The two men’s names have been much linked of late in the popular press, as objects of the Regent’s affection, and as possible candidates for a return to high office in a ministry of the Regent’s appointing. I will say nothing of the indignation every Whig must feel, at the defection of the Prince of Wales from that party which has ever been his chief support, and among whom he finds the better part of his friends; that is matter for another day. Suffice it to say, Miss Austen, that popular report fails in this one instance: Lord C. is certainly in the Regent’s eye, as a lynchpin of His Majesty’s desired ministry; but it is Lord Sidmouth with whom he shall serve, and the Marquess of Wellesley — not G.C. That gentleman is in bad odour with the Regent, by dint of his affection for and ties to the Regent’s despised wife— the Princess of Wales.[20]
Moreover, the celebrated duel between himself and Lord C. has only diminished his standing among his fellows, as having been justified by the underhanded fashion in which G C. attempted to oust Lord C. from the cabinet behind his fellow minister’s back. In defending his honour, Lord C. has only heightened the respect in which he is held, and has gone a long way towards regaining the admiration and affection of a populace long inclined to regard him with disfavour. G.C. knows this; he is aware that his star, already sinking, may be completely extinguished at the formation of the next cabinet; and I should not be at all surprised if so ruthless and ambitious a man should not stop even at violence to obtain his ends — by throwing scandal on the object of his jealous hatred.
You would do well to determine, if you may, whether he was acquainted with Princess T—, and what were his movements on the night in question.
I have perhaps assumed and said too much. Acquit me of having a cock in this particular fight; I stand only as observer. In relating so much of a private nature — and indeed, of speculation regarding appointments that remain solely in the Regent’s preserve — I have perhaps committed an unpardonable offence; but my esteem for Lord Harold causes me to accept the considerable trust he placed in yourself as being of unquestioned foundation.
Allow me to express my respect and admiration, and accept my sincere good wishes for your continued health. I remain—
Francis Rawdon Hastings, Earl Moira
Chapter 19
The Shadow of the Law
Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.
THE PREMISES OF GRAFTON HOUSE ARE SO LARGE AS to permit of an army of occupation’s being encamped there — which is indeed the effect of a quantity of Town-bred women, from duchesses to scullery maids, in determined hold of the premises of a Saturday morning. The hour being well advanced when Eliza, Henry, and I made our entrance, we went unacknowledged and disregarded amidst the cackling throng — and Henry had but to eye the several large rooms, letting one into another, with their lofty ceilings and interior casements of paned glass, their bolts of holland and sarcenet draped cunningly over Attic figures, their lengths of trimming depending from brass knobs at every side— to announce, with commendable meekness, that he believed he should much better wait outside.
The few male persons brave enough to confront the crush of bargain-mad women were most of them clerks, arrayed behind the broad counters, heads politely inclined to whichever of their patrons had obtained a place well enough to the fore to command attention. I detected a wall of matrons seven deep before those counters, and resigned myself to an interval of full half an hour before Eliza and I should be attended to; Henry would avail himself of the opportunity to indulge in an interval of cheerful smoking.
Eliza was already in transports over a quantity of satin ball gloves offered at a shockingly cheap price, and I left her to the business of turning over the fingers, and exclaiming at the fineness of seams, and went in search of my sister’s green crewel. I had an idea of her heart’s desire: a length of Irish linen, worked with embroidered knots or flowers in a deep, mossy green, that should feel like the breath of spring when she wore it — or perhaps a bolt of muslin cloth lately shipped from Madras, with figures of exotic birds or flowers in a similar hue. Cassandra is in general so little inclined to the pursuit of fashion, that I must credit my unexpected fortune in having secured a publisher for my book, and being treated to six weeks in London at the height of the Season, to having inspired her with a vaulting ambition. In her mind she envisioned the sort of delights that had been denied us for the better part of our girlhood — the frivolity of women of means. She had an idea of the Canterbury
Races in August, in the company of our elegant brother Edward — Cassandra arrayed in a dashing gown that everyone should admire, and know instantly for the work of a London modiste. I was to be the agent of fulfilling her dream. She asked so little of me in the general way that I felt I could not do otherwise than execute this small commission. My sister and I have reached the age when the pleasures of dress must compensate for the lack of other blessings — such as deep, abiding love — that will not fall in our way again.
I had succeeded in discovering the Irish linen, and was fingering its weave somewhat doubtfully, when a cool voice enquired at my elbow, “Miss … Austen, is it not? May I enquire whether your poor ankle is quite recovered?”
It was Julia Radcliffe.
The Barque of Frailty wore a gown of pale blue muslin, arrayed with a quantity of pin tucks drawn up close about the throat — an elegant, modest, and wholly becoming gown for a slip of a girl, as she undoubtedly was. A straw jockey bonnet was perched on her golden curls, and her hands bore gloves of York tan; the whole afforded a picture of perfection that betrayed nothing of her calling. I could well believe what Eliza had told me — that Julia Radcliffe had been reared in one of the first families, and despite the events that had led to her being cast off, she retained an elegance of person that owed everything to breeding and taste. Her maid stood a few yards behind her, quietly supporting a quantity of purchases — Miss Radcliffe was certainly on the point of quitting the linendraper’s.
“Thank you,” I stammered. “You are very good to enquire — the ankle is perfectly mended. Lord Moira was very chivalrous, was he not, in insisting I should be borne immediately from the gravel? I am sure that I suffered no further indisposition solely because of his care.”
“Lord Moira is all politeness,” Miss Radcliffe returned, with a gleam of laughter in her looks. “A lady has only to fall at his feet for him to lift her up with pleasure! I am glad you did not incur a lasting injury. And now I am going to test your good will further, and betray that I am well aware that odious man is dogging your footsteps. May I aid you in any way?”
I looked all my surprise. Was it possible she referred to Henry? And had he abandoned his position in the street?
“Perhaps you are unaware of it,” Miss Radcliffe amended. “He is somewhere behind me, taking great care to appear invisible — and thus must draw excessive attention to himself. Bow Street Runners invariably do.”
20
The Prince Regent married his German cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, in 1796, but cordially hated her and maintained a separate household from his consort for all but three weeks of his married life. Princess Caroline was tried and acquitted of treason (the basis being adultery) in Parliament in 1820; she died abroad in 1821. —