‘Not quite the same, Caroline. Not quite the same. And oh— the intrigue that went on. My mother and er— her friend on one side— the King on the other.’
‘Tell me about your mother’s— friend, Mamma.’
‘I certainly shall not.’
‘There is no need really so I’m happy to relieve you of the necessity. I know already. Lord Bute became the lover of the— Princess of Wales after the Prince died.’
‘Where do you hear such wicked scandals?’ demanded the Duchess.
Caroline smiled demurely. ‘From you, Mamma.’
The Duchess made an impatient sound with her lips. ‘Oh, everything here is so drab. So different from England. One must enliven the days if only with memories. I was a person of some account in England, Caroline.’
Caroline regarded her mother quizzically. Was she? Could she ever have been? Caroline had a picture of her mother, the Princess Royal of England, vainly attempting to meddle in Court politics— ineffectually of course.
Caroline softened towards her mother then and hoped that she would never be like her. Of course she would not. She would be like her father— a Brunswicker with a lion in her heart.
‘Mamma,’ she said gently, ‘you were telling me about the Duke of York—’
‘Oh, yes, he is coming here to see us. He is a great soldier, you know, and has been distinguishing himself on the Continent. He is a year younger than the Prince of Wales and I have had letters from my brother about him.’
‘That, Mamma, must have made you very happy— to have letters from the King of England.’
‘Very gratifying. It may well be, Caroline, that His Majesty is sending his son here for a purpose.’
Caroline nodded. She was on her feet, parading about the room, and turning to her mother she curtsied. Then she strolled about looking over her shoulder at the Duchess. ‘Will I suit, Sir Duke? Am I worthy to be the consort of a Duke?’ Then with an English accent: ‘We will see. We will see. I am an English Duke, do not forget. My brother is the Prince of Wales.’ She pretended to take a quizzing glass from her pocket and held it up continuing to make comments in that voice with the ridiculous English accent.
Caroline was almost choking with laughter but the Duchess was not amused.
‘Stop it, Caroline. You are most— most— improper.’
But Caroline would not stop. She was carrying on with this ridiculous charade in a manner which clearly showed her mounting hysteria.
Oh dear, thought the Duchess. I cannot manage her. If the Hertzfeldt woman were here now what would she do? ‘Caroline,’ she said sharply, ‘stop it. If you go on like this, you will never get a man to marry you.’
It was evidently the right thing to have said for Caroline stopped and looked at her mother, and seizing her opportunity the Duchess went on: ‘You are not so very young now that you can afford to play these childish games. I think you should be a little interested in your cousin’s visit.’
Caroline had suddenly seen herself growing old at the Court of Brunswick.
The eccentric Princess Caroline! And she was wise enough to know that those antics which in the young could be viewed with tolerance and considered amusing, in the middle-aged would be boring, eccentric and perhaps mad.
She did not want to stay at Brunswick all her life. She wanted to see the world; and she would never do that if she remained unmarried living always in her father’s Court.
Her mother was right. She should be interested in the arrival of the Duke of York.
‘What do you know of him?’ she asked.
‘That he is very handsome and attractive, has distinguished himself on the field of battle, is amusing, clever und witty.’
‘He sounds like a god rather than a cousin.’
‘I am sure you will think him so,’ said the Duchess triumphantly.
So it was what they wanted, thought Caroline. They were hoping for a match.
Marriage with the Duke of York. One would go to England, her mother’s country of which she talked as though it were some El Dorado— and yet her mother had not been nearly so happy living there as she had believed herself to be when she left it. That’s natural enough, thought Caroline, for that’s how life always seems.
Yes, she would like to see England. She would like to see Uncle George, who had always seemed to be led by the nose by his mother and that lover of hers— and Aunt Charlotte who was the villainess because her sister-in-law, now Duchess of Brunswick, had so disliked her.
‘Tell me about them, Mamma,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the King and the Queen.’
‘It is long since I saw them,’ said the Duchess comfortably, because there was nothing she enjoyed like a gossip and a gossip of the old days was the best kind.
‘George was really quite handsome— in his way. Fair hair, blue eyes— rather heavy jaw and kind— very kind. He always wanted to please everyone. He was very startled when he found himself King of England Grandpapa, of course, was very old and Papa was dead so George was the next in the line of succession, of course, but we all thought Grandpapa would go on and on. Then one day he went into his closet and died instantly. And so George was king and he was exactly twenty-two— not much older than you.’
‘Was he pleased do you think?’
‘Pleased! He was terrified! He wouldn’t move a step without Mamma and Lord Bute. Of course there was a real scandal about that affair. They used to call him the Scotch Stallion. The people hated him. They jeered at him when he went out in his carriage. In fact there was a time when they actually tried to do him a mischief. But Mamma was faithful to him for years—’
Caroline looked slyly at her, mother. Trust the Duchess to explain everything which a moment before she had suggested it was improper to discuss. One could wheedle anything out of Mamma, thought Caroline, provided one employed the right tactics.
‘The Scotch Stallion,’ cried Caroline, suddenly unable to restrain her mirth. ‘I like that. I like that very much.’
‘My dear Caroline, I beg of you! You should not speak of such things. What next I wonder.’
‘And what of Queen Charlotte, Mamma? Tell me about her.’
‘A horrid creature. I disliked her on sight. Little and thin— very thin. Such a flat nose— such a big mouth. Really, she looked like a crocodile. She should have been humble— very humble. To come from a little court like Mecklenburg-Strelitz to marry the King of England.’
‘ ‘It was rather like Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, I expect, was it not, Mamma?’
The Duchess looked cautiously at her daughter. ‘Yes, but smaller,’ she said.
‘Of less consequence. And we soon made her realize this. I reported her actions to my mother, and we soon put her in her place. I remember an occasion when she did not want to wear her jewels to church and we made her. It was symbolic, you see. If she had had her way about that, she would have tried to exert her power over the King in more important ways. Sometimes I wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to have let him have Sarah Lennox after all. Oh dear, he was mad for Sarah Lennox. You would call her a pretty creature. But flighty.
And that has been proved. She left Bunbury, you know. For she married Bunbury when she knew she could not have George. And there was a child— not her husband’s. Most scandalous. And that was Sarah Lennox for you. And meanwhile everyone said Charlotte might be a dull, plain little German hausfrau, but she was fertile— oh, very fertile. Fifteen children. Just imagine! No sooner is one delivered than she is pregnant again. Serve her right. It was all she was fit for.’
‘I should like to have fifteen children. I wonder if I ever shall―’
‘You will have to get married soon to have so many.’ The Duchess laughed suddenly. ‘There has to be a small breathing space between, you know. Not that Charlotte asked for much. Or perhaps George wouldn’t let her.’