The Prince and the Quakeress: (Georgian Series) (2 page)

The King considering his son’s activities would grow purple with rage. ‘Impudent puppy,’ was his frequent comment; but nothing he could say would alter the fact that Frederick was the Prince of Wales.

Augusta was right. Frederick was with the children. None could have doubted who he was for a moment. He bore the Hanoverian stamp: blue eyes and fresh complexion. He had been a good-looking boy, but the appearance of all members of the family was marred by the heavy sullen jaw and the almost vacant expression. Frederick differed from the King on account of his easy-going temperament. Now he looked his most genial, listening to his two elder sons telling him about the next play they intended to perform.

‘Elizabeth wants to play a part,’ Edward was saying. George had opened his mouth and was about to have spoken – to say the same thing, Augusta supposed. Why did he always allow Edward to get there before him!

‘So she shall,’ replied their father. ‘We will ask Mamma’s opinion.’

She joined them, embracing them all in turn – her dear, dear children.

‘Yes, Elizabeth my dear, you shall play a part,’ she told the six-year-old girl, going over to her chair and bending over to kiss her. Poor child, she was deformed and unable to stand owing to her weakness. Augusta was very worried about Elizabeth.

The two little boys William and Henry had toddled over to her; she lifted baby Henry on to her lap. He was only two and cuddling him against her she put out a hand to fondle William’s
golden hair so that he should not feel he had been ousted by the baby.

‘Well, you will have some fun, I am sure.’ Frederick smiled fondly at her. He could not have had a better wife, he was thinking now as he did so often. She was always good-natured and never murmured when Lady Archibald Hamilton was a little arrogant – as all mistresses will be if merely to assert themselves – and when Lady Middlesex tried to show her superiority with her Latin quotations and her proficiency in painting and music. ‘It is very clever, my dear,’ Augusta would say placidly. ‘My duties as Princess of Wales would not allow me the time to acquire such accomplishments.’ A gentle reminder that although they might have their place in the Prince’s bedchamber, she was his wife and the mother of the royal line.

‘Now we will talk of this play.’ Her accent was German and of course the children were being brought up to speak in perfect English. In spite of an early youth spent at Hanover, Frederick spoke tolerably well – his mother in the early days of his life before she had first forgotten him and then despised him, had been wise enough to give him an English tutor – and far better than his father, who had never bothered to perfect himself in the speech of the country of which he was King, although even he was an improvement on George I who could not speak, and refused to learn, a word of English.

‘Now, George, my son,’ went on the Princess. ‘You shall tell me what play you wish to perform and what part
you
wish to take.’

He was silent, a little flushed, thinking hard. Oh dear, he was a little backward. ‘Come, George.’

‘I have not yet thought, Mamma.’

‘I will tell you what
I
want, Mamma,’ cried Edward.

‘One moment, my dear boy. George first…’

‘Oh,
George
never thinks anything…’

‘Now, Edward. Come, George…’

Prince Frederick came to his son’s rescue by announcing that he had no doubt that George would soon decide what he wanted to play; and it was time they left for the races. The children could discuss among themselves which play they would perform and most certainly there must be a part for Elizabeth.

*

On the way to the races Augusta discussed George with her husband. He caused her some anxiety, she admitted.

‘He is a good boy but too meek and he makes no progress with his studies. I thank God that you will be there to guide him so that when his time comes… which I pray may not be until he is an old man and strong in wisdom… he may be ready.’

‘George is a good boy,’ Fred told her, and laid his hand over hers. ‘You fret too much.’

‘But he can scarcely write his name.’

‘All in good time. All in good time.’

‘I am anxious on his account.’

‘Forget your anxieties. All will be well with the boy. Ayscough is a good man and I have decided to send for James Quin.’

‘An actor!’

‘Who better to teach the children elocution?’

‘You mean to teach them how to act!’ she laughed. ‘I believe you wish to make actors of them above all else.’

‘It is not so. But George must learn how to speak English if he is going to please the English. Do you not agree?’

‘You are right, of course,’ she told him.

And they laughed together, being, as usual, in such harmony.

Such a cloudy day, thought Augusta. There would be rain before it was over. How she hated to get wet. She wished they had not come, for how was she to know at that stage what an important encounter was to take place and what part the rain was to play in it. Often she was to think of this day and the effect that gloomy weather had had on her future. Life, she was to muse, reflecting on it, was full of chance and surprise.

In the meantime here was Bubb Dodington in attendance, his enormous body encased in the most elaborate brocade although several buttons were missing and his clothes gaped in most inconvenient places. He always gave the impression of bursting out of them and as though their purpose was not so much to cover his body as to proclaim his wealth to the world. It was the same with his mansions, particularly La Trappe at Hammersmith and his place in Pall Mall into which he had crammed as much costly furnishing as was possible. But he was a clever fellow – very learned, he could quote the classics
lengthily and – to Augusta – boringly; and he was so rich that Fred said he could not afford to do without him because whenever he, Fred, was in particular financial difficulty, Bubb would obligingly lose a few thousand to him at the card table. Bubb was a man with his eyes on fame – and he had the fortune to buy it. So he was naturally ready to pay dearly in order to claim the friendship of the Prince of Wales.

Augusta yawned her way through the races; she was not as devoted to gambling as Fred was. Fred was fascinated by it; it was almost as important to him as women. So while she watched the races she was thinking of George and wondering whether they should consider finding a new tutor for him, for the boy must be made to understand that one day he would be King of England. He was such a
good
boy; there was no trace of wildness about him; yet he must learn to be a King.

The rain had started. Oh dear, now they would have to wait until it was over.

Bubb was fussily conducting them into the tent. It would soon be over, he said; and perhaps their Highnesses would like a game of cards to while away the time?

Fred declared that he fancied a game of whist but they needed a fourth, of course.

Bubb put his finger to his lips in that rather vulgar way of his and declared that His Highness could safely leave the finding of the fourth member of the party to him.

Fred sat down in the tent, yawning. ‘A pox on the rain,’ he said. Poor Fred, his conversation was obvious; small wonder that wags and wits thought him a little dull. Augusta was content with him the way he was, for she herself was not considered brilliant. She never raised her voice in contradiction to her husband, and from her first coming to England she had made it a point to agree with everything he said. That did not mean that she was not aware of what was going on about her, that she did not see Fred’s failings. The fact that she had so successfully hidden her own ambitions during the years she had lived in England might suggest that she was by no means stupid. She had seen Queen Caroline appear to bow down to her husband’s wishes; she had seen her meekly accept humiliations from the King; but everyone except the King had known that it was she who ruled the country. She, Augusta, had dutifully
hated her mother-in-law because her husband did, but that did not mean that she could not admire her and imitate her as far as her own abilities would allow her. So while she echoed Fred’s words she could be thinking that Fred was ineffectual, that he was a little dull and that if he were not the Prince of Wales he would have been a nonentity.

And then Bubb came into the tent with Lord Bute.

There are moments in one’s life when the whole pattern of one’s existence can change. Augusta recognized this as one.

As soon as he entered the tent she was immediately aware of the shortcomings of all other men. Frederick seemed inane as he never had before and Bubb more vulgar than ever.

‘May I present Lord Bute to Your Highnesses?’

She was very ready to be presented. Surely, she thought, he is the most handsome man at Court. Why have I never seen him before? If he had been there, I must have noticed him. Who could fail to do so?

He was tall and his dignity was overwhelming. How much more kingly than Frederick! His manner was grave yet courteous; respectful yet admiring; and he had the finest pair of legs she had ever seen.

‘Lord Bute,’ she said, ‘I am surprised that we have not met before.’

‘I have only recently come to London, Your Highness.’

She knew whence he had come. His accent betrayed him. Surely it must be one of the most charming of accents. She had never thought it so before. Like all the family she had hated everything from beyond the Border, that stronghold of the Jacobites, for Scotsmen had never taken kindly to the Hanoverians. The recent’45 had started up there, and it was they who had harboured their Bonnie Prince Charlie. But Lord Bute was not of that kind. She was sure of it. He would be loyal to the crown. Bubb would never have brought him into the tent if that were not so.

‘You’re welcome,’ Fred told him. ‘Come now, Bubb, the cards.’

‘Your Highness.’ While fussy Bubb produced the cards and dealt, Augusta watched the newcomer’s strong hands. His calm expression betrayed nothing. She refused to admit to herself that she was unduly excited. An interesting man, she thought,
whose conversation would surely have been more diverting than the cards.

They talked between games.

He had come down to London, he said, soon after the’45. He had felt that he no longer desired to stay in Scotland after that.

‘Perhaps you should remain there to guard our interests,’ she suggested gaily.

‘There is no need for that, Madam,’ he replied gravely. ‘The Battle of Culloden showed the Pretender what happens to those who threaten the throne.’

‘I see you are a loyal Scotsman.’

He took her hand and kissed it. It was very courteous and gallant and very bold, but they were in a tent and it
was
an informal occasion. Never had she felt so informal in so short a space of time.

Frederick wanted to get on with the game and was raising the stakes. Bubb was his reckless self and Augusta noticed that while Lord Bute did not betray any anxiety he played cautiously so as not to lose. How wise!

She waited for the game to finish, that conversation might be resumed. Then Lord Bute mentioned the theatre and it emerged that he was very fond of the play and since he had come to London it had been his great hobby to organize masquerades in his own house where he had insisted that all his relations join him and form a company to perform for their own pleasure.

Now Fred was interested. What plays? Lord Bute explained. Nothing was too comic, nothing too tragic. He himself was actor-producer and stage-manager. Even Frederick had laid aside the cards now; Augusta was leaning forward, her cheeks flushed. A fascinating subject made doubly so by such a fascinating talker.

‘You could be useful in our productions,’ Augusta pointed out. ‘I am sure the Prince will agree with me on that.’

The Prince did.

‘The Prince will wish you to visit us and see our theatre at Cliveden.’

The Prince thought that an excellent idea.

It turned out that Lord Bute had lived for nine years on the
Island of Bute where he had amused himself studying agriculture, botany and architecture, which, Augusta declared, sounded quite absorbing. The Prince thought so, too. Only Bubb was a little bored but he never liked them to show too much interest in other people, being afraid that he might be ousted from the Prince’s favour.

Augusta sat back in her chair listening to Lord Bute’s musical voice with the accent which had suddenly become so attractive, and the sound of rain pattering on the tent. Such a pleasant sound she would think it ever after. She hoped it would go on because when the rain stopped this pleasant
tête-à-tête
was likely to do the same.

But the elements were favourable and although Bubb went to the door of the tent and scowled up at the darkening skies, the rain persisted.

So in that tent she learned the background of this most fascinating man. He was thirty-four years old – six years younger than Fred – and had been born in Edinburgh. He was his father’s elder son and his mother had been the daughter of the Duke of Argyll. He had come south to Eton for his education and while there had met that gossip Horace Walpole; eleven years before this meeting in the tent he had married the daughter of Edward and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Augusta, who was conscious of such aspects, immediately thought that he would have married a pretty fortune there. His wife and family were in London now with him; and he had been driven to the races in a carriage which he had hired from his apothecary.

It was a stroke of good fortune, he remarked, that he
had
come and been so honoured as to have been invited into the tent.

Augusta was delighted to note that Fred was as interested in Lord Bute as she was – perhaps not quite so much, but then Fred was superficial by nature.

She believed that he, like herself, was a little dismayed when Bubb announced that the rain had stopped and they could now start on the homeward journey.

Lord Bute took his leave.

‘The Prince will wish you to call on us at Cliveden,’ Augusta reminded him; and Fred endorsed this.

Never, declared Lord Bute, had he received a command which gave him more pleasure.