Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series) (17 page)

She was alarmed. She had heard rumours of the Prince’s light love affairs. If she met him clandestinely he would doubtless seek a quick consummation; and in a short time she would be known as Mary Robinson, one of the Prince’s light-o’-loves for a week or so. Oh, no. She had too strong a sense of her own worth, too much dignity. Nothing like that was going to happen to her, no matter if the Prince of Wales did desire it.

‘I could not agree to a secret meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘I have my reputation to consider. This happens to be rather dear to me, Lord Malden.’

‘Quite rightly so,’ said the young man fervently. ‘But hear
what His Highness wishes. You could, I am sure, have no objection to being in a public place where he might see you … and give you some sign of his devotion. I am referring to Covent Garden. There is to be a royal occasion. The King and Queen will be there and the Prince begs … implores … that you will grace the evening with your presence. All he wishes is to assure you by a look and gesture that he is your fervent admirer and the writer of these letters.’

Her first thought was: What shall I wear? She thought of pink satin and discarded that. Blue! Lavender perhaps. She would have a new gown for the occasion. Because of course she was going.

‘Did you say the King and Queen will be present?’

‘Yes. The King, the Queen and the Prince of Wales.’

‘And before the King and Queen …’

‘Have no fear. Leave all arrangements to me. I will see that all is as it should be.’

‘I have not yet made up my mind whether it would be wise for me to come.’

‘Madam, I beg of you. The Prince will be desolate: he is beside himself with anxiety because he receives no reply from you. All you have to do is sit in the box I shall choose for you. He will do the rest.’

‘You plead his cause with fervour, Lord Malden. If it were your own you could not do so more earnestly.’

‘Ah, Madam. Would it
were
my own.’

She laughed lightly. It pleased her to be so admired.

‘Well, I do not wish to disappoint … er, Florizel.’

Malden kissed her hand. ‘Madam, this will make the Prince of Wales a very happy man. I must go to him at once and acquaint him with his good fortune.’

*

Mrs Armistead, listening, heard that her mistress was going to the Oratorio. A step forward indeed, she thought. The Prince will not rest until she is his mistress. He himself will come here.

There would be opportunities; and when Mrs Robinson was at the height of her ambitions – loved by the Prince of Wales – there would be a chance for a woman who was both handsome and
clever to climb a little too. Perhaps not to such dizzy heights as her mistress, but … perhaps so. For all her dazzling beauty Mrs Robinson was scarcely wise; whereas her lady’s maid made up in wisdom for what she might lack in looks – only compared with Mrs Robinson, of course, because Mrs Armistead, by ordinary standards, was a very handsome woman indeed.

Her mistress was calling for her. She must show Lord Malden to the door. He scarcely glanced at Mrs Armistead so bemused was he by the more flamboyant charms of Mrs Robinson. But it would not be so with all of them.

As soon as he had gone Mrs Robinson was calling for her.

‘Armistead. Armistead. I have agreed to go to the Oratorio at Covent Garden. The King, Queen and Prince of Wales are to be present.’

‘Madam will wish to look her best.’

‘I thought of lavender satin.’

‘Madam will need a new gown for the occasion. Something which she has not worn before.’

‘Exactly, Armistead.’

‘I think Madam … white.’

‘White, Armistead!’

‘White satin and silver tissue, Madam.’

‘But so pale. I shall pass unnoticed.’

‘Madam could never be unnoticed. I was thinking that the simplicity of your gown would be great contrast to the brilliance of your beauty.’

Armistead stood there, eyes lowered – very neat and quite elegant herself in her black gown over which she wore a white apron.

‘The touch of colour could come from the feathers in your headdress.’

Mrs Robinson nodded. ‘What colours, Armistead?’

‘Well, Madam, that is a matter to which we should give a little thought. This will be a very important occasion and we must make sure that all is just as it should be.’

Mrs Robinson nodded. Oh, excellent Armistead.

For us both, thought Mrs Armistead, who was visualizing not so much the scene at Covent Garden but what would follow … the great men who would come to this house, among whom
would surely be some who would realize the quite considerable charm of Mrs Armistead.

*

Covent Garden! A blaze of Glory. Crowds had gathered in the streets to see the royal cavalcade. The Prince of Wales looked magnificent with the glittering diamond star on his blue satin coat. How different from his poor old father and plain pregnant mother!

‘God bless the Prince!’ the cheers rang out.

The King was pleased. It was good for any member of the royal family to be popular. Good for the monarchy. As for the Queen, she was proud when she heard them calling for her son. ‘He is so handsome,’ she murmured.

It was a glittering company. Red plush and gold braid and the finest musicians in the country; and the most notable people in the land were present.

There was an atmosphere of anticipation engendered by the implication that now the Prince was growing up there would be more of this kind of thing, and there was no doubt that it was what the public liked to see.

‘It was a good idea, eh, what?’ murmured the King to the Queen. ‘The family … in public … together … in harmony.’

The Queen thought it was a very good idea.

*

In her box sat Mrs Robinson, attracting a great deal of attention, for she had rarely looked so beautiful. Between them she and Armistead had decided what she would wear. The white satin and silver tissue had been a brilliant idea, particularly as her feathers were of the most delicate shade of pink and green.

How much more elegant she looked than some of the women in their bright colours. She felt the utmost confidence as she reclined in her box which was immediately above that occupied by the King and Queen.

And then … the excitement. The royal family were in the theatre. She could not see the King and Queen but when the house stood to attention she knew they were there. And almost immediately
he
appeared in the box opposite her. The handsome
glittering Prince of Wales, and for companion his brother Frederick.

Perdita’s heart began to beat very fast for no sooner had the Prince of Wales acknowledged the cheers of the people than he sat down and leaning on the edge of the box gazed with passionate adoration at Mrs Robinson.

It was true, she thought. But of course she had never doubted it, She had pretended to give herself time to decide how best she could handle this enthralling but very delicate situation. Now she could no longer plead suspicion that the letters were written by someone other than the Prince. He was giving her no doubt of his feelings.

The music had started but the Prince’s gaze remained fixed on the box opposite and many members of the audience quickly became aware of this. Whispers! Titters! Who is this at whom the Prince of Wales is casting sheep’s eyes? Mrs Robinson, of course, the actress from Drury Lane. The woman who had had such an effect upon him when he went to see
The Winter’s Tale
.

The audience were far more interested in this byplay between the two boxes than they were in the music. They were a very striking pair for the Prince of Wales in his most elegant clothes with the glitter of royalty was the most handsome young man in Covent Garden and Mrs Robinson was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman. And the point which was so amusing was that all this was going on right under the noses – literally speaking, one might say – of the King and Queen, whom everyone knew kept the Prince so guarded that he found the utmost difficulty in following his inclinations.

The King noticed nothing; he was absorbed by the music. Handel’s setting was perfect, he thought. Not a musician in the world to touch him … now or at any time.

The Queen, however, was less interested in the music although she thought it was fine. She had an opportunity of gazing in uninterrupted admiration at her adored first-born. How handsome he looked! How proud she was! Frederick was a good-looking boy too, but he could not really be compared with George. She thought of his odd little sayings when he was very young.
Old-fashioned he had been, never at a loss for a word. And how proud she had been of his ability to master his lessons! He was really brilliant. He had been a little wayward. What child was not? She had been upset when he had been beaten and the King had told her she must not be foolish, for to spare the rod was to spoil the child. The King would now say that even applications of the rod had not achieved that purpose and none was more aware than herself of the growing animosity between father and son.

She tried to catch his eye to send him an affectionate motherly smile but he would not look her way. His eyes were fixed above their box. She wondered why.

He was smiling now; he was making strange gestures. What did it mean? Now he was holding the programme up to his face; he was drawing his hand across his forehead as though in utter despair. Extraordinary! And all this was directed somewhere over their heads.

He had lowered the playbill and cast off his mournful expression; now he was smiling in a manner which might be described as pleading. He was leaning forward and with his right hand was actually pretending to write on the edge of the box in which he sat. What
was
he doing?

The Queen had now lost all interest in the music; like most people all her attention was centred on the Prince of Wales who continued behaving in this odd manner, pretending to write; looking as though he were the most miserable of young men one moment and the most joyous the next.

I believe, thought the Queen, he is making signs to someone.

Every now and then the Prince spoke to his brother and Frederick too was gazing as if spellbound somewhere above the royal box.

Then she understood.

The first part of the Oratorio had come to an end. The King turned to the Queen. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Handel’s setting is perfect. Everything he has written has shown his genius. I find this excellent.’

‘I have been wondering about the Prince …’

‘The Prince, eh, what?’ The King shot a glance across the theatre. ‘He’s there. Glad he likes good music. One point in his favour, eh, what?’

‘Oh, he likes good music,’ said the Queen, ‘but he seems to be very much attracted by something above our box. I have been wondering what it can be.’

The King frowned. Then he summoned one of his equerries who had been at the back of the box.

‘Who is in the box above ours, eh?’ he demanded.

The equerry who had not been unaware of the excitement in the theatre – and its cause – was able to answer immediately: ‘It’s a Mrs Robinson, Your Majesty. An actress from the Drury Lane Theatre.’

The King was silent for a few seconds and the Queen watched him fearfully, heartily wishing that she had not called the King’s attention to what was going on.

The King was thinking: An actress from Drury Lane! It would be one of those young women he had seen perform not very long ago. And here she was at Covent Garden and the young fool was ogling her so that people were noticing.

The King again summoned his equerry. ‘Tell the actress who is occupying the box above this one that her presence is no longer required in this theatre. She is to leave at once.’

The music was resumed and the King’s equerry went to tell Perdita that she must leave at once, for this was the order of the King.

*

Mrs Armistead was surprised to see her mistress’s chair so early. Could she have left before the performance was over? As soon as she opened the door to receive her she had no doubt that something was wrong … very wrong indeed.

Mrs Robinson said nothing but went straight to her bedroom and there tore off the feathers and flung them on to her bed. She stood looking at her angry reflection, her usually pale face under her rouge was scarlet.

Mrs Armistead was at the door.

‘Madam sent for me?’

Mrs Robinson was too angry to deny it. Moreover, it was a relief to talk to someone.

‘Madam is ill. Allow me to help you to bed. The evening was not a success?’

Mrs Robinson looked at her maid in sudden suspicion. Was the woman too forward? Did she feel that because her mistress was a play actress she could treat her differently from the way in which she could a noble lady? She was ready to suspect everyone of insulting her.

Mrs Armistead arranged her features into a look of deep concern, which was not difficult since she believed her mistress’s success at this stage was her own.

Mrs Robinson softened towards her. Armistead was a good servant, good enough to be a confidante too.

‘I have been insulted tonight,’ she said. ‘I have been sent out of Covent Garden. Dismissed. Told to leave. As though … as though …’ Her lips trembled. ‘I wish to God I had never gone.’

‘But, Madam, surely the Prince …’

‘The Prince could do nothing. In fact I doubt he was aware of it until it was over.’

‘Madam!’

‘You may well look startled, Armistead. I have never felt so humiliated.’

‘But who would dare, Madam?’

‘The King’s orders. Very simple. His equerry came to my box. “His Majesty’s command, Madam. But he has no longer need of your presence here. I have orders to take you to your chair.” And he did.’

‘Then …’

Her face softened. ‘The Prince showed too clearly his devotion to me. I admit it was rather obvious. The King must have noticed. Hence my dismissal. I am deeply sorry that I laid myself open to this insult.’

‘Madam, I doubt not that this will but increase the Prince’s affection for you.’

‘I cannot say. But of one thing I am certain. I shall never put myself in such a position again.’

‘Tomorrow it will seem less humiliating. Allow me to help you to bed and bring a dish of warm chocolate. It will soothe you.’