o b464705202491194 (9 page)

to be provided with a charming and pretty wife.

So the Brunswick offering was Frances’s choice. She had heard that the

creature was gauche, wild and, most heinous sin in the eyes of the Prince— not

very clean in her habits, washed infrequently, hardly ever bathed and rarely

changed her linen. Frances intended that the Prince should be disgusted with his

bride, spend enough time with her to provide the heir, and for the rest find his

pleasure and recreation in the arms of Lady Jersey, for Lady Jersey loved power

and next to power, she loved worldly goods. The mistress of the Prince of Wales,

if she were clever, could receive these in plenty; and no one— least of all herself

— would deny the fact that Lady Jersey was a clever woman.

The Queen would never know that she had influenced him to take the

Brunswicker. Poor Charlotte thought this was just another example of her son’s

determination to plague her.
Silly Charlotte!
thought Lady Jersey, to imagine that she would work for her. Frances never worked for anyone but herself.

‘Now,’ said the Prince, ‘we shall have two German
fraus
at Court. I think that is two too many.’

‘If you had taken the Queen’s choice, it would have been exactly the same.

And Frederick gave a good account of the woman, I believe.’

‘I wonder whether he was trying to comfort me.’

‘I hope so. It is the duty of us all to do so.’

‘Oh, Frances, I dread this marriage.’

‘Stop thinking of it then. There are more pleasant subjects, you know.’

She was giving him one of those oblique looks of hers, and he was beginning

to feel the excitement which had led him to desert Maria

‘Why should you worry?’ Her voice had taken on that deep husky note full of

suggestions which he always hoped to understand. ‘I shall be there,’ she added,

‘to take care of you.’ And she thought:
And of our little Brunswicker!

But the Prince was completely under the spell of Frances Jersey and was, if

only temporarily, able to banish the thought of the marriage from his mind.

Which was exactly what he wished to do.

————————

Maria Fitzherbert had arrived back from the Continent with her friend and

companion, Miss Pigot, who lived with her and shared all her triumphs and

misfortunes. There was no comfort to be found abroad, Maria had decided‚ and so

she might as well return to England. She had no desire to take up residence in her house in Pail Mall (which the Prince had given her) nor in her house at Brighton.

But Marble Hill at Richmond had always been her home and she had suggested to

Miss Pigot that they return to it and live there quietly

Miss Pigot understood. Dear Maria had no wish to go into society, for if she

did how could she avoid meeting the Prince of Wales; and if he were to cut her

(he would never do that) or if he were to be less than loving, which he

undoubtedly would be since he would be everywhere in the company of Lady

Jersey, how could Maria endure to meet him? For in Maria’s eyes the Prince of

Wales was her husband according to laws of her church this was so; it was the

State— due to that Royal Marriage Act brought in by the Prince’s own father—

which would consider that the ceremony that had taken place on December 15th

of the year 1785— a little less than ten years ago— was no true marriage.

Miss Pigot often thought how much happier Maria might have been if she had

gone to the country after the death of Mr. Fitzherbert and stayed there‚ then the Prince of Wales would never have met her, never have made up his mind that he

could not live without her‚ and Maria would doubtless have married some

pleasant country gentleman who would have adored her and made her

comfortably happy for the rest of her life.

She had said this to Maria who had shaken her head sadly. ‘At least I had

those happy years, Piggy. I suppose I should be grateful for them. And you’re

fond of him too. You know you are.’

Miss Pigot admitted that this was so. He was charming, and when he kissed

one’s hand or bowed, he did it so beautifully that he made one feel at least like a duchess. And when he thanked one for some small service, the tears were often in

his eyes as he spoke of his gratitude or affection. Who could not be affected by

such charm? Not Miss Pigot. Nor indeed Maria.

And my goodness,
thought Miss Pigot, Maria had stood out against him. It was only when he pretended to kill himself— Hush; she must not say that. Maria

believed he really had tried to kill himself. She often spoke of it now

remembering how much in need of her he had been. Dear Maria, let her believe

that, if it gave some comfort. Poor soul, she needed all the comfort she could get.

As for Miss Pigot she believed he had been over-bled. His physicians were

constantly bleeding him because when he became too excited and gave vent to

violent passions he was apt to fall into a sort of fit which bleeding seemed to

alleviate. An over-bleeding, thought the practical Miss Pigot, and the blood on his clothes and the pallor of his face— well, if he said that he had tried to thrust a sword into his side and kill himself because Maria refused him— why shouldn’t

she believe him? But after that she had gone away and stayed abroad for a year;

and then she could stop away no longer. And he had remained faithful to her all

that time, which, Miss Pigot conceded, must have demanded a great deal of

restraint on his part— knowing him— or a great affection. The affection was

there.

Our dear charming Highness loves Maria as much as he can love anyone,

Miss Pigot said to herself. That is why it is such a pity that this has happened.

For whom else would he have gone through that ceremony in Park Street?

There was a real parson to perform it and so it was a true marriage. And hadn’t he treated her as his wife? Everyone who wished to please him had been obliged to

recognize Maria as the Princess of Wales. He had been devoted to her. But then of course there were other women.

How could he manage without women— different women? The two things in

life he loved best were women and horses; and women were a good length ahead.

That clever Mr. Sheridan had said of him that he was too much the lover of

women to be the lover of one.

How true! How sadly true!

But Maria— clever maternal Maria— had understood her prince. She had

accepted his infidelities, not happily of course, but as a necessity, until Lady

Jersey had come along.

Who would have thought that that— grandmother, nine years the Prince’s

senior, could so enslave him? But Lady Jersey was a clever woman. She had no

intention of taking second place to Maria; she had therefore set out to destroy

Maria’s influence with the Prince. And she had succeeded.

But it won’t be forever,
Miss Pigot was sure.
He will be back. I feel it in my
bones.

And Maria, wounded as she never had been before, had made no protest. How

like Maria. She was always so dignified. A Queen— if ever there was one,

thought the loyal Miss Pigot. She had not raged against him as most women

would have done She had taken her congé with outward serenity.
If he no longer
wants me, then I will remove myself from life— since that is what he wants.

Miss Pigot had believed that he would come back; that he had written that

letter telling her that he would not see her again on an impulse when he was under the influence of that wicked woman. But Maria had accepted it. Miss Pigot would

never forget the day she came back from the Duke of Clarence’s house with the

letter which had been delivered to her there. She was like a sleepwalker. Stunned, that was it. Oh, how could he be so cruel— so wicked! What had made him do

such a thing? To write to her there so that she must receive her dismissal before all those people; and when she had no notion of what was to happen either?

Hadn’t he been writing to her only the day before as his Dear Love?

He, had dismissed Perdita Robinson in the same way— by letter. But that

was because he hated scenes and Mrs. Robinson according to hearsay had made

scenes at the end of their relationship. True, Maria and he had quarrelled. A

woman would have to be a saint not to quarrel with such a publicly unfaithful

husband, for whatever the State said, Maria believed him to be her husband. So

perhaps that was why.

And she had gone abroad.

‘You should have stayed,’ she had protested at the time.

‘What!’ Maria had cried. ‘Stay— like a dog waiting for a whistle from its

master?’

Oh, yes, Maria was proud. But what comfort was there abroad? Maria could

not bear to stay in France— that tortured country which had been like a second

home. to her because she had been educated there; but it was all so sadly changed since the revolution and she could not find there the peace and solace she sought.

So they had come back to Marble Hill and here they were.

Maria had always been particularly fond of Marble Hill— a fine house which

had been built by Lady Suffolk, one of the mistresses of George II, as a refuge for her old age when she should no longer please that monarch.

It had delightful grounds which had been planned by Bathhurst and Pope, and

the flowering shrubs, particularly in the spring, were charmingly colourful. Maria loved the lawns which ran down to the river and were bounded on each side by a

grove of chestnut trees. From the grotto, a feature of the garden, there was a very pleasant view of Richmond Hill. One glance at the house explained why it had

received its name; perched on an incline it really did look as though it were made of marble, so white was it; and it owed its graceful appearance to those excellent architects Pembroke and Burlington.

Maria was sitting in her drawing room, a piece of embroidery in her hand, but

she was not sewing; she was looking wistfully out over the lawns to the river.

Miss Pigot came and sat beside her, and Maria forced herself to smile.

‘How dark it is getting— so early,’ said Maria. ‘The winter will soon be with

us.’

But she was not thinking of the weather.

‘You might as well say what’s in your mind, Maria,’ said her faithful

companion. ‘It doesn’t do any good to bottle it up.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘If you’re thinking of him you shouldn’t try to pretend you’re not. Is there

something on your mind?’

Maria was silent. ‘It can’t be true,’ she said. ‘No, of course it’s not true. And I am thinking of him. I thought going away would help to cure me, but I fear I

never shall be cured.’

‘He’ll come back,’ said Miss Pigot firmly. ‘I just know he will come back.’.

Maria shook her, head. ‘I would not have believed it possible that he could

have written to me in that way— so cold— after all these years— after—’

‘It was done in a had moment, Maria my dear. He’s breaking his heart over it

now, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘I should, Piggy, very. He is at this moment with Lady Jersey, not giving me a

thought— or if he is to congratulate himself for being rid of me.’

‘Now you don’t believe that any more than I do. He’d never feel like that.

He’s had a little flash of temper. And you know, my dear, you have lost yours

once or twice. In your quarrels you haven’t always been the meek one, have you?’

‘Find excuses for him, Piggy. You know that’s what I want you to do.’

She looked so forlorn, so tragic sitting there that Miss Pigot went over and

kissed her.

‘Dear Pig, at least I have you. That is something to be grateful for.’

‘I’ll be faithful till death.’

‘Those were exactly his words.’

‘And he meant them— in his way.’

‘In his way?’ said Maria bitterly. ‘I know what that means. Words— words

and no meaning behind them.’

She was silent for a while and Miss Pigot did not attempt to break that silence;

then Maria began to talk of that ceremony in her drawing room in Park Street.

‘I would tell no one but you. I promised it should be a secret and I have kept

my word. I should have known what to expect shouldn’t I, when Fox stood up in

the House of Commons and denied that we had ever been married? And the

Prince let it pass.’

‘You left him then. Remember how unhappy you were? But you went back to

him, didn’t you?’

‘He was my husband, whatever Mr. Fox said. I didn’t forget that.’

‘If he was then, he is now. So you shouldn’t forget that either.’

‘
He
has chosen to forget, and I shall not remind him. What use would it be?

But I can’t stop thinking of those happy days. I think the happiest were when we

were most poor. Poor! What he thought of as poor. Do you remember when there

were bailiffs at Carlton House and the King would not help and so the Prince sold his horses and shut up the state apartments at Carlton House and we went down to

Brighton? But we were determined to economize; we determined to settle his

debts gradually— and so we took that place in Hampshire. I think those days at

Kempshott were the happiest of my life, Piggy. If he had been simply a country

gentleman like my first and second husbands, I think we should have been happy.

I understand him as no one else does. I could make him happy— but he does not

think so.’

‘Of course he does. This Jersey affair will pass like the others, Maria. He’s a

boy— rather a spoilt boy I admit— but we love him for what he is. He’ll be