Perdita's Prince

Cumberland House

ELIZABETH SHERIDAN WAS apprehensive. She rarely saw her husband now. The East Burnham days seemed so far off that they might never have existed. She feared the future.

The School for Scandal alone could have made Richard a rich man; the theatre brought in a good income; but what happened? The gaming tables claimed a large share of it; and women? She often wondered about women.

How different it was from those days when they had run away together. Richard was not the same man. She had known he had great talent, and had rejoiced in it; but to what had it brought him?

If only he would have allowed her to earn money by her singing, her name could have brought audiences to rival those of Perdita Robinson. But he was too proud, he said. Vanity perhaps would be a more apt term.

But she never showed her fears. She knew that that would have alienated him more quickly than ever. In his way he had an affection for her which went deep and none of his light amours could shake. She must accept him as he was. She must never attempt to change him, for to do so would be to lose him altogether.

Sometimes she thought longingly of the old days in Bath – the happy home, the musical family … the carefree days. She had visualized life going on in the same serene way when she had married Richard. She wanted to help him succeed as a playwright and she had thought that would have been the most important thing in the world to them both.

But it was not. He would start a play and tire of it. He did not want to work; he wanted to live in gay society; he was famous for his wit which came to him spontaneously; she had heard him scatter conversational gems to the right and left – to the delight of his listeners – they came and carelessly were lost when they should have been stored for posterity’s delight.

He was indifferent to such suggestions; he only lived for pleasure. He caroused half the night and rose late in the mornings; sometimes he did not come home at all and she would lie in her bed wondering where and with whom he was sleeping that night.

And now he had become friendly with Mr Fox, and she was afraid of where this friendship would lead. Fox was brilliant; Fox was influential; she had no doubt of that. He was also a gambler and a lecher. And … she had to admit it … so was Richard.

The friendship had begun suddenly and since then had ripened; and it was going to change Richard’s career, she knew.

If he had a seat in Parliament he would become the close ally of Fox. She had tried to reason with him when he had come home so excited on that day to tell her that Fox had been to see him. ‘You would be drawn into a circle, Richard, where living is high. We could not afford it. We are in debt now.’

‘You look at life through your Bath eyes, my darling. You see life provincially. This will be the making of our fortunes if I am clever. And do you doubt that I am?’

‘No, no, Richard, but there are your plays … the theatre …’

And he had laughed at her and said: ‘St Cecilia, go back to your angels.’

And if he were successful … if he won this seat. She could see it so clearly. He would be reaching for power, he would move among men who had no need to consider money – or if they had, did not – men like Fox who had been bankrupt several times. But Fox was the son of a noble house. His father had been rich Lord Holland; he was connected with the Duke of Richmond. Sheridan could not afford to move in such circles. But he would do so all the same. The mound of bills would become a mountain. The nights away from home would be more numerous; and her anxieties would increase a hundred-fold. But there was nothing she could do.

Sheridan himself came in to interrupt her brooding.

‘Elizabeth, where are you?’

She ran to him; he swung her up in his arms.

‘Now, my girl,’ he said, ‘show proper respect to the Member of Parliament for Stafford.’

Prince Frederick was dismayed, and he went at once to his brother to tell him the reason for his concern.

‘They are sending me away, George.’

The Prince stared at him in horror. Sending Fred away! Why, they had been together all their lives, shared a thousand adventures; George constantly confided in Fred; they were inseparable.

‘What are you talking about, Fred?’

‘I have just had an audience with the King. He says that before the year’s out I am to go to Germany.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘To start learning how to be a soldier. Colonel Greville is going with me.’

‘You could learn that here in England.’

‘I know. But they’re sending me to Germany.’

‘By God,’ cried the Prince. ‘Can’t he forget his ancestors were Germans!’

‘I suppose not. There’s too much German in the family for that.’

The Prince looked at his brother in amazement, trying to imagine what it would be like without him. He sensed that it would be the end of their close relationship. They would remain friends, but their lives would be so different.

‘I believe he does it just to irritate me,’ cried the Prince pettishly.

‘No, because he thinks it’s good for discipline.’

‘You could have a commission in the army here. We could both have one.’

The Prince saw himself in a dazzling uniform of his own design. He pictured himself parading before Perdita’s admiring eyes in Cork Street.

‘That would suit me very well,’ he went on. ‘And why not?’

Frederick shook his head. He was as desolate as George at the prospect of parting.

The Prince stood before the King.

‘I have come to ask you, sir, for a commission in the army.’

‘Eh? What?’

‘A commission, sir. In the army.’

The King was not altogether displeased by what he considered a show of seriousness.

‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘Government … and people … would never allow the Prince of Wales to go out of the country.’

‘A commission here, sir. Germany hasn’t the only army in the world.’

How the young dog could anger him merely by a word and a look. The manner in which he said Germany – as though it were some inferior state!

‘That’s so,’ said the King. ‘But you will not have a commission in any army. Have you understood that, eh, what?’

‘And why not, pray?’

‘Are you addressing me?’

The Prince looked round the small chamber with an air of surprise. ‘I was not aware that anyone else was present, and as I am not in the habit of talking to myself …’

‘You insolent young dog!’

The Prince realized that he had spoken to his father in person as he often addressed him in his own private thoughts.

He murmured an apology.

‘I should think so, eh, what? And let me tell you this, sir. You have to learn to be a king, not a soldier. You will need all your time and talents to achieve that. And you’ll find there isn’t time to go chasing young maids of honour round gardens, eh?’

Oh, God, thought the Prince, is he still thinking of Harriot … What was her name?

He said placatingly: ‘I had thought, sir, as Frederick is going into the army and we have always been together, we might have both had commissions and as I may not leave the country we might both do our training over here.’

‘You think too much, sir,’ said the King, ‘of matters that are not your concern. You have enough to concern yourself with, eh, what? Now go and do it, and understand once and for all. Frederick goes to Germany; and you stay here and there is no commission for you, understand, eh, what?’

The Prince retired; as he came out into the King’s drawing room he kicked a stool across the floor to relieve his feeling.

Bumbling old idiot! he thought. How much longer shall I have to listen humbly to his drivelling nonsense?

Such changes, sighed the Queen, lying in her bed awaiting the birth of her child. Frederick to leave the family circle – and young William too! Frederick for the army and William for the navy. William was very young, but the King had said a little experience of the sea would do him no harm.

And George – dearest and best beloved – to have his own establishment.

How I wish he would come and see me without being asked to. He never did, of course. Perhaps he felt it would not be in accordance with the dignity due to the Queen. Oh, but I am his mother!

It would not be long now before the child was born. She was so accustomed to giving birth that it held few alarms for her. How different that first occasion – that hot August day eighteen years ago when she had prepared herself for her first confinement and prayed for a boy.

And her prayers had been answered – and what a boy she had produced … what a marvel of a boy, although a little wayward! But so handsome! She wished she could show them at home what a wonderful Prince she had given to the nation. They would hear of his exploits of course. The whole world talked of the Prince of Wales. She would never forget the welcome sentence: ‘It’s a boy!’ Nor would she forget how Lord Cantelupe had been so eager to tell the King that the child was safely delivered that he had not waited to ascertain its sex and had told him that it was a girl. Cake and caudle for all visitors to the Palace. And what that had cost – because the visitors had been numerous! No cake and caudle for this one. That was a blessing. After all, this was not the Prince of Wales.

Eighteen years ago; and now he was to have his own establishment. She believed he was very happy about that. Oh dear, she did hope he would not be too wild and quarrel with his father. She was terrified of those occasions when the King was displeased with his children. As she listened to his talk growing faster and faster and sometimes a little incoherent because he did not finish his sentences, that terrible fear came to her. Then she would say: It is because there is still much I have to learn about the English language that I cannot catch what he says.

She could hear Schwellenburg’s guttural accents not far off.

‘Nein, nein. Give to me. Selfs will do it.’

The pains were coming frequently. It would be soon now.

‘I think,’ she said, calmly, ‘the time has come.’

Very shortly afterwards she was delivered of a son.

The baby was christened Alfred by the Archbishop of Canterbury and his sponsors were the Prince of Wales, Prince Frederick and their sister Charlotte, the Princess Royal.

This caused some comment in ecclesiastical circles and the Bishop of Salisbury came to see the King on account of it.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘the ceremony of the baptism of Prince Alfred has given grave cause for alarm throughout the Church.’

‘What’s that?’ asked the King.

‘Sir, the sponsors of an infant take on a solemn responsibility.’

‘I am well aware of that, my lord Bishop.’

‘And this has been undertaken by people who are scarcely of an age to recognize this. The Prince of Wales himself is but eighteen years of age. His brother and sister younger. I would like Your Majesty to consider authorizing another baptism. Your Majesty could then select persons of a more responsible age.’

The King prided himself on his reasonableness.

‘I understand, my lord Bishop, your point of view. But by the time Prince Alfred is of an age to need the guidance of his sponsors, they themselves will have reached an age to give it.’

‘Sir, I believe you should reconsider this matter.’

‘Thank you, my lord. I believe I have considered it and answered your fears. You have understood, eh, what?’

No one would have dared argue with George I or George II. It was different with George III; although once he had made a decision he could rarely be shifted from it, he was always ready to treat anyone who doubted his wisdom with courtesy.

‘The Prince of Wales,’ he explained, ‘in view of his peculiar position as heir to the throne, is not to be judged by ordinary standards. When in due course he is King of this country he will be the best possible guardian for a brother who is eighteen years his junior. Thank you, my lord Bishop, for raising this point. Now it is explained, eh, what? And you have business to attend to … and so have I.’

With that the Bishop had to be content.

But when the Prince heard an account of the Bishop’s criticism he was annoyed.

‘This is what happens,’ he said. ‘It is because I am treated like a child that people regard me as a child. I, the Prince of Wales, am not considered worthy to be my young brother’s sponsor.’

He could not forget the insult to his dignity; and some days after he had heard of the incident, coming face to face with the Bishop of Salisbury, he stopped him and demanded in a voice which could be heard by all around: ‘Have you heard the news, my lord Bishop?’

‘What news, may it please Your Highness?’ replied the Bishop.

‘My father,’ the Prince told him, ‘has sent to the sponsors of the Bishop of Salisbury to know how they could so egregiously have neglected their duty, as not to have taught their god-child to hold his tongue when it becomes him.’

The Bishop was too disconcerted to reply and the Prince swept on haughtily.

Soon everyone was discussing – and laughing at – the incident.

The Prince of Wales was indeed feeling his independence.

The Prince was biding his time until he could move into his new apartments in Buckingham House. So were others. Meanwhile he had to brace himself for the parting with Frederick and not spend too much time in Cork Street because, until he was free of the Dower Lodge, he was so close to his parents at Kew that his actions would not pass unnoticed by them; it would be different once he was in his own apartments.

After Christmas the time had come for the brothers to say goodbye.

The whole family assembled; the King wept openly and kept murmuring rather incoherent instructions to Frederick as to how he should behave.

The Prince of Wales felt numb. He was surprised that he could shed no tears for never had he felt such sadness.

So close was the bond between them that Frederick understood; in fact he himself felt similarly and could shed no tears.

The brothers gripped each other’s hands and stared wordlessly at each other. There was in any case no need of words.

Then Frederick left for Germany and the Prince of Wales moved to Buckingham House. Only a round of gaiety could help him to overcome his desolation at the loss of his brother.

Riding in the Park he met his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland. As on another occasion Cumberland called to his coachman to stop, alighted and kissed the hand of his nephew.

‘Well met, Your Highness. This is a wonderful moment for me. And now you are indeed a man!’

‘I am glad to see you, Uncle.’

‘By God, what a fine coat that is you are wearing. I like the frogging.’

‘I had it made to my orders.’

‘Have I your Highness’s permission to copy it?’

‘As it is in the family … yes.’

‘Your Highness, my wife, the Duchess, was speaking of you but yesterday. She had had a glimpse of you and I’ll not tell you what she had to say of your charms. By God, I said, Come! come! You can’t expect me to compete with the youth of my handsome nephew.’

‘I did not see the Duchess or I should have had a word with her.’

‘I’ll tell her that. By God, it will make the day for her.’

‘Pray do,’ said the Prince.

‘Your Highness’s kindness makes me very bold. Dare I? I wonder.’

‘You have a reputation for daring, Uncle.’

‘So I have. Well, I shall live up to that reputation and say this: If Your Highness should ever see fit to honour us at Cumberland House … if by your great good sense … which I see exceeds that of some others … but my tongue runs away with me … If Your Highness should ever be in Pall Mall and have the fancy to be treated like a king, well, nephew, you would make a certain duke and duchess the happiest people in the world.’

‘But of course I shall come,’ said the Prince. ‘If I had had my will I should long since have put an end to these stupid family quarrels.’

‘Your Highness! You will indeed!’

‘I will. Tell the Duchess that I am curious to discover if she is as beautiful as rumour paints her.’

‘She will be overcome with joy.’

The Prince was delighted. After that old fool the Bishop of Salisbury this was the sort of thing he liked to hear.

‘And so,’ he said gallantly, ‘shall I be to meet her.’

‘May I tell her this, Your Highness?’

‘Pray do.’

‘And when …’

‘I will call on her this evening … if that would please her.’

‘Please her. She will swoon at the thought.’

‘I would not wish to put her to any discomfort.’

‘She would swoon with joy, Your Highness. I will return to her at once. This is the happiest day since our wedding day. I know she will agree with me. I will tell her of the great honour which awaits her.’

Cumberland returned to his coach and the Prince rode on.

Cumberland House! The forbidden territory. What would his father say if he knew he had accepted an invitation to visit it?

He broke into a gallop. To hell with his father’s rules and regulations!

It was with a feeling of great excitement that the Prince set out for the home of his uncle. The King and Queen were enjoying a period of domesticity at Kew and were well out of the way. No one could stop him now. If he wanted to visit his uncle he would.

Stepping into Cumberland House was like stepping over the threshold of a new life. All were waiting for him; there was no doubt that he was the most important man in the country.

The Duke was on the threshold to receive him; he bowed formally and then with tears in his eyes embraced him. And there was his Duchess waiting to give a profound curtsey to lift the most famous eyes in England to his face in a look of such adoration that his heart was immediately touched and had he not already been deeply in love with Perdita he would have fallen in love with his newly discovered aunt without fail.

She was tall and slender – like a flower, he thought; her hair was thick and gold coloured and she wore it unpowdered, dressed very high on her head with little curls and tendrils escaping here and there; her face was small, fairylike, almost fragile; she looked angelic but for her eyes which brimmed over with mischief; they were huge and green at the moment because she was wearing a green dress and emeralds sparkling about her person; and fringing them were the magnificent eyelashes – black as night, sweeping her delicately coloured cheek at one moment, lifted up like black feathery fans the next.

The Prince said: ‘They are indeed the most fantastic eyelashes in the world.’

‘I trust they please Your Highness,’ she said. ‘If they do not they shall be cut off this instant.’

‘Pray do no such thing. I could not be responsible for destroying one of the wonders of the world.’

‘How gracious, how charming of Your Highness! And how happy you make me. But we are being selfish. Some of our guests are aware of the great honour that awaits them … but not all. We have kept our little secrets … and we trust in doing so we have not incurred Your Highness’s displeasure, because from now on it shall be my pleasure to maintain yours.’

What delightful company! How free and easy! And to think he had been deprived of it all these years. He thought of Kew. Backgammon! Lectures! The only dissipation – chamber music in the family circle.

Oh, life was going to be different from now on!

His bewitching aunt – and he was overcome with amusement to consider her as such – begged for the honour of slipping her arm through his (‘for I am your aunt, you know’) and conducted him to her guests. And willingly he offered his arm and happily he talked to her, for to tell the truth he was completely fascinated by those eyelashes.

And so, the Duchess on his arm, the Duke on the other side of him, he was led to the company.

This was, of course, how it would be from now on. People – interesting, important and amusing people – would be jostling each other to have a word with him. Beautiful women swept deep curtsies as he passed and lifted their eyes admiringly to him; men bowed low.

It was a glittering assembly at Cumberland House. All the most famous Whigs had been gathered together for the occasion and they all wished to be presented to him.

There was Mr Fox and Mr Burke and Mr Sheridan, and their lighthearted, witty conversation had an immense appeal for him.

And then the surprise of the evening.

The Duchess said: ‘There is a lady to whom I feel sure Your Highness would like to be presented. Have I your permission?’

It was granted at once – and the Duchess took him to an alcove and there to his great joy and gratification was Perdita herself.

He took her hand; he kissed it; and she lifted her eyes brimming over with love for him to his face.

‘This,’ he whispered, ‘is the most wonderful moment of our lives.’

It meant that they were at last together in public, that his uncle Cumberland accepted Perdita. Never again need they meet in secret.

This was indeed independence!

What an evening that was! For the first time since Frederick had gone he ceased to miss him.

He was astonished at the company – the free and easy manners, the talk which could be bawdy and at the same time witty and brilliant. Politics were discussed; so was art and literature. Everyone listened respectfully when he spoke but he had no need to feel ashamed of ignorance, for if he were not as yet fully versed in politics he could compete successfully in discussions on art and literature. There was dancing and gambling. The stakes were high but that seemed to him right in such distinguished company. He played at Faro and watched Loo and Macao; the men who most fascinated him were Fox and the playwright Sheridan. They were the sort of men he would have liked to have had for his tutors. Well, now he might have them for his friends. Might have them? He would if he wished. This night had taught him that what he asked would be readily given, and he was intoxicated with the joy of being the Prince of Wales.

He would come again and again to Cumberland House. There would, said the fascinating Duchess, always be a welcome for her handsome nephew at any hour of the day or night – and for Perdita.

She fluttered her lashes at Perdita who was perhaps a little jealous. She need not have been. He was her faithful lover; but he had to admit that his aunt was a damned attractive woman.

He would, he declared, come again and often.

Cumberland House, he was told, was his home whenever he cared to make it so.

And when he left with Perdita the Duke and Duchess savoured their victory; because it was now quite clear that it was the Cumberlands who were going to launch the Prince of Wales.

The Prince and Perdita went back to Cork Street. He was flushed not only with triumph for he had drunk more than usual.

Perdita had drunk very little and was sober in both senses.

‘What an evening! By God, what a house! I declare ours looks like a cottage in comparison.’

He looked round it disparagingly.

‘I would rather be happy in a cottage than unhappy in the finest mansion.’

The Prince laughed: ‘Well, so would everyone else.’

She stood there, arms folded across her breasts, very pretty but too dramatic, and the Prince was in no mood for histrionics. He had caught the mood of the people he had been with and they would have been very quick to ridicule sentiment – particularly if it were false.

‘Come here and stop acting, Perdita. You are not on the stage now. Come and be my turtle dove.’

She came and sat beside him – all grace and willowy draperies.

He kissed her with passion, but his thoughts were still with the company.

‘Fox is one of the best talkers I ever heard,’ he said. ‘And Sheridan’s another. By God, they are men I would be happy to call my friends.’

She shivered. ‘You promised me once that you would not use bad language.’

‘Did I, by God.’ He laughed aloud. ‘What did you think of Fox?’

‘I thought his linen was … unclean.’

The Prince laughed again. ‘You met the most brilliant man in London and the first thing you have to say about him is that his linen is unclean.’

‘I cannot see why his brilliance should prevent his putting on a clean shirt.’

‘How severe you are. And Sheridan?’

‘You forget I know him well.’

‘A damned fine fellow. Words! He has a way with them.’

‘They’re his trade.’

‘Perdita, one would think you did not greatly like the company tonight. I trust you did because I found it most diverting.’

‘There were some ill reputations among that company,’ she said, pursing her lips.

‘Ill reputations are often the most interesting.’

She drew away from him. ‘I do not like to hear you talk like that.’

He was startled. After all the approval he had had tonight this sounded like criticism. Perdita seemed to have forgotten that although he loved her he was still the Prince of Wales.

‘That,’ he said coolly, ‘will not prevent my saying what I mean.’

She was alarmed; she saw the angry lights in his eyes. They were a warning. He had of course drunk more than was good for him. She must be careful, but she would do her utmost to prevent visits to Cumberland House. She did not trust the Duchess – nor the Duke for that matter. Ah, the Duke! How did he feel about her now? Did he remember the time when he had done all in his power to seduce her?

If she told the Prince that, perhaps he would not think so much of his uncle. But not now. This was not the moment, when he was a little peevish.

‘No one could prevent the Prince of Wales doing what he wished,’ she told him soothingly. ‘And as he is a man of great good sense, none but fools would wish to.’

She was on her feet, making a sweeping bow which was somehow reminiscent of a plump lady who had been at Cumberland House that evening. The Prince laughed – his good humour restored. Perdita laughed with him. She was so pretty when she laughed.

‘Come,’ he cried. ‘Let us have a song.’

She sat at the harpsichord and he leaned over her. He had an excellent voice of which he was very proud; she sang well, for when she had decided to go on the stage Elizabeth Sheridan had given her lessons. Their voices mingled perfectly. She wanted to sing a sentimental song of love; but the Prince was not in the mood for sentimentality.

With Sheridan in mind he began to sing the song from The School for Scandal:

‘Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here’s to the widow of fifty;

Here’s the flaunting extravagant quean,

And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.

Let the toast pass

Drink to the lass

I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’

A little primness had returned to Perdita’s mouth; she did not want to be reminded of drink, for she had always known that the Prince was too fond of it.

However, the Prince was in good spirits; and when he had enough of singing, he declared that there was no better way to end a perfect evening than by spending the night with Perdita.

In the Duchess of Cumberland’s bedchamber she discussed the evening with the Duke.

She curved her little white hands to make them look like claws and murmured: ‘We have him. He is ours.’

The Duke nodded with satisfaction. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Just wait until this gets to old George’s ears!’

‘He may forbid it to continue. Then I suppose we should have to obey?’

‘For a time.’

‘For three years. God knows what will happen to our little Prince in that time.’

‘You fascinated him. By God, he could scarcely take his eyes off you.’

‘Don’t play the jealous husband. It’s too difficult a role for you.’

‘I’ll tell you this if you’d like to hear it. I’ve never seen a woman to come near you for looks.’

‘What about Propriety Prue?’

‘Who in God’s name is she?’

‘She goes under the name of Mrs Perdita Robinson and I can tell you that she was not as pleased with our little entertainment as His Highness was.’

‘What! That little play actress.’

The Duchess regarded him sardonically; she knew all about those visits to the theatre which had not been crowned with success as far as the Duke was concerned.

‘You will I know agree that she is a beautiful one.’

‘I don’t doubt she’s pretty enough.’

‘Pretty enough for a prince … if not for a duke?’

‘That was long ago. I thought she looked well in breeches.’

‘So did many others. But this is beside the point. P P does not like us, I fear; and she undoubtedly will have influence with H H.’

‘Propriety Prue! And openly living in sin!’

‘With a prince. You must admit that makes it a very venial sin.’

‘Don’t mock, Anne.’

‘I’m deadly serious. In fact so serious that I am reminding you of something you may have forgotten.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That women can beg and plead very prettily; they can also very slowly poison a man’s mind against those who would be his friends. All these little tricks performed at dead of night in a velvet curtained bed … and the curtains, so I have heard, are held together overhead by a coronet, if you please … these tricks can be very effective. And I repeat, you should know.’

‘Since it was in such circumstances that you forced me to marry you …’

‘Not forced. I never use force. Only persuasion.’

He laughed. She never bored him in spite of his infidelities. He had given her what she wanted – marriage into the royal family, and she was content with that. He was a conceited little man – by no means the most attractive of the King’s brothers, but he had married her and she must be thankful for that. She was not of course of lowly birth like her sister-in-law the Duchess of Gloucester, whose origins were very questionable. They did not meet often; they had so little in common, except that they were married to brothers and had both made marriages which were unacceptable to the King. The Duchess of Gloucester, Lady Waldegrave that was, was dignified, and in spite of her birth played the part of Duchess to perfection. The daughter of a milliner some said and of Sir Edward Walpole – the elder brother of that gossip and writer Horace – her father had supervised her education and in due course married her to Lord Waldegrave; and when Lord Waldegrave had died, Maria, the pretty creature, had taken a fancy to the Duke of Gloucester, and he to her it seemed, for he had impetuously, without consulting his family, rushed into marriage with her.

As for the Duchess of Cumberland – there was no question of her birth. She was the daughter of Lord Irnham and one of the Luttrells; she had married a country squire, Christopher Horton, who had died leaving her very young and ready for adventure. In London she had found it – in marriage with the dissolute Cumberland soon after he had brought scandal on the family through the notorious Grosvenor case.

He didn’t regret it. She was the most amusing woman in London besides being one of the most beautiful. She was capable of acting hostess in Cumberland House and attracting all the most brilliant Whigs there – in opposition to the Tory friends of the King. For she agreed with her husband that since the King had refused to receive them at Court they must do everything they could to discomfit him. If they could, they would have set up a rival court; but this was not possible, for Cumberland lacked the intelligence and his Duchess while not suffering from this lack, while being extremely witty in a malicious way, was so coarse in her conversations that it had been said that one was forced to wash out one’s ears after visiting her. Nevertheless they did attract the Whigs to Cumberland House; and if they could only gather the Prince of Wales into their fold they could at once set up that rival court. The fact that the Prince had no establishment of his own but only an apartment in his father’s palace at Buckingham House was in their favour. They would strive to lure him to Cumberland House and keep him there so that until he had a house of his own, this might be his home. Then they could form the rival court, ‘The Prince’s Court,’ ‘The Cumberlands’ Court’ – what mattered what it was called as long as it was set up as a rival to the King’s Court and would distress that self-righteous old fool the King, who had banished them from his Court.

‘But to get back to Propriety Prue,’ went on the Duchess. ‘We must watch that young lady or she will persuade our little Prince that Cumberland House is not for him.’

‘You think she could?’

The Duchess lowered her eyes and then lifted them – a trick she had long practised to call attention to her eyelashes. If she had persuaded a dissolute Duke to marry her in the face of tremendous opposition, surely a beautiful actress could persuade a susceptible young man to discontinue visiting his uncle.

‘He was impressed with Fox … no doubt about that,’ said the Duke.

‘There are other places where he could meet the people he met here tonight.’

‘But … I am his uncle.’

‘That old mollycoddle up at the Palace of Piety is his father, but I don’t fancy he is yearning to spend his evenings there.’

‘By God, you’re right. That woman could spoil our chances.’

She leaned towards him. ‘And you know, my dear ducal lord, that we can only have one answer to that.’

He waited for it. He accepted her as the leading spirit.

‘Spoil hers,’ she spat out venomously, and her green eyes scintillated with malice.

Mrs Armistead had overheard the conversation between the Prince and Perdita.

What a fool that woman is, she thought. How long can it last? Didn’t she understand the Prince at all? He had an eye for a pretty woman. She had even caught his gaze on herself. Of course, thought Mrs Armistead, if I had gowns of silk and satin and velvet, even muslin and lawn, I could be a fair rival to Perdita.

But who is going to look at the lady’s maid? Some would, was the answer, providing the maid was good looking enough. And she was. There was no doubt of it.

And if the Prince was going to tire of Perdita, if they no longer mixed in the highest society, what of Mrs Armistead?

There was Mr Fox. She smiled, rather fondly, and she told herself foolishly. It would not serve to be foolish. She had a good example of folly before her now. She would never be guilty of that. Mr Fox would always have a special place in her life; she knew that. He had wanted to reward her but she would not accept money. Was that foolish? Did she not need money more than most. What would become of her when she was no longer young enough to work, when she had lost her handsome looks? No, she could take nothing from Mr Fox. What she gave him she gave freely.

She would tell him of course every detail of tonight’s conversation and that she believed that the Prince was beginning to tire a little of Perdita – although he was too sentimental to realize this and she too vain and stupid. And when he had tried to give her money she had always refused it. She believed he understood and in a way applauded this. She was his mistress … in a casual way. What a strange relationship, yet she would not be without it. It made her in some way long for independence. And how could a woman in her position achieve that? She must either serve a stupid woman, concern herself with rouge and powder, ribbons and patches – or seek to please some gentleman. Was one more degrading than another? It was the end which counted perhaps not the means. She was too young for a celibate existence. Mr Fox had taught her that – and of course Mr Fox was the last man to expect fidelity.

Her opportunity to win independence was now. How could she say how long it would last?

Here in Cork Street the richest men in England would be congregating. A clever woman who kept her dignity, could have a chance to win independence and a gracious middle age. All she must do was stifle a few scruples and handle the situations which arose with tact and care.

There was a young gentleman whom she had noticed and who had noticed her. He was Lord Dorset; and she did not think she would demean herself if she allowed the attraction to ripen … providing she did so gradually and above all with dignity.

Mrs Armistead had made a decision.

Now before she retired she would go over the report she would take to Mr Fox in the morning. Then to bed. But first to take out of her cupboard the white satin gown with the silver tissue and one or two other dresses which had come her way.

She held them against her. Yes, a woman was a fool who did not use the gifts a munificent nature had bestowed upon her.

Visits to Cumberland House had whetted the Prince’s appetite for gaiety. A circle was quickly forming round him. It was a wide circle, for he was ready to welcome into it men who were talented in any direction. He had quickly become on intimate terms of friendship with Charles James Fox, Edmund Burke and Richard Sheridan; but men like Lord Petersham and Lord Barrymore were also his close friends. Petersham was the best dressed man in London who would discuss for hours the right cut of a coat or what trimming should be used. He applauded the Prince’s taste and assured him that the shoe buckle he had designed was in his opinion the most elegant he had ever seen. Barrymore was a great practical joker and the Prince found this form of releasing his high spirits to his taste. But he had discernment and would not try his practical jokes on Fox any more than he would talk politics or literature with Petersham. The world was opening out for him and with his great gift for falling violently in love, he was in love with his new life. He often said that one should go to the French for fashion and the English for sport; he enjoyed both. He took lessons in boxing and fencing and excelled in them. He rode well and would drive himself in his phaeton at a startling speed. He even drove his Tilbury through the Park with his groom sitting beside him. He was beginning now to be seen not only in various houses but in public, and the people greeted him with affection wherever he went; he was always gorgeously attired and spent a great deal of time planning his toilette, very often with the help of Petersham. He could dance well, sing well, talk well; and he was undeniably handsome. He was, it was said, the finest gentleman in Europe, and the English were proud to own him as their prince.

He kept a mistress, it was true, but very few held that against him. It all added to the gaiety of life and after years of old George – who was not so old but had always seemed so – with his virtuous but oh so dull Queen who did nothing but bear children for the state to support … after these two, young George was a source of great amusement and delight.

He was imbibing Whig politics at a great rate from Fox and Sheridan; they had become his closest friends, with Burke a good third. Elizabeth Sheridan was growing more and more anxious at the turn in her husband’s fortune. They had been in debt before, but how could they afford to entertain the Prince of Wales? For the Prince insisted on visiting his amusing friend and was enchanted by the beauty of his wife and her singing in which he joined her for many a musical hour. A simple evening at the Sheridans the Prince might call it; but Elizabeth was aghast to realize what it cost to give such an evening to a prince. And there was Mr Fox with his careless attitude towards debts. Money was something neither of the three ever gave a thought to. It was merely a word … a magic sesame to give them what they wanted. One bought and forgot that it was necessary to pay.

The Prince had become a frequent visitor to Cumberland House. Perdita did not care for Cumberland House so she was not often asked, but that was not going to prevent the Prince visiting his own uncle. Fox took him along to Devonshire House where he met the beautiful Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, another of whom the King would call ‘those damned Whigs’.

The Prince was delighted with the Duchess as he had been with his aunt; she was gay, she was witty and there was the same sort of welcome for him at Devonshire House as there was at Cumberland.

Hostesses were vying for his company. He was half in love with Georgiana, half in love with his aunt; and it seemed to him that he was surrounded by beautiful women. If it were not for Perdita …

Perdita herself was drawn into the gay world. It was no use thinking she could hide her position. Everyone knew that she was the Prince’s mistress and the interest in her was at fever pitch. The papers mentioned her every day. Stories were told of her which at worst had little truth in them and at best were grossly exaggerated.

Tradesmen were constantly at the door with beautiful materials to be made into clothes for her; she bought lavishly. She had always had a passion for clothes and now recklessly unleashed it, for she believed there was no need to consider the expense. Several seamstresses were working for her night and day; newspaper men called to ask Mrs Armistead what her mistress would be wearing that day. Descriptions of her dresses were given to journalists and according to their accounts she was always decked out in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. ‘Gifts,’ the public avid for news of the Prince and his affairs were told, ‘of his Royal Highness.’

Cartoons were in circulation depicting her with the Prince; they were often ribald, often bawdy. Mr Robinson was not forgotten either; he was known to the public through the horns without which he was never depicted. Every time she went out it was to find a crowd waiting outside the house; women came forward to touch her gowns, feel the material, comment on its cost; some would make jocular remarks about the Prince’s prowess as a lover. These she ignored and she would return to the house crying: ‘Armistead. I am exhausted! Oh, how vulgar the people are!’

And Armistead would say: ‘Yes, Madam.’ And despise her mistress more than ever. She was so false, thought Mrs Armistead. No one could have loved this interest she aroused more than herself. As she did, why not admit it, for this pretence of finding it tiresome was so stupid. In fact the more Mrs Armistead felt her independence, the more she despised her mistress. Lord Dorset had been very kind and considerate. At length he had prevailed upon her to accept a little present. A little present indeed! She was mixing in the right society, for what was little to such a gentleman was a great deal to Mrs Armistead. She reckoned she had enough to invest in a little house. Why not? A roof over her head. What could be wiser? And she would furnish it with simple good taste – and it should be as different from this gilded mock palace in Cork Street as a house could be.

It was inevitable that the King should hear not only of his son’s visits to Cumberland House but that he was keeping a young actress in Cork Street.

‘Small wonder,’ he said to the Queen, ‘that I can’t sleep at night. I have had ten nights without sleep thinking of that young rake. No good, eh? What?’

‘Your Majesty will speak to him?’ suggested the Queen timidly.

‘No good,’ said the King sadly. ‘Too late. My eldest son … the Prince of Wales, is a … profligate, a rake … he keeps a play actress. You see, he’s gone over to my enemies … eh, what? Took the first opportunity. Always knew we’d have trouble with him. Keeping a play actress! Gambling! Going to see Cumberland when he knows that I …’ The King was too distressed to continue. He could only look at the Queen and whisper, ‘Eh? What?’ again and again so that she wanted to stop her ears and shout to him to stop, because she was so frightened to see him in that mood.

Perdita was faintly uneasy. Was the Prince changing towards her? Did he treat her with more familiarity? Was he using the bad language which she so deplored more frequently?

He was constantly at Cumberland House and she was not invited. Sometimes he talked of his aunt in a manner which disturbed her.

‘By God, what a woman! I’m not surprised my uncle flouted my father for her.’

It was as though he were comparing them. Surely he could not compare her with that coarse-spoken woman!

But she was at least a Luttrell … a noble family. ‘How strange,’ she had said, ‘that a woman of noble birth should be so coarse.’

‘She’s damned amusing,’ retorted the Prince.

‘For those who like vulgarity, yes.’

Had she seen the look he gave her she might have been warned, but she did not; she had a glimpse of herself in a distant mirror and was admiring the blue satin bows on her white dress.

‘I personally could never endure it.’

The Prince did not answer; he was studying the buckles on his shoes with a sullen expression.

He left early although she had expected him to stay the night. And he gave no excuse for going.

So she was anxious; but the next time he saw her he was all devotion. Gently she reminded him of all she had given up for his sake. She did not want him to take her for granted. Her husband … well he was not much to relinquish, but she had loved her child and although the little girl lived not far away with her grandmother and she could see her now and then, the devotion she gave to the Prince left her very little time.

The Prince would suggest they sing together or perhaps take the air. He liked to ride with her through the Park and the crowds came to watch them, for she must be exquisitely dressed on these occasions and they made a colourful picture.

Even she was cheered on occasions like that.

Sometimes he would stay away from Cork Street for several days; and then he would come in a mood of such gaiety that she could not doubt that he was happy to be with her. He would stay for several days and nights and declare that all he wanted in the world was to be with his Perdita.

She loved to ride in the Park, St James’s or Pall Mall, in her newest creation – always a different ensemble for she could never appear twice in the same; she would be most exquisitely powdered and patched; her face flowerlike with its contrast of rouge and white lead. Sometimes she was in frills and ribbons, at others she would wear a flowing cravat and a tailored coat, the very masculinity of which only accentuated her femininity. In satin and brocade, in muslin and linen, dressed simply in a hat resembling a sun bonnet or in a fashionable hat spilling feathers down her back and round her face, she always provided excitement for the spectators and there were crowds to see Perdita Robinson as they called her on parade. As she passed some called after her coarse enquiries but members of the Prince’s circle doffed their hats and bowed low as they went past on foot or rattled by in their carriages; and members of the King’s circle looked through her as though she did not exist.

She would return home, as she said, ‘exhausted’, and walk up and down her bedroom declaiming: ‘Am I a peepshow for people to peer at? How I long for the quiet and peace of obscurity.’ And, as Mrs Armistead reported to Mr Fox, savouring it all with relish.

She had ordered a new carriage and when it arrived she was delighted with it. No one could fail to notice it and to realize that its owner must be a very important person indeed. It was scarlet and silver; and the seat cloth was decorated with silver stars. It was lined with white silk and scarlet fringe. On the door had been painted a basket of flowers beneath which was a wreath and her initials M R in silver. The wreath had all the appearance, particularly from a distance, of a coronet, which was exactly what Perdita had intended.

She was delighted with her carriage and went everywhere in it. When it was seen outside shops people would gather round it, recognizing it, so that they might have a glimpse of her when she came out.

If the Prince was in love with his life so was Perdita with hers; but whereas he was all gaiety and high spirits, her method of enjoying life was to dramatize it. She would talk to Mrs Armistead of her child for whom she said she longed; and indeed Mrs Armistead believed she did miss little Maria, for she was fond of her. But it was absurd, commented that practical lady in her private thoughts, to choose a way of life and then complain because one had not chosen another.

It cannot last, thought Mrs Armistead. Most certainly it cannot last. And then what? Where shall we be? The debts which were accumulating were alarming, but Perdita was becoming like her lover and gave no thought to them. She was the mistress of the Prince of Wales and no one denied her credit.

Mrs Armistead often thought how differently she would have behaved had she been in Perdita’s position. There would have been no debts. Quite the contrary. Mrs Armistead would have had a nice little fortune tucked away by now. In her own small way she was not doing badly. Lord Derby had shown interest and the Duke of Dorset had not lost his; so she had her little house in Chertsey very pleasantly and safely waiting for her.

A refuge! How unusual it was for a lady’s maid to compare her position so favourably with that of her mistress.

But this was, of course, no ordinary lady’s maid.