The Stuart Sapphire (3 page)

At five o’clock in the morning two anonymous black carriages left the royal stables and crossed the short distance to Steine House. The door opened and a corpulent well-muffled anonymous-looking gentleman descended the steps and entered the first carriage which headed towards a secluded part of the seashore.

A journey of great discretion, although few were about in Brighton at such an early hour. But such was the rule on those occasions when the Prince Regent visited Maria Fitzherbert and stayed the night at Steine House.

A rule which caused some suppressed merriment and cynical remarks in the royal household. However, even the fact that they were never in the slightest danger of being taken unawares by Princess Caroline, resident permanently in London since the royal separation, a strong sense of morality and discretion prevented Mrs Fitzherbert from sleeping under the ornate roof of the Marine Pavilion with the prince whom she piously regarded as her legal husband in the eyes of God.

The prince emerged into a bright morning and at the
seashore, apart from a few pieces of floating debris littering an otherwise delightfully calm sea, nothing remained of yesterday’s violent storm or the wreck of the
Royal Stuart
.

At the water’s edge the prince’s bathing machine waited, a wooden changing-room on wheels to be drawn into the water by a patient horse. Distinguished by the imperial crown on its roof, once inside, its royal occupant was quickly divested of his outer garments and assisted into a lavishly striped bathing costume by his attendant, a heavily built, moustached gentleman with a permanent frown of anxiety and exceedingly strong arms – the marks of his trade and needed on more than one occasion to rescue nervous gentlemen sea-bathers from disaster.

Jack, son of ‘Smoaker’ Miles, the prince’s favourite bathing assistant, honoured by being regularly received at the Marine Pavilion and having a racehorse and a race named after him, stayed close to his royal charge who resembled a young whale as he floated, gasping and puffing and blowing, and thoroughly enjoying this almost daily health-giving routine, the remarkable discovery of Dr Richard Russell.

The learned physician from Lewes had successfully established the future of the fishing village of Brighthelmstone as a spa, and put Brighton on the map, via his learned ‘Dissertation on the Use of Sea-water in the Affection of the Glands’.

In due course this had fallen into royal hands and on a visit to his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, young Prince George had been enthusiastically advised that as well as being drinkable, the waters had other benefits, and that daily sea-bathing would work exceedingly well as a cure for his tiresome swollen neck glands. Glands which he hid under the high starched neckcloths which had set the
fashion and become
de rigueur
in high society.

No longer floating but being dipped vigorously in and out of the water as was the custom by Jack Miles, the prince was secure in the knowledge that there were no other bathers in the vicinity. Not only did Brighton seem to be his alone, but even the sea was Canute-like at his command.

But not for long. Today was different.

An upsurge in the calm waters, waves where there should have been none, and Jack Miles, alarmed, had his royal charge immediately upright as an interloper was washed into this peaceful scene.

A man’s body had been spotted a few yards away on a raft floating shoreward and heading fast in the direction of the bathing machine.

To the prince’s anxious enquiry, Miles replied: ‘From that shipwreck, Your Royal Highness, a dead ’un, I expect.’ And hastily assisting the now flustered, thoroughly irritated prince out of the water, Miles added soothing statements that this would be taken care of.

The incident had already been spotted by onlookers from the second closed carriage, by servants filling in the time with a game of cards and the prince’s physician, who accompanied these morning outings in case of accident. They were already rushing down towards the shoreline when the raft, propelled by a particularly large breaker, reached the pebbled beach in unison with the prince’s bathing machine.

Consumed as he was by anger and frustration at having his daily routine cut short by this human flotsam, the prince was overcome with curiosity and excitement.

If this was indeed a survivor then George Brummell owed him 200 guineas and, poking his head out of the machine, he asked: ‘Is he dead?’

The men bending over the body moved slightly aside to allow the prince a heartening glimpse of a uniform jacket. Definitely from the ship.

In answer to his query, a moment’s hesitation, then his physician stood up, bowed. ‘He is still alive, Your Royal Highness—’ a shake of his head. ‘But barely so. Considering that he must have been in the water, exposed to the elements for several hours – if he lives, it will be quite miraculous.’ A sigh and another shake of the head indicated that he thought this miracle highly unlikely.

A survivor. The prince beamed. But there was no time to be wasted. The 200 guineas were almost in his purse, but aware of Brummell’s untrustworthy nature – indeed, he had been more than a little trying of late – he realised that this survivor, whose life hung by a thread, must be taken at once to the Pavilion and delivered to Brummell as evidence that he had won their bet.

The order was given and Tam Eildor, more dead than alive, was carried into the closed carriage and transported across the short distance into the royal residence.

His sopping uniform jacket was replaced by a thick blanket and, restored to full consciousness by some
foul-tasting
liquid being forced down his throat, the events of the night after he had been struck over the side of his head by the smuggler’s oar were hazy indeed.

He shared the physician’s belief in a miracle that he had survived but, as a drowning man clutches at straws, so had Tam in similar condition grasped at a floating board from the wreckage of the
Royal Stuart
.

Once a cabin door from the doomed ship, it did admirable service as a raft.

Pulling himself aboard, he had tried paddling with his arms, but the effort was too much for him. He collapsed from pain and exhaustion, his fatal mismanaged time-quest over as well as his life, or so he thought when the emergency microchip in his wrist had failed to respond.

His rescue and arrival at the Pavilion were similarly hazy but he recognised with gratitude that even in his weakened condition he was no longer aimlessly adrift in a merciless sea, but alive and on dry land. And unless there were further dangers lurking, rapid recuperation might reasonably be expected.

He looked around cautiously and found his surroundings remarkably opulent. This was undoubtedly the Marine Pavilion, a neoclassical mansion, bearing not the slightest resemblance to the original somewhat dilapidated farmhouse belonging to Thomas Kemp, MP for Lewes. In 1796, aware that the Prince of Wales was searching for a permanent residence in Brighton, Kemp leased it to him on condition that he would rebuild it. Henry Holland, the royal architect, was commissioned, and completion resulted in a large mortgage which the prince urgently required to raise an annuity for Mrs Fitzherbert. Difficult to imagine anything as commonplace as cows, sheep and geese amid such splendour, Tam thought, as a flunkey summoned him with the words:

‘His Royal Highness the Prince Regent wishes to see you as soon as you feel able. Your name, sir?’

A short while later, hastily clad in a borrowed shirt, breeches and shoes, apparently from the servants’ wardrobe, which fitted tolerably well, he was escorted into the breakfast room where Prince George, attired in the quilted banyan or Eastern dressing gown made popular in the eighteenth century, was poised before the table, about
to break his fast. Such was his custom returning from
sea-bathing,
and before going to his wardrobe to be dressed in one of his many uniforms appropriate to the events of the day.

Introduced by the lofty flunkey, a regal hand gestured Tam to be seated. Judging by the number of chafing dishes he realised that this daily routine was likely to take some time.

A servant hovered by his chair and after a courtly bow and a murmured thanks to his royal host, Tam needed no second invitation to address himself to the said array of covers and, unaware of the real reason for his presence, namely 200 guineas, the payment of a gambling debt, he was puzzled to know why he should have been honoured by this informal meal with the future King of England.

True, the circumstances of his rescue were dramatic, but was the prince given to impulses of picking up
shipwrecked
mariners and bringing them to the Pavilion? Was an almost childish impulse the solution to this little mystery?

Surreptitiously glancing at the royal diner whose frame overflowed the chair, he considered the face emerging from the high neckcloth above several chins, and suddenly Tam could see exactly what the forty-nine-year-old Prince Regent had looked like in childhood. The now corpulent frame and overblown features were a clear indication of the solemn warning (that had gone unheeded): “What are follies at twenty are vices at forty.” But from a lifetime devoted to wine, women and sundry debaucheries, there remained the ghost of a once handsome infant. Curls now vanished had been replaced by large quantities of false hair, but the tendency for merry laughter lurked in the pouched eyes while pouting, petulant lips hinted at grim
determination to have his own way from a very early age.

Tam shrugged, unlikely to ever know the answer to this particular mystery, and, hard-pressed to remember exactly when he had last eaten anything, the prospect before him was enticing. Roasts of pork, beef and lamb jostled with pigeons, quail and a display of kidneys, liver and a further array of colourful but anonymous side dishes. Nor had the prince’s appetite for sweetmeats been forgotten. All in all a meal future centuries would regard as a celebration feast rather than an everyday repast.

Tam was heartily glad that the prince now applied himself solidly to the gargantuan task of satisfying his royal appetite in comparative silence, broken only by sounds of munching, crunching and the odd belch and fart, from which Tam realised that the consumption of food was a single-minded event, a solemn ritual from which his presence, apart from an occasional glance in his direction, seemed to have been forgotten.

But he had misjudged his host. Prince George was shrewder than Tam imagined and already those casual glances were making a rapid assessment of this guest at his table.

There seemed little doubt, judging by the rescued man’s hearty appetite, that his survival was guaranteed. However, he must be kept here in the Pavilion for a few hours or until Brummell chose to reappear. That 200 guineas must not be allowed to slip through the royal fingers by being unable to produce evidence in the person of the young man who sat opposite.

A very personable young man indeed, this Mr Eildor. He was tall, above six foot, and enviably slender, about thirty years old with fine features that hinted at a class above the peasant. As if to confirm this, his teeth were
excellent, which suggested a good lifestyle, a fine diet. It was a matter of regret to the prince who was fastidious in his bodily, if not his moral, habits, that so many otherwise beautiful young men and women were ruined by decaying teeth and bad breath as soon as they opened their mouths.

Another firm glance made note of a pale complexion at odds with what he would have expected as a sailor’s weather-beaten countenance. A well-shaped mouth and firm chin, thick black hair. The prince’s once youthful pride in his own natural curls had set the fashion for men to wear their own hair, with wigs abandoned, thanks to a tax on hair powder (usually made of flour). However,
ear-length
hair, short and straight, seemed a strange choice among seagoing men, who normally wore their hair ponytailed.

Perhaps fashions were different in Scotland. He must ask Mr Eildor about such matters. This very personable young man’s most remarkable feature was undoubtedly his eyes. The prince had not seen their like before, their colour dark but indefinable and of such a strange quality, so luminous in their depths.

At last a word to a passing servant. Tam heard the word: ‘Brummell’ and then with a final belch, the prince leaning back in his throne-like chair, and regarding Tam benignly said: ‘Well, sir, tell us about your ship?’

A difficult question but in the slight pause, the prince said: ‘The
Royal Stuart
, was it not?’

Tam agreed eagerly and the prince continued: ‘A Scotch ship?’

Tam agreed once more, thinking quickly, wondering how all this might give him a lead into some plausible account of his appearance in Brighton.

‘It would seem that you have been exceedingly
fortunate, sir – that you were the sole survivor of the ship’s crew,’ said the prince, doing another quick calculation. If there were more survivors than this one young man, then there was a heartening possibility of extracting more guineas from Brummell, at 200 per head.

‘I was merely a passenger, Your Royal Highness,’ said Tam, ‘travelling from Leith.’ And a sudden inspiration. ‘I am an Edinburgh lawyer.’

The prince’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, a Scotchman on board the
Royal Stuart
. How appropriate. What became of the crew?’

Tam shook his head, looked appropriately sad. That was a poser, a question for which he had not the least idea of an answer.

‘We were pursued by a privateer and a sudden storm swept us into its path.’ (That sounded feasible, at least.) ‘We were boarded and the crew taken off, pressed into service, I suspect.’

The prince frowned and Tam continued hastily. ‘As I am a very bad sailor, I knew little of this and had retired below for the entire voyage. They looked at my papers and, deciding I was useless, left me there to go down with the ship. I staggered on to deck at the last moment and jumped into the sea. From there I was rescued only to find myself aboard a smuggler’s craft. They took exception to my presence.’ (That at least was true.) ‘I was hit on the head and thrown back into the sea as an excise man – they were deceived by an old naval jacket someone had given me while I was being so violently ill.’