Jean Plaidy - Perdita’s Prince

He was surprised when Mr Charles James Fox was announced. They were acquainted and had an admiration for each other; but as yet their interests had been divergent. Sheridan followed political affairs with a mild interest; Fox was an occasional visitor to the theatre; but Sheridan, himself a Whig, had been impressed by Fox’s adroit manoeuvres and Fox by The School for Scandal and The Rivals.

But why, wondered Sheridan, had the important gentleman seen fit to call upon him?

‘Mr Fox, sir, at your service,’ he said.

‘At yours, sir. I trust this is not an inconvenient hour to call?’

‘Any hour would be convenient to receive a visit from Mr Fox.’

Fox laughed to imply they could dispense with trite formalities.

‘Business is booming, I see,’ said Mr Fox. He was well aware that although business boomed so did Sheridan’s debts. Sheridan was a gambler and a gay liver; moreover, he was of an intellectual calibre to match Fox’s. Such kindred spirits were rare.

Sheridan, knowing that Fox would be well aware of his financial difficulties, shrugged his shoulders and nodded in the direction of the pile of bills. No need to excuse himself to a man who had been – was constantly – in a similar position.

‘So tiresome,’ said Mr Fox, ‘to have to pay for one’s pleasures!’

‘But if one did not make a pretence of doing so we should have every Tom, Dick and Harry scrambling for them. Would there be enough to go round?’

‘I do not think it would be beyond the powers of our invention to create new ones, Mr Sheridan.’

Sheridan opened a cupboard and brought out two glasses.

Without speaking he filled them and handed one to Fox.

‘Your very good health, sir, and good fortune to the project you have come here to discuss with me this day.’

Fox laughed. ‘Mr Sheridan, your talents are considerable. Words are your forte. The same thing applies to me. To be brief I have come to suggest that you stand for Parliament.’

‘Did I hear you aright, sir?’

‘As a Whig. You are a Whig, sir. No doubt of that.’

Sheridan lifted his glass. ‘To wine, women and Whigs, sir.’

Mr Fox drank and said: ‘So, Mr Sheridan?’

‘Mr Fox, sir. I am sitting here among my accounts, doing my theatre business with no thought of taking on the office of Lord of the Treasury.’

‘You will not be hurried into that position quite yet, Mr Sheridan.’

‘But no one enters politics surely without dreaming of the Great Seal. It is the Field Marshal’s baton … it is the Admiral’s … Forgive me, sir, but what is the insignia of our sea lords? Is it the holy grail?’

‘Dream of it then, Mr Sheridan! Dream of it! You are too clever a man to concentrate all your efforts into one undertaking. Your plays … your theatre … yes, excellent for an ordinary man. But you are not an ordinary man, Mr Sheridan. You have a touch of genius. Give it to your country.’

‘Are there not too many at this moment offering their genius to the country? See what such genius has done. Lost us the American Colonies, for one thing.’

‘Alas, politicians are legion; genius is rare. North is the biggest blundering idiot that ever held the Great Seal. And HM clings to him. Why? Because he sees himself as a Supreme Ruler. In that addled head of his he’s thinking of Divine Rights. North and the King. By God, what a pair. I have to put the King and his Tories out of office, Mr Sheridan; and I can only do that by putting the Whigs in.’

‘Surely the people are behind the Government.’

‘Mr Sheridan, you will have to learn your politics. The people will be Tory one day and Whig the next and it is our task to see that they are Whig the day after and the week after and the year after. How do we do it? By teaching them, educating them, by making them realize what a holy mess we’re in, what the loss of the colonies mean to us.’

‘We?’

‘Those of us who have the power to do so. Men who are on familiar and caressing terms with the English language.’

‘Like Mr Fox for instance.’

‘Mr Fox, sir, and Mr Sheridan.’

‘A place in politics … a Member of Parliament,’ mused Sheridan.

Fox leaned forward. ‘If the right party were in power it could be a high place in the Government. It would be a different life from this …’ Fox waved his hand with a faintly disparaging gesture. ‘You would be the friend of anyone you chose to meet. I personally would see that you were a member of Brooks’ … or any club you fancied. You would be welcome in the most noble houses. Oh, I know these are the outward trappings of power … of no importance in themselves. But they are a measure of success.’

‘You speak as though Power is the ultimate goal of all men.’

‘Men such as you and myself, Mr Sheridan. We were sent in the world with our talents. Is it not incumbent upon us to use them?’

‘I am using mine. I think I have written plays which will be performed a hundred years hence. If the playmaker Sheridan is not forgotten after he’s dead is that not enough?’

‘It depends on what talents you arrived with, Mr Sheridan. A brilliant playwright … yes. And the theatre will rejoice in that talent for years. Generations will rise up and call you blessed. But this country is rushing ahead to disaster. Pitt saw it, but he was defeated by the gout and changing his title from The Great Commoner to Chatham. Politicians can’t afford to make mistakes. By God, Mr Sheridan, it’s the most exciting game on earth. Loo, Faro, Macao, Hazard! You haven’t gambled until you’ve played politics.’

Sheridan’s eyes were shining and Fox knew that he would achieve his purpose.

He leaned forward. ‘This, Mr Sheridan, sir, is a turning point in British politics. Our monarchs carry a certain power. True they cannot act without the backing of their governments but the power is there. The King – between men of good sense – is far from clever. I won’t say he’s a fool … not for fear of committing lèse-majesty but because it is not entirely true. George is a simpleton. He should have been a farmer. A good man let us say … who has never known the pleasures of life, and who feels it his duty to see that these are kept from others. A failing of the virtuous, Mr Sheridan, as I’m sure you will agree. But what HM fails to see is that the pleasures a man indulges in are not his whole life. A man can be a brilliant politician in the House, a lecher in the bedchamber and a gambler at the clubs. A politician can set the country’s economy to rights while he’s at his wits’ end to know how to placate his own creditors. Mr Pitt happened to be a model husband and a great politician at the same time. That in itself provided his downfall. He didn’t become Lord Chatham for his own sake … but that of Lady Chatham. And that, one might say, was the end of his career. So you see, Mr Sheridan, this is the greatest gamble and I know that your fingers are itching to have a throw of the dice.’

Sheridan was silent, turning over the possibilities in his mind. It seemed a glittering prospect because this was not merely going into Parliament – it was going in arm in arm with Mr Fox.

Mr Fox continued: ‘As I was saying, the King has a certain power and the King is my enemy, and that of the Whigs. But a new star is rising and to this star shall we hitch our wagon. The Prince of Wales will be eighteen in August. He will be to us what the King is to the Tories.’

‘The Prince! A young man bent on pleasure!’

‘Don’t underestimate him. Bent on pleasure certainly. Young, lusty and so far kept under the stern eye of their Majesties. “Eat this. Don’t eat that.” “Get up at this hour. Go to bed at that.” Now what effect is this going to have on a young fellow whose high spirits are higher than average? There is one answer: Rebellion. Believe me, Mr Sheridan, the Prince has a very good reason to support the Whigs. His father is a Tory. That is the only reason he needs at this stage. Later he will find others. Don’t make old George’s mistake of thinking that because young George frolics with the ladies, selects his shoe buckles with care, has a passion for gold frogged coats and exquisitely cut breeches, that he’s a fool. He has been educated and significantly has made no effort to elude that education. He has the power to make his father feel a dunce in his presence. He is a boy … not yet eighteen … but time does not stand still. In three years time he will be the most powerful man in the country and … our friend.’

‘Our friend, Mr Fox?’

‘Yours and mine.’

‘But I have not yet made up my mind to go into politics.’

‘You will.’

Mr Fox drained his glass and rose.

WHILE SHERIDAN WAS thinking of Fox’s proposition he received another visitor.

Very different this one – a vision of beauty in muslin and ribbons and a dark silk coat.

‘Perdita!’ Like everyone else he called her by that name nowadays. The Prince had given it to her and it was an indication that everyone was aware of the relationship between them.

He kissed her hands with a fervour which she was too distraught to see was absentminded.

‘Oh, Sherry, I have something to say to you, and I fear you may be a little angry with me.’

‘Never,’ he declared gallantly.

‘I scarcely know how to begin.’ A faint smile curled Sheridan’s lips. Of course she would have been rehearsing the scene for hours before she came. He knew his Perdita.

‘My dearest, you look distrait. Is all well between you and the Prince?’

She threw back her head and a smile illuminated her face. By God, he thought, how beautiful she is when she smiles. She should smile constantly. What a fool she is to cultivate this melancholy aspect! He won’t like it. She won’t last if she is not careful.