Виктория Холт - The Third George

Chatham rose and protested once more against the dismemberment of this ancient and most noble monarchy. The threat of French invasion made him laugh. He turned violently to the Duke of Richmond and then suddenly he swayed and would have fallen had his son not caught him in his arms. The debate ended and Pitt was carried out to a nearby house in Downing Street. There was no doubt that he was very ill.

A few days later he expressed a wish to go to his beloved house at Hayes and he was taken there.

In three weeks he was dead.

The body of the Great Commoner lay in state for two days and was buried in the north transept at Westminster Abbey.

"That," said the people," is the end of Pitt, one of the greatest of English statesmen." But this was not quite the truth. The chief mourner was the dead man's second son, his firstborn being abroad.

His son was William Pitt, named after his father; he was nineteen and he was determined to be as great a politician as the father he mourned.

So the great struggle had come to an end with ignominious defeat for the King and his country.

George knew this humiliating memory would haunt him for the rest of his life; and he was right: it did. Often he was heard to murmur: "I shall never lay my head on my last pillow in peace as long as I remember my American Colonies.”

In the meantime Charlotte had spent the greater part of her time being pregnant. Ernest had been born in June 1771; Augustus in January 1773; Adolphus in February 1774; Mary in April 1776; Sophia in November 1777; and Octavius in February 1779. So that by the year 1780 they had thirteen children.

And at the beginning of that year no one was very surprised to learn that Charlotte was pregnant again.

The King's eldest sons were giving him great cause for alarm, particularly the Prince of Wales. In the past he had looked to his family for comfort and found it. That was when they were children.

Alas, children grow up; and it seemed to be a tradition in the family that the Prince of Wales should be at enmity with the King.

"Why should he, of the whole family, have turned out so? eh?" he demanded of the Queen.

But she could not tell him. Poor Charlotte had had no opportunity to learn anything. In the nineteen years that she had been in England she had been kept as a prisoner, a queen bee in her cell, never allowed to know the secrets of politics, never asked an opinion. They had made of her a Queen Mother, nothing else; and they had kept her very busy at that.

She adored her eldest son; he had been the King of the nursery and well he had known it. With his rich colouring, his blue eyes and golden hair, he was beautiful; and if he was a little wild it was what everyone expected of such a little charmer.

Lady Charlotte Finch had declared him to be a handful, and, worse still, he carried his brother Frederick, who was a year younger than he was, along with him. But the young George had been full of curiosity; he had shown an aptitude for learning which delighted his father, who had never himself been good with his books. Young George, in the seclusion of the Bower Lodge at Kew, had shown good promise. There was nothing else to do but learn, so he learned. He had a good knowledge of the classics, spoke several languages, could draw and paint with a certain amount of talent and seemed avid for learning. High spirited, yes. Mischievous, certainly. Leading his brothers into trouble, it had to be admitted.

"He is such a boy," said his mother fondly and indeed wondered how such a plain creature as herself could have produced such a wonder.

Life at the Bower Lodge had been carefully laid out by the King. The children's domain was not to be contaminated by the Court. So influenced had George been by his mother that he had made the household of his children almost a replica of that which he had known as a boy. He did not pause to consider the conduct of his brothers which had brought such anxiety into his life; nor Caroline Matilda's unhappy experiences in Denmark. Even he himself had broken out over the Lightfoot affair and he could so easily have gone against his elders and married Sarah Lennox. He did not connect the wildness of his brothers with their sequestered childhood. And now here was young George threatening to be as difficult to control as George's brothers had been if not more so.

It was not possible, naturally, to keep the Prince of Wales at Bower Lodge when he was eighteen, that time when princes were considered to be of age. He would demand a household of his own and independence and if he did not demand it, the people would for him. They had always known that he was wilful; he had shown that in the schoolroom. He had swaggered before his brothers and sisters; he had bullied his tutors, slyly reminding them that they had better be careful and not forget that one day he would be king. Boyishness, they had called it.

On his eighteenth birthday he had been given his own establishment in Buckingham House. Now he showed how really troublesome he could be. He had taste for low company and liked to roam the streets with a band of friends as bad as himself incognito, going into taverns and coffee houses, talking about the politics of the day. He would extricate himself from any difficulty by blatant lying if the King saw fit to reproach him; and perhaps most alarming of all, he drank too much. The King, abstemious and puritanical, was very shocked.

"You will grow fat if you drink or eat too much," he told his son. "It's a failing in the family.”

The Prince pretended to be impressed and was laughing up his sleeve. Most grievous of all was that he had no respect for his father. He daren't announce this yet, but it was there between them and the King knew it. And what could he say to the Prince of Wales, his son, who was doubtless eager now to step into his shoes?

Moreover, the King was growing more and more unpopular. Lampoons were circulated about him. There were cartoons representing him in the most ridiculous situations. It was humiliating particularly as the Prince of Wales was so popular. He only had to appear in the streets to have a crowd cheering him.

"What a handsome fellow! ' cried the people; and they told themselves it would be different when he was king. Gone would be the dull old Court presided over by old George who never did anything to amuse them in his private life except go to bed with old Charlotte and produce more and more children to be an expense on the State.

And here was young George, already indicating how different it was going to be when he came to the throne. It would be like the days of Charles II again. A merry England where there was a brilliant Court and a king who would be up to all sorts of gay adventures to amuse his people.

"It causes me great concern," said the King to Charlotte. "What do you think of it, eh? What?”

"He'll settle down," Charlotte assured her husband. "He is so young and after all he is only just experiencing freedom.”

"Experiencing fiddlesticks! ' retorted the King.

Charlotte was really more concerned about little Octavius who was not as strong as the others.

The health of her children had never before been a great cause for anxiety; not only had she been able to breed but to breed strong children. But Octavius had been a little sickly from birth and, though she might have thirteen, the thought that she might lose one of them terrified her. She had learned not to argue with her husband though, so she did not make any more attempt to defend George; fondly she went on believing that he would 'settle down'.

Charlotte was sewing when the King burst into her apartment. His blue eyes looked as though they would pop out of his head and the veins stood out at his temples. Charlotte dismissed her women hastily. When the King looked like this she was always reminded of that terrible illness of his. Like him she was constantly dreading a return of it.

"I have some shocking news ... most shocking ... I could scarce believe my ears. How long has this been going on? I do not know. It is a very degrading thing. Yes, that is what I would call it ...

degrading. I will not have it. I will put a stop to it. This cannot be allowed to go on, eh. What?

What? What?”

He was talking so rapidly that she was terrified. It was so like that other occasion.

"I pray you be seated and tell me what is distressing you.”

"It's that son of ours ... that George ... that Prince of Wales. I don't know what he thinks he is doing. No sense of place ... no sense of dignity, eh? What? What? There is trouble ... trouble ...

everywhere and he has to add to it. What are we going to do about it, eh? eh?”

"I beg of Your Majesty to tell me what has happened.”

"He's been to the play ... been to Drury Lane and he's found a woman there ... an actress ... What does he think he's doing at his age, eh, what?”

George paused. He had been about fourteen when he had first seen Hannah Lightfoot; he had not been much older when he had arranged that she should desert her husband immediately after her marriage to him ... to come away to that house at Islington to be with him. That was different.

That was not flaunting his infatuation. That wasn't setting the whole town talking. That was secret ... very secret. It was different, said George to himself, eh? eh? eh? What?

"Going to the play..." echoed Charlotte.

"Yes, every night to see this, this ... creature. And he has fallen in love with her. Calls her his dear Perdita. She's been playing in Winter's Tale or some such. Shakespeare. Cannot see why there is such a fuss for his plays.”