Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series) (44 page)

‘It’s a ruin,’ he said, ‘but I never saw a house with greater possibilities. Carlton House will in a few months be the most elegant residence in town.’

He brought Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, to look at the place. She caught his enthusiasm. She went from room to room and decided what furniture should be needed.

‘Henry Holland is the architect we need,’ said the Prince, ‘and I’ll have that Frenchman Gaubert for the inside decorations. And of one thing I am certain: there shall be no delay.’

Nor was there. The Prince was kept informed of how the work progressed – and it did so at a great pace.

No expense was spared. Why should it be? This was for the Prince of Wales and Parliament had voted a sum of £39 000 to pay his debts.

The Prince was happy and excited.

He had visited his Uncle Cumberland who had a house by the sea and he found the place enchanting. Brighthelmstone – Brighton for short. He spent his time supervising the alterations to Carlton House, designing his clothes, dancing, drinking with men like Fox and Sheridan, making love with his mistresses, gambling, horse-racing, attending prize fights and driving down to Brighton. He had designed his own phaeton with which he always used three horses one before the other like a team – a postilion mounted on the first and himself driving the other two. It was the speediest vehicle on the road.

Artists, mercers, tailors, furriers, shoemakers, waited on him daily. He discussed with Gaubert the pillars of porphyry he would have erected in the hall; he chose yellow Chinese silk to line the walls of his drawing room; he even had a bathroom installed and this was to lead from his bedchamber.

All the alterations he planned could not be completed before
his twenty-first birthday, but the house must be made ready for his occupation by that time. And this would be done.

He was contented. Even when it was decided he should receive only £62 000 a year instead of the hoped for £100 000, he was not unduly dismayed. He would go on making plans for Carlton House for a long time to come – but in the meantime he would live there. At last his dream had come true. He had his own establishment. He was independent. Now he would do as he liked. Not even the King should curb the Prince of Wales.

*

In November 1783 three months after his twenty-first birthday, the Prince took his seat in the House of Lords.

It seemed as though the whole of London had come out to see him ride through the streets on his way from Carlton House.

And it was well worth it. The Prince was a dazzling spectacle dressed in black velvet embroidered with gold and sprinkled with pink spangles; the heels of his shoes were the same pink as the spangles; and his hair was frizzed and curled.

The people cheered him wildly. They were greatly interested in the work going on at Carlton House. The Prince was extravagant, but this gave work to thousands and the builders and mercers, the tailors and hairdressers could not speak too highly of him. He was setting new fashions, and fashions were good for trade.

The Lords – in the traditional scarlet and ermine – were astounded by the unconventional but spectacular appearance of their Prince.

His maiden speech was greeted with loyal cheers. All forward looking men, he believed, had their eyes fixed on him.

He existed, he announced, by the love, the friendship and the benevolence of the people. He would never forsake their cause as long as he lived.

When he left the House of Lords he went to the Commons where his friend Fox was speaking in defence of the East India Bill, the object of which was to put the Company under the jurisdiction of directors who should be selected by the Government.

Fox – whose Bill this was – spoke passionately in its favour,
but he had a strong opponent in young William Pitt, a boy of about twenty-four who had all the fire and shrewdness of his father, the Great Commoner. The Prince knew that young Pitt had to be watched for the King was taking him into favour – largely because he was an opponent of Fox’s.

When the Prince entered the Commons and took his place in the gallery all eyes were on him – and not only because of his black velvet and pink spangles; but because this was a gesture. He had come to hear Mr Fox, to applaud Mr Fox and to show parliament that he stood with Mr Fox against enemies even though the chief of these was the King.

*

Mr Fox looked ruefully about his lodgings at St James’s. He would have to sell every piece of furniture that was left if he was going to fight this election. He could no longer stave off his creditors; his gambling debts were enormous. If he were going to fight this Westminster election he must have the money to do so.

And there was no question of his fighting. He
must
fight.

This was one of the rare moments when he forced himself to think about money. Lucky Prince of Wales, he thought ruefully, with a parliament to take care of his debts.

But there was nothing he enjoyed like a fight – so he must call in the dealers and sell his home – and after that? He would trust to luck which had never really deserted him so far.

The coalition had fallen on his East India Bill which although it had passed through the Commons was thrown out of the Lords. Fox knew how this had happened. The King had written to Lord Temple telling him to make it known that he would consider as his enemy any man who voted for the Bill. Although not all the lords were intimidated by this threat, the Bill was defeated by a narrow margin; and this had brought down the Government. With what joy had the King commanded Fox and North to return their seals of office!

The King had then summoned young William Pitt and appointed him Prime Minister.

‘We have a schoolboy to rule us,’ was the comment, for Pitt was twenty-four years of age.

But he was the son of the great Pitt and had already shown signs of having inherited his father’s powers.

And then … Pitt demanded a dissolution of Parliament – and the result was this election which Fox could ill afford to fight.

While he sat wondering where he would go when he had sold up his home, his manservant announced a visitor.

He rose to greet Mrs Armistead.

She looked very elegant. There was no sign now of the lady’s maid.

‘My dear Lizzie,’ said Fox, taking her hand and kissing it.

‘I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time?’

‘It is in fact most convenient. Had you called a few days later that would have been another matter. Then I might not have had a chair to offer you.’

‘Ah, yes, this election. You have to fight it.’

He nodded. ‘And to provide the means I shall sell all my possessions.’

‘And then?’

‘I shall win.’

‘Of a certainty, but I was thinking of your home.’

Fox shrugged his shoulders.

‘You will need somewhere to live.’

‘I have friends.’

‘Devonshire House?’ she asked. ‘But your stay there would be temporary. You must have a home, Mr Fox. There is one waiting for you at Chertsey.’

He rose and took her by the shoulders. He was visibly moved, which was touching in a man such as he was.

She looked at him steadily. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that when I bought my home, when I accumulated my little fortune, I had something like this in mind. You are a brilliant man, Mr Fox, but a somewhat feckless one.’

He raised those bushy eyebrows which added to his unkempt appearance and said: ‘My dear dear Lizzie, are you sure that you are not at this moment being guilty of the one feckless action of a hitherto sensible career?’

‘I am quite sure, Mr Fox, because if you decide to come to
Chertsey the purpose of my sensible career will have been achieved.’

He was silent for a moment and then he said: ‘I cannot understand why this good fortune should be mine, for even if I lost the Westminster election I should still be one of the most fortunate men on earth.’

‘But you will not lose, Mr Fox.’

‘No, I shall win the Westminster election – and I hope I shall be worthy of my electorate … and my sweet Liz.’

*

There had never been such excitement. The whole of Westminster seemed to be in the streets and taking sides over the election. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, canvassed for Fox wearing a cape of fox fur and carrying a fox muff, giving kisses in exchange for promised votes. The Prince of Wales toured the streets dressed in a blue frock coat and a buff waistcoat – dull for him but an exact replica of the clothes Fox wore for the House of Commons; and great was the excitement when Fox was returned.

The Prince determined to celebrate. It was to be a special occasion in Carlton House. Six hundred guests were invited – all Foxites. Nine marquees were erected in the grounds and four bands played constantly.

The Prince himself was a brilliant figure in pearl grey silk decorated with silver, and crowds gathered in the Mall to listen to the sounds of joy.

*

The King rode down the Mall on his way to open Parliament.

‘What’s the fuss at Carlton House?’ he wanted to know.

‘It is the Prince, Your Majesty. He is celebrating the victory of Mr Fox at Westminster.’

The young dog! The traitor to his father!

‘He never loses a chance to plague me,’ muttered the King. ‘And Fox is still in the House. Thank God for good Mr Pitt. He’ll be a match for him, eh, what? But why did I have a son like this? Who would have thought he would turn out to plague me.’ The people scarcely glanced at him. They were all for the Prince. They liked the rip-roaring, hard-drinking, gambling lecher. They could not appreciate a good man. These people were
a feckless crowd. ‘I don’t belong here,’ thought the King. ‘We ought never to have come.’

He fell to wondering what life would have been like if the English had never driven the Catholic Stuart away, or if they had decided to take him and send the Germans back to Germany. It could have happened in 1715 or more likely in 1745. But the Germans had won and they had stayed … and as a result he was the King of England and one day that reckless young fool, that gambling, that deep-in-debt pursuer of women would be their king.

‘Serve them right,’ said the King aloud. ‘By God, serve them right.’

And the sounds of revelry from Carlton House kept echoing in his ears as he rode on to Parliament.

Epilogue

In the year 1800 Perdita Robinson lay in her bed and because she knew she was soon to leave it for ever, thought over the events which had made up her life.

Crippled after rheumatic fever, she had yet made a place for herself in society with her poems and novels and for a time had reigned over that salon in which she received distinguished guests who came attracted by her fame.

But this was the end; and she was not sorry. She was forty-two years old and still beautiful; but she felt she had lived long enough and she could never endure the prospect of old age.

Sometimes she thought of those days of glory when she had appeared in the Pantheon or the Rotunda in some fantastic concoction of ribbons and feathers for all to gaze at. The Prince’s beloved mistress, the famous Perdita.

It was so long ago and she had ceased to regret, ceased to reproach. There had been a time when she had railed against a lover who had so quickly tired of her and gone to other women, who had given her but a mere pittance (for £500 a year seemed a pittance when her carriage alone had cost £200 to maintain). But all that was over.

Banastre Tarleton had been a good friend and had remained faithful all these years. It was for his sake that she had gone to France in winter and suffered so acutely from the dreadful cold at sea that she had contracted rheumatic fever which had left her paralysed.

Since then she had never walked again. Oddly enough – and this surprised her – she had borne her misfortune with fortitude. Looking back she wondered how she had endeavoured to be so calm, so philosophical. When she remembered all the men who
had sought her favours she would tell herself she was a most remarkable woman.

Malden – dear Malden – who had loved her from the first; Cumberland who longed to add her to his retinue of mistresses; Mr Fox, to whom she had surrendered and, she would confess it, been a little piqued at the short duration of a relationship from which she had hoped for much; the Duc d’Orléans had sought her, had implored her to become his mistress; and she had refused him. Queen Marie Antoinette had sent her a purse which she herself had netted because she had refused Orléans. And that was long ago. The revolution had come to France and Marie Antoinette had gone to the guillotine and Orléans had become known as Philippe Egalité … That was long ago.

She had seen a great deal happen about her, but now she remembered most the personal incidents. She had been fortunate. Maria, her daughter, had come to live with her when Mrs Darby had died and bore no resentment to her mother for deserting her when she was a child.

They had grown closer with the years and it was to Maria whom she read her verses and the chapters of her novels as they were written; and Maria herself had displayed a talent for literature.

As Tabitha Bramble, called by some the English Sappho, Perdita had had her salon; she had received her guests; and she had felt no bitterness – not even when she heard that Mr Fox had married Mrs Armistead and that they lived together afterwards as before in harmony.

Sometimes she wondered whether the Prince ever thought of her. She liked to imagine his recalling that gilded nest in Cork Street, those meetings on Eel Pie Island.

She would let herself dream that he came to her salon and knelt before her.

‘I have come back, Perdita,’ she imagined his saying. ‘There has never been anyone to compare with you.’

And she found pleasure in acting scenes of reconciliation which she knew would never take place.

But there was Maria, dear Maria, who was happy to wait on her and she herself was not strong. Maria would not live long
after her she was sure, and she was glad that she would get her £250 a year which had been a part of the settlement Mr Fox had arranged for her.

Mr Fox, dearest Banastre, they had been good friends to her. The Prince too.