Perdita's Prince

Incident at Covent Garden

PERDITA GAZED ANXIOUSLY at herself in the mirror but lack of sleep had had no effect on her appearance. Her eyes looked brighter and there was the faintest flush in her usually pale cheeks. Well, although she had not slept she had not been tossing and turning with worry. She had been lying still and relaxed in a haze of contentment and excitement – certain that something miraculous was going to happen while she went over the events which had led up to this day.

Mrs Armistead would soon arrive to help her dress. How wise she had been to set up this separate establishment with her mother and her child not far off so that she could see them frequently without having them living under the same roof. Of course the pay of an actress was not so great that she could afford many luxuries. Luxury could have been hers had she been prepared to pay for it. The Duke of Rutland had offered her six hundred pounds a year and a smart town house if she would become his mistress. The Duke of Cumberland had promised even greater remuneration. But she had refused them all, explaining to Sheridan: ‘What do they think I am? A superior kind of prostitute because I’m an actress?’

Sheridan had helped her write the letters to these noblemen. ‘We won’t be too severe,’ he had told her. ‘The theatre can’t afford indignant virtue. We’ll be a little coy – perhaps hold out hope … but not yet … not yet … This should ensure their regular attendance at the theatre.’

Sherry was a charming rogue. She was ashamed really that she had succumbed to him; but during those early days in the theatre she had needed support. But when she had known Elizabeth … Yes, that was how she saw it. It was nothing to do with his refusing her the part of Lady Teazle. It was because of her refinement of feeling over Elizabeth.

The point was that they remained great friends although they were no longer lovers.

Mrs Armistead was at the door – neat and discreet as ever.

‘Madam has rested well, I trust?’

‘I slept very little, Armistead.’

‘It is understandable. What will Madam wear today?’

Perdita was thoughtful. What might happen today? Who could say? She must be prepared. Pink satin. Blue silk?

Mrs Armistead had taken out a white muslin dress trimmed with blue ribbons. It was one of her simplest.

She held it up so that above the dress her own face appeared and it was as though she were wearing it. What a handsome creature she would be … dressed! thought Perdita.

‘One of Madam’s simplest but most becoming,’ said Mrs Armistead.

A simple dress for a special occasion. How did she know it would be a special occasion? It was a feeling in her bones perhaps.

‘I will wear it, Armistead.’

And strangely enough Mrs Armistead seemed satisfied. As though my triumph were hers, thought Perdita, which in a way, of course, it was. For if I fell on hard times how should I be able to employ her, and if rich people come to my house she might ingratiate herself with some and find herself serving a lady in a very great household. It would be a blow to lose Armistead.

‘Armistead, you looked very well when you held the muslin up … as though you were wearing it. It would become you.’

‘Thank you, Madam.’

‘There is that other muslin … the one with the lavender coloured buttons. I caught it … and there is a little tear in the skirt.’

‘I saw it and mended it, Madam.’

Oh, excellent, Armistead! It would be a great loss if she went.

‘With a little alteration it could be made to fit you. You may have it.’

‘Thank you, Madam.’ No show of pleasure. Just a cool thank you. One could never be sure what Armistead was thinking; all one knew was that she was the perfect lady’s maid.

As soon as Perdita slipped on the white dress she knew it was right for the occasion. If there was a visitor she could play the lady surprised in this dress to perfection. A simple morning gown – and in its simplicity as becoming – perhaps more so in the cold light of morning – than satin and feathers.

She waited for Armistead to put on her powdering wrap, but Armistead said: ‘Madam’s hair worn loosely about the shoulders unpowdered is so becoming.’

Of course; she sat at her dressing table and Armistead dressed her hair. A curl over the left shoulder. How right she was.

Armistead stood back to admire her handiwork and Perdita said: ‘Thank you, Armistead. Now pray bring me a dish of chocolate.’

Mrs Armistead scratched lightly on the door. Perdita knew it was a visitor because she had seen the chair arrive.

‘A gentleman to see you, Madam.’

‘A gentleman, Armistead.’ Her heart had begun to beat rapidly. She must calm herself. Could it be … Did royalty arrive in a sedan chair? Did it ask humbly to be admitted? She looked down at her hands and went on: ‘Is it someone I know, Armistead?’

‘Yes, Madam. The gentleman was here last night.’

She hoped she did not betray her disappointment to the watchful Armistead.

‘It is my Lord Maiden, Madam.’

Malden! The young nobleman with whom she had talked in the wings and who had so obviously expressed his admiration for her. He was at least a friend of the Prince of Wales.

‘Show him in, Armistead.’

Mrs Armistead bowed her head and retired to return in a few minutes and announce: ‘My Lord Maiden, Madam.’

Lord Maiden entered the room and it immediately seemed the smaller for his presence – so elegantly was he dressed. His ornamented coat was frogged with gold braid, his wig curled and perfectly powdered, his heels were lavender coloured to match his breeches. He was indeed a dandy.

His eyes were alight with admiration.

‘Your humble servant,’ he said, and kissed her hand.

‘Lord Maiden, it is good of you to call on me.’

‘Madam, it is angelic of you to receive me.’ He coughed a little as though slightly embarrassed. ‘I trust, Madam, that you will forgive … the intrusion. My er … my mission is one …’

He looked at her as though he were at a loss for words and she prompted coolly: ‘Pray proceed, my lord.’

‘It is a mission which I must needs accept … having no alternative, as I trust you will believe Madam.’

‘But of course I believe you.’

‘And pardon me, Madam.’

‘For what, pray?’

‘That is what I have to explain.’

‘You are intriguing me mightily, my lord. I shall begin to suspect you of I know not what if you do not tell me what mission has brought you here.’

He fumbled in the pocket of his coat and brought out a letter.

‘I was requested, Madam, to see that this was put into none but your own fair hands.’

She took it. ‘Then now, my lord, your mission is completed.’

He was still looking at her rather fearfully and glancing down she saw that ‘To Perdita’ was written on it.

She opened it; it was brief. Just a few words to Perdita telling of admiration and a desire to see her again and it was signed Florizel.

‘Florizel,’ she said. ‘And who is Florizel?’

‘Madam, can you not guess?’

‘No,’ she retorted. ‘Any young gallant might sign himself so. It is not you, I hope, my lord. Did you write this letter?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘I am surprised that a noble lord should play the part of messenger.’

‘Madam, I beg of you do not despise me for doing so.’

‘Well, is it not a little undignified to run errands? Why could not the writer of this letter bring it himself? Why should he send you.’

‘I dared not refuse, Madam. It was a commission from His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. He is Florizel.’

She was silent. She was unsure. This was not the manner in which she had expected to be approached. As she had pointed out, Florizel could be anyone. If the Prince of Wales wished to be her friend he could not do so under a cloak of anonymity. Prince Florizel would not do. It must be Prince George.

She handed the letter back to Lord Maiden. ‘I do not believe it,’ she said.

‘Madam, I assure you. His Highness brought the letter to me himself. He commanded me to bring it to you.’

‘My Lord Maiden, there are men in the world who believe that because one is an actress one cannot be a lady. They stoop to all kinds of tricks to entrap an actress. I wish to know the truth. Who wrote this letter?’

‘I am speaking the truth, Madam. I would not dare tell you that His Royal Highness had written this letter if it were not so. You should not feel insulted. There is no insult intended. His Royal Highness merely expressed the wish that you will give him an opportunity of making your acquaintance. He was greatly affected not only by your beauty but by your acting. He admires acting, the arts, literature. He is, besides being a prince, a very cultivated gentleman.’

‘To meet the Prince of Wales is an honour, I am sure, but …’

‘You hesitate Madam? It is indeed an honour that the Prince should seek acquaintance. Will you write a note in reply? It is what His Highness hopes for.’

She hesitated.

‘But surely, Madam. You cannot still be suspicious.’

She looked at him sadly. ‘My life has made me so, I fear. If this letter was truly written by His Highness pray tell him that I am overwhelmed by the honour he does me. I can say no more than that.’

Lord Malden considered. Such a message delivered as he would deliver it could imply success. He bowed low and left her.

In his apartments at Kew the Prince was eagerly awaiting the return of Malden. With him was Frederick, to whom he was confiding his new passion.

‘You have never seen beauty until you have seen her, Fred.’

Frederick replied that he had heard of Mrs Robinson’s beauty, for rumour did seep into their quarters in spite of their parents’ efforts to keep them unsullied by the world. ‘I know she is one of the finest actresses in the theatre and one of the most beautiful women in England.’

‘It’s true,’ cried the Prince ecstatically. ‘I cannot wait to embrace her.’

‘Will she receive you at her house, do you think? You had better be careful this does not come to our father’s ears.’

‘You can trust me, Fred.’

‘It is a little difficult to get away. What if you were wanted when you were visiting? Remember Harriot Vernon.’

‘This is quite different.’

‘I know it,’ replied Frederick, ‘but you were wanted when you were meeting her, and it did become known and she was dismissed because of it.’

‘He could not touch her, Frederick. She is not a member of his Court.’

‘But you are, George. You could be forbidden to see her.’

George’s face flushed with fury. ‘It’s true,’ he cried. ‘I’m treated like a child. It will have to stop soon.’

‘It will stop soon. When you’re eighteen, and that’s only a few months away.’

‘Yes, then I shall have an establishment of my own. Then I shall be my own master. God speed the day.’

Frederick looked out of the window. ‘Malden has just arrived,’ he said.

The Prince was beside his brother and was in time to see Malden entering the Palace.

‘Now,’ cried George, all his ill-humour vanishing. ‘I shall have her answer.’

‘You have no doubt what it will be?’

George tried to look serious but he could not manage it. Of course she would be ready to fall into his arms. He was the Prince of Wales, young, handsome, popular, the most desirable lover in the country. Mary Hamilton had refused to become his mistress purely on moral grounds. He was well aware that she had had difficulty at times in holding out against him.

How different it would be with Perdita.

He was thinking of Florizel on the stage.

‘… but come; our dance, I pray:

Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair

That never meant to part …’

But it was her voice that he kept hearing:

‘… like a bank for love to lie and play on …’

How beautiful those words on her lips; what picture they had conjured up in his mind.

Oh, Perdita, why waste time in love scenes on a stage!

And here was Malden. He strode to him holding out his hand.

‘Her letter! Her letter! Where is it?’

‘She did not write, Your Highness.’

‘Did not write! But you took my letter to her?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘And what said she? What said she?’

‘She was a little inclined to disbelieve.’

‘Disbelieve?’

‘That Your Highness had written it.’

‘But you told her …’

‘I told her, but as it was signed Florizel she said she could not be sure.’

‘Florizel to Perdita. You assured her?’

‘Yes, Your Highness, to the best of my power.’

‘And she did not answer the letter?’

‘She is no ordinary actress, Your Highness, to come quickly when beckoned.’ The Prince’s face had grown scarlet and Malden hurried on: ‘I think she would wish to be wooed. She is modest, Your Highness, and could not believe she was so honoured. She thought it was some gallant playing a trick.’

‘So she wrote no answer.’

‘She would not do so.’

The Prince was baffled. Malden said: ‘I think if Your Highness wrote again … wooed the lady a little, assured her that it was indeed yourself …’

‘So you think then …’

Malden was silent.

He himself had had hopes of the lady, being half in love with her himself. It was a little hard to have to plead another man’s cause, even if that man were the Prince of Wales.

Malden went on: ‘I think, Your Highness, that Mrs Robinson wishes to imply that she is a lady of high moral character and does not indulge lightly in love affairs.’

The Prince was momentarily exasperated. He had had enough virtue from Mary Hamilton. But almost immediately he was laughing. Why of course. He would not have wished her to give in immediately. She wanted to be wooed. Well, he was capable of doing the wooing. She had had his letter; she had expressed herself honoured … if the letter had in truth come from him.

Very well, he would begin the pursuit, and in time she would be his.

He was smiling, thinking of future bliss.

Oh, Mrs Robinson!

The King had come to Kew for a little respite. How much simpler life seemed at Kew. He woke early, looked at the clock and, getting out of bed, lit the fire which had been laid the night before by his servants.

How cold it was! ‘Good for the health,’ he muttered, for he talked to himself when he was alone. ‘Nothing like fresh air, eh?’

He lit the fire and went back to bed to watch it blaze. Soon the room would be warm enough for him to sit in … comfortably.

Lying in bed he started to worry. Even at Kew he worried. Yet when he was with his ministers he felt capable of controlling them and the affairs of the country; sometimes when he was in the council chamber at St James’s he would hear his mother’s voice admonishing him: ‘George, be a king.’

Yes, he would be a king. He would control them all. Nobody was going to forget who was ruling this country. He would like to see that man Fox banished from the House. There he was … popping up … always ready to make trouble. His father had been a sly one and so was his son. Sarah’s nephew, he thought. And there was Sarah mocking him, laughing at him, as clear in his mind’s eye as she had been that summer’s morning when he had seen her making hay in the gardens of Holland House as he rode by.

His mind went to Charlotte, perpetually pregnant Charlotte. He would lecture her about her health. Not that she needed the lecture, but he wanted her to know that he was concerned for her. And Octavius, the baby; he was fretful. His nurses said that he cried in the night and wouldn’t take his food. He would have to work out a new routine for Octavius.

It was more pleasant thinking of the nursery than state affairs, even though all was not well there. There will always be worries with children, eh, what?

But he must remember that he was the King and he was the last man to shirk his responsibilities. This American affair. If only it could be satisfactorily ended. North wanted to resign, but he would not let North resign. If the Government would stand firm he was sure their troubles would be over. But when had a government made up of ambitious men ever been in unison? Men like Fox … ‘I hate Fox,’ he said aloud. He imagined the fellow – apart from all his political fireworks – was remembering the King’s folly over his aunt Sarah. Perhaps Sarah had confided in the fellow. After all, although she was his aunt there was not so much difference in their ages and Sarah had lived at Holland House with her sister, who was Fox’s mother. Fox was there … to put his mischievous finger in every pie; to laugh and sneer and scatter his wit about so that all wanted to know what Fox’s latest quip was.

He remembered Fox at the time of the Royal Marriage Bill which he had felt it urgent to bring in after the disastrous marriages of his brothers Gloucester and Cumberland. Fox had been one of those who had opposed it. ‘The Bill to propagate immorality in the descendants of George I,’ they had called it. Fox had resigned because of it. ‘Good riddance, eh, what?’ As if the Bill was not necessary – with the Prince of Wales and young Frederick showing themselves as a couple of young fools with their minds always on women. There’d be disaster from that direction if steps weren’t taken. Why even he … as a young man …

There was Hannah coming out of the past to regard him with mournful and reproachful eyes. But Hannah had never been reproachful. She had been too fond of him. Mournful, yes. She blamed herself. He was but a child, she said, when he had first seen her sitting in the window of her uncle’s linen-draper’s shop. The follies of youth! And yet at the time they seemed inevitable. But he had lived respectably with Hannah … as respectably as an irregular union could be. And then for her sake and for the sake of his conscience he had committed that act which had haunted him for the rest of his life. The marriage ceremony … that was no true ceremony of course … and yet …

This was dangerous thinking; this could set the voices chattering in his head even more insistently than thoughts of rebellious colonists, the slyness of Mr Fox, the pleading of Lord North to be released from office.

He guided his thoughts to North – a safer subject. He had always been fond of him; they had played together in the nursery when they were both young children, acted in plays together – for George’s father, Frederick, Prince of Wales, had been fond of amateur theatricals – and he and North had been so much alike that his father had remarked to North’s father that one of their wives must have deceived them and either he or Lord North must be the father of both of them. Now of course they were not so much alike – or George hoped not; North was fat as the King knew he himself would be – for it was a family failing – if he did not take exercise and watch his diet; North had bulging short-sighted eyes which he appeared to be unable to control so that they rolled about aimlessly; he had a tiny nose, but a mouth too small for his tongue, and when he spoke his speech was slurred and he spat unbecomingly. His appearance was almost ridiculous, yet he was a likeable man and because they had been friends for so long the King was fond of him. Poor North, he was extravagant and could never live within his means. As Prime Minister, of course, he had great expenses, and it had been necessary for the King to help him out of financial difficulties now and then. North on the other hand would come to the King’s assistance when he needed money and would prod the Treasury into supplying it. That unfortunate matter of the Grosvenor case … Thirteen thousand pounds for those letters Cumberland had written to the woman … And now there he was sporting with a different one; the woman with the eyelashes. Mr Fox, who had raged against the Royal Marriage Act; Hannah and Sarah; Elizabeth Pembroke, who did not belong to the past but who was at Court now; she was a woman to whom his attention kept straying; American Colonies; little Octavius who wasn’t strong; the Prince of Wales. All these subjects raced round and round in the King’s mind like trapped animals in a cage.

‘Careful,’ said the King aloud. ‘Eh, what?’

But how could he stop his thoughts?

Now his mind had switched to the riots which had broken out in Scotland and had been going on all during the year. A protest against the Catholic Relief Bill to which he had given his assent the year before. He had been glad to do it; he felt that people should be free to worship in the way they wished – as long as they worshipped; he had little patience with those atheists and agnostics or whatever they called themselves. People should go to church; they should obey the commandments; but high church, low church … that was a matter for individual conscience. But up in Scotland the low church didn’t like it at all. ‘No Popery,’ they shouted. Troublemakers. Mob mostly. Serious-minded people discussed their differences. They didn’t go about burning people’s houses because they thought differently on certain matters. Ever since he was a young man he had believed in religious tolerance. He had been lenient to all denominations. Quakers, for instance. And there he was back at Hannah.

No, no, go away, Hannah. I must not think of you … dare not, eh, what?

‘Pray God the riots don’t spread below the Border,’ he said.

Time to get up. Yes, the room was warm now … or warmer. He would devote himself to going through the state papers and then he would go to the Queen’s apartment to take breakfast with her.

When he arrived there he found the Queen already seated at the table with Madam von Schwellenburg in attendance. The King did not like that woman. He remembered how his mother, when she was alive, had tried to get her dismissed because she felt she had too great an influence on the Queen; but Charlotte had showed herself remarkably stubborn and refused to let the woman go. It was not that she wanted her; it was simply that she clung to the right to choose her own servants. He had decided then that although Charlotte might have some sway over her own household she should have none in political affairs. No, said George, I have seen what havoc women can play in politics. Look at the late King of France, how he had allowed his women to rule him. Madame de Pompadour. Madame du Barry. And look at the state of that country! ‘Not very happy,’ murmured the King. ‘Not very happy. Would not like to see my country like that. Women ruin a country. They shall never lead me by the nose.’

Charlotte dismissed Schwellenburg. The arrogant German woman was quite capable of remaining if she had not done so.

‘Your Majesty looks a little tired,’ said the Queen solicitously.

‘Eh? What? Not a good night.’

‘You have been worrying about something?’

He did not answer that question. She was not going to worm state matters out of him that way.

‘Your Majesty should take more than a dish of tea.’

‘A dish of tea is all I want.’

‘But …’

‘A dish of tea is all I want,’ he repeated. ‘People eat too much. They get fat. All the family have a tendency to fat. Young George is too fat, eh, what?’

Charlotte’s doting look illuminated her plain face. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He is well formed and because he is so handsome and fairly tall he can carry a little weight gracefully.’

‘No one can carry too much weight with grace,’ declared the King. ‘I shall have to make sure that he is not eating too much fat on his meat. Pie crust, I’ll swear … in spite of my orders that they were not to have it.’

‘George is nearly eighteen now …’ began the Queen timorously.

‘Not yet. Not yet. He’s a minor. He’ll have to remember that, eh, what?’

‘But of course, of course,’ said the Queen hastily.

‘Seems to have settled down, eh? Not so much chasing the maids of honour. There hasn’t been one to take the place of that Harriot Vernon, has there?’

‘Schwellenburg told me that he was very, friendly with Mary Hamilton, but I discovered that it was a very good friendship. Mary is a good girl and he regarded her as his sister.’

‘Sister. He’s got sisters … five of them. What’s he want with another sister?’

‘It was a pleasant friendship, that was all. Mary Hamilton is one of the girls’ attendants and he saw her when he visited them. It meant he was visiting his sisters quite frequently and I’m sure Your Majesty will agree that is a good thing.’

‘Should have gone to see his own sisters … not this young woman.’

‘They were just friends.’

‘You’re keeping your eye on him?’

‘I wish I saw more of him.’ The Queen sighed.

‘Send for him then. Send for him.’

‘I would like him to come of his own accord. But when he does come, all the time he seems to be thinking of getting away.’ The King frowned and the Queen went on hastily: ‘Of course he is so young and full of high spirits. I hear that he only has to appear to set the people cheering. In Hyde Park the people nearly went wild with joy when your brother stopped his coach to speak to them. They were cheering George … not Cumberland.’

‘Cumberland had no right …’ The King’s eyes bulged. ‘I’ve forbidden him to the Court.’

‘This wasn’t the Court. It was the Park. After all they are uncle and nephew. They could scarcely pass by.’

‘Family quarrels,’ said the King. ‘I hate them. They’ve always been. I thought we’d avoid them. But I never could get along with Cumberland. It was different with Gloucester. I’m sorry he had to make a fool of himself. But Cumberland … I don’t want the fellow at Court, brother of mine though he may be.’

‘I must say he lives … scandalous …’

The King spoke bitterly: ‘So even eyelashes a yard long can’t satisfy him.’

‘I’ve heard some of the women talking about the house he keeps … the people who go there. Fox is a frequent visitor. Do you think because you won’t have him at Court he’s trying to build up a little court of his own?’

The King looked at his wife sharply. This sounded remarkably like interference. Any conversation which brought in Mr Fox could be highly political. He was not going to have Charlotte interfering. He’d tell her so; he’d make it plain to her. But for a few moments he gave himself up to imagining the sort of ‘court’ there would be at the Cumberlands. Men like Fox … Fox was a lecher … Fox had all the vices and none of the virtues; but he was a brilliant politician, and if he was a habitué of Cumberland’s court that could be very dangerous. For where Fox was other men of affairs gathered.

The King looked distastefully at the Queen. She was not really an old woman … thirty-five or so … but having spent some nineteen years in almost continuous child-bearing this had naturally aged her. Compared with women like Elizabeth Pembroke she was old and ugly. And she was the woman with whom he was expected to be content while his brother sported on sofas with Grosvenor’s wife and before that matter was settled was doing the same with a timber merchant’s wife and before very long marrying the woman he had made his Duchess. Not that he was faithful to her. He was living dissolutely … frequenting gaming clubs, hanging about the theatres in the hope of seducing every little actress that took his fancy. Disgusting! The King could not bear to think about it … yet he could not stop himself thinking about it … and when he looked at Charlotte … plain, fertile Charlotte sitting there, smug and so obviously with child … he felt bitter against a fate which had made him a king with a high moral standard who had forced himself to be a faithful husband all these years to a woman who did not attract him at all.

‘I will deal with this affair of Cumberland,’ he said sternly.

‘Do you mean you will summon him to an audience?’

‘I will deal with him,’ said the King finally.

Charlotte looked disappointed. It was humiliating never to be able to voice an opinion. She would not have believed all those years ago when she had come here from Mecklenburg-Strelitz that she could have been relegated to such a position. She had been quite a spirited young woman when she arrived. But of course she came from a very humble state to be the queen of a great country and that had overawed her a little, and just as she was growing accustomed to that she had become pregnant – and she had been pregnant ever since.

So she accepted the snub as she had so many others, and, sighing, thought: It is no use trying to change it now. If she attempted to it would anger the King; it would upset him; and the most important thing to her now was not to upset the King. At the back of her mind was a terrible fear concerning him. At times he was a little strange. That quick method of speech, the continual ‘eh’s’ and ‘what’s’. He had not been like that before his illness … that vague mysterious illness, the truth of which his mother and Lord Bute had tried to keep from her. But she had known. During it George’s mind had become affected. It had passed but he had never been the same again; and always she was conscious of the shadow hanging over him. Sometimes … and this worried her most … she thought he was haunted by it too.

So the last thing she wanted to do was disturb the King.

The King changed the subject to the Prince of Wales.

‘I think the people liked to see the Prince with us at the theatre.’

‘I am sure they did,’ replied the Queen, glad to see him more easy in his mind again. ‘It was a splendid evening. I thought the players very good. That actress who played Perdita was very pretty.’

‘H’m,’ said the King. Very pretty, he thought. Too pretty for comfort. He had seen a young man flirting with her in the wings when she was waiting to go on stage and he believed the fellow was attached to the Prince’s entourage. He didn’t want young profligates who flirted in public with actresses about his son.

He went on: ‘The Prince should be seen more often in public with us.’

‘I am sure that is so.’

‘But I am not sure that I like to see those play actresses parading themselves before young men. I would prefer something more serious. Some good music.’

‘I am sure,’ said the Queen, ‘that would be an excellent idea and far more suitable than a play.’

Now the King was happier. He could settle down cosily to arrange an occasion when it would be most suitable for the King, Queen and Prince of Wales to appear in public.

The Queen smiled contentedly. After all, she had accepted the subservient role all these years, why complain about it now?

She folded her hands in her lap; she would never complain, she vowed, if only all the children remained in good health, her firstborn did nothing to offend his father and the King remained … himself.

The King had sent for the Prince of Wales and when young George faced his father the latter thought: He is handsome. Looks healthy too. A little arrogant. But perhaps we all are when we know that one day we will wear a crown.

The King cleared his throat. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘I hear you’ve been meeting your uncle Cumberland in the Park.’

‘We passed while taking the air, Sir.’

‘H’m. And your uncle stopped and behaved very affectionately, I hear.’

‘He behaved as one would expect an uncle to.’ Just faintly insolent … as insolent as he dared be. Resentful too. No doubt imagined he was a man already. Well, he was not. His eighteenth birthday was months away – and even then he was not fully of age. The King started to wonder as he often did in his eldest son’s presence why there was always this tension between them, as though they were enemies rather than father and son. When had he ceased to regard the Prince as one of the greatest blessings in his life and seen him as one of his greatest burdens? He kept thinking of the pink chubby baby who, everyone declared, was a bold young rascal. Spoilt from his birth, thought the King. The lord of the nursery, charming everyone with his good looks and his laughter and his arrogance … yes arrogance even in those days. But how they had doted on him – he as well as Charlotte. This Prince who, he thought then, had made marriage to Charlotte worthwhile. He had been almost as foolish about the child as Charlotte, gloating over that wax image she had had made of him and which she still kept under a glass case on her dressing table. In the Park people had crowded round to look at him, to adore him; and he had accepted all this with a cool disdainful gaze of those blue eyes as the homage due to him but of which he had such a surfeit that it bored him.

And then the others had come along and they had begun to realize that the Prince of Wales was headstrong, liked his own way, screamed for it, cajoled for it – and, the King thought grimly, invariably got it.

The result: the handsome dandy who now stood before him, seeking to discountenance him because he was young and handsome and George was old and looked his age … because he was a prince who would one day be King and perhaps resented the fact that he was not already.

There he was working up a hatred of the boy before he had done anything to aggravate him, except to stand there with insolence in every line of his – the King noted – slightly too fat body.

‘Your Uncle Cumberland is not received at my Court,’ said the King. ‘Therefore I find it unfitting that he should stop to speak to you in the Park.’

‘The people seemed pleased that he did.’

‘I have refused to receive him at Court.’

‘Yes,’ repeated the Prince, ‘the people were pleased. They are not fond of family quarrels.’

‘Your uncle Cumberland has shocked the whole country by his behaviour.’

‘I don’t think they hold it against him. Perhaps they were amused.’

How dared he stand there and say such a thing! He was trying to behave as a man of the world. Why, he was not out of the nursery yet!

‘You should take more exercise,’ said the King. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

The insolent eyes swept the King’s figure and the King was unable to prevent himself straightening up, holding in his stomach. In spite of all his efforts he did have too much flesh there.

‘I would not wish the people to think I was starved as well as treated like a child,’ murmured the Prince.

‘Eh? What?’ demanded the King.

‘I said, Sir, that I should not wish people to think I was starved.’

‘H’m.’ The King changed the subject. ‘The people were pleased to see us at the theatre together. It was a pleasant evening.’

A dreamy look came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘A very pleasant evening, Sir. One of the pleasantest I have ever spent.’

‘The play was well done, though it was Shakespeare, and not as good as some.’

‘They do other plays, Sir,’ said the Prince eagerly. ‘There is Sheridan’s School for Scandal, and er …’

‘I don’t much like what I hear of that fellow Sheridan.’

‘Sir, he’s a brilliant playwright.’

‘A bit of a profligate, I fear. He has a beautiful wife and I’m sorry to see her married to such a man.’ It was the King’s turn to look sentimental. Elizabeth Linley with the golden voice. He had heard her sing several times in one of those concerts her father arranged. A beautiful voice … the best he had ever heard; and she looked like an angel herself. One of the most beautiful women I ever saw, he thought. I’d set her side by side with Hannah … or Sarah.

‘He’s a friend of Mr Fox and I’ve heard it said they are the most brilliant pair in the whole of London – and act as a foil to each other.’

‘Any friend of Mr Fox is no friend of mine,’ said the King shortly. ‘I am very sorry to know that Miss Linley has married that fellow. Nor do I wish to go to his theatre. I was thinking of something more suitable.’

The Prince looked scornful. What a fool the old man was, he was thinking. He deliberately turned his back on the people who would be most well worth knowing. No wonder his Court was the dullest the country had ever known. He was not surprised that his Uncle Cumberland tried to set up a rival court. It was time somebody did.

His own turn must come soon. Was that what the old man was afraid of? The Prince’s eyes glistened. He thought of the people he would gather round him when the time came. Mrs Robinson would be there. What joy! What bliss! Mrs Robinson in pink satin with feathers in her hair – or simply gowned as she had been in some scenes of the play with her dark hair about her shoulders. He was not sure whether he did not prefer her like that than more grandly attired. Oh, no, he preferred Mrs Robinson any way. It would not matter how she was dressed. Everything she wore … everything she did was perfect.

That was why he felt so frustrated. Here he was unable to behave like a Prince … and a Prince of Wales at that … forced to present himself to his father whenever he was summoned, to stand before him and listen to his drivel about Mr Fox and Mr Sheridan. They were the sort of men he would have at his Court. Wait … just wait until he had his own establishment. It will be when I’m eighteen. I swear I’ll not allow them to treat me as a child any longer.

‘More suitable,’ went on the King, ‘and I have sent for you to tell you what I have chosen.’

Sent for you! What I have chosen! Oh, it was humiliating!

‘I have ordered a performance at Covent Garden – an Oratorio. Handel’s setting of Alexander’s Feast. You will accompany the Queen and myself there.’

‘Oh?’ said the Prince of Wales, and the King thought he detected a trace of insolence in his voice.

‘And now I give you leave to go and visit the Queen.’

‘Your Majesty is gracious.’

The King studied his son intently; he always felt the young fellow had the advantage because he was quicker with words than he was himself. That was the pity of it, he had turned all his good points to disadvantage – his good looks, his ready tongue, his scholastic accomplishments which far surpassed those of most young men … all these were now turned into weapons to use against his father.

‘And don’t show her how anxious you are to run away, eh, what?’

The Prince bowed. ‘I shall, as ever, obey Your Majesty’s commands.’

He retired; and the King said of his son what his grandfather George II had said of his: ‘Insolent young puppy.’

When the Prince of Wales returned to his apartments he sent for Lord Malden.

‘I cannot understand,’ he said, ‘why Mrs Robinson will not agree to a meeting.’

‘Sir, Mrs Robinson is a lady of great sensibility. She is not even sure that Your Highness is the author of the notes she has received.’

‘But you have told her.’

Lord Maiden lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘She cannot believe it. She still fears that someone may be signing himself Florizel. What if she agreed to meet you in some place and then found it was not Your Highness after all? I think that is what she fears.’

‘Then we must put an end to her fears. I will make her sure. I have it. I am to go to Covent Garden to the Oratorio. She must go too.’

‘Your Highness, the King and the Queen …’

The Prince laughed. ‘My box is opposite theirs at Covent Garden. See that Mrs Robinson is in the box above the King’s and Queen’s. There they will not see her and I can spend the whole evening gazing at her.’

‘Your Highness, what if you betray yourself?’

‘Malden, I think the King is not the only one who forgets I am the Prince of Wales. I pray you make these arrangements without delay. Go to Mrs Robinson. Tell her that I beg her to come to Covent Garden and there I will give her reason to doubt no longer that those notes have come from me.’

‘Lord Maiden to see you, Madam.’ It was the discreet voice of Mrs Armistead.

‘Show him in at once, Armistead.’

Lord Maiden appeared, elegant as ever. What a handsome man he was and his eyes told her how much he admired her, and for a moment disappointment swept over her because she feared he might have come on his own account.

He soon reassured her.

‘I come direct from His Highness, the Prince of Wales.’

She forced herself to look sceptical.

‘Mrs Robinson, I assure you this is so. His Highness is most unhappy because he fears that by approaching you he has offended you. He wishes to assure you that this is not the case. He would die rather than offend you.’

‘I would not wish to be responsible for the death of the heir to the throne.’

‘So I thought, Madam. Therefore I hope you will listen sympathetically.’

‘If the Prince wishes to write to me why does he not do so in a manner which could leave me in no doubt that he is the writer of the letters?’

‘His Highness is romantic. He thinks of you as Perdita and himself as Florizel.’

‘So could a hundred other gallants.’

‘His Highness is determined that you shall cast away your doubts. That is why he suggests a meeting.’

She was alarmed. She had heard rumours of the Prince’s light love affairs. If she met him clandestinely he would doubtless seek a quick consummation; and in a short time she would be known as Mary Robinson, one of the Prince’s light-o’-loves for a week or so. Oh, no. She had too strong a sense of her own worth, too much dignity. Nothing like that was going to happen to her, no matter if the Prince of Wales did desire it.

‘I could not agree to a secret meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘I have my reputation to consider. This happens to be rather dear to me, Lord Malden.’

‘Quite rightly so,’ said the young man fervently. ‘But hear what His Highness wishes. You could, I am sure, have no objection to being in a public place where he might see you … and give you some sign of his devotion. I am referring to Covent Garden. There is to be a royal occasion. The King and Queen will be there and the Prince begs … implores … that you will grace the evening with your presence. All he wishes is to assure you by a look and gesture that he is your fervent admirer and the writer of these letters.’

Her first thought was: What shall I wear? She thought of pink satin and discarded that. Blue! Lavender perhaps. She would have a new gown for the occasion. Because of course she was going.

‘Did you say the King and Queen will be present?’

‘Yes. The King, the Queen and the Prince of Wales.’

‘And before the King and Queen …’

‘Have no fear. Leave all arrangements to me. I will see that all is as it should be.’

‘I have not yet made up my mind whether it would be wise for me to come.’

‘Madam, I beg of you. The Prince will be desolate: he is beside himself with anxiety because he receives no reply from you. All you have to do is sit in the box I shall choose for you. He will do the rest.’

‘You plead his cause with fervour, Lord Malden. If it were your own you could not do so more earnestly.’

‘Ah, Madam. Would it were my own.’

She laughed lightly. It pleased her to be so admired.

‘Well, I do not wish to disappoint … er, Florizel.’

Malden kissed her hand. ‘Madam, this will make the Prince of Wales a very happy man. I must go to him at once and acquaint him with his good fortune.’

Mrs Armistead, listening, heard that her mistress was going to the Oratorio. A step forward indeed, she thought. The Prince will not rest until she is his mistress. He himself will come here.

There would be opportunities; and when Mrs Robinson was at the height of her ambitions – loved by the Prince of Wales – there would be a chance for a woman who was both handsome and clever to climb a little too. Perhaps not to such dizzy heights as her mistress, but … perhaps so. For all her dazzling beauty Mrs Robinson was scarcely wise; whereas her lady’s maid made up in wisdom for what she might lack in looks – only compared with Mrs Robinson, of course, because Mrs Armistead, by ordinary standards, was a very handsome woman indeed.

Her mistress was calling for her. She must show Lord Malden to the door. He scarcely glanced at Mrs Armistead so bemused was he by the more flamboyant charms of Mrs Robinson. But it would not be so with all of them.

As soon as he had gone Mrs Robinson was calling for her.

‘Armistead. Armistead. I have agreed to go to the Oratorio at Covent Garden. The King, Queen and Prince of Wales are to be present.’

‘Madam will wish to look her best.’

‘I thought of lavender satin.’

‘Madam will need a new gown for the occasion. Something which she has not worn before.’

‘Exactly, Armistead.’

‘I think Madam … white.’

‘White, Armistead!’

‘White satin and silver tissue, Madam.’

‘But so pale. I shall pass unnoticed.’

‘Madam could never be unnoticed. I was thinking that the simplicity of your gown would be great contrast to the brilliance of your beauty.’

Armistead stood there, eyes lowered – very neat and quite elegant herself in her black gown over which she wore a white apron.

‘The touch of colour could come from the feathers in your headdress.’

Mrs Robinson nodded. ‘What colours, Armistead?’

‘Well, Madam, that is a matter to which we should give a little thought. This will be a very important occasion and we must make sure that all is just as it should be.’

Mrs Robinson nodded. Oh, excellent Armistead.

For us both, thought Mrs Armistead, who was visualizing not so much the scene at Covent Garden but what would follow … the great men who would come to this house, among whom would surely be some who would realize the quite considerable charm of Mrs Armistead.

Covent Garden! A blaze of Glory. Crowds had gathered in the streets to see the royal cavalcade. The Prince of Wales looked magnificent with the glittering diamond star on his blue satin coat. How different from his poor old father and plain pregnant mother!

‘God bless the Prince!’ the cheers rang out.

The King was pleased. It was good for any member of the royal family to be popular. Good for the monarchy. As for the Queen, she was proud when she heard them calling for her son. ‘He is so handsome,’ she murmured.

It was a glittering company. Red plush and gold braid and the finest musicians in the country; and the most notable people in the land were present.

There was an atmosphere of anticipation engendered by the implication that now the Prince was growing up there would be more of this kind of thing, and there was no doubt that it was what the public liked to see.

‘It was a good idea, eh, what?’ murmured the King to the Queen. ‘The family … in public … together … in harmony.’

The Queen thought it was a very good idea.

In her box sat Mrs Robinson, attracting a great deal of attention, for she had rarely looked so beautiful. Between them she and Armistead had decided what she would wear. The white satin and silver tissue had been a brilliant idea, particularly as her feathers were of the most delicate shade of pink and green.

How much more elegant she looked than some of the women in their bright colours. She felt the utmost confidence as she reclined in her box which was immediately above that occupied by the King and Queen.

And then … the excitement. The royal family were in the theatre. She could not see the King and Queen but when the house stood to attention she knew they were there. And almost immediately he appeared in the box opposite her. The handsome glittering Prince of Wales, and for companion his brother Frederick.

Perdita’s heart began to beat very fast for no sooner had the Prince of Wales acknowledged the cheers of the people than he sat down and leaning on the edge of the box gazed with passionate adoration at Mrs Robinson.

It was true, she thought. But of course she had never doubted it, She had pretended to give herself time to decide how best she could handle this enthralling but very delicate situation. Now she could no longer plead suspicion that the letters were written by someone other than the Prince. He was giving her no doubt of his feelings.

The music had started but the Prince’s gaze remained fixed on the box opposite and many members of the audience quickly became aware of this. Whispers! Titters! Who is this at whom the Prince of Wales is casting sheep’s eyes? Mrs Robinson, of course, the actress from Drury Lane. The woman who had had such an effect upon him when he went to see The Winter’s Tale.

The audience were far more interested in this byplay between the two boxes than they were in the music. They were a very striking pair for the Prince of Wales in his most elegant clothes with the glitter of royalty was the most handsome young man in Covent Garden and Mrs Robinson was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman. And the point which was so amusing was that all this was going on right under the noses – literally speaking, one might say – of the King and Queen, whom everyone knew kept the Prince so guarded that he found the utmost difficulty in following his inclinations.

The King noticed nothing; he was absorbed by the music. Handel’s setting was perfect, he thought. Not a musician in the world to touch him … now or at any time.

The Queen, however, was less interested in the music although she thought it was fine. She had an opportunity of gazing in uninterrupted admiration at her adored first-born. How handsome he looked! How proud she was! Frederick was a good-looking boy too, but he could not really be compared with George. She thought of his odd little sayings when he was very young. Old-fashioned he had been, never at a loss for a word. And how proud she had been of his ability to master his lessons! He was really brilliant. He had been a little wayward. What child was not? She had been upset when he had been beaten and the King had told her she must not be foolish, for to spare the rod was to spoil the child. The King would now say that even applications of the rod had not achieved that purpose and none was more aware than herself of the growing animosity between father and son.

She tried to catch his eye to send him an affectionate motherly smile but he would not look her way. His eyes were fixed above their box. She wondered why.

He was smiling now; he was making strange gestures. What did it mean? Now he was holding the programme up to his face; he was drawing his hand across his forehead as though in utter despair. Extraordinary! And all this was directed somewhere over their heads.

He had lowered the playbill and cast off his mournful expression; now he was smiling in a manner which might be described as pleading. He was leaning forward and with his right hand was actually pretending to write on the edge of the box in which he sat. What was he doing?

The Queen had now lost all interest in the music; like most people all her attention was centred on the Prince of Wales who continued behaving in this odd manner, pretending to write; looking as though he were the most miserable of young men one moment and the most joyous the next.

I believe, thought the Queen, he is making signs to someone.

Every now and then the Prince spoke to his brother and Frederick too was gazing as if spellbound somewhere above the royal box.

Then she understood.

The first part of the Oratorio had come to an end. The King turned to the Queen. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Handel’s setting is perfect. Everything he has written has shown his genius. I find this excellent.’

‘I have been wondering about the Prince …’

‘The Prince, eh, what?’ The King shot a glance across the theatre. ‘He’s there. Glad he likes good music. One point in his favour, eh, what?’

‘Oh, he likes good music,’ said the Queen, ‘but he seems to be very much attracted by something above our box. I have been wondering what it can be.’

The King frowned. Then he summoned one of his equerries who had been at the back of the box.

‘Who is in the box above ours, eh?’ he demanded.

The equerry who had not been unaware of the excitement in the theatre – and its cause – was able to answer immediately: ‘It’s a Mrs Robinson, Your Majesty. An actress from the Drury Lane Theatre.’

The King was silent for a few seconds and the Queen watched him fearfully, heartily wishing that she had not called the King’s attention to what was going on.

The King was thinking: An actress from Drury Lane! It would be one of those young women he had seen perform not very long ago. And here she was at Covent Garden and the young fool was ogling her so that people were noticing.

The King again summoned his equerry. ‘Tell the actress who is occupying the box above this one that her presence is no longer required in this theatre. She is to leave at once.’

The music was resumed and the King’s equerry went to tell Perdita that she must leave at once, for this was the order of the King.

Mrs Armistead was surprised to see her mistress’s chair so early. Could she have left before the performance was over? As soon as she opened the door to receive her she had no doubt that something was wrong … very wrong indeed.

Mrs Robinson said nothing but went straight to her bedroom and there tore off the feathers and flung them on to her bed. She stood looking at her angry reflection, her usually pale face under her rouge was scarlet.

Mrs Armistead was at the door.

‘Madam sent for me?’

Mrs Robinson was too angry to deny it. Moreover, it was a relief to talk to someone.

‘Madam is ill. Allow me to help you to bed. The evening was not a success?’

Mrs Robinson looked at her maid in sudden suspicion. Was the woman too forward? Did she feel that because her mistress was a play actress she could treat her differently from the way in which she could a noble lady? She was ready to suspect everyone of insulting her.

Mrs Armistead arranged her features into a look of deep concern, which was not difficult since she believed her mistress’s success at this stage was her own.

Mrs Robinson softened towards her. Armistead was a good servant, good enough to be a confidante too.

‘I have been insulted tonight,’ she said. ‘I have been sent out of Covent Garden. Dismissed. Told to leave. As though … as though …’ Her lips trembled. ‘I wish to God I had never gone.’

‘But, Madam, surely the Prince …’

‘The Prince could do nothing. In fact I doubt he was aware of it until it was over.’

‘Madam!’

‘You may well look startled, Armistead. I have never felt so humiliated.’

‘But who would dare, Madam?’

‘The King’s orders. Very simple. His equerry came to my box. “His Majesty’s command, Madam. But he has no longer need of your presence here. I have orders to take you to your chair.” And he did.’

‘Then …’

Her face softened. ‘The Prince showed too clearly his devotion to me. I admit it was rather obvious. The King must have noticed. Hence my dismissal. I am deeply sorry that I laid myself open to this insult.’

‘Madam, I doubt not that this will but increase the Prince’s affection for you.’

‘I cannot say. But of one thing I am certain. I shall never put myself in such a position again.’

‘Tomorrow it will seem less humiliating. Allow me to help you to bed and bring a dish of warm chocolate. It will soothe you.’

Mrs Robinson sat at her mirror and Mrs Armistead let down the dark hair and helped her into her bedgown.

‘There, Madam. I will have your chocolate ready in a few moments.’

Preparing the chocolate she was thinking: What airs these play actresses give themselves! Does she think the Prince should marry her and make her Queen of England? Did she think the King would give his consent to that! And what of Mr Robinson? How dispose of him? But I believe our dear lady feels this is not impossible.

She sipped the chocolate. Delicious. Then she took it to her mistress’s room.

Mrs Robinson was sitting up in bed, the angry flush still on her checks.

‘There, Madam. Drink this.’

She handed her the cup and picked up the dress and feathers which had been flung aside.

‘Take those away,’ said Mrs Robinson. ‘I never want to see them again.’

In her own room Mrs Armistead held the white and silver dress against her and studied her reflection. A little alteration would be necessary. She tried the feathers against her own dark hair. Very becoming. Perhaps at some future date …

Lord Malden arrived next day. He brought a letter and a package from the Prince.

‘His Highness was most distressed by what happened at Covent Garden,’ Malden told her. ‘The whole company was aware of his anger. When you disappeared from your box he was quite distraught.’

Mrs Robinson bowed her head, her eyes on the letter which she was longing to read.

Lord Malden handed it to her. It was addressed to ‘Dearest and Most Beautiful Perdita’ and begged her to meet him. It was signed as usual Florizel.

Lord Maiden watched her while she read it and then handed her the packet. She gasped with pleasure when its contents were revealed. There was an exquisite miniature of the Prince of Wales painted by Meyer, delicately coloured, accentuating his good looks. The Prince had cut a piece of paper into the shape of a heart and on one side had written ‘Je ne change qu’en mourant’, and on the other: ‘Unalterable to my Perdita through life.’

‘Now, Madam,’ said Lord Maiden, ‘have you any doubt of His Highness’s devotion?’

She admitted that she had not; but at the same time she did not think it was wise for them to meet.

‘His Highness will never accept such a verdict.’

‘And if our meeting should come to the ears of the King?’

‘Madam, the Prince will be eighteen in August. Then he will have an establishment of his own. He cannot be kept at the Dower House at Kew after his eighteenth birthday.’

‘August!’ sighed Mrs Robinson. ‘That is a long way off!’

‘There is no need to wait until August.’

‘You were at Covent Garden, my lord. You saw me ignobly dismissed.’

‘Madam, the Prince will never allow you to be banished from his life.’

‘I think that until he is of age he will have to obey his father. You should tell him that much as I admire him, greatly as I appreciate his gift, which I shall treasure until the day I die, I must advise caution.’

‘Advise caution to a lover, Madam! And such a lover!’

She sighed and turned away. Then gazing at the miniature she smiled tenderly.

And Lord Maiden went back to report to his master.