Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series) (22 page)

‘I rejoice for you, Madam.’

‘Yes, Armistead, what have I done to deserve such devotion?’

Act on a stage, thought Armistead. Possess undoubted beauty. Hold him off for six months talking of virtue while all the time hinting at surrender. Well played, Madam. Yes, you do deserve a small success with His Highness.

‘Madam is so beautiful – and I never saw you more so than tonight.’

‘Do you think he was satisfied with me, Armistead?’

‘There could have been no doubt of it.’

‘Ah … Armistead. The grace of his person, the irresistible sweetness of his smile, the tenderness of his melodious yet manly voice will remain with me till every vision of this changing scene shall be forgotten.’

‘I am sure he would be delighted to hear you say that, Madam.’

‘Perhaps he will. I shall write it down so that I don’t forget it. But I mean it, Armistead. I mean it from the bottom of my heart.’

‘Madame is a poet as well as an actress and great beauty.’

Perdita smiled in a congratulatory manner at her reflection.

And so, said Mrs Armistead, reporting to Mr Fox, did she continue to applaud the good looks and accomplishment of her Prince on that night. It was indeed a step forward. Even Perdita knew now that there could be no holding back and she was prepared to become the mistress of the Prince of Wales.

Mr Fox calls on Mr Sheridan

THAT WAS THE
first of many meetings. The Prince declared that never had he been so happy in his life. He lived for the excitement of these encounters; and the knowledge that at any moment during them he could run into disaster only made them the more exciting.

Kew Gardens. Eel Pie Island. Forever more, he declared, these will be paradise to me.

Each encounter was an adventure in itself. Donning a dark coat he would slip out of the Dower Lodge and make his way to the appointed spot; there had been one occasion when it had been necessary to disguise himself – and Frederick – as watchmen. How they had laughed as they had planned climbing the walls and slipping away.

While this provided the romantic adventure it stirred up all the resentment in the Prince’s mind. Why should it be necessary? he constantly demanded of Frederick. That they enjoyed it was beside the point. He was the Prince of Wales and he had to leave the Palace like a thief. And why – because of their father – that spoilsport of a king who thought the height of happiness was to go farming and make buttons and plans for the nursery, drink
lemonade and play backgammon and who had never been unfaithful to his wife. Not that the Prince believed in infidelity. He would be faithful to Perdita until death, but at the same time Fred had to agree that their father was a dull dog and it would have been more natural – their mother being as she was – if he had a mistress or two.

Frederick agreed as he always did with his brother; and threw himself into the nocturnal adventures as though they were his own.

And then the meetings with Perdita – herself wrapped in a dark cloak – to walk under the trees, arms entwined, talking of the future, stopping every now and then to embrace while Frederick kept watch on one side and Maiden and the lady’s maid on the other.

This was wonderful at first but it could not satisfy an ardent lover to wander about the leafy glades of Kew, more often than not having to take a hasty farewell because of intruders.

There must be a better arrangement, and between them George, Frederick and Maiden decided that they should make use of Eel Pie Island.

‘It would be so much easier if Your Highness rowed over to the Island and Mrs Robinson was there to meet you.’

Frederick said: ‘The inn people wouldn’t dare. What if it reached my father’s ears?’

There were ways and means, Maiden pointed out. For instance, need the innkeeper and his servants know. They could be told it was a gentleman of high rank who visited them and if the Prince was sombrely clad and kept his face in shadow as much as possible, need they guess? He, Maiden, would make all the arrangements; and it was surprising what a little persuasion could do if it was backed up by the right sort of ‘appreciation’.

The Prince said it was an excellent idea. Maiden must arrange it right away.

So Malden dropped a few bribes here and there and a new trysting place was found for the lovers.

In the finest room the inn could provide they met while Prince Frederick sat outside the inn keeping a lookout and Malden, with him, thought enviously of the Prince’s pleasure; and Mrs
Armistead took careful note of every little incident so that she might not fail in her report to Mr Fox.

While the Prince was sporting with his mistress an alarming situation had sprung up. Lord George Gordon who had become President of the Protestant Association of England was stirring the capital to riot. Lord George – brother of Sarah Lennox’s lover, the man by whom she had had an illegitimate child – was an insignificant fellow who determined to draw attention to himself by some means, and as he could not do so by his brilliance chose this way. He led his followers with shouts of ‘No Popery’ and the King was horrified to discover how quickly a crowd of ordinary people defending what they believe to be right can be turned into a mob bent on destruction.

During the hot days of June the trouble increased. The homes of Catholics were burned to the ground; so were their places of worship; those members of Parliament who had supported the Catholic Relief Bill were similarly treated and many of them lost their homes; then the mob began attacking prisons. It was shocking to discover how quickly a great city could be in the grip of terror. The Palace of St James’s itself and Buckingham House were in danger, and the guard had to be doubled.

The King remained in London; he was not going to leave the soldiers to protect his palaces while he remained at Kew. North suggested that the Prince should be in London. He was popular and his presence might have some effect on the people. The implication being, thought the King sadly, that he himself was not popular. What a sad state of affairs when a man who tried to live honourably and virtuously earned the dislike of his subjects while a young rip who thought of nothing but his own pleasure should have their regard!

But he would not have the Prince in London.

‘What, heir to the throne placed in danger? You’d have that, eh, what?’

‘What of Your Majesty?’

‘My responsibility! Let the Prince stay with his tutor at Kew. Only a boy yet.’

Little did he guess that the boy was at that moment stealing out
of the Dower Lodge to row over to Eel Pie Island and his mistress.

The King felt ill. A crisis always set his head zooming with hundreds of thoughts and ideas which he could not always comprehend. And such a crisis! Bloodshed. The stupid destruction that a mob of blood-crazy illiterate men and women could bring about, people who scarcely knew what they were fighting against – for it was not the members of the Protestant Association who were causing this trouble; it was the mob that rag-taggle in any big city – beggars, thieves, prostitutes whose mean and sordid lives were brightened by a disaster such as this. He knew this and he had to stop it. But he would not allow the Prince of Wales to risk his life in London.

The King knew too when he went among the soldiers who were guarding the Palace that at any moment someone might kill him. It was by no means a wild impossibility. He thought of an occasion little over a year ago when, on alighting from his chair at the back stairs of St James’s a woman had run up to him and seized him. He had not been afraid. He was never alarmed at such times. He felt no fear when he showed himself among the soldiers. It was not physical courage he lacked; there
were
things of which he was afraid – the loss of the Colonies, financial difficulties, government dissensions, the vices of his brothers and his sons, the voices in his head – but never of sudden death which could come perhaps to a king more likely than to one of his subjects. And this woman? He had spoken to her gently. He was always gentle with his poorer subjects, looking upon them as children to be cared for. ‘What do you want, my good woman?’ he had asked her. He would never forget the wildness of her eyes, the blankness in them. ‘I am Queen Beck,’ she told him. ‘Get off the throne. It’s mine.’ Poor, poor creature! ‘Do not harm her,’ he had ordered. ‘She is mad, poor soul.’ He had a passionate desire to protect the mad from those who might be harsh with them. It was like his desire to protect the Quakers. Perhaps that was why he had been so ready to give his consent to the Catholic Reform Bill. Religious tolerance! Hannah had always wanted it for her own Society of Friends.

But this was not the time for brooding on the past. Action was needed. The riots must be stopped. If they were not, this could be
the prelude to civil war. A war between Catholics and Protestants. It must never be. He wanted his country to be known as one where religious tolerance prevailed.

He sent for North and told him that the disturbances must be stopped without delay.

‘We must get the better of these rebels before further damage is done,’ he declared.

Lord North agreed on this, but was nervous.

George himself was undecided because he knew that only by calling out the military and proclaiming martial law could the rioting be stopped. It was a great decision to make and he was the only one who could make it. He alone could order his army to fire on his own subjects.

A sleepless night. Pacing up and down. The voices in his head were silent. There was only one problem with which to grapple. He forgot his anxiety about the Prince of Wales. He forgot everything but the need to stop the Gordon Riots.

The rioters were marching on the Bank of England. They must not be allowed to destroy this as they had Newgate Jail.

The King gave the order. The troops went into action. Several hundred people were killed but the Gordon Riots had been brought to an end.

*

The riots over, the King was surprised to find that his subjects were ready to give him back a little of that affection which over the years he had somehow lost. His action in giving the order to fire on the mob was approved of because it had been successful in dispersing the mob and ending the riots.

George felt strong. He was indeed that King which his mother had constantly urged him to be. There was no strong man to guide him. William Pitt was dead; he had a son who had yet to prove himself. Grenville was no longer in power, nor was Grafton. Lord Bute had, when he first came to the throne, stood beside him and he had never felt safe without him; his mother had advised him on every action he took. Now there was only Lord North and, firm friends that they were, the King did not expect great brilliance from North – only loyal friendship.

So he would govern alone, make his own decisions as he had over the Gordon Riots so satisfactorily. He was glad. He would work better on his own.

‘Could never abide a lot of magpies chattering round me,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ll stand alone. I’ll show them I am their King, eh.’

In such a mood he went down to Kew for a breath of country air and a little peace and quiet.

Charlotte was glad to see him – very obviously pregnant now. He told her about the riots, for now that they were over she could offer no interference.

He sat with the children and told them what had happened. He had played such a decisive part and it was good for them to learn how affairs were conducted.

He took young Mary on his knee and looking round at the pink faces, the big eyes, the heavy chins – they all looked so much alike and so like himself – he explained how he came to his decision, through prayer and meditation, which was how they should all solve their problems.

The Queen said that Lord George Gordon was clearly mad and in her opinion mad people could not be blamed for their actions.

‘Your Majesty will remember when we were driving through Richmond in an open chaise … now it would be just after the birth of William …’ Fifteen-year-old William looked very pleased with himself. ‘And Charlotte …’ The Queen smiled at her fourteen-year-old daughter … ‘was on the way and had not yet put in her appearance.’ She remembered all her dates through the births of her children. ‘Yes, we were riding through Richmond, your Papa and myself, when a man and woman began to shout at us. And then … the woman threw something at me. It landed right in my lap. What do you think it was?’

‘A knife!’ shouted William.

‘Flowers,’ cried ten-year-old Elizabeth.

Augustus, the seven-year-old, began to gasp and tried to hide the fact. He did not want to get a beating for not being able to breathe because the King believed the cane was a cure for asthma.

‘Both wrong,’ cried the Queen. ‘It was her shoe. She had taken it off to throw it at me.’

‘Wasn’t that wicked?’ asked William.

‘It was wrong, but your Papa was kind and said there was to be
no punishment. She could in fact have been put to death.’

William whistled.

‘Pray do not do that,’ said the Queen. ‘It sounds like a stable boy.’

The King frowned and William immediately tried to efface himself. He did not want to be sentenced to a caning. Nor did the Queen wish him to be, so she immediately began telling another story which she knew would please the King.

‘I remember once when a basket was left at one of the gates. I wonder whether His Majesty remembers …’ Queen Charlotte looked at her husband and went on quickly: ‘But of course your Papa has so much to remember … affairs of state … he cannot be expected to remember these little things.’

‘What was in the basket, Mamma?’ asked William.

‘Can you guess?’

The children all had a guess each but none of them was right.

‘A little baby,’ cried the Queen triumphantly. ‘It was about two months old.’

‘Was it a present for Papa?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘Oh … no … not for Papa specially. But your Papa found a home for it.’

‘And did it live happily ever after?’

‘If it was good,’ said the Queen piously. ‘And what do you think it was called?’

The children guessed again, several of them suggesting their own names.