Indiscretions of the Queen

Royal Scandals

Just before Caroline had gone to Court she had had sad news from Brunswick.

Her father, the Duke, had been killed while leading the Prussian army against Napoleon.

This event had momentarily made her forget her own dismal affairs. She was very melancholy. She thought of her father and all he had meant to her in the past.

He had been perhaps the only person she had really loved during her Brunswick childhood. It was true that it was long since she had said goodbye to him but she had never forgotten him.

Incidents from the old days kept coming back to her; the occasion when she had pretended she was in labour, Charlotte’s wedding; the day he had told her that she need never marry if she did not wish. If only she had taken his advice, but would she have enjoyed life any more in Brunswick, at the mercy of her rather silly mother and sensible Madame de Hertzfeldt? And then she would never have had Charlotte.

‘Charlotte, my darling, my angel, who I am only allowed to see once a week!’

she cried.

And she decided then that it would have been one degree worse to have stayed in Brunswick than to have come to England in spite of being married to a husband who was no husband and determined to harm her.

Mrs. Fitzgerald came in to tell her that Willikin was crying for his Mamma and demanding to know why she wasn’t there to amuse him.

‘Bring him in. Bring him in,’ she cried.

And there was the naughty little boy to be petted and, kissed and cuddled and told that his mamma loved him and that he was her pet boy, her little Willikin.

Mrs. Fitzgerald told Mrs.Vernon that the change in the Princess’s moods was sometimes alarming. Rarely had she known one whose moods changed so rapidly.

She would be in the depth of despair one moment and the next shouting with joy.

‘That’s Willikin’s doing,’ said Mrs. Vernon.

‘She’s making him into a horrible spoilt brat,’ added Mrs. Fitzgerald.

The Prince was uneasy. He had enjoyed several years of conjugal bliss with his dear love Maria, and was looking for adventure.

Women! He adored them. But he had to be in pursuit of them; and he liked the pursuit to be difficult and not to be brought to too easy a conclusion. Maria was his life, his soul, his wife; and there would always be a place for her in his heart, but he was not meant to live a placid married life which was what Maria wanted. She and dear old Pigot would have liked there to have been cosy little domestic evenings spent at home in Carlton House. But Carlton House was not built for cosy evenings; nor was the Prince of Wales.

While the Delicate Investigation had been in progress, Maria had been concerned in a court case of her own. A few years previously she had taken a little girl to live with her while her parents, Lord Hugh and Lady Horatia Seymour, had gone to Maderia because Lady Horatia was suffering from galloping consumption.

Maria, one of whose greatest griefs was that she had no children of her own, doted on the little girl and wished to adopt her legally; but, on the death of the child’s parents, her aunt, Lady Waldegrave, also wanted to adopt her. Maria, who had cared for the child for a few years, was determined to keep her. The Prince of Wales had been fond of little Mary Seymour, ‘Minney’ as she called herself; and seemed much more interested in her than in his own daughter Charlotte. She would clamber all over him and christened him ‘Prinney’ to rhyme with Minney which amused him greatly; and he fit when the three of them were together they were indeed happy family.

He had been very sorry when Lady Waldegrave claimed her; and declared that they must have a legal ruling on the matter, and was so upset to see his dear Maria heartbroken at the prospect of losing Minney that he offered to settle £10,000 if the child if she were left in Maria’s care.

This case had been going on for some months and during it, the Prince became very friendly with the Hertfords because the Marquess of Hertford as head of the Seymour family agreed that he would put an end to the proceedings by declaring that he would adopt the child himself. Since he was the head of the family no one could dispute this; the case was settled and then the Marquess appointed Maria Minney’s guardian.

This was very satisfactory, but during the proceedings the Prince had become infatuated by the Marchioness of Hertford.

It was not that he no longer loved Maria, he was careful to assure himself. He did love her; but Lady Hertford seemed sylphlike in comparison. He could not take his eyes from her when they were in company together; and people were beginning to notice. Miss Pigot tried to comfort Maria. The household had changed since the Prince had come back. They were, according to Miss Pigot, living happily-ever-after. And now they had the adorable Minney.

Maria had not noticed at first the way things were going so immersed had she been in the battle for Minney. Now she was elated because Minney was hers.

But one day she said to Miss Pigot: ‘The Prince is giving a dinner party for the Marchioness of Hertford. It’s not the first time.’

‘Well, I expect he’s grateful to them for giving you darling Minney.’

‘I don’t think it’s that,’ said Maria slowly. ‘And he wants me there— to make it seem— respectable. Isn’t that just like him?’

‘Nonsense!’ said Miss Pigot. ‘Of course he wants you there. Doesn’t he always want you there?’

But Miss Pigot was beginning to be worried. It would tragic if anything went wrong now that they had gain little Minney.

Caroline was settling into her new life. She gave wild parties at Montague House to which were invited all kind of people from politicians to poets. Lord Byron was constant visitor and a great favourite with the Princess.

‘A strange moody man,’ she confided in Lady Charlotte Campbell who had come to serve her. ‘Yet he can be the gayest I ever met. And so amusing. Such fun. He is two men. He is one for the people he loathes and another for those he loves— and I think I am one of those he loves. He is so good at my parties. I sometimes declare he shall come to all of them.’

Lady Charlotte listened attentively. She had been a great beauty when she was young and she had married Colonel John Campbell by whom she had had nine children. The Princess of Wales had taken to her at once, for anyone who had had nine children excited her admiration and envy. When Lady Charlotte’s husband died Caroline had asked her to join her household and they had become great friends, What the Princess did not know was that Lady Charlotte kept a diary and recorded every little incident. Lady Charlotte fancied herself as a writer and had decided that when she had time she would devote herself to the art.

In the meantime she could enjoy her diary which would remind her of the Princess if ever she should cease to serve her.

Caroline had found her the perfect confidante because she listened so intently to everything that was told her and remembered too. More and more she began to confide in her while Lady Charlotte diligently wrote of the Princess’s penchant for people whose conduct was somewhat scandalous, like Lord Byron. She was so unconventional. When she was at Kensington she would walk in the gardens and talk to strangers as though she were an ordinary member of the public. Nor was she content to stay in the gardens but would wander out into the streets and enjoy what she called the ‘dear people’, forgetting that at any moment she might be recognized. She liked to wander about incognito; and if she saw a poor child she must immediately stop and give it money. Once she looked over a house in Bayswater which was to let and pretended that she was considering renting it. She did the maddest things.

She had taken a great interest in a family of Italian musicians, the Sapios— father, mother and son— all excellent in their profession; but Caroline became so enraptured by their talents and their company that she treated them as friends and had them to dine and walk with her and call upon her at any hour of the day.

And in addition to this eccentric behaviour there was Willikin, growing into a most objectionable boy. He was hideously spoilt, refused to learn his lessons and wanted the Princess’s perpetual attention.

He was generally disliked in the household; the only one who could see no wrong in him was the Princess Caroline.

There were letters from Brunswick. The Duchess, now that she had no husband, was thinking of returning to her native land. Moreover, Napoleon had overrun practically the whole of Europe and exile was necessary. The Duchess felt that she should be in England, for there she could be near her daughter and see something of her little granddaughter, the Princess Charlotte.

Caroline was not very pleased at the thought of having her mother living in England but she saw that she must receive her graciously. Her brother also was in exile since he had been driven from his country by the invader, so he too just come to England.

It was a dreary prospect, but there was nothing to be done but bow to it. The royal family made no effort to welcome their relations so Caroline put Montague House at her mother’s disposal while she herself remained in Kensington Palace.

This was a hardship because the unconventional life she could lead in Blackheath was more to her taste than that in Kensington.

The King, though, was a family man, and he was sorry rot, his sister who chattered incessantly and talked of the changes in England since she had left and all that she had suffered in Brunswick. And eventually he took pity on Caroline and gave the Duchess a house in Spring Gardens.

It was by no means grand but the Duchess contrived to make it so; and she would sit in the dingy rooms as though in a palace and receive, for now she had returned to England she was very conscious of her royalty and wished everyone else to be so too.

Caroline ran through Montague House declaring how good it was to be back.

‘Poor Mamma!’ she said to that diligent recorder Lady Charlotte. ‘I believe she is so happy to be here. It reminds her of the old days when she was Princess Royal. And her little Court there in Spring Gardens— it is sad, don’t you think Lady Charlotte? Court! I call it a Dullification. I have rarely been so bored as at dear Mamma’s Spring Garden Court. Ah, you are thinking how sad it is that she has been driven from her home but perhaps it is not so sad as you think. She always had to take second place, you know, when my father was alive. Madame de Hertzfeldt, his mistress, was the power in the land. Dear Lady Charlotte, you always tempt me to shock you because you are so easily shocked. Never mind. I like you. You are my dear friend, my angel, and we shall entertain now. I confess I am eager to fill this place with people who make me laugh.’

So she planned parties with amusing people and ran shrieking among her guests playing Blind Man’s Buff, a game which had always been a favourite of hers.

One day the King called. As soon as she saw him, Caroline thought he looked strange. He kept telling her how pleased he was to see her, that she was a beautiful woman and constantly in his thoughts.

It was pleasant to be back on the old terms of affection which had been interrupted by the Delicate Investigation; and she told him how happy she was.

‘Ah,’ he said almost roguishly. ‘I believe you love your old uncle.’

But indeed I do. No one has been kinder to me. Why I do not know what I should have done without your friendship, for I have had little from the rest of the family.’

‘Let us sit down,’ he said and drew her on to a sofa.

She was alarmed, for his manner had become stranger and he called her Elizabeth. Then he talked incoherently of his love for her and what he would do for her and how she was in fact his Queen.

Caroline realized that his mind was wandering and when he fell on her she rolled off the sofa and ran out of the room. She stood at the door listening and peeping in she saw him sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands.

Poor Uncle George! she thought. He mistook me for someone else. He is truly going mad. She went back into the room and when he looked up she realized that he had no remembrance of what had happened. ‘It is good of Your Majesty to call on me,’ she said.

He stood up and as he approached, she curtsied.

He said: ‘I should like to see a reconciliation. It’s not good, eh, what? The Prince of Wales and his wife living apart— not together. It’s wrong. You understand that, eh, what?’

She said she did understand but it was the wish of the Prince of Wales and nothing could alter that.

When he had left she was depressed thinking of him.

He is close to the brink now, she thought. And if I lost him I wouldn’t have a friend at Court.

There was always scandal circulating round the royal family and the King lived in perpetual fear of some fresh exposure. He could not understand why his sons should have this habit for creating trouble. It made him all the more determined to see that his daughters had no chance of doing so. He was glad there were no marriages for them. Only the Princess Royal had achieved it and she appeared to be living quietly with her husband. No husbands for the others, he had told himself grimly. They shall be kept here— under my eye and that of their mother. The Prince of Wales was creating fresh scandal with Lady Hertford— another of his famous grandmothers. Not content with refusing to live with the Princess of Wales he had returned to Mrs. Fitzherbert— a good woman and a beautiful one who should have been enough for anyone. But no, now it was Lady Hertford and God alone knew what fresh trouble was in store there.

And he was so anxious about Amelia, his youngest, his favourite, his darling.

He used to tell himself that no matter what trouble the others caused him there was always Amelia.

But even she caused him anxiety for she grew more wan every day. She had developed a lameness in her knee which he knew gave her great pain.

He would weep when he saw her and embrace her covering her face with kisses.

‘Your Papa feels the pain with you, my darling. You, understand that, eh, what?’

And she would nod and tell him: ‘But it is not such had pain, Papa,’ just for the sake of comforting him. His angel, his darling! How different from his sons.

The sea bathing at Worthing had done her good but only for a time. And he had to face the fact that as the months passed she grew no better.

She was his little invalid. He asked after her continually. ‘She is better today, Your Majesty,’ they would tell him; and he believed that they told him so on the Queen’s orders, for the Queen was determined that the King must not be upset.

His eyes were failing and he would put his face close to hers trying to tell himself that she looked a little better than when he last saw her; and whenever he asked her, she would always say, ‘Much better, Papa. Much, much better.’ And perhaps add: ‘I took a little walk in the gardens today.’

So even the best of his children gave him cause to worry. In spite of his expectations, trouble came from an unsuspected quarter.

The Prime Minister, Lord Portland, came to see him on a grave matter.

‘It concerns the Duke of York, Your Majesty, and a certain Mary Anne Clarke.’

‘Mary Anne Clarke!’ He had never heard of the woman. And Frederick couldn’t have made one of those marriages his sons were fond of making because he was married already. ‘Who is this woman?’

‘A woman, Your Majesty, of dubious character.’

‘ H’m. And what is the trouble, eh, what?’

‘A question has been raised in the House of Commons, sir, by a Colonel Wardle. He brings a charge against the Duke for wrong use of military patronage which as Commander in Chief of the Army he has been in a position to carry out.’

‘And what has this— woman to do with it?’

‘She is the Duke’s mistress, Your Majesty, and has been selling promotions which she has persuaded the Duke to give.’

‘Oh, God,’ cried the King. ‘What next?’

The Prime Minister said that he feared a great scandal as the House was insisting on an enquiry which would of course expose the Duke’s intrigue with this not very reputable young woman and would— if the charges were proved— result in his being expelled from the Army.

‘And so— there is to be this— enquiry.’

‘I fear so, sir.’

So this is the next disaster, thought the King. Can so much happen in one family? Am I dreaming it? Am I going mad? The great topic for the time was the scandal of the Duke of York and Mary Anne Clarke.

Mary Anne was an extremely handsome woman in her early thirties who had begun her life in Ball and Pin Alley near Chancery Lane. Her mother was widowed when Mary Anne was a child and later married a compositor, the son of whose master was attracted by the pretty child and had her educated. Mary Anne in due course married a stone mason named Clarke and later went on the stage where she played Portia at the Haymarket Theatre. Here she was noticed and became the mistress of several members of the peerage. At the house of one of these she made the acquaintance of the Duke of York who was immediately infatuated, and set her up in a mansion in Gloucester Place.

The doting Duke had promised her a large income but was constantly in debt and not always able to pay it; Mary Anne’s expenses were enormous and so to provide the large sums she needed she had the idea of selling promotions in the Army.

This was the sordid story which became the gossip of London. The Duke was in despair, but when Mary Anne was called upon to give evidence at the bar of the House of Commons she did so with jaunty abandon.

The Duke’s letters to her were read aloud in the House and these caused great merriment. All over London they were quoted— and embellished. This was the cause célèbre of the day.

The King shut himself into his apartments and the Queen could hear him talking to himself, talking, talking, until he was hoarse. He was praying too. And it was clear that he did not know for whom he prayed.

Amelia was sent to comfort him; and this she did by telling him how well she felt— never so well in her life.

And that did ease him considerably.

It emerged from the Select Committee which tried the case, that the Duke was not guilty of nefarious practices however much his mistress might have been; but all the same he had to resign his post in the Army.

He broke with Mary Anne, but he had not finished with her because she threatened to publish the letters he had written to her. These were bought for £7,000 down and a Pension of £400 a year.

But people went on talking of Mary Anne Clarke; and it was noticed that the King’s health was even worse than it had been before.

The Mary Anne Clarke scandal had scarcely died down when another and far more dramatic one burst on London, This concerned Ernest, Duke of Cumberland — the King’s fifth son.

Ernest was the last son the King would have expected to bring trouble. He had been sent to Germany to learn his soldiering where he had acquitted himself with honour; and when he had come back to England in 1796 he was made a lieutenant-general. Not only was he an excellent military leader but he had shown some skill in the House of Lords; he was an able debater and was regarded with respect by the Prince of Wales. The most likeable quality of the brothers was their loyalty to each other; and Ernest was determined that when George became King he would be beside him.

It was the night of May 10th. Duke Ernest had been to a concert and according to himself, retired to bed in his apartments in St. James’s Palace. Soon after midnight his screams awoke his servants who rushing in found him in his bed with a wound at the side of his head. One of the servants had fallen over the Duke’s sword which lay, on the floor and was spattered with fresh blood.

The Palace was soon aroused; doctors were sent for; and it was noticed that the Prince’s valet, an Italian named Sellis, was missing. One of the servants went to call him and ran screaming from the room. Sellis was lying on the floor, a razor beside him, his throat cut.

What happened in the Duke of Cumberland’s apartments on that fateful last night in May no one could be quite sure but there was rumour enough. The Duke’s story was that a noise in his room had awakened him and before he had time to light a candle, he had received a blow on the side of his head. He had started up, and as his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness he received another and more violent blow; he had felt the blood streaming down his face as he fell back on his pillows screaming for help.

That was all he could tell them.

The public was excited. This was far more dramatic than the recent Mary Anne Clarke scandal. A royal Duke attacked in his bed; his valet murdered. There would be an inquest. What would come out of that? Speculation ran wild.

The valet had a very beautiful wife. Everyone knew the weakness of the royal princes where women were concerned. Why should a valet attack a duke? Why should the valet be murdered?

The King was becoming quite incoherent.

‘This terrible scandal,’ he said. ‘What does it mean, eh, what does it mean, eh, what? This is worse than anything the Prince of Wales ever did. Ernest— what does it mean— what can it mean?’

There was one fact which kept hammering on his mind.

The valet had a beautiful wife. He kept seeing pictures of Ernest and a woman — a dark woman. Italian? Oh, God, help me, groaned the King. This family of mine will drive me mad.

The inquest was conducted with decorum and respect for the royal family. It was not easy to sort out the evidence. It seemed incomprehensible. Why should the valet attempt to murder the Duke and then commit suicide?

The public had the answer. It was discussed in all the coffee and chocolate houses. It was simple, wasn’t it? Sellis had found his wife in bed with the Duke, had attacked him, and the Duke retaliated by murdering the valet and making it appear as suicide.

It seemed the only logical answer. And knowing these princes, a very reasonable one.

At the inquest the verdict of, suicide was brought in. Sellis, it was said, had gone mad, had attacked his master and realizing what he had done had committed suicide. That the Duke had been attacked was indisputable. The blow on his head had cut deep and could have killed him. Why the Duke’s sword should have been stained with fresh blood was never answered. But the people had their verdict and they were not going to be diverted from it by a mere jury, ‘What would happen to us, eh,’ they asked each other, ‘if we committed murder?’

‘Hanged by the neck. That’s what. But then we’re not royal dukes.’

The King muttered to himself as he paced up and down his apartments. ‘What next, eh? What next?’

The Prince of Wales discussed the state of affairs with Lady Hertford. He was most humble with the lady as he needed to be for she made it clear that she would not be an easy victim. That was why he was so desperate. She was not beautiful, but her elegance was supreme. She was the best dressed woman in London and cared passionately for the cut of a gown and that the jewellery she wore should be in absolute keeping with her ensemble.

‘Perfection!’ the Prince would sigh looking at her. But she was frigid and made it clear that she had her reputation to consider. She had no need of the gifts he could bestow for she was the wife of one of the richest peers in the country. He might win her by accepting her advice but he was supposed to be a Whig and she was the most ardent of Tories.

This made the pursuit of her full of difficulties and the more exciting because of it.

But she was most gracious when he talked politics and if he were to ask her advice she became almost affectionate, so different from Maria. There could not have been a woman less like Maria. Was that why he was attracted? He knew he wanted them both. But he had Maria. Maria was his affectionate and devoted wife; there was no need to pursue Maria.

But he was madly in love with his elusive frigid fashion plate.

Now she listened with interest to the state of the King’s health.

‘It grows worse, I hear,’ she said. Her eyes glinted. ‘It could mean that he cannot live much longer.’

A king! she thought. Power! The Tory party triumphant! That was a consideration. But while King George III was alive it was a mere dream and Lady Hertford was not a dreamer; she liked cold reality.

She would not talk of the King’s death. That was unwise; and she was a shrewd woman.

‘It could mean a regency,’ she temporized.

‘If I became regent,’ he said, ‘there is nothing I would not do that you asked.

You would be at my right hand. How fortunate to have the most beautiful woman in England for my chief minister.’

And the Fitzherbert? wondered Lady Hertford. A Catholic. Inwardly she shuddered. She did not believe in the emancipation of Catholics, which of course the Prince did at the moment. It was not only the Fitzherbert influence but he was a man of tolerance— weakness she called it.

But if he even came to power— through the Crown or the Regency— she would certainly feel more friendly towards him.

The Prince realized how interested Lady Hertford was in the possibility of a Regency; and he wanted her to understand that this possibility was by no means remote.

‘I heard that my father remarked on his way to open Parliament that he was going to begin his speech by My Lords and Peacocks. I believe they were in a state of apprehension expecting him to carry out his threat.’

‘But he did not,’ said Lady Hertford. ‘If he had that would have been the end.’

‘He has deteriorated terribly in the last weeks. These scandals about Fred and Ernest —’

Lady Hertford pursed her lips. She did not like scandal. The Prince had been about to tell her of an incident which had been reported to him of how when the King had inspected the royal yacht, his eyes had fallen on an exceptionally pretty woman whom he had approached and regarded in manner which was alien to what was expected of him.

‘My word,’ he had exclaimed, very audibly, ‘what a pretty bottom! I’d like to slap that bottom.’ Those watching had choked with laughter and the King had sought to embrace the young woman who had quickly extricated herself, made a quick curtsey and run off.

Such incidents in public meant that he must be near breaking point.

Poor father, thought the Prince with compassion. But he did have to retire, it would mean the Regency.

And if the Regency were his, he believed, then so would be Lady Hertford.

Lady Hertford to satisfy his need for romance— always so strong in him; and Maria to go home to like a nice warm featherbed— always his great comfort in life, his wife, his soul— but to whom he had grown accustomed so that he must seek romance elsewhere.

When Caroline heard of the Prince’s penchant for Lady Hertford she shrieked with laughter.

‘He’s a fool, of course,’ she told Lady Charlotte. ‘He’d be wise to keep to Maria. He doesn’t realize when he’s got a treasure. They say he sits and looks at Madam Hertford with tears in his eyes and longing in his expression. And that Maria Fitzherbert is very angry with him. They quarrel, and she has a temper, our paragon. Not that I can’t understand that— married to that trying man. But it makes me laugh— oh, it does make me laugh, Lady Charlotte my dear, to think of these fat middle-aged people behaving like young people in love.’

She wanted to hear how the romance of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s husband progressed. And she asked everyone who came to see her to tell her what they knew.

They could not keep the news from the King any longer. Amelia was very ill.

With the coming of the autumn she contracted what was known as St. Anthony’s Fire.

The fact that the King’s jubilee was being celebrated made this even more tragic to him. Fifty years since he had ascended the throne— fifty years of anxieties and fears which had grown greater as years passed. Looking back he could not remember everything that had happened; but two things stood out in his memory; the loss of the American Colonies, and the scandals of his family. He had failed somewhere. All his efforts to be a good man and a good king had not brought him success. He had become a tragic old fellow.

‘More dead than alive sometimes,’ he mumbled. ‘And oh, God, I wish I were dead for I am afraid I am going mad.’ He was half-blind, tormented by desires for women which he had never fulfilled in his youth because he was so determined to be a good husband to a wife whom he had never wanted, worried by his children, and now he faced the greatest tragedy of all: his darling Amelia was dying.

Yes, he must face it. She was going. She could not live.

Everyone knew it although they were trying to keep it from him. They had said: ‘Amelia can do more for him than anyone else. Amelia can soothe him, comfort him.’ And so she had with her frail delicate beauty and her soothing voice and her love for him which had made all his sufferings worthwhile.

He sent for her physicians.

‘Tell me the truth,’ he cried. ‘Don’t try to delude me. You understand, eh, what? I want to know the truth. Is my daughter better? Is she, eh, what?’

‘She is as well as can be expected, Your Majesty.’

‘I expect her to be well. Is she as well as that? Tell me. Save her life. Is it too much to ask, eh, what? Go back to her. What are you doing here? You should be with her. Go to her— Tell her— Tell her—’

And he covered his face with his hands.

The physicians looked at each other. He needed their services as much as his daughter.

The Princess Mary came to him, her face blotched with tears. It was Mary who had loved Amelia best of all his daughters and who had scarcely left the sick room. That made him love Mary.

‘What is it?’ he cried as he stumbled towards her.

‘Papa, she would like to see you— now.’

He went to her room. She smiled at him. Poor Papa, who looked so wild with his jutting white brows and his red face. But he was her good kind father who had also doted on her and been charmed by her and whom it had been her duty always to soothe and comfort.

‘Dearest Papa, I am going to leave you.’

He nodded and the tears began to fall down his cheeks.

‘You must not grieve for me, Papa. I have had a great deal of suffering and shall be past all pain.’

‘My darling!’

‘And I know you love me well enough to be glad of that. Dearest Papa, I have had a ring made for you. I have it here. See it is a lock of my hair under crystal and set round with diamonds. Give me your, finger, Papa. Will you always wear it and remember me?’

She put it on his finger. He stared at it through his tears, holding it close to his eyes that he might see it clearly.

‘My darling child— my best loved—’ he began.

But he could say no more. He was remembering the day twenty-seven years ago when she had been born and all the joy she had brought into his life.

‘No,’ he cried, ‘not this— I cannot lose you. Anything— anything but this.’

And he kissed the mourning ring and watching him, smiling, she sank back on her pillows.

The Princess Amelia was buried at Windsor with great pageantry.

In his apartments the King gave way to his grief. He had lost his love, his darling, and with her his sanity.