o b464705202491194 (40 page)

another and more

violent blow; he had felt the blood streaming down his face as he fell back on his pillows screaming for help.

That was all he could tell them.

The public was excited. This was far more dramatic than the recent Mary

Anne Clarke scandal. A royal Duke attacked in his bed; his valet murdered. There

would be an inquest. What would come out of that? Speculation ran wild.

The valet had a very beautiful wife. Everyone knew the weakness of the royal

princes where women were concerned. Why should a valet attack a duke? Why

should the valet be murdered?

The King was becoming quite incoherent.

‘This terrible scandal,’ he said. ‘What does it mean, eh, what does it mean, eh,

what? This is worse than anything the Prince of Wales ever did. Ernest— what

does it mean— what can it mean?’

There was one fact which kept hammering on his mind.

The valet had a beautiful wife. He kept seeing pictures of Ernest and a woman

— a dark woman. Italian? Oh, God, help me, groaned the King. This family of

mine will drive me mad.

The inquest was conducted with decorum and respect for the royal family. It

was not easy to sort out the evidence. It seemed incomprehensible. Why should

the valet attempt to murder the Duke and then commit suicide?

The public had the answer. It was discussed in all the coffee and chocolate

houses. It was simple, wasn’t it? Sellis had found his wife in bed with the Duke, had attacked him, and the Duke retaliated by murdering the valet and making it

appear as suicide.

It seemed the only logical answer. And knowing these princes, a very

reasonable one.

At the inquest the verdict of, suicide was brought in. Sellis, it was said, had

gone mad, had attacked his master and realizing what he had done had committed

suicide. That the Duke had been attacked was indisputable. The blow on his head

had cut deep and could have killed him. Why the Duke’s sword should have been

stained with fresh blood was never answered. But the people had their verdict and they were not going to be diverted from it by a mere jury,

‘What would happen to us, eh,’ they asked each other, ‘if we committed

murder?’

‘Hanged by the neck. That’s what. But then we’re not royal dukes.’

————————

The King muttered to himself as he paced up and down his apartments. ‘What

next, eh? What next?’

The Prince of Wales discussed the state of affairs with Lady Hertford. He was

most humble with the lady as he needed to be for she made it clear that she would not be an easy victim. That was why he was so desperate. She was not beautiful,

but her elegance was supreme. She was the best dressed woman in London and

cared passionately for the cut of a gown and that the jewellery she wore should be in absolute keeping with her ensemble.

‘Perfection!’ the Prince would sigh looking at her. But she was frigid and

made it clear that she had her reputation to consider. She had no need of the gifts he could bestow for she was the wife of one of the richest peers in the country. He might win her by accepting her advice but he was supposed to be a Whig and she

was the most ardent of Tories.

This made the pursuit of her full of difficulties and the more exciting because

of it.

But she was most gracious when he talked politics and if he were to ask her

advice she became almost affectionate, so different from Maria. There could not

have been a woman less like Maria. Was that why he was attracted? He knew he

wanted them both. But he had Maria. Maria was his affectionate and devoted

wife; there was no need to pursue Maria.

But he was madly in love with his elusive frigid fashion plate.

Now she listened with interest to the state of the King’s health.

‘It grows worse, I hear,’ she said. Her eyes glinted. ‘It could mean that he

cannot live much longer.’

A king!
she thought.
Power! The Tory party triumphant!
That was a consideration. But while King George III was alive it was a mere dream and Lady

Hertford was not a dreamer; she liked cold reality.

She would not talk of the King’s death. That was unwise; and she was a

shrewd woman.

‘It could mean a regency,’ she temporized.

‘If I became regent,’ he said, ‘there is nothing I would not do that you asked.

You would be at my right hand. How fortunate to have the most beautiful woman

in England for my chief minister.’

And the Fitzherbert? wondered Lady Hertford. A Catholic. Inwardly she

shuddered. She did not believe in the emancipation of Catholics, which of course

the Prince did at the moment. It was not only the Fitzherbert influence but he was a man of tolerance— weakness she called it.

But if he even came to power— through the Crown or the Regency— she

would certainly feel more friendly towards him.

The Prince realized how interested Lady Hertford was in the possibility of a

Regency; and he wanted her to understand that this possibility was by no means

remote.

‘I heard that my father remarked on his way to open Parliament that he was

going to begin his speech by
My Lords and Peacocks
. I believe they were in a state of apprehension expecting him to carry out his threat.’

‘But he did not,’ said Lady Hertford. ‘If he had that would have been the end.’

‘He has deteriorated terribly in the last weeks. These scandals about Fred and

Ernest —’

Lady Hertford pursed her lips. She did not like scandal. The Prince had been

about to tell her of an incident which had been reported to him of how when the

King had inspected the royal yacht, his eyes had fallen on an exceptionally pretty woman whom he had approached and regarded in manner which was alien to

what was expected of him.

‘My word,’ he had exclaimed, very audibly, ‘what a pretty bottom! I’d like to

slap that bottom.’ Those watching had choked with laughter and the King had

sought to embrace the young woman who had quickly extricated herself, made a

quick curtsey and run off.

Such incidents in public meant that he must be near breaking point.

Poor father,
thought the Prince with compassion. But he did have to retire, it would mean the Regency.

And if the Regency were his, he believed, then so would be Lady Hertford.

Lady Hertford to satisfy his need for romance— always so strong in him; and

Maria to go home to like a nice warm featherbed— always his great comfort in

life, his wife, his soul— but to whom he had grown accustomed so that he must

seek romance elsewhere.

————————

When Caroline heard of the Prince’s penchant for Lady Hertford she shrieked

with laughter.

‘He’s a fool, of course,’ she told Lady Charlotte. ‘He’d be wise to keep to

Maria. He doesn’t realize when he’s got a treasure. They say he sits and looks at Madam Hertford with tears in his eyes and longing in his expression. And that

Maria Fitzherbert is very angry with him. They quarrel, and she has a temper, our paragon. Not that I can’t understand that— married to that trying man. But it

makes me laugh— oh, it does make me laugh, Lady Charlotte my dear, to think of

these fat middle-aged people behaving like young people in love.’

She wanted to hear how the romance of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s husband

progressed. And she asked everyone who came to see her to tell her what they

knew.

————————

They could not keep the news from the King any longer. Amelia was very ill.

With the coming of the autumn she contracted what was known as St. Anthony’s

Fire.

The fact that the King’s jubilee was being celebrated made this even more

tragic to him. Fifty years since he had ascended the throne— fifty years of

anxieties and fears which had grown greater as years passed. Looking back he

could not remember everything that had happened; but two things stood out in his

memory; the loss of the American Colonies, and the scandals of his family. He

had failed somewhere. All his efforts to be a good man and a good king had not

brought him success. He had become a tragic old fellow.

‘More dead than alive sometimes,’ he mumbled. ‘And oh, God, I wish I were

dead for I am afraid I am going mad.’ He was half-blind, tormented by desires for women which he had never fulfilled in his youth because he was so determined to

be a good husband to a wife whom he had never wanted, worried by his children,

and now he faced the greatest tragedy of all: his darling Amelia was dying.

Yes, he must face it. She was going. She could not live.

Everyone knew it although they were trying to keep it from him. They had

said: ‘Amelia can do more for him than anyone else. Amelia can soothe him,

comfort him.’ And so she had with her frail delicate beauty and her soothing

voice and

her love for him which had made all his sufferings worthwhile.

He sent for her physicians.

‘Tell me the truth,’ he cried. ‘Don’t try to delude me. You understand, eh,

what? I want to know the truth. Is my daughter better? Is she, eh, what?’

‘She is as well as can be expected, Your Majesty.’

‘I expect her to be well. Is she as well as that? Tell me. Save her life. Is it too much to ask, eh, what? Go back to her. What are you doing here? You should be

with her. Go to her— Tell her— Tell her—’

And he covered his face with his hands.

The physicians looked at each other. He needed their services as much as his

daughter.

The Princess Mary came to him, her face blotched with tears. It was Mary

who had loved Amelia best of all his daughters and who had scarcely left the sick room. That made him love Mary.

‘What is it?’ he cried as he stumbled towards her.

‘Papa, she would like to see you— now.’

He went to her room. She smiled at him. Poor Papa, who looked so wild with

his jutting white brows and his red face. But he was her good kind father who had also doted on her and been charmed by her and whom it had been her duty always

to soothe and comfort.

‘Dearest Papa, I am going to leave you.’

He nodded and the tears began to fall down his cheeks.

‘You must not grieve for me, Papa. I have had a great deal of suffering and

shall be past all pain.’

‘My darling!’

‘And I know you love me well enough to be glad of that. Dearest Papa, I have

had a ring made for you. I have it here. See it is a lock of my hair under crystal and set round with diamonds. Give me your, finger, Papa. Will you always wear it

and remember me?’

She put it on his finger. He stared at it through his tears, holding it close to his eyes that he might see it clearly.

‘My darling child— my best loved—’ he began.

But he could say no more. He was remembering the day twenty-seven years

ago when she had been born and all the joy she had brought into his life.

‘No,’ he cried, ‘not this— I cannot lose you. Anything— anything but this.’

And he kissed the mourning ring and watching him, smiling, she sank back on

her pillows.

The Princess Amelia was buried at Windsor with great pageantry.

In his apartments the King gave way to his grief. He had lost his love, his

darling, and with her his sanity.

THE Prince of Wales had decided to celebrate his inauguration as Regent with

the most dazzling of spectacles. This was to be held at Carlton House. Many

members of the French Royal family, who were in England at this time, were to

be guests; and there was talk of nothing else but this extremely grand occasion.

Maria, melancholy in the house in Tilney Street, wondered whether she would

receive an invitation. Miss Pigot watched her anxiously.

Thank God,
she thought, for darling Minney, who made up for so much. And how could Prinney be so tiresome? What could he see in that woman Hertford?

How could he compare her with Maria?

But he was infatuated by the creature and the talk about them was growing

more and more insistent and the more so it became the sadder was poor Maria.

They did not discuss this in front of Minney of course, but when they were

alone Maria said: ‘I doubt that I shall receive an invitation.’

‘What nonsense!’ cried Miss Pigot. ‘How could his wife not be invited?’

‘Quite easily because it is clear that he does not consider me to be his wife.’

‘Now that’s talk I won’t listen to. He does. He’s straying a bit now, I’ll

confess, but that’s because he does think of you as his wife and he thinks he can have his little games and come back to you.’