The Regent's Daughter: (Georgian Series) (3 page)

Charlotte came forward and curtsied clumsily. George Keppel moved away from the Prince’s chair; Minney remained clinging to him.

There was a change in Mrs Fitzherbert’s drawing room.

The Prince held out his hand and Charlotte approached him. Minney slid off his knee then and went to stand beside Mrs Fitzherbert.

‘I trust you are well,’ said the Prince. ‘There is no need to ask. Your looks answer for you.’

‘I am well, Y … Your Highness.’

How gauche, he thought. And that stutter!

He could not help the cold note which crept into his voice when he spoke to her. She brought back such unpleasant memories. That woman they had forced him to marry. His first sight of her. Coarse and over-rouged, her eyebrows crudely blackened; her hideous white gown; and the immediate knowledge that she was not personally clean. His nose twitched at the memory. How could they have done that to him! He had known it had to be a German princess but why had Caroline of Brunswick had to fall to his lot? He would never forgive Lord Malmesbury, his father’s ambassador, for not warning him. And the wedding – which he had almost refused to continue with and the wedding night! God preserve me from memory of it! he thought. In fact he could remember little of it for the only way he could face it had been by reducing himself to a state of intoxication.
She
said he had spent the greater part of his wedding night under the grate. She may have been right for he
was certain that he would have preferred the grate to a bed shared with her. But by exerting tremendous will power and subduing his finer feelings he had managed to consummate the marriage and had actually lived with the creature until she became pregnant.

And the result was this gangling girl, this hoyden; who looked so like himself yet reminded him, whenever he was in her company, of that woman.

He could not take to her for that reason. Normally he loved children. He would play with dearest Minney when he came to Tilney Street; and he would look for her, flattening her nose against the glass when she was watching out for
him.
With Maria and Minney and himself it was a family circle – the sort of home, he told himself, he had always longed for, so different from the dreary atmosphere in his father’s royal palaces – or even the ceremonies he could not escape at Carlton House.

And now here was Charlotte spoiling the illusion that he was in the heart of his family – a reminder of her mother, the last person in the world of whom he wished to think.

‘The children have all been playing together,’ said Mrs Fitzherbert, sensing his discomfiture and doing her best to dispel it. She was reminding him that he must not blame Charlotte for her mother’s conduct; and she was right.

They would play a game together – the sort of game he played with Minney. Oh no, he could not play games with Charlotte. She would be whooping round the drawing room irritating him and he might let her know it.

So he could only ask Charlotte how she was proceeding with her studies and her riding. He talked about horses for some time, but Charlotte noticed how he avoided looking at her. Mrs Fitzherbert noticed too.

And after a while the Prince rose and said he would leave.

He kissed Charlotte coldly on the cheek; he tweaked George Keppel’s hair when the boy bowed to him, to show that he need not stand on the ceremony his grandmother had warned him he must show; he picked Minney up and held her over his head while she giggled and screamed: ‘Put me down, Prinney. You’re dropping me.’

And then he went out with Mrs Fitzherbert, slipping his arm through hers and calling her ‘dear love’.

And Charlotte, watching, felt a black anger rise in her that
was half sorrow, because here was a family circle from which she was shut out.

George Keppel was with his grandmother waiting for Charlotte to join them; she had imperiously dismissed them, implying that she had something to say to Mrs Fitzherbert.

Charlotte stood in the drawing room with the blue ruched satin on the walls and the gilded furniture which seemed royal in the most comfortable way, just like Mrs Fitzherbert herself.

Charlotte knew that the Prince had curtailed his visit because she was there and she wondered whether he had implied to Mrs Fitzherbert that he was displeased to find her entertaining his daughter.

Charlotte believed in saying what she meant. The niceties of diplomacy were not for her. It was not honest, she had long ago decided, to say one thing and mean another; and she would not be dishonest if she could help it.

‘He left because I was here,’ she burst out.

‘He had only called in for a short time,’ Mrs Fitzherbert assured her. ‘He did mention that.’

‘Yes, when he knew I was here.’

‘My dear Princess, surely a father would be pleased to see his own daughter.’

‘Not this father; not this daughter.’ She laughed. ‘We don’t want to pretend, do we, Madam.’

Mrs Fitzherbert did not answer, but she looked sad.

‘Because,’ went on Charlotte, ‘if we did, it would be no use, would it? The truth remains however much we try to hide it.’

She lifted her head defiantly. Mrs Fitzherbert had taken a step towards her, her beautiful face softly maternal, her hand a little unsteady as she laid it on Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte’s defiance suddenly deserted her; she flung herself against Mrs Fitzherbert and hid her face. She needed every bit of restraint to prevent herself bursting into tears.

‘I’m his daughter,’ she said in a muffled voice, ‘and he doesn’t
like
me. It’s the truth. No one can deny it.’

Mrs Fitzherbert placed her hand tenderly on Charlotte’s head and held her against her. She did not deny Charlotte’s words; she was mutely telling her that it was so and that she was offering her sympathy.

‘Why,’ cried Charlotte. ‘Why …
why
?’

Mrs Fitzherbert did not answer. What need was there for an answer? Charlotte knew it already and was not so much asking a question as expressing indignation at such injustice.

Charlotte gave herself up to the luxury of this sympathetic embrace.

Then she said: ‘You … you could perhaps speak to him.’

She looked up into Mrs Fitzherbert’s face and saw there were tears in the lady’s eyes; this was too much. Charlotte began to cry in a quiet, sorrowful and resigned way.

Then they were sitting side by side on Mrs Fitzherbert’s blue satin couch, Mrs Fitzherbert’s arm about her while they both wiped their eyes.

‘You … you will speak to him?’

Mrs Fitzherbert nodded.

‘If anyone could make him like me, you could.’

‘I will do my best,’ promised Mrs Fitzherbert.

Charlotte smiled wryly and thought: People should not have to be persuaded to love their children.

After a while she took her leave of Mrs Fitzherbert and went and joined George and Lady de Clifford in the carriage.

She was silent during the journey back to South Audley Street. George noticed the traces of tears on her face and was apprehensive. Charlotte rarely wept except in sudden anger and then the mood was over almost as soon as it had begun. But it was unusual for her to be so quiet. Clearly this mood was due to her encounter with her father.

Lady de Clifford did the talking. Her turban shook with dismay. The Princess had not been a credit to her governess. Upon her word, it would not surprise her to receive a summons from His Highness to be told that she was not considered suitable to have the charge of his daughter. Oh, no, that would certainly not surprise her, for by the manner in which the Princess Charlotte had behaved, he would most certainly be right.

‘Perhaps,’ said Lady de Clifford, ‘I should resign. Perhaps I should admit my unworthiness before it is pointed out to me.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ snapped Charlotte suddenly.

George looked from his grandmother to the Princess. In a moment Charlotte would leap up and fling her arms round Lady de Clifford’s neck, kiss her rouged cheeks and beg forgiveness.
That was Charlotte’s way. Her dear, dear Cliffy must not talk of leaving her. Charlotte would be desolate without her.

Charlotte did no such thing, but she allowed the drive to proceed in silence.

Oh dear, thought George, she
is
put out. And he longed for Minney’s comfortable society.

In his grandmother’s house he was aware of the seriousness of the occasion.

When they were alone together, she said, ‘I’m angry, George Keppel. I’m boiling over with anger.’

‘With whom are you angry?’ George asked fearfully.

‘With fate,’ she said mysteriously.

‘That’s a funny thing to be angry with,’ said George with a giggle.

‘It’s not funny in the least. It’s t … tragic. You have to soothe your feelings; and that is what we are going to do now.’

‘How do you soothe feelings?’

‘I’ll show you.’ She was mysterious. ‘I’m glad,’ she went on, ‘that we haven’t got that silly little Minney Seymour under our feet.’

‘Oh,’ protested George mildly.

‘I know you think she’s pretty and you want to protect her and all that, which is just what you would do.
She
doesn’t need protecting. She has Mrs Fitzherbert to do that, and I can tell you this, George Keppel, she’s the best p … protector anyone could have.’

‘All right,’ said George. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Follow me,’ said Charlotte.

‘Where?’

‘You don’t ask questions. You obey your future Sovereign.’

She laughed suddenly, her resentment momentarily forgotten. She could always make George do what she wished by referring to herself as his future Sovereign.

She herself was not certain where she was going. All she knew was that she wanted to soothe her hurt feelings. She wanted some sort of revenge.

Her steps led her to the kitchen – always an attractive place. The servants at South Audley Street were in awe of her and at the same time they were delighted when she came down and ate fresh cakes as they came from the oven.

She pushed open the door of the kitchen and looked inside.
There was no one there. But on a baking tin lay two juicy looking lamb chops.

‘Those,’ she said, ‘will be for your Grandmamma’s supper, I’ll swear. There’s nothing she likes so well.’

She began to imitate Lady de Clifford which she could do very well. Mimicry was a gift she had inherited from her father and he would have been amused to see how good she was; but she could never bring it off in his company. Now her voice was exactly that of Lady de Clifford as she whined that the Prince of Wales would dismiss her for failing in her duty.

‘And she has, George Keppel, because I am rather w … wicked, you know.’

‘You are not wicked at heart,’ George told her.

‘You will see,’ she said. ‘Go and fetch the pepper pot. It is in the cupboard. I have seen them put it there. And be quick, George Keppel. This is a secret mission.’

He stared at her and he saw that she was growing really angry. Oh dear, why could they not play sensible games? But she liked rough ones with forfeits and she invented the most difficult tasks which had to be performed to her satisfaction.

He came back with the pepper pot.

‘Sprinkle it over the chops,’ she commanded.

He did so lightly. ‘Again,’ she cried. And then: ‘Again.’

‘It will spoil the chops,’ he warned.

‘George Keppel, will you disobey your future Queen?’

‘No,’ said George, ‘but it will spoil the chops.’

‘There are worse things spoilt in this world than chops. Here, give it to me.’ She took it and with an almost demoniacal delight, showered pepper over Lady de Clifford’s supper.

‘Someone is coming,’ said George.

She dashed to the cupboard, put the pot out of sight and made for the door.

Outside they started to laugh.

George sneezed and Charlotte rolled about with delight. She pushed him roughly and he sneezed again.

Someone was coming; they ran up the stairs gasping and laughing.

‘Poor Grandmamma …’ began George.

Charlotte frowned. ‘They will taste horrible. They will be spoilt. But she will order some more to be cooked.’

It was a wicked thing to have done, she reasoned, but in some
way it soothed her. It made her think of something besides the cold look in her father’s eyes when they rested on her and the sound of Lady de Clifford’s voice droning on about her inadequacies.

Charlotte’s household

AT LOWER LODGE,
Windsor there was less freedom than in Carlton House where one could pay visits to South Audley Street, Mrs Fitzherbert’s house in Tilney Street and Montague House at Blackheath. The last, though, had been out of bounds for some time and that was due to the mystery which Charlotte was determined to solve. There was some reason why they would not allow her to visit her mother.

They had never liked her going; she knew that. Grandmamma would have stopped it if she dared but Grandpapa, dear old Grandpapa, who mumbled and sometimes talked so fast that he was impossible to follow, and could behave in such a strange manner, had put his foot down and said she and her mother were not to be separated. And Grandpapa was after all the King. But now even he must be agreeing that she should be kept from her mother.

Why?

Here at Windsor she was in the heart of the family and had to remember constantly that she was the Princess Charlotte, one day destined to be the Queen. She had to learn how to be an example to her subjects.

‘Are kings and queens examples then?’ she asked the Bishop, Dr Fisher, who was in charge of her education. Secretly she called him Bish-Up – with the accent on the last syllable; and she could not enjoy his company for he preached continuously and he was never satisfied with her progress and, as she told Mrs Campbell, her favourite of the ladies who worked under the directorship of Lady de Clifford, one would think he were training her to be the abbess of a convent rather than a queen of England.

‘My dear Princess Charlotte,’ he had intoned in what she called his very reverend voice, ‘it is indeed the duty of all rulers to be a shining example to their subjects.’

‘It is to be hoped that they were not always so, for some were very wicked.’ She laughed mischievously, there was nothing she liked so much as an argument with some of her pompous mentors and if she could prove them wrong – which was often the case – she would chuckle over her triumph for days. ‘There was George I who imprisoned his wife for thirty years for doing once that which was a habit with him …’