The Prince and the Quakeress

The Face at the Window

THE KING RECEIVED the Duke of Newcastle, his chief minister, who was immediately aware that His Majesty was not in the best of moods.

He had just officially created his grandson Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester; and he was wishing, as he had so often, that William had been his eldest son instead of Frederick; then this rather vacant young boy would not now be heir to the throne.

William would have been so much more suitable. A strong King; a man who could lead his army against the country’s enemies. He was not very popular at this time, it was true. But that was because the Scots had spread evil stories of his savagery at Culloden; but he would win back their favour. It had always been dear Caroline’s wish… because it was his wish, and he and Caroline had always seen eye to eye, he believed.

He continued to mourn her. He would never forget her. He loved her more now that she was dead than he had when she was alive. Or so he believed. It was easier to in any case, for now he need not be continually watchful that she was not appearing to be cleverer than he was. She had been something of a blue stocking, his Caroline; or she would have been if he hadn’t kept her in order.

His thoughts were straying from that young puppy George to discuss whom he had summoned Newcastle.

The King did not greatly like Newcastle. Sir Robert Walpole had been the minister he had loved – although when he had first come to the throne he had dismissed him ignominiously, only to take him back immediately; and he had always refused to admit that it was the clever scheming of his Queen Caroline which had brought about this most satisfactory state of affairs. But the days of Sir Robert were over and here was Newcastle.

Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, was an ambitious man and one of the richest in the country. He had inherited his title at the age of twenty-two and through his marriage great wealth. He had attained his ministerial post largely through his wealth, for he was by no means brilliant and his habits made him appear ridiculous. He rarely walked, but trotted as though in a great hurry to arrive at his destination; he appeared restless and uncertain; he rarely finished what he intended to; he was continually fussing without achieving his goal. One of the Court wits had remarked: ‘The Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it.’

As a young man he had supported the House of Hanover, even before the death of Queen Anne; and George I had selected him to be godfather to a son of George II, who because he was a friend of his father’s had hated him and had picked a quarrel at the baptismal ceremony. This had resulted in starting the famous quarrel between George I and George II, who was at that time Prince of Wales. The King had never liked him. Still, in spite of his faults, he was more honest than most and if he irritated the King, so did most of those who surrounded him.

Now he was saying in his ridiculous squeaky voice: ‘Your Majesty, it will be necessary to offer some guidance in the Prince’s education.’

This was exactly what the King himself was thinking, so he was slightly less irritated by Newcastle than he usually was.

He grunted.

‘It would be well… er… to er… remove His Highness from his mother’s care, to bring him here and to have him under Your Majesty’s surveillance.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said the King. ‘But I promised his mother she should keep him.’

‘If we could bring him under Your Majesty’s surveillance…’

The King hammered the table violently and the veins stood out at his temples. ‘I’ve told you, Newcastle. I’ve promised the voman. She’ll have the puppy… I’ve told her. Could do nothing else ven she was crying for her husband. She’s to keep him vith her and the rest of them, too.’

‘Yet, Your Majesty…’

‘Oh, be silent, you fool. The boy stays with his mother.’

‘Then if Your Majesty would consider appointing new tutors… tutors whom Your Majesty would choose…’

‘Ah, that’s a different story. If his grandmother vere here…’ The King looked mawkish. ‘There was a voman. I could trust her. I can trust no one else…’

Newcastle thought: She would have led you by the nose while she told you she was following you. Wasn’t that always her way?

‘She vould agree vith me that ve couldn’t take the boy from his mother.’

‘North should go, Your Majesty. Perhaps Your Majesty would consider substituting Lord Harcourt for North.’

The King considered the point, heartily wishing that he had not promised the Princess that she should have charge of the Prince.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ve’ll send the present lot packing, Newcastle, and appoint new ones. The boy struck me as being ignorant, Newcastle. Ignorant!’

‘It’s to be expected, Your Majesty, in the care of a woman.’

‘Bring your suggestions to me, Newcastle. Talk vith your council. Then ven you have them I’ll acquaint the Princess vith the names of the Prince’s new tutors.’

When Newcastle left the King the Duke was congratulating himself.

Very soon he would have the Prince surrounded by those whom he could trust to support him. If the King should die suddenly, the new King must have been imbued with the right ideas, which meant that he must have been brought up to respect the excellence of the Duke of Newcastle.

George was disturbed by the changes in his household. Dr Ayscough had been dismissed and his place taken by Dr Hayter, Bishop of Norwich. He did not dislike Hayter whom he considered sensible; he was the illegitimate son of the Archbishop of York, a very merry man, who enjoyed the company of women and did not allow his calling to interfere with his pleasure. George knew nothing of this; he would have been horrified if he had. Not that he knew much of the world; he was an idealist and was innocent enough to believe that his grandfather’s Court was full of people with similar ideas.

Lord Harcourt had taken the place of Lord North whom Frederick had appointed shortly before his death; he was proficient in little except hunting and drinking – neither of which accomplishments were of much use to the young Prince nor of any great interest to him. His sub-governor was Andrew Stone, a brother of the Archbishop of Armagh; and George Scott remained as sub-Preceptor.

The Princess resented these changes and George was aware of her dissatisfaction as he struggled manfully to learn but without much success.

Augusta expressed her disquiet to Bubb Dodington who was constantly in attendance on her.

‘They teach him nothing,’ she declared.

And Bubb did not suggest for one moment that the Prince’s ignorance might in some measure be due to his inability to learn.

‘Oh, the difficulties of bringing up a Prince without a husband to help one I’ she sighed.

But even as she spoke she was conscious of warm satisfaction. She was not so desolate as she liked people to think.

She had her friends. And there was one …

Their relationship had progressed since the death of Frederick, as indeed it was natural that it should.

He was discreet but purposeful; and she had no wish that he should be otherwise. From the first moment he had entered that tent on a certain rainy day she had never wished him to be any different from what he was.

When she had been mourning for Fred, on that first day when she was stunned by the terrible shock and had not yet begun to realize all it implied, she had been conscious of him close to her.

He had waited for her to recover a little, only betraying by a touch of the hand, the softest caress, the meaningful glance that he was standing by waiting.

And then as the days passed he had become a little more daring, taking those little steps nearer and nearer towards complete intimacy – a state neither of them would have considered while the Prince lived. Fred might have his mistresses, but a Princess was different. She had been solely Fred’s wife until the end; even now she was carrying his child.

When that was born… then she would consider herself free.

Bute knew it even as she did. There was in the air a delicious awareness of the future. This little bridge to be crossed to… paradise.

So she allowed herself to be angry with George’s new tutors, knowing that very soon there would be one who not only would be closer to her than the husband she had lost but would also be guide and father to her son.

Four months after the death of Frederick, Augusta’s child was born; it was a daughter and she named her Caroline Matilda. As Augusta lay in bed, the child beside her, she reflected that this was the end of a phase; and in some measure it was like stepping out of captivity. Already in the last four months she had begun to feel alive as never before. She was a person of importance; she could form her own opinions; no need now to wait until her lord and master voiced his views before she declared her own. Now she could think as she liked, speak as she liked.

This would be the last of her children. That saddened her a little. She liked children; and she was pleased with her brood. They should be hers, entirely hers, she thought passionately; and no one – no King on Earth – was going to take them from her.

They might say that children in such a position needed the guiding hand of a father. They should have it; for she knew of one who would be to them all that a father could possibly be. He would be waiting now… As soon as she was well; as soon as she was able to receive him… The time to which they had both looked forward with such intense longing was very close.

It was perhaps a little unseemly to be thinking of that now, while she lay abed with the Prince’s child. So she would direct her thoughts from such imminent joys and think as the parent of fatherless children should.

George! Her thoughts could always come uneasily to him. She did not like his tutors. And why should she tolerate those she did not like? Why should she allow the boy’s grandfather to dictate to her? She was his mother; she cared for him as his grandfather never could care for anyone except his silly strutting self. No, she was going to take charge of George’s upbringing, and no one was going to prevent her.

She thought of George’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather. Women! That was their chief pleasure and occupation. There was a strong streak of sensuality in the family; and George must be protected from it.

George at the moment was an innocent boy who knew little of the world. It was true he was just entering into his teens, but he was exceptionally innocent. She was going to keep him like that. He should not mingle with the boys of his own age who inhabited his grandfather’s Court. That place was a sink of iniquity. How long would George keep his innocence there?

No, George was going to be protected, and she his mother would protect him.

What a glorious future! She was free to make her own life. She had done with childbearing and she had a fine family to show for the arduous years. She had cast off her yoke and now she would do what she wished. And one thing she wished was to control her son, the Prince of Wales, so that when the time came for him to be King of England his mother would be beside him – the true ruler of the country.

There might be one other to stand with her. He was coming to see her now. A little unorthodox. Oh, but he had been such a friend of the Prince of Wales!

His presence filled the bedchamber – such poise, such authority, such looks.

His smile was tender.

‘I trust Your Royal Highness will soon be restored to perfect health.’

‘Thank you, my Lord Bute. I am sure this will be so.’

Lingering looks, full of plans for the future.

This was living as she had never lived before, thought the Dowager Princess of Wales; this was freedom.

It would have been a pleasant enough household but for the dissensions among his tutors, thought George. But there was continual intrigue in the schoolroom. This was one of the penalties of being Prince of Wales.

He and his brothers and sisters never met people of their own ages because their mother was afraid that they would be contaminated. She wanted to keep her children pure and innocent, she said, and saw no reason for bringing to their notice the unpleasant side of life before they need be faced with it.

She wanted George to confide in her – her and dear Lord Bute who was in constant attendance. No one could have the children’s welfare more at heart than dear Lord Bute and she wanted them to know it. But George knew this very well; his adoration for Lord Bute almost equalled that of his mother for the noble lord. Every problem he discussed with his dear uncle; and no one had ever been more kind; never did he show the slightest exasperation when George failed to grasp a point; he would explain it in several different ways to make it clear. George was contented as long as he had his dear Mamma and dear Uncle Bute close at hand. He was aware though of the trouble between those dear people and his tutors. Lord Harcourt and Bishop Hayter always seemed to be putting their heads together to annoy Mamma and Lord Bute. He was conscious of the way these two ignored Mamma – and Lord Bute – when they came to the schoolroom and how they always tried to denigrate or shrug aside as worthless anything either Mamma or Lord Bute suggested.

George sometimes felt that he was like a bone between growling dogs. He knew very well whom he wanted to care for him.

‘I don’t know what those men are doing here,’ said Mamma again and again. ‘I should like to know what they teach you. Stone is a sensible man and so is Scott, but they are in subordinate positions and cannot raise their voices against those two.’

George said mildly that Lord Harcourt was always pleasant to him, to which his mother replied that this was doubtless because the man knew his pupil would one day be King and he felt it expedient to be, but she did not trust him; and she feared that what he wished to teach George above all else was to distrust his own mother.

‘That he could never do, dearest Mamma,’ cried George.

‘I know that, my son. You may not be clever with books but you have the good sense to recognize your friends. And there are two on whom you can always depend – your mother and dear Lord Bute.’

‘I should indeed be a fool not to know that.’

‘You are my own child. Your mother would always be your best friend… and Lord Bute too.’

‘Lord Bute is as a father to me. I love him dearly.’

‘It pleases me to hear you say it. What a wonderful man he is! What should we do without him? It was a fortunate day for us when the rain brought him into our tent.’

‘Mamma, I often think of Lady Bute.’

‘Why should you do that?’

‘She is his wife, and wives and husbands are usually together… sometimes.’

‘Oh, she is happy enough. She lives in London. I doubt not he visits her now and then. She is a fortunate woman. Did you know he has given her fourteen children in as little time as it takes to have them?’

‘I always thought,’ said George fervently, ‘that he was a wonderful man.’

‘So you see,’ said the Princess firmly, ‘Lady Bute has nothing of which to complain.’

Newcastle, watching the situation in the Prince’s schoolroom with close attention, was well aware of the growing influence of the Princess Dowager and Lord Bute. It was dangerous, he decided. Each week the future King grew more and more devoted to those two; and when he stepped out of the schoolroom, possibly to the throne, he would be completely conditioned, a puppet of theirs. What Newcastle desired was that the boy should be a puppet of his, and it was the task of the tutors, Harcourt and Hayter, to bring about this desirable state of affairs.

But they were not succeeding.

Summoned to his presence for consultation they declared that the odds were against them. The Prince was constantly in the company of his mother and the man everyone now believed to be her paramour. It was too strong an influence to be easily broken. Moreover, Scott and Stone were on the side of the Princess and Bute.

‘Then,’ said Newcastle, ‘as we cannot get the Princess out of her son’s household, and while she is there so will her lover be, we must at least rid ourselves of Scott and Stone.’

This presented a problem, because neither Harcourt nor Hayter were greatly concerned with the studies of the Prince. They left that to the professors. Scott and Stone were the learned gentlemen.

‘There are other learned gentlemen,’ declared Newcastle. ‘Get rid of those two and we will find them.’

Hayter said that Stone read strange books and was constantly preaching tolerance. It might not therefore be difficult to pin on him a charge of being a Jacobite.

‘There you have it,’ said Newcastle. ‘There’s your chance. Use it.’

The people of England – and in particular London – had an inquisitive attitude towards their royal family. They jeered, they sentimentalized, they took sides. A young and innocent Prince had their sympathy and interest. He was a charming figure, fatherless, in all probability destined to be their King when a young man. They wanted to know how he was being treated; they wanted fair play for George; and surrounded by such a set of villains as his family were, they believed the situation needed their watchful attention.

The old King was a rogue. The sooner he died the better. He was a German, a little red-faced man without charm, and only happy when in Hanover. He had even brought a mistress over from Germany, implying that English women weren’t good enough! Of course he had his share of them, but to bring a woman from Germany and make her Countess of Yarmouth and set her up as his mistress-in-chief… it was simply not patriotic. He was old – and who ever wanted an old King? Oh yes, they were waiting impatiently for young George. A good boy by all accounts. And not bad-looking. He was tall – not like his little grandfather; fair skin, blue eyes, rather vacant expression and sullen-jawed; but he couldn’t help that, being a German. A pleasant boy on the whole, and the old fellow couldn’t die quickly enough for the people.

But he was young and there would be jostling for power. The rumours about the Princess were interesting. This Lord Bute seemed to be in constant attendance on the lady. For what purpose? They could guess, and whether it was true or not they were going to believe it was because it was more amusing that way. Bute and the Princess on one side – Newcastle and his henchmen on the other. There was going to be conflict; and this was what the people found amusing.

In the coffee and chocolate houses the latest gossip was discussed. The Whig writers vied with the Tory writers and the witty results of their labours brought great pleasure to all who read them.

So the conflict round the Prince was common knowledge and everyone waited to see who would be triumphant – Newcastle or the Princess Dowager.

The storm broke when Hayter came in and found George reading.

George was not a great reader. He was slow; but he was painstaking and if he took a long time to get through a book, at least he had read every word.

Scott and Stone had encouraged him to read. He should read history they assured him; the subject most necessary to Kings. He should have a good knowledge not only of his own country’s affairs but also those of his neighbours.

‘Your Highness is absorbed,’ said Hayter pleasantly.

George looked up, trying to bring his mind from the book’s subject to the Bishop.

‘It is an interesting book,’ said George. ‘Mr Stone recommended it and I am glad he did.’

‘May I see?’ asked Hayter.

‘But certainly.’

Hayter looked. ‘My God,’ he said. ‘Revolutions d’Angleterre! It’s by a Frenchman!’

‘It makes it doubly valuable… improving my knowledge of the language at the same time.’

‘At the same time as imbuing Your Highness with Jacobite sympathies?’

‘Jacobite sympathies…’ George stammered. ‘But… I could never have sympathies against my own family.’

‘Unless they were presented to Your Highness so cleverly, so attractively, that you felt them to be the truth.’

‘But…’

‘Your Highness says that Mr Stone gave you this book?’

‘Yes, but he thought…’

‘I must ask Your Highness to allow me to take this book.’

‘I have not finished…’

‘Nevertheless my duty impels me to take it.’

‘I… I…’

‘With Your Highness’s permission…’

George was always unsure how to deal with a situation of which he had had no experience, so he allowed the Bishop to take the book from him; he sat staring before him wondering what fresh trouble was about to break.

On his way to his mother’s apartment he met one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Chudleigh. He blushed as he always did when he met her; she seemed to him such a wonderful woman. She must be about eighteen years older than he was, but he felt more at ease in the company of women older than himself than in that of younger ones. And Elizabeth seemed to possess the qualities he most admired. She was one of the most self-possessed persons in his mother’s entourage; she was flamboyant and beautiful, always resourceful, not caring a jot for all the scandal that surrounded her, and there was plenty of that. Only recently she had appeared at a ball at Somerset House as Iphigenia for the sacrifice, and her gown – or lack of it – had caused such a stir because it had appeared that she was naked. In truth she had been clad in flesh-coloured silk so tight that it gave the appearance of being a skin and this was decorated in appropriate places by fig leaves. She had laughed at the storm such an appearance had aroused.

There were many scandals about Elizabeth and George often wondered why he liked her so much. He did not usually care for people who were talked of. It was his grandfather perhaps who had brought scandal to Elizabeth’s name, for he had been taken with her when she first came to Court and had presented her with a watch which cost thirty-five pounds. Whether she had been his mistress or not George was unsure. There were many women who did refuse the King’s attentions; and although this irritated him, it did not necessarily result in their being banished from Court. Long ago the Duke of Hamilton had been greatly enamoured of her and they actually became engaged before he was sent off by his family on the Grand Tour. That romance came to nothing – it was foiled, some said by a maiden aunt of Elizabeth’s who had intercepted their correspondence and withheld it so that they both believed the other had broken the promise to remain faithful. Exciting events would always circulate about Elizabeth. She was doubtless engaged in some secret adventure at this time; but all the same she had time to spare for an uncertain boy.

‘You look disturbed, Your Highness,’ she said, with that charming concern which was half flirtatious, half motherly.

He told her about the book he had been reading and how Hayter had taken it from him.

She snapped her fingers. ‘He’s out to make trouble. Don’t give him another thought.’

‘But he is accusing Mr Stone of trying to make a Jacobite of me. Of me, Miss Chudleigh! Why how could I possibly be a Jacobite?’

‘I’ll tell Your Highness this: Hayter and Harcourt are only trying to make trouble. Just laugh at them<<<…<<

‘I wish I were like you, Miss Chudleigh. Everything seems so easy for you.’

That made her laugh. ‘If only Your Highness knew,’ she whispered. Then she was motherly again. ‘Don’t worry. If you’re in any trouble, just let me know. You do understand, don’t you, that I’d put all my worldly wisdom at Your Highness’s disposal?’

‘Oh, Miss Chudleigh, I am sure you would.’

He meant it. It was comforting to think that he had the support of his mother, Uncle Bute and Miss Chudleigh.

The trouble came quickly. Hayter and Harcourt lost no time in laying their complaint against Mr Scott and Mr Stone before the Duke of Newcastle, who immediately took it to the King.

‘Young puppy,’ growled the King. ‘Ve should look into this. Vat does he think he is doing? Trying to drive himself off the throne before he’s reached it!’

The Dowager Princess was indignant. Because the Prince had read a book which put forward the case for James II it did not mean that he must agree with it.

‘If we are going to be accused of supporting every opinion of which we read we are going to be in difficulties. Do my lord Harcourt and my lord Bishop believe that we must read only one set of opinions, then? My son is heir to this throne. I should like him to study all opinions; only thus will he have a clear understanding of history.’

Newcastle was nonplussed. There had been too much shouting about the whole affair. Many men had read Revolutions d’Angleterre. Were they all going to be accused of harbouring Jacobite tendencies because of that?

Harcourt and Hayter believed themselves to be in a very strong position and declared that unless Stone and Scott were immediately dismissed, they would resign.

‘Dismiss Scott and Stone!’ cried the Princess. ‘But who, then, is going to teach my son? He learns little from my lord Harcourt or my lord Bishop. It is Mr Scott and Mr Stone who are the teachers.’

Too much notoriety had been given to the affair and in the coffee and chocolate houses the conflict between the Prince’s tutors was being discussed. To dismiss the Prince’s tutor simply because he had been discovered reading a book was going to arouse ridicule and criticism so the matter was shelved. But Harcourt and Hayter had sworn they would resign unless Scott and Stone were immediately dismissed. The tutors were not dismissed because there was no one of the academic ability to replace them.

Nonplussed, yet clinging to their dignity, there was only one thing Harcourt and Hayter could do. Resign.

Their resignation, much to their chagrin, was accepted; and in their places came Lord Waldegrave and Dr John Thomas, Bishop of Peterborough.

While these matters were coming to a head and reaching a settlement, George’s attention had wandered away. He had not disliked Harcourt and Hayter; he did not much care whether they left him or not; he did not greatly take to Waldegrave but Dr John Thomas seemed charming.

His thoughts, though, were far from the schoolroom. George was growing up; he was no longer a child.

For the last few months he had begun to notice the young girls of the court – never of his own age, usually those much older like Elizabeth Chudleigh. They seemed to him entirely delightful. He would like to chat with them, perhaps to kiss their hands and tell them how pretty he found them. That would be very pleasant, but there must be nothing sordid in the friendship. George wanted an ideal relationship. It would be wonderful to be happily married.

Yes, that was the idea. To be happily married as Papa and Mamma had been, as Lord Bute and his wife were …

This thought made George pause and frown a little. But Papa and Mamma had been happy; they had said so many times. Papa had had lady friends. Just friends, George supposed. And although Uncle Bute had a wife – he had been most punctilious in supplying her with children – his Court duties naturally kept him in attendance on the Princess of Wales.

Yes, these were ideal relationships and only such a one could satisfy George. He could never reconcile himself to doing wrong.

He wanted a wife, a home and children. He was not quite sixteen but he was tall and physically well developed; he was man enough to desire a woman and the only way he would wish to satisfy such desire was in marriage.

Marriage! he thought of it constantly. While his mother and Uncle Bute talked earnestly about the scheming Harcourt and Hayter, he thought of marriage. He could see his bride quite clearly. Very beautiful and older than he was because there was something so comforting about older women.

And gradually his picture of the woman he wanted for his wife took shape. He had seen her when he rode in his carriage from Leicester House to St James’s. – She was sombrely dressed in a grey Quaker gown; she was demure; and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She would be sitting in the upper window over a linen-draper’s shop in St James’s Market so he always commanded his chairman to take that route. As his chair came level with the linen-draper’s window he would raise his eyes and flush; and she would look at him with wide-eyed innocence and after a few such occasions she too took to flushing. It was clear that she was as conscious of him as he was of her; and this fact delighted him.

His mother might rage about the fiends who wanted to take her son from her; he would always answer her mechanically. Even when Lord Bute spoke to him he scarcely heard. His thoughts would be occupied by the beautiful young woman in the linen-draper’s shop.