by Jean Plaidy
‘Then why do they not? What do they let this go on for? The mob has freed the prisoners from Newgate; they have set the prison on fire. Felons are walking the streets. What will become of us.’
‘That’s something we never know from day to day – Gordon riots or not. It is no use agitating yourself, Frances. It does no good. At any moment we may be called upon to play our part and we have to be ready for that.’
‘Where is Thomas?’
‘He is out … helping our friends. He is trying to get some of the priests out of London. It is their only hope.’
‘They would have no compunction in murdering them,’ said Frances. ‘Listen.’
The shouts seemed to be coming nearer, the red glow in the fire more fierce.
Maria prayed silently that no harm should befall her friends, her sister and herself. If the riots spread to the country … she thought of the house in Brambridge and her father, that poor helpless invalid, and the boys. What of Uncle Henry who would, like Thomas, not stand idle? And men like Thomas who were taking an active part in all this were the ones who were in most danger.
Thomas must be safe. How she wished he would come in.
The shouting had become more muted.
‘They are not coming this way,’ said Frances.
Maria sighed with relief. But where was Thomas?
It was midnight when he returned; his clothes were singed and blackened by smoke and he was exhausted.
Maria cried: ‘Thank God you are home.’ She did not ask questions; it was imperative to get him to bed. She would not allow the servants to wait on him, for how did one know whom one could trust?
‘I must wash this grime from me, Maria,’ he said.
‘I will prepare you a hot cordial while you do so.’
Exhausted, Thomas bathed and before he could drink the cordial lie was asleep.
In the morning Maria was alarmed by his looks; he had lost his usually healthy colour and he coughed incessantly. She wanted to call a physician, but Thomas said it was only a chill and would pass. There was work to be done. More of the priests were in acute danger and it was the duty of men such as himself to bring them out of it.
But when he tried to rise from his bed he could not do so and Maria decided that whatever he said she was going to call a doctor.
She was scarcely aware of what was going on outside because Thomas was very ill, through an inflammation of his lungs; Maria was at his bedside day and night listening to his delirium.
Meanwhile the rioters were threatening St James’s Palace and the Bank of England, and the King, realizing drastic action was necessary, called in martial law. The troops fired on the mob and after several hundred rioters had been killed, order was at last restored.
The Gordon Riots were over.
But Thomas Fitzherbert was very ill indeed: and even though the fever subsided, he did not regain his former good health.
With the coming of that winter as his health did not improve, Maria decided to take him to the South of France where a warmer climate might be beneficial. They took a villa near the sea where Maria devoted herself assiduously to his comfort. But it was no use. Thomas’s lungs seemed permanently affected.
Never before had Thomas realized what a blessing his marriage had been. In Maria he had the perfect nurse. Every hour of the day she devoted to him; she would sit with him at the open window looking out over the sea and talk about events in England, for which Thomas was homesick. Not so Maria. Those early years in France had given her a love of this country and she would not have objected to settling there altogether.
But as the winter wore on it became apparent that Thomas was no better in France than in England and that far from improving he was growing steadily more feeble.
He grew anxious about Maria’s future, knowing what had happened in the case of her first marriage, how the will which would have left her very comfortably off had never been signed, he was determined that nothing like that should happen again.
He told Maria that he had made a will and that if he died she would be a comparatively rich woman.
Maria said that she did not wish to talk of such an unlikely eventuality, but he insisted that she did.
‘The estates at Swynnerton and Norbury will have to go to my brother Basil. They were left to me with that provision. It is always a male heir who must inherit … and if we should have no son …’
Maria nodded. The hope of children was one which she had been obliged to subdue, for it was almost certain now that Thomas would never father a child.
‘But that will not prevent my looking after you, Maria. The lease of the house in Park Street is not part of the family inheritance. That shall be yours, with all the furniture in it, also my horses and carriages, and in addition there will be an income of two thousand pounds a year – so, my dear, although you will not be as rich as I should like to make you, you will be well provided for.’
‘Oh, Thomas, do not speak of these things.’
‘Nor will I again. This is settled. I can now have the consolation of knowing that if I should die, you will be comfortably placed.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said sharply. ‘You are not going to die. When the spring comes …’
But the spring came and there was no change in Thomas’s condition. His cough grew worse and when she saw the blood on his pillow she knew.
That May he died. He was only thirty-seven; she was twenty-five years old – and once more a widow.
An Evening at the Opera
SHE WAS NO longer young; she had been twice widowed; and now she was completely free to live the life of her choice. Deeply she missed Thomas; she thought affectionately now and then of Edward her first husband; but she discovered that freedom was pleasant. She was no longer beholden to anyone and she had enough money to live in the utmost comfort.
She did not return to England when Thomas died, but stayed on in Nice, and when she had a desire to be once more in Paris she decided she would stay there for a while. What joy to be back in Paris, the city of gaiety which she had once loved so much. To ride through the streets in her carriage, to mingle with the fashionable people in the Bois, to visit the dressmakers, to meet friends on the fringe of the Court, all this was interesting. But Maria wished to do something practical and since Thomas had died for his Faith (for his work during the riots, she insisted, had been the beginning of his illness) she would found a house where Roman Catholic ladies could find refuge in Paris if life was not tolerable for them in England.
She grew a little saddened during her study in Paris, for she soon discovered that it was not the same as it had been a few years back. There was an air of brooding tension in the streets which she was quick to sense. The people hated the Queen and this was made obvious by the unpleasant cartoons in which she was depicted. In spite of the fact that a little Dauphin had been born the murmurings continued and Maria began to think of returning to England. Moreover, her family were writing to her and asking her to come home where, they pointed out, she could live in the utmost comfort; and Maria, growing more and more sensitive to the atmosphere in her beloved Paris, and feeling a little homesick, crossed the Channel and decided to look for a house near London.
Marble Hill was not for sale, but Maria had no wish to buy it since it could be let to her, and as soon as she saw it she was eager to begin the tenancy.
Ideally situated in Richmond, it had been built by the Countess of Suffolk, mistress of George II, and been called Marble Hill because it stood on the top of an incline and was of dazzling whiteness; on either side it looked down on lawns and chestnut trees and from the windows a very fine view of Richmond Hill could be seen.
Here, Maria thought, she could indeed settle and be content. She had no desire to entertain lavishly; she assured herself, her friends and her family that she preferred to live quietly.
She was too beautiful and accomplished to shut herself away from the world was the general opinion, and Lady Sefton, a distant relation on Maria’
s mother’s side, was soon calling at Marble Hill. She wished, she said, to launch her charming kinsman into London society. Maria protested, but so did Lady Sefton.
‘Why, my dear cousin,’ she said, ‘you are far too young to live the life of a recluse. I was talking to the Duchess of Devonshire about you and she is eager to make your acquaintance.’
‘My dear Lady Sefton …’
‘Oh, come, Christian names between cousins. Isabella if you please.’
‘Well, Isabella, I have no great desire to go into society as yet. I am happy here in Marble Hill and my friends and family are frequently with me.’
‘When Georgina Cavendish asks to meet people they are expected to be delighted. Moreover, you will be so interested in her. She has the most exciting salon in Court circles. Everyone … simply everyone of interest is there. Fox, Sheridan … even the Prince of Wales.’
‘But my dear Isabella, I am a simple country woman.’
‘What nonsense! I never knew anyone more poised. You are not going to waste your talents on the desert air of Richmond, cousin, I do assure you. I shall not allow it. You shall come with me to the opera, I insist. Why, you have a place in Park Street. What could be more convenient. It was clearly meant.’
Maria wavered. She did like society. It might be that she would soon tire of the quiet life at Marble Hill, and enjoy meeting the famous people of whom she had heard.
‘So it is settled,’ said Lady Sefton. ‘You will come to Park Street; and I shall show you off in my box at the Opera. I think society is going to be very impressed, for, my dear Maria, you are not only a beauty, you are such an original one. No one at Court or in society looks quite like Maria Fitzherbert.’
Maria prepared for her visit to London. She would miss the fresh air of Richmond, she reminded herself. Well, she was not far away and it would be simple enough to come back whenever she wished; moreover, she would enjoy a stay in London; and it was as well to make sure that all was well in the Park Street House. She would need clothes, but would arrange that in London. Yes, she was looking forward to a little town life.
But the country was charming; she loved to stroll along by the river towards Kew on these lovely spring days when the trees were budding and the birds in full song.
One day when the sun was shining she slipped a cloak about her shoulders and not bothering to put a hat on her glorious hair, worn loose and unpowdered, she strolled out into the sunshine.
There were very few craft on the river; she supposed that it would be busier between Kew and Westminster, with so many people going back and forth between the royal palaces. That was another reason why Richmond was so restful.
She paused suddenly; she heard the sound of laughing voices; a small party of men and women came into sight. She would have turned back, but they had seen her and she did not want to have given the impression of avoiding them. She noticed at once that these people were most elegantly dressed, their hair powdered, their coats of velvet and satin. A party, she guessed, from the Court, strolling out from Kew Palace.
One young man of the party stopped suddenly a little ahead and made a gesture as though bidding the others not to walk beside him: the rest of the party slackened their pace and as he approached Maria she saw the diamond star on his coat and a suspicion came to her that he must be a very distinguished personage indeed.
He was young, fresh complexioned, blue-eyed, inclined to be a little plump, rather tall and undoubtedly handsome.
As she approached he gave her the most elaborate bow she had ever seen. She bowed and, quickening her step, hastily walked on and took a path winding away from the river. She did not look back; her heart was beating faster; she wondered briefly whether she was being followed. But no. She could hear the voices of the party she had just passed; they were still on the towpath. By a round-about way she came back to the river. She was relieved that there was no sign of the elegant party. She had guessed of course who the young man was who had bowed so elegantly. It was none other than the Prince of Wales.
Now she was pleased that she was going to London for she had a notion that if she strolled out along the towpath at precisely the same time the next day she would encounter the same party.
She did not wish for that. The Prince of Wales had already acquired a rather dangerous reputation where women were concerned; he took a delight in romantic adventures. She was sure that he would have thought a chance meeting on a towpath a most amusing meeting place. But Maria Fitzherbert was no Mrs Robinson. Yes, it was time she appeared in society as a reputable matron of irreproachable character.
No sooner had she settled into Park Street than Isabella Sefton descended on her. They must pay their suggested visit to the Opera, but first Isabella wished to launch her dear Maria into society through a ball she was giving the next day.
It was pleasant to be in a society which was more glittering than anything she had experienced before, though Isabella assured her that her ball was homely compared with those given at Devonshire House or Cumberland House … to say nothing of Carlton House.
‘You are not suggesting that we shall be invited to Carlton House!’ cried Maria.
‘It would not surprise me in the least,’ laughed Isabella.
Maria thought a little uneasily of that encounter on the river bank; but perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps that elaborate bow was the manner in which he greeted any of his father’s subjects. After all, he had to woo their popularity; and the most elegant of bows would be expected from royalty. She had heard that his father, the King, strolled about Kew and talked to people as though he were a country squire.
She was surrounded by admirers. Not only her beauty was admired, but the fact that she looked so different from every everyone else. The women with their powdered hair, their elaborate styles, were not dissimilar; but Maria Fitzherbert was different. Not only was her hair unpowdered but her complexion, which was flawless, was untouched by rouge or white lead; she had a delightful combination, the youthful skin of a young girl and the fully developed bosom of an older woman. It was impossible not to notice her. Maria Fitzherbert, because she was different from all other women, was the belle of the ball.
The next day a paragraph appeared in the society columns of the Morning Herald. It said:
‘A new constellation has lately made an appearance in the fashionable hemisphere, that engages the attention of those who are susceptible to the power of beauty. The widow of the late Mr F … h … t has in her train half our young nobility; as the lady has not, as yet, discovered a partiality for any of her admirers, they are all animated with hopes of success.’
When Isabella brought the paper to show her Maria was annoyed.
‘It is absurd. I have only just arrived. And to talk of my partiality. It is quite ridiculous.’
‘Such notoriety is something we all have to endure when we become famous, Maria.’
‘Famous. For appearing at a ball!’
But Isabella laughed. Maria was fascinating. She was so different.
Maria surveyed the audience from the Sefton box at Covent Garden. Many eyes were on her. Perhaps, she was thinking, I will curtail my stay in London. It would certainly be more peaceful at Richmond; or perhaps she would go to stay for a while at Brambridge or with Uncle Henry.
Then she was aware of the changed atmosphere in the theatre. She was no longer the focus of attention. Something was happening.
Isabella leaned towards her and whispered. ‘This is to be a royal occasion.’
And into one of the boxes opposite stepped a glittering figure. His coat was of black velvet spattered with blue spangles and on his breast he wore a flashing diamond star.
A cheer went up as he came to the edge of the box and Maria saw a repeat performance of that most elegant bow; he was smiling at the audience which greeted him with such warm affection. So she could no longer doubt that the gallant young man she had met on the towpath was the Prince of Wales.
He sat down and leaned his arms on
the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.
Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.
It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.
Isabella was chuckling.
‘Ha, ha cousin,’ she whispered. ‘I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.’
‘This is most … embarrassing.’
‘Many would find it most flattering.’
‘Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.’
The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.
Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.
But not Maria Fitzherbert.
The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if this was not due to them.
Maria said quietly but firmly, ‘I shall leave at once, Isabella. My chair will be waiting.’
Isabella was amused. She wondered how deeply the Prince was affected. After all, Maria must be about six years older that he was. Mary Robinson, it was true, had been about three but she was only twenty-one at the time of that liaison and Maria must be about twenty-seven or eight – the Prince twenty-one.
‘Very well, my dear,’ she said. ‘But you will certainly meet him at someone’s house sooner or later.’
‘Not if I return to Richmond,’ said Maria.
Her servant was waiting with the chair and she gave instructions that she was to be carried with all speed to her house in Park Street.