The Prince and the Quakeress

The Family of Wales

GEORGE WAS IN the schoolroom with his brother Edward. He was dreaming idly as he often did when he should be studying. He knew it was wrong; he knew he should work hard, but lessons were so tiring, and try as he might he could not grasp what his tutors were talking about. He was watching the door, hoping his father would come in, breezy and affectionate, with a new idea for a play, for George preferred acting to learning lessons. Mathematics were a bore, but history had become more interesting because his mother was constantly reminding him that he, too, would one day be a King, and this brought the aspirations of Henry VII, the villainies, in which he did not altogether believe, of Richard III, the murders of Henry VIII and the tragedy of Charles I nearer home. These men were his ancestors; he could not forget that.

But the lessons he really cared for were those of the flute and harpsichord. Edward enjoyed them, too. And their father was anxious that they should have such lessons; even that old ogre, their grandfather the King, loved music. This love was inherent, and it was said that they had brought it with them from Germany. Handel had been the very dear friend of several of his relations. George was not surprised.

Unfortunately lessons other than music had to be learned, and they were not so congenial.

‘Some persons agreed to give sixpence each to a waterman for carrying them from London to Gravesend, but with this condition: that for every other person taken in by the way threepence should be abated in their joint fare. Now the waterman took in three more than a fourth part of the number of the first passengers, in consideration of which he took of them but fivepence each. How many passengers were there at first?’

Oh dear, sighed George. This is most complicated.

Edward scowled at it and demanded to know why the future King should have to worry about such matters. Was he ever likely to travel in such a way, and if he did would he be so foolish as to make such a bargain with a waterman?

George explained painstakingly that it was not an indication that they should ever have to face such a problem in real life. It was a lesson in mathematics.

At which Edward laughed at him. ‘My dear brother, did you think I didn’t know that?’ Whereupon George’s prominent blue eyes were mildly sad and his usually pink cheeks flushed to a deep shade.

George was a simpleton, thought Edward. But at least he would work out the problem and tell Edward the answer, no matter how long it took him to do it. It was his duty to try to learn, George believed; and he would always do his duty.

George had hoped his father would come to the nursery accompanied by Lord Bute, the tall Scots nobleman who had become part of the household.

George shared the family’s enthusiasm for Lord Bute, who was always so kind and understanding to a boy such as he was. He explained everything in such a way that George never felt he was stupid not to have grasped it first time. His father was kind but sometimes impatient with him, and now and then laughed at his slowness, comparing him with Edward, who was so much brighter. It was not done unkindly, but in a bantering affectionate way; yet it disconcerted George and made him fumble more. Lord Bute seemed to understand this. He never bantered; he was affectionate and kind and… helpful. That was it. Whenever Lord Bute was near him, George felt safe.

In the family circle his father never behaved as though he were Prince of Wales; he would take his sons fishing on the banks of the Thames; and they played cricket in the Cliveden meadows. The Prince was very good at tennis and baseball, and he enjoyed playing with his own children. Lord Bute would join in the games; he was so good that he was a rival to the Prince; and the Princess Augusta would sit watching them with a little group of ladies, applauding when any of the children did well – and also applauding for the Prince and Lord Bute. George noticed that his mother applauded even more enthusiastically for Lord Bute than for the Prince of Wales.

George preferred being at Cliveden rather than Leicester House; as for those rare occasions when he was commanded to wait on the King, he dreaded them. His grandfather was an old ogre – a little red-faced man who shouted and swore at everyone and insisted on everyone’s speaking French or German because he hated England and the English, it seemed. The old man was a rogue and a tyrant. Papa and Mamma hated him, so, of course, George did too.

But even at Cliveden there were lessons to be learned, and now he must attend to this stupid affair of the waterman.

Edward was looking out of the window. Clearly he would not help. So George sighed, and after a great deal of cogitation he came up with the answer.

‘It’s thirty-six,’ he told Edward.

‘Sure?’ asked his brother.

‘I have checked it.’

Edward nodded and wrote down the answer.

George picked up the next problem but at that moment the door opened. Eagerly the boys looked up from their work; but it was not one of their parents nor Uncle Bute. It was their true uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, their father’s younger brother.

Edward was delighted by the diversion, George to see his uncle. They saw little of him, and George presumed it was because he was on the King’s side, which he concluded judiciously, was what one would expect in view of the fact that he was the King’s son.

The Duke of Cumberland was dressed for hunting – a large man inclined to corpulence, at the moment beaming with affection.

‘I was hunting in the district and thought I’d come and see my nephews.’ He embraced George first, then Edward.

Come to see his nephews! thought George. Not his brother or his sister-in-law?

‘Papa and Mamma are here,’ said George.

‘Not in the house,’ replied their uncle. ‘Doubtless in that theatre of theirs with my Lord Bute.’

George detected a certain contempt in Uncle Cumberland’s voice. He hoped Papa would not come in and quarrel with him. He hated quarrels.

‘And here are you boys sitting over your books on a sunny day like this.’

‘It’s a shame,’ agreed Edward.

‘We have to learn our lessons,’ George reminded him primly.

Uncle Cumberland pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. He laughed. ‘What do you learn, eh? What’s that?’ He picked up the waterman problem and scowled at it. ‘Much good that’ll do you.’

‘Mr Scott thinks we should be proficient in mathematics.’

‘Well, I’m not a great mathematician like Mr Scott. I’m only a soldier.’

Edward had leaned his elbows on the table and was propping up his face as he stared intently at his uncle. ‘Mathematics are a bore,’ declared Edward. ‘So are French and German.’

‘Mr Fung does his best to teach us, but we are a trial to him,’ George explained.

‘I like dancing with Mr Ruperti,’ declared Edward.

‘But music is the best of all,’ put in George. ‘It is the only subject at which we seem to make much progress. Mr Desnoyer is pleased with us.’

The Duke sat smiling expansively at his nephews.

‘You boys should be learning to become soldiers, not prancing about with Mr Ruperti and scraping violins.’

‘We play the flute and the harpsichord,’ George explained.

‘You should learn how to command an army; you should study the niceties of strategy. Wouldn’t you like to be a general?’

Edward said he would, but George was silent. He hated the sight of blood and did not care to think of men dying. Dying was not a noble glorious thing; people did not merely fall down dead; they suffered. He hated to think of people’s suffering, and worst of all, himself suffering or inflicting it.

All the same Uncle Cumberland was a fascinating figure and as they rarely saw their relations from the King’s Court a visit like this was an event.

He was a good talker and even made war sound fascinating. He drew his chair up to the table and said he would explain to them what had happened at a certain battle, the result of which had put their family firmly on the throne.

‘For, nephews,’ he said, ‘we came within danger of losing the throne. Your grandfather was ready to fly to Hanover; he had his valuables packed, and with his friends was ready to leave. And the rebels had come as far as Derby.’

‘To Hanover!’ cried Edward. ‘Do you mean, Uncle, that the people would have sent us away?’

‘Aye, sent us packing and put the Stuarts back on the throne. Our enemy the King of France had sent Bonnie Prince Charlie over to drive us away, and they were as far as Derby. Think of that. All the way from Scotland. Here, where are your maps? Now, I’ll show you. This is where the rebels were. It was November. I advanced to Stone, hoping to meet them. They were soon on the retreat.’

His big hands were on the maps; his voice was low and intense; he glorified war himself, and his very single-mindedness fascinated the boys.

‘Now…’ The hand, big, brown, powerful, ranged over the map. ‘I drove’em back here… right to Penrith… right over the border. This had taken time and it was now December. I attempted to cut them off at this point, but there were too many for us. I had good men…’ His face softened. George could believe that he had good men. He would see that they caught his enthusiasm, his passion for war. It was apparent as he talked that this was a man who would know no fear… and no mercy. His eyes glowed; he was reliving that occasion all over again, and George had the impression that he was hoping the Pretender would come back or that someone else would give him an opportunity to save the crown for the House of Hanover.

‘We were all that winter in Scotland,’ he said. ‘Can’t do battle in the winter, boys. It’s cold up there. Spring’s the best time for battle. But there are bigger problems for a commander than battle. Ah yes. How’s he going to feed his men? How’s he going to get them where he wants? That’s the nightmare, boys. The battle… that’s the glory.’

‘Many die…’ began George.

‘Do you know how many they lost at Culloden, boy?’

George shook his head.

‘Good God, and they’re supposed to be educating you! Two thousand rebels! And our losses? You must always set one beside the other. That’s how you calculate the extent of your victory. Three hundred and forty loyal English gentlemen lost their lives at Culloden, boys. But we got two thousand of them. It’ll be long before that scum raise a standard against our King, I can tell you.’

George was silent. ‘What is it, boy?’ demanded his uncle.

‘George doesn’t like people being hurt,’ explained Edward.

That made Uncle Cumberland rock with laughter. ‘So that’s the way they’re bringing you up, is it? Dance with Mr Ruperti! Music with Mr Desnoyer! French and German with Mr Fung! By God, what you boys want is to learn to be men. I’ll teach you a few things about living.’

‘But this is dying,’ interrupted George.

That made Uncle Cumberland laugh louder. In breathless tones he told the story of Culloden and how the bloody battle had gone. Even George was caught up in the excitement, and Cumberland looking from one to the other of the flushed faces was well pleased.

‘I’m going to get Sir Peircy Brett to tell you how he encountered the Elizabeth on the high seas. That’s a story well worth hearing. You’ll learn what it means to defend your country and that’s what you’ll have to do, boy, when you’re King, which will be one day. Now the Elizabeth . . . she was a French ship. She was convoying the small frigate with their Prince Charlie on board and she was carrying the ammunition. Sent by the King of France, boys, to defeat good Englishmen, he hoped. Much chance he had.’

‘When there was a Cumberland to defend us,’ cried Edward, and received a warm look of approval from his uncle.

‘And not only a Cumberland, boy. There are men like Peircy Brett in England too. He was in command of the Lion . . . sixty guns. Elizabeth she was a ship of twenty-four. And Lion sighted Elizabeth and went into the attack.’

‘And sank her?’ cried Edward.

‘Hey, wait a minute, boy. You want it too easy. It was a bloody battle…’ George saw the gleam in Uncle Cumberland’s eyes. ‘What slaughter! It was indeed a bloody battle. Lion was a wreck when it was over. Forty-five killed and one hundred and seven wounded.’

‘But that was our ship.’

‘Yes, you have your losses in battle. But Elizabeth was fit for nothing. She couldn’t go on. She had to limp back where she’d come from… and she was carrying supplies. So… their Bonnie Prince Charlie landed in Scotland, an impoverished adventurer… not the well-equipped young conqueror the King of France sent out. That’s battle, boys. That’s war. We lost Lion, but the purpose was achieved. I can tell you this: the loss of Elizabeth was as important to our victory as Culloden.’

George was thinking of the battle at sea; the shrieks of dying men; the blood… . there would be blood on the decks… on the cold cruel water. No, he did not like it, although he was fascinated.

‘I’ll get Brett to tell you the full story one of these days,’ went on Uncle Cumberland. ‘It’s a tale you boys should know. I’ll take you with me to camp. You, George, should know how to defend your crown. Now…’ He had pulled the map towards him. This was the map of Europe. He was going to tell more stories of battles and blood. This was living, he was thinking; the boys’ education was being neglected; battles were of more importance than hypothetical problems about non-existent watermen.’

He had the map spread out before him when the Prince and Princess of Wales came in accompanied by Lord Bute and Lady Middlesex.

‘Ha, ha, brother,’ cried Uncle Cumberland, getting up and kicking his chair back. ‘And my sister…’ He took Augusta’s hand and kissed it. George, watching, saw that his father was displeased and as his parents were always in agreement, so was his mother.

Cumberland ignored Lord Bute and ran his eyes swiftly over Lady Middlesex. He liked women; in fact, gambling and women were what he enjoyed next to making war; he had never married; and had no desire to; but that had nothing to do with his fondness for the opposite sex. Lady Middlesex he knew was a favourite of Fred’s – a clever woman but too short, too dumpy and her skin was as brown as a walnut; someone had once said she was as yellow as a November morning and by God, they were right. Fred, like his father and grandfather could not be said to choose his mistresses for their beauty.

‘We did not know that you were here,’ said Frederick mildly. He disliked his brother, but was too good-natured to show it. ‘We should have been advised.’

‘I wanted no ceremony. So I slipped into the schoolroom and gave my nephews a lesson.’

‘They look as if they’ve enjoyed it,’ said Lord Bute.

The Duke raised his eyebrows; he was surprised that an attendant should have expressed an opinion. He disliked the fellow in any case. He had heard he had a great influence with the Prince of Wales and that he accompanied them everywhere. The Prince commanded him to attend on the Princess while he enjoyed the company of Lady Archibald Hamilton, Lady Middlesex and Lady Huntingdon. It made a cosy foursome, a little bourgeois community. Frederick liked to live simply at Cliveden. It would have to be different when he ascended the throne, which Cumberland hoped would not be for a long time. Fred as King was a prospect which did not appeal to him.

Augusta was clearly pregnant, so Frederick was doing his duty in spite of the ladies. She looked well content with the arrangement, too. A stupid woman, thought Cumberland; but a docile one. She never raised her voice against Fred. She was very different from their mother. Cumberland was sad, thinking of the Queen’s death. She had doted on him and had done her best to have Fred passed over for him. He was the son both his father and mother would have liked to see mount the throne. But Fred was the eldest, and although his parents had done their best to keep him in Hanover and had not allowed him to come to England until he was twenty-one, he was Prince of Wales, and nothing was allowed to interfere with that.

Well, Fred could keep his yellow-skinned mistress; he could keep his docile wife; but the education of the boy who would one day be King of England was surely a matter with which the family should concern itself. George was doubtless a good boy, but he was obviously a simpleton. He should be taught something about life. They should try to make a soldier and a man of him. Cumberland would speak to his father about the boy and if King George said his grandson must be educated in a certain manner, then so it would be.

Cumberland turned away from Lord Bute as though he had not spoken and said he would like to have the chance of teaching the boys something about the strategem of war.

Frederick replied that the boys had the best tutors in the country and he and the Princess were very pleased with their progress.

Cumberland nodded ironically and replied that he was sure of that – that the Prince and Princess of Wales were pleased, he meant.

Then Frederick suggested that as the time set for his sons’ lessons was not yet at an end, he and the Princess should show the Duke the gardens at Cliveden, as he was sure he would find something there to interest him.

Trouble in the family. It was distressing. George wished that they could all be friends together and that his grandfather did not hate his father, and that when an uncle called it could be an occasion for rejoicing rather than for anger, for he was well aware of the indignation this impromptu visit had aroused.

His mother talked of his uncle. He was a crude man, a brutal man. He liked bloodshed. When she spoke Uncle Cumberland’s name she did so with loathing. He loved war, this uncle. It was not so much that he wished to save the crown as that he wanted to kill… for the sake of killing. He liked the sight of blood; he liked to see men suffer. The people called him The Butcher.

The Butcher? George shivered at the name.

The Butcher, repeated his mother. That was when they heard of all his cruelty at Culloden. Oh, when he had returned from that battlefield they had shouted for him in the streets. They had reverenced Duke Billy, as they called him; but when they heard what had really happened, the cruelty he had delighted in practising they called him ‘Butcher’.

‘It is a hateful name to be given to a man,’ said George.

‘Hateful indeed,’ replied his mother. ‘Why, when it was proposed that he should be elected an Alderman of the City… this was after Culloden, one of the aldermen said: “Let it be of the Butchers.” So you see that is how the people think of him. Once when there was a disturbance at the Haymarket Theatre he lost his sword and the people started to sing: “Billy the Butcher has lost his knife.” That is what the people think of your Uncle Cumberland. How different he is from your father. Did he tell you that your father wanted to take command of the forces that went against the Pretender? Of course, your grandfather wouldn’t hear of that. He wanted all the glory for the Butcher. How different it would have been if your father had obtained the command. There would have been victory just the same – but glorious, not shameful victory. Did your uncle tell you that your father obtained the release of Flora MacDonald, that your father is a kind, human man, who is tolerant in his ideas?’

‘He did not,’ said George. ‘He did not mention that lady. Who is she?’

‘She is a brave woman. She is mistaken, of course, because she supported the Stuarts. But then, she is Scottish and knew no better.’

‘Uncle Bute is Scottish.’

A soft look spread itself across the Princess’s face. ‘You should not mention his name in the same breath as that woman’s. His loyalty to us is all the more to be admired because he is Scottish.’

‘Oh yes, yes, Mamma.’

She was a little embarrassed under his gaze. She said quickly: ‘I was telling you of Flora MacDonald. She helped Charles Edward Stuart to escape and was captured and brought to the Tower. It was your father who pleaded for leniency for this woman; he pointed out that she was a simple creature who was led astray. He obtained her freedom. He is a good tolerant man.’

‘I’m so glad Papa did that.’

‘You should be glad you have such a good kind Papa. And I can tell you this, your Uncle Cumberland is no friend to him. His great desire is to take the throne from him. He hates your dear kind Papa simply because he was born before he was and so is Prince of Wales. What do you think of any man who can hate your dear kind Papa? Must he not be a rogue to do so?’

George agreed. Only a rogue could hate dear kind Papa.

Augusta was brought to bed of another boy – her fifth.

He was christened Frederick William and it was decided, to George’s consternation, that he was to be one of the sponsors. It was his first public duty and he was terrified that he would make a fool of himself. It was easy to confide his fears to Lord Bute who did not laugh at him but told him that there was nothing to fear, and actually explained the whole ceremony to him. It was very simple, said Lord Bute, and if there was anything George feared at any time he would be honoured and delighted if he would come and tell him about it.

‘I will,’ declared George.

His father would have been kind, but Lord Bute always seemed to sense his uncertainties and be ready with his comfort before it was asked. And his mother was so pleased when Lord Bute offered his advice. ‘It is as though you had two kind fathers,’ she would say. ‘You are a fortunate Prince.’

Fortunate indeed, thought George, when he remembered the stories of how his grandparents had left his father in Hanover when they came to London and how he had had to threaten to elope with his cousin before they would bring him to London. What disaster if that had happened! He would not then have married Mamma. And what would have happened to him and Edward, and William and Henry, and Augusta and Elizabeth, to say nothing of this newest arrival to whom he was to act as sponsor.

Grandfather had given his permission which it was necessary to receive, but fortunately he was away in Hanover, where he so often was.

‘Long may he stay there,’ said Papa, and Mamma echoed his words as she always did.

So fortunately the old King would not be present at the ceremony; and with kind Papa to help him – and, of course, dear Uncle Bute – it might not be such an ordeal.

‘You will have to get used to ordeals like that,’ his sister Augusta, who was a year older than he was, told him brusquely, and he knew she was right.

But it passed off well. He did what was expected of him and no one remarked that he was shy and gauche; and his voice was quite steady when he pronounced that his little brother was to be called Frederick William.

That year they played the tragedy of Lady Jane Grey in the theatre of Cliveden. Nicholas Rowe had written it very appealingly and there were tears shed when the lovely Jane was led to the executioner’s block.

There was the excitement of rehearsals and learning one’s part; and Uncle Bute was so very good at anything concerning the theatre.

He was constantly with the family and Edward and Augusta whispered that many unkind things were said about him, but George could not believe that anyone could find anything unkind to say about Uncle Bute.

Papa was as fond of him as Mamma was. He was always saying, ‘Where’s Bute?’ And when he said he wanted to walk in the gardens with Lady Middlesex he would tell Lord Bute to accompany the Princess. Papa and Lady Middlesex would disappear for quite a long time, ‘walking the alleys’ as Papa called it. Mamma seemed very happy at such times because she did so enjoy walking with Uncle Bute. Although Papa and Lady Middlesex disappeared for a while Mamma and Lord Bute could be seen together in the gardens, always talking and laughing together, Mamma’s voice a little higher, a little more German as it was when she was pleased or excited. And then after a very long time if Papa appeared with Lady Middlesex the four of them would be very contented together.

Once when Uncle Cumberland called to see them he came to the nursery as he had on that other occasion and George had shrunk from his embrace because he could not stop thinking of him as The Butcher. He was aware of the sword at his uncle’s side, and in his imagination George saw it dripping with blood.

Uncle Cumberland was aware of this change in his nephew. He drew back in dismay. He said: ‘Oh my God, what have they told you about me?’

And he was too sad even to talk of wars.

George was sorry, for he hated trouble in the family.

When his father heard that the Duke had gone away he said: ‘Good riddance. We don’t want him here.’

Yet George could not believe his uncle was such a villain when he saw him face to face and he continued to think of him for a long time… sometimes as The Butcher with the sword dripping blood and others as the jolly uncle who was one of the most generous members of the family.

Papa was, he said, becoming a little anxious about their educations, and busied himself drawing up an account of how their lessons should be regulated.

They were to get up at seven o’clock and be ready to read with Mr Scott from eight until nine. Then they must study with Dr Ayscough from nine till eleven; from eleven to twelve Mr Fung must take over and from twelve to half past Mr Ruperti would be in charge. After that they could play until three, when dinner was taken. Mr Desnoyer came three times a week at half past four to instruct them in music; and at five they must continue the study of languages with Mr Fung until half past six. At half past six until eight they must be with Mr Scott again; at eight they took supper and must go to bed about ten o’clock. On Sundays George and Edward would be instructed by Dr Ayscough, with their two sisters, on the principles of religion.

This was a rigorous timetable and one which was not closely adhered to. It was typical of Frederick that having drawn up a list of stern rules he could feel he had done his duty, and when he decided that a game of tennis or cricket would be good for the boys, or it was time they performed another play, he happily interrupted the curriculum he had so carefully arranged.

At this time he introduced Francis, Lord North, into the royal nursery to take charge of his sons.

One bright March day George, with some of the family, went to watch his father at tennis. It was a most exciting game but it was brought to an abrupt end when one of the balls struck Frederick in the eye. There was immediate consternation. In dismay Augusta hurried to her husband, and George stood staring, not knowing what to do. But in a short while Frederick was telling them that it was all right. ‘Just the shock of the moment,’ he said.

However, he did not want to continue with the game, and went to his apartments to lie down for a while.

Augusta accompanied him, and Lord Bute took Frederick’s place on the tennis court.

That blow from a tennis ball seemed to affect Frederick adversely. In the first place he developed an abscess and he was so low in health that he had a bad attack of pleurisy. From this he recovered and was well enough to go to the House of Lords. It was a cold day and hot inside the chamber; when he returned to Carlton House he changed into lighter garments and lay down to rest on a couch in a room which opened on to the gardens. As a result he caught a fresh cold, and this undermined his health still further. The abscess flared up again and he declared himself to be in great pain.

He was taken to Leicester House and there Augusta called in the doctors. The Prince was suffering from the abscess, they said; and he had a touch of pleurisy; they expected he would recover shortly.

Frederick seemed contented to have Augusta beside him, but he whispered to her that he was uneasy about George.

‘George!’ cried Augusta. ‘He is well.’

‘He is young,’ replied Frederick, ‘and my father is an old man.’

Augusta cried out: ‘Do not speak so. It will be many years before George comes to the throne.’

But Frederick was obsessed by a premonition that it would not be long.

He said: ‘I have a paper for George. It is in my desk. I wish you to give it to him if I should be unable to do so myself.’

‘But of course you will give it to him.’

But Frederick shook his head. ‘You have been a good wife to me,’ he said. ‘Bute will advise you.’

He saw the tender smile touch her lips and he was pleased. He had not been faithful to her. Let her find some consolation if she could. It had occurred to him lately that there was a great deal in Augusta which neither he nor others appreciated. Perhaps Bute did. She was not the gullible fool many believed her to be.

‘The paper for George is in my desk,’ he said, and even as he spoke a spasm of pain crossed his face.

‘Augusta,’ he said, ‘send for Desnoyer… I’d like him to play a little for me. He has a way with a violin which pleases me.’

Augusta sent for the children’s music master and when the man came Frederick smiled at him and bade him play.

In the Prince’s bedchamber the candles guttered; the Prince lay back on his pillows, his face drawn and yellow; Augusta watched, telling herself he would soon recover. It is a good sign that he asked for the music. In the shadows the doctors waited: Wilmot, Taylor and Leigh, with Hawkins the surgeon – some of the best medical men in the country.

He’ll soon be well, thought Augusta, soon taking ‘little walks in the alleys’ with Lady Middlesex while she herself enjoyed one of those stimulating and most delightful sessions with Lord Bute.

The Prince began to cough; the violin stopped; the doctors were at the bedside.

Frederick put his hands on his heart and said: ‘I feel death close.’

Augusta rose in her chair and snatched up a candle.

‘My God,’ cried Wilmot, ‘the Prince is going.’

As Augusta held the candle high and looked at her husband, she saw the glazed look in his eyes as he sank back on the pillows.

He lay still; she stood staring aghast, and it was some time before the numbing realization came to her that she was a widow.

There was gloom in Leicester House. Everyone was shocked. Frederick was only forty-four years of age. His father was still alive and looked as if he were good for a few more years. And Frederick was dead. His eldest son was but a boy – thirteen years old. Who would have believed this possible, seeing Frederick on the tennis court, acting in plays, fishing with his children, sporting with his mistresses. It was incredible.

The Princess Augusta remained stunned. She would not move from her husband’s bedside. She sat in her chair there and no persuasion could move her. It was as though she believed that by remaining there she could by the very force of her desire to bring him back breathe some life into him.

‘Frederick…’ she murmured, from time to time. ‘It can’t be . . . You must be here. What will become of us… of George, the children… of me?’

In the background of her mind was that grim shadow, that old ogre, the King. Who would protect her from him now? What would he decide to do? What if he determined to take the care of the children out of her hands! This was like a nightmare.

She covered her face with her hands, hoping that when she uncovered it she would see Fred lying there in bed smiling at her, telling her she had had a bad dream.

But there he was, still, unlike himself. Oh, the horror of looking at the dead face of a loved one! The terrible realization that he will never speak again, that he has gone out of this life for ever!

‘No, Fred… no!’

She felt the child move within her… Fred’s child. In four months time that child would be born. Only five months before this man had begotten the child and now he was dead!

And the future? It was dark and menacing.

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. She turned sharply. Lord Bute was looking down at her, tenderly, lovingly.

‘Your Highness will make yourself ill,’ he said.

She shook her head and placed her hand rapidly over the one which lay on her shoulder. Hastily she removed it. One must be careful. The very thought of the need for care started to lift her out of her misery. John was here, dear John Stuart, Earl of Bute.

She rose and with him left the death-chamber.

George walked up and down trying to fight back his tears. It was easier walking, he found; if he threw himself on to his bed he would break into wild sobbing; and he must remember that to give way to his grief would be childish.

Dear kind Papa was gone! He could not realize it. He had known Papa was ill; he had been present when the tennis ball had hit him and that had started the tragic business. But to die… never to see him again! It was more than he could bear. This was the first real sorrow. His father had died in pain, and he could not bear the thought of people in pain. When two workmen had fallen from the scaffolding at Kew he had been overcome with horror and had been affected for days. But this was his own dear Papa.

What would become of him, what would become of them all?

His grief was overpowering; there was nothing but his grief.

Then it was invaded suddenly by another emotion – one of stark terror.

Now that his father was dead he, George William Frederick, was Prince of Wales.

The King came to Leicester House, setting aside enmity at such a time.

The children were summoned to his presence and he stared at them all, but chiefly at George. He was a terrifying old man – little, it was true, but with a red face and prominent blue eyes, and he spoke in broken English.

‘Vere is the Prince of Vales?’

And George must stand before him for scrutiny. ‘Don’t be a frightened young puppy. Prince of Vales now… How old are you, eh? Thirteen… Remember now you are the Prince of Vales.’

But there were tears in his eyes, for he was a sentimental old man for all his high temper; he saw that Augusta was genuinely grieved and tried to comfort her. The woman was a fool. Caroline had said so… his own dear wife, Caroline (and there was no woman fit to unbuckle her shoes) had said so. But fool as she was, she had been fond of Fred and any woman who could have been fond of that villain (mustn’t speak ill of the dead) of that… puppy, must be a meek woman. She’d need help in looking after the children and he’d see she got it. By God, she should do as she was ordered in that respect. But in the meantime she was a woman grieving for her husband and he knew what it meant to lose a spouse.

‘Do not cry, my dear,’ he said. ‘Try not to grieve. I know how you suffer. I lost my own vife. Your mother-in-law… the best voman in the vorld. Ven I lose her I lose heart…’

Augusta thought: Yes, you old hypocrite, and all the time you were mourning for her you were thinking of how you could bring Madame Walmoden to England, and all the time you were pretending to be so fond of her you were deceiving her with other women. As Fred was… but Fred was kinder… and Fred was dead.

The King patted her knee comfortingly, and beckoned to his grandsons.

‘Come here, young fellows. Be brave boys now. Obey your mother and remember you are the grandsons of a King.’

Augusta said quickly: ‘Your Majesty will, I know, out of your goodness of heart not take my children from me. I have lost my husband… to lose my children would be unendurable.’

She was on the verge of tears and the King’s eyes were swimming too. Augusta was alert in spite of her grief. Now was the time to get this important matter settled, she was well aware, while he was in a sentimental mood. Once he had gone away and remembered that, Fred was a villain whom he had hated, that she had always been her husband’s ardent supporter, he would set some plan in motion to take her children from her. Now was the moment then, while he was in a sentimental mood and could not in all decency deny such a request to a grieving widow.

‘Your Majesty, who understands my loss as few others can, will grant me this. Your Majesty, you will leave me guardian of my children. It is the only thing which can console me now.’

The King nodded.

‘So it shall be,’ he said.

Augusta sighed with relief and was aware of triumph. Fred was dead, no longer there to overshadow her. Now was the time for the true Augusta to emerge.

Augusta sent for her eldest son. She was seated at her table and there were papers before her; when she saw George she rose and held out her arms.

He ran into them and she embraced him crying: ‘My poor fatherless boy.’

George wept with her and as he did so thought of his father lying dead in his coffin and the pain he must have suffered before his death. He wept bitterly for the loss of that kind man and the fact that his passing had made him Prince of Wales. There was a difference in being Prince of Wales and the son of the Prince of Wales. He had sensed it immediately. He was expecting a summons hourly to appear before his terrifying grandfather.

Augusta dried her tears. She had lost dear Fred, but there were compensations. There was power and there was Lord Bute.

‘Your dear kind Papa left a paper which he would have given to you on your eighteenth birthday had he lived. But now that he has… gone… he would wish you to have it at once, for, my son, you will have to grow up quickly. You will have to learn to be a King. You understand full well what your father’s death means to you… what changes it has brought in your position.’

‘Yes, Mamma,’ said George mournfully.

‘Then we will read this paper together, shall we? We will see what instructions dear kind Papa has left you.’

‘Yes, Mamma.’

She opened the papers and spread them on the table, and together they read:

‘Instructions for my son George drawn up by myself for his good, that of my family and for that of his people, according to the ideas of my grandfather and best friend, George I.’

Augusta looked at her son significantly. ‘You see, he did not trust his father, our present King, your grandfather. Ah, his grandfather was always a good friend to him. How different it would have been if he had been his father…’

‘It was a pity they had to quarrel,’ George said.

‘Anyone would quarrel with the King,’ replied Augusta fiercely. ‘We shall have to be very careful to avoid trouble now we no longer have your dear Papa to care for us.’

George read what his father had written:

‘As always I have had the tenderest paternal affection for you, and I cannot give you stronger proof of it than in leaving this paper in your mother’s hands, who will read it to you from time to time and will give it to you when you come of age or when you get the crown. I know you will always have the greatest respect for your mother… .’

‘I hope it too,’ said Augusta. He took her hand and kissed it.

‘You know it, Mamma.’

‘Bless you, my son.’ She glanced down at the paper with him. ‘Your father was always a man of peace,’ she said. ‘It was only when the need arose that he would take to arms. He was very different from his younger brother, the Butcher Cumberland.’

‘If you can be without war let not your ambition draw you into it. A good deal of the National Debt must be paid off before England enters into a war. At the same time never give up your honour nor that of the nation. A wise and brave Prince may oftentimes without armies put a stop to the confusion, which ambitious neighbours endeavour to create.’

Reading these instructions George began to have a deep sense of responsibility. Before he had always believed that there was plenty of time for him to learn. He had never before seriously thought of being King of England. It was something for the very distant future. His father had been a comparatively young man with at least twenty years to live, and twenty years in the opinion of a thirteen-year-old boy was a lifetime. And now here he was with an ageing grandfather, given to choleric rages, who could die at any moment – the only barrier between young George and the throne. It was an alarming prospect.

He must learn all he could as quickly as possible. He must study these papers. He read feverishly; he must balance the country’s finances; he must understand business; he must seek true friends who would not flatter him but tell him the truth. He must separate the thrones of Hanover and England and never attempt to sacrifice the latter for the former as both his grandfather and his great-grandfather had done. Uppermost in his mind must be the desire to convince Englishmen that he was an Englishman himself, born in England, bred in England, and an Englishman not only through these matters but by inclination. Never let the people of England believe for a moment that he saw himself as a German whose loyalties were first for Germany.

Frederick finished his injunctions by recommending his mother to his care and also the rest of the family, his brothers and sisters.

‘I shall have no regret never to have worn the crown if you do but fill it worthily,’ he ended.

George lifted eyes swimming with tears to his mother’s face.

‘But, Mamma, it is almost as though he knew he were going to die.’

‘Sometimes these revelations come to us,’ she answered. ‘You see how he loved you, how he loved us all. You will want to do all that he wished, I know.’

‘Yes, Mamma,’ answered George fervently.

‘He would have wanted me to guide you, my son, for he had more faith in me than in anyone.’

‘I know it, Mamma. I feel so young, so…so unworthy.’

‘Trust in me, my son. Rely on me and all will be well.’

‘It is what I want to do above all else.’

She kissed him warmly; he was hers to mould; and he was the future King.

It was characteristic of the King that his resentment towards his son should not end with the latter’s death. In the presence of the window and children he allowed his sentimentality to get the better of him; but he was not going to change his attitude now.

Frederick was a young puppy who ought to have remained in Hanover. He would have liked to see William, Duke of Cumberland, King of England, and if it had been possible to make him so, he would have done it. It was what dear dead Caroline would have wished. Perhaps it was not too late now. That boy George was a simpleton. Prince of Wales indeed! When there was William, a fine figure of a man, the hero of the’45, and people could say what they liked, it was William who had saved the throne and driven that Stuart puppy yelping back to his French masters. William was the man who should take the throne, not a young puppy scarcely out of his nursery, son of that impudent rascal who ought never to have been brought to England.

Of one thing the King was certain – there should be no fine funeral honours for Fred. No grand ceremonies was the order. Let no one forget that although he was the King’s son and Prince of Wales he was no friend of the King’s. A simple funeral, then, with none of the nobility – who considered themselves the friends of the King – to attend. There would have to be some lords to carry the pall and attend the Princess, he supposed, but let it rest there. He wanted everyone to know that he considered the death of his eldest son no major calamity.

So the funeral of Frederick was less of an occasion than it was expected to be; and as when the cortège came out of the House of Lords it was raining, there were not many who cared to stand about in such weather to see it pass on its way to the Abbey.

Bubb Dodington was indignant. Bubb was like a man demented. The Prince should have had better medical attention, he declared; the Prince should have had great funeral honours. Poor Bubb! He was worried as to what the future held for him. He had been the Prince’s ardent supporter and friend, so it was hardly likely that the King would look with favour on him. And what else was there? A young boy Prince of Wales, thirteen years old, and a Princess Dowager who had never opened her mouth except to agree with her husband.

His only hope was to attach himself as speedily as possible to the Princess Dowager, to seek to advise her, and if possible to keep the rival Court alive which could form a nucleus about the new heir and guide him in the way he was to go.

It was a sad state of affairs.

The indifference of the people showed clearly that they did not share Bubb’s views. Frederick Prince of Wales was dead. Just another of those Germans, said the people. The whole lot of them were not much use, and it was a pity they had ever come here. If Bonnie Prince Charlie had not been a Catholic…But he was, and at least the Germans were Protestants, and they were comic enough to provide a little amusement now and then.

The people were laughing at Frederick’s epitaph which delighted them so much that it was spoken and sung in every place where men and women congregated; in fact, it made Frederick more popular in death than he had been in life.

Here lies Fred

Who was alive and is dead.

Had it been his father,

I had much rather;

Had it been his brother,

Still better than another;

Had it been his sister,

No one would have missed her;

Had it been the whole generation,

Still better for the nation.

But since it’s only Fred

Who was alive and is dead,

There’s no more to be said.