Caroline the Queen

Accouchement at Midnight

‘THE King is dying!’

This was the theme of conversation in the Prince’s apartments. The change in Frederick was being noticed and many people who had followed the King’s habit and ignored him, now found him worthy of their attentions.

It would not be long, it was said, before the Prince of Wales was King.

George had returned from Hanover this time in a very different mood from last. The irritable temper flared up now and then, it was true, but it was mingled with moods of subdued affection towards his wife. Whenever he mentioned her, tears filled his eyes and he said again and again that she was the best wife in the world.

He did not mention Madame de Walmoden and Walpole wondered whether that little affair had come to an end; but according to his brother, Horace, the King’s farewells to his mistress had been as touching as ever and he had sworn to return to her; and when it was considered that he had delayed leaving her so long that he had not had time to see his daughter who was, it had been thought, at the point of death, it was strange that he should have forgotten his mistress.

The fact was that the King was ill. The trying journey had had its effects on him and he suffered as well from all the depressing ailments which attacked him intermittently.

In fact when it was believed he was with the Queen he was actually keeping to his bed. He would get up, dress for a levee, and come back to bed, so anxious was he to keep the state of his health from his subjects.

Walpole asked the Queen to tell him the truth about the King’s condition, and she replied that the journey had been too much even for him and he was merely feeling the consequences of it; but the minister was not entirely convinced; and as he believed the King to be suffering from some malady about which he had forced his doctors to be silent, he was forming all sorts of conjectures.

The King saw that the Queen was anxious and wanted to know why.

She told him that Walpole was suspicious and thought he was suffering from some fatal complaint.

When he heard this George got from his bed and insisted on dressing.

‘You should not do this,’ cried the Queen. ‘You know you need to rest.’

‘You know who is putting these rumours about. It’s that young puppy. He thinks he is King already. I will show him.’

The King appeared that evening and played quadrille. Lady Deloraine sat beside him and the King paid her marked attention.

‘He looks very wan,’ said the Prince’s friends. ‘And what a lot of weight he has lost.’

But George had made up his mind. He was going on with the old routine; and night after night found him at commerce and quadrille, and he was quite clearly showing a very purposeful interest in Lady Deloraine.

He seemed to recover from that night and grow gradually better. He was soon his old self, giving vent to outbursts of temper, flaying everyone within sight with his tongue if they angered him, and visiting Lady Deloraine.

The Prince was disappointed. He had really thought that the King was in decline and that he himself would be crowned within the next year.

He was sulky. It was unfair. First he had been led to believe his father was drowned; then that he was dying; and now here he was as perky as ever—and as maddening.

He deplored the fact that Bolingbroke had deserted him to go and write in France. He had powerful friends in England though. There was Pulteney of course, and Carteret, and men like young Pitt and Lyttleton, and of course Chesterfield.

He summoned them to his apartments to talk seriously of what could be done.

‘I’m Prince of Wales. I am nearly thirty. I am married ... perhaps soon to become father to the heir of the crown ... and I am treated like a child. I tell you, gentlemen, I shall not endure this much longer.’

Pulteney had realized that it was concerning this matter that the Prince had called them together. In fact it was continually on the Prince’s mind. He wanted the £100,000 a year which his father had had when he was Prince of Wales and since that amount had been taken into consideration when compiling the Civil List, this did not seem unreasonable. He wanted a dowry for Augusta—and if the Opposition made sure, through their writers, that the people know how the Prince had been cheated of these things by his father they would all be in favour of the Prince.

The King had been at the height of his unpopularity when he was in Hanover with Madame de Walmoden, and although he had regained a little regard by running the risk of drowning he was still heartily disliked by his people.

Pulteney saw that the Opposition could bring discomfort to Walpole’s ministry by bringing up this matter of the Prince’s allowances and at the same time win the Prince’s approval, and as it was not at all unlikely that the Prince would be King, possibly in the near future, only good could come of it, for once the King died the Queen’s power would die with him. It was quite clear how the Prince regarded his mother.

Pulteney therefore declared that with the support of his friends he would bring up in Parliament the question of the Prince’s allowances.

When Walpole brought the news to the King and Queen they were furious.

‘We could,’ said Walpole, ‘suffer defeat on this.’ ‘The young puppy! ‘ bellowed the King.

‘These disputes will kill me,’ murmured the Queen. Walpole lifted his shoulders. ‘We must face the facts,’ he said. ‘The Prince has a case.’

‘You are the Parliament,’ shouted the King. ‘You have insisted on having your way in some things ... and now on this you say you’ll be defeated.’

‘I have a very small majority now, Your Majesty will remember. Perhaps we could compromise. If Your Majesty would offer the Prince £50,000 a year and give the Princess a dowry ... and offer this before the motion comes on in the House ... he might accept it. It would be better than what he is now demanding and what may well be assigned to him.’

The King swore he wouldn’t and cursed the Prince, Walpole, and the government. They were all a lot of boobies.

But the Queen prevailed upon him to write to the Prince as Walpole had suggested—an effort which misfired, for the Prince was certain of success.

Walpole was his brilliant self in the House. He told of the King’s wish to live on good terms with his son, of his offer which had been rejected; and he stressed that this was more than a dispute between a father and son; this was trouble in the royal house, something which could affect the nation. So did he sway the House that the Prince’s claims were rejected.

Walpole himself went to the Palace to tell the King and Queen of their victory.

George was delighted.

‘You are a man of spirit,’ he told Walpole. ‘What the Queen and I should do without you, I do not know. As for that young puppy, I’m going to tell him to get out of my house. I’ll not have him in St James’s. He can leave with his wife at once.’

‘Your Majesty,’ cautioned Walpole, ‘that would be a most unpopular move. It would be remembered how the King, your father, behaved to you—and you know what unpopularity that brought him.’

‘This is different. I was ready to be a good son, whereas this young puppy ...’

‘I wish he had never been born,’ said the Queen. Walpole sighed. ‘Your Majesty should now make good

your promise and without delay make arrangements for

the Prince to receive the £50,000 you promised him.’ ‘I see no reason why ...’

‘Your Majesty, there is every reason....’

‘I see none. I see none.’

Walpole left the King in disgust and dismay; he knew that he had to be brought round to his point of view.

The Prince was not entirely downcast to have lost the support of the Commons, for his friends, led by Chesterfield, promised to bring up the matter in the House of Lords; this they did and although here they were defeated again it was by a small majority and it became clear that public opinion was on the side of the Prince.

Walpole enlisted the support of his ministers to force the King to keep to his bargain and make the allowance he had promised.

The King was furious. ‘The motion has been defeated by the Parliament,’ he insisted.

‘But only, Your Majesty, because of your promise to meet the Prince half way.’

‘Half way! Half way! ‘ cried the King. ‘That is it, this government is too half-hearted.’

The Queen, who to Walpole’s surprise was not on his side, added her voice to the King’s and murmured that if the Whigs could be so little depended on, it might be time to see what the Tories could do.

This shook Walpole, because his majority in the house was so small and he knew that it would take very little to bring him to defeat, and that would mean the defeat of the Whigs, and a Tory ministry.

Moreover he knew that Lady Sundon’s influence with the Queen was growing stronger, and Lady Sundon had always been his enemy.

Lord Hervey, Heaven knew, was deep in her confidence, but Walpole believed Lady Sundon had some hold over the Queen which even Hervey knew nothing about.

It was an anxious time. And of course soon they would be hearing that the King wanted to go to Hanover, for although he did not mention Madame de Walmoden, he was still writing to her; and Walpole had reason to believe that he was as much enthralled as ever by that woman.

In fact the Queen had no intention of breaking her alliance with Walpole. She respected and admired him too much; but she thought there was no harm done in letting him believe that unless he supported her and the King with all his power she was dissatisfied with him.

‘There is one good thing which has come out of this trouble with the Prince,’ said Walpole to her one day.

‘I can see nothing good in anything the Prince does,’ replied Caroline.

‘He is restive; he is ready to take strong action should the opportunity be offered to him.’

‘What opportunity?’

‘If the King should go to Hanover. I foresee fatal consequences if the King left the country at this time.’

This was a matter in which the Queen and her minister were in complete agreement.

Oddly enough, strong as was the desire to be with his mistress, the King saw the point of this too.

The Queen was in her apartments when a letter was brought to her from the Prince. The sight of his handwriting always displeased her and hastily she read its contents, wondering what fresh trouble this might mean.

As she read she was saying to herself: ‘I don’t believe it. It’s a lie.’

She threw the letter on to the table. The Princess Augusta pregnant. There was no doubt about this, wrote the Prince, and he hastened to tell his mother the joyful news.

Joyful news indeed! He had his income; he had his wife; and now they were going to produce a child.

She went to the King and said she must speak to him alone.

Then she showed him the letter; his eyes blazed with anger.

‘It is a lie. He is incapable of getting children. He is an insolent, lying puppy! ‘

‘Do you think this is a plot to foist a spurious child on us?’

‘It is such a plan,’ declared the King.

‘It could well be. I have thought the Prince to be impotent. FitzFrederick was Hervey’s. “Why,” I said to Hervey, when Molly Lepel’s young William was presented to me ... “that could be FitzFrederick’s twin.”’

‘It’s a plot ... and it shall not succeed. I will command that he and the Princess live under our roof and we will see the progress of this pregnancy.’

‘And I shall be present when the child is born,’ declared the Queen. ‘I shall not allow William to be done out of his rights.’

The Prince knew what was said of him and jeered at his parents. They wanted to pass him over in favour of that insufferable brother of his. Well, thank God the English people were behind him and he was not surprised at that, for he had always loved England. He was not like his father running off to Hanover at every possible moment and declaring his dislike of everything English. The Prince could not understand why the English tolerated such a King.

He disagreed with everything the King said and did. Augusta, the meek little wife, supported her husband. He was the best husband in the world, she declared; and when the time came—and every right-thinking man and woman in England prayed that time would not be long in coming —he would make the best King in the world.

‘My child shall be born in St James’s Palace,’ declared the Prince. The Princess and I have made up our minds about that.’

‘The child shall be born where I am at that time,’ declared the King, ‘and as it will be summer that will be at Hampton Court.’

‘I say St James’s Palace,’ said the Prince.

‘I say Hampton Court,’ retorted the King.

The Queen’s comment was: ‘Wherever it is I shall be there. I am going to see the entry of this child into the world.’

The Court was at Hampton for the summer and the Prince and Princess were obliged to have their apartments there.

On those occasions when the Prince had to be in the company of his father, the King behaved as though he didn’t see his son; and the Prince declared again and again that he resented his parents’ attitude; and as for his mother’s being present at the birth, he was determined she was not going to be and he was as insistent that the child would be born at St James’s as they were it should be born at Hampton.

‘In this,’ he said to Augusta, ‘they see a symbol. Heirs to the throne should be born at St James’s and they want to pretend even at this late date that our child will never ascend the throne and that it will go to that dreadful William—on whom they dote.’

‘You are right, Frederick,’ said Augusta.

‘And I am going to outwit them.’

‘How?’

‘You will see. Leave everything to me.’

‘Oh, yes, Frederick.’

‘All you have to do is as I say. By September I shall have you installed in St James’s, never fear.’

The Prince was with his friends on the last day of July when one of the Princess’s women came hurrying into the room in a state of agitation.

‘Your Highness,’ she said, ‘please come at once to the Princess.’

Frederick hurried to his wife’s apartments to find her sitting on the bed looking frightened.

‘My pains have started,’ she said. ‘What shall I do?’ ‘It can’t be ... it’s two months too early.’

‘But Frederick, I’m sure ...’ She broke off to cry out.

One of the women said: ‘The pains are coming fairly frequently, Your Highness. That means that the baby will soon be born.’

‘Not here,’ cried Frederick. ‘Not here at Hampton.’ ‘There is no help for it, Your Highness.’

‘But there is,’ cried Frederick. ‘Have the coach made ready. We are leaving without delay for St James’s.’

The Princess’s pains were increasing with every minute. Lady Archibald Hamilton said: ‘Your Highness cannot move her now. It is too late.’

Frederick’s jaw set in a sullen manner. ‘The child will be born at St James’s,’ he said.

For the first time the Princess seemed as though she would go against her husband’s wishes. ‘Frederick, please let me stay here. I can’t move....’

But Frederick thrust aside all hindrance, and commanded that the Princess be carried down to the waiting coach as quietly as possible and as quickly.

He was determined that she should give birth to her child in St James’s Palace.

The Princess shrieked as the coach rattled along at great speed.

‘We must reach St James’s,’ cried the Prince.

‘Oh, Frederick, I am dying ...’ moaned the Princess.

‘Have courage! It’ll all be over soon.’

It seemed to Augusta that they would never reach the Palace. She would die before they did. She should be in her bed at Hampton with her ladies about to minister to her. This was wrong ... to be rattling along in this coach over the cobbles and each jolt an agony.

‘We are here ...!’ cried the Prince. ‘Praise God we are here! Now carry the Princess upstairs. Put her to bed at once.’ His voice had a triumphant ring. ‘Her child will be born at St James’s.’

There were no sheets to be had, but Lady Archibald Hamilton found a pair of tablecloths and with this made some sort of bed. There were no towels, no hot water ... nothing that was required for a comfortable accouchement.

But the child was born—a seven months’ baby—a fragile little girl.

It had, so the Queen thought, been an ordinary evening at Hampton. She and Amelia had been playing quadrille and Lord Hervey and the Princess Caroline had been playing cribbage, a habit of theirs now, and one to which the Queen knew Caroline looked forward with more pleasure than Lord Hervey did. The King was paying marked attention to Lady Deloraine and was playing commerce with her and the maids of honour. It was the sort of evening exactly like so many others.

She and the King retired at the usual time and were fast asleep when they were awakened by a knocking at the door.

The King rose up, startled. The Queen left the bed knowing that something startling must have happened for them to be aroused in this way.

‘Is the Palace on fire?’ cried the Queen.

‘No, Your Majesty, but there is a messenger from the Prince.’

It was Lady Sundon, startled out of her sleep, scarcely believing what she heard could be possible.

‘I have just been told that the Prince of Wales has sent to let Your Majesties know that the Princess is in labour.’

‘I will come to her at once,’ said the Queen. ‘Fetch me my robe.’

‘Your Majesty will need your coach,’ said Lady Sundon. ‘The Prince and Princess are at St James’s.’

‘Are you mad? You’re dreaming.’

‘No, Madam. The Princess’s pains started, so I hear, and the Prince insisted that they leave by coach at once for St James’s.’

The King had appeared, the red of his face seeming to be reflected in his eyes.’

‘What’s all this? What’s all this?’

Lady Sundon repeated what she had told the Queen.

‘The puppy!’ cried the King. ‘The insolent puppy!’ Then he turned on the Queen. ‘This is your fault. You’re supposed to be so clever. Now they’ve outwitted you We shall have a false child put on us, depend upon it. Fine care you have shown for your son William, haven’t you? He will be mightily obliged to you. And you deserve anything he can say to you.’

The Queen did not answer him. She turned to Lady Sundon, ‘Help me dress. I must be at St James’s if possible when the child is born.’

The King did not accompany her but stumped angrily back to bed while the Queen made the night journey to St James’s.

There the Prince met her and coldly kissed her hand. ‘The child is born,’ he said. ‘A girl.’

A girl. That made the Queen feel better.

She went to the Princess’s bedroom where Augusta lay exhausted. Caroline kissed her and said she was afraid she had suffered a great deal.

‘It was nothing,’ said Augusta, smiling.

‘Where is the child?’

Lady Archibald Hamilton brought it wrapped up in an old red coat and a few napkins. She apologized to the Queen, explaining this was all she could find.

The Queen took the baby and kissed her.

‘Poor child,’ she said, ‘you have come into a troublesome world. It is a miracle that no harm has come to the Princess. What a pair of fools! And I’m surprised at you, my Lady Archibald. You have had ten children, you should have explained what danger the Princess was in.’

Lady Archibald Hamilton turned to the Prince and said: ‘You see, sir!’ in such a tone that the Queen was satisfied that she at least had attempted to stop the venture.

The Queen went back to Hampton where her daughters Amelia and Caroline were already up waiting to hear the news.

‘I have seen the fools,’ she said. ‘He is a scoundrel and she, poor thing, has no mind. If she were to spit into my face I should just wipe it off and not hold it against her.’

‘And the child, Mamma?’

‘A poor ugly little she-mouse. If instead of her there had been a brave large fat jolly boy, I should have been suspicious. As it is, I must accept the fact that this son of mine is an arrogant fool, but at least he is not an impotent one.’

Shortly after the birth of the Prince’s daughter, Lady Walpole died. She and Sir Robert had meant little to each other for years and Sir Robert’s immediate thought was that now he would be able to marry Maria.

At the same time he was expected to show some sorrow and the Queen summoned him that she might express her sympathy. This he accepted perfunctorily, but the Queen’s desire to know exactly how Lady Walpole had died aroused his interest.

What had been her symptoms? Was she not young to die?

‘Death,’ said Sir Robert, ‘can strike any of us at any time.’

‘That I know well,’ she said, ‘but she was a woman who fancied her comforts.’

‘She lived ... well,’ commented Walpole.

‘She had had her children. I wondered whether her death was due to ...’ The Queen paused and her manner became almost furtive. ‘Some women,’ she went on, ‘often suffer injuries in childbirth from which they never recover. I have heard of internal ruptures which can be dangerous. I wondered whether this had happened to Lady Walpole.’

‘I know of no such thing.’

‘You do not think that perhaps she kept it a secret?’

‘Why should she?’

‘Oh ... it might be something of which a woman did not care to speak.’

Walpole said: ‘It was nothing of that.’

And he knew then that he had discovered the Queen’s secret. This was the knowledge she shared with Lady Sundon; and she would tell no one, receive no treatment, because she thought it was too humiliating. Or was she afraid that through it she would lose the King’s affection?

It was folly. If the Queen did suffer in this way she should consult the physicians; he believed there was an operation that could be performed.

He went home to discuss this depressing matter with Maria and the exhilarating project of their coming marriage which, for the time, because it would follow so quickly on the death of his wife, they must keep their secret.

Two secrets, he thought. One so morbid, one so joyous; and neither need be secret. Nor would they be long? Soon everyone would know that he and Maria were married. And the Queen? If she did not look after her health the news of her disability would soon become common knowledge.