Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  As her chair was carried through the streets she was more disturbed than the occasion warranted, she told herself. Perhaps he had not been looking at her. Perhaps it had been a mistake. That paragraph in the paper had made her imagine that she really was as fatally attractive as the writer had made her out to be. He had been bored with the Opera and had merely diverted himself.

  They had arrived at the house and thankfully she alighted, but as she did so she saw another chair entering the street.

  She hurried into the house, her heart beating fast. The door was shut. She felt … safe.

  But she could not resist going to the window.

  She saw the chair stop; someone alighted.

  Oh no, she thought. It is not possible!

  But it was. He was standing there in his spangles and diamonds.

  The Prince of Wales, like some lovesick country swain, had followed Maria Fitzherbert home.

  Adventures of a Prince

  DURING THE SUMMER of 1783 when the Prince of Wales was approaching his twenty-first birthday he believed that he was the most fortunate man in England, and he was surrounded by men and women who confirmed him in this belief. He was at last escaping from the restraint which his puritanical parents had put on him, and was free to be the companion of the most brilliant men in the country; he could indulge his passion for architecture in Carlton House, that old ruin which his father had flung to him and which he was fast converting into the most elegant residence in Town; he could run his own horses at Newmarket; he could take his place in the House of Lords; and he could, without any attempt at secrecy, pursue the greatest diversion of all – women.

  Let the King splutter his threats and warnings; let the Queen alternately scold and declare her sentimental fondness for her first born; they could not deter him. He was the idol of the people, the quarry of every fashionable hostess – for no ball was of any significance without him – and almost every woman longed to be his mistress. There were a few exceptions; Georgiana, his dearest Duchess of Devonshire, among them, but this only made this most delightful of all occupations the more piquant, and while he could sigh for the unattainable he could always soothe himself with the eagerly accommodating.

  Life was very good that summer for the Prince of Wales.

  Some months before he first set eyes on Maria Fitzherbert his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, had suggested he come down to visit him at a house he had rented from a certain Dr Russell and which was situated in a little fishing village called Brighthelmstone.

  ‘What,’ demanded the Prince of Wales of his equerry, the Earl of Essex, ‘should I want of a little fishing village called by such a name as Brighthelmstone?’

  ‘I have heard of the place, Your Highness,’ answered Essex. ‘It is also known as Bredhemsdon.’

  ‘Which is no more pleasant to my ear than the other,’ retorted the Prince.

  ‘No, sir, but they say the sea bathing there is very beneficial to the health – and it is not so far from London to make the journey tiresome.’

  Sea bathing! thought the Prince, and touched his silken neckcloth. Recently he had been affected by a slight swelling of the throat and he and Lord Petersham had together designed a neckcloth which would completely hide it. Hence neckcloths in exquisite designs and colourings were the height of fashion now. The Prince’s physicians had suggested that sea bathing might be good for his throat; he had not taken the idea very seriously, but Essex’s remarks reminded him of it.

  ‘I confess it would be amusing to see how my aunt Cumberland amuses herself in a fishing village.’

  ‘I am sure, sir, that where the Duchess found herself there would she find amusement.’

  The Prince laughed aloud. He was fond of the lady who had inveigled his uncle most unsuitably into marrying her, and being banished from the Court because of her. She was a fascinator – a woman of wide experience; the very manner in which she fluttered her eyelashes, which had become a legend since Horace Walpole had referred to them as being a yard long, was in itself a promise. The Prince delighted to call her by what seemed to him such an incongruous title as ‘Aunt’, and as she was constantly urging him to honour Cumberland House with his presence he had seen her and his uncle often since he had been free to do so – much to the chagrin of His Majesty, of course, who believed it was just another trick of his son’s to plague him, which in a way perhaps it was.

  At least his uncle had had the courage to marry the woman of his choice, thought the Prince, whereas his father, the King, by all accounts had meekly given up Lady Sarah Lennox for the sake of that plain German Princess, Charlotte, who was the mother of that large family of whom he, the Prince, was the eldest son.

  Yes, he would go to Brighthelmstone or whatever they called it. Perhaps Essex should be one of those who accompanied him. They were good friends, he and Essex. The Earl had served him faithfully as go-between in the affair of Perdita Robinson – Lord Maiden he had been at that time, having recently inherited his earldom. Maiden it was who had carried those letters between them, arranged those assignations on Eel Pie Island and persuaded the lady to do what she had intended from the first – surrender.

  The Prince smiled cynically. He would never again be caught in that way. But it was no fault of Essex that Perdita after promising to be the love of his life had turned out to be nothing but a sentimental bore – and a scheming one too. The Prince flushed with anger even now, remembering the humiliating scene with his father when he had had to confess that his ex-mistress was threatening to publish letters which she had in her possession and which had been written by the flowery but very indiscreet pen of the Prince of Wales.

  This was yet another reason for his friendship with his uncle. Cumberland had written indiscreet letters to Lady Grosvenor and Lord Grosvenor had brought an action against him which had cost £13,000. The Prince’s had cost £500 a year for as long as Perdita should live and after that £250 for her daughter’s lifetime.

  To the devil with Perdita! She was ancient history and she had had many successors. No … not quite. There had never really been another like Perdita, for he genuinely had believed in the early days of their liaison that he would be faithful until death; and he had never seriously believed that of any of the others. But then he had been so young … only seventeen when he had gone with the Royal party to Drury Lane and seen Mrs Robinson as Perdita in The Winter’s Tale.

  But what had Perdita to do with this fishing village with the ridiculous name?

  ‘I shall drive myself down,’ he said. ‘It will be good exercise for the horses.’

  So on a September morning when the countryside was touched with golden sunshine and the weather was as warm as mid-summer, the Prince of Wales rode down to Brighthelmstone. He drove his own phaeton with three horses after the manner of a wagon team; and riding with him were only an equerry and one postilion. The rest of his suite would follow.

  The phaeton rattled along at a dangerous pace, for the Prince liked speed. He was a man of contrasts, for while he would spend hours with Lord Petersham discussing the shape of shoe buckles, the cut of a coat, the material most suited to a neckcloth, the excellent idea of having one’s snuff boxes to match one’s ensemble and the season, he could also take a turn in the boxing ring, for he practised fisticuffs regularly under the skilled tuition of a certain Angelo, who also taught him to fence. He could sing pleasantly, dance well, was at ease in the saddle and could write fluently and with grace. He could join in an intellectual discussion and shortly afterwards be indulging in an infantile practical joke. With his gifts he should have been an ideal son; but with his indiscretions and his waywardness he gave his father many a sleepless night.

  He was not thinking of this as he rode to Brighton, his mind was on a subject which was never far from his thoughts: Women. The situation at the moment was satisfactory enough; there was always comfort in numbers, he had discovered. The most agreeable time had been when Grace Elliot and Lizzie Armistead shared his attentions. Grace had be
en something of a romp, never attempting to be faithful and making no pretence about it. He was by nature sentimental, but just having escaped from Perdita at that time Grace with her frank unabashed attitudes had been just what he needed. There had been a daughter which might have been his – or one or two other men’s – but Grace had christened the child Georgiana, which was a nice touch since she made no demands. Now she had gone to that Frenchman, the Duc d’Orléans, who was resident in London for a while. Good luck to Grace; she wouldn’t need it, for she would always know how to look after herself. He had heard that Orléans made her a handsome allowance. She would deserve it, for Orléans was an ugly fellow who suffered from a horrible skin disease which made his hair fall out and his skin a hideous colour.

  And Lizzie Armistead? There was a fascinating woman. Lady’s maid at one time to none other than Perdita, and it was at the house in Cork Street that he had met her; but others had seen her first. Charles James Fox for one. Trust Fox to pick out a winner among the women. If only he could do as well at the races he would be a rich man. As it was, he was in constant financial trouble. Not that it worried Charles as long as he kept his grip on politics. He’d be Prime Minister one day and he wouldn’t have a more faithful friend and supporter than the Prince of Wales. That – and Lizzie. What more could he want?

  Lizzie had gone back to Charles and he was living with her now in her house at Chertsey, the house she had managed to acquire through her own skilful management of her affairs. It was funny. There was Charles, the son of Lord Holland, and at one time the possessor of a fortune, several times bankrupt, now living on the bounty of the lady’s maid who had saved enough from her generous lovers – the Prince included – to put into a little house in Chertsey where the most brilliant politician of his day should have a refuge.

  Lizzie and Charles were two of his best friends. What interesting, amusing and exciting people. How different from the household at Kew, with his sanctimonious father, his dreary mother, his poor sisters who had never had – nor would ever have if his parents had any say in their upbringing – any chance to enjoy life. How could poor Charlotte, Augusta, Elizabeth and the rest know anything about the brilliantly gay, the witty and amusing outside world and people like Charles and Lizzie, Richard Sheridan the playwright, Edmund Burke the philosopher, Georgiana the brilliant leader of fashion, beautiful and witty. Poor little Princesses wilting away at Kew when there was the world to be explored.

  He thought of Lady Melbourne with whom he had liked to fancy himself desperately in love. He had always wanted to be seriously in love; and the light affair did not give him the same satisfaction as what he was pleased to believe, while it lasted, was the love of a lifetime. That was why Perdita had been so important. The long wooing, the sighing, the locks of hair, the tender messages engraved on miniatures and lockets, this was what he craved. He took great pleasure in writing of his sufferings and aspirations and even the fate of those letters which he had written to Perdita could not deter him. He recognized the difference between lust and love – and although he was as ready to indulge in the first as any of his companions, he never forgot the worth of the second. He often told himself, and others, that what he wanted was to settle down with the woman of his choice, marry her and live happily – and faithfully – ever after.

  For a short time he had deluded himself with Lady Melbourne; she had even borne a child which was said to be his – a boy this time and named George of course.

  Actresses had always interested him. There was the fascinating young German actress known as Mrs Billington who had a house near the Thames at Fulham. She was a pretty and very lively young woman with the most original methods of making love. Most intriguing, and at one time he had been constantly at the theatre – not to see the play, of course, but Mrs Billington. It had been so easy to visit her, she being so near the river; and every night when she was not playing she would have musical evenings, for Mrs Billington was noted for her singing; it gave him great pleasure to sing duets with the ladies who attracted him. His voice could not of course compare with that of Mrs Billington, which was of remarkable compass and one of the most melodious he had ever heard.

  But although her eccentric methods had excited him in the beginning he had tired of them. Mrs Billington might have been amusing but she was not-romantic. He did not care for her coarse approach, and when he remarked to Fox: ‘The only pleasure I have in that woman’s company is when I shut my eyes and open my ears,’ Fox knew, and so did the Prince, that the liaison was nearing its end.

  What would please him would be to fall deeply in love; he longed to experience all those emotions which he had known in the early stages of his affair with Perdita. He might be the leader of fashion; he might find pleasure in horse-racing and boxing, riding and hunting; he might enjoy dabbling in politics and the friendship of brilliant men – but the overriding need in his life would always be Romance. And whenever he visited any banquet or ball, any place whatsoever, the thought always in his mind was what women would he meet on that occasion.

  So it was not surprising that on his first visit to Brighthelmstone, he should be thinking of women.

  The inhabitants of the little town were aware of the honour which was about to be done them and they had turned out in strength to welcome him.

  How enchanting it was with the shingle beach and the ocean – today deep blue and placid as though on its best behaviour to welcome the Prince of Wales. There were gulls on the brown roofs, and on the three-cornered stretch of grass fishing nets and lobster pots; a salty tang was in the air; and as the phaeton dashed into the town a great cheer went up. His Highness the Prince of Wales had come to Brighthelmstone.

  People crowded about the house on the Steyne which had been taken over by the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland. The Prince embraced the Duke to the cheers of the crowd; with even greater fervour he embraced the Duchess.

  ‘How handsome he is!’ was the universal comment; and so he was in his exquisitely cut coat of the finest green cloth with the diamond star flashing on his breast. He stood on the balcony between his aunt and uncle and acknowledged the cheers, his beaver hat in his hand. This enabled the crowd to see his abundant hair, which was frizzed and powdered most elegantly; his eyes looked very blue, his smile so friendly.

  ‘God bless the Prince of Wales!’ cried the people of Brighthelmstone.

  And when they had retired into the drawing room the Duchess lifted her green eyes, so miraculously black-fringed, to his face and echoed: ‘God bless you, my dearest Prince of Wales. How kind of you to take pity on us and visit us here in our little sea village.’

  ‘Dearest Aunt, I could not resist the temptation to see how you amused yourself here.’

  ‘This is what you shall discover, gracious nephew. Wait until you have taken a dip in the sea water. I can assure you it is most refreshing. But there is one drawback which I know will cause Your Highness some concern. The ladies and gentlemen do not bathe together. The ladies take possession of the shore west of the Steyne and the gentlemen to the east. In any case the ladies all wear long and hideous flannel gowns and the gentlemen bathe much more charmingly naked.’

  ‘I am sure your flannel gown is most becoming.’

  ‘But of what use, since there are no gentlemen to see it … only the fat old fishwife who dips me.’

  ‘What a fantastic pastime. Does the sea really benefit you enough to make the performance worth while?’

  ‘I believe it does; and I am certain that once you have tried it you will wish to repeat it.’

  ‘And when shall I take my sea bathe, pray?

  ‘Tomorrow, of course.’

  ‘I trust the whole town will not turn out to see me.’

  ‘My beloved nephew, since so many people turn out to see Your Highness in his clothes, how many more would arrive to see you without them. But have no fear. It is all very discreet and the old fellow who dips you knows his job perfectly.’

  The Prince was amused; and since the
Duke and Duchess had naturally brought with them many of their most entertaining friends, his first evening in Brighthelmstone was most pleasantly spent.

  The Prince stayed for eleven exciting and interesting days. He took to the sea bathing and found it most invigorating, and every day went into his bathing machine and undressed. It was then taken down to the edge of the sea by the bathing machine attendant and his horse, when the Prince would emerge and enjoy immersing himself. He hunted on the downs beyond Rottingdean, danced in the Assembly Rooms, strolled about the town meeting the people and accepting their loyal greetings with affable smiles and comments – changing the place in those eleven days from a little fishing village to a fashionable seaside resort, for naturally after the Prince’s visit it was fashionable to visit Brighthelmstone; sea bathing became a craze; bathing machines lined the shingle; the strong men and women dippers made a fortune it was said; owners of the little houses in Black Lion, Ship, East, West, Middle and North Streets let lodgings, and there was a steady stream of carriages and other conveyances on the road from London.

  ‘Nothing will ever be the same,’ said the sages of Brighthelmstone.

  They were right. Even the name was changed – to Brighton.

  In Carlton House the Prince was entertaining. He was proud of Carlton House; and he had every reason to be when he considered the ruin it had been when it had come into his hands. It had not been lived in since the death of his grandmother, Augusta, the Dowager Princess of Wales, and he imagined that it was because his father had believed it to be uninhabitable that he had given it to him. Oh yes, the old man would have liked him to continue in his rooms at Buckingham House. But Carlton House had offered a challenge: it had given him a chance to show what he could make of a house, dilapidated though it might be.

  And he had succeeded. It was by no means finished; he doubted it would be for years for he would always be thinking of some new improvement, but it was certainly very different from the Carlton House he had inherited. The architect, Henry Holland, had made an excellent job of the rebuilding, and that clever Frenchman, Gaubert, had decorated the interior with exquisite taste, superintended, of course, by the Prince himself. It was now beginning to look like a royal residence. His drawing room was hung with yellow Chinese silk; the dining room had been considerably extended; the ceilings heightened, the walls panelled and gilded, and columns of yellow and red granite added to give dignity. The ballroom in which he was now entertaining his guests was the most grand of all the rooms. Twelve lustres hung from the ceiling and the same number of branched chandeliers projected from the walls at intervals. There was an orchestra at either end of the room set up on platforms hung with crimson silk.