Indiscretions of the Queen

The Wedding Night

THE bells were ringing all over London; from the Park and the Tower, the guns were booming; people stood in little knots in the streets and talked of the marriage of their Prince of Wales. Many had seen the huge wedding cake which had been driven to Buckingham House and which was so enormous that it filled a whole coach.

The Prince, whose antics never failed to cause comment— although lately it had been adverse comment— was married at last to a German Princess who would one day be his Queen. Now the heirs would come along and if he were anything like his father and the Princess of Wales like the Queen, there would be plenty— and to stare jokes were made— coarse but friendly. The Prince was pleasing them more today than he had for a long time.

And what, asked some, of Mrs. Fitzherbert, the lady who had caused such a stir when the great question in everyone’s minds had been: Is she or is she not married to the Prince?

The Queen held a drawing room and it was seen that she was noticeably cool to the bride. Caroline was going to get no help from her. It was also noted that she received Lady Jersey graciously, which was strange on such an occasion.

That lady was pleased with the way everything had happened, although there had been that horrible moment in the chapel when everyone thought that the Prince would refuse to go on with the ceremony. Now he was safely married to a wife whom he loathed. What could be better? This would give her complete ascendancy— particularly as the fact that he had been publicly married was a death blow to his liaison with Mrs Fitzherbert— the rival whom Lady Jersey most feared.

But Caroline had looked rather splendid in her glittering wedding dress; and the Prince must spend the night with her.

Alarming thought! For who could say what might happen in the privacy of the bedchamber? The Prince’s revulsion might turn to acceptance— which it must of course— and suppose he came to like the woman a little!

Lady Jersey was determined to make the Prince’s revulsion complete on that wedding night; she was reminded of something which one of the ladies of Charles Il’s seraglio had done when she feared a rival. Was it Nell Gwyn? She believed it was. That was a more ribald age of course but for that very reason the Prince of Wales might be less amused than King. Charles had been. She gave orders that the pastry which was to be given to the Princess of Wales should be impregnated with a very strong close of Epsom Salts, explaining to the cooks that there was an old maxim that if the bride were a virgin this ensured conception.

And so the family supper party took place. The Princess plied with too much spirits— as arranged by Lady Jersey’s spies and servants— was brash and over excited‚ the Prince looked on sombrely and drank steadily throughout the banquet.

He had eyed his bride mournfully and declared to his neighbour that the only manner in which he could face the ordeal before him was through a haze of intoxication.

The ceremony over, it was time for the bride and groom to leave for Carlton House.

The King, with tears in his eyes, embraced his new daughter-in-law, with deep feeling he wished her well. The Queen kissed her cheek coldly and muttered her wishes perfunctorily, but her eyes, Caroline noted, were as cold as a snake’s.

She was glad to be rid of them all at Buckingham House and in the coach with her highly intoxicated husband.

Mrs. Fitzherbert sat in her drawing room at Marble Hill where she had remained all during the morning. Miss Pigot looked in every few minutes, her eyes anxious.

This was his wedding day.

Miss Pigot knew that in her heart Maria believed that the wedding would never take place. How could it when he already had a wife?

Miss Pigot was not so sure. She kept thinking of that occasion only a day or so ago when he had ridden by the house several times, hoping for a sign from Maria. If she had given that sign, Miss Pigot knew that everything would have been so different. He had wanted Maria’s support then and she had not given it.

Miss Pigot shook her head. She regarded these two— the Prince and Maria— as her very dear wayward children who could have been so happy together and yet were constantly hurting each other.

‘Come and sit with me,’ said Maria. ‘You fidget me— wandering about like that.’

Miss Pigot sat down.

‘He’ll never do it,’ said Maria. ‘I’m sure he never will.’

Miss Pigot shook her head. She thought of all the arrangements, the ceremonies in the streets. Was it possible to bring over a foreign princess, after she had undergone a proxy marriage and then refuse to go on with the ceremony?

Yet he would have done that, she was sure, if Maria had just given that one sign.

‘He can’t,’ went on Maria. ‘It would be a bigamous marriage.’

Not in the eyes of the State, Miss Pigot wanted to say sadly . Dearest Maria, you are not married to the Prince in the eyes of the State. But Maria believed she was married to the Prince no matter in whose eyes.

Miss Pigot knew that Maria was hoping that a messenger would come to her here at Marble Hill with the news that the ceremony had been stopped. That was what she was waiting for.

‘Had you lifted the curtain, had you shown him yourself standing at the window ready to welcome him—’ began Miss Pigot.

‘I could not. The first move had to come from him.’

‘But it did. Didn’t he show that he had come out to Richmond to see you?’

‘How could we be sure that he had come to see me?’

Miss Pigot laughed. ‘Why else should he come riding out here like a madman?’

‘Oh, Piggy, this could be the end!’

‘It won’t be, my dear. Whatever happens it won’t be.’

‘She will be the Princess of Wales— the Queen of England. Well, I could never have been that, could I?’

They were silent; ears strained for the sound of horses’ hoofs.

‘They would be at St. James’s now,’ said Maria. ‘The ceremony would be beginning— Do you think—’

‘We shall hear,’ soothed Miss Pigot.

They sat listening. Miss Pigot was aware of an intense melancholy. How could it be otherwise? How could he refuse to go through with this ceremony?

She knew him, for she loved him even as she loved Maria. He was her splendid boy— spoilt, selfish and lovable. And now he was unhappy, she was sure of that.

Oh, why had he been so foolish as to leave Maria for that wicked Lady Jersey!

But then he had always been foolish, always impulsive, always acting in a way which would bring sadness to himself and those who loved him.

No two people could have been as happy as he and Maria had been— in the beginning. She had shared in that idyll; she had wanted to preserve it for the two people she loved best in the world. And they had smashed it between them like two petulant children, for Maria was not entirely blameless with her dignity, her determination not to give way and finally those outbursts of temper. Such a melancholy spectacle it had been to see that union disintegrate; and there was that dainty monster, that wicked Jezebel, Grandmamma Jersey waiting to step in.

And now— this.

They would hear soon. They must.

Yes, those were horses’ hoofs. Maria was sitting tense, her face alight with hope. She really did believe that he had refused to marry this Princess, and that he was coming back to her.

Miss Pigot was at the window. She saw the horses pulling up; the carriage was stopping at Marble Hill.

‘It is my Lord Bradford,’ she said to Maria, who still remained seated, a rapt expression on her face. Lord Bradford, who had been Orlando Bridgement when as a young man he had taken part in that ceremony at Park Street! The Prince had commanded him to stand outside the door and warn them if anyone approached because Prime Minister Pitt would have had the power to stop the ceremony if he had heard it was taking place.

It was appropriate that Bradford should come now.

The footman was at the door. ‘My lord Bradford—’

Maria rose and held out her hands. Miss Pigot took one look at Bradford’s face and knew.

‘The Prince of Wales has been married to Caroline of Brunswick,’ said Bradford.

Maria swayed a little. Miss Pigot ran forward and caught her.

‘She has fainted,’ she said to Lord Bradford.

Caroline surveyed the bridal chamber in Carlton House. ‘It’s grand enough,’

she said.

The bridegroom looked at her disdainfully.

‘Well,’ she cried, ‘you’ll have to like me a little bit tonight, won’t you?’

She recoiled before the look of loathing in his eyes. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said.

‘And I’m not so very much in love with you.’

He swayed about the room. And she thought of how she had dreamed of her wedding night; it should have been with Major von Töbingen but that was all over. Instead she had this man of whose attractions she had heard so much— and he had turned out to be a fat drunken creature who hated her.

‘I doubt many have had a wedding night like this one,’ she said, and she began to laugh But duty must be performed. Even he was aware of that.

He turned to her. She was laughing her loud vulgar laughter.

‘Oh, changing your mind?’ she asked.

So the consummation took place.

She is even more repulsive than I believed possible, he thought. Oh God, why was I ever lured into this? She was sitting up in bed, shaking the hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s all so romantic,’ she mocked.

He staggered out of the bed. He could not bear her near him.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘where are you going? To Madame Jersey?’

He did not look at her. His one thought was to get away from her as quickly as possible. The room was whirling about him. Too much brandy, too much wine.

He felt sick and ill.

He wept, thinking of that day in Park Street; it was winter and they had ridden off to Richmond together; the roads were icy and they had had to pause at Hammersmith— a romantic inn, supper by candlelight.

Maria, Maria, why are you not with me? Why have they married me to that vulgar slut in the bed? He had reached the fireplace. How his head ached! He felt so dizzy.

He put out a hand to the mantelpiece to support himself, missed it and fell, his head close to the grate.

He was to intoxicated to get up. He did not care. He preferred the hard floor to a bed shared with Caroline. She had got out of bed and stood looking at him.

‘All right, you drunken sot,’ she cried. ‘Stay there. Spend your wedding night under the grate!’