Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill: (Georgian Series) (38 page)

It was different from those lovely days at Brighton when the Prince had scarcely ever left her.

But he was still devoted; still determined that everywhere she should be accepted as the Princess of Wales.

In her house in Pall Mall where the walls of her drawing room were hung with puckered blue satin, and on the walls of the dining room hung full-length portraits of the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, she entertained lavishly during the winter; and in the spring she rode down to Brighton with the Prince.

They were happily married – as she saw it; and she did not believe it would ever be otherwise.

Then there was disturbing news of the King.

The King’s Madness

‘THE QUEEN,’ SAID
Miss Burney to the very gallant Colonel Digby who, others had noticed, was constantly at her side, ‘seems to me to be obsessed by a most fearful apprehension.’

‘Ah, Miss Burney,’ laughed the Colonel, ‘you are too fanciful. I believe you dream up all sorts of terrors – and possibly joys – for us all, Her Majesty no exception.’

‘It is not true,’ declared Fanny. ‘But do you not sense this strangeness in Her Majesty? At the reading yesterday I am sure she did not hear a word. She was occupied with her own thoughts; which I fancy were far from pleasant.’

Colonel Digby remarked that the Queen no doubt had her problems. His Highness’s conduct at Brighton was giving concern to the King – so perhaps that was the cause of her preoccupation.

‘Yes,’ agreed Fanny. ‘But there is
something
. It is as though she expects some ghost to appear suddenly … some horribly menacing spectre.’

The Colonel laughed aloud; he did laugh frequently with Fanny, although he was of rather a melancholy turn of mind and his favourite topics of conversation were what happened after death and did Fanny believe in immortality. He enjoyed conversation more than anything else; for what else, he demanded, was there to do in the King’s household than talk? Fanny listened, forever wondering what his intentions were, for he had only recently become a widower and being but forty-four years of age, he had told Fanny, he would like to marry again. They had much in common, for he had read widely and liked to discuss literature with her.

It was the tea-time hour – one of the best of the day as far as Fanny was concerned. Madam von Schwellenburg had not yet made her appearance and Colonel Goldsworthy had been dozing for the last twenty minutes.

‘Oh yes,’ went on Fanny, ‘it is true. I have seen it in Her Majesty’s face. She is afraid of something … and what she fears is
terrible
.’

Madam von Schwellenburg came into the room at that moment frowning and looking disapprovingly at Fanny who
was always chatting with Colonel Digby. ‘Miss Berners’ as she called her, would have to learn that she had not come to Court to flirt with ‘chentlemen’. She had come to perform duties for the Queen and that meant waiting on the Queen’s chief Lady of the Bedchamber.

‘Tea I vill haf, Miss Berners,’ she said, and Fanny immediately served her.

The unpleasant woman made a face. ‘Poof. Not goot. Too much time on talks …’ She frowned at Colonel Goldsworthy who emitted a slight snore. ‘Colonel Goldsworthy … he alvays sleeps vith me. Sleeps he vith you too, Miss Berners?’

Fanny said that the Colonel had been hunting with the King and his party and no doubt that had made him a little tired.

Madam von Schwellenburg tapped her foot impatiently on the floor and looked delighted when one of the pages appeared to say that His Majesty wished to see Colonel Digby.

The Colonel sighed, gave Fanny a languishing look and departed.

‘Colonel Digby is too fond of talk. He likes too much the vimen. He look alvays for Miss Gunning.’ Schwellenburg shot a mischievous glance at Fanny, but Fanny was pursuing her own thoughts: There
is
something which is disturbing the Queen, she thought. I
know
she is terrified.

Unable to achieve the required effect through her references to Colonel Digby’s attentions to Miss Gunning, Schwellenburg scowled and said: ‘You vill to me bring my snuff box, Miss Berners. I have it left near the first cage.’

Fanny rose obediently and went to get the snuff box, asking herself as she had a hundred times before, why she had given up a life among interesting people to be a servant to the most disagreeable woman she had ever met.

She was right when she had imagined that the Queen was disturbed. Charlotte was very worried indeed. Ever since the King’s illness many years ago when his mind had become unbalanced she had been watchful, always afraid that there would be a recurrence of his illness. He had changed after that first bout, which must have been nearly twenty-three years ago, and she had never been able to forget it. She remembered how he had suddenly burst into tears for no reason at all; he had had a
fever and the rash; and had believed that the whole world was against him. And after it he had developed that rapid manner of speech which was rambling and incoherent, interspersed with ‘ehs?’ and ‘whats?’ as though he were asking questions and could not wait for the answer.

Many times she had believed that a return of his illness was not far off. But it had never been so near as it was now. It needed only a little incident, she was sure, to drive him completely mad.

And if that should happen? She shuddered.

There were times when she was actually afraid of him, for now and then he looked at her so wildly that she thought he would do her an injury. It was as though he hated her. That was impossible. He was a mild man, a kind good man. Yet that wild look in his eyes was … terrifying.

Sometimes when he came into her bedchamber she wanted to call to some of her women and command them to remain so that she might not be alone with him.

Yes, she was afraid of the King.

Yesterday he had told her that he had a slight rash on his body. She had heard herself say coolly: ‘And have you seen one of the doctors?’ And she was thinking: Oh God, that was how it started on that other occasion.

‘I wonder,’ she had said, ‘whether Your Majesty should go to Bath for the waters.’

‘Fauconberg was saying that they are better at Cheltenham,’ replied the King. ‘But this is not the time to go to Cheltenham. There is too much to be done. And how do we know what that young rip will be up to next, eh, what? Brighton, eh? Changing the place. Building there. Marine Pavilion! Going round with bad companions. That fellow Sheridan. Rake! Libertine! Drunkard! Gambler! And married to that good woman. They gamble away fortunes on horses. They play practical jokes in the streets. He’s surrounded himself with the worst possible people. Where’s it leading to, eh? what? Won’t obey his father. Gallivanting with people like the Lades … the Barrys … that man Hanger. Ought to be hanged … the lot of ’em eh? what? He won’t obey though. Do you think he gets round Lady Charlotte Finch, eh? Do you think he inveigles her to give him pastry with his fruit. Eh? Eh? Eh, what?’

The Queen looked at him in dismay. He had thought for a moment that the Prince was in the nursery under the care of Charlotte Finch. The King’s protruding eyes were frightened … and his fear was hers – for he remembered too and the fear which haunted her was always at his side.

He had recovered. He said ‘Cheltenham … eh, what? Not the time. Another time perhaps, eh? what?’

The Queen took an opportunity of speaking to Lord Fauconberg, summoning him to her side during the soirée.

‘I think the King is working too hard and a change of air would be beneficial to His Majesty. I believe you mentioned Cheltenham.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty, an excellent spot. Not yet appreciated; I believe. The air there is as pure as you will find anywhere in England, including … this new fashionable Brighton.’

‘His Majesty would, I am sure, have no wish to go to Brighton.’

‘Cheltenham would, Madam, be more to His Majesty’s taste I feel sure. And if you would honour me by using my place for your stay I should be delighted.’

‘So you have a place there?’

‘Bay’s Hill Lodge, Madam – scarcely a palace, but if Your Majesties needed a quiet time and took but a few attendants it might suffice. There are good views across the Malvern Hills and the Pump Room is near by.’

‘It sounds inviting,’ said the Queen. ‘I will speak with His Majesty and if it is possible to persuade him to accept your kind offer I will do so.’

‘Why, Madam, the people of Cheltenham would consider themselves most honoured. Though I should warn Your Majesty of the smallness of the place.’

‘It is such a place I am sure which would most appeal to the King.’ She hesitated. ‘Lord Fauconberg, perhaps you would speak to His Majesty. Make this offer to him. I think he might accept it.’

Lord Fauconberg replied that he would obey Her Majesty’s instruction and gave no sign that he knew it was because the suggestion was more likely to be acceptable if it came through him than through the Queen. But Charlotte knew that he was
aware of this and resentment flaring up in her, she felt a sudden anger against the King. Why should she have been constantly thrust aside? Why should her opinion always have been considered of no importance? How unfairly she had been treated since her arrival in England. She felt a wave of dislike for the man who had consistently shown her that he considered her advice worthless.

Why then did she live in this constant fear of a dreadful disability overtaking him?

It is not love, she thought calmly. Oh, no, not love.

When the Royal party set out for Cheltenham Miss Burney and Colonel Digby were in attendance.

The King was pleased with the place which was small and offered a peaceful existence. He was delighted to discover that there was a small theatre and declared he would visit this and perhaps hear some concerts.

The Queen, carefully watching him, believed that his health had improved a little. The quiet of Cheltenham was restoring his calm. Each morning he went to the Pump Room to drink the waters and later for walks in the company of the Queen and a few attendants; he was amused because the town was so small and that the same plump middle-aged woman known as Nanny the Bellman was postmistress, town-crier and tax-collector. He was amused too to learn that there were no carriages of any sort in the town and that the people had to rely on two very ancient Sedan chairs. It was a peaceful existence and by eleven o’clock at night the King liked everyone to be in bed.

Thus was life in Cheltenham; and there was no doubt in the Queen’s mind that it agreed with the King.

But the respite was temporary. The King would come to the Queen and talk excitedly, his words spilling over each other as though they could not wait to get out; his eyes would bulge and his speech grow more and more rapid; and he would talk until his voice grew hoarse. The rash had broken out again; and the Queen grew more and more fearful with every day. This was the realization of the fears which had haunted her for so long.

She strove to keep the King’s condition from those about
him. Gossip would be unendurable; and she pictured the distortions of the newspapers. But it was impossible to keep the King’s condition from his attendants; he embarrassed them; they did not know how to act when faced with one of his tirades.

One day Colonel Digby excused himself from attendance on the King. He was, he said, confined to his rooms with gout.

The King strode off without him for his ‘exercise’. The Queen heard him talking to Colonel Goldsworthy, for the apartments were so close to each other in Bay’s Hill Lodge that it was like living in a small house.

‘Fresh air, Goldsworthy. Must have it, eh, what? Get fat without it. Tendency in the family. Plenty of exercise and attention to diet. I’ve always watched it. All the children … Cut out drink, Goldsworthy. No good to you, eh, what? Healthy life in the country. Peace … Not often a king can enjoy that. Matters of State … ministers … his family … Children become an anxiety, Goldsworthy. They run up debts, get involved with women …’

The Queen put her fingers into her ears.

I can’t bear it, she thought. It will be useless to try and hide it much longer.

Colonel Digby scratched lightly on Miss Burney’s door.

‘Is there any hope of a dish of tea, Miss Burney?’

Fanny smiled a little coquettishly. There was no doubt in her mind that Colonel Digby was courting her. She thought of writing to Susan about the situation. Susan would be so amused and interested.

‘Colonel Digby! And I heard you were laid low with the gout.’

‘Say rather a surfeit of His Majesty’s conversation.’

Fanny raised her eyebrows. ‘I must say the King can be most …
alarming
. I confess I am at a complete loss for words when he speaks to me.’

‘That need not worry you, Miss Burney. He has enough and to spare.’

‘Yes but …’ Fanny sighed. She was fond of the Queen and she did sense her anxiety. ‘His Majesty is a little strange.’

The Colonel looked solemn and remarked that no doubt the King was contemplating the inevitable misery of mankind, which made Fanny laugh, while she disputed the fact that mankind was inevitably miserable.

The conversation grew animated when Miss Planta looked in and expressed some surprise to see Colonel Digby there alone with Fanny.

‘Oh, do come in, Miss Planta. We are having such an
interesting
discussion.’

Miss Planta joined them for a while and then excused herself rather pointedly and the discussion continued between Fanny and the Colonel until Madam von Schwellenburg bustled in and throwing up her hands in horror cried: ‘Wot this? Tea drinking again. Giv me von dish, Miss Berners. Ach … not goot … not goot.’

And she sat there with baleful expression until the Colonel took his leave.

She often said that Fanny must come with her to feed the toads – a task Fanny lothed. Horrid creatures, and their mistress was only one degree less ugly!

‘Ladies come to serve Queen,’ Schwellenburg audibly remarked to her pet toad, ‘not to flirt wiz chentlemens.’

But Fanny was still thinking of the pleasant hour with Colonel Digby and as soon as the opportunity arose wrote to Susan: