But Marble Hill at Richmond had always been her home and she had suggested to Miss Pigot that they return to it and live there quietly Miss Pigot understood. Dear Maria had no wish to go into society, for if she did how could she avoid meeting the Prince of Wales; and if he were to cut her (he would never do that) or if he were to be less than loving, which he undoubtedly would be since he would be everywhere in the company of Lady Jersey, how could Maria endure to meet him? For in Maria’s eyes the Prince of Wales was her husband according to laws of her church this was so; it was the State— due to that Royal Marriage Act brought in by the Prince’s own father— which would consider that the ceremony that had taken place on December 15th of the year 1785— a little less than ten years ago— was no true marriage.
Miss Pigot often thought how much happier Maria might have been if she had gone to the country after the death of Mr. Fitzherbert and stayed there‚ then the Prince of Wales would never have met her, never have made up his mind that he could not live without her‚ and Maria would doubtless have married some pleasant country gentleman who would have adored her and made her comfortably happy for the rest of her life.
She had said this to Maria who had shaken her head sadly. ‘At least I had those happy years, Piggy. I suppose I should be grateful for them. And you’re fond of him too. You know you are.’
Miss Pigot admitted that this was so. He was charming, and when he kissed one’s hand or bowed, he did it so beautifully that he made one feel at least like a duchess. And when he thanked one for some small service, the tears were often in his eyes as he spoke of his gratitude or affection. Who could not be affected by such charm? Not Miss Pigot. Nor indeed Maria.
And my goodness, thought Miss Pigot, Maria had stood out against him. It was only when he pretended to kill himself— Hush; she must not say that. Maria believed he really had tried to kill himself. She often spoke of it now remembering how much in need of her he had been. Dear Maria, let her believe that, if it gave some comfort. Poor soul, she needed all the comfort she could get.
As for Miss Pigot she believed he had been over-bled. His physicians were constantly bleeding him because when he became too excited and gave vent to violent passions he was apt to fall into a sort of fit which bleeding seemed to alleviate. An over-bleeding, thought the practical Miss Pigot, and the blood on his clothes and the pallor of his face— well, if he said that he had tried to thrust a sword into his side and kill himself because Maria refused him— why shouldn’t she believe him? But after that she had gone away and stayed abroad for a year; and then she could stop away no longer. And he had remained faithful to her all that time, which, Miss Pigot conceded, must have demanded a great deal of restraint on his part— knowing him— or a great affection. The affection was there.
Our dear charming Highness loves Maria as much as he can love anyone, Miss Pigot said to herself. That is why it is such a pity that this has happened.
For whom else would he have gone through that ceremony in Park Street?
There was a real parson to perform it and so it was a true marriage. And hadn’t he treated her as his wife? Everyone who wished to please him had been obliged to recognize Maria as the Princess of Wales. He had been devoted to her. But then of course there were other women.
How could he manage without women— different women? The two things in life he loved best were women and horses; and women were a good length ahead.
That clever Mr. Sheridan had said of him that he was too much the lover of women to be the lover of one.
How true! How sadly true! But Maria— clever maternal Maria— had understood her prince. She had accepted his infidelities, not happily of course, but as a necessity, until Lady Jersey had come along.
Who would have thought that that— grandmother, nine years the Prince’s senior, could so enslave him? But Lady Jersey was a clever woman. She had no intention of taking second place to Maria; she had therefore set out to destroy Maria’s influence with the Prince. And she had succeeded.
But it won’t be forever, Miss Pigot was sure. He will be back. I feel it in my bones. And Maria, wounded as she never had been before, had made no protest. How like Maria. She was always so dignified. A Queen— if ever there was one, thought the loyal Miss Pigot. She had not raged against him as most women would have done She had taken her congé with outward serenity. If he no longer wants me, then I will remove myself from life— since that is what he wants. Miss Pigot had believed that he would come back; that he had written that letter telling her that he would not see her again on an impulse when he was under the influence of that wicked woman. But Maria had accepted it. Miss Pigot would never forget the day she came back from the Duke of Clarence’s house with the letter which had been delivered to her there. She was like a sleepwalker. Stunned, that was it. Oh, how could he be so cruel— so wicked! What had made him do such a thing? To write to her there so that she must receive her dismissal before all those people; and when she had no notion of what was to happen either?
Hadn’t he been writing to her only the day before as his Dear Love?
He, had dismissed Perdita Robinson in the same way— by letter. But that was because he hated scenes and Mrs. Robinson according to hearsay had made scenes at the end of their relationship. True, Maria and he had quarrelled. A woman would have to be a saint not to quarrel with such a publicly unfaithful husband, for whatever the State said, Maria believed him to be her husband. So perhaps that was why.
And she had gone abroad.
‘You should have stayed,’ she had protested at the time.
‘What!’ Maria had cried. ‘Stay— like a dog waiting for a whistle from its master?’
Oh, yes, Maria was proud. But what comfort was there abroad? Maria could not bear to stay in France— that tortured country which had been like a second home. to her because she had been educated there; but it was all so sadly changed since the revolution and she could not find there the peace and solace she sought.
So they had come back to Marble Hill and here they were.
Maria had always been particularly fond of Marble Hill— a fine house which had been built by Lady Suffolk, one of the mistresses of George II, as a refuge for her old age when she should no longer please that monarch.
It had delightful grounds which had been planned by Bathhurst and Pope, and the flowering shrubs, particularly in the spring, were charmingly colourful. Maria loved the lawns which ran down to the river and were bounded on each side by a grove of chestnut trees. From the grotto, a feature of the garden, there was a very pleasant view of Richmond Hill. One glance at the house explained why it had received its name; perched on an incline it really did look as though it were made of marble, so white was it; and it owed its graceful appearance to those excellent architects Pembroke and Burlington.
Maria was sitting in her drawing room, a piece of embroidery in her hand, but she was not sewing; she was looking wistfully out over the lawns to the river.
Miss Pigot came and sat beside her, and Maria forced herself to smile.
‘How dark it is getting— so early,’ said Maria. ‘The winter will soon be with us.’
But she was not thinking of the weather.
‘You might as well say what’s in your mind, Maria,’ said her faithful companion. ‘It doesn’t do any good to bottle it up.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘If you’re thinking of him you shouldn’t try to pretend you’re not. Is there something on your mind?’