward making me feel less foolish. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that observing the parade of conveyances and the arriving patrons was highly amusing. I had never seen such an array of finery in my life. As persons climbed out of their conveyances and walked toward the entrance, their jewels sparkled merrily in the light from the torchères.
At long last it was our turn to disembark. Bouncing down from his perch, Williams raced to set out the steps for us. When we alighted, Mr. Douglas and I bracketed Edward to help him move forward with assurance. Under the cover of my blue shawl, I took my husband’s arm. To help Edward navigate the steps, Mr. Douglas said casually, “Thank goodness there are only four steps up to the first level. We’ll turn left once we make it inside.” With the movement of the crowd shielding us, no one noticed how we guided Edward into the building.
Once inside the vast theater, the seating rippled out from the stage in a semicircle—and the exuberant level of activity stunned me. While Lucy nodded to this person and that, we slowly made our way forward. Patrons leaped over scarred wooden benches to speak to one another or to hail vendors hawking foodstuffs and offering beer. Others cried out as hot wax dripped down on them from the immense candelabras that dangled from the ceiling. The smell of yeast, sweat, and candle wax nearly caused me to gag.
Williams shuffled along behind us, carrying a picnic basket that Cook had packed. It must have been heavy because he huffed and puffed as we climbed the five flights of stairs to Lucy’s box. At each level the boxes became more exclusive and the number of patrons moving upward along with us grew fewer. Upon arrival at the highest level, four levels above the pit area, it was plain to see why these loft
y spots were so highly coveted. Their size and the views from these boxes were clearly superior to their neighbors.
An engineering marvel, the Braytons’ box was cantilevered over the main floor, bringing us intimately close to the stage. The larger portion of the box was a rectangular dining area framed by a set of lush burgundy velvet curtains with gold fringe. If desired, Lucy and her guests could retire to her table and chairs in privacy by closing the drapes. However, the portion of the box facing the stage was flanked on the left and right by cutaway walls, sloping from ceiling to floor in a concave shape, allowing a panoramic view of all the boxes on either side.
Williams set down the picnic basket, bowed, and retreated to a seat in the back. The contents of the basket were glorious. Lucy had instructed Cook to prepare a variety of refreshments for our consumption: fricassee of chicken, sliced ham, veal, asparagus in aspic, carrots in honey glaze, fresh bread, butter, a selection of cheeses, fruit dipped in chocolate, and several bottles of chilled wine.
“Piffle!” Lucy laughed when I expressed my astonishment at this repast. “Bruce and I come to the opera often. This is what I always bring, although I admit it’s a bit more fulsome than usual tonight because I hoped to please the two of you.”
Her brother assisted her in removing her wrap and hung it over one of the gilded chairs. “Don’t let my sister’s casual manner fool you. Lucy is the consummate hostess. Her parties are much praised. Invitations from her are highly sought-after by the ton. When she entertains, the whole town rehashes the event endlessly. In short, although she is marvelously flexible and can acquit herself well in any circumstance, Lucy is very much a shining beacon of style on which the beau monde trains their quizzing glasses with great interest. To add to her accomplishment and natural manner, she had to learn this comportment on her own. Our parents did not entertain.”
Lucy frowned slightly. “Let’s eat, shall we?” She gave a brisk clap of her hands. The satin muffled the sound, but it was sharp enough to signal an announcement. “There is claret to accompany the meat, Tokay for taking with the pudding, and of course port and red wine. Williams will serve us.”
Once Edward and I both had our plates filled, I described to him our surroundings. The crush of people below us astonished me. Nor did the noise abate when the first act, a quartet of singers, came out to entertain. If anything, the crowd simply increased its volume to hear one another over the noise onstage.
Men climbed over one another, over the seating, and over any obstacle to greet women or to chat, and women in all varieties of dress milled about on the first floor, some selling refreshments, others whispering in men’s ears. A general distasteful odor of unwashed bodies floated our way. Staring down from our lofty vantage point, the sea of humanity below mimicked a fantastical bouquet of flowers where blushing faces played the part of blossoms. Ordinary visages were framed by colorful headdresses and chapeaux bras, the fashionable three-cornered flat silk hats.
The scene in the upper boxes was more uniform. In accordance with the King’s decree, all of us women wore ostrich plumes in our hair, and our gowns were all similar styles in sumptuous shades of lavender, blue, aqua, or mauve. The men had even less variation, since all wore dark tailcoats with frothy white cravats that peeped out above their white waistcoats, partnered with black knee breeches and silk stockings, as well as thin slippers. Except for varying colors, trim, and gems, all of our costumes were nearly interchangeable. Lucy had been right to insist that I dress according to her instructions. In my simple silk gown, I would have looked woefully out of place.
Suddenly the tone of the chatter changed. The musicians in the pit raised their instruments and looked to the maestro in his long black swallowtail coat, who craned his neck to see over the crowd. That proved nearly impossible because the vast throng of people had gotten to their feet and jostled for position.
“The King is coming,” Lucy said quietly, smoothing her skirt. “Rossini is one of his favorites,” she said to me. “After Waterloo, the composer visited London, and the Regent convinced Gioachino Rossini to play a duet with him on the cello.”
“As I recall hearing,” Edward said, “His Majesty could not keep pace with Signore Rossini, but the artist generously suggested that ‘few in Your Royal Highness’s position could play so well,’ thus earning the composer a lifetime of goodwill.”
“There are two sorts of persons that Prinny never forgets: his friends and his enemies.” Lucy’s face remained impassive, but her eyes darkened to that deepest blue that signaled a sea change in her emotions, and I felt her tremble beside me. I recognized there was more to Lucy Brayton than I knew; more than her usual cheerful behavior belied.
“I have heard that there have been numerous attempts on his life.” Edward spoke in a low tone.
“It is true,” said Mr. Douglas. “There are many who would hope to see one of his brothers on the throne, especially since the death of Princess Charlotte three years ago left Prinny without an heir.”
Meanwhile, the royal procession had struggled its way to the fifth level. A young page strode down the hall, calling out, “All stand for His Majesty, the King!”
We rose from our seats and turned toward the opening in the plush velvet curtains. After the page came three pairs of red-uniformed footmen. The gold braids on their shoulders and chests swayed and caught the light as they cleared the way, moving spectators aside. Behind the footmen came two equerries dressed in equally elaborate and stunning costumes.
The courtiers parted. “The King will be next,” Lucy whispered as she sank into a deep curtsy. I did, too, and the men bowed low. From under my lashes, I glimpsed an enormous man so encrusted in medals, ribbons, jewels, and finery that he dazzled the eye as he clanked his way along, with his sword rattling at his side. On his head was an oversized and much- powdered wig of fluffy white curls, which sat almost comically askew. I rose slowly in time to see that he was accompanied by an equally immense and overly decorated woman.
“The Marchioness Conyngham.” Lucy pitched her voice low. “Lady Elizabeth Conyngham.”
“That was our King?” The words came as a gasp. The Prince of Wales had once been called the most beautiful man in our nation—or so everyone had said, praising his finely shaped calves, merry eyes, and pouting lips. But the man who waddled past us, leaning heavily on his cane, was grotesque in the extreme. Even from the back, I could see how his richly embroidered vest strained mightily to restrain his superfluous flesh. Nothing could disguise his bloated appearance, not even the elegance of his apparel. The perfume that lingered in the air was overmuch, cloying with its rich effusion of huile antique and jasmine.
Behind the King and his mistress came men and women of the court, many dressed in elaborate uniforms of His Majesty’s own design. Their purpose was to cater to every whim of the King and his lady. One face in the crowd caught my attention: Phineas Waverly, a Bow Street Runner whose acquaintance I had made some months previously when he’d been investigating the death of Adèle’s schoolmate.
“Look!” Mr. Douglas pointed his chin in the direction of the King’s party. “It’s Mr. Waverly. I’d heard he’d been assigned to guard George IV. Most agree that he’s the best of the Bow Street men. I wonder how he likes his new posting.”
Knowing full well Waverly’s disdain for pretention, I would guess it made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed.
Chapter 9
Soon after, once the King’s party had ensconced themselves in the royal box, the conductor waved his baton. A two-measure drumroll heralded the anthem, “God Save the King.” The voices of our quartet joined in. Despite our sovereign’s less than admirable behavior and dissolute character, he was still the lord of our realm, and we owed him our fealty. None of us had any questions in that regard.
The crowd settled down, and a man stepped onto the stage and introduced the opera. The overture began, the curtain rose. The magic of the
music, costumes, and set transported us to the Byzantine Empire, with its dazzling onion-shaped domes and sumptuous silken fabrics. Soon, I forgot how awkward I felt in my low-cut gown and elbow-length gloves. Indeed, the outside world melted away.
When the first act ended, I could not move, so engrossed was I still in the story of two families and their struggle against an enemy army. Edward’s hand sought mine, and a quick squeeze brought me back to the present.
“Is it not glorious, Jane?”
“Oh, sir! I never imagined it could be thus! I am quite breathless with the grandeur of it all. I rather wish that Adèle could have come. She would have been over the moon with joy.”
“True, but we would have been pestered unmercifully to give her opera lessons.” His voice sounded stern, but I knew he indulged the French child in the exact manner that any loving father would his own blood.
“That might be worth considering. Singing lessons would keep her occupied and happy.” I tucked that idea away even as I spoke, because a nod of his head assured me the thinking was sound.
To take advantage of the intermission, our party filed out of Lucy’s box, taking care to bracket Edward. Soon we were swept up in the society crowd, a veritable sea of foamy white ostrich feathers. Other patrons milled around us, nodding and speaking to one another. All were patrons from the fifth level, so they presumably occupied the same social strata.
Lucy had insisted that I wear the Rochester diamonds. In this company, they were most appropriate and seemed almost modest compared to the preposterously large pearls and ropes of gold worn by others. In practiced hands, painted brisé fans like the ones that Lucy and I carried spoke a language all their own, sending encouraging or rejecting messages to the gentlemen. Lucy spoke to various acquaintances and made quick introductions, all the while scanning the audience for her friend Lady Grainger. I kept to one side watching the ongoing conversations and silently committing this evening to memory.
Death of a Dowager Page 5