There were despatches from Walpole. His presence was needed in England. His Majesty had not forgotten his birthday and that his subjects would take it ill if he was not in London on that day, which was one of universal celebration.

He knew it—yet he delayed. But the time came when he could delay no longer if he were to be in England in time for the birthday. He had already given himself the minimum of time to reach home, not accounting for any delays which could so easily occur on the way.

Madame de Walmoden declared that she did not know what she would do without him. He meant everything to her. He was the most handsome, charming, intelligent man she had ever met and if he were the humblest servant in his own household she would still love him.

George basked in this admiration and believed it. His mistress was so convincing. She had also told him that she was pregnant and she could not bear that he should not be there when their child was born.

‘I will soon be here again,’ he promised.

‘Do you mean that?’ she asked tearfully. ‘Will you swear?’

‘I swear,’ he declared solemnly.

‘I must have a date to look forward to.’

He sighed. November ... December ... January....

She shivered. ‘You must not attempt to cross the sea during such months. I should die of fear.’

He kissed her and assured her that that fat old man in London would try to put a chain on him and certainly not let him off it so soon. ‘But ... by May ... the end of May, then I shall come. No matter what they say, I shall come in May.’

‘Seven whole months! ‘ she sighed.

‘My dearest, they do not want me to come once a year. They are going to do everything they can to prevent me in May.’

She did not press the matter but she constantly talked of the 29th May.

The night before he left Hanover there was a banquet over which he presided with a great deal of melancholy which the Hanoverians found very flattering, although they knew that the reason why he was so sad was because he must part from his mistress. Still, she was a Hanoverian —one of them; and the King made it clear twenty times a day that he loved their country and hated the one of which he was King.

Madame de Walmoden toasted him with tears in her eyes.

‘The 29th of May!’ she cried, and everyone present took up the cry.

‘The 29th of May!’ responded George.

After a night of passionate love and protestations of fidelity on both sides, the King left Hanover next morning, realizing that if he were to make the journey in time for his birthday he must travel fast.


* * *

Caroline was returning to the Palace after morning chapel when a messenger hurried to her to tell her that the King was on his way to Kensington and would be there very shortly.

She hastily summoned the Court and went to meet him.

As George alighted from his coach he managed to suppress the pain he felt. He was wretched, uncomfortable, and unhappy. It had been a trying journey for he had made it in less than five days by riding far through the night and scarcely stopping at all for rest and food. As a consequence this had brought on an attack of haemorrhoids from which he suffered intermittently; he was tired, and in pain, and moreover he was angry because he had left his mistress and wouldn’t see her for a long time, and as he grew farther and farther from Hanover and nearer to England he realized that there were going to be lifted eyebrows and worse still remonstrances when he suggested returning to Hanover as they would say ‘so soon’.

All this did not make a very happy homecoming.

And here he was at Kensington. Too grand, he thought. Too ostentatious compared with dear Herrenhausen. And Caroline. She was fat. Doubtless she had been guzzling chocolate more freely than ever since he had been away. His dearest Amelia Sophia managed to have exactly the right amount of warm, soft flesh without being fat.

But this was his dear wife and he loved her. She was his comfort and he would never forget that. She was smiling and so happy because he was home.

She bent and kissed his hand and with a gesture of tenderness he took her arm and they went into the Palace together.

He wondered how he managed to keep his temper while all the ceremonies went on. There were as many ceremonies in Hanover—but somehow they seemed more reasonable and in any case he was in pain and he wanted to go to bed and he hated being ill because he always felt that Was a slur on his manhood.

At last he was alone with the Queen.

She was anxious, but one did not suggest that the King might be ill.

She said that it must have been a tiring journey.

He told her exactly how long it had taken between each stage and grew quite animated doing this. He doubted the journey had ever been done so quickly.

‘It must have meant long hours sitting in the coach,’ she said. He looked at her sharply. So she guessed.

He said gruffly: ‘I had better see one of the physicians. Have him brought here without fuss. Let no one know that I have sent for him.’

The Queen nodded. This distressing complaint! She sympathized. He hated her to know of his humiliating illness; and she was determined to keep the knowledge of hers from everyone—except of course Charlotte Clayton. And she would never have known if she had not guessed.

‘I will see that the physician comes with as little fuss as possible. I will tell Hervey to arrange it.’

The King grunted his satisfaction and lay on the bed. She took his hand and was alarmed to find how feverish he was. How foolish of him to exhaust himself with such a journey unnecessarily. He could have taken ten days—had he given himself time.

Well, dear Lord Hervey would see that everything was conducted with the utmost secrecy.

She was right. The physician came and treated the King; but when he suggested that His Majesty should take to his bed for a few days until the fever subsided the King told him not to be a fool and he would take orders from no one.

He rested until the next morning, then he was up at precisely the same time that he rose every morning. No matter what pain he suffered, how much fever he had, no one at Court was going to know it. But there was an outward sign of his disorders which he made no effort to suppress. His temper flared up at the slightest thing; not only that, he seemed to look for trouble, as though abusing everyone around him soothed the pain he was suffering.

A pity he hadn’t remained in Hanover with his darling mistress, said the Court. That was where he wanted to be and Heaven knew no one wanted the disgruntled little man here.


* * *

The Queen was in the drawing room with her daughters, and of course Lord Hervey was in attendance, when the King came in. He looked at his watch testily as though to ask what they were all doing in this particular place at this particular hour.

The Queen looked at him nervously. He had always been of a violent temper, but it had never flared up quite so frequently—and for such trifles—as it had since his return from Hanover. She could tell that he was in pain, although the fever had subsided.

‘Gossip, gossip, gossip! ‘ he said. ‘That’s all that seems to go on in this Court. I can tell you it is different in Hanover.’

He scowled at them all and kicked a footstool out of his way; the effort clearly gave him a stab of pain which made him glare at the stool. But that inanimate object could not soothe his irritation, so he turned to the Queen.

‘Your Majesty breakfasted well?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Breakfasted well! When, Madam, did I ever breakfast well in this country? Tell me this: Is there an Englishman living who knows how to cook? Or an English woman for that matter? The English are the worst cooks in the world.’

Lord Hervey tried to soothe matters by saying that he would send his own cook to His Majesty’s kitchens for he was sure that the man could not fail to please.

‘I beg of you do no such thing,’ snapped the King. ‘There is no man in England who can cook to my satisfaction. There is no servant, sir, who knows his duty. Look at those chairs! I will not have them placed near the window thus. I have said so a hundred times. The English servants have no sense.’

The Princess Caroline hurriedly changed the position of the chairs. The King watched her with derision.

‘No Englishwoman knows how to walk across a room. They should take a lesson from the people of Hanover. And you’re getting fat like your mother. That gown is too drab. It makes you look sallow. My God, the women of England should go to Hanover and learn how to dress.’

‘Your Majesty is fortunate to possess such a paradise among your dominions,’ murmured Hervey.

The Queen was startled at the hint of sarcasm, but the King missed it; his eyes became slightly glazed with fond memories. The Queen was relieved for a moment and then it immediately occurred to her that he had never been quite like this before; he was more under the influence of that Walmoden woman than she had realized.

The King came out of his reverie and noticed the pictures. He stared as though he could not believe his eyes.

‘What has happened to the pictures?’ he asked. Everyone stared blankly at the walls.

‘Have you all turned silly?’ he shouted. ‘These are not my pictures.’

The Queen said: ‘We thought a change would be pleasant. We decided to put these Vandycks here instead of the old ones.’

‘I don’t find the change pleasant.’

‘These are very excellent pictures,’ ventured the Queen. ‘The others were of no great value.’