Perdita's Prince

Carlton House

‘I HAVE NOT slept for ten nights,’ said the King. ‘Ten nights. Twenty nights. Thirty nights. I doubt I shall ever sleep peacefully again. I wish I were eighty, or ninety, or dead.’

The Queen tried to comfort him. It was alarming when he talked in this way. But he had never allowed her to share his burdens so how could she do so now? She could only talk to him about the family – and God knew that was a depressing enough subject. Little Alfred gone; Octavius ailing; the Princes indulging in brawls … and the approaching majority of the Prince of Wales.

‘Thirty-nine thousand pounds owing to tradesmen!’ wailed the King. ‘And a good proportion of it for wine … When I think of the way I ordered their diet … Why did my son become a drunkard?’

‘It is because he is young.’

The King ignored her. ‘I was young, Madam. But I was never a drunkard. Tailors, trivialities, jewellers … Wine and women … He thinks of nothing else. Can you make excuses for that, Madam, eh, what?’

The Queen looked sad. It was no use blaming her for the Prince’s wildness.

‘It is his companions, I doubt not.’

His companions! The King nodded. Fox – that man who haunted his dreams, who mocked him in his secret thoughts, the nephew of Sarah Lennox, the man with Stuart blood in his veins, who was a distant connection of his from the gay feckless charming side of the family. And the Prince had chosen this man for his companion. No, it was Fox who had chosen the Prince. The King knew why. To turn him against his father; to make a rake of him, a drunkard, a womanizer, a politician in direct opposition to his own father. And Sheridan was another as bad as Fox. The King could imagine their witty conversation, the barbs which would Le directed against the Palace of Piety. Oh he knew what they called his Court; he knew how they jeered at him and the Queen. And the Prince with them!

It was intolerable. But what did he do when he wanted to buy his indiscreet letters from a play actress? Come to his father! What did he do when he wanted an allowance, his own establishment? Come to the King!

He was asking for £100 000 a year – and Fox would try to help him get it.

‘He’ll not have it,’ said the King, his eyes protruding.

‘What’s that?’ asked the Queen fearfully.

‘One hundred thousand pounds a year he wants. To spend on wine and women.’

The Queen looked shocked.

‘He’ll not get it. He’ll not get it. You understand me, eh, what?’

The Queen nodded sadly and the King was a little mollified. At least she caused him no anxiety.

He almost confided his worries to her over the Government. He had felt stricken since North had formed a coalition with Fox. The idea of his trusted ‘good Lord North’ going over to the enemy. A coalition with Fox! He had thought North loathed the man as he did. But North for all his good qualities was a weak man. But to side with that man whom he knew the King hated, whom he knew was working with the Prince!

He felt so angry about this sometimes that he told himself it would be better if he abdicated and let his son rule in his place. Then ‘they’ would see what would happen to the country.

‘A strange thing,’ said the King sadly, ‘when a man’s son is against him, eh, what?’

‘It is not that he is against Your Majesty. He is in the hands of bad companions …’

She trailed off ineffectively. How could she comfort him? And when she saw him lashing himself into a state of anger her one thought was to do so.

‘An establishment, he wants. He wants his own house. You know what that means, don’t you, eh, what? It means that he’ll set up in rivalry to St James’s. There’ll be two Courts before we know where we are! People are already likening this to the quarrel between my father and grandfather. They are saying it’s a royal custom for fathers and sons to quarrel.’

‘I suppose there are little upsets in all families.’

‘This is the royal family. This is politics. Something of which you know nothing.’

No, thought the Queen, and whose fault is that? I wanted to know. I wanted to help you, but I have been kept in the background. I have been allowed to hold no position but be the mother of your children.

She was resentful, and yet in a way sorry for him. She did not love him. How could she when he had never taken her into his confidence, when she had always known he had married her under sufferance. Her compensation in life had come through her children, not through him.

But she was alarmed when she saw him working himself into a state of tension because she was terrified that one day he would lose his reason.

The King said: ‘He wants his own establishment. Buckingham House is not good enough for him. I have decided he shall have Carlton House.’

‘Carlton House! But no one has lived in it since your mother died. It’s almost a ruin.’

‘It’s good enough for my lord Prince,’ said the King vindictively.

Carlton House. A house of his own.

The Prince could not wait to take possession.

He went in with a group of friends; they ran up the staircases and in and out of the rooms. Cobwebs clung to the Prince’s fine velvet coat, and rats hurried out of the way. Beetles scuttled across the floor. There were patches of damp on the walls and the banging of a door brought down a ceiling.

The Prince stood in the garden among the battered statues and folded his arms.

‘It’s a ruin,’ he said, ‘but I never saw a house with greater possibilities. Carlton House will in a few months be the most elegant residence in town.’

He brought Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, to look at the place. She caught his enthusiasm. She went from room to room and decided what furniture should be needed.

‘Henry Holland is the architect we need,’ said the Prince, ‘and I’ll have that Frenchman Gaubert for the inside decorations. And of one thing I am certain: there shall be no delay.’

Nor was there. The Prince was kept informed of how the work progressed – and it did so at a great pace.

No expense was spared. Why should it be? This was for the Prince of Wales and Parliament had voted a sum of £39 000 to pay his debts.

The Prince was happy and excited.

He had visited his Uncle Cumberland who had a house by the sea and he found the place enchanting. Brighthelmstone – Brighton for short. He spent his time supervising the alterations to Carlton House, designing his clothes, dancing, drinking with men like Fox and Sheridan, making love with his mistresses, gambling, horse-racing, attending prize fights and driving down to Brighton. He had designed his own phaeton with which he always used three horses one before the other like a team – a postilion mounted on the first and himself driving the other two. It was the speediest vehicle on the road.

Artists, mercers, tailors, furriers, shoemakers, waited on him daily. He discussed with Gaubert the pillars of porphyry he would have erected in the hall; he chose yellow Chinese silk to line the walls of his drawing room; he even had a bathroom installed and this was to lead from his bedchamber.

All the alterations he planned could not be completed before his twenty-first birthday, but the house must be made ready for his occupation by that time. And this would be done.

He was contented. Even when it was decided he should receive only £62 000 a year instead of the hoped for £100 000, he was not unduly dismayed. He would go on making plans for Carlton House for a long time to come – but in the meantime he would live there. At last his dream had come true. He had his own establishment. He was independent. Now he would do as he liked. Not even the King should curb the Prince of Wales.

In November 1783 three months after his twenty-first birthday, the Prince took his seat in the House of Lords.

It seemed as though the whole of London had come out to see him ride through the streets on his way from Carlton House.

And it was well worth it. The Prince was a dazzling spectacle dressed in black velvet embroidered with gold and sprinkled with pink spangles; the heels of his shoes were the same pink as the spangles; and his hair was frizzed and curled.

The people cheered him wildly. They were greatly interested in the work going on at Carlton House. The Prince was extravagant, but this gave work to thousands and the builders and mercers, the tailors and hairdressers could not speak too highly of him. He was setting new fashions, and fashions were good for trade.

The Lords – in the traditional scarlet and ermine – were astounded by the unconventional but spectacular appearance of their Prince.

His maiden speech was greeted with loyal cheers. All forward looking men, he believed, had their eyes fixed on him.

He existed, he announced, by the love, the friendship and the benevolence of the people. He would never forsake their cause as long as he lived.

When he left the House of Lords he went to the Commons where his friend Fox was speaking in defence of the East India Bill, the object of which was to put the Company under the jurisdiction of directors who should be selected by the Government.

Fox – whose Bill this was – spoke passionately in its favour, but he had a strong opponent in young William Pitt, a boy of about twenty-four who had all the fire and shrewdness of his father, the Great Commoner. The Prince knew that young Pitt had to be watched for the King was taking him into favour – largely because he was an opponent of Fox’s.

When the Prince entered the Commons and took his place in the gallery all eyes were on him – and not only because of his black velvet and pink spangles; but because this was a gesture. He had come to hear Mr Fox, to applaud Mr Fox and to show parliament that he stood with Mr Fox against enemies even though the chief of these was the King.

Mr Fox looked ruefully about his lodgings at St James’s. He would have to sell every piece of furniture that was left if he was going to fight this election. He could no longer stave off his creditors; his gambling debts were enormous. If he were going to fight this Westminster election he must have the money to do so.

And there was no question of his fighting. He must fight.

This was one of the rare moments when he forced himself to think about money. Lucky Prince of Wales, he thought ruefully, with a parliament to take care of his debts.

But there was nothing he enjoyed like a fight – so he must call in the dealers and sell his home – and after that? He would trust to luck which had never really deserted him so far.

The coalition had fallen on his East India Bill which although it had passed through the Commons was thrown out of the Lords. Fox knew how this had happened. The King had written to Lord Temple telling him to make it known that he would consider as his enemy any man who voted for the Bill. Although not all the lords were intimidated by this threat, the Bill was defeated by a narrow margin; and this had brought down the Government. With what joy had the King commanded Fox and North to return their seals of office!

The King had then summoned young William Pitt and appointed him Prime Minister.

‘We have a schoolboy to rule us,’ was the comment, for Pitt was twenty-four years of age.

But he was the son of the great Pitt and had already shown signs of having inherited his father’s powers.

And then … Pitt demanded a dissolution of Parliament – and the result was this election which Fox could ill afford to fight.

While he sat wondering where he would go when he had sold up his home, his manservant announced a visitor.

He rose to greet Mrs Armistead.

She looked very elegant. There was no sign now of the lady’s maid.

‘My dear Lizzie,’ said Fox, taking her hand and kissing it.

‘I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time?’

‘It is in fact most convenient. Had you called a few days later that would have been another matter. Then I might not have had a chair to offer you.’

‘Ah, yes, this election. You have to fight it.’

He nodded. ‘And to provide the means I shall sell all my possessions.’

‘And then?’

‘I shall win.’

‘Of a certainty, but I was thinking of your home.’

Fox shrugged his shoulders.

‘You will need somewhere to live.’

‘I have friends.’

‘Devonshire House?’ she asked. ‘But your stay there would be temporary. You must have a home, Mr Fox. There is one waiting for you at Chertsey.’

He rose and took her by the shoulders. He was visibly moved, which was touching in a man such as he was.

She looked at him steadily. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that when I bought my home, when I accumulated my little fortune, I had something like this in mind. You are a brilliant man, Mr Fox, but a somewhat feckless one.’

He raised those bushy eyebrows which added to his unkempt appearance and said: ‘My dear dear Lizzie, are you sure that you are not at this moment being guilty of the one feckless action of a hitherto sensible career?’

‘I am quite sure, Mr Fox, because if you decide to come to Chertsey the purpose of my sensible career will have been achieved.’

He was silent for a moment and then he said: ‘I cannot understand why this good fortune should be mine, for even if I lost the Westminster election I should still be one of the most fortunate men on earth.’

‘But you will not lose, Mr Fox.’

‘No, I shall win the Westminster election – and I hope I shall be worthy of my electorate … and my sweet Liz.’

There had never been such excitement. The whole of Westminster seemed to be in the streets and taking sides over the election. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, canvassed for Fox wearing a cape of fox fur and carrying a fox muff, giving kisses in exchange for promised votes. The Prince of Wales toured the streets dressed in a blue frock coat and a buff waistcoat – dull for him but an exact replica of the clothes Fox wore for the House of Commons; and great was the excitement when Fox was returned.

The Prince determined to celebrate. It was to be a special occasion in Carlton House. Six hundred guests were invited – all Foxites. Nine marquees were erected in the grounds and four bands played constantly.

The Prince himself was a brilliant figure in pearl grey silk decorated with silver, and crowds gathered in the Mall to listen to the sounds of joy.

The King rode down the Mall on his way to open Parliament.

‘What’s the fuss at Carlton House?’ he wanted to know.

‘It is the Prince, Your Majesty. He is celebrating the victory of Mr Fox at Westminster.’

The young dog! The traitor to his father!

‘He never loses a chance to plague me,’ muttered the King. ‘And Fox is still in the House. Thank God for good Mr Pitt. He’ll be a match for him, eh, what? But why did I have a son like this? Who would have thought he would turn out to plague me.’ The people scarcely glanced at him. They were all for the Prince. They liked the rip-roaring, hard-drinking, gambling lecher. They could not appreciate a good man. These people were a feckless crowd. ‘I don’t belong here,’ thought the King. ‘We ought never to have come.’

He fell to wondering what life would have been like if the English had never driven the Catholic Stuart away, or if they had decided to take him and send the Germans back to Germany. It could have happened in 1715 or more likely in 1745. But the Germans had won and they had stayed … and as a result he was the King of England and one day that reckless young fool, that gambling, that deep-in-debt pursuer of women would be their king.

‘Serve them right,’ said the King aloud. ‘By God, serve them right.’

And the sounds of revelry from Carlton House kept echoing in his ears as he rode on to Parliament.