Island of the Swans (82 page)

Jane’s eyes widened. If the prince was the source of these libelous rumors, he really was an unprincipled lout!

“Say nothing,” Jane advised firmly. “Do not even respond to such twaddle.”

“But—”

“The people are loyal to His Majesty, William,” she interrupted. “Even in the synagogues they pray for his recovery. The Prince’s estrangement from his parents and the lad’s dissolute ways are well known. I say: hold fast.”

Pitt looked at her admiringly. A wistful smile formed on his lips.

“You’re an amazing woman. Duchess,” William Pitt murmured quietly.

“And a tired one at that, I’m afraid.” She smiled back at him in her most motherly fashion. “Come now… off with ye. You must have your wits about you for the coming grand debate, even if the king has, for the moment, lost his.”

Pitt heaved himself out of the chair and accepted his coat from the Gordon footman.

“Are there
any
signs of improvement since Dr. Willis was summoned?” she inquired as they waited in her foyer for the prime minister’s carriage to be brought around from the mews.

“The doctor seems to be having a positive effect on his royal patient,” Pitt replied, brightening. “A few days ago, the king had his first good night since this episode began. There was none of his usual nocturnal ranting and pacing… but… well, no one knows whether he’s truly improving.”

The footman opened her front door, but the carriage standing in front of her house was not the prime minister’s. It belonged to the Duke of Gordon.

“Ah… good evening, Minister,” Alex said icily, glancing with narrowing eyes from Pitt to his wife as he stepped from the coach. “Rather late for paying social calls, isn’t it?”

England’s premier politician flushed slightly, and merely inclined his head as a second carriage appeared around the corner.

“I hope you’ve had a pleasant journey to London, Your Grace,” Pitt said with clipped politeness. “A good evening to you both,” he added, nodding briefly to Jane before he strode away.

“Hello, Alex,” Jane said uneasily, feeling defensive for no good reason.

“Good evening, my dear,” the duke replied coolly. He handed his traveling cape to the liveried servant and directed his trunks to be brought up to his bedchamber. “You must fill me in on the coming debate. Obviously, you are privy to all the details on matters requiring our vote this session. You seem to be on the most
intimate
terms with our young minister…”

“Oh,
please
, Alex!” Jane replied crossly as she mounted the stairs.

Alex’s taunting voice halted her progress.

“I heard some interesting gossip at the tavern where I supped at the edge of the city tonight, my dear,” he said mockingly. “’Tis said that Pitt dandles a Saxon queen on one knee and a Scottish duchess on the other these days…”

Jane stiffened and turned to stare down at him from the dimly lit landing.

“A pox on you, Alex Gordon!” she hissed. “You will
stop
making these vile insinuations! You will stop treating me thus!” She took a step down to a level where she could look him straight in the eye. “Let us get one item straight between us, m’lord,” she continued, her gaze narrowing. “I am
nothing
to you, and you are
nothing
to me any longer. If you’re not civil to me in
private
as well as in public, I will broadcast it about that the blight of Gordon Madness has struck again: that there is good reason to conclude the Duke of Gordon is off his tree and has become a cradle-thieving
pederast
! And in London, I assure you, Your Grace, the populace will believe
anything
!”

Thirty

F
EBRUARY
1789

F
OR ALL
J
ANE SAW OF
A
LEX DURING THE NEXT WEEKS, HE COULD
have still been living at Gordon Castle, or deep in the forests of the estates in Badenoch. When the duke wasn’t attending Parliament, he generally repaired to that other impregnable fortress: his club. Meanwhile, Pitt continued to employ his delaying tactics, hatched in Jane’s drawing room in St. James’s Square, in a desperate attempt to save George III his crown.

By the dawn of the New Year, 1789, the king’s condition began to improve markedly for no reason other than Dr. Willis’s attempts to countermand many of the regular court physicians’ repellent prescriptions.

“I’ve received the most extraordinary news from Fanny Burney,” Pitt said in a low voice as soon as he arrived at Jane’s for a small dinner in early February. “She’s just had a rather startling encounter with His Majesty in Kew Gardens, where he spoke interminably—but nonetheless
sensibly
—of his favorite composer, Handel.”

“Hold fast, Minister!” Jane said smilingly as they joined the other guests in the dining room. “Hold fast!”

Then, by the middle of February, Burney reported to Pitt who repeated to Jane that the king was “infinitely better.”

In spite of such signs of improvement, the question of the Regency continued to rage in Parliament until March, during which time Pitt had forced debate on every issue related to the crisis he could think of, causing delay after delay—much to the delight of the Tories supporting him.

“I’m about at my wit’s end,” the prime minister confided to Jane one afternoon when she had called for him in her coach and insisted he drive with her through Hyde Park to escape the constant din and wrangling within the halls of Parliament. “It has become eminently clear on both sides of the chamber that my points of order are simply delaying tactics,” he admitted glumly. “’Tis a matter of days or hours before the question will be called for a vote.”

Jane could think of no encouragement to offer Pitt other than her company, so she returned with him to Parliament and repaired to a chamber set aside for ladies, promising to wait for the minister at the end of the day’s session. Within minutes of having been served a glass of ale, Jane was startled to see Pitt rush into the female sanctuary, his face beaming.

“’Tis a miracle!” he exulted, pulling her to her feet. “A messenger has just arrived with a report that this morning His Majesty walked arm in arm with Queen Charlotte in Richmond Gardens! The tenor of his conversation was as wise as an owl’s!”

“Sink me… can it be true?” Jane asked incredulously.

“Not only that,” Pitt chortled, “but the entire chamber has just learned that the king has been
told
of the proposals to strip him of his powers!”

“God’s wounds…
’tis
a miracle!” Jane replied excitedly, thinking she would like to see the chagrin on the faces of such turncoats as Sheridan, Fox, and the Duchess of Devonshire—not to mention the Prince of Wales himself! “
Now
we shall see the rats scurrying to reboard the Ship of State!”

“The
miracle
is, the urine no longer runs bloody, and his mind is clear again,” Pitt added excitedly.

“We won! We won!” she exclaimed, impulsively skipping in a circle around the prime minister. “The news of his recovery will spread like wildfire!” she predicted happily. “All the fence-straddlers wouldn’t
dare
try to slip the Regency Bill through now! We
won
!”

On the following day, the vote on the Regency Bill was quietly put off. By March first, prayers of Thanksgiving were read in all the churches and cathedrals in England. As promised, the king went to Parliament on the eleventh to prove he was as fit as the Court party had claimed. Three days later, he was seen riding on horseback at Windsor, and the crowds there paid him enthusiastic homage.

Jane and Alex and their elder children were among the first to receive their invitation to the service of Public Thanksgiving at St. Paul’s. It was to be the ducal Gordons’ first public appearance together in months, and Jane was on edge.

That morning, she merely nodded when he offered her his hand to assist her into their coach. Fortunately, the children kept the conversation lively on their way to the church.

Lord Huntly had come to London, by special permission, from Cambridge to attend the festivities. Their son had become something of a connoisseur of horseflesh.

“Gadzooks, Papa!” Huntly exclaimed as they alighted in front of the cathedral. “Can you fancy
that
!” He pointed toward the king’s coach, drawn by eight cream-colored horses, pulling up in majestic splendor next to the steps of the cathedral. Trumpets and kettledrums heralded the sovereign’s arrival. Emerging from his magnificent chariot, the king was in his full dress Windsor uniform.

“Oh, Mama…” breathed Susan, her eyes widening at the appearance of Queen Charlotte and the entire Royal Family. The Royals were each attired in purple silk, edged with gold fringe.

“Look…
look!
” squealed Louisa excitedly. “The entire family’s come to pay homage to the king!”

The Prince of Wales and his brother, the Duke of York, were among the trail of family members following in the wake of the king and queen.

“The royal scamp appears suitably chastened,” Alex murmured in Jane’s ear as the prince dutifully walked several paces behind his victorious parents.

The wild cacophony of pealing church bells brought back to Jane a childhood vision of herself at age ten, helping Thomas pull down George III’s coronation placards while the bells of St. Giles rang incessantly and the old battery on Edinburgh’s Castle Hill belched fire. ’Twas hard to believe, she thought ruefully, that today she was credited among the cognoscenti for having helped preserve the king’s throne during this fateful time which parliamentarians were privately calling The Madness Crisis.

“There’s Mr. Pitt!” Charlotte exclaimed.

The throng roared its approval as the prime minister emerged from his coach in front of St. Paul’s. Shortly afterward, the Whig leader, Charles Fox, stepped out of his carriage to a chorus of boos from the bystanders.

“So much for the Eyebrow,” Jane said dryly.

“Let’s just pray the king is truly cured and this cursed affliction will ne’er come back,” Alex replied under his breath.

A series of gala Thanksgiving Balls soon followed in the wake of the king’s recovery, but as the country celebrated, the Gordons were in the throes of preparing for the wedding of Madelina, whose marriage to Robert Sinclair had been postponed when the king had fallen ill the previous autumn.

Jane hesitated outside the library door, her hand on the brass knob. Whether she liked it or not, she was forced by her penury to take up the matter of money with her husband.

“I’ve come to ask you about the deeds to Kinrara,” she asked, approaching his desk. “Have they been drawn up?”

“Yes, good wife, they have,” he answered carefully. “They’re right here for your inspection.”

Jane took the sheaf of papers he proffered her and began to riffle through them. She couldn’t help allowing a small smile of triumph to creep across her features. She was about to raise the subject of her household allowance when Alex caught her wrist in a forceful grip.