Jean Plaidy - The Regent’s Daughter

‘William is a fool,’ said the Queen tersely. ‘He sways this way and that. First he wants to marry Mary … but Charlotte only has to mention his name in this ridiculous way and he turns to her.’

‘He’s ambitious as well as silly,’ said the Prince. ‘Think what it would mean to him. But the whole thing is a plot of Charlotte’s. She’s turned against Orange and she’s after Devonshire. I wish to God I could get the Orange match settled.’

‘We must try to bring this about,’ said the Queen. ‘And Charlotte must be made to see that no one takes this Gloucester affair seriously.’

Meanwhile Charlotte was writing gleefully to Mercer telling her all about the consternation, but being careful not to put her true feelings on to paper. Those letters she had written to Hesse and which were still in his possession haunted her a little. They reminded her too that she must exercise a little caution – even to Mercer.

But she talked to Cornelia about the affair. ‘Poor Mary!’ she said. ‘I know she has not always been my friend and I don’t trust her. I don’t really trust any of the aunts. The old Begum trained them all to spy for her and they can’t stop themselves doing it. But I am sorry for her, because she is old and would like to be married … and free from bondage, for while they remain spinsters, poor old aunts, they will have to do what the Queen tells them. My Uncle Brunswick has lost his wife. Now why should he not marry Mary? Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’

‘It has always been believed that one day she would marry Gloucester.’

‘But how can she if I marry him?’

‘You are not serious.’

That made Charlotte laugh. ‘Well, I think until she does marry Gloucester Mary ought to have another hope. Put it about, Notte dear, that there is a chance of her marrying Brunswick. That would cheer her a great deal.’

‘My dear Princess, what plots are you considering!’

‘My dear Notte, you must admit that it has made life just a little less dull. I am sure all the writers are pleased with me. I have given them plenty to write about.’

It was true. The press was full of the Princess Charlotte’s matrimonial prospects.

‘Is it to be the Cheese or the Orange?’ was the question on everyone’s lips.

THE REGENT TEMPORARILY forgot his daughter’s affairs, for glorious news was reaching him every day. Napoleon was being routed everywhere. The battle of Leipzig had taken place and this was to prove decisive. In Napoleon’s disastrous retreat from Moscow he had left behind him over a thousand pieces of cannon and these the Russian Emperor was setting up as a memorial to their great victory. At Dresden the French had surrendered and the entire German Empire was liberated from the conqueror. In Amsterdam the Dutch had turned out the invader and were shouting for the return of the House of Orange.

The Regent who looked upon these victories as his, who had followed in detail the manoeuvring of the British armies, was exultant. He rode to open Parliament with his usual pomp and this time no voice was raised against him, although there was none for him. He could not greatly care. He was seeing himself as the victorious general, for he had always longed to lead an army to victory and if he could not do so in fact had done so a thousand times in his imagination.

His speech was fired with eloquence. He dwelt lovingly on the recent victories, of the hardships that had been endured, of the years of strain and trial which that man Napoleon had imposed on the world. But we had stood firm against him; we had come through magnificently.

He was acting a part as he could do so well. He was the great soldier who had never fought a battle; he was the man who had led his country to victory and brought freedom to the world.

He was magnanimous in victory, declaring: ‘We shall not require sacrifices from the French of any description inconsistent with her honour or just pretensions as a nation.’

His eyes filled with tears as he thought of his dear friend and cousin Louis XVIII of France who had been holding his Court in Aylesbury and would soon now be returning to his country.

Afterwards he went to his mother, for she was willing to share his illusion that he was the main architect of peace.

He walked up and down her apartment, his arm through hers. ‘The Corsican’s star has set,’ he declared. ‘This is new freedom for the world. All our struggles have not been in vain. We have fought and won.’

He took from his pocket a snuffbox on which was a miniature of himself.

‘I hope when you use this you will not feel ashamed of the face that adorns it,’ he said emotionally.

The Queen replied that she would be proud … proud indeed.

‘I believe,’ he replied, ‘that now you may think me worthy of my family and this country.’

‘I am proud of you,’ replied the Queen, ‘proud of you and the country which has stood for so long alone … facing this tyrant. And now I hear his glory is over. Is it true that they are sending him into exile?’

‘Exile in Elba,’ confirmed the Prince. ‘Thus ends all his pride.’

‘The sun is shining,’ replied the Queen with more sentiment than she usually expressed. ‘May God bless you.’

The Regent took her hand and kissed it.

How pleasant, she thought, to be on these terms with him. How in the old days she had longed for his affection. She wished that she was not aware of his superficiality. But no matter – he was her firstborn; he was the same George whose charms as a baby she had had modelled in wax and kept under a glass case on her dressing table. She did not love him the less because she knew him perhaps as well as anyone did.

How delighted she was to see him flushed with victory. His unpopularity hurt him a good deal; and perhaps now he would be less so. If only he could be rid of Caroline, marry again, produce an heir; or even come to some happier relationship with Charlotte.

‘This will mean that many sovereigns will be claiming their own,’ he was saying. ‘They will bless us for ever because we have restored their kingdoms to them. Not only the King of France, but there’s Spain, Sardinia, the elector of Hanover and Orange …’

A cloud touched his brow. This was a reminder. Orange! Something must be done soon about Charlotte’s marriage to Orange.

The Prince of Orange was coming back to England. He was a better match than ever, the Regent declared to his mother. Now that his House was restored to its own, he did not know of a better opportunity for Charlotte.

He was not going to have any more nonsense about her preference for Gloucester – which he knew was a cover to hide her foolish infatuation for Devonshire – he was going to insist on a meeting with Orange, and Charlotte was going to discover that she approved of the match.

He called on his daughter frequently. He put himself out to charm and of course he did. He explained the tactics of victorious battles to her and she listened, not caring for the details but enjoying his endeavours to please. Once at Carlton House he showed her a picture of the Prince of Orange.

‘You have to admit,’ he said with a smile, ‘that he is quite a pleasant-looking young man.’

Charlotte was silent.

‘Come,’ said her father. ‘You must agree with me.’

That was the trouble; he wanted everyone to agree with him, and when they did he was so charming.

‘He is not ugly,’ she admitted; and the Regent was not dissatisfied with that answer.

‘Soon,’ he said, ‘your own eyes will tell you that he is far from ugly.’

She set her lips in a stubborn line, but he was intent on charming her and pretended not to notice.

Mercer who was travelling at the time saw the Prince of Orange when he passed through Plymouth and wrote to Charlotte to tell her so.

She was agreeably surprised. He was a shy young man, but Mercer thought that was not a disadvantage, and he could look very pleasant when he smiled. He was by no means dour and seemed to enjoy a joke. Mercer had had an opportunity of observing him closely and found that he could converse very agreeably. She hoped that Charlotte would think so.

This letter from Mercer had more effect on Charlotte than all the Regent’s attempts to make a fine picture of Orange. She believed Mercer; and if Mercer thought the young man possible, perhaps he was.

The Regent called at Warwick House. He scarcely gave Cornelia a glance; he had not been very friendly since the Devonshire breakfast. He had come, he said, to speak to his daughter.

Charlotte received him with apprehension. She guessed that he had come to talk about the evening’s reception when he had arranged for the Prince of Orange to be presented to her.

When he saw her he embraced her with more affection than usual; she was immediately softened as always, although in her heart she knew that he wanted something from her and experience had taught him that he was more likely to get it by being tender than stern.

‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘how well you are looking, and I am glad. Your health has been giving me much concern. Moreover, you will wish to look your best for tonight.’

‘Shall I?’ she asked fearfully.

‘You know you always like to look your best when many people see you and tonight is rather a special occasion.’

‘All visits to Carlton House are special occasions,’ she reminded him, and the comment pleased him.

‘Tonight you will see William.’ He held up an admonitory finger. ‘Now, don’t be alarmed. There is nothing alarming in this. I merely wish you to give me an opinion of the young man. You understand, my dear Charlotte, that we cannot shilly-shally for ever. We have to make up our minds, don’t we?’