There’s no more to be said.

The Face at the Window

THE KING RECEIVED the Duke of Newcastle, his chief minister, who was immediately aware that His Majesty was not in the best of moods.

He had just officially created his grandson Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester; and he was wishing, as he had so often, that William had been his eldest son instead of Frederick; then this rather vacant young boy would not now be heir to the throne.

William would have been so much more suitable. A strong King; a man who could lead his army against the country’s enemies. He was not very popular at this time, it was true. But that was because the Scots had spread evil stories of his savagery at Culloden; but he would win back their favour. It had always been dear Caroline’s wish… because it was his wish, and he and Caroline had always seen eye to eye, he believed.

He continued to mourn her. He would never forget her. He loved her more now that she was dead than he had when she was alive. Or so he believed. It was easier to in any case, for now he need not be continually watchful that she was not appearing to be cleverer than he was. She had been something of a blue stocking, his Caroline; or she would have been if he hadn’t kept her in order.

His thoughts were straying from that young puppy George to discuss whom he had summoned Newcastle.

The King did not greatly like Newcastle. Sir Robert Walpole had been the minister he had loved – although when he had first come to the throne he had dismissed him ignominiously, only to take him back immediately; and he had always refused to admit that it was the clever scheming of his Queen Caroline which had brought about this most satisfactory state of affairs. But the days of Sir Robert were over and here was Newcastle.

Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, was an ambitious man and one of the richest in the country. He had inherited his title at the age of twenty-two and through his marriage great wealth. He had attained his ministerial post largely through his wealth, for he was by no means brilliant and his habits made him appear ridiculous. He rarely walked, but trotted as though in a great hurry to arrive at his destination; he appeared restless and uncertain; he rarely finished what he intended to; he was continually fussing without achieving his goal. One of the Court wits had remarked: ‘The Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it.’

As a young man he had supported the House of Hanover, even before the death of Queen Anne; and George I had selected him to be godfather to a son of George II, who because he was a friend of his father’s had hated him and had picked a quarrel at the baptismal ceremony. This had resulted in starting the famous quarrel between George I and George II, who was at that time Prince of Wales. The King had never liked him. Still, in spite of his faults, he was more honest than most and if he irritated the King, so did most of those who surrounded him.

Now he was saying in his ridiculous squeaky voice: ‘Your Majesty, it will be necessary to offer some guidance in the Prince’s education.’

This was exactly what the King himself was thinking, so he was slightly less irritated by Newcastle than he usually was.

He grunted.

‘It would be well… er… to er… remove His Highness from his mother’s care, to bring him here and to have him under Your Majesty’s surveillance.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said the King. ‘But I promised his mother she should keep him.’

‘If we could bring him under Your Majesty’s surveillance…’

The King hammered the table violently and the veins stood out at his temples. ‘I’ve told you, Newcastle. I’ve promised the voman. She’ll have the puppy… I’ve told her. Could do nothing else ven she was crying for her husband. She’s to keep him vith her and the rest of them, too.’

‘Yet, Your Majesty…’

‘Oh, be silent, you fool. The boy stays with his mother.’

‘Then if Your Majesty would consider appointing new tutors… tutors whom Your Majesty would choose…’

‘Ah, that’s a different story. If his grandmother vere here…’ The King looked mawkish. ‘There was a voman. I could trust her. I can trust no one else…’

Newcastle thought: She would have led you by the nose while she told you she was following you. Wasn’t that always her way?

‘She vould agree vith me that ve couldn’t take the boy from his mother.’

‘North should go, Your Majesty. Perhaps Your Majesty would consider substituting Lord Harcourt for North.’

The King considered the point, heartily wishing that he had not promised the Princess that she should have charge of the Prince.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ve’ll send the present lot packing, Newcastle, and appoint new ones. The boy struck me as being ignorant, Newcastle. Ignorant!’

‘It’s to be expected, Your Majesty, in the care of a woman.’

‘Bring your suggestions to me, Newcastle. Talk vith your council. Then ven you have them I’ll acquaint the Princess vith the names of the Prince’s new tutors.’

When Newcastle left the King the Duke was congratulating himself.

Very soon he would have the Prince surrounded by those whom he could trust to support him. If the King should die suddenly, the new King must have been imbued with the right ideas, which meant that he must have been brought up to respect the excellence of the Duke of Newcastle.


* * *

George was disturbed by the changes in his household. Dr Ayscough had been dismissed and his place taken by Dr Hayter, Bishop of Norwich. He did not dislike Hayter whom he considered sensible; he was the illegitimate son of the Archbishop of York, a very merry man, who enjoyed the company of women and did not allow his calling to interfere with his pleasure. George knew nothing of this; he would have been horrified if he had. Not that he knew much of the world; he was an idealist and was innocent enough to believe that his grandfather’s Court was full of people with similar ideas.

Lord Harcourt had taken the place of Lord North whom Frederick had appointed shortly before his death; he was proficient in little except hunting and drinking – neither of which accomplishments were of much use to the young Prince nor of any great interest to him. His sub-governor was Andrew Stone, a brother of the Archbishop of Armagh; and George Scott remained as sub-Preceptor.

The Princess resented these changes and George was aware of her dissatisfaction as he struggled manfully to learn but without much success.

Augusta expressed her disquiet to Bubb Dodington who was constantly in attendance on her.

‘They teach him nothing,’ she declared.

And Bubb did not suggest for one moment that the Prince’s ignorance might in some measure be due to his inability to learn.

‘Oh, the difficulties of bringing up a Prince without a husband to help one I’ she sighed.

But even as she spoke she was conscious of warm satisfaction. She was not so desolate as she liked people to think.

She had her friends. And there was one   …

Their relationship had progressed since the death of Frederick, as indeed it was natural that it should.

He was discreet but purposeful; and she had no wish that he should be otherwise. From the first moment he had entered that tent on a certain rainy day she had never wished him to be any different from what he was.

When she had been mourning for Fred, on that first day when she was stunned by the terrible shock and had not yet begun to realize all it implied, she had been conscious of him close to her.

He had waited for her to recover a little, only betraying by a touch of the hand, the softest caress, the meaningful glance that he was standing by waiting.

And then as the days passed he had become a little more daring, taking those little steps nearer and nearer towards complete intimacy – a state neither of them would have considered while the Prince lived. Fred might have his mistresses, but a Princess was different. She had been solely Fred’s wife until the end; even now she was carrying his child.

When that was born… then she would consider herself free.

Bute knew it even as she did. There was in the air a delicious awareness of the future. This little bridge to be crossed to… paradise.

So she allowed herself to be angry with George’s new tutors, knowing that very soon there would be one who not only would be closer to her than the husband she had lost but would also be guide and father to her son.


* * *

Four months after the death of Frederick, Augusta’s child was born; it was a daughter and she named her Caroline Matilda. As Augusta lay in bed, the child beside her, she reflected that this was the end of a phase; and in some measure it was like stepping out of captivity. Already in the last four months she had begun to feel alive as never before. She was a person of importance; she could form her own opinions; no need now to wait until her lord and master voiced his views before she declared her own. Now she could think as she liked, speak as she liked.

This would be the last of her children. That saddened her a little. She liked children; and she was pleased with her brood. They should be hers, entirely hers, she thought passionately; and no one – no King on Earth – was going to take them from her.

They might say that children in such a position needed the guiding hand of a father. They should have it; for she knew of one who would be to them all that a father could possibly be. He would be waiting now… As soon as she was well; as soon as she was able to receive him… The time to which they had both looked forward with such intense longing was very close.