She now answered the Prince’s letters. She was moved by his professions of devotion; doubtless he knew her own feelings; but before she agreed to return to him she must have the sanction of the Holy See as to whether she was truly the Prince’s wife; and only if she were so in the eyes of the Pope could she consider returning to him.

Knowing the delays appeals to Rome entailed, the Prince gnashed his teeth in impatience But he wanted Maria and he must agree to her terms.

Each day Miss Pigot awaited the messenger from Rome.

She was almost as impatient as the Prince. Maria waited philosophically and none would have guessed the turmoil within her. To go back to that early happiness? Was it possible?

She would control her temper. She would need to, for he was the most exasperating of men. It was no use deluding herself. She loved him. Probably more deeply than he loved her. His emotions had always been of a superficial nature, but they certainly went deeper for her than for anyone else in his life. She was astonished that he had waited all this time for her to return to him. She had heard no rumours of his adventures since the dismissal of Lady Jersey. And so it had been in the early days when he had been courting her so if the Prince should decide to be reconciled to her and given her more children like young Charlotte— who was, she was forced to admit, a fascinating child with a gift for charming everybody— the odious Caroline might become very powerful indeed.

Reports were that the Prince loathed her; but the creature managed to be followed by cheering crowds every time she came to London and she knew how the Prince wanted popularity. He might feel it was politic to go back to her.

It must not be. And now that he had discarded dear Lady Jersey, one could never be sure what action he would take. It was true he was courting Maria Fitzherbert but the lady was holding aloof.

She looked at her daughters and sighed. It was distasteful to have to discuss such matters with them but she feared there was no help for it.

I believe,’ she said, ‘that Mrs. Fitzherbert now spends most of her time in Ealing, although she has taken a house in Tilney Street for her brief visits to Town.’

The Princesses were alert and more attentive now than during their readings, their mother noticed grimly.

‘She is a very good woman, I believe. I have never heard ill of her.’

‘There has been scandal about her marriage to George, Mamma,’ said Augusta, and was silenced by a look.

‘I should like to see virtuous ladies more at Court.’

‘She is a Catholic—’ began the tactless Augusta.

Oh dear, thought the Queen, Augusta would always act impulsively. Mary would be more tactful. Elizabeth was so much the artist, and could scarcely be called practical.

Perhaps that was as much as she should say. Royal people must learn to be diplomatic. Her daughters should realize that she would not frown on the return of the Prince of Wales to Mrs. Fitzherbert; and that anything they could do to bring about that conclusion would have her approval.

‘She has never been obtrusively Catholic,’ said the Queen. ‘She has always behaved with the utmost decorum; and now that we have a Princess of Wales who is far from discreet—’

Her daughters had understood. The Queen wished George to return to Maria Fitzherbert; and as George wished it and his brothers had never been anything but extremely friendly assiduously and she had run away to the Continent to escape him. Then he had gone through that very important ceremony of marriage which might have cost him his Crown— and all for love of her.

How could she help but love such a man?

And at last the brief arrived from the Pope himself. He had reviewed the marriage of George, Prince of Wales, and Maria Fitzherbert and he had decided that in the eyes of the Church, they were married.

There was no reason now why they should not be reunited.

Maria’s house in Tilney Street was decorated with white roses, for it was June. This was because the Prince of Wales had called Maria his ‘White Rose’

accusing her laughingly of being a Jacobite and wanting to see the end of Hanoverian Rule. White roses overflowed on all the tables. London select society had been invited to meet the Prince of Wales at breakfast; and this was intended to represent a wedding breakfast. It was the solemn occasion of Maria’s return to the Prince of Wales.

Plump, no longer young, either of them, they were radiant. The Prince behaved like an eager boy. He could not take his eyes from Maria. All was forgiven: her temper: his infidelities. They were lovers again.

‘Together,’ said the Prince of Wales, ‘until death do us part.’

The second honeymoon had begun.

Caroline laughed loudly when she heard of it.

She insisted on drinking their health.

‘Good luck to them,’ she said. ‘Blessings on our plump pair. I am truly pleased that Maria Fitzherbert’s husband has gone back to her.’

Willikin

THE Prince’s return to Mrs. Fitzherbert was tantamount to a public renunciation of his marriage to Caroline. True she was the Princess of Wales and mother of Princess Charlotte, but everywhere Maria Fitzherbert was received with the Prince and apart from openly being acknowledged as such was in every other way his wife.

In spite of her apparent acceptance of this extraordinary situation, Caroline was at heart deeply wounded. Her only friend was the King and his health was declining rapidly. He visited her now and then and she was allowed to visit him; he showed clearly that he had a firm and growing affection for her which, Caroline confided to Miss Hayman, was comforting.

She was entertaining more frequently at Montague House, and was delighted to find that there were people who were prepared to visit her in spite of the fact that they knew they displeased the Prince of Wales by doing so. It was not only the Prince of Wales who was displeased but the Queen also; and as the King was growing stranger every day it seemed as though Caroline would not long have a supporter in the royal family.

Caroline endeavoured to show that she did not care and, gay and unrestricted, made an effort to lead her own life. She had her beloved daughter, and Charlotte loved her mother however much her relations tried to turn her against her; she had her little family of poor children whose welfare was of the greatest concern to her; and she had the friendship of the King and the affection of the people who had considered her very badly treated by her husband and always went to a great deal of trouble to show her that they were on her side.

She felt shut in in her house in Blackheath— aloof from the affairs of the world which were distinctly uneasy. There was trouble with France where a man of tremendous ambition named Napoleon Bonaparte had risen to make a nuisance of himself to his neighbours— by no means excluding the English. The price of bread had risen alarmingly and there was general discontent among the poor because of this.

One May morning the King went into Hyde Park to review a battalion of the Guards. Crowds had gathered to see the parade and all was going well when suddenly the sound of a shot was heard and one of the spectators fell to the ground. Crowds collected; the King asked to know what had happened and learned that the fallen man had been wounded by a ball cartridge. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind for whom that shot had been intended.

The King was calm as always in such circumstances, having long ago assured himself that kings must be prepared at all times for sudden death. As for himself, since his illness he was haunted by the fear of going mad and he often told himself that sudden extinction would be preferable to years endured in the clouded world of insanity.

‘Continue with the exercise,’ he said, and went on as though nothing had happened.

People who had witnessed the incident talked of the King’s remarkable courage; and that evening when he went to Drury Lane to see the play he was loudly cheered, but as he stepped to the front of the box to acknowledge these cheers a man in the stalls stood up and fired at him.

For the second time that day the King had had a narrow escape from death, for had the bullet been a few inches nearer the mark it would have entered his body.

There was a hushed silence before pandemonium broke out and the man who had fired the shot was captured.

The King, however, preserved his miraculous calm and signed for the play to continue; he slept through the interval which was a habit of his, usually sneered at, but on such an occasion applauded.

No one could help but admire the courage of the King and during the evening Sheridan, manager of Drury Lane, wrote a verse to be added to the National Anthem and sung to the King that very night.

From every latent foe, From the assassin’s blow, God save the King! O’er him thine arm extend, For Britain’s sake defend, Our father, Prince and friend, God save the King.’ The King listened while the audience sang this new verse several times and there were tears in his eyes as he did so.

And when the would-be assassin turned out to be a certain James Hadfield, an old soldier who had received a wound in the head and was clearly suffering from delusions, the King was immediately sympathetic— as he always felt towards those who suffered from insanity.

Momentarily to the people he was a hero instead of bumbling old George, Farmer George, Button Maker George, the butt of the cartoonists who depicted him talking to cottagers about their pigs and enquiring of an old woman how the apple came to be inside the dumpling. They were fond of old George while they laughed at his homely ways and his concern for small matters. The man who could act so calmly after an attempt on his life was in another category.