The Regent's Daughter

The hasty betrothal

THE REGENT TEMPORARILY forgot his daughter’s affairs, for glorious news was reaching him every day. Napoleon was being routed everywhere. The battle of Leipzig had taken place and this was to prove decisive. In Napoleon’s disastrous retreat from Moscow he had left behind him over a thousand pieces of cannon and these the Russian Emperor was setting up as a memorial to their great victory. At Dresden the French had surrendered and the entire German Empire was liberated from the conqueror. In Amsterdam the Dutch had turned out the invader and were shouting for the return of the House of Orange.

The Regent who looked upon these victories as his, who had followed in detail the manoeuvring of the British armies, was exultant. He rode to open Parliament with his usual pomp and this time no voice was raised against him, although there was none for him. He could not greatly care. He was seeing himself as the victorious general, for he had always longed to lead an army to victory and if he could not do so in fact had done so a thousand times in his imagination.

His speech was fired with eloquence. He dwelt lovingly on the recent victories, of the hardships that had been endured, of the years of strain and trial which that man Napoleon had imposed on the world. But we had stood firm against him; we had come through magnificently.

He was acting a part as he could do so well. He was the great soldier who had never fought a battle; he was the man who had led his country to victory and brought freedom to the world.

He was magnanimous in victory, declaring: ‘We shall not require sacrifices from the French of any description inconsistent with her honour or just pretensions as a nation.’

His eyes filled with tears as he thought of his dear friend and cousin Louis XVIII of France who had been holding his Court in Aylesbury and would soon now be returning to his country.

Afterwards he went to his mother, for she was willing to share his illusion that he was the main architect of peace.

He walked up and down her apartment, his arm through hers. ‘The Corsican’s star has set,’ he declared. ‘This is new freedom for the world. All our struggles have not been in vain. We have fought and won.’

He took from his pocket a snuffbox on which was a miniature of himself.

‘I hope when you use this you will not feel ashamed of the face that adorns it,’ he said emotionally.

The Queen replied that she would be proud … proud indeed.

‘I believe,’ he replied, ‘that now you may think me worthy of my family and this country.’

‘I am proud of you,’ replied the Queen, ‘proud of you and the country which has stood for so long alone … facing this tyrant. And now I hear his glory is over. Is it true that they are sending him into exile?’

‘Exile in Elba,’ confirmed the Prince. ‘Thus ends all his pride.’

‘The sun is shining,’ replied the Queen with more sentiment than she usually expressed. ‘May God bless you.’

The Regent took her hand and kissed it.

How pleasant, she thought, to be on these terms with him. How in the old days she had longed for his affection. She wished that she was not aware of his superficiality. But no matter – he was her firstborn; he was the same George whose charms as a baby she had had modelled in wax and kept under a glass case on her dressing table. She did not love him the less because she knew him perhaps as well as anyone did.

How delighted she was to see him flushed with victory. His unpopularity hurt him a good deal; and perhaps now he would be less so. If only he could be rid of Caroline, marry again, produce an heir; or even come to some happier relationship with Charlotte.

‘This will mean that many sovereigns will be claiming their own,’ he was saying. ‘They will bless us for ever because we have restored their kingdoms to them. Not only the King of France, but there’s Spain, Sardinia, the elector of Hanover and Orange …’

A cloud touched his brow. This was a reminder. Orange! Something must be done soon about Charlotte’s marriage to Orange.

The Prince of Orange was coming back to England. He was a better match than ever, the Regent declared to his mother. Now that his House was restored to its own, he did not know of a better opportunity for Charlotte.

He was not going to have any more nonsense about her preference for Gloucester – which he knew was a cover to hide her foolish infatuation for Devonshire – he was going to insist on a meeting with Orange, and Charlotte was going to discover that she approved of the match.

He called on his daughter frequently. He put himself out to charm and of course he did. He explained the tactics of victorious battles to her and she listened, not caring for the details but enjoying his endeavours to please. Once at Carlton House he showed her a picture of the Prince of Orange.

‘You have to admit,’ he said with a smile, ‘that he is quite a pleasant-looking young man.’

Charlotte was silent.

‘Come,’ said her father. ‘You must agree with me.’

That was the trouble; he wanted everyone to agree with him, and when they did he was so charming.

‘He is not ugly,’ she admitted; and the Regent was not dissatisfied with that answer.

‘Soon,’ he said, ‘your own eyes will tell you that he is far from ugly.’

She set her lips in a stubborn line, but he was intent on charming her and pretended not to notice.

Mercer who was travelling at the time saw the Prince of Orange when he passed through Plymouth and wrote to Charlotte to tell her so.

She was agreeably surprised. He was a shy young man, but Mercer thought that was not a disadvantage, and he could look very pleasant when he smiled. He was by no means dour and seemed to enjoy a joke. Mercer had had an opportunity of observing him closely and found that he could converse very agreeably. She hoped that Charlotte would think so.

This letter from Mercer had more effect on Charlotte than all the Regent’s attempts to make a fine picture of Orange. She believed Mercer; and if Mercer thought the young man possible, perhaps he was.

The Regent called at Warwick House. He scarcely gave Cornelia a glance; he had not been very friendly since the Devonshire breakfast. He had come, he said, to speak to his daughter.

Charlotte received him with apprehension. She guessed that he had come to talk about the evening’s reception when he had arranged for the Prince of Orange to be presented to her.

When he saw her he embraced her with more affection than usual; she was immediately softened as always, although in her heart she knew that he wanted something from her and experience had taught him that he was more likely to get it by being tender than stern.

‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘how well you are looking, and I am glad. Your health has been giving me much concern. Moreover, you will wish to look your best for tonight.’

‘Shall I?’ she asked fearfully.

‘You know you always like to look your best when many people see you and tonight is rather a special occasion.’

‘All visits to Carlton House are special occasions,’ she reminded him, and the comment pleased him.

‘Tonight you will see William.’ He held up an admonitory finger. ‘Now, don’t be alarmed. There is nothing alarming in this. I merely wish you to give me an opinion of the young man. You understand, my dear Charlotte, that we cannot shilly-shally for ever. We have to make up our minds, don’t we?’

‘I suppose we do.’

‘Certainly we do. And tonight I shall want you to tell me whether or not it will do. Just that. And then if it does you will get to know this young man and decide whether you can marry him.’

‘Papa …’

‘Oh, I know, you are grateful for all I have done. I have been very patient, now haven’t I, Charlotte? What an indulgent parent I am! But then of course you are my dearest daughter and I happen to love you.’

She was pink with pleasure.

‘Now let us try that Highland Fling together, eh? You can hum the music.’

It was hilarious. Large as he was, he was so graceful that he made her, for all her boisterous youth, feel awkward.

‘No, you are wrong,’ he cried. ‘Charlotte, you are out of step.’

‘It is you! It is you!’ she shrieked. And they danced together, hallo-ing at the appropriate moments until he was breathless and sat down.

She sat beside him.

‘There,’ he said, ‘we did that rather well together.’

‘I shall never dance as gracefully as you, Papa,’ she said.

He smiled, acknowledging the truth of this.

He patted her hand. ‘You do very well,’ he said. ‘And tonight you will tell me that … it will do.’

When he had gone her spirits sank.

She went to her dressing room and called to Louisa.

‘What shall I wear, Louisa?’ she asked.

‘Your most becoming gown, I should think.’

‘Leave me and I will look through my gowns and choose myself.’

When she was alone, she thought of him dancing with her. She had been really happy then; it was how she had always wanted him to be in her childhood when she had striven so much to please him. It had seemed while they were dancing like that that they were friends. But of course it was really because he wanted her to say it would do.

Would she have been happier living with her mother? At least there would have been a show of affection.

If she went to Carlton House tonight and said ‘It will do,’ he would be very affectionate. He would always be affectionate if she did what he asked.

She turned over her dresses. This lovely lamé one – how becoming that was! It made her look like a fairy princess. Then there was one sewn with pearls. That and feathers in her hair … she could look quite beautiful.

There was the purple satin with the black lace. It was like a dress one would wear in mourning, but Mercer had said that only a very fair person could wear it.

A mourning dress!

She took it up and held it against her.

‘Not that!’ Louisa had come and was staring at her.

‘Why not?’

‘It is hardly suitable for …’

‘For what, Louisa?’

‘When you are going to meet …’

Charlotte laid the dress on the bed. ‘I have chosen to wear it,’ she said.

The Regent embraced her, but she saw by his eyes that he did not like the dress.

‘It’s a dinner party, though a small one,’ he said. ‘Not a funeral.’

She did not answer as he led her to his guests. There were not more than a dozen or so; it was indeed a small party according to Carlton House standards; and there – a little awkward, perhaps a little overpowered by the splendour of Carlton House, was the Prince of Orange.

‘It is time you two young people met,’ said the Regent jovially.

They faced each other. He was small and pale; he had scarcely any chin and his teeth were uneven and not good; but there was about him a desire to please and his smile, even though it exposed the teeth, illuminated his face and made it quite pleasant. The fact that Mercer had found something to praise influenced Charlotte in his favour.

‘I have heard so much of you … for some time,’ she said; and he smiled, understanding in what manner she must have heard and for what purpose.

They had been placed side by side at the dinner table and the rest of the guests made sure – on the Regent’s instructions – that they had an opportunity to talk together. At the same time the Regent himself engaged the young Prince in conversation about his army experiences and drew him out so that he was able to show himself as a good soldier and a modest man, for the Regent chided him for being too reticent about his successes in the field.

‘I have heard,’ he declared, ‘from Wellington what a brave soldier you were, so do not attempt to tell us the reverse.’

Charlotte liked him better than she had thought possible and was wishing that she had worn a more becoming gown.

The Regent was obviously impatient for the guests to leave the table and this meant that they did so in record time. According to the custom the guests strolled about Carlton House admiring the latest acquisitions, and the Regent took this opportunity to draw Charlotte aside and hustle her into his drawing room.

‘Well,’ he demanded as soon as they were alone, ‘what is the verdict? What do you say?

She stared at the yellow silk walls. ‘Papa, I … I …’

He cried: ‘You are telling me it will not do. You were determined that it would not! It is for this reason that you came dressed in … mourning!’

His face had grown scarlet with anger; she could not bear it. She cried out: ‘No, no. You are mistaken. I like his manner. I like it very well … what I have seen of it.’

His face relaxed. She was seized and held against him. He turned and called: ‘Liverpool!’

Lord and Lady Liverpool who could not have been far off, came into the drawing room immediately.

‘My daughter has just made me the happiest man alive. You may congratulate her.’

Liverpool declared that he did so with all his heart. He was sure that the match would be blessed. He shared His Highness’s emotion, for he believed that the Princess had acted with good sense which would bring joy not only to herself but to the nation.

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but the Regent forestalled her. ‘Liverpool!’ he cried. ‘Bring Orange. I am so overcome by emotion. I declare I have never, never been so happy.’

Liverpool had already disappeared and Lady Liverpool was murmuring her congratulations. It was indeed wonderful she said that the Princess had chosen in such a way which so gratified His Highness her father. She was sure that her father’s pleasure must give her almost as great a happiness as that which would be hers with this most wise and virtuous Prince of Orange.

Orange arrived with Liverpool, bewildered but aware of what had happened. The rather aloof young woman in the purple satin had accepted him – and he was to be the consort of the future Queen of England.

The Regent immediately took the centre of the stage. He seized the hands of Charlotte and Orange.

‘There,’ he said, ‘my two dear children!’ He made Orange clasp Charlotte’s hand; the two young people looked at each other – Orange fearfully, Charlotte sullenly. ‘Happy, happy moment,’ cried the Regent. ‘I declare I feel young again. I am touched by the happiness of you two young people. Ah, Liverpool … and you, Clarence … you cannot guess my emotions at this moment! What a wonderful thing it is to be a parent and to be certain of a child’s future happiness.’

He went on in this strain, walking up and down, pausing every now and then to look at Orange and Charlotte, to smile at them, to weep, which he did all the time, in that expert manner so that the tears never fell from his eyes but were neatly despatched into the most exquisitely worked and delicately scented handkerchief.

It was his scene and he played it as only he could. No one else said very much.

We are like the furniture on the stage, thought Charlotte. We are only there to enhance his performance.

But she admired him. How she would have liked to be as he was. Only one who did not feel deeply could give such a display of deep affection.

Orange looked on with some astonishment. She hoped that he was admiring her father.

With perfect timing the Regent stopped his act and became statesmanlike.

‘The engagement shall not yet be made public,’ he said. ‘Her Majesty would be put out if she heard through any other means than by my special messenger. I think perhaps the Duke of York should take the news to her.’ He smiled charmingly at Clarence. ‘She would expect it from my eldest brother.’

Clarence said he would inform the Duke of York without delay.

‘And now,’ said the Regent expansively, ‘I think our betrothed young people might have an opportunity of sauntering through the rooms … alone.’

So they sauntered, shyly, wondering what to say to each other. The Regent’s display of eloquence had left them tongue tied.

‘I … I had expected you to be a little different,’ said Charlotte awkwardly, implying that he was not so bad as she had expected.

‘And I had thought you would be different from what you are.’

They smiled and suddenly it struck Charlotte that just as she had heard about the lack of charm of Slender Billy he had doubtless heard stories of her.

It struck her as funny and she burst out laughing, rather hysterical laughter, for it was very disconcerting to have made up one’s mind to refuse a suitor and then find oneself affianced to him.

But Orange was laughing.

Yes, thought Charlotte, he is not so bad.

And she began to feel better.

When she returned to Warwick House she would talk to no one. Louisa helped her out of the purple satin; Cornelia wanted to speak to her; but she was silent.

They were disturbed, knowing something had happened, but she refused to allow them to question her.

The next morning the Prince of Orange called at Warwick House.

When he was announced Charlotte said to Cornelia: ‘He is my betrothed.’

‘You cannot mean …’ began Cornelia.

‘I do. It happened last night at Carlton House.’

‘So you agreed.’

‘Well, not exactly. It happened. I did not quite know how but one moment my father asked me how I felt and the next I was engaged.’

Cornelia stared in horror at Charlotte, who swept past her, and Cornelia following went down to greet the Prince.

Oh dear, thought Cornelia, hardly prepossessing. Really plain … and he does not look healthy. She cannot really be in love with him. In love with him! But of course she is not.

But perhaps she is, for she loves strange people. Gloucester for instance. But that was not serious. Devonshire, Hesse, Fitzclarence. They all except Gloucester, who did not count, had a romantic air about them which this young boy from Holland lacked.

She could hear the betrothed pair talking together. They sounded like two ordinary young people getting to know each other. Charlotte did not seem desperately unhappy so perhaps she was reconciled to her father’s wishes.

When he had left the Princess was uncommunicative – but quiet and serious. Cornelia wished that Mercer were here so that they could discuss the matter together.

The next day the Prince of Orange came again and with him was the Prince Regent.

The latter was more cordial to Cornelia than he had been for some time; he was clearly good-humoured and delighted with himself and the young people.

‘The Prince of Orange was so eager to call on the Princess,’ he told Cornelia, ‘that I thought I would accompany him here. Charlotte, you and the Prince will have a great deal to say to each other and I will sit awhile and talk to the Chevalier. I have something to say to her.’

Cornelia felt a twinge of apprehension, wondering what the Regent had to say to her.

She soon discovered. He had not forgotten her rather careless conduct in riding out to Chiswick with the Princess. He wanted her to be especially careful, particularly now that Charlotte was affianced. He had noticed that his daughter’s behaviour was sometimes what he would call ‘light’. He did not think those who had been put in charge of her should allow her to behave in this way. She was an innocent young girl, he was fully aware of that. But he did not want people to suppose for one moment that it could be otherwise. And people were inclined to put unfortunate constructions on the most innocent actions. He did not want to have to lay the blame at any door, there were so many who would say that there was some fault in her household.

Cornelia thought of the Hesse letters and shivered.

This rather disturbing conversation was brought to an end by the sound of violent sobbing in the next room. The Regent sprang to his feet and hurried in the direction of the sobs. Charlotte had thrown herself on to a sofa and was crying bitterly while the Prince of Orange was standing helplessly by.

‘Is he taking his leave of you?’ asked the Regent. ‘Well, well, you must not be distressed. You will have plenty of chances to be alone with him.’ He turned to Orange. ‘In spite of her protests I fear we must depart now. Don’t forget you have an important engagement.’

How like him! He did not want to know the cause of her tears and had implied it was because Orange was saying goodbye to her. He decided how people should act to give him most comfort, and that was the way he pretended they did.

When they had gone Charlotte said: ‘I don’t want to be engaged to him, Cornelia. I never wanted it. And he told me that I shall have to live part of the year in Holland. I won’t. I swear I won’t.’

Cornelia did her best to comfort her, but they were both conscious of how implacable could be the will of the plump and benign-looking Regent.

Charlotte lay listlessly in her bed. For some days she had felt very unwell. The pain in her knee had intensified; she had no desire to go out. Louisa tried to mother her, but she did not respond. Cornelia, who knew the cause of her apprehension, wrote to Mercer and told her how uneasy she was.

When Mercer arrived Charlotte brightened considerably and the two of them discussed her affairs with Cornelia. Charlotte admitted that she did not want to marry Orange although she did not dislike him as much as she had thought she would, and she knew she had to marry someone; but the thought of having to leave England horrified her.

‘Imagine,’ she cried, ‘to be in a strange land, parted from all one’s friends. Besides, my place is here. One day I shall be the Queen. Should the Queen of England live abroad?’

Mercer was thoughtful. ‘You could not, as Queen of England, live abroad.’

‘And could he, as ruler of Holland which he will one day be, live in England?’

There was silence and then Mercer said: ‘Don’t worry, let things go for the moment and do not let the Regent know that you are determined on this point. You could not possibly go abroad for a long time. The state of Europe would not permit it. And your betrothal has not yet been publicly announced. I would say wait and see what happens.’

Cornelia was nodding her approval of this idea; and Charlotte felt relieved. Her two friends had comforted her as they always did.