Victoria in the Wings: (Georgian Series) (26 page)

The King was in despair; but Caroline was determined to accept the result as triumph for herself. What did she care if the
world thought her guilty; her behaviour on the Continent pointed to the almost certainty of that; all she cared about was that she had humiliated the King and she enjoyed every moment of that. As for him, he had suffered unnecessarily; he had been the centre of a gigantic scandal and had gained nothing from it.

He was still married to Caroline.

The Duke of York had come down to Oatlands in answer to an urgent message. The Duchess was in bed, her animals slinking about the room as though they knew that they were about to lose their friend and benefactress. In the garden the howl of a dog would now and then break the silence.

The Duke sat by her bed. She looked shrunken in spite of the dropsy which was killing her; she had always been a little woman. Never a beauty, he thought, and now, poor soul, she resembled one of her own monkeys. Tenderness overwhelmed him. He had been fond of her – once he had recovered from the disappointments of early marriage; and he had not been so unfortunate as poor George. He had succeeded in making a friend of Frederica.

‘Frederick,’ she said feebly, and held out a hand.

He took it. Like a claw of one of her creatures, he thought. What a menagerie she had made of Oatlands!

‘My dear.’

‘The animals …’

‘They shall be cared for.’

She was contented. They were her first thought – those bright-eyed monkeys, those mournful-eyed dogs, those cats whose indifference on this occasion seemed assumed.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. ‘Frederick.’

‘My dear?’

‘It was not so bad … our life?’

‘We made something good of it,’ he said.

She nodded and he gave her a spoonful of honey because her lips were so parched.

As a marriage it was a failure. They had parted. She could not bear a child – the sole reason for a marriage such as theirs. Yet he would never forget how she had stood by him during the Mary
Anne Clarke scandal, and he would always cherish their friendship.

He would miss coming to Oatlands which had been a kind of haven – though a malodorous one. She did not notice the smell of animals. They were her darlings and she preferred them to humans. Poor Frederica, who had failed in her human relationships and had sought the company of her cats, dogs and monkeys. But had she failed? Young Charlotte had loved her; he, her husband, was mourning her now; she had her friends; she had made a life for herself here at Oatlands, an eccentric life perhaps but still one which was pleasing to her.

And now it was coming to a close.

‘Frederica,’ he said, ‘I want to tell you. I grew to love you, you know.’

But it was too late to tell her now.

He sat by her coffin and wept. Now that she was dead he could have explained his feelings towards her as he would never have been able to do in life.

She was buried in Weymouth parish church – a quiet funeral, not in the least royal; and yet those who mourned did so sincerely. The poor of Weymouth would never forget her; she had done so much for them – no one who was poor or old had asked her help in vain. Her servants wept. No longer would she sit on the lawns during summer, her animals around her, while she sewed for the poor; never would she be seen tramping through the grounds by moonlight, her only companions her faithful hounds. Frederica, Duchess of York, was dead, and for those who had served her and depended on her, it was the end of an epoch.

The Duke was unusually thoughtful as he stood by her grave.

So many deaths in the family, he thought. Charlotte – young and vital – had been the first. Then Kent and the King and now Frederica – all in such a short space of time. Who next? he wondered, and shivered. He was feeling his age. George had been so ill at the time of his accession that many had feared he would never live to wear the crown. And if he dies my head will be the one to carry it, thought the Duke.

God forbid! May George live for years yet … until such a
time as I shall not be the one to follow. He could not think of a world which did not contain his brilliant brother, friend and companion of a lifetime.

But this fearful scandal with Caroline was ageing George. And when one considered the deaths in the family what could one ask oneself but ‘Who next?’

The King could find solace from his troubles only with Lady Conyngham; and the reason was that she never talked of them. She was the most comforting of companions because she could make him feel that there was no such person in the world as Queen Caroline.

He never saw Lady Hertford privately now; and if they met in company he was courteous – as he was to all women – but he made it quite clear that there was no special relationship between them.

Lady Hertford pretended not to notice the change. She was not like Lady Jersey, who since she had been discarded by the King – Prince of Wales as he had been then – could never forgive him for leaving her and sought every opportunity of intriguing against him.

Lady Hertford had her dignity; she was an extremely unpopular woman; one of the reasons for the King’s disfavour with his subjects was due to her. His carriage had been more frequently pelted with rotting fruit and vegetables when it was outside her house than anywhere else.

Lady Conyngham was not exactly popular but far less disliked than her predecessor. Lady Conyngham was so notoriously stupid that no one could be envious of her.

‘The King is growing old,’ it was said. ‘He needs a brainless creature to look after his comforts. Fat Conyngham fills the bill very well.’

People were amused too to see the haughty Lady Hertford discomfited. Not that she showed it. She pretended to be quite unaware of the fact that there was any change in her relationship with the King.

Her acquaintances could not resist the attempt to plague her.

‘What a foolish and vulgar creature Lady Conyngham is!’ said
one. ‘I am surprised that the King seems so interested in her. I saw her in her carriage coming from Ascot. He was quite devoted. I wonder why. Has His Majesty ever discussed the creature with you?’

Lady Hertford opened cold blue eyes very wide and the delicate colour in her cheeks did not change one bit.

‘Why should he?’ she asked lightly. ‘Intimately as I have known him and frankly as we have discussed every subject, he has never discussed his
mistresses
with me.’

This was considered the most intriguing remark of the day. It was discussed and joked over, for everyone knew that Lady Hertford had since the beginning of the Regency been the King’s mistress.

But it was characteristic of the woman; and much as she was disliked for her cold, hard nature, no one could but admire the adroit manner in which she refused to admit the relationship between herself and the King.

But it was now clear that the King’s devotion to Lady Hertford was at an end and the reigning mistress was Lady Conyngham.

She suited him perfectly in his ageing state.

He could not show his gratitude sufficiently. She might bring all her family to Carlton House or the Pavilion and he would be delighted to see them. Just as previously he had made the Hertfords his great friends, now it was the Conynghams.

Within the peace of Carlton House she sat beside him, plump, handsome and placid.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I think the moment now has come to plan the coronation.’

‘That will be delightful.’

He did not find her inane. She was perfect. She soothed him and he thought: By God, what I need more than anything on earth is to be soothed.

Dear Elizabeth Conyngham! No one had the power to soothe and comfort him that she had – not even Maria. And when he could say those words ‘not even Maria’ he knew that he had indeed cause to be grateful.

All through that summer and autumn, while little was discussed
but the trial of Queen Caroline, Adelaide lived quietly at Bushy. All was going well. This was very different from the other pregnancies. She sat for hours in the gardens with one or other of the FitzClarence children talking of her life in Saxe-Meiningen and Ida’s marriage and the two children she had – William her son and little Louise who as she had begun to grow had shown herself to be a cripple and over whom Ida had suffered much anguish.

‘How I long to see them,’ she said.

‘You should invite them to Bushy,’ said Mary.

‘Why not?’ added Elizabeth. ‘You’ll be able to talk babies endlessly together.’

Adelaide smiled at her stepdaughter and wondered whether Elizabeth herself would soon be anxious to talk of babies. She was shortly to marry the Earl of Errol and William was delighted with the match. So was Elizabeth herself.

‘Perhaps when my child is born, I will invite her,’ mused Adelaide.

‘It will be pleasant to have guests,’ said Augusta. ‘We never did when Mamma was here. People didn’t come much, did they Mary?’

Mary agreed that they did not. ‘It was because Mamma was an actress and her friends could not mix with royalty – which Papa is of course; and Papa’s friends did not want to mix with stage folk. Not all of them, of course, but some. Uncle George was always kind to Mamma. He was fond of her because she was so gay and attractive. He liked actresses.’

‘His Majesty would be kind to all women.’

‘They say he’s not very kind to Lady Hertford at the moment,’ said Mary with a giggle. ‘Nor was he to Maria Fitzherbert, nor to Perdita Robinson and a whole crowd of them.’

There was no reticence in the FitzClarence family. William had never stood on ceremony and it was unlikely that their mother would.

Adelaide did not wish the subject to turn to the disastrous matter of the King and Queen so she hastily changed the subject to Ida and discussed plans for inviting her to Bushy.

But the most important topic in the household was of course Elizabeth’s marriage. Adelaide studied her stepdaughter. She was
not exactly beautiful but dazzlingly attractive. So must her mother have been. They had with their usual frankness told her that Elizabeth was more like Dorothy Jordan than any of them.

Elizabeth described her wedding dress which had been presented by Aunts Sophia and Augusta, her father’s two unmarried sisters, the royal Princesses.

‘Such a dress!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘A royal dress. Well, we are royal through Papa and no one can deny that. But it was good of the old aunts to present me with the dress. It was a very ceremonious occasion, I can tell you. They sent for me to go to St James’s, and there I must wait until their Highnesses were ready to receive me.’ Elizabeth began to mime the reception of herself by the royal Princesses and then gave a little sketch of their imparting the news that they were presenting her with a wedding dress.

‘A young lady’s wedding day is the most important day in her life,’ mimicked Elizabeth.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ retorted her sister Sophia. ‘It’s what comes after that is important. Don’t you agree, Adelaide?’

‘I am sure you are right.’

How gay they were! How unconscious of the fact that their father had never married their mother. What did they care that she was an actress? They were as proud of her as they were of their royal connections.

I am happy, thought Adelaide. This is the happiest time I have known. And when the child comes, that will be the very height of contentment. I ask nothing more than to have my child … and to live here in this pleasant spot comfortably, at peace, for the rest of my life.

The sound of carriage wheels intruded on the scene.

Augustus jumped up and ran to see who had come. They heard him shouting: ‘It’s George!’

And there was George FitzClarence coming across the lawn surrounded by his sisters who had rushed to meet him, and young Augustus was leaping in front of him like a jester.

George greeted Adelaide affectionately. They shared a special friendship. Hadn’t she spent her honeymoon nursing him!

Like all the FitzClarences he did not stand on ceremony. He
sat beside her, asked after her health not in the most delicate manner. He was very knowledgeable about the birth of babies for his first child – a daughter – had just been born.

He had come to talk of the christening. They had chosen the baby’s name.

‘What is it?’ cried Amelia.

George turned to his stepmother. ‘Adelaide,’ he said. ‘With your permission.’

Yes, she thought. I am happy. I’ve never been so happy. They have accepted me.

Her eyes had filled with tears. George leaned forward and kissed her.

‘Permission granted?’ he asked.

And everyone cheered.

She looked across to the flower gardens which they had told her their mother had planned during her brief sojourns between theatrical engagements. She could almost fancy the ghost of Dorothy Jordan looked on, benignly content with the one who had taken her place.

Elizabeth FitzClarence was a handsome bride.

‘The image of her mother,’ it was whispered. ‘The last time I saw
her
was as Lady Teazel in
The School for Scandal.
She was magnificent, but they say it was not one of her best parts.’

‘Oh no, you should have seen her when she was young. Miss Hoyden in
The Relapse
was one of her best. I’ll never forget her. And the new Lady Erroll is the image of what she was at her age.’

‘The Duchess must be near her time. Fancy her coming to the wedding!’

‘No doubt she did so to please the Duke. They say he insists on her receiving his bastards.’

‘Poor creature. She looks meek.’

Adelaide was aware of their whisperings but they did not disturb her. She was happy. She felt well. In two months her baby should be with her; she was longing for the day, and it was pleasant to be at her stepdaughter’s wedding and to see how the bride was aware of her and now and then gave her an understanding look, as though, thought Adelaide, I am indeed her mother.

The Duke was delighted. He made one of his long, rambling speeches which set everyone trying to stifle their yawns; and the Princess Sophia had graced the wedding with her presence.

It was the Princesses’ way of letting the world know that they accepted the FitzClarences as their relations. No one was surprised to see her there. There were whispers about Sophia and always had been. The fact that she had remained unmarried did not mean that she had retained her virginity. The scandals of the family were not made entirely by the boys. No one could be absolutely sure that some twenty years before the Princess Sophia had secretly given birth to a child, but many believed this to be so. So there was no reason why she should not accept the results of her brothers’ indiscretions. However, her presence at the wedding delighted her brother William.