Виктория Холт - The Third George

She found no pleasure in her relations with the King. She never had. She smiled grimly, imagining his comment if he had heard her say that.

"Pleasure, eh? Why pleasure? It's for the procreation of children, eh? What?”

Fires were springing up all over London. There was an ominous red light in the sky by night. The mob had gone mad. These were not, said North, the members of the Protestant Association; this was the rabble, the scum, that element in every big city which is ready to come to the surface when emotions boil up. These were the thieves and the vagabonds, the jailbirds, the criminals.

They burned, they looted and shouted "No Popery' without knowing what it meant.

The houses of well-known Catholics were the first targets. Members of Parliament were the next; and of course the prisons. Newgate was burned to the ground; Clerkenwell Prison was broken into and prisoners released to swell the throng. There was murder in the streets.

George remained in St. James's. The mob hovered, uncertain. The guard was doubled and the King never hesitated to show himself, but made a point of mingling with the soldiers and talking to them and bringing refreshments to them during the night watches. But something would have to be done. Lord North discussed this with the King.

"Action is needed without delay," said the King. "We dare not let this continue. It grows worse.

What do you say, eh?”

"Action, yes, sir, but what action?”

"We have an army. We must use it.”

North was aghast. "Fire on the people, sir?”

"Fire on them or let them destroy the capital.”

Lord North was horrified. He left the King to consult the Cabinet. George, who had always hated bloodshed of any sort, was thoughtful. That he should be the one to ask his soldiers to fire on his own subjects was abhorrent to him.

The mob, he thought. Poor deluded creatures. No sense. Led away. But I have my City to think of.

They're bent on destruction. They have to be stopped. He was not a man to shirk the unpleasant.

What had to be done had to be done and if it meant killing a few of his subjects to save many more, he would be ready to give the order.

"Fire," was the order, 'if peaceful methods are ineffective." All householders were to close their doors and keep within. The soldiers had a right to fire without awaiting orders.

The result of this order was to quell the riots. In a very short time the city was quiet. Three hundred rioters had been killed; some had died of drinking too much pilfered liquor, others had been burned to death, having in a drunken stupor fallen into the flames which they themselves had provoked. But the terror was over. One hundred and ninety-two rioters were convicted, twenty- five of whom were executed. And Lord George Gordon was taken to the Tower on a charge of high treason.

The King was overcome with melancholy. He had given orders to fire on his own subjects and many had lost their lives. The Dean of St. Paul's remarked that the King, by ordering the soldiers to fire on the mob had saved the cities of London and Westminster. This was true, but George was none the less grieved.

And all through that hot summer he was sad; but he did rejoice in September when another son was born. They called him Alfred. Alas, he was delicate like Octavius.

"We shall have to take great care of this little one, eh?" said the King.

"Perhaps we have had too many," replied the Queen with unusual spirit; and the King regarded her oddly.

Charlotte sat at her table while her women curled and craped her hair. Nothing they do will make me beautiful, she thought. Schwellenburg stood superintending; Miss Pascal who had become Mrs. Thielke was the one who really did the work.

They had brought the newspapers to her, for she liked to read them while her hair was done, but she could not concentrate on them this morning. She was thinking of Alfred. He had looked very wan last night and she was very anxious about him, but trying hard not to show her anxiety. She did not want the children to know.

"We now ready for de podwering," said Schwellenburg in her atrocious English which Charlotte was sure she could have improved had she tried.

"Yes, yes." She put down the paper and went into her closet.

While she was there the King came in. He looked distraught and she knew that he had had some news of their child. His hands were trembling with emotion.

"Charlotte," he said, 'our poor darling child.”

And she dismissed the women, that they might be alone together.

"You have news?" she asked.

"The doctors say that he cannot live through this day.”

She was biting her lips, trying to hold back the tears.

"My dearest Charlotte," said the King, 'he is our baby and we love him dearly, eh? But... we have the others...”

She nodded and the King took her hand and kept it in his. And after a while they rose and went to the room in which their child lay dying. George shut himself in his study. There was nothing he could do but wait.

He thought of little Alfred, so trusting, such a good baby. He had the innocence of a child who relies on his parents and has not yet learned how to plague them. The Prince of Wales was growing tired of Mrs. Robinson and she was giving him trouble. Threatening this and that. She would have to be paid off heavily. A lesson to him, eh? Serve him right. Teach him what such women are. It was never like that with Hannah. She had made no demands. Thank God he had not got himself into the sort of trouble which surrounded the Prince of Wales.

But his thoughts now were with little Alfred who had lived long enough to make them love him, so that his passing would be a bitter grief. He sat down and wrote to his chaplain, the Bishop of Worcester, because he found some relief in writing: "There is no probability and indeed, scarce a possibility, that my youngest child can survive the day. Knowing you are acquainted with the tender feelings of the Queen's heart, convinces me that you will be uneasy till apprised that she is calling the only solid assistant under affliction, religion, to her assistance.”

It was true. Charlotte was a religious woman and faith would carry her through this trial and all others. And he too must rely on religion. He needed help. Affairs of state were heavy on him. He would never forget those fearful days of the Gordon Riots. Gordon had been tried for treason last year and because of his very good advocate, had been acquitted. Thank God he had acted with promptitude over that affair, although he had been torn with doubts as to the advisability about calling out the soldiery to fire on the people. It was an example of how one must always do one's duty, however unpleasant.

The cares of his family weighed heavily upon him; he was never sure when he was going to hear of some fresh escapade of the Prince of Wales or his brothers. And now there was this illness of the youngest child which the doctors had told him would be fatal.

The doctors were right. Shortly after the King had written that letter to the Bishop of Worcester, little Alfred was dead. The King paced up and down his apartments. His head was aching, his thoughts were whirling.

"God will never fill my cup of sorrow so full that I cannot bear it, he whispered. "That's true. It must be true." But his mind was filled with doubts.

George's great happiness was with the younger members of his family. He preferred, he said, to hear nothing of the Prince of Wales, for he was very disappointed in that young man who seemed to be of the opinion that the manner in which the heir to the throne should spend his time was at boxing booths, race tracks and gaming houses and, in the company of the most immoral people.

A new Court was being raised about the Prince. It was a Court which, it was universally said, was what a Court should be. Who wanted a staid family establishment consisting of babies and dull domesticity? Who wanted a plain little queen who was rarely seen and didn't behave like a queen, although those who served her had little to say against her except that she was parsimonious within her household and behaved like some impoverished lady of the manor rather than the Queen of England? Who wanted a king who never gave balls and banquets; never rode among his people sparkling with gems; who never provided them with a scandal; and the only excitement he had given them was when he was ill some years ago and rumour had it that he had been mentally deranged?

No, the Prince of Wales had the look of royalty, the manner of royalty. Florid, handsome, already beginning to show signs of corpulence not unpleasant in the young, splendid, with the most perfect manners, with wit and a spirit of adventure! Already he had scandalized the Court over his affaire with Mrs. Robinson; and he could be seen driving a carriage with the pair of the finest horses up Richmond Hill on a sparkling morning to call on another lady love.

It will be different when the Prince of Wales is king, it was said. There would be extravagances; there were already debts, it was whispered, massive debts. But the Prince was worth it. There was nothing dull about the Prince of Wales.

But the King was perpetually anxious and that made his thoughts whirl and his head ache. When anyone came to him on a matter of importance his first thought was: does it concern the Prince of Wales? No, the King's happiness was with the little ones and he could scarcely bear to tear himself away from the heart of his family. What joy to see them in their little drawing room, curtseying, playing their music or listening to it. George had insisted that they all be taught to love music.