Sweet lass of Richmond Hill

The Prince in Despair

The King was pacing up and down the Queen's drawing room. How I wish he would stay still! thought the Queen. This excitement is bad for him.

"Although I am receiving him," the King was saying, "I shall expect deference from him. He'll have to drop that arrogance, eh? He may be a little king in Carlton House but I'm the King here at Windsor."

"He'll remember that," said the Queen. "I'm sure he has learned his lesson."

"What's that, eh, what? His lesson? Do you think he'll ever learn? But we'll show him that if he's going to be received back into the family he has to deserve it, eh, what?"

It was not the right attitude perhaps, thought the Queen. Oh dear, she did hope this was going to be an end to these family quarrels.

"Mr. Pitt seems to think that it is a bad thing that there should be enmity in the family."

The King frowned at her. Charlotte should know by now that he never talked State matters with her. She was not supposed to mention the name of Mr. Pitt. But there was gossip, of course. There was chatter. He was talking to her about the return of the Prince of Wales to the heart of the family simply because it was a domestic matter and these were the only matters he discussed with her.

"I think it's a good thing that there should be no enmity in the family. Anyone would agree to that, eh, what?"

"But certainly. Oh, how pleased I am that he did not marry that woman. I am surprised in a way because I have heard that she is a very pleasant creature."

A very pleasant creature, thought the King; and a very beautiful one by all accounts. They had all found beautiful women for themselves, except the King. He had Charlotte. How old she looked! Poor plain little Charlotte. Yet he had been faithful to her, in deed if not in thought, since their marriage.

Well, he was getting old now and he was glad he had been a good husband.

"Have you warned the Princesses?" he asked.

What a way to talk of the return of a brother! thought the Queen. Warned!

"Yes, I have told them that they may expect a visit from their brother."

"Hm, and what did they say to that?"

"They are delighted. Amelia was so excited that she bounced up and down in her chair and shot her milk all over the table."

The King's face creased into a smile. "Oh, she did then, eh, what? I must go and ask her if she is equally excited by a visit from her Papa."

The very mention of Amelia's name soothed the King. He doted on the child; in fact the stern rules which the others had to obey were not in force for Amelia. She could imperiously climb on to her father's knee and ask him ridiculous questions and make him sing songs to her—and he merely obeyed her, the love shining from his eyes. She was doubly precious because they had lost Octavius and Alfred—and Sophia the next youngest was six years her senior. It was small wonder that Amelia was his pet.

He rose, the prospect of seeing his youngest daughter temporarily wiping away the anxieties he felt by the impending reunion with his eldest son.

"She will be in the nursery now," said the Queen.

"Then I will call on Her Royal Highness."

His good humour was completely restored and when he arrived at the nursery he found his youngest daughter sitting on the floor playing with her toys and kneeling there with her was Miss Burney to whom he had heard Amelia had taken a great fancy.

"Hello, Papa," said the Princess, scarcely turning her head, while Miss Burney stood up and curtsied.

"Come, Miss Burney," said Amelia. "It is my turn. Watch. Watch."

"His Majesty is here. Ma'am," whispered Fanny to the little girl.

"I know, but it is my turn."

"You cannot play while His Majesty is waiting to speak to you, Ma'am," said the agitated Fanny who was never quite sure how to behave in a situation which she had not visualized happening, and about which she had not been able to consult that doyen of court behaviour, Mrs. Delaney.

The little girl looked surprised. "Can I not?" she asked. Then: "Go away, Papa. Go away."

"What?" cried the King. "Eh, what?"

And Fanny stood by, blushing and mortified.

"Papa, I said: Go away. We want to play. So Papa ... go. Go."

The King looked at Fanny and smiled and then picked up the child in his arms.

"Why not a welcome for your old papa?" he asked.

"But it is my turn," she explained.

How beautiful, he thought. Youth! The little nose, the soft skin with just a freckle or two, the fair hair, the blue eyes of her race. This child makes everything worth while for me. Charlotte produced her ... not Sarah Lennox. Sarah could not have given him a lovelier child than this one.

"Papa," said Amelia sternly. "It is my turn."

"It is my turn to kiss my little Amelia."

"Then do so and be quick," she cried imperiously. "Now, Miss Burney. Take me. Come here, Miss Burney. Take me, I say. Oh, Miss Burnev, come here."

She was kicking and struggling while Fanny stood there uncertain how to act when the King put his daughter down.

He smiled at Fanny. He liked her. He was amused by her. She had had her book printed because she had thought it would look well in print, she had told him. He had always remembered that. Very fair indeed, he had said at the time. That's being very fair and honest.

"Well, Miss Burney," he said, "the Princess Amelia seems to approve of you, eh, what?"

I ... yes, Your Majesty."

"And that," he said, "is very fair and honest, eh?"

There was great excitement in the Princesses' apartments.

"Just fancy," said the Princess Royal, "he is our brother and yet it's as though we are to receive a call from visiting royalty"

"I wonder how he and Papa will get on," added Augusta. "I wonder if they will start quarrelling immediately or wait a while."

"They will have to be very polite just at first," said Elizabeth. "Mr. Pitt's orders."

"Is Mr. Pitt so very important?" asked Sophia.

"Very! The most important man in the country. He's not married, you know." That was the Princess Royal, who thought a great deal about marriage. She was twenty-one and most Princesses had been found a husband at that age.

"Well" laughed Augusta, "you don't think they'll let you marry him even if he's not, do you?"

"I often think it would be helpful if we were allowed to marry commoners—our own countrymen. Then there wouldn't be all this difficulty in finding husbands for us. It's well-nigh impossible when they must be foreign royalty and Protestant. And there are so many of us, some of us are sure to be left out."

"Sometimes" said Elizabeth, "I think that Papa won't let any of us marry"

"What do you mean?" cried Charlotte.

"Well, he is strange, is he not? He talks so quickly and goes on and on repeating himself. Don't say you haven't noticed that he seems to get worse instead of better. I think he feels strangely about us. He wants us to be virgins all our lives."

"Oh, no," wailed Charlotte.

"We shall have to have secret lovers," said Augusta, her eyes sparkling.

"Or be like George and marry in secret," said Elizabeth.

"But George didn't marry. That's what all the fuss has been about. Mr. Fox denied it in Parliament. They thought he had but he hadn't all the time."

"It will be wonderful to see George. Such exciting things always happen to him. Do you remember when he was always in our apartments and sending those long letters to Mary Hamilton?"

"At first I thought he'd come to see us."

"I think," said the Princess Charlotte enviously, "that it must be the most exciting thing in the world to be George."

"All you need to have done," said Augusta, "was to have been born four years earlier and a boy. Then you would have been the Prince of Wales. That would have suited you, Charlotte."

Charlotte admitted that it would have suited her very well indeed.

Then they began to talk of the stories they had heard of the Prince of Wales until Charlotte, remembering the presence of Mary and Sophia, signed to them to change the subject—which would of course be taken up again with relish as soon as the younger girls were no longer with them.

There was an air of excitement at tea-time with the equerries. Everyone was aware of it—the charming Colonel Digby of whom Fanny was growing more than a little fond; pleasant and careless Colonel Manners who never paused to think what he might be saying; and Colonel Goldsworthy who was constantly gossiping. This was one of the most enjoyable hours of Fanny's day, but only on those occasions when Madam von Schwellenburg was too tired or indisposed to take charge. At such times as this the Colonels would vie with each other to poke fun at the disagreeable old woman which, decided Fanny, she fully deserved, and as she was quite unaware of their suppressed amusement—there was no harm done.

But this was a happy evening, with the gentlemen all paying attention to Fanny—and in particular Colonel Digby—and the conversation running on the Prince's imminent visit.

Colonel Goldsworthy of course knew all the gossip, and Colonel Manners told some amusing stories about the Prince's exploits and Colonel Digby was flirting to such an extent with Fanny that she really thought that he might be considering making a proposal of marriage.

It was all most diverting.

Colonel Goldsworthy was warning Fanny what she must expect when winter came to Windsor.

"Ah, you are well enough now, Miss Burney, in your lilac tabby and your little jacket, but wait until the autumn. There is enough wind in these passages to carry a man o' war. So on no account attend early prayers after October. You'll see Her Majesty and the Princesses and all their attendants soon start to cough and sniffle and then ... one by one they disappear. You'll find that after November not a soul goes to the chapel but the King and the parson and myself. And I only go because I have to. I'll swear it's the same with the parson."

"So His Majesty is the-stoic, Miss Burney," Colonel Manners added.

"I am sure His Majesty would always do his duty."

"Even to letting the whole family perish with the cold."

"They seem to have survived a great many winters, Colonel Manners. But I do declare it must be most trying if one wished to sneeze in the royal presence."

"That one must never do, Miss Burney. It is forbidden."

"What happens if one does sneeze? A sneeze will on occasions creep on one unawares."

"Is that so, Miss Burney? Is there not a slight tickle in the nose ... a few warnings? They do say that if the forefinger is placed under the nose, so, and the breath held, the sneeze can be suppressed."

"Oh dear, I do hope that if I ever feel a need to sneeze I shall remember that."

Colonel Digby said that if he were at hand she need only ask him. His finger was always available to be applied beneath Miss Burney's charming nose.

Fanny giggled. "But Colonel Digby, how could I warn you in time?"

"Never mind. Should you commit this most serious offence I should take the blame."

"Colonel Digby, you are too good."

His eyes were fervent. Oh dear, thought Fanny, what a good thing we are not alone ... or is it?

Then Colonel Digby asked Fanny what she was reading and the conversation turned to literary matters which did not please the others; so Colonel Manners talked of the King and the coming visit of the Prince in order to lure Miss Burney and Colonel Digby from the subject which interested them both so much. If he did not, he knew that in a short time they would be talking about Dr. Johnson and James Boswell and the literary set of which Fanny had been a member until she came to Court.

"They'll never understand each other," Colonel Manners was saying. "You wait. H.R.H. won't be in the Lodge more than an hour or so before the fur starts to fly. Like to take a bet on it, Digby? What about you, Manners?"

"Make your bets," said Digby. "I'll give them a few weeks. But both of them will be on their best behaviour for a while, at any rate."

"Is it possible?" asked Manners.

"Mr. Pitt's orders," added Goldsworthy. "His Highness has to be grateful for his windfall; somewhere in the region of £200,000, I've heard. Wouldn't you expect affability for that? As for His Majesty, well as I said, he has had his instructions. Family devotions is the order of the day."

"Can they keep it up?" asked Manners.

"They'll manage ... for a while. The King is a stoic"

Goldsworthy cut in: "You've no idea. Why, yesterday I was hunting with His Majesty. He doesn't spare himself ... nor his attendants. There we were trotting ... riding ... galloping. The er ... I beg your pardon, I fear, Miss Burney, but I was going to say a strange word. The er ... perspiration ... was pouring from us so that we were wet through, popping over ditches and jerking over gates from eight in the morning till five or six in the afternoon. Then back to the Lodge, looking like so many drowned rats with not a dry thread among us, nor a morsel within us, sore to the bone and ... forced to smile all the time. And then His Majesty offered me refreshment. "Here, Goldsworthy," he said, "have a little barley water, eh, what?" And there was His Majesty taking his barley water from a jug fit for a sick room ... the sort of thing, Miss Burney, you would find on a hob in a chimney for some poor miserable soul who keeps his bed."

They were all laughing, visualizing Goldsworthy's discomfiture.

"And what do you think," went on the garrulous Colonel, "the Prince of Wales will say if he is offered barley water}"

They were all laughing. And that was how it was on those evenings when Fanny was mistress of the tea table and Schwellenburg delighted them all by her absence.

And soon they, like everyone else at Windsor, were back to the subject of the Prince of Wales.

All the way to Windsor the Prince was thinking of Maria as he drove his phaeton at frantic speed to relieve his feelings. With any other woman he would not have worried. Well, with any other woman it would not have been of vital importance. But he had not seen Maria since she had closed her doors on him and he was getting desperate.

Now he had to go through this silly farce of reunion. As if there ever could be a true reunion? As if he and his father could ever agree, or see anything from the same point of view. The King was an old bigot, a silly old despot without even the strength and the power to be one. He had no taste for art; and the only culture he possessed was for music; and even that was mainly confined to Handel.

God help me! thought the Prince. What will it be? Evenings of Handel; lectures on the duty of princes; a game or two of backgammon; the dullest conversation in the world; services in that freezing chapel; more lectures on princes who must not act so as to be talked about; diatribes about Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan and the Whigs; more on the virtues of Mr. Pitt and the Tories.

And Maria? Where was Maria? What if she attempted to leave the country? He had given orders that he was to be told at once if she proposed any moves like that. He had given instructions that close watch was to be kept on her.

How happy he would be if he were driving out to Richmond instead of Windsor ... if only Maria, beautiful, desirable Maria were waiting for him instead of his doddering old father, his stupid mother and his simpering sisters. Well, perhaps he was wrong to condemn the Princesses. He had nothing against them. They, poor creatures, were what they were because they were forced to live like nuns in a convent. Poor Charlotte—twenty-one, she must be. His Maria had had two husbands before she was that age. Not that he cared to think about Maria's previous husbands, except of course that it was her experiences which had made her the mature and fascinating creature she was—and of course they had both been older than she was and must have been dull creatures compared with her third—the Prince of Wales.

Her third husband ... that was the point!

Would she ever forgive him? What could he do? Sherry must help him. It was no use calling on Fox. She hated Fox more than ever and who could wonder at it? Really Charles had gone too far!

And here was Windsor and why was it not Marble Hill and how could he live without Maria? She must come back to him. Something must be done ... or he would have no wish to live.

The King received him formally, the Queen beside him. The Princesses were lined up and presented to him as though he had never met them before.

The girls clearly adored him; it was obvious in their faces. Not so the King and Queen.

He could see the irritation he always provoked; it was apparent in the King's bulging eyes and the twitching of his brows; and the Queen's resentment was there too. She wanted to be part of his rich and exciting life. As if that were possible!

But there was a pretence of affability; and later he attended a drawing room which was very public; many of his own attendants were present and the King chatted to him most of the time to show the company that all was well between them.

But all was not well, thought the Prince. It was some months since he had seen the King and it might have been that he was therefore more aware of the change than those who saw him every day.

By God, he thought, the old man's changed. He talks too much and the repetition is greater than it used to be. He seems to lose the thread of what he's saying. What does it mean?

He wished that Fox were available so that he could report to him. If the King were going to be ... ill, that could present a new and dazzling prospect. He wondered whether Pitt had noticed the alarming changes in his father.

Yet even with such a prospect before him he could think of little but Maria. He would know no peace until he had explained to her that the fault was not his. Charles James Fox had gone too far. That must be his theme.

Maria must come back to him. Whatever the world thought, to him she would always be his wife.

So he went through the farce of friendship with the King; he was affable to the Queen; he talked to the Princesses, noticed that Charlotte was inclined to be bandy, thought what dull creatures they were—but then all women were dull when compared with Maria—and then was sorry for them because they would be prisoners for longer than he had been. He at least had made a part escape at the age of eighteen when he had set up Perdita Robinson in Cork Street.

He thought of those days with pity. Had he really believed himself in love with Perdita? How could any emotion lie would ever feel compare with his love for Maria? And Maria had left him ... sworn she would never see him again.

So there he was back at Maria.

As soon as he could conveniently leave Windsor he was on his way back to London, to write to Maria, to appeal to Maria, to beg her, implore her to come back to him.

Maria would not see him. She was staying in the house of a friend who was also a distant connection of her family, the Honourable Mrs. Butler, and with her was Miss Pigot—and both these ladies acted as her guardians.

The Prince called; alas, she would not see him. It was unprecedented. Who else but Maria would not be at home to the Prince of Wales? He stormed and raged; then he pleaded; but it was no use. Maria was not to be seen. What could he do?

He demanded to see Miss Pigot. She was an old friend of his as well as Maria's and she told him at once that Maria had repeatedly said that she would not see him and there was nothing Miss Pigot could do to persuade her.

"But she can't mean it, dear Pig."

Dear Pig assured him that she did.

"I have never seen her so distressed, Your Highness, as she was when she heard what Mr. Fox had said."

"But she knows Fox."

"Yes, but he spoke on Your Highness's direct authority. That's what broke her heart."

"Her heart broken. What about mine. Sheridan spoke well of her. Did she hear that."

"Oh yes, sir, she heard of it; and she was mollified to some extent, but it didn't alter what Mr. Fox had said."

"Dearest Pig, tell me what I can do to convince her that I adore her."

"Well, there's only one thing, and it seems it's the only thing you can't do. Admit to the King and the Parliament and the world that she's your wife."

"There'd be trouble ... great trouble ... if I did." He thought of the King as he had last seen him. That peculiar look which was sometimes in his eves. What could it mean? Glittering possibilities! And what disasters could follow if he admitted to marriage?

"She's a Catholic, that's the trouble."

"It's a sad state of affairs, Your Highness. And it seems there's no way out."

"Pig, you'll do what you can for me?"

"You can be sure I will."

"Remind her of what a good husband I've been to her, will you?"

"She doesn't need to be reminded, sir. She remembers ... She says so."

"She says I've been a good husband?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, right up to the time you denied you were."

I did not. It was Fox. Oh, he went too far. There was no need to go as far as that."

Miss Pigot shook her head at him sadly. "I'll do my best. I talk to her, but at the moment it's no use. If I saw that it was, you can trust me to let you know at once."

"Bless you, dearest Pig."

"I'll tell her how downcast you are."

"Downcast! I'm broken-hearted. Honestly, Piggy, I shall do something desperate if she doesn't come back to me."

"I'll tell her. She's still fond of you, of course."

But although she told Maria, it was no use. Maria was adamant.

He had denied he was married to her; and if that ceremony had not been a solemn one to him, then her conscience would not allow her to live with him as his wife.

The Prince was very ill. He suffered a violent paroxysm and had to be bled almost to the point of danger. Rumours spread through the Court that he was seriously ill.

Miss Pigot brought them to Maria. She looked at her friend and mistress sadly.

"He has brought this on himself because you won't see him," she said.

"He is too violent," said Maria. "He should learn to control his feelings."

"Perhaps they are too strong to be controlled."

"They weren't strong enough for him to claim me as his wife."

"Oh, Maria, are you not a little hard on him? Consider his position. He could lose the throne."

"I told him that many times. I told him to consider carefully. You know I went abroad to escape him but he would not have that."

"He loves you, Maria. You forget that."

"I do not forget that he loves me in his way ..."

"In such a way that he is brought near to death because of you."

"You are a good advocate, Piggy. Has lie asked you to plead his cause?"

"I speak as I sec," said the blunt Miss Pigot. "And I see this, Maria: If he admitted he was married to a Catholic he would have put the succession in danger. There might even be a war. Have you ever thought of that? You say you love him; he says he loves you. He cannot give up his crown. There is too much involved. It is like asking you to give up your religion. Why should all the sacrifice be on one side?"

"Piggy, what arc you saying?"

I'm telling you the facts as I see them. You want him to tell the world that he has married you—that's just for your satisfaction, to make things right for your religion, you say. All well and good. Well he is asking you to give up your pride, your religious convictions ... not all of them, only those that concern the open acknowledgement of the marriage. He can't and you won't ... or perhaps you can't cither. But I don't see how one is being more self-willed than the other. For obvious reasons he can't proclaim you his wife."

"He made his vows to me."

"And you to him."

Maria was silent.

"And now," said Miss Pigot, "he's ill because of you ... fretting for you."

"If it's one of his paroxysms," said Maria, "it's a fit of rage and anger because everything he wants doesn't fall into his lap."

"I've had it on very good authority ... from his doctors no less ... that his condition is very dangerous."

Maria turned away and went out of the room.

Miss Pigot, watching her, thought: Perhaps this is the time. A message to His Highness? Perhaps she could explain to him that if he were very careful ... there might be a chance.

The Prince of Wales called at the House of the Honourable Mr. Butler.

He was very pale and looked a little thinner. His doctors had advised him that he should not go out but he had insisted.

Mrs. Butler received him with great respect and he was delighted to see that she was shocked by his appearance.

"Your Highness is well enough to be out?"

"I have managed to get here," he said feebly.

" I beg of Your Highness to be seated."

He sank gratefully into the chair.

"And I beg of you, my dear friend, to tell Mrs. Fitzherbert that I am here and to say that I wish to see her. It may be for the last time."

"Your Highness ..."

He waved a delicate white hand. "That is what I wish you to tell her."

Mrs. Butler said she herself would go to Maria, which she did, and shortly afterwards conducted the Prince to Maria's sitting room where she gently shut the door on them.

When he saw Maria he was so overcome by his emotion that lie felt dizzy and as though he would faint. Maria ran to him and caught his arm. Oh, to be touched by Maria again! He leaned against the chair, prolonging the moment.

"I ... I have been very ill," he said. "I am still weak."

"Pray sit down," said Maria.

He allowed her to put him into the chair and sat there, his eyes closed.

"You should not have come out," she said.

"I wanted to see you. I felt ... it might be my last chance."

"What do you mean?" she demanded almost angrily.

"You may not have heard, Maria. But I have been very ill. I have been profusely bled and it has weakened me. My doctors despaired of my life."

He was delighted to sec the concern in her eyes.

"You will be distressed when I am gone, Maria."

"This is nonsense," said Maria, "to talk of dying. Why should you?"

"Because I have lost all that is worth living for."

"But you have not lost your hope of the Crown," she told him with some cynicism.

"Oh, Maria, Maria ... what is that to me if you no longer love me."

"It seems a good deal ... since you betrayed me for the sake of it."

Still angry, still hurt, still unforgiving!

He sighed. Then he covered his face with his hands and sobs shook his body.

"What can I say to you, Maria? If you wish it to be goodbye then I shall go back to my bed and ... die. For there is nothing to live for."

"I have already reminded you once that there is a crown."

"A crown! It is others who care for that, Maria. You must listen to me. Yes, yes, I insist. Fox ... you know what Fox is. Haven't you always known? I have been deceived by the fellow. He's clever. I don't deny it. But he it was who made the announcement ... without telling me, Maria. What could I do?"

"Denied it."

"And started a possible conflict? Think of that, Maria. Don't think I haven't implored them to put this right. Sherry will tell you. I spoke to Sherry. I begged him to do something and, God bless him, he did his best. But Fox had already done the mischief. What could we do? Maria, my beloved, don't blame me for the sins of others. You know Fox. My God, didn't you show me that you had no liking for him?"

"I heard he had a letter from you ... written just before the ceremony ... saying that there would not be one."

"Fox would say anything. I may have written a letter. I have been forced to do so many things. They were on me like a pack of wolves. Oh, Maria, let's forget them all. If you would love me again I should be completely happy. We will go to Brighton together; everything you want will be yours."

"All I wanted was to live in peace and happiness with the man I thought was my husband."

"You shall, Maria. You shall."

"No," she cried. "You should go. It is over. I understand everything. You should have listened to me in the first place.

Perhaps it is my fault. I wanted us to be together so I pretended all would be well."

"Oh, Maria." He had flung himself at her feet. "Love me, Maria. It's all I shall ever ask again."

Tray get up," she said. "You will do yourself an injury."

"So much the better. I have been the victim of wily politicians and I am now the victim of love."

She sat down on a sofa and he was immediately beside her.

"It was wrong of you to come out," she said. "You look so pale."

He closed his eyes; his heart pounding with hope.

She touched his brow. "You should rest awhile before you go. You should never have come."

She was concerned, alarmed for his health.

"Maria," he said, "if you would love me I would get well again ... quickly."

"You are going to get well," she said briskly.

"I am beginning to feel alive again."

He clasped her in his arms. He wanted, he said, to lay his head on that magnificent bosom which had so long been denied him.

She was weeping. Maria was not one to weep easily so it showed how deeply moved she was. He had been right to come. This was going to be the reconciliation. He would not go out of this room until he had Maria's promise that all was well between them.

He wanted, he said, to stay close to his Maria for ever. He wanted her to know that he would die if she would not return to him.

He embraced her; she returned his embrace. He was forgiven.