Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series) (3 page)

The Queen was not listening to Mr Handel’s excellent music; she was thinking how handsome her eldest son was looking in his frogged coat and hoping the King would not notice how elegant he was and question the price of his garments. Charlotte was alarmed when she saw the lights of resentment against his father flare up in her son’s eyes. She had to face the fact that the relationship between them was scarcely harmonious. She had adored the Prince of Wales from the first time she had first held him in her arms – ‘A perfect specimen of a Royal Highness, your Majesty …’ Oh yes, indeed. He had bawled lustily, this wonder infant, and his health had always been of the best – except of course for the customary childish ailments. At the age of four it was true he had given her a great scare by contracting the smallpox. But he was such a healthy little rascal, he had even shrugged that aside. She liked to tell her attendants how when he was kept in bed someone asked if he were not tired of lying abed so long and he had replied: ‘Not at all. I lie and make reflections.’ The brilliance of the child! There was no doubt that he was a genius. He was clever at his lessons. He spoke and wrote several languages, French, German and Italian, fluently; he was familiar with Horace and delighted in Tacitus. He learned with ease and had a command of English which astounded his mother and dumbfounded his father on those occasions, which were becoming
more frequent, when they were involved in verbal battles. The Queen was a little anxious about this beloved son and his relationship with his father. Oh dear, she sighed, I hope they are not going to follow the family custom and yet another Prince of Wales is going to quarrel with the King. Not George, she assured herself, not her handsome son George.

She often looked at the wax image on her dressing table and thought of him as a baby. He was no longer that. She sighed, wishing that he would visit her more often and now and then ask her advice.

What would she advise him on? On the sort of shoe buckle he should wear? He was mightily interested in shoe buckles. Or on the colour of his coat? Or about those matters which her woman Schwellenburg was always hinting at – his amours. ‘De Prince very much interests selfs in
mädchens
…’ declared Schwellenburg in her execrable English. ‘Nonsense, Schwellenburg, he is a natural gentleman.’

Was he
too
interested in young women? No, of course not. She refused to believe it. She refused to believe anything against George; and though she deplored the passing of his childhood when she had had some control over him, she was glad in a way that he was too old for whippings, for she had suffered to think of that delicate flesh being slashed with a cane.

Oh, George, come and speak to your mother, she implored silently. Not just as a duty. Not to bow, kiss the hand, murmur a few meaningless words and be off as quickly as you can. Not that, George, speak as a son to a mother.

She thought of the next child she would bear; but such happenings were commonplace with her. The thirteenth!

A boy or a girl? she wondered. What did it matter now? She already had seven boys and five girls. No one could say she had not given the country heirs. But she had not felt so well with this pregnancy. Perhaps it was time to give up child-bearing. The King would never agree to that, she was sure, and yet what had she been doing in the nineteen years since she came to England? Bearing children, was the answer. Thirteen of them. Oh, yes, the time had certainly come to call a halt. Not that she could bear to part with any of them. But with fine strong boys like George,
Frederick and William at the head of the family – surely they had enough.

The Prince of Wales was pensive tonight. Was he wrapped up in the music? Frederick was beside him. They were inseparable those two and it was pleasant to see two brothers such friends. They seemed now as though they were sharing some secret. They were both watching one of the maids of honour who was in attendance. The Queen heard an echo of Schwellenburg’s voice: ‘De Prince very much interests self in
mädchens
.’ Oh, no, thought the Queen. George is a boy yet. He has always been taught such restraint.

George did not hear Mr Handel’s music, though he shared the family fondness for it. He was thinking: She is exquisite. So dainty. Such little hands and feet. He pictured her delight when he made known to her the fact that he was in love with her. He had discovered her name. It was Harriot Vernon. Harriot, Harriot, he murmured.

Fred nudged him gently with his foot because he had spoken her name aloud.

The music had stopped. The King led the applause and, under cover of it, George threw a glance at the young maid of honour which made her lower her eyes and smile. It was enough for the ardent Prince. His invitation was accepted. They must meet. Where?

‘You are watched,’ whispered Frederick.

‘Always, brother,’ sighed the Prince.

He turned to his equerry and friend, Lord Maiden, heir to the Earl of Essex.

‘I wish you to take a message to a lady,’ he murmured.

‘At Your Highness’s service.’

‘Come to my apartments,’ said the Prince. ‘I will give you all instructions there.’

Frederick listened with admiration. This time George was about to involve himself in a real love affair.

*

‘And how?’ asked Frederick, ‘can you possibly meet Harriot Vernon? You would be noticed. And you know we are forbidden even to speak to the maids of honour.’

George laughed.

‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I already have an assignation with the lady.’

‘Can that be true, George?’

‘Indeed yes. Maiden has taken a message for her from me and brought one back from her. We are going to meet in the gardens tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Why do you wish to know, brother?’

‘Because I fear you will be seen.’

‘Not us. We shall meet in the most secluded spot … not far from the river. You know where I mean. We were saying only the other day few ever go there and you remember I remarked it would be a good spot for a lovers’ meeting.’

‘You think she will come?’

George drew himself up to his full height and looked most princely. ‘I
know
she will come, Frederick. I have her promise.’

‘And when she does …?’

George threw a kiss to his reflection in the mirror.

‘She can no more wait with patience for the encounter than I can.’

‘So tonight … at sunset …’

‘Tonight at sunset,’ echoed the Prince of Wales.

*

Mr Papendiek was playing the flute in the Queen’s drawing room at the request of the King. Not all the family were present. The Prince of Wales for one was absent. Frederick, seated next to his brother William, was thinking of George sneaking out to that remote spot in the gardens not far from the river. He was going to wear a greatcoat of Maiden’s to disguise himself and there he would await the coming of Harriot Vernon and then … Frederick’s eyes glistened. He hoped that all would go well and George would not be discovered. He wondered what would happen if he were. He looked at his father caught up in the music, and the Queen sitting placidly by. The child’s entry into the world could not long be delayed. It has been going on like this for years, thought Frederick; the family assembled here listening to the King’s favourite pieces of music; the only difference being that
there was a new addition to the family. A new child to sit on the footstool at the Queen’s feet while the child who had just vacated it would sit upright on a chair and try not to fidget. So dull! thought Frederick. No change at all.

But a change was coming. He and his brother were growing up. William would soon be sent to sea. And because of this William was half excited, half apprehensive. ‘At least,’ William had said, ‘it’ll be an escape from Kew and Buckingham House.’ Lucky William, thought Frederick.

The King was in fact giving only half an ear to the music. He was thinking that soon he would have to leave Kew for London. He could not enjoy the sequestered life for long at a time. The dark, clever, rather gross face of Charles James Fox came into his mind. Always plaguing him. The Foxes always had. As though they bore him a grudge for not marrying Sarah. Charles James Fox was her nephew and if ever there was a troublemaker it was that man.

And the American affair … and the French and the Spaniards … and the Government …

I’ll put them from my mind, he told himself. I’ll feel all the better for a little respite from affairs. Work all the better when I do get back to business, eh, what? Ought to be on better terms with young George. Can’t have trouble in the family. He didn’t want to
talk
to George. George was too smart with words. Had an answer for everything. A pleasant game of chess, that was what he would like. Even so, George invariably beat him nowadays. Nevertheless they could get a good game.

Where was George? George ought to be present on a family occasion like this.

Mr Papendiek’s solo was over; the King led the applause and when that came to an end and the musicians waited for his further instructions he declared: ‘I should like a game of chess. Tell the Prince of Wales that I wish him to join me in a game of chess.’

Frederick was dismayed. They were going to search for the Prince of Wales and would be unable to find him, unless they went to that remote spot in the gardens and then … what would they discover? He had feared something like this. He had wanted George to make some provision for such an emergency but George
had merely shrugged aside the possibility of discovery. And now … it seemed inevitable.

‘Where is the Prince, eh, what?’ the King was already demanding as the chess board had been set out and he himself was putting the ivory pieces in their places.

One of the Prince’s attendants came in looking harassed.

‘Well, well, where is he? Eh? Eh?’ demanded the King.

‘Your Majesty, the Prince is not in his apartments.’

Frederick waited for no more. He slipped out of the drawing room and out of the Lodge and made his way with all speed to that remote spot in the gardens. It was dark now but there was enough light from the moon to show Frederick the two figures embracing.

‘George! George!’ cried Frederick. ‘For God’s sake … George.’

The lovers parted and George, seeing his brother, cried: ‘Good God, Fred, what is it?’

The King is demanding your presence immediately. He wants a game of chess.’

George cursed chess vehemently and stopped himself in time cursing the King. Harriot, trembling with anxiety, looked appealingly at her lover.

‘There’s nothing to be done but return with all speed and play this game of chess,’ muttered the Prince. ‘Here, Fred, take this.’ It was Lord Maiden’s greatcoat with which he had disguised himself. He turned to Harriot and embraced her warmly. George would be a lover in any circumstances, thought Frederick admiringly. Even now while he was on the verge of exposure he was charmingly protective to the lady. ‘Fred, see that Miss Vernon reaches her apartments in safety.’ Frederick bowed. If he were involved in this affair he would not blame George. It had always been thus between them. They had always protected each other, at whatever cost to themselves, and took loyalty for granted.

So with Lord Maiden’s overcoat over one arm Frederick conducted the lady to a back staircase of the maids’ house while George hurried to the Queen’s drawing room where the King was impatiently glowering at the chess board.

‘Takes you a long time to get here, eh, what?’ He looked into the flushed face of his son. The elegant boots were just a little
muddy. Many eyes noted this. There was a whispering behind fans, a few quietly spoken words among the attendants.

The Prince had for some time been ogling the only pretty maid of honour in his mother’s entourage and already someone had reported seeing Prince Frederick sneaking out of the King’s presence to warn his brother and later conducting the lady back to her apartments.

The Prince played a reckless game of chess which gave the King the advantage. But the latter did not enjoy this. What’s the young blade up to, eh, what? the King asked himself.

And all through the household they were whispering of the Prince’s love affair.

The next day in the same spot the Prince successfully accomplished the seduction of Miss Vernon; but by this time the affair was palace gossip.

*

Harriot Vernon went about her duties with the rapt expression of one who may have lost her virtue but had gained the whole world; and when the Prince of Wales was not seeking private interviews with the lady he was in his apartments writing verses to her.

How could Charlotte have allowed such a charmer to appear in the Prince’s orbit, people were asking each other. Because she was about to give birth? Nonsense, this little operation was as normal to her as breathing. Still, she had slipped, and there could be a real scandal if the reckless Harriot should prove to be fertile as well as romantic.

Schwellenburg, bustling about her apartments, tending the frogs and toads of which she made pets and kept in glass cages, grumbled to herself about the Prince of Wales. ‘Ah,’ she muttered, ‘you willen zees tricks do.’ And she tapped her snuff box and listened to the croaking which followed. She was proud of having taught her little darlings to croak at the tap of a snuff box. ‘They vise little frogs,’ she would say. ‘Very vise frogs. Good little toads … not like the Prince of Vales. Must talk to the Queen of bad Prince, little frog. Not talk to self.’

And she did talk to the Queen. The Prince of Wales was having a love affair with that wicked young woman Harriot Vernon whom she had never wanted in the royal apartment, and p.p.—2
if the Queen had listened to her would never have been there.

Charlotte was not fond of Schwellenburg, but one must have someone to whom one could speak German now and then. Schwellenburg had been with her ever since she had come to England and in any case was a habit now. The woman was arrogant; she made trouble; she was the most unpopular servant in the royal household … yet she remained in the Queen’s service, bullying the Queen’s women, disgusting them with her ‘pets’, and insisting on their playing long and tedious games of cards with her.