The Third George: (Georgian Series) (43 page)

They called him Alfred. Alas, he was delicate like Octavius.

‘We shall have to take great care of this little one, eh?’ said the King.

‘Perhaps we have had too many,’ replied the Queen with unusual spirit; and the King regarded her oddly.

Dear Mrs Delany

CHARLOTTE SAT AT
her table while her women curled and craped her hair. Nothing they do will make me beautiful, she thought. Schwellenburg stood superintending; Miss Pascal – who had become Mrs Thielke – was the one who really did the work.

They had brought the newspapers to her, for she liked to read them while her hair was done, but she could not concentrate on them this morning. She was thinking of Alfred.

He had looked very wan last night and she was very anxious about him, but trying hard not to show her anxiety. She did not want the children to know.

‘We now ready for de podwering,’ said Schwellenburg in her atrocious English which Charlotte was sure she could have improved had she tried.

‘Yes, yes.’ She put down the paper and went into her closet.

While she was there the King came in. He looked distraught and she knew that he had had some news of their child. His hands were trembling with emotion.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘our poor darling child.’

And she dismissed the women that they might be alone together.

‘You have news?’ she asked.

‘The doctors say that he cannot live through this day.’

She was biting her lips, trying to hold back the tears.

‘My dearest Charlotte,’ said the King, ‘he is our baby and we love him dearly, eh? But … we have the others …’

She nodded and the King took her hand and kept it in his.

And after a while they rose and went to the room in which their child lay dying.

*

George shut himself in his study. There was nothing he could do but wait. He thought of little Alfred, so trusting, such a good baby. He had the innocence of a child who relies on his parents and has not yet learned how to plague them.

The Prince of Wales was growing tired of Mrs Robinson and she was giving him trouble. Threatening this and that. She would have to be paid off heavily.

A lesson to him, eh? Serve him right. Teach him what such women are. It was never like that with Hannah. She had made no demands. Thank God he had not got himself into the sort of trouble which surrounded the Prince of Wales.

But his thoughts now were with little Alfred who had lived long enough to make them love him, so that his passing would be a bitter grief.

He sat down and wrote to his chaplain, the Bishop of Worcester, because he found some relief in writing: ‘There is no probability and indeed, scarce a possibility, that my youngest child can survive the day. Knowing you are acquainted with the tender feelings of the Queen’s heart, convinces me that you will be uneasy till apprised that she is calling the only solid assistant under affliction, religion, to her assistance.’

It was true. Charlotte was a religious woman and faith would carry her through this trial and all others.

And he too must rely on religion. He needed help. Affairs of state were heavy on him. He would never forget those fearful days of the Gordon Riots. Gordon had been tried for treason last year and because of his very good advocate, had been acquitted. Thank God he had acted with promptitude over that affair, although he had been torn with doubts as to the advisability about calling out the soldiery to fire on the people. It was an example of how one must always do one’s duty, however unpleasant.

The cares of his family weighed heavily upon him; he was never sure when he was going to hear of some fresh escapade of
the Prince of Wales or his brothers. And now there was this illness of the youngest child which the doctors had told him would be fatal.

The doctors were right. Shortly after the King had written that letter to the Bishop of Worcester, little Alfred was dead.

The King paced up and down his apartments. His head was aching, his thoughts were whirling.

‘God will never fill my cup of sorrow so full that I cannot bear it, he whispered. ‘That’s true. It must be true.’

But his mind was filled with doubts.

*

George’s great happiness was with the younger members of his family. He preferred, he said, to hear nothing of the Prince of Wales, for he was very disappointed in that young man who seemed to be of the opinion that the manner in which the heir to the throne should spend his time was at boxing booths, race tracks and gaming houses – and, in the company of the most immoral people. A new Court was being raised about the Prince. It was a Court which, it was universally said, was what a Court should be. Who wanted a staid family establishment consisting of babies and dull domesticity? Who wanted a plain little queen who was rarely seen and didn’t behave like a queen, although those who served her had little to say against her except that she was parsimonious within her household and behaved like some impoverished lady of the manor rather than the Queen of England. Who wanted a king who never gave balls and banquets; never rode among his people sparkling with gems; who never provided them with a scandal; and the only excitement he had given them was when he was ill some years ago and rumour had it that he had been mentally deranged?

No, the Prince of Wales had the look of royalty, the manner of royalty. Florid, handsome, already beginning to show signs of corpulence – not unpleasant in the young – splendid, with the most perfect manners, with wit and a spirit of adventure! Already he had scandalized the Court over his
affaire
with Mrs Robinson; and he could be seen driving a carriage with the pair of the finest horses up Richmond Hill on a sparkling morning to call on another lady love.

It will be different when the Prince of Wales is king, it was said.

There would be extravagances; there were already debts, it was whispered, massive debts. But the Prince was worth it. There was nothing dull about the Prince of Wales.

But the King was perpetually anxious and that made his thoughts whirl and his head ache. When anyone came to him on a matter of importance his first thought was: does it concern the Prince of Wales?

No, the King’s happiness was with the little ones and he could scarcely bear to tear himself away from the heart of his family. What joy to see them in their little drawing room, curtseying, playing their music or listening to it. George had insisted that they all be taught to love music.

His favourite was the little Prince Octavius, perhaps because he was not so strong as the others; and now that little Alfred was dead he was the baby.

The family was at Windsor, which was even farther from St James’s than Kew and George was glad to be there in the Queen’s Lodge where there was such a happy family atmosphere.

Waiting on the Queen was Elizabeth Pembroke, whom he had known since she was seventeen. He too had been seventeen at that time and had greatly admired her. He had been very sorry when her husband had run away with Kitty Hunter; he had wanted to comfort dear Elizabeth. Pembroke had returned to her and Kitty Hunter had married and faded out of the picture. Poor Elizabeth! Not a very happy life, George used to think. But one of the most beautiful and charming women he had ever known. He liked her to be there, part of the domestic background. She was still lovely and he always thought Charlotte looked particularly plain beside Elizabeth.

In the Queen’s drawing room the children were gathered and there was Elizabeth waiting on Charlotte and that woman Schwellenburg ‘with whom I could well do without’, thought the King. But poor Charlotte, he supposed, must have some say in the management of her own household. So she kept her.

The Queen was saying: ‘I want Your Majesty to meet Mrs Delany.’

An old lady was making her curtsey; she had bright intelligent eyes and was clearly very aware of the honour done to her, first to be received in the Queen’s drawing room and then to be presented to the King.

The King sat down and did Mrs Delany the further honour of requesting her to sit with him. There was an air of goodness about the old lady which appealed to him.

She had been brought to the Queen’s notice by the Duchess of Portland who was very fond of her, and the Queen had received her on more than one occasion. She had on this day asked the Queen to accept one of her flower pieces which she believed were quite original, and the Queen had graciously accepted it.

‘Perhaps,’ said the Queen to one of her ladies, ‘His Majesty would like to see the specimen of Mrs Delany’s work which she has presented to me.’

‘Your Majesty is most gracious,’ said the old lady. ‘I fear I was over presumptuous in offering this lowly tribute of my humble duty and earnest gratitude.’

Charlotte who had taken to the old lady said that she found the work delightful.

Here it was. Would the King give his opinion?

The King examined the specimen which consisted of pieces of coloured paper of all shapes stuck on to a plain piece of paper making a mosaic of delightful shapes and colours.

George was always interested in other people’s work and the simpler it was the more it delighted him. He wanted to know how the work was done and insisted that Mrs Delany explain to him in detail.

There was nothing Mrs Delany enjoyed more than talking of her work and Charlotte watched them benignly, listening to George’s continual questions (Eh? What? What?) It was all soothing and natural, although she was always watching that he did not start to speak too rapidly. Always her mind went back to that other and most fearful occasion. But he had been well for so long now, so perhaps she need not worry any more.

If George were ill … there was the Prince. She thought of him longingly. Why did he not come to see her now? He would always be her favourite; she remembered every detail of his childhood and now … well perhaps it was fortunate that he did not come and see her, for the King might be there and the Prince did upset him so.

‘These flower pieces are delightful,’ said the King. ‘I think they are very clever, what? Little bits of paper, eh?’ He turned to Charlotte and explained in detail the process of the paper
mosaic he had just learned from Mrs Delany.

The old lady was flushed with pleasure. She clearly adored the King and he had taken her to his heart immediately. He was calling her already ‘my dear Mrs Delany.’

The children came in to pay their respects to their parents and Mrs Delany was invited to stay.

George swooped on Octavius.

‘And how is my son, eh? Glad to see his papa, eh? What? What?’

‘Very glad, Papa,’ said the child.

‘And now I must present you to Mrs Delany who makes clever paper mosaics. Perhaps you might ask her to show you the one she has presented to the Queen, eh? And tell you how it is done, eh, what?’

Octavius was brought to Mrs Delany and being delighted by the necklace she was wearing stretched out to touch it.

Mrs Delany overcome with emotion, kissed the child’s hand; and George to show what a fancy he had taken to this woman said: ‘Kiss his cheek, Mrs Delany. Kiss his cheek.’

And this she did with tears in her eyes.

‘Now, Mrs Delany, the children will perform for you. For this is the concert hour. Now are we ready, eh? I hope you have included some Handel in the programme. There is no composer to my mind to compare with him, Mrs Delany. I trust he is a favourite of yours, eh? what?’

Mrs Delany was ready to make any favourites of the King and Queen hers.

And in the second drawing room the concert was held – a family affair. Little Prince Ernest, nine years old, carrying a chair almost as big as he was for Mrs Delany to sit on.

The King sat back listening to his little daughters singing together. What a charming scene! There was dear Elizabeth Pembroke, pensive and beautiful, beside the Queen and dear Mrs Delany so happy to be honoured, such a good and loyal subject.

What a pity, mused the King fleetingly wondering what the Prince of Wales was doing at this moment, that one’s children cannot always remain young.

*

But even the young can cause distress. Nine months after the
death of Prince Alfred, little Octavius was taken seriously ill.

This was an even greater tragedy than the loss of Alfred, for Octavius was four years old and the most lovely and charming of the children. The King had adored him and had spent hours playing games with him in the nurseries.

‘This is more than I can bear,’ he said to the Queen.

Poor Charlotte! She shared those sentiments.

She was pregnant again and was not feeling as well as she usually did; and the anxiety concerning Octavius was terrible.

When the little boy died the King could scarcely contain his grief; he shut himself into his room and would see no one. But when he emerged he was obviously resigned.

‘Many would regret that they had ever had so sweet a child since they were forced to part with him. I do not feel that. I am thankful to God for having graciously allowed me to enjoy such a creature for four years.’

He went to Charlotte and repeated these sentiments to her.

‘You must agree with me, my dear.’

And Charlotte did her best.

A few months later she gave birth to a daughter. They called her Amelia; she was a little frail but lovely, and she did much to make the King forget his grief for Alfred and Octavius.

*

More and more did the King seek the refuge of his family. Only in the heart of it with his young children around him could he be happy. North had resigned – a fact which had greatly upset the King; Charles James Fox was making a nuisance of himself and was allying himself more and more closely with the Prince of Wales; young William Pitt, Chatham’s second son, was making himself heard in Parliament; and the King was favouring young Pitt because he was the enemy of Fox. When Pitt was appointed First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer there was derisive laughter through the Commons, for Pitt was not then twenty-five years old. Pitt was on his mettle. He was going to show these old fools what a young man could do. He had his father’s tradition behind him and he carried with it all the confidence and courage of youth. George believed in this young man. He knew there would be no lip service to royalty, but George did not seek that. He wanted a man of principles at the head of affairs who would bring back honesty into
government. George wanted a peaceful existence. He knew that he needed this. He had been aware of certain failings in his health – both physical and mental – and he was often worried. Let the lampoon writers say that the country was in a schoolboy’s care, he trusted that schoolboy and because of this felt he could escape more and more often to the pleasant domesticity of his private life which was what he needed and indeed what he must have.