Caroline the Queen

The Transformation Scene

THE Prince of Wales lay on his back, snoring. To sleep after a heavy meal in the middle of the day was a custom he had brought with him from Hanover. This was no light afternoon nap; but like everything the Prince did it was performed with precision. He lived by the clock; there was a time for eating, sleeping, doing business, and even making love. In fact, throughout the Court his habits were a joke of which he was ignorant; but his wife, who had made it her first duty to discover as much as she could of what was going on around her, was well aware of this.

Poor George Augustus, although he was more popular than his father, the King, who could not speak a word of English, appealed strongly to the people’s ridicule. He was choleric and a lack of inches had made him ready to assert his importance; his quarrels with his father, his habit of walking up and down his mistress’s apartments, watch in hand that he might visit her at exactly the appointed time, had provided material for the lampooners who frequented the city’s coffee houses and taverns and seemed to be of the opinion that the royal family’s chief duty was to amuse its subjects.

But on this hot June afternoon when the bees buzzed busily in the lavender which formed the sweet scented border in the flower gardens of Richmond Lodge, the Prince slept, unaware that it was to be one of the most important days in his life.

Close by in her apartments Caroline Princess of Wales was knotting, an occupation she favoured because it kept the hands occupied while the brain was not in the least concerned with the thread in her hands.

So hot! she thought. And on these hot days she felt fatigued nowadays. It was something she never admitted to others but occasionally in the privacy of her own apartments she faced the fact that her health was not what she would wish it to be. The subject was like a threatening cloud—not overhead at the moment—just perhaps a shadow on the horizon; but it was there, and each week she fancied it was a little bigger.

Of course, she told herself angrily, I’m perfectly healthy.

Women had these troubles. After all she had had seven children, and a few miscarriages. Louisa the youngest was now three, and it had been after her birth that the trouble had started. It frightened her, for an internal rupture could be a dangerous and humiliating affliction, and she was terrified that someone would discover her secret. George Augustus had once been aware of it. He hated illness in those around him. She supposed it reminded him that he too was not immortal.

‘It will clear up,’ she had told him. ‘It is nothing ... it happens after a difficult childbirth now and then.’

He had accepted that; and she had been fortunate in being able to hide from him the pain she felt. She wondered though whether he was later aware of it and preferred to pretend, as she did, that it did not exist.

Henrietta Howard was sitting in the antechamber now with Charlotte Clayton, no doubt dozing, but ready to come in at precisely the right moment when they would prepare the Princess for her husband’s visit.

Henrietta was George Augustus’s mistress, but the affair was certainly not one of tempestuous passion. He had selected her long ago in Hanover whither she had come to seek her fortune and it was merely because he believed he ought to have a mistress that he had chosen her. At that time he had been very content with his wife. Now of course he had other mistresses, but she always believed it was to prove to these cynical observers his immense virility rather than due to any overriding passion. However, Henrietta remained—a habit. Yet a man who made love with his eye on the clock could not really be seriously involved.

She smiled fondly. She felt affectionate towards her little man; her position was a difficult one, but she knew how to keep it tenable. He was fond of her, for he was a sentimental man; he was proud of her, for she was a good-looking woman; there was one quality which she must not make too obvious and that was her intelligence, for George Augustus was not the man to tolerate a woman who was known to be cleverer than himself. But it was not beyond the wit of a clever woman to hide her cleverness. It had been done in the past and would be done again. She in any case had been successfully doing it for many years.

She dismissed her fears. The King was in Hanover. Long might he stay there. What a pleasure to have the old ogre out of the country. She believed that if he would only stay away for a year, she and George Augustus would wean any affection the people had for the King completely from him. He was a silly old man in many respects. He did not appreciate this country which had fallen into his lap like ripe fruit from a tree. He preferred his little Hanover principality to this great kingdom, Herrenhausen to Hampton, the old Leine Schloss to St James’s. He, with his German speech and his German habits, kept his two German mistresses whom he had brought with him thirteen years ago from Hanover; they were the delight of the people because surely they must be the two ugliest women in the country and did such good service to the writers of lampoons. But the King did occasionally show an interest in English women. There was that saucy creature, Anne Brett, who was at this moment giving herself such airs at St James’s Palace and would doubtless receive her title and coronet when her lover returned to England. But it was Ermengarda Schulemburg who had accompanied him to Hanover—Ermengarda, now Duchess of Kendal, the mistress who was like a wife to him and with whom, some said, he had even gone through a form of marriage in the last year or so since he had heard of the death of George Augustus’s mother in the prison of Ahlden in which he had placed her.

There was such joy in contemplating his absence.

He despised George Augustus, but she happened to know that he had far more respect for the Princess of Wales than he had for the Prince. That meant, though, that he was more watchful of her than of his son; and she had had to be very careful, knowing him for the vindictive man he was. She would never forget what he had done to his wife—the mother-in-law whom she had never met—because she was guilty of one infidelity, and had not only divorced her but sent her to a dreary exile which had lasted thirty years and had such a short while ago ended.

From her first days at Hanover she had realized that she must never put herself in a similar position to that of her unfortunate mother-in-law.

Not that she ever would. Sophia Dorothea must have been a foolish, frivolous creature; Caroline would never be that.

She yawned and looked at the clock. Not yet three. Another hour before the Prince came to her apartment and they took their walk together in the gardens. He was a great walker and so had she been before she had begun to feel this affliction—slight, she insisted, and something many women suffered from. She fancied there was a little gout in her feet. She shuddered, remembering the stories she had heard of the King’s predecessor, Queen Anne, who had so often had to be carried in her chair to important functions.

Anne had been the Queen and Caroline, though she might one day bear that proud title, would be but a Queen Consort, and that was very different from a Queen Regnant. Very different indeed. For when a Queen Consort depended on the whims of a choleric little husband she would have to be very careful.

Yet she was recognized for a clever woman. Prime Minister Walpole was more respectful now, although she knew he had once referred to her as ‘That fat beast, the Prince’s wife’; but he was aware that the day would come when he would wish to be in the good books of Queen Caroline, ‘and she herself knew that when that day came she would need his services. They understood each other. He had disappointed her at that time when he had patched up the quarrel between George Augustus and herself on one side and the King on the other, because although he had promised that he would see that the King gave over the guardianship of her elder children to her, he had not done this. Still, she understood he was the shrewdest man in England and he was one whom she would want as her chief minister.

The thread fell from her hands and she dozed.

She awoke startled.

‘Henrietta! Charlotte!’

‘Your Highness ...’

‘Vot is this?’ In spite of all the time she had been in England she still spoke with a German accent and was apt to express herself quaintly. ‘Vot is this clatter?’

‘Someone has arrived, Your Highness,’ said Henrietta. The Princess yawned.

‘It is better to be dressed now,’ she said. ‘I will not then keep the Prince vaiting yen he comes. Go to the vindow and see who is coming.’

Henrietta moved to the window. She walked with grace though she was not exactly a beautiful woman; her fine but abundant hair was her greatest beauty; but she was ageing, thought the Princess, and lately she had become so deaf that she could seem almost stupid—which was far from the truth. Caroline was sure that the Prince only performed his precision lovemaking as a habit.

‘It is Sir Robert Walpole, Your Highness,’ said Henrietta.

‘Vot can bring him here at this hour,’ wondered Caroline. ‘Come, it is yell I am dressed.’

Sir Robert Walpole had been working in the study of his Chelsea house when the messenger arrived. He knew whence he came and that he could only bring news of the utmost importance.

The King was in Hanover and Walpole’s brother-in-law, Lord Townshend, was in attendance there; it was from Townshend that the messenger came.

Walpole lifted his unwieldy body from the chair and went to meet the messenger. Prepared as he was for important news he could not suppress an exclamation of dismay as he read that King George I had died of a seizure on his way to Osnabrück.

He steadied himself, summoned a servant, gave orders that the messenger should be provided with refreshment, but first his coach must be made ready for a journey and brought to his door, and called to his valet that he might be suitably and immediately dressed for a solemn occasion.

As his orders were obeyed he was saying to himself: This could well be the end. But even at the same time he was telling himself that he would not allow it to be. Walpole was not so easily defeated.,

So, he mused, the little fellow is now the King. George the First is dead. Long live George the Second.

He must be the first to say so. That was the immediate necessity. Townshend would know that well enough and not have sent the news to anyone else.

By the time he was ready to leave the house his carriage was waiting to take him from Chelsea to Richmond.

‘It has to be quick,’ he told the coachman. ‘Not a minute to be lost.’

The coachman understood.

‘Change horses half way,’ ordered Walpole, ‘but make them work.’

He sat back against the upholstery and pictured the scene at Richmond. It was what many had been waiting for, but no one had suspected it would come just yet. The old King, although he had suffered a couple of seizures, had seemed as if he were going on for a very long time. Walpole wished he had; they had been on good terms.

And not dissimilar in character, mused Walpole. Both gross in habit, crude in speech, and lacking in culture. Walpole laughed aloud, and his laughter reminded him that there was one difference: he was a merry man; the late King had been a dour one.

How, he asked himself, am I going to ingratiate myself with the little fellow? I should have begun to woo him earlier, of course. But his father wouldn’t pay his debts and it is the Princess who is important. And the Princess? Well at least we understand each other. She’s a clever woman and I’ve always known it. Not like that fool, Townshend, paying attention to Henrietta Howard and ignoring the Princess ... beg her pardon, the Queen.

Queen Caroline! She would be the one to cultivate; for as long as she could convince the little man that he ruled her she would be able to do what she wanted with him. Together we will rule England, thought Walpole. And you, little man, will not prevent us ... providing of course that Madame Caroline will stand with me.

Would she? Ah, there was the point. He had called her a fat beast at one time, and she had heard of it. Politicians should guard their tongues, which was not always easy when a politician’s tongue was both his best friend and his worst enemy.

That reminded him—what he said to the new King would be of the utmost importance. His tongue was going to have to be very clever to extricate himself from this delicate situation.

He looked out of the window. He knew every inch of the road to Richmond, for recently he had acquired the Rangership of Richmond Park and had bought the Old Lodge. This he had made into his home . . . his real home where Maria Skerrett waited for him; and every weekend he spent there with her and their two-year-old daughter rejuvenated him. It was strange to him, this feeling he had for Maria. He had never been a sentimental man until he had met her; his marriage had been a failure from the beginning, although when he had married Catherine, daughter of Sir John Shorter, Lord Mayor of London, she had seemed an ideal choice, being both beautiful and wealthy. Long ago he had gone his own way, she had gone hers; she was extravagant in manners and money. Her lovers were numerous and rumour had it—and Walpole had never given himself the trouble of attempting to discover the truth of this—that the Prince of Wales himself had been among them.

Walpole had lived heartily, drinking, hunting the fox and women, seeking power; he had liked to boast of his exploits with women; his conversation at table was coarse in the extreme and his accounts were accompanied by the loud laughter which shook his unwieldy frame. But he never joked about Maria Skerrett; he never mentioned her; she had shown him a new way of life which never ceased to make him marvel.

Even now as the coach rattled along the rough roads and he was thinking of the interview with the new King which could be so momentous as to mean the end of his career as a politician of importance, he was consoling himself that if he should fail he would be content to live quietly with Maria and little Molly.

The coach had stopped. The horses would have to be changed; they were exhausted.

‘Then hurry,’ shouted Walpole.

He closed his eyes. No one must be there before him. That would never do. He saw himself arriving late and the Prince already transformed into a king. A minute before he had thought he would be happy living quietly at the Old Lodge or Houghton in Norfolk with Maria. No, he was a politician, an ambitious man, and could not throw aside his main reason for living and expect to find contentment. Maria provided the solace, the respite, the haven—the real flavour of life was power.

They were off again. And in due course they had arrived at Richmond.

He went to the Lodge and shouted to the guard that he wished to be conducted to the Prince without delay, but he did not wait to be conducted, and he made his way to the royal apartments.

The Duchess of Dorset who happened to be in waiting, hearing the commotion of his arrival, came to the door of the royal suite to remind him that the Prince was sleeping, the Princess resting, and that as it was only three o’clock the time had not yet arrived for waking them.

‘Nevertheless they must be awakened. I have important news.’

‘Sir Robert, the Prince is undressed. It is his practice at this hour ...’

‘I know His Highness’s practices, but I tell you there must be no delay. Tell him I have come. Tell him I have news of the utmost importance. Tell him I must see him without delay.’

The Duchess looked dubious; but Sir Robert clearly must be obeyed.

She lifted her shoulders slightly and leaving Walpole impatiently in the anteroom called to one of the Prince’s attendants and told him to awaken His Highness as Sir Robert Walpole was waiting to give him news which could not be delayed.

George Augustus sat up in bed; his first impulse was to look at the clock.

‘Vot is this,’ he shouted. ‘It is but three o’clock.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert Walpole is waiting to speak to you. He said it is a matter of the utmost importance.’

‘It should vait,’ snapped the Prince, always bad tempered to have a habit broken. ‘I haf not my sleep finished.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert was most insistent.’

‘Sir Robert!’ growled the Prince. He was not very pleased with that man. He had not done what he promised when he had attempted to patch up the quarrel between the Prince and his father. He had made slighting remarks about the Prince’s abilities to act as Regent. And such remarks had been carried back to His Highness by Sir Robert’s enemies. George Augustus was like his father in the fact that he never forgave a slight. ‘That man should take care ...’

‘Your Highness ...’

‘I know ... I know. I vill to him go. I vill to him tell I must not be disturbed at this hour.’

The Prince rose from his bed, picked up his wig which had been placed on a table nearby and crammed it on his head. His valet sprang forward but he waved him aside.

He stood in his underwear, a little man with a fresh complexion now ruddy from annoyance, his bulbous blue eyes blazing with anger.

His valet would have helped him into his breeches, but the Prince snatched them from him and it was at this moment that Walpole, who had determined to wait no longer, came into the room.

The bulging blue eyes glared at the minister, but Walpole had sunk to his knees, taken the hand which held the breeches and said: ‘Sire, your father, King George the First, is dead. You are now the King of England.’

‘Vot!’ cried George Augustus.

‘Your Majesty’s father is dead.’

‘That is von big lie!’

‘Indeed not, Your Majesty. I have a letter here from Lord Townshend. Your father, King George, has had a seizure and died on the way to Osnabrück.’

‘Let me see this!’ George Augustus snatched the letter and dropping his breeches held it with both hands.

‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered. ‘Then it is so!’

‘Your Majesty.’

The new King stared at Sir Robert without seeing him. Already there was a new arrogance, Walpole noticed. The transformation from powerless Prince, kept deliberately in the background by a father who despised him, to King of England, was taking place.

This one could be more difficult to handle than his father, thought Walpole.

‘As Your Majesty’s minister I would have your orders,’ said Walpole quietly; and he felt that the very clock on which the King set such store, not because it was a valuable piece, which it undoubtedly was, but because it registered all-important time, had stopped, waiting for what would happen next, for the following seconds could reveal whether the King would keep his father’s trusted minister.

The moment dragged on. What was going on behind the prominent blue eyes? Was the new King remembering past discrepancies? What had he, Walpole, said when, as Prince of Wales, George Augustus had sought the Regency during his father’s absence from England? ‘He doesn’t deserve it. We’ve done enough for him; and if it were to be done again we would not do so much.’ Such remarks were apt to be carried back, and these Guelphs were vindictive by nature. They never forgot a slight.

Walpole could see that the King was remembering.

It came: ‘My orders?’ he said. The blue eyes narrowed. His mind was ranging over his ministers and his choice fell on a favourite of his, Sir Spencer Compton. He shouted: ‘You vill go to Chiswick, Sir Robert, and take your orders from Sir Spencer Compton.’

Walpole bowed. This was the end. The verdict had been given. He was dismissed. He had been right to guess that the new King would want to settle old scores. Take his orders from Spencer Compton. It was an insult.

But there was nothing to do but bow himself out. The new King looked at the clock.

‘It is not time yet to rise, I vill finish my sleep,’ he said; and as Walpole made his way to Chiswick, the King went back to bed.

Charlotte Clayton, flushed scarlet, came into the Queen’s chamber.

‘Your Majesty!’ she cried.

Caroline was on her feet.

‘It’s true. I heard every word. The King died on his way to Osnabrück.’

‘Dead!’ whispered Caroline. Her eyes were brilliant. The tyrant removed. The way clear. ‘I must go to the ... to the King.’ She spoke the words triumphantly.

‘He has returned to bed, Your Majesty. The time for rising has not yet come.’

Charlotte was laughing at him. Never mind. It was ridiculous of him. He was a King and he went to bed to finish his nap!

She walked past the woman and into his bedchamber. He was certainly not sleeping.

‘I have heard.’

‘That you are Queen of England?’

‘That you are the King.’

He got out of bed. ‘Veil,’ he said, ‘that old rogue has gone at last. I thought never vould he die.’

‘And you, George Augustus, are now the King. That is von thing he cannot stop.’

‘He can stop nothing now ... the old scoundrel.’

‘Ve should be on our way to Leicester House. There vill be so much to do.’

‘I have dismissed that fat ox Valpole. He vill now know he has been von fool.’

Caroline was alarmed. Walpole may have abused her and her husband at times; he may not have kept his promises; but they needed brilliant men about them if they were to rule wisely and safely; and she believed Walpole to be the most astute politician of his day.

‘Dat is von pity,’ she declared.

‘Vot you say?’

‘He vill be your enemy.’

‘But I am the King now. It is not for me to fear men, but for them to fear me.’

‘He is clever.’

‘And I am von fool?’

She had gone too far. She would have to be even more careful now.

‘You vill be such a king as the English never have before had. They vill be vishing to see you now.’

He smiled at her. He was very fond of her. She was his good and docile wife. Occasionally he must reprove her for her tendency to instruct. But she was a good woman, a good wife; and she knew who was her master.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘together vill ye go. The King and the Queen.’

‘I must not forget,’ she said, ‘that I must be in mourning ... just a little. For ven there is a new king an old one must die.’

It was a warning to him. Accept your subjects’ homage, ties; but do not show too blatantly how delighted you are by your father’s death. It’s true that you are, but it might appear unseemly. Even the most cynical people honour the dead for fear there should be some truth in the belief that they sometimes return.

‘No,’ he said, ‘this you must not forget.’

She had made her point; now she would go to her apartments; her woman should dress her. In what? she wondered. Black bombazine. That would be discreet and black was becoming to her fair skin.

She would ride through the streets; the people would be pleased; these English were always pleased at the prospect of revels; and a new king meant a coronation.

And while she rode she would be thinking of how she could make the new King see that he must not dismiss his most brilliant statesman for the sake of settling old grudges.

The news was spreading quickly through the city. The apprentices scarcely waited for their masters’ permission to run into the streets; the merchants were close on their heels; from windows women leaned out shouting to each other.

The new King and Queen were coming this way.

The ballad singers were at every corner; there was not a Sedan chair to be had for the nobility were all on their way to Leicester House to pay quick homage. They were part of the jostling crowds which filled the streets about Leicester Fields to which it was believed the new rulers would make their way.

The habitually noisy streets were now deafening with shouts and cries; the tin trumpets of the newsmen were heard now and then above the babel; the long brooms of the crossing sweepers had become formidable weapons; the gingerbread woman was doing good business in contrast to the knife and scissors grinder whose services nobody wanted on a day such as this. Old Colly-Molly-Puff the pie-man had sold out his trayful and was fighting his way back to his home for more; the pickpockets were busy and the crowd was screaming with laughter at the man whose wig had been stolen, he couldn’t tell how; but those in the know understood that the man who was carrying a small boy on his shoulder might know something of its whereabouts, for the small boy carried a basket and it was very likely that the wig had been whipped off its owner’s head and placed in that basket and was now being carried fast to the wigmaker who would pay a good price for it. The little shoe-black was almost crushed to death; the even smaller chimney-sweep could see nothing either. But at least they were part of the merry, roistering street scene which had become charged with a new hilarity and excitement because the old King was dead and a new reign was about to begin.

And then there was a shout for silence.

‘They’re coming. They’re coming.’

And there was the carriage with the little King in his tall wig and a touch of mourning, looking solemn yet secretly delighted, as well he might, for everyone knew how his father had hated and humiliated him—and now old George was dead and here was young George to take his place.

He was a German too, but at least he knew how to smile and he could speak English—after a fashion. He was fond of England, which was more than his old father had been; and he had a wife living with him and giving him children. The old one had had a wife too, but he’d treated her badly so it was said, sent her into exile because she took a lover. Who could blame her after taking one look at George! And there was the old man making no secret of his scandalous relationship with his two comic German mistresses, known in the London crowds as the Maypole and the Elephant—one tall and thin, the other short and fat, both old, both ugly—and a few young and pretty ones to make a bit of variety. That was all very well. It gave them something to laugh at; but they’d never liked German George; and they were prepared to like this George, who seemed half English anyway.

And the Queen? Yes, they had an affection for the Queen. She was always affable; she loved the English, she said; she’d rather live on a dunghill in England than return to Hanover. That was what they liked to hear. When she had walked—and she walked often—she would talk to anyone she met and however humble they were, she would show an interest in them and their lives. Moreover, they had been sorry for her when the old King took her children from her and only allowed her to see them when he permitted it.

A cheer for the Queen.

So, on through the streets to Leicester House rode the new King and Queen.

In St James’s Palace three girls were impatiently awaiting a summons.

Anne, the eldest, who was eighteen, had always dominated her sisters and now she announced that it could not be long before they were sent for.

‘This will make all the difference to us. We shall no longer be kept here like children. We shall live gaily as princesses should.’

Amelia who was two years younger than her sister Anne clasped her hands together and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Husbands will be found for us,’ she murmured.

Anne looked at her critically and Caroline, the youngest, being only fourteen, always took her cue from Anne.

‘Husbands, of course,’ said Anne. ‘But I shall only accept a king. Nothing less will do for me.’

‘Do you think they will find enough kings for us all?’ asked Caroline.

‘Of course,’ snapped Anne. ‘But because of The Quarrel nothing has been done. Now you will see how different everything is going to be.’

‘Mamma will be delighted to have us back with her,’ said Caroline. ‘And how glad I shall be It’ll be wonderful to live under the same roof with them ... as we always should have—but for Grandfather.’

‘I’m not sure that it will be wonderful,’ put in Amelia slowly.

The others turned to her. Amelia was the beauty of the family; she had inherited a little of the Stuart features and she had her mother’s fine complexion and abundant hair; she lacked Anne’s arrogance and was healthier than Caroline.

‘But why not?’ asked Caroline.

‘I am not sure of Papa. The things one has heard ...’ Anne burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Papa is a vain little man.

Everyone knows it. But Mamma is well respected.’

‘Anne,’ cried Caroline, shocked, ‘you are talking of the King.’

The two elder girls began to laugh.

‘It’s true,’ said Anne. ‘That is what makes life suddenly exciting. Old Grandpapa is dead and Papa is King. We are more important because believe me it is better to be the daughters of a king than the granddaughters of one.’

‘We shall all be together,’ said Caroline. The whole family ...’

‘Don’t hope for too much,’ warned Amelia.

‘Well, we shall join our brother and sisters—but young Mary and Louisa are just silly babies,’ said Anne.

‘They could hardly be much else being four and three,’ put in Amelia.

‘So very much younger than we ar!’ sighed Caroline. ‘As for William, everyone knows that he is a spoilt little beast.’

‘Mamma adores him, I believe.’

‘And Papa.’

‘Idiot! Papa adores no one but himself. He flies into a temper if his pages don’t powder his periwig as he likes it; and he goes round the Palace complaining because the housemaid has put a chair in the wrong place. This, my sisters, is your future King.’

Caroline giggled obediently as she always did when Anne expected it; but Amelia said: ‘And you should be careful. We were spied on before ... how much more so we shall be now.’

‘Let them spy. We’re the King’s daughters now.’

‘But Papa would be very angry if he heard you. You know how he always has to be flattered.’

‘Never fear, I shall do the flattering when it’s needed, but I must have the joy of saying what I really think behind his back.’

Caroline laughed obediently and Anne smiled, acknowledging her appreciation.

‘It’s natural that Mamma should love William; after all he’s a boy,’ said Caroline.

‘Which reminds me,’ put in Anne, ‘our eldest brother will soon be here. They’re bound to send for Fred.’

‘Fred!’ mused Amelia. ‘I wonder what he’s like.’

‘A horrid little German, you can be sure.’

‘Well, he has spent all his life in Hanover.’

‘Poor Fred!’ sighed Caroline. ‘They call him Fritz over there.’

‘I’ve no doubt he’s a regular little Fritz.’

‘You must not make yourself hate him before you sec him, Anne,’ warned Amelia.

‘I don’t have to make myself. I do already.’

‘But why?’

‘Imagine him. He was seven years old when Papa and Mamma left Hanover and they haven’t seen him since.’

‘What would he be now?’ asked Caroline.

‘Over twenty ... nearly twenty-one,’ said Anne. ‘He’s two years older than I.’

‘Do you remember him, Anne?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, I think I do ... a little. He was very spoilt. He had rickets for a long time and couldn’t walk ... but that was before I was born. They called him Fritzchen and it was quite sickening the fuss they all made of him.’

‘So you were jealous?’ asked Amelia.

‘Of course. I wanted to be the eldest ... and a boy ... so that in time I could be Prince of Wales. Then Queen Anne died and Grandpapa came to England and after a while Mamma brought us girls, but Grandpapa wouldn’t allow Fritzchen to come. He had to stay behind and look after Hanover.’

‘What, at seven?’ asked Amelia.

‘He was a figurehead. Grandpapa was quite fond of Fritzchen, which is saying something, for he wasn’t fond of anyone else ... except the poor old Maypole. I wonder what she is doing now.’

‘I’m sorry for her,’ said Amelia. ‘It must be terrible to be a king’s mistress and be important and then suddenly he dies ... and nobody cares about you any more.’

‘Don’t worry about her. She looked after herself very well, I’m sure.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about money. It’s rather strange that a man like Grandpapa could be faithful to a woman like that—for all those years. And she was terribly ugly too. I heard she was almost bald under that awful red wig.’

‘He wasn’t exactly faithful. That reminds me. Mistress Anne Brett must be feeling very sorry for herself. Do you know she threatened to speak to Grandpapa about me because I wouldn’t allow her to alter the arrangement of this palace. What is she thinking now, do you imagine?’

‘She’s busily packing and preparing to leave, I’ll swear,’ said Amelia.

Anne threw back her head and laughed. Caroline did the same.

‘It’s a small matter,’ said Amelia. ‘Scarcely worth feeling triumphant about. The point is that everything will be different for us. Our parents will come here ... we shall all be together. Instead of being two separate families, there’ll be one. The family will be reunited; we shall be with our little brother and sisters. And Fred will most certainly come home.’

‘When?’ asked Caroline.

‘Very soon. After all he is Prince of Wales now. Fancy that! Fritz who has never set foot in England is Prince of Wales.’

‘I know why you hate him,’ said Amelia. ‘You would like to be Prince of Wales.’

‘How could I be?’

‘You could be Princess of Wales,’ said Caroline. ‘And if there were no boys ...’

Anne stood up and raised her eyes almost ecstatically to the ceiling.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘if I could be Queen of England, if only for one day, I’d be willing to die the next.’

‘Anne!’

‘It’s true,’ she declared. ‘And I’m sure I’d make a better ruler than Fritz ... or Papa ... or Grandpapa. There was a Queen Anne of England. I was named after her. They call her good Queen Anne.’

Amelia stood up. ‘Listen. You can hear the sound of trumpets. Papa and Mamma are passing through the city.’

The girls were silent, listening.

Sir Spencer Compton came in all haste to Chelsea. He was a worried man. Greatly as he appreciated the honour the King had done him, he was a little uncertain of his ability to hold the high office which was being thrust upon him, and now right at the beginning of his new duties he was confronted by a task which he was incapable of performing, and he feared he was going to show not only the King but the whole Court that he could not compare with Walpole.

It was the simple matter of the King’s Speech which it was his duty to prepare and he had no idea how to do it.

There was one man who knew exactly what should be said and what left unsaid; that man was Sir Robert Walpole.

Walpole had, when informing him that the King had dismissed him and told him to take his orders from Sir Spencer Compton, assured the latter that he would be willing to help in any way possible. Well, here was a way in which he could help.

‘I have come,’ said Sir Spencer, ‘to ask you to write the King’s Speech, because for the life of me I have no idea how it should be done.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Walpole. ‘I will do it immediately and it shall be in your hands in good time.’

‘I am indeed grateful,’ Sir Spencer told him.

When he had gone Walpole went to work on the speech, amused and gratified that his services should be so quickly needed; but there was a desolation in his heart, for he was already realizing how much power meant to him and he felt deeply depressed because it seemed that he had lost it forever.

Even in the streets they would already be talking of his fall. He was not so clever as he had thought he was. He had been so sure of himself that he had neglected to fawn on the Prince of Wales and the Prince of Wales was now King. He was not sure of the new Queen; he had displeased her now and then, but she was too clever a woman to bear long grudges and in the last years they had appreciated each other.

But the King had dismissed him. And even though the new favourite had to ask his help the cry had gone up; it was echoing throughout the Court and the city: Walpole is dismissed.

There were so many things to be done, thought the Queen, as she sat before her Mirror and Charlotte Clayton with Henrietta Howard loosened her hair and unbuttoned her gown, to give her greater comfort.

The girls must be brought into the family again, and Frederick must come home. She used to think of him as Fritzchen, but that was long ago. It must be years since she had ceased to think of him at all. Indeed since young William was growing into such a charmer she had almost wished that her firstborn had never existed. What would he be like after all these years? He would be like a stranger . . . a German stranger.

But that could wait. Even the girls could wait awhile. There were more pressing problems.

‘How I hate this bombazine!’ she sighed.

‘It is quite becoming to Your Majesty,’ Henrietta told her.

Caroline eyed herself. Yes, Henrietta was right. The black showed up the fairness of her skin and the magnificence of her shoulders and bust—that bosom which George Augustus declared was the most beautiful in the world.

But this was no time to be thinking of what she looked like. There were important matters to be dealt with and the most important was that the King should not act foolishly now that he had ceased to be the Prince who was of no account because it was his father’s wish that he should not be.

She could see fearful pits yawning at their feet. The situation in Europe was very tricky; and there was one man who was so well versed in foreign affairs that they would need him; that was Sir Robert Walpole. There was one man who could keep the government steady; and that was Walpole.

In fact, thought Caroline, he is crude and uncultured, his morals are questionable; he is ugly and too fat; he drinks too much; he is not exactly a charming man; but he is the man we need.

She thought of the King’s delight when he had come to tell her how he had dismissed Walpole. ‘I have said to him: “Your orders you vill take from Spencer Compton.” He vas scarcely off his knees ven this I tell him.’

And she was expected to applaud such promptitude, such sly action, such a neat way of paying off old scores, when she wanted to shout: But we need this man. He is the only one clever enough to help us. If he does not work for us he will work against us.

But one did not presume to advise the King; she never had done that to the Prince of Wales. And yet how often had she persuaded him—in such a manner that he was unaware of it, of course—to decide on what she had already decided.

Tonight he would preside over his Accession Council; he must not make it known during the meeting that he had dismissed Walpole. But Henrietta had told her that Sir Spencer Compton was already being treated with homage and that Walpole was being ignored.

Something would have to be done. She wondered how she could do it.

Her woman, used to her pensive moods, worked silently; they were doing her hair when the King came in. He was dressed for the Accession Council meeting and he sat down heavily in the chair which Henrietta hurried to place for him.

‘Ha, my tear,’ he said, looking affectionately at his wife, ‘I see you are looking very beautiful ... as beautiful as a queen, eh?’

‘And you look like a king.’

‘Ve must grow accustomed to looking so.’

He smiled at the two women and his gaze lingered on Henrietta. She is getting old, he thought; now that I am King perhaps I should choose new mistresses. I should not continue with a woman who is no longer young.

He scowled. ‘Vy haf you covered the Queen’s neck?’ he demanded. ‘Is it because you haf not a beautiful neck that you must cover the Queen’s?’

He snatched the scarf which was about Caroline’s shoulders.

‘There. That is better. Now ve see this beautiful neck.’

Caroline nodded dismissal to the two women and they went quietly out.

‘This is a most important meeting,’ said Caroline. ‘The Council vill be assembled to hear your speech. You vill have it by now.’

‘No, I have it not.’

‘But ...’

‘It vill come. It vill come. Compton is von good man.’ ‘I hope he can write as good a speech as Valpole.’

‘That fat old fox. I tell you he is von scoundrel. You should have seen his face. It came out so neatly. You vould haf laughed.’

No, thought Caroline. I should have groaned.

‘Veil, the speech should be here.’

‘You should not vorry, my dear. Ah, I think it comes now.’

The King’s page had appeared to say that Sir Spencer Compton was in the King’s antechamber.

‘Bring him here,’ commanded George.

Sir Spencer came in with the speech which Walpole had just brought to him.

The King read it aloud.

‘It is vith great sorrow that I hear of the death of the King, my dearest father ...’

George grimaced. But of course it was what was expected of him. He must pretend to mourn; although the gaiety of his expression would surely belie that.

‘My love and affection is for England and I shall preserve the laws and liberties of this kingdom. I shall uphold the Constitution ...’ Yes, this was what they wanted to hear.

Caroline came and looked over the King’s shoulder as he read; Compton watched them with relief. He was very uneasy; he knew he was unfitted for the task; he was no Walpole. It was only due to the latter’s help that he had extricated himself from a difficult situation in the first hours of his new office. Suppose Walpole had refused to write the speech!

The King was saying, ‘No, this vill not do ...’

Compton started. ‘Your Majesty does not like the speech?’

‘It is yell enough. It is vell enough. But this must be changed. Change it now.’

‘What ... what does Your Majesty wish to say?’

‘I do not know. It is for you. Do it now. The women vill give you a table and chair ...’

‘Your Majesty, it would be a great mistake to change the speech.’

‘Vat is this?’

‘Your Majesty, the speech should remain as it is.’

‘But I say this is not goot. This paragraph ... he must be changed.’

‘It would be better to leave it as it is.’

‘Better. But I say this vill not do.’

Compton was bewildered. How could he change the speech? It was Walpole’s work and he could not imagine what might be substituted for the offending paragraph.

‘I ... I will take it away, Your Majesty,’ said Compton. ‘I will need to do this.’

‘Then do not be long. I must haf it ... soon.’

When he had bowed himself out, the offending speech under his arm, the King looked at the Queen. She was examining the stuff of her gown; she dared not look at the King for fear she betray a certain triumph. It had occurred to her that the King was going to see that he had acted rashly.

It was only a short time later when they heard that Walpole was asking for an audience.

‘This I vill not give,’ said the King. ‘I haf not the time. Vere is this speech. Vat has happen to Compton?’

‘It may be that Valpole hav come about the speech ...’ began the Queen, an idea occurring to her.

‘How is this?’

‘If you thought fit you might permit him to come. There could be no harm.’

The King looked at her in a puzzled fashion and then said he would see Walpole. Caroline was inwardly exultant when she saw that Walpole was carrying the speech.

‘Vat the ...’ began the King.

‘Your Majesty. Sir Spencer Compton has asked me to adjust the paragraph of which you do not approve.’

‘But vy ...?’

‘Your Majesty, I had written so many speeches. Sir Spencer so few. And so ...’

‘You wrote this von, Sir Robert?’ asked the Queen. Their eyes met. It’s not too late, thought Walpole. She is with me.

‘I wrote it, Your Majesty. The need for haste ...’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the King testily. ‘Let us see this paragraph.’

The Queen read it with him. am sure the King vill say that is vat vas needed,’ she said.

‘It is vat vas needed,’ said the King gruffly.

Walpole bowed his head; he stood before the King and said: ‘Your Majesty, if I can serve you in any way ... in or out of office, you may depend upon me.’

‘I shall remember,’ said the King, and turned away. Again a look was exchanged between the Queen and the minister. Walpole bowed and went out.

The King was annoyed.

‘I do not like this man,’ he said.

‘He drinks too much,’ agreed the Queen.

‘He is von big fat ox.’

‘His conversation at table is most coarse.’

‘It is yell he is dismissed.’

‘It is ell if ve can find better men than he.’

‘Vat you mean?’

‘There is much to be done. Perhaps you vill not vant to hurry to make a new ministry.’

‘I am tired of this man. He takes bribes. He is von greedy old rogue.’

‘There will be other greedy rogues. He must be rich by now. Perhaps Your Majesty will say that others less rich might be more open to bribes.’

‘Vat is this?’

‘Old leeches are not so hungry as young ones . . . it is often so.’

The King looked at his wife for a few moments and she said quickly: ‘It may be that Your Majesty vill think so. May I look at your speech?’

She read it through and he continued to watch her.

‘It is good,’ she said. ‘That sly old Valpole wrote it. I know his style.’

‘He is von fat old leech,’ said the King; and the Queen laughed immoderately.

He was pleased; but he was also thoughtful. Perhaps, he was thinking, he should not be too hasty.