So, he mused, the little fellow is now the King. George the First is dead. Long live George the Second.

He must be the first to say so. That was the immediate necessity. Townshend would know that well enough and not have sent the news to anyone else.

By the time he was ready to leave the house his carriage was waiting to take him from Chelsea to Richmond.

‘It has to be quick,’ he told the coachman. ‘Not a minute to be lost.’

The coachman understood.

‘Change horses half way,’ ordered Walpole, ‘but make them work.’

He sat back against the upholstery and pictured the scene at Richmond. It was what many had been waiting for, but no one had suspected it would come just yet. The old King, although he had suffered a couple of seizures, had seemed as if he were going on for a very long time. Walpole wished he had; they had been on good terms.

And not dissimilar in character, mused Walpole. Both gross in habit, crude in speech, and lacking in culture. Walpole laughed aloud, and his laughter reminded him that there was one difference: he was a merry man; the late King had been a dour one.

How, he asked himself, am I going to ingratiate myself with the little fellow? I should have begun to woo him earlier, of course. But his father wouldn’t pay his debts and it is the Princess who is important. And the Princess? Well at least we understand each other. She’s a clever woman and I’ve always known it. Not like that fool, Townshend, paying attention to Henrietta Howard and ignoring the Princess ... beg her pardon, the Queen.

Queen Caroline! She would be the one to cultivate; for as long as she could convince the little man that he ruled her she would be able to do what she wanted with him. Together we will rule England, thought Walpole. And you, little man, will not prevent us ... providing of course that Madame Caroline will stand with me.

Would she? Ah, there was the point. He had called her a fat beast at one time, and she had heard of it. Politicians should guard their tongues, which was not always easy when a politician’s tongue was both his best friend and his worst enemy.

That reminded him—what he said to the new King would be of the utmost importance. His tongue was going to have to be very clever to extricate himself from this delicate situation.

He looked out of the window. He knew every inch of the road to Richmond, for recently he had acquired the Rangership of Richmond Park and had bought the Old Lodge. This he had made into his home . . . his real home where Maria Skerrett waited for him; and every weekend he spent there with her and their two-year-old daughter rejuvenated him. It was strange to him, this feeling he had for Maria. He had never been a sentimental man until he had met her; his marriage had been a failure from the beginning, although when he had married Catherine, daughter of Sir John Shorter, Lord Mayor of London, she had seemed an ideal choice, being both beautiful and wealthy. Long ago he had gone his own way, she had gone hers; she was extravagant in manners and money. Her lovers were numerous and rumour had it—and Walpole had never given himself the trouble of attempting to discover the truth of this—that the Prince of Wales himself had been among them.

Walpole had lived heartily, drinking, hunting the fox and women, seeking power; he had liked to boast of his exploits with women; his conversation at table was coarse in the extreme and his accounts were accompanied by the loud laughter which shook his unwieldy frame. But he never joked about Maria Skerrett; he never mentioned her; she had shown him a new way of life which never ceased to make him marvel.

Even now as the coach rattled along the rough roads and he was thinking of the interview with the new King which could be so momentous as to mean the end of his career as a politician of importance, he was consoling himself that if he should fail he would be content to live quietly with Maria and little Molly.

The coach had stopped. The horses would have to be changed; they were exhausted.

‘Then hurry,’ shouted Walpole.

He closed his eyes. No one must be there before him. That would never do. He saw himself arriving late and the Prince already transformed into a king. A minute before he had thought he would be happy living quietly at the Old Lodge or Houghton in Norfolk with Maria. No, he was a politician, an ambitious man, and could not throw aside his main reason for living and expect to find contentment. Maria provided the solace, the respite, the haven—the real flavour of life was power.

They were off again. And in due course they had arrived at Richmond.

He went to the Lodge and shouted to the guard that he wished to be conducted to the Prince without delay, but he did not wait to be conducted, and he made his way to the royal apartments.

The Duchess of Dorset who happened to be in waiting, hearing the commotion of his arrival, came to the door of the royal suite to remind him that the Prince was sleeping, the Princess resting, and that as it was only three o’clock the time had not yet arrived for waking them.

‘Nevertheless they must be awakened. I have important news.’

‘Sir Robert, the Prince is undressed. It is his practice at this hour ...’

‘I know His Highness’s practices, but I tell you there must be no delay. Tell him I have come. Tell him I have news of the utmost importance. Tell him I must see him without delay.’

The Duchess looked dubious; but Sir Robert clearly must be obeyed.

She lifted her shoulders slightly and leaving Walpole impatiently in the anteroom called to one of the Prince’s attendants and told him to awaken His Highness as Sir Robert Walpole was waiting to give him news which could not be delayed.


* * *

George Augustus sat up in bed; his first impulse was to look at the clock.

‘Vot is this,’ he shouted. ‘It is but three o’clock.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert Walpole is waiting to speak to you. He said it is a matter of the utmost importance.’

‘It should vait,’ snapped the Prince, always bad tempered to have a habit broken. ‘I haf not my sleep finished.’

‘Your Highness, Sir Robert was most insistent.’

‘Sir Robert!’ growled the Prince. He was not very pleased with that man. He had not done what he promised when he had attempted to patch up the quarrel between the Prince and his father. He had made slighting remarks about the Prince’s abilities to act as Regent. And such remarks had been carried back to His Highness by Sir Robert’s enemies. George Augustus was like his father in the fact that he never forgave a slight. ‘That man should take care ...’

‘Your Highness ...’

‘I know ... I know. I vill to him go. I vill to him tell I must not be disturbed at this hour.’

The Prince rose from his bed, picked up his wig which had been placed on a table nearby and crammed it on his head. His valet sprang forward but he waved him aside.

He stood in his underwear, a little man with a fresh complexion now ruddy from annoyance, his bulbous blue eyes blazing with anger.

His valet would have helped him into his breeches, but the Prince snatched them from him and it was at this moment that Walpole, who had determined to wait no longer, came into the room.

The bulging blue eyes glared at the minister, but Walpole had sunk to his knees, taken the hand which held the breeches and said: ‘Sire, your father, King George the First, is dead. You are now the King of England.’

‘Vot!’ cried George Augustus.

‘Your Majesty’s father is dead.’

‘That is von big lie!’

‘Indeed not, Your Majesty. I have a letter here from Lord Townshend. Your father, King George, has had a seizure and died on the way to Osnabrück.’

‘Let me see this!’ George Augustus snatched the letter and dropping his breeches held it with both hands.

‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered. ‘Then it is so!’

‘Your Majesty.’

The new King stared at Sir Robert without seeing him. Already there was a new arrogance, Walpole noticed. The transformation from powerless Prince, kept deliberately in the background by a father who despised him, to King of England, was taking place.

This one could be more difficult to handle than his father, thought Walpole.

‘As Your Majesty’s minister I would have your orders,’ said Walpole quietly; and he felt that the very clock on which the King set such store, not because it was a valuable piece, which it undoubtedly was, but because it registered all-important time, had stopped, waiting for what would happen next, for the following seconds could reveal whether the King would keep his father’s trusted minister.

The moment dragged on. What was going on behind the prominent blue eyes? Was the new King remembering past discrepancies? What had he, Walpole, said when, as Prince of Wales, George Augustus had sought the Regency during his father’s absence from England? ‘He doesn’t deserve it. We’ve done enough for him; and if it were to be done again we would not do so much.’ Such remarks were apt to be carried back, and these Guelphs were vindictive by nature. They never forgot a slight.

Walpole could see that the King was remembering.

It came: ‘My orders?’ he said. The blue eyes narrowed. His mind was ranging over his ministers and his choice fell on a favourite of his, Sir Spencer Compton. He shouted: ‘You vill go to Chiswick, Sir Robert, and take your orders from Sir Spencer Compton.’

Walpole bowed. This was the end. The verdict had been given. He was dismissed. He had been right to guess that the new King would want to settle old scores. Take his orders from Spencer Compton. It was an insult.