There was no help for it. The party left for Worthing.

How different was Warwick House from Mr Wilson’s Bognor mansion. But perhaps that was because royal etiquette had been introduced into it. It was like Windsor or Kew. There were the Queen’s Drawing Rooms where one must sew and read and Charlotte had to undergo catechism at the side of her grandmother. She had to see that her snuffbox was at hand when she needed it; she had to endure the alternate affection and scolding of the Old Girls.

Even the sea could not make up for that.

Warwick House was at the end of a narrow lane; and there was nothing about the place to suggest that all this royal ceremony was going on inside. It was true two sentries were always posted at the gate; but for them it might have been any gloomy old country house.

‘Charlotte, you are too boisterous. I think you often forget your position.’ This was the constant complaint of her grandmother. ‘Stop fidgeting, child. How awkward you are! I do declare you have the manners of a cottage child.’

Nothing pleased her. Even her daughters talked of her ill temper.

‘It’s her rheumatics, poor Mamma,’ said Amelia, who was always ill herself and could pity others who were.

It was from the aunts that she heard some news of her mother.

‘I doubt not that before long you will be able to see her,’ whispered Aunt Mary. ‘I believe the King is going to receive her.’

‘Why have they been so unkind to her?’ demanded Charlotte.

‘Hush! There are things you cannot understand. You will one day.’

It was exasperating, but if one protested it might stem the flow of information; so the only thing to do was to curb one’s impatience and try to be calm. It would make her very happy to see her mother again.

It was Mary who told her that her grandfather, the Duke of Brunswick, had been killed at Jena.

‘This terrible Napoleon Bonaparte,’ sighed Aunt Elizabeth. ‘He is dominating the whole of Europe. And to think that he thought of invading England too. Dear Lord Nelson put a stop to that.’

Charlotte was well aware of Napoleon’s activities. This was the kind of lesson which she assimilated with ease. She knew full well what the country owed to Lord Nelson and what sorrowing there had been when he fell only a few years ago at Trafalgar.

And now that wicked man had killed her grandfather – or at least his soldiers had. Poor Mamma, she would be very upset for she had loved her father. She had once told Charlotte that she had loved him better than any man she ever knew. But one could never be sure; she expressed her feelings with such extravagance. One day she loved Charlotte better than anyone in the world and the next it was Willie Austin – or her Willikins as she called him. Still, she would be very unhappy because of the death of her father.

‘And,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘your Grandmamma Brunswick is in England.’

‘Shall I see her?’

‘You certainly will. Your Mother is allowing her to live at Montague House and she is in her apartments at Kensington Palace.’

At Kensington Palace! Then that surely meant that Mamma was received at Court. She was no longer in disgrace.

There was a further surprise. The Prince of Wales sent his own carriage to Worthing to pick up his daughter and Lady de Clifford and bring them over to Brighton where they might visit the Pavilion and see a parade of the Prince’s own regiment.

Charlotte was delighted. First the little cart and the four greys – and now he was sending his carriage for her! Mrs Fitzherbert might well be behind this but what did that matter? She was at last to be given the chance to know her own father. And if when she returned to Carlton House she might visit her mother she could be loved by them both; and perhaps one day their differences would be forgotten because they would both have one great interest in common: their own daughter.

Perhaps that was a dream, but it was a very pleasant one and riding along those country roads often beside the sea, in his magnificently upholstered carriage, with his coachman very grand in his scarlet and green livery, Charlotte felt she had every reason to believe that her most cherished desire would be fulfilled. Her white muslin dress was very pretty; she had argued with Mrs Gagarin that it would be dirty before the day was over, but Mrs Gagarin had said they should take a chance on that. The Prince would expect his daughter to look her best. And, declared Louisa fondly, Charlotte looked a real picture with those lovely white frills and flounces and her straw hat with the blue ribbons to match her eyes.

‘Do I look nice?’ Charlotte had pirouetted before the glass and pictured her father’s approval. ‘By God,’ he would say, ‘I have a damned pretty daughter.’

They came into Brighton at a jog trot. There was no place quite like Brighton; here was an exhilaration in the air which was nowhere else. This was the town where the Prince of Wales reigned supreme; he had turned it from a humble fishing village to the most elegant place in England – next to London, perhaps. But it was so different from the capital that it need not regard even that as a rival. Here everyone seemed happy; the ladies were fashionable; and the costumes of the gentlemen made one gasp in admiration. The influence of Beau Brummell and the Prince of Wales was evident everywhere.

It was the Prince’s birthday and therefore a great day in Brighton. He was forty-five years old and that was something the people were determined to celebrate. The streets were hung with banners; the children carried posies; and everywhere there were loyal shouts.

As soon as the carriage appeared they cried: ‘God bless the little Princess!’

‘Wave,’ whispered Lady de Clifford. ‘Incline your head. Smile. Show that you appreciate them.’

Charlotte was waving frantically, beaming on everyone.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Lady de Clifford. ‘Not so violently. Pray remember that you are a princess.’

‘Princes and princesses, kings and queens, they must always please their people,’ said Charlotte in the tones of the Bishop; which made Lady de Clifford sigh even more deeply.

And now here they were at the magnificent Pavilion itself and the band was playing on the lawn. The carriage drew up and Charlotte jumped out. How often had Lady de Clifford warned her that she should wait to be helped and then step daintily down. But Charlotte was far too excited to remember these admonitions.

She had seen her father. He was in the uniform of his own regiment and about his waist was a belt decorated with diamonds. He was clearly very happy, as he always was on occasions like this, and because it was his birthday, and the people of Brighton had determined to honour him, and in any case had always been loyal to him however unpopular he was in London or any other part of the country, he was prepared to shower his charm on everyone and that included his daughter. He embraced her with emotion – tears in his eyes – but was that for the benefit of the spectators?

Now she was being greeted by her Uncle William, Duke of Clarence. Uncle Fred was not here today, she was sorry to see.

Uncle William’s greeting was not as affectionate as it might have been. She had overheard it once said that some of her uncles did not like the idea of a girl’s inheriting the crown. Well, thought Charlotte, they would have to put up with it, for they could have twenty sons and not one of them could oust her from her position. Not that Uncle William showed any signs of having any legitimate sons. He had several children by the lovely actress Dorothy Jordan – young George Fitzclarence, whom she bullied when she met him, was one of them – but they could never inherit the throne, so there was no reason why Uncle William should dislike her for being the legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales. She thought Uncle William rather stupid anyway and much preferred what she had seen of Dorothy Jordan, who was lovely and had the same warm motherly quality which she had discovered in Mrs Fitzherbert. She wondered whether Dorothy Jordan was here today; if so she would not be far off because although she was merely the mistress of the Duke of Clarence she was accepted everywhere. The Prince of Wales was fond of her and, unlike his parents, he did not consider the absence of marriage lines a reason for banning a beautiful and interesting woman from society.

Now here was Uncle Augustus, Duke of Sussex, who was, next to Uncle Fred, her favourite uncle. He was tall like the Prince of Wales and his complexion was decidedly florid. He seemed pleased to see Charlotte and he had made it clear on more than one occasion that he was her friend and would help to bring about a better understanding between her and her father, but he could behave rather oddly; he was not so simple and straightforward as Uncle Fred in whom she felt she could put greater trust. She was saddened too about his break with dear Goosey, because he had gone through so much for her sake – marrying her against his father’s wishes and having a court case and when it went against them, with the support of his brothers, setting up residence with her all the same.

The nicest thing about the uncles was that they always supported each other and if any of them were in any difficulties the first person they thought of going to was the Prince of Wales.

And after greeting Uncle Augustus it was the turn of Uncle Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge. She never felt she knew Uncle Adolphus who, in his Hanoverian military uniform, was like a foreigner.

Delightedly she thought how much more elegant, dazzling and brilliant was her own father.

The Prince was smiling as he watched. At least, she thought, he’s pleased with me today. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are going on to the lawn. The crowds will expect to see us together.’