The Prince and the Quakeress

George, the King

ONE COULD NOT mourn for ever, particularly if one were a Prince, continually in the public eye. Elizabeth had not been a well-known figure at Court because her physical disability had kept her to her own apartments; therefore her passing was scarcely noticed. The Princess agreed that there should be no autopsy and as the King was scarcely aware of the death in the family, George had no difficulty in seeing that his sister’s wishes were respected.

The Prince must attend levees and banquets which, Lord Bute was the first to point out to him, were actually given in his honour and if he failed to attend, those who had gone to such trouble to prepare such entertainments would consider their efforts wasted. So sighing George allowed himself to be dressed in his rich garments and he appeared at these functions where everyone was ready to pay him homage; for not only was he Prince of Wales, but he was young, and the people adored him and believed it would be a great day for England when he ascended the throne. He was not ill-tempered like his grandfather; he spoke English like a native; he was gracious, even modest, and with his fair skin and blue eyes was almost handsome, for when he smiled the heavy sullen Hanoverian jaw was scarcely visible and as his expression was invariably pleasant he was voted a veritable Prince Charming.

Life was becoming tolerable. Occasionally he visited the children, but those visits were becoming more rare. As Bute pointed out it was not wise to venture into Surrey too often because he was under continual surveillance. It might be discovered where he went and he must realize that the affair of the Quakeress had come to an end. It was a true marriage and he would never love anyone as he loved Hannah – that was understood – but as a man of the world he would understand that it was best to behave as though it never happened.

But he would never forget, George reiterated.

In time! Bute promised him. And Bute – that oracle of wisdom – was always right.

George knew that his mother and Lord Bute were concerned to find a bride for him. Perhaps that would be as well. He would marry and have children… it would be pleasant to have a family which he did not have to hide away.

His friend Elizabeth Chudleigh was giving lavish parties and she always declared that, for her at least, they were spoilt unless he attended. She would throw him languishing glances and he would find her invitations irresistible. The rather solemn old Duke of Kingston was her very good friend and they were always seen together. Many said that she was his mistress, but there were always people to whisper unkind things about Elizabeth. He knew her for a kind and sympathetic friend. And she was so beautiful. He was discovering how much he liked beautiful women.

When he thought of women now he no longer saw Hannah’s lovely but rather melancholy face. He saw brilliant Elizabeth Chudleigh’s or that other Elizabeth who was the Countess of Pembroke. Her husband, the tenth Earl, was his groom of the Bedchamber and had been for some years, which meant that George was able to see a great deal of the Countess. There was a woman he could have been very fond of. She was older than he was, but so had Hannah been and he liked older women. The Countess had recently given birth to a son and he had been congratulating them warmly. But sometimes the Countess was a little sad. He hoped the Earl was kind to her; he was not sure that he was. There were rumours that he was unfaithful. Poor Elizabeth Pembroke! He would be ready to comfort her if she needed his comfort. In fact, he often thought of himself comforting lovely Elizabeth Pembroke. It was a pleasant reverie.

And then something very startling happened, something which a few months before he would not have believed possible.

At one of his levees he was confronted by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He gasped. She was so enchanting; her skin was so fine, her dark hair abundant; her eyes perfectly shaped and her teeth showed white and even, when she smiled. It was difficult to know why she could be so lovely; it was not so much a beauty of feature but of expression, animation… colouring… he did not know what; he only knew that he was looking at the loveliest girl in the world and that the prospect excited him.

‘Who is that beautiful creature?’ he demanded of the man who stood next to him.

‘Lady Sarah Lennox, Your Highness,’ was the answer.

‘Who… who is she?’

‘The Duke of Richmond’s sister, Sir. Just returned to London from Ireland where she has been living for some time.’

‘Why did she live in Ireland?’

‘I believe she is an orphan.’

‘And she is no longer living in Ireland? Where now does she live?’

‘At Holland House, Sir. Her eldest sister married Henry Fox and she lives with them.’

‘I see. That is very interesting.’

‘Your Highness wishes her to be presented to you?’

‘No… no,’ said the Prince uneasily.

It was enough to look.

He went on looking for her on every occasion. She seemed to become more beautiful every time he saw her. Looking at her, thinking of her, he forgot all his grief over Hannah. Hannah could never have compared with this gay vital girl who danced and chattered and now and then would glance in the direction of the Prince of Wales, rather invitingly and just a little piqued because he made no attempt to speak to her.

She is beautiful, thought George. One day I will speak to her.

He became obsessed by her. He forgot Hannah and to mourn for Elizabeth for he could not be unhappy in a world which contained Lady Sarah Lennox.

His eyes were always on her. One day he approached her.

‘I know who you are,’ he told her. ‘You are Lady Sarah Lennox.’

‘How discerning of Your Highness! I also know who you are, but that is not very clever of me, is it? Since everyone knows Your Highness.’

‘I am sure you would be clever.’

‘Oh, does Your Highness think so? It is more than some people do.’

‘What people?’

‘Oh… one’s family.’

He was very grave. ‘I hope your family appreciates you.’

‘About as much as yours do, I expect. You know what families are.’ She laughed and he found the conversation scintillating. She was a little arch, having known for some time of the effect she had on him and being amused to find a Prince of Wales so shy in the company of a girl who although the sister of the Duke of Richmond, and more important still the sister-in-law of Henry Fox, was of little real significance in the exalted company of the Prince of Wales.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, laughing with her. ‘I know. I have watched you dancing… often.’

‘Yes, I know. I have seen you watching.’ And she laughed, and he laughed with her. ‘Your Highness does not care for dancing?’

‘Oh, I would not say that.’

‘I have not seen you dance.’

‘What was the dance I saw you dancing a few moments ago?’

‘The Betty Blue – surely Your Highness knows it?’

‘I confess I do not.’

‘Why, la! It is the latest fashion.’

‘I have never danced it.’

‘Your Highness should. It is highly diverting.’

‘One needs to be skilful.’

‘Nonsense. Oh…’ She put the slenderest of fingers to the prettiest of mouths. ‘Now you will be angry. It’s lése majesté or something. I told the Prince of Wales he was speaking nonsense.’

‘It does not matter. I… I am sure you are right.’

‘Is Your Highness sure?’ Her lovely eyes were wide open. What he was uncertain of was whether she were serious or not. ‘Your Highness is not going to send me to the Tower?’

‘Not unless you allow me to come with you.’

She laughed again. Nobody ever laughed as she did, he was sure. So gay, so spontaneous, so joyous. It made him want to laugh too.

‘And there,’ she went on, ‘I would teach you the Betty Blue.’

‘It is not necessary to go to the Tower to teach me that.’

‘Your Highness means that I should teach you here?’

‘Would you… would you object to that?’

‘Why, if Your Highness commanded I could not object.’

‘I would not wish to command you.’

‘Then, sir, I will say it would give me the greatest pleasure to teach you the steps of the Betty Blue.’

So she taught him – touching hands, coming close; parting and coming together again. It was bliss, thought the Prince of Wales.

He had never been so happy in his life… except with Hannah, he hastily told himself. But he must be truthful. With Hannah there had always been the sense of guilt. There was none of that with Sarah. He could dance with her, talk with her, laugh with her – and people looked on smiling at them.

Yes, this was sheer bliss.

At first the morning of the 25th October of the year 1760 seemed like any other in the King’s apartments at Kensington. The King had slept well and on the stroke of six precisely rose from his bed; as usual he asked his valet in which direction the wind was blowing. The valet always had the answer ready, for the King would be testy if he had not. And it must be correct. Then he would look at his watch and compare it with all the clocks in the apartment. There were several, for time was one of the most important factors of the King’s life.

He sat in his chair and waited for his cup of chocolate. It must arrive exactly to the minute; and it must be neither too hot nor too cold. His servants knew how to please him and he rarely had cause to complain, although when he was in a bad mood he could find many reasons. Schroder, his German valet, understood him well. ‘Germans make the best servants,’ he was apt to say; just as he said: ‘Germans are the best cooks, the best soldiers, the best friends…’

‘So the weather is good this morning, Schroder,’ he said as the dish of chocolate was handed to him and he had heard the report on the wind.

‘Yes, Sire. Some sun and pleasant for walking.’

‘I shall take a walk in the gardens. Plenty of exercise, Schroder, and never guzzling at the table.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘That’s the way to prevent getting too fat. I used to tease the Queen about her weight. Oh, she loved her chocolate, Schroder. Could not resist it. And she was a woman wise in every other way. I was always telling her she should eat less. There’s a tendency to run to fat in the family, Schroder.’

‘Oh yes, Sire.’

‘That clock is almost a minute slow.’

‘Is it, Sire? I will speak to the clock winder without delay.’

The King nodded.

But he was feeling in a jovial mood, not inclined to be angry about the clock. He was thinking of Caroline, sitting at breakfast with the family, and Lord Hervey hovering. An amusing fellow, Hervey, and a great favourite with Caroline. And all the children there. Not many of them left now. Fred had gone… no loss. And William his only other son a disappointment to him. Emily a sour old spinster. They ought to have let her marry. Just those two left to him, William and Emily… both unmarried. He couldn’t count Mary who’d married the Land-grave of Hesse-Cassel. She was too far away. Not much of a family, then. And the boy… George! He would be all right if he could cut loose from his mother’s apron strings and free himself from the Scotsman.

It would have been different if Caroline had lived. He always thought of Caroline in the mornings; in the evenings he devoted himself to the Countess of Yarmouth. She was a good woman and he was glad he had brought her from Hanover. Caroline would be pleased, he told himself. She was always fond of those who were fond of me.

He looked at the clock, drained off his chocolate and rose to go into the closet. It was a quarter past seven.

He shut the door and suddenly he felt a dizziness; he put out his hand to the bureau to steady himself, and as he did so he fell to the floor.

Schroder had heard the fall and ran into the closet; he saw the King lying on the floor, and that he had cut his head on the side of the bureau.

‘Your Majesty, are you all right?’

There was no answer. He knelt down and cried: ‘Mein Gott!’

Then he called to the other servants.

‘His Majesty…’ he stammered; and they lifted the King and laid him on the bed.

‘Call the physicians,’ cried Schroder; and at that moment Lady Yarmouth came running in.

‘Schroder. What has happened? Where is the King? Oh my God!’

‘His Majesty fell, while in his closet,’ Schroder told her. ‘I have sent for the doctors.’

Lady Yarmouth knelt by the bed murmuring: ‘Mein Gott! Mein Gott!’

When the doctors came they said they would bleed the King without delay, for it was certain that he had had a stroke. But when they tried to bleed him, no blood came.

Schroder knew what that meant. The King was dead.

Schroder also knew his duty. He had been primed in it by Lord Bute and although he served the King loyally he was not such a fool as to believe that he must ignore the masters of tomorrow for the rulers of the day.

Lord Bute had said: ‘It is imperative that if anything should happen to the King – and he is in his seventy-seventh year so it’s not unlikely – the first to know should be the Prince of Wales. It is your duty, Schroder, to see that is done. So in this unhappy event send a message immediately to His Highness and do not say “The King is dead”. Write that he has had an accident… an accident will mean that he is dying; a bad accident will imply that he is dead.’

Those orders were clear enough and it was also clear to a man of Schroder’s intelligence where the orders would come from from now on.

So while the doctors busied themselves about the bed and Lady Yarmouth knelt by the bed in a state of dazed apprehension, Schroder wrote on the first piece of paper he could find that the King had had a bad accident and he despatched a messenger with it to Kew, with the instructions that it was to be put in no hands except those of the Prince of Wales.

George was taking his morning ride in the gardens at Kew when he saw the messenger in the King’s livery riding towards him.

He pulled up and waited. His heart had begun to beat faster. He guessed, of course. They had been waiting for it so long; it had to come sooner or later and there could be no denying that here it was when he read Schroder’s scrawl: ‘Your Highness, the King has met with a serious accident.’

In those first seconds George was aware of a terrible sense of isolation. This brisk October morning was different from any other in his life. He had changed. He was not the same man he had been yesterday. He had become a King.

He shivered a little. He had visualized this so many times, but nothing is quite the same in the imagination as in reality.

There was such a mingling of emotion – fear and pleasure, pride and apprehension; a sense of power and of inadequacy.

But there was one he needed; and it was of him he first thought.

He told the messenger he might return whence he had come and turning to his groom he said: ‘Take the horses back to the stables and say one has gone lame. You have seen the messenger from the King. Tell no one you have seen this… if you value your employment.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

The Prince dismounted and made his way to the apartments of Lord Bute.

His lordship was at breakfast and as soon as he saw George he knew what had happened.

He hastily dismissed his servants and, kneeling, kissed George’s hands.

‘Long live the King!’ he cried. ‘And a blessing on Your Majesty.’

‘Whose first command will be to hold you to your promise, my lord.’

‘My life is at Your Majesty’s service.’

‘Now,’ said George, ‘I feel competent to mount the throne.’

While the new King and Lord Bute were preparing to leave for London, a letter arrived for George in the hand of his Aunt Amelia.

George took it and read it. It formally announced the death of her father and begged George to come to London with all speed.

Bute watched his protégé sign the receipt for the letter, boldly and without hesitation: G.R. A King of twenty-two, thought Lord Bute. That could be an alarming state of affairs – but not with George, innocent malleable George.

‘Your Majesty is ready?’ he asked when the messenger had gone.

George answered: ‘Let us leave.’

There was certainly a new purpose about him. The lessons had been taken to heart. How different it would have been if that extraordinary affair of the Quaker had not been satisfactorily settled. Bute grew cold at the thought. That had been a narrow escape from disaster, brought about just in time.

On the road from Kew they discussed the new position. George would have to be firm; he would be surrounded by some very ambitious men; and the most formidable of them was, of course, Mr Pitt.

The sound of horses’ hooves made Bute put his head out of the carriage window.

He sank back in his seat grimacing. ‘As I thought. They have lost little time. Mr Pitt is on his way to Kew.’

Mr Pitt’s splendid equipage with his postilions in blue and silver livery and his carriage drawn by six fine horses had pulled up beside the royal coach. Mr Pitt alighted – perfectly groomed, his tie wig set neatly on his little head, his hawk’s eyes veiled but glittering.

‘At Your Majesty’s service.’

‘You are kind, Mr Pitt,’ said George.

‘As soon as the news was brought to me I set out for Kew to offer my condolences for the loss of your grandfather and my congratulations on Your Majesty’s elevation to the throne. There are certain immediate formalities and I have come prepared to advise Your Majesty on the way to London.’

Pitt was ignoring Bute as though he were some menial attendant. Bute could say nothing in the presence of the King, but his fury was rising. George, however, had indeed been well trained.

‘Thank you, Mr Pitt,’ he said, ‘but I shall give my own orders and am on my way to London to do so. I suggest that you get into your carriage and follow us.’

Pitt was amazed. He had expected to ride with the King into London. He had thought the young man would naturally have turned to him for guidance. Moreover, it was the custom for the King’s ministers to advise the King; and here was this boy – twenty-two and young for his years – telling the Great Commoner himself that he had no need of his services.

For once Pitt was at a loss for words. He bowed; got into his carriage and while the King and his dear friend Lord Bute rode on towards London, Mr Pitt had no help for it but to get into his carriage and follow.

Bute was laughing with glee as they rode along.

‘I fancy Mr Pitt is very surprised. He thought Your Majesty would almost fall on your knees before him. He has to be shown his place.’

‘We will show him,’ said George.

‘His position is not exactly a happy one,’ smiled Bute, ‘for although he has taken power into his hands it is still that dolt Newcastle who is the nominal head of the government. That will make it easier. Your Majesty should summon Newcastle… not Pitt. Then our arrogant gentleman will realize that Your Majesty has no intention of being ruled by him.’

Indeed not! thought George. He would not be ruled by anyone. He was King. It was what he had been born for… reared for… and now he had reached that high eminence.

He looked at the countryside with tears in his eyes. His land! These people whom he saw here and there, did not know it yet, but they had a King who was going to concern himself only with their welfare. He was going to make this a great and happy country. He and his Queen would set an example of morality which would take the place of all the profligacy which had darkened the country before.

His Queen. He saw her clearly beside him. The loveliest girl in the kingdom – who but the Lady Sarah Lennox?

Pitt, regarding the new King’s strange behaviour on the road as youthful arrogance and uncertainty, arranged for the first meeting of the Privy Council to be held at Savile House. Meanwhile George, under Lord Bute’s direction, had sent for the Duke of Newcastle to wait on him at Leicester House.

There the new King told Newcastle that he had always had a good opinion of him and he knew his zeal for his grandfather and he believed that zeal would be extended to him.

Newcastle expressed his pleasure and was looking forward to telling Pitt that their fears regarding the new King were unfounded, when George said: ‘My Lord Bute is your good friend. He will tell you my thoughts.’

Newcastle was bewildered. He had always known of the young King’s fondness for Bute, but he could not believe it would be carried as far as this. He might regard the Scotsman as a parent, but surely he realized the heights to which Pitt had carried the country.

He left the King’s presence and went to see Pitt to impart his misgivings to him.

Pitt agreed that the King’s conduct was extraordinary.

‘But we must not forget,’ he reminded Newcastle, ‘that he has been ill-prepared for his destiny. When he is made aware of the position he will be easy enough to handle. I have prepared the speech he is to make to the Council and was about to leave to see him now.’

‘I will await your return with some misgivings,’ the Duke told him.

Pitt bowed before the King.

He smiled and went on to say that he doubted not the King knew the procedure on occasions such as the present – ‘of which, Your Majesty, there have been many in our history’.

‘I am acquainted with the procedure,’ said George coolly, for Bute had told him that the only way to deal with Mr Pitt was to refuse to see him as the great man Mr Pitt believed himself to be. Pitt was the King’s minister and he had to be made to see that he was not the King. ‘A misapprehension,’ added Lord Bute, ‘that his manner would suggest he deludes himself into believing.’

‘I guessed Your Majesty would be, and I have prepared your speech. Perhaps you would look over it and give it your approval?’

George replied as Bute had suggested he should, because Bute had known that Pitt would present himself and his speech at the earliest possible moment. In fact Bute had already prepared the speech, so George had no need of Mr Pitt’s literary efforts.

‘I have already viewed this subject with attention,’ said the King, ‘and have prepared what I shall say at the Council table.’

Pitt was astonished. Ministers had grown accustomed to the indifference of Hanoverian kings to the traditions of English monarchy. And here was a boy – twenty-two years old – flying in the face of custom.

‘Your Majesty would no doubt allow me to glance over what you intend to say.’

George hesitated. Bute had not advised him on this point. He said: ‘Er… yes, Mr Pitt. You may see it.’ And going to a drawer he produced the speech.

Mr Pitt cast his eyes over it and when he came to the phrase ‘. . . and as I mount the throne in the midst of a bloody and expensive war I shall endeavour to prosecute it in the manner most likely to bring an honourable peace…’ Mr Pitt paused; his eyes opened wide and a look of horror spread over his face.

‘Your Majesty, this cannot be said.’

George was alarmed, but he endeavoured to follow Bute’s instructions and preserve an aloof coldness.

‘Sire, this war is necessary to our country’s well-being. Our conquests have raised us from a country of no importance to a world power. I recall Lord Bute’s writing to me a few years ago when he deplored the state of our country in which he saw the wreck of the crown. Lord Bute was right then, Sire. Later he was congratulating me on our successes and thanking God that I was at the helm. I venture to think his lordship cannot have changed his mind since his hopes in my endeavours have not proved in vain. This war is bloody, Sire. All wars are bloody. It is not unduly expensive, for in spite of its outlay in men and money it is bringing in such rewards, Sire, as England never possessed before. You will not be a King merely; you will be an Emperor… when India and America are yours. And believe me, Sire, there is untold wealth, untold glory, to come your way. So I beg of you do not rail in your first speech as King against a bloody and expensive war.’ George was about to speak, but Pitt held up a hand and without Lord Bute at his side to guide him George could only listen. ‘One thing more I am sure Your Majesty has overlooked. You have allies. Are you going to make a peace without consulting them? Believe me, Sire, that if you use these words in your first speech to your Council you will do irreparable harm to yourself and your country.’

‘You are very vehement, Mr Pitt.’

‘Not more so, Sire, than the occasion requires. Now, will you allow me to advise you on this one sentence. The rest of your speech stands as it is written. It is well enough. But this sentence must be adjusted. Now allow me… Instead of “bloody and expensive war which I shall endeavour to prosecute in the manner most likely to bring an honourable peace… ” we will say “ . . . an expensive but just and necessary war. I shall endeavour to prosecute it in a manner most likely to bring an honourable and lasting peace, in concert with my allies.” Now, will Your Majesty agree?’

George hesitated. He saw the point. It was true that Mr Pitt was leading the country to a position it had never before attained. But Lord Bute had said they must do without Mr Pitt because Mr Pitt would not be content to work under their direction. Mr Pitt would want to rule and lead them. All the same, there was something about the man which made it impossible to rebuff him.

‘I will consider it,’ said George haughtily.

Mr Pitt bowed and left.

It is the Scotsman who was trying to influence the King, thought Pitt. We shall have to delegate him to some position with a high-sounding name to hide its insignificance.

Without that evil genius George might be moulded into a fair shape of a King.

In a room at Carlton House the Archbishop of Canterbury received the members of the Privy Council when he solemnly informed them of an event which they already knew had taken place: George II was dead and they were assembled here to greet the new King, George III.

George, who had been in an antechamber waiting to be summoned, then came in.

In his hand he carried the speech he would deliver – his first as King of England. As he came to the Council Chamber his eyes met those of Mr Pitt. The minister’s were steely; he was wondering whether George would take his advice and change the speech which Bute had written. When he had been with the King he had been sure he would; but after speaking to Newcastle and talking together of the influence Bute had on the new King – and on his mother who also wielded great influence with the young man – he was a little uneasy.

He felt that what happened in the next few moments would be an indication and he would be able to plan accordingly.

Of one thing Pitt was certain; Bute would have to be relegated to the background, and the sooner the better.

George addressed his Council. At least, thought Pitt, they have taught him to speak. The new King enunciated perfectly – trained by actors. How different from his grandfather with his comical English, and his great-grandfather who couldn’t speak a word of the language!

There were great possibilities in George, Pitt decided. A young King could be an asset, providing he were malleable and had good ministers. This was a situation which Mr Pitt was sure prevailed but unfortunately there was Lord Bute… like a black shadow, an evil genius to undo all the good the auguries promised without him.

The King had started to speak: ‘The loss that I and the nation have sustained by the death of my grandfather would have been severely felt at any time; but coming at so critical a juncture and so unexpectedly, it is by many circumstances augmented, and the weight now falling on me much increased. I feel my own insufficiency to support it as I wish; but animated by the tenderest affection for my native country, and by depending upon the advice, experience and abilities of your lordships; on the support of every honest man; I enter with cheerfulness into the arduous situation, and shall make it the business of my life to promote in every thing, the glory and happiness of these kingdoms, to preserve and strengthen the constitution in both church and state; and as I mount the throne in the midst of an expensive, but just and necessary war I shall endeavour to prosecute it in a manner most likely to bring an honourable and lasting peace, in concert with my allies.’

Listening intently, Mr Pitt permitted himself a slow smile of triumph.

In the streets the people were still rejoicing. The old man was dead, and in his place was a young and handsome boy, who had been born and bred in England – a real Englishman this time, said the people. This was an end of the Germans.

There was feasting in the eating houses and drinking in the taverns and dancing round the bonfires in the streets. They knew what this meant. A coronation; that meant a holiday and a real chance to celebrate. And then there’d be a marriage, for the King was a young man and would need a wife.

This was a change, when for so long the only excitements had been the victory parades. It was stimulating to sing Rule Britannia, but wars meant something besides victories. They meant taxation, and men lost to the battle. But a coronation, a royal wedding… they were good fun. Dancing, singing, drinking… free wine doubtless… and sly jokes about the young married pair.

Now the people had their King they wanted a bride for him.

Pitt was congratulating himself over the matter of the speech. Bute would be an encumbrance; they would have to deal tactfully with him, but they would manage.

It was a shock when the day after George had been proclaimed King at Savile House, Charing Cross, Temple Bar, Cheapside and the Royal Exchange, to learn that the new King’s first act was to appoint his brother Edward and Lord Bute Privy Councillors.

‘There will be trouble,’ said Pitt. ‘Bute is going to make a bid for power. But I can handle him. The only thing I fear is that the King, through that fool Bute, will try to interfere with my conduct of the war.’

The war! It was Pitt’s chief concern. As long as everything went well on the battle-front, as long as he could succeed in his plans for building an Empire, events at home could take care of themselves.

At seven o’clock in the evening of a dark November day George II was buried in Henry VII’s chapel at Westminster.

The chamber was hung with purple, and silver lamps had been placed at intervals to disperse the gloom. Under a canopy of purple velvet stood the coffin. Six silver chandeliers had been placed about it and the effect was impressive.

The procession to the chapel was accompanied by muffled drums and fifes and the bells tolled continuously. The horse-guards wore crepe sashes and as their horses slowly walked through the crowds their riders drew their sabres and a hush fell on all those who watched.

Perhaps the most sincere mourner was William, Duke of Cumberland. He was in a sad state himself, for soon after he had lost the command of the army he had had a stroke of the palsy which had affected his features. Newcastle was beside him – a contrast with his plump figure and ruddy good looks. He was pretending to be deeply affected, but was in fact considering what effect the King’s very obvious devotion to Lord Bute was going to have on his career.

He wept ostentatiously – or pretended to – and as soon as he entered the Chapel groped his way to one of the stalls, implying that he was overcome by his grief; but he was soon watching the people through his quizzing glass to see who had come, until feeling the chill of the chapel he began to fret that he might catch cold.

‘The cold strikes right through one’s feet,’ he whispered to Pitt who was beside him.

Pitt did not answer; he was thinking how unfortunate it was that the old King had not lived a year or so longer to give him the security of tenure he needed. But it was absurd to fear; no one could oust Pitt from his position. Whatever Bute said the King would realize the impossibility of that. The people would never allow it for one thing. No, he had nothing to fear.

There was the young King, looking almost handsome in candle-light. Tall and upstanding, and that open countenance which was appealing. The King was honest enough, there was no denying that. The point was how much had that mother of his and her paramour got him under their thumbs?

The King was thinking: Poor Grandfather! So this is the end to all your posturings and pretence and all your anger. You will never be angry with me again, never hit me as you did in Hampton.

I will do everything you wished. I have heard that you, burned your father’s will and that he burned his wife’s, but I shall carry out your wishes to the letter. Lady Yarmouth shall have what you wished her to. I want to be a good King, Grandfather. Perhaps you did too. But you cared too much for Germany, and a King of England’s first care should be England.

Poor Uncle William! How ill he looked. It was sad when one recalled his coming to the nursery in the old days and talking about the’45. That was the highlight of his life, poor Uncle William; that terrible battle of Culloden had been his glory. And then he had lost his power and after that his illness had come, and now – although he was not very old when compared with his father the dead King – he was a very sick man. Yet he stood erect, indifferent to his own disabilities, and if one did not see how distorted his face was, which was possible in this dim candle-light, he looked a fine figure of a man in his long black cloak, the train of which must be all of five yards long.

The Duke of Newcastle was bustling about. Dear Lord Bute was right. That man was a fool and no use to them at all. If only he could be as sure that they should rid themselves of Mr Pitt! There stood Newcastle, crying one moment, looking round to bow to someone the next, shivering with cold and whispering that he would be the next one they were burying, for there was no place more likely for catching one’s death than at a funeral, and the Chapel of Henry VII must be the coldest place on Earth.

George saw Newcastle surreptitiously step on to his uncle’s long cloak in order, the King supposed, to preserve his feet from the chill of the chapel.

Then his uncle was bemused as to what was restricting him and turning found it was the burly Duke standing on his train.

And at last the late King’s coffin was placed where he had wished it to be – beside that of his Queen, that, he had said, they might lie side by side for ever.

George hoped that his grandfather was happy wherever he was. His wishes had been carried out and he was laid to rest beside the wife whom he had bullied during his lifetime, to whom he had been constantly unfaithful, but whom he had loved next best to himself.

‘I shall hope,’ prayed George, ‘to be a better King than my grandfather and when I marry to be truly faithful to my wife for the rest of my life.’

Marriage was a pleasant thought, for even in this sombre chapel he could not think of it without thinking also of the dazzling beauty of Lady Sarah Lennox.

George scrupulously carried out the last King’s wishes. It was surprising that George II had left only £30,000 when he had always been so careful. This he had declared was to be shared between his three surviving children – Cumberland and his two sisters. Cumberland agreed to forego his share to the advantage of his sisters for he was a generous man and rich enough, he declared. For Lady Yarmouth there was an envelope in the King’s bureau which was found to contain £6,000 in banknotes.

George made a point of seeing that these fell into her hands and added £2,000 of his own.

The King’s honesty was noted and doubly admired when his grandfather’s lack of it was remembered, for it was recalled how George II had destroyed his father’s will. Everyone applauded it, and none more than Mr Pitt.

If the King would put himself into his minister’s hands there would be nothing to fear. Mr Pitt would like to see the King presiding over social occasions; he would like to hear the people cheering their young Monarch. But he wanted to make sure that the young Sovereign did not interfere with the conduct of the country’s affairs.

How far was Bute influencing him? And what of that other menacing shadow; the King’s mother? The Princess Augusta would consider herself of very great importance now that her son had ascended the throne.

The sooner the position is clarified the better, thought Pitt.

Some light was thrown on it when the Parliament assembled to hear the Speech from the throne. These occasions in the past had gone according to pattern. A speech was prepared and the King delivered it.

It soon became clear that the speech the King was making in that very musical and well-modulated voice of his was not the one which had been written for him.

‘Born and educated in this country I glory in the name of Britain…’

Britain! Why not England? It could only be that the King was associating himself with the country across the Border, the breeding-ground of Jacobites, the land which had rebelled, which had harboured Bonnie Prince Charlie… and was the birthplace of Lord Bute!

That was it. They knew who had substituted that word for England. Lord Bute! He was tampering with the speeches which the King’s ministers had written for him. He was telling the King that Scotland was as important as England. And why? Because Bute was a Scottish peer. That was the reason. And had not Pitt pointed out to him before the death of the last King that one of the reasons why he could not be given high office was because he was a Scottish peer?

So this was Bute’s answer.

Pitt wondered whether to challenge in debate the origin of those words. Perhaps it was unwise. He did not want to antagonize the King… nor the people. The King was new and new Kings were often popular; more so if they were young and tolerably good-looking. No, he would leave it, but he would have to be very watchful of my Lord Bute.

Perhaps it was time the King was married. If he married the right woman she could help to wean the King from this most unfortunate friendship.

The Princess Augusta was of the same idea.

‘The King should marry,’ she told Bute.

Bute agreed but hesitantly. Like Pitt he saw the possible effect of a wife.

‘He must begin producing heirs and cannot start too soon.’

Bute agreed with that.

‘You hesitate, my love.’

‘It is because I feel that if he married a woman who became possessive, she might be jealous of your influence with him and seek to lessen it.’

‘We must choose the right woman.’

‘Ah yes, and be very careful.’

‘She must be German,’ said the Princess. ‘German women are properly brought up. They are taught to respect their husbands, to obey them and to know their place. Take, for instance, my mother-in-law.’

‘Yet one has always heard she ruled the King.’

‘She was an exceptionally clever woman. We must not find a clever woman for our George. But even Caroline who was so much cleverer than her husband, never let him know it. And there are not many Carolines.’

‘There is also an Augusta,’ said Lord Bute playfully.

‘When Fred was alive I never meddled. I would have thought it most… improper. It was only after he was dead that I saw the need to care for my children and I deliberately set out to protect them.’

‘You are right as usual. It must be a German Princess for George and one of your choosing.’

She smiled at him tenderly. As usual they were of one mind.

The King was also thinking of marriage. Now the funeral was over and he was indeed King he would have to have a coronation. When he was crowned he wanted her to be crowned too.

He dreamed of her beside him. She would look so beautiful in a crown. She would have to be serious for once, he would tell her indulgently, and she would laugh at him and say: ‘Yes, of course. I am really always serious where you are concerned.’ And it would be true. She liked to tease and banter, but underneath that she was serious.

He was the King, so therefore he could choose his own wife. Why not? It was not as though he were asking to marry a linen-draper’s… He flushed hotly and tried not to think of St James’s Market and Hannah’s sitting there in the window. That had been impossible. He saw it all so clearly. Yet then it had seemed so right.

But it was over. Thank God it had worked out as it did.

He would always remember her. He had loved her dearly. I still do, he told himself defiantly. I shall always love Hannah. But a man cannot go on mourning for ever, especially if he is a King. She would understand that. She had always understood.

Of course she would. That was why she was always so anxious, why she was always aware of the enormity of their action. She had been far more aware than he had. That was why he had always had to comfort her.

But it was over… and he must forget it… outwardly, of course. Never in truth, Hannah, he whispered. I shall always remember. But it is over and a King must marry.

He had made his peace with Hannah, now he could think of Sarah. Sarah laughing, teasing, dancing that absurd dance, the Betty Blue.

He would no longer delay. The first one he must tell would be his dear friend Lord Bute who would advise him how best to deal with this matter of marriage.

He took up his pen and wrote to that very dear friend:

‘What I now lay before you I never intended to communicate to anyone. The truth is this: The Duke of Richmond’s sister arrived from Ireland towards the middle of last November. I was struck with her appearance at St James’s and my passion has been increasing every time I have since beheld her. Her voice is sweet. She seems sensible… In short she is everything I can form to myself as lovely.’

He sat dreaming of her as he wrote; then sealed the letter and had it sent to Lord Bute.