The Third George: (Georgian Series) (34 page)

‘Then,’ said the King, ‘you will be a very fat king.’

‘Fatter than you?’ asked George.

‘A great deal fatter … so fat that you won’t be able to move about except in a carriage. You wouldn’t like that would you? Eh? Eh?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said the Prince of Wales.

‘But I tell you you would not.’

‘I would,’ said the Prince of Wales almost sullenly. ‘I hate fish. I want meat.’

The Queen looked at Lady Charlotte Finch who remarked that the Prince of Wales seemed to forget he was in the presence of the King and Queen.

‘I didn’t forget. How could I forget when they are here.’

‘The Prince of Wales forgets his manners, it seems. What?’ said the King, looking so fiercely at Lady Charlotte that she flushed.

‘I don’t forget them,’ the Prince pointed out. ‘I don’t always use them.’

The Queen tried not to smile, but the boy knew by the twitching of her lips that he was being as amusing as ever and he went on imperiously: ‘And if I don’t want to use them, I won’t.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the King, still looking at Lady Charlotte, ‘the Prince of Wales should be requested to leave the room until he can find the manners he has mislaid. Eh? What?’

Little Edward began to look under the table as though he thought manners were something which they should be wearing or carrying in their pockets. Frederick who always followed his eldest brother said: ‘I won’t eat fish either.’

‘Then,’ said the King, ‘you may leave the table and your brother may go with you. You understand me, eh?’

‘Quite,’ said the Prince of Wales haughtily. ‘Come, Fred.’

The two boys went with great dignity to the door and the Prince said as they disappeared: ‘I never could abide fish.’

‘The young puppies,’ said the King when the door shut on them and William told his parents about his new puppy and the Queen answered brightly, trying to pretend that her two eldest sons had not been dismissed in disgrace.

‘I will speak to them later,’ said the Queen comfortably. ‘Young George has such high spirits and Fred will follow him in everything.’

The King grunted; he was already working out in his mind fresh arrangements involving more discipline in the nursery.

They sat with the younger children until they finished their dinner, and when they had been to their nursery they sat on together and the King talked in a rather excited manner about young George.

‘But I have heard that he learns quickly and is very bright indeed at his lessons.’

‘He must learn humility,’ replied the King. ‘That must be taught him. You agree, eh? You’d admit he was showing some arrogance. You wouldn’t approve of that, eh? What?’

‘He has very high spirits and that is no bad thing. I think that on the whole we should be rather proud of him.’

The King nodded, and said he would work out new rules for the children’s household; and he would see that the Prince of Wales was taught a little more humility. He wondered how they were getting on with their music. They must love music. He had found more pleasure in music than any other entertainment. He believed that Handel was one of the best of musicians and he wanted the boys – and the girls in time – to be familiar with his works. Whether they had inherited his love of music or not they were to be made to like it … just as they would be made to like lean meat and fish when it was not their day for meat.

The door of the room was cautiously opened; the Queen turned sharply, but the King had not heard.

Charlotte saw Frederick’s face, rather red, his blue eyes alight with purpose and behind him the taller figure of the Prince of Wales.

Suddenly Frederick shouted: ‘Wilkes and Number Forty Five forever.’

The King leaped to his feet. There was a sound of scampering feet and rushing to the door George saw his elder sons disappear up the staircase.

Charlotte came and stood beside him.

Then George began to smile; Charlotte smiled too. Then they were both laughing.

‘So you see,’ said the Queen demurely. ‘Your Majesty cannot get away from Wilkes even at Kew.’

*

The children should be made aware of their public duty, said the King; and no one could deny that he was a devoted father. To give them an interest and to take their minds from their own petty importance he ordered that a model farm be made at Kew and there they could have their own animals and feel as the King said ‘a responsibility towards them’. The King believed that what was entrancing to him must be to his children; and it was he who took more pleasure in the model farm than his sons did. When he was at Kew he would go to see how the milking was getting on and take a turn with the butter making.

‘Come, George,’ he would say. ‘Come, Fred. You are not princes at this moment. You are farmers. Understand, eh? What’s that? You’d rather be a prince, George. I’ve no doubt.
I’ve no doubt. But you will have to learn to appreciate the joys of working the land, boy.’

For the most part the boys did enjoy playing with their father. They were fond of the animals; but none of them showed the skill the King had in dealing with them.

The King had decided that on every Thursday Kew should be thrown open to the public so that they could wander about the grounds and the farm, and see the children at play. They would watch the games of cricket and rounders at which the elder Princes excelled; and the Prince of Wales always enjoyed an audience.

The act of throwing Kew open to the people proved to be a good one, for the King’s popularity began to rise again and whatever else was said of him all agreed that he was a good father; and when he met any of his subjects wandering over his lawns he always behaved with the utmost courtesy and never expected them to treat him as a King.

He was a bit dull, they said; and there was nothing exciting about his Court; but he was a good husband and father and that was rare in Kings.

But this mingling with the public could be carried too far and when George decided that he wished the children to hold a Court of their own there was some criticism of this. Young Frederick who was at this time seven had when only a few months old been given the title of Bishop of Osnabrück, which amused the lampoonists so much that the child was always represented in Bishop’s regalia when he appeared in cartoons – as he did constantly since he had received this title.

At the reception the five eldest children stood on a dais where they received the company in the utmost solemnity. The Prince of Wales, wearing the Order of the Garter, looked particularly jaunty and young Frederick, the youthful Bishop, wore the Order of the Bath.

The ceremony was subjected to the utmost ridicule which delighted those noblemen who, with their wives, had been obliged to bow before such young children.

The cartoonists were busy; examples of their work were handed round; and the Prince of Wales was drawn flying a kite while a Whig dignitary bowed low before him.

It was a mistake, George realized; and he was very susceptible to the feelings he aroused in his subjects. But even though this ceremony brought the jeers of the writers and artists, everyone went on admitting that the King was a good father and considering the state of the country and that he was therefore overwhelmed by anxieties brought about by the hostilities between his ministers and their ineptitude in solving the nation’s affairs, he still had time to supervise his children’s education.

George was a family man.

Scandal at Home

A FAMILY, THOUGH,
could prove a heavy liability.

George had long known that his brothers were creating scandal by the lives they led. Deploring this, George reminded himself that this fault in them could to some extent be blamed on their upbringing. So eager had their mother been to shield them from contamination by the wicked world that she had kept them shut away until they were too old to go on leading the sheltered lives she had arranged for them. And the result! As soon as they were free they began living like libertines, desperately, feverishly trying to make up for lost time.

There had been Edward, the companion of his childhood, who had been his favourite brother. When they were boys they had shared confidences and it was to Edward that George had told the story of his love for Hannah Lightfoot, and it was Edward who had said that he would always stand beside his brother in everything he did. But when Edward broke free of maternal restraint he had given vent to such lechery that George could no longer feel the same affection for him; and Edward had chided his brother for his prudery. It had broken some of the links which bound them together, but the affection had still been there. George was affectionate by nature and the love for a brother could not be so easily destroyed. Edward Duke of York
had gone to sea and, when ashore at Monaco, he had attended a ball, caught a chill and died.

That had been a shock to George, even though some of his affection had waned. He could not forget the friendship of their boyhood and he had been very sad for a long time over Edward’s death.

Now he was to receive a fresh shock, this time through the younger of the two brothers who remained to him, Henry the Duke of Cumberland.

Young Cumberland came to George one day in an abject mood so unusual with him that George guessed something was very wrong. He soon discovered how wrong.

Cumberland said: ‘I have been a fool, George.’ And the fact that he called him by his Christian name was an indication to the King that he was appealing to him as a brother.

George replied: ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard tales of your doings from time to time. What have you been up to now, eh? What?’

‘It’s Lord Grosvenor, George.’

‘Well, well, well, what of him, eh? what? Get on.’

‘He’s suing me for damages.’

‘Suing a member of the royal family! He can’t do that.’

‘Well, George, he is threatening to do it.’

‘On what grounds, eh?’

Cumberland hesitated and looked sheepish. ‘Well, you see, I was very fond at one time of Lady Grosvenor.’

‘You idiot! You young fool! And now what?’

‘He has brought a case against me for the seduction of Lady Grosvenor.’

‘But this is not true,’ cried the King, knowing full well that it was.

Cumberland nodded miserably.

‘It must be stopped.’

‘It’s too late. The case is about to be heard. I put off telling you because I knew how shocked you’d be. You’re such a prude, George. You never understand these things.’

‘Oh, go away,’ said the King. ‘What is the use of my trying to set an example when my own family undermine everything I do?’

Cumberland wheedled: ‘There’s nothing odd about it,
George. Most people sleep with someone else’s wife at some time.’

The King flushed scarlet.

‘Get out!’ he said.

And Cumberland went, dejected but only a little. The King had to know that this case was pending and he had felt it would be better if he were the one first to break the news.

*

The whole of London was highly amused by the proceedings. The Duke of Cumberland had become very enamoured of Henrietta, Lady Grosvenor, and had sought to seduce her. She had allowed herself to be seduced; and now her husband – in fact one of the biggest rakes in London – had decided to make capital of the affair. After all he should expect big damages from a royal duke.

And so he had brought the case and Lady Grosvenor had kept Cumberland’s letters which was exceedingly practical of her and so helpful to her husband’s case. The letters were read in Court; ill spelt and ungrammatical, they were a boon to the lampoonists. All London knew what happened when a dissolute royal duke, who was clearly no scholar, pursued an equally dissolute noblewoman who was nothing loath.

The Princess Dowager was depressed about the affair; or perhaps it was something else which depressed her. She could no longer deceive herself. There was something very wrong with her throat. She felt listless at times and only wanted to shut herself in her apartments and be alone. Her great desire was that no one should know that there was anything wrong with her.

There were times when she was in great pain; then she would soothe herself with a little opium which would lull her to sleep, and after a rest she would feel better. Her great determination to hide this thing from everyone about her acted as a kind of crutch, and although many people thought she was looking tired at times they put this down to her increasing years. She was just past fifty – not so very old really and yet by no means young. It was understandable, she argued with herself, that occasionally she should have one of her bad days.

Secretly she was aware that this Thing in her throat was a killer; she had known others who had suffered from it. It was she guessed a tumour which would gradually grow more malignant
as it sucked the life from her. But not yet. Not even Lord Bute should know. And when it was over there would be Miss Vansittart to comfort him. She was glad of that woman’s existence. She would not regret leaving him so much if she could leave him in safe hands.

She was more philosophical, more self explorative than she had been before.

She smiled sometimes at her reflection in a mirror and when her face looked back at her no longer forced into vitality, but showing the pain that was gnawing away inside her, she would whisper to herself: ‘I can see that I truly love that man.’

And she wept a little for the past – those glorious days when they had first met in the tent, and how discreet and kind and attentive he had been, keeping his distance until that day when after Fred’s death it seemed right and proper for them to become lovers.

‘No man was ever loved more,’ she murmured; and she thought how strange it was that she who had been able to be such a mild and docile wife to Frederick, who had never greatly cared for her children – George she had watched over with such devotion mainly because he was to be the King – should have had such single-minded passionate devotion to offer to one man. There were some women perhaps who made better wives than mothers. She was one of them.

And now George had moved away from her. He no longer confided. She had always urged him to be a king – in fact that had been the theme she had continually pressed on him – and now, in his way, he had become a king. He devoted himself to state affairs; he made decisions; his ministers knew that they had to keep in his good graces. That was, after all, being a king.