The Regent's Daughter

Death of an old girl

AMELIA SAT IN her window looking out at the sea. She was feeling no better in spite of the sea breezes; but she was happy because her eldest brother had promised to ride over from Brighton.

Her embroidery lay in her lap. She was, in fact, too tired even for such work. Her tiredness increased with every week and she had a premonition that this time next year she would not be here.

Her sister Mary was with her. What would she do without Mary – the favourite among her sisters as George was among her brothers. Yet she supposed she had grown accustomed to Mary. George was a being from another world, a world of gay romance, whereas poor Mary who had been so pretty when she was young and who was now like a faded flower, was one of the frustrated sisterhood.

Mary came into the room and saw her sister’s hands lying idly in her lap.

‘You should sleep a little,’ she said.

‘I have slept all morning. I don’t want to sleep my life away … what’s left of it.’

‘Don’t speak like that, I beg you.’

‘Oh, Mary, let us be frank. You know it can’t be long now.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’

‘But you do, dearest sister, and you won’t accept it.’

Mary shook her head almost angrily and Amelia said gently: ‘Come and sit down and talk a while.’ Mary picked up a footstool and leaning it against Amelia’s chair sat down.

‘What a lovely day,’ she said. ‘I hope it will be as pleasant for George’s journey tomorrow.’

‘It will be wonderful to see him. I wish he were happier though.’

‘Why shouldn’t George be happy? He has everything he could wish for. He is free.’

‘Freedom only seems good when you don’t possess it … like good health and riches … like youth.’

Mary sighed. ‘We are all getting old now. Even you, Amelia, are twenty-six. Twenty-six and the youngest of us all. As for George, if he is not content it is his own fault. They say he is breaking with Mrs Fitzherbert. I am sure that will not make him very happy.’

‘He thinks he will be happier with Lady Hertford.’

‘Our charming brother can be a little foolish sometimes.’

Amelia was not going to have him criticized. ‘His life is so full. It is natural that he should often act in a way we do not understand.’

Mary softened towards her brother. All the sisters were fond of him. She said: ‘He always said that the first thing he would do on coming to power would be to find husbands for us. I think he is sorry for us. He has a kind heart although he does not let his pity for us disturb his pleasures.’

‘It would be foolish if he did, for what help would that be?’

‘Oh, Amelia, sometimes I feel so frustrated, so full of resentment that I will do something really wild. Run away, perhaps, something like that.’

‘I understand,’ said Amelia. ‘But it would kill Papa.’

‘Amelia, has it ever occurred to you that Papa has killed something in us? He has kept us here. He has never allowed us to marry. It is like shutting birds in cages and letting them see other birds flying about around them in the sunshine … soaring, swooping, mating …’

‘Yes, it always comes back to that,’ said Amelia. ‘We should have married … all of us.’

‘But Papa does not wish it. We are royal Princesses. There is no one royal enough. Our sister Charlotte was the only one who found a husband. And do you remember how we feared that her marriage would not come off because her husband had had a wife who died mysteriously and they weren’t quite sure that she was dead?’

‘Poor Charlotte, she was so ill when she thought it was going to come to nothing. I could weep to think of her terror. It all seems so clear to me.’

Mary regarded her sister anxiously. ‘Does such talk upset you?’

‘Pray don’t change the subject. I want to talk about us … us and our lives. But it does not make me love dear Papa any the less.’

‘You were always his favourite.’

‘The youngest. Papa’s girl.’ Amelia smiled. ‘They used to send me in to amuse him when he was melancholy.’

‘And you always made him happy.’

‘He used to hold me so tightly that I was afraid. Do you remember the time when he clung to me so fiercely that they thought he would do me some harm?’

‘I remember it well. They put him into a straitjacket because he cried so much when they took you from him. That was when he was very ill.’

‘Mary, do you think … he will be ill again?’

‘I often wonder. I think of it often.’

‘So do I. We ought to remember it. We ought never to do anything that would upset him.’

‘Yet we are young … or we were once. Didn’t we have lives of our own to lead?’

‘Sophia thought so.’

‘Sophia!’ murmured Mary. ‘She was more daring than the rest of us.’

‘Poor Sophia. Is she happy, do you think? Oh Mary, what must it feel like to be the mother of a child you must never acknowledge?’

‘At least one would have been a mother. Better that … than to grow old and never have lived … just to have been a princess in a cage … sitting with Mamma, reading with Mamma, looking after the dogs, stitching, filling the snuffboxes. Sophia is perhaps not to be pitied.’

‘But she looks so tragic sometimes. Do you think that one day she will marry the General? Suppose they did … and the boy was with them. Do you think they would be happy?’

Mary looked over her shoulder. ‘Someone might hear.’

‘They know,’ said Amelia. ‘You cannot have a secret like that and keep it from your household.’

They were thinking of that day some ten years ago when Sophia had confessed to them that she was to have a child. Poor Sophia – almost out of her mind with worry. What would Papa say? What would the Queen say? She had feared the Queen more than their father, for since his illness he had become very meek and sometimes unaware of what was going on around him. ‘It is Papa’s own fault,’ Elizabeth had said. ‘He shuts us away and expects us to live like nuns in a convent. But we are not nuns and this is not a convent.’

Sophia was in love; and to think that the partner in her adventure was one of their father’s equerries and that he was still with them … a member of the suite which had accompanied Amelia to Weymouth. It made him seem like one of the family. Sophia had been just twenty-three then and she had been reckless, for at that age they might have found a husband for her. But as if they would! There were Augusta, Elizabeth and Mary all to come before her. She had been in love with Sir Thomas Garth and despairing of marriage had decided to do without it.

A royal Princess pregnant! It would have to be kept secret. Papa must never know. It would kill him, said Augusta, and Elizabeth believed her. Tom Garth was resourceful. He would make all the arrangements, Sophia must hide her condition, which was not difficult with the fashion for voluminous skirts; she must feign sickness, which was not difficult either for the poor girl was very worried and this in addition to the trials of pregnancy meant that she had little acting to do. The doctor – a friend of Tom’s – had suggested a change of air. Weymouth – a favourite spot, was suggested; and here Sophia had come with Mary, who was always delegated to care for the sick members of the family, and there she had given birth to her boy. It had all been very cleverly arranged. A gentleman’s tailor named Sharland who lived in the town had a pregnant wife and when this wife gave birth to a boy, there was no reason why it should not be believed that she had had twins.

Thus were these matters arranged in royal families.

And Sophia had carried this great secret for ten years. Her boy was growing up. She saw him now and then. Mary was always afraid that she would betray her secret by the very manner in which she looked at him.

As for Tom Garth he was devoted to the boy. He had already taken him from the Sharlands’ and ‘adopted’ him. He was constantly talking of him and planning his education; and indeed young Tom had the stamp of Hanover on his round rather vapid face, and in his wide blue eyes; his lashes were dark though and this was not a Hanoverian feature. (Poor Charlotte’s eyelashes were so pale that one could scarcely see them.) His lips had that sullen expression, except when he smiled and his jaw was heavy, but on the whole he was a handsome youth.

He seemed to wheedle what he wanted out of Tom Garth and the General appeared to want to spoil him in every way because he had royal blood in his veins.

What secrets there were in the family! thought Amelia. The boys were not the only ones who had adventures.

She thought sadly of dear Charles Fitzroy, whom she loved and who loved her – but they were not for each other and they had known it. Charles had married twice, for his first wife had died young after giving him a son and now he had married Frances Anne Stewart, the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Londonderry. He had his boys, George and Robert, and a daughter as well. What was the use of regretting, of saying to oneself: ‘Those should have been mine.’ She was a Princess and although he was a son of the Duke of Grafton and descended from Charles II and his mistress Barbara Villiers, he was not considered worthy to marry the King’s daughter. But was that so? Was it that George III could not bear to think of any of his daughters in the marriage bed? He was a man with strange dark thoughts which sometimes harassed and tormented him to such an extent that they drove him into madness.

For her there might have been marriage with Charles Fitzroy; and dear Mary, her sister who insisted on being with her, nursing her herself, was in love with her cousin the Duke of Gloucester. Why could they not be permitted to marry? Why must they remain in what her brother George called the Band of Spinsterhood?

Was it her father’s strange obsession which sent him on the verge of madness to contemplate his daughters married? Or was it their mother who wanted to keep them about her – her handmaidens, whom she governed and treated as though they were still children in the nursery?

What did it matter? Amelia asked herself wearily. The result is that we remain here in our prisons and even Sophia who briefly stepped outside hers could only step back into it when the inevitable result overtook her.

‘My poor Amelia,’ said Mary suddenly. ‘I have tired you with all this talk.’

No, thought Amelia. It is poor Mary. For I shall die young; and as they become older the resentment will grow. And when George is ready to find husbands for them they will be too old.

There was a discreet scratching on the door.

Mary gave permission for whoever was there to enter.

It was Sir Thomas Garth himself, a loyal member of her suite. Mary said he never forgot anything that was necessary to Amelia’s comfort and if Dr Pope ordered something he would see that it was procured, however difficult. He looked upon Amelia as a young sister.

Both sisters looked a little guilty as he entered, since they had so recently talked of him. He was far from handsome and well advanced into his fifties – a good deal older than Sophia. Couldn’t she have chosen someone more handsome? wondered Amelia. Someone more like her dearest Charles Fitzroy. One could not imagine gentle Sophia with that bluff old soldier; he was scarcely handsome either and had an ugly birthmark on his face.

Poor Sophia! thought Amelia. Poor all of us!

Thomas bowed as well as the package he was carrying would allow.

‘A present, Your Highness, from Brighton. His Royal Highness has sent it on in advance of himself.’

Amelia gave a little cry of joy and held out her hands for the package. Mary came close and Thomas stood watching while she opened it – very unceremoniously, thought Mary, but what could one say to the father of one’s nephew?

There were five pelisses all in delicate and charming colours. Amelia flushed and wrapped a delicate blue one about her shoulders.

‘It’s most becoming,’ said Mary.

‘Trust His Highness to choose the right colours,’ said Thomas.

A letter had fluttered to the floor and Thomas picked it up and handed it to the Princess.

Amelia glanced at the flourishing handwriting, and read the fulsome phrases with pleasure. He could scarcely wait to see his dearest sister. He was coming with all speed the next day. He would be delighted if his dearest Amelia were wearing one of these pelisses which he, with Brummell’s help, had spent two hours in choosing. And so on … flowery phrases from the most charming brother in the world.

Mary smiled to see her sister happy. One could almost believe she were well again.

‘My dearest sister!’

Amelia rose from her chair and was enfolded in his scented arms.

‘George, dearest, let me look at you. Oh … you are magnificent!’

He laughed. ‘What do you think of this cloth? Brummell brought my notice to it.’

‘You are constantly in the company of that fellow, I hear.’

‘He’s a wizard, I tell you. Have you heard of the new cravat he has invented?’

‘I am glad you find such pleasure in these things.’

‘Which sounds a little censorious, sister.’

‘Not in the least. If there are things in life which give pleasure without harming others it is foolish to turn one’s back on them. Besides, think of what pleasure I get from wondering what you will appear in next and having little games with myself to guess. There is one thing I can always be sure of. You will look elegant, and more than that – magnificent … all that a Prince of Wales should. Pray turn that I may have a better view.’

He did so. The epitome of elegance. The cloth of his coat fine and of pleasant moss green, his neckcloth snowy white to match his buckskin breeches, moulded to a fine though plump thigh; the diamond star flashing on his breast and few diamonds adorning his white and shapely hands.

‘Oh, George,’ cried Amelia. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

He embraced her, the tears in his eyes. This was a scene such as he loved. From his parents he had nothing but criticism and when he rode into the streets the crowds were either silent or hostile; Maria in the last year had thrown plenty of home-truths at his head. But here he was with his favourite sister who adored him.

‘The pelisses are lovely. I shall think of you every time I wear them. Not that I need a’pelisse to remind me of you. Oh, George, sit down, and let us be alone to talk. There is so much I want to say to you.’

He sat down and looked at her. She was growing very frail. He wanted to weep for Amelia, his little sister who had never had a chance to live and was now not far from death. What could he do for her?

‘Dearest Amelia, if there is anything on this earth that I can do for you …’

‘There is something, George. Let us face the truth. I am not going to live much longer.’

‘I won’t allow you to talk in such a way.’

‘Then I shall do so without your permission. The time is passing and I have certain affairs to settle. George, help me.’

He brought a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Anything,’ he declared brokenly. ‘Anything.’

‘I want everything I have to go to Charles …’

George nodded. He knew of her hopeless love for Charles Fitzroy. He was genuinely sorry for his sisters and definitely intended to do something for them when it was in his power. He often thought – when he was not concerned with his own affairs – how sad their position was. They had no allowances they could call their own, no freedom; they were the complete slaves of their parents. His brothers were fortunate; they had escaped that thraldom; but George would never cease to be sorry for his sisters and he swore that when he was in control the first thing he would do was to see what could be done for them.

‘I borrowed five thousand pounds from Charles and have only paid back one. He must be paid back.’

The Prince nodded. He was not very fond of Charles Fitzroy, but since Amelia was enamoured of him he would do his duty.

‘You should have another executor,’ he told his sister. ‘What about Adolphus? I’ll tell him that he will act with me. Now let us have done with this painful subject.’

‘Oh, George,’ she said, ‘how I love you! How grateful I am to have such a brother.’

There were the tears again, the flurry of the beautiful handkerchief, the emotion which did not mar his fresh complexion or dull the brilliance of his eyes.

It was pleasant to bask in his sister’s adoration. If only some people were as appreciative of him he would be less troubled. Maria for instance who was being so difficult and determined to quarrel and had refused his invitations. Even Lady Hertford was as cold as ever, determined not to be the mistress of the Prince of Wales until he became a Tory – he, who had been a Whig from the earliest days when he had had his tuition from the famous Fox – and who insisted on Maria’s acting as a chaperon whenever she visited him, a task which Maria refused point blank to accept. However, for the time he would enjoy the undemanding homage of his favourite sister.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘let us talk no more of this doleful subject. I will tell you of the new alterations I am planning at my Pavilion, and I am going to insist on your coming to Brighton.’

‘I should enjoy that … if I were well enough. But I should hate to be ill at Brighton. Brighton is such a gay place. And how is darling Charlotte?’

‘As full of whims and fancies as ever. She is a troublesome girl. I fear she takes after her mother.’

‘When I last saw her I thought you must have looked exactly like her when you were her age.’

‘I’m not complaining of her looks. It’s her spirits. She has too many and they are too high.’

‘Well, she is her father’s daughter. Would you expect a meek little creature without an original thought in her head?’

‘Certainly not, but I wish she would not be troublesome. There’s trouble enough in the family.’

‘Oh, George, what news of Ernest?’

‘He’s getting on. You know he is recuperating at the Pavilion.’ The Prince frowned slightly. Brighton was his town. There at least the people were loyal to him; he feared that Ernest was impairing his popularity in Brighton. There were so many rumours about that unfortunate affair of the valet and when scandal touched one member of the family it touched the rest. It was particularly disastrous following so quickly on Fred’s scandal with Mary Anne Clarke.

Still, what could he do? Ernest had had to get away from Town; he had to recover from his very serious accident … if that was the right word for it … and none of the brothers refused to help each other when the need arose.

This unpleasantness would pass.

‘It’s good of you to look after him,’ said Amelia. ‘But you are always good to your poor brothers and sisters.’

‘I wish to God I’d been able to do something for you girls. It’s not much of a life for any of you.’

‘There were too many of us.’ She laughed. ‘How strange are the lives of kings and queens. So many have suffered because they could not get one child; and our parents had fifteen. Thirteen of us growing into adults to cause them trouble.’

‘You have never given any cause for trouble.’

‘Have I not? Papa continually worries about my health and what he would say if he knew that I loved Charles I cannot imagine.’

‘He wants you to love only him.’

‘How was he when you last saw him?’

‘Poor Papa!’

She shook her head and did not speak for a moment; she was aware of that somewhat eager look in her brother’s eyes.

‘Very bad,’ she said. ‘Worse. He can scarcely see now. He is almost blind and the other …’

‘The rambling,’ supplied the Prince.

‘That,’ she said, ‘is worse, far worse. He keeps asking me how I am and embracing me and weeping over me and I keep telling him that I am getting stronger every day, which is a lie, George.’

‘Yet it comforts him. Poor old man, he is in need of comfort. Can it be much longer?’

‘People are noticing. Not only the family … but his ministers. There will be a Regency soon. I am sure of it, though it may be that I shall not be here to see it.’

‘How you harp on that,’ he said almost pettishly, ‘when you know how it grieves me.’

She held out a hand and pleaded forgiveness. ‘When the Regency comes you will be too busy to miss me.’

‘That could never be.’

‘Wherever I may be, my love and hopes for your success will follow you.’

‘My blessed Amelia!’

She looked at him tenderly. Dared she attempt to advise him? Could she say: Be careful with Maria. Maria is the one for you. No other woman will be as she is to you, none will love you as well.

How could she? She knew the fervour that possessed him when he was in pursuit of a woman and Lady Hertford was cold and cruel – Maria Fitzherbert warm and loving. And in his heart he knew that whatever fancies he had, it would always be Maria whom he loved. Maria whom he looked upon as his true wife.

Frederick and William had mentioned this to her. They both admired Maria Fitzherbert greatly and they were fond enough of their brother to wish for his happiness. She knew that they had tried to bring George and Maria together – to make Maria more tolerant of his weakness, to make him see the folly of his ways. But it was useless. They could do nothing against Maria’s pride and his infatuation for a woman who would bring no good to him.

How she would like to see him happy with Maria, bringing her tales of little Minney Seymour whom he had looked upon as a daughter. She would have liked to see Maria’s good sense made of use to Princess Charlotte. But how could she, a poor invalid, who had not been able to suppress her hopeless love for Charles Fitzroy, hope to guide the lives of others?

She thought of the trials of the family, the scandals that beset the brothers. Was there to be no end to them and were they not of their own making? But the young Princess Charlotte needed guidance. She was torn between her parents – her father who could not take to her because she reminded him of her mother, and her mother who smothered her with affection and saw nothing wrong in luring the girl into that scandalous household which she had built up at Montague House.

It was better to talk of lighter matters: of the objets d’art he had acquired; of the Chinese decorations he was having done in the Pavilion.

But her thoughts ran on the sorrows of her family; and there was one whom she could not banish from her mind: the poor ailing King, who loved her more dearly than he loved any other.

When I die, she wondered, what will become of him?

That October Amelia was afflicted with erysipelas – the doctors called it St Anthony’s Fire – and it became clear that she was approaching her end. The Princess Mary was broken-hearted; she had nursed Amelia since she had become so ill and although she had known what the end must be – and that it could not be long delayed – nevertheless the shock was great.

There was mourning throughout the royal family. Amelia had been the best loved of them all, but none mourned her as deeply as the King. She alone, in the last year, had been able to soothe his troubled mind; only his beloved youngest daughter had been able to bring a smile to his lips. That she had been thinking of him at the end, that she had had made for him a ring containing a lock of her own hair under crystal and set with diamonds, could only accentuate his loss.

He took her ring; he slipped it on his finger and shut himself in his apartments. The Queen could hear him talking and talking all through the night.

He was moving fast into twilight. The anxieties of the world were too much for him; and the loss of his dearly beloved Amelia was beyond bearing.

One day his equerries came to him to find him smiling happily. ‘My darling Amelia is not dead,’ he told them. ‘She has gone to Hanover with her little brother Octavius.’

As Octavius was the son who had died when he was four years old some twenty-six years before, it was known that the King’s mind was wandering.

That was the beginning. His situation worsened. His troubles had been too much for him and he could no longer keep up the pretence of sanity.

The time had come for him to retire from the scene. The need for the Regency had once more arisen and this time it was brought into effect.

The Prince of Wales became the Prince Regent.