Frederick finished his injunctions by recommending his mother to his care and also the rest of the family, his brothers and sisters.
‘I shall have no regret never to have worn the crown if you do but fill it worthily,’ he ended.
George lifted eyes swimming with tears to his mother’s face.
‘But, Mamma, it is almost as though he knew he were going to die.’
‘Sometimes these revelations come to us,’ she answered. ‘You see how he loved you, how he loved us all. You will want to do all that he wished, I know.’
‘Yes, Mamma,’ answered George fervently.
‘He would have wanted me to guide you, my son, for he had more faith in me than in anyone.’
‘I know it, Mamma. I feel so young, so…so unworthy.’
‘Trust in me, my son. Rely on me and all will be well.’
‘It is what I want to do above all else.’
She kissed him warmly; he was hers to mould; and he was the future King.
It was characteristic of the King that his resentment towards his son should not end with the latter’s death. In the presence of the window and children he allowed his sentimentality to get the better of him; but he was not going to change his attitude now.
Frederick was a young puppy who ought to have remained in Hanover. He would have liked to see William, Duke of Cumberland, King of England, and if it had been possible to make him so, he would have done it. It was what dear dead Caroline would have wished. Perhaps it was not too late now. That boy George was a simpleton. Prince of Wales indeed! When there was William, a fine figure of a man, the hero of the’45, and people could say what they liked, it was William who had saved the throne and driven that Stuart puppy yelping back to his French masters. William was the man who should take the throne, not a young puppy scarcely out of his nursery, son of that impudent rascal who ought never to have been brought to England.
Of one thing the King was certain – there should be no fine funeral honours for Fred. No grand ceremonies was the order. Let no one forget that although he was the King’s son and Prince of Wales he was no friend of the King’s. A simple funeral, then, with none of the nobility – who considered themselves the friends of the King – to attend. There would have to be some lords to carry the pall and attend the Princess, he supposed, but let it rest there. He wanted everyone to know that he considered the death of his eldest son no major calamity.
So the funeral of Frederick was less of an occasion than it was expected to be; and as when the cortège came out of the House of Lords it was raining, there were not many who cared to stand about in such weather to see it pass on its way to the Abbey.
Bubb Dodington was indignant. Bubb was like a man demented. The Prince should have had better medical attention, he declared; the Prince should have had great funeral honours. Poor Bubb! He was worried as to what the future held for him. He had been the Prince’s ardent supporter and friend, so it was hardly likely that the King would look with favour on him. And what else was there? A young boy Prince of Wales, thirteen years old, and a Princess Dowager who had never opened her mouth except to agree with her husband.
His only hope was to attach himself as speedily as possible to the Princess Dowager, to seek to advise her, and if possible to keep the rival Court alive which could form a nucleus about the new heir and guide him in the way he was to go.
It was a sad state of affairs.
The indifference of the people showed clearly that they did not share Bubb’s views. Frederick Prince of Wales was dead. Just another of those Germans, said the people. The whole lot of them were not much use, and it was a pity they had ever come here. If Bonnie Prince Charlie had not been a Catholic…But he was, and at least the Germans were Protestants, and they were comic enough to provide a little amusement now and then.
The people were laughing at Frederick’s epitaph which delighted them so much that it was spoken and sung in every place where men and women congregated; in fact, it made Frederick more popular in death than he had been in life.
Here lies Fred
Who was alive and is dead.
Had it been his father,
I had much rather;
Had it been his brother,
Still better than another;
Had it been his sister,
No one would have missed her;
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation.
But since it’s only Fred
Who was alive and is dead,
There’s no more to be said.
The Face at the Window
THE KING RECEIVED the Duke of Newcastle, his chief minister, who was immediately aware that His Majesty was not in the best of moods.
He had just officially created his grandson Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester; and he was wishing, as he had so often, that William had been his eldest son instead of Frederick; then this rather vacant young boy would not now be heir to the throne.
William would have been so much more suitable. A strong King; a man who could lead his army against the country’s enemies. He was not very popular at this time, it was true. But that was because the Scots had spread evil stories of his savagery at Culloden; but he would win back their favour. It had always been dear Caroline’s wish… because it was his wish, and he and Caroline had always seen eye to eye, he believed.
He continued to mourn her. He would never forget her. He loved her more now that she was dead than he had when she was alive. Or so he believed. It was easier to in any case, for now he need not be continually watchful that she was not appearing to be cleverer than he was. She had been something of a blue stocking, his Caroline; or she would have been if he hadn’t kept her in order.
His thoughts were straying from that young puppy George to discuss whom he had summoned Newcastle.
The King did not greatly like Newcastle. Sir Robert Walpole had been the minister he had loved – although when he had first come to the throne he had dismissed him ignominiously, only to take him back immediately; and he had always refused to admit that it was the clever scheming of his Queen Caroline which had brought about this most satisfactory state of affairs. But the days of Sir Robert were over and here was Newcastle.
Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, was an ambitious man and one of the richest in the country. He had inherited his title at the age of twenty-two and through his marriage great wealth. He had attained his ministerial post largely through his wealth, for he was by no means brilliant and his habits made him appear ridiculous. He rarely walked, but trotted as though in a great hurry to arrive at his destination; he appeared restless and uncertain; he rarely finished what he intended to; he was continually fussing without achieving his goal. One of the Court wits had remarked: ‘The Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it.’