The crowds were beginning to gather. The Prince, realizing that he was unhurt, looked through the window and called to those who were helping the coachman to his feet: ‘Is he hurt?’
‘No, Your Highness,’ the coachman answered for himself. ‘It was the post, Sir. We struck it and it all but overturned us.’ He was still clutching the reins which had no doubt prevented the horses from bolting.
The unsavoury crowd, the curious eyes, he hated it all. So different from the old days. He wanted to give immediate orders to drive on but that consideration for his servants for which he was noted and which endeared them to him no matter how unpopular he might be outside his own household, was second nature to him.
‘Are you fit to go on or would you like another driver to take over?’
The coachman’s eyes were a little reproachful. ‘I’m all right, Your Highness. It wasn’t what you’d call a spill. Just that old post, Sir.’
‘Then let us go.’
So the coachman got on to the box and they were off; the entire incident had only taken up five minutes.
Still, it had shaken him a little, not the accident of course but the sullen looks of the people. They no longer liked him. They would be glad when it was Charlotte’s turn. How had the change come about and what was the precise reason? Why were monarchs so popular in their youth and why did that popularity almost inevitably wane as they grew older?
Walking between the peers, the crown carried before him on its cushion, he felt better; he would deliver his speech effortlessly and in his beautifully modulated voice. His manner would remind them that they could always rely on him to grace an occasion.
Charlotte watched him with those feelings to which she was now accustomed. She hoped that when the time came for her to perform a similar duty she would do so with the same elegant panache. She was proud to be his daughter and at the same time she had to fight those waves of resentment. She was fiercely proud of him and yet ashamed; she loved him and she hated him.
If he would only show that he cared a little for her, it might be so different; but often it seemed that he enjoyed humiliating her. Even on this occasion he had commanded that on their way from the Speaker’s House she must walk behind the Old Girls. She, the heir-presumptive to the throne, to walk behind old women who were not and never could be of any significance. It was done surely to humiliate her, to remind her that as yet he considered her of no importance.
Very well, she would show him that she was the one the people liked. She would do everything she possibly could to win their cheers when they rode back to Carlton House.
She could have wept when she heard him reading the speech. It was so beautiful. Surely they must admire him. But then of course he had behaved so badly to poor Mamma and the cartoons were becoming more and more scurrilous although, having promised Mercer, she did not look at them … well, only a quick glance when Mrs Udney brought them in or her mother sent them, not what one could call a real look.
It was fun riding through the streets. What a lot of people there were about!
‘God bless the good Princess Charlotte.’
Good? Well, perhaps that was a bit too much. But it was pleasant, particularly as, when the Regent’s magnificent carriage drove by, they were silent. She had heard that when he left his coach outside the Hertfords’ house it had been pelted with mud and rotten eggs. Who was he to tell her how to live when he lived so scandalously himself? All the same he was the most exciting man in the world and if only he would let her into his confidence just a little, if only he would let her see that he was a loving father …
But how her thoughts ran on!
‘God bless Charlotte. Our queen to be. And may it not be long.’
How shocking, and yet in a way pleasant because it would show him that if he did not appreciate his daughter they did.
Here they were at Carlton House, through the vestibule, to marvel at what Horace Walpole had called ‘its august simplicity’ and into the music room with the lovely view of the garden’s winding paths.
The Prince Regent was in a rage. First the accident had upset him and then his reception by the crowds. He had been fully aware of the disloyal looks directed at him and the cheers whch had come his daughter’s way.
He took off that wonderful cocked hat and threw it on to a chair. The poor Old Girls looked terrified. Charlotte was expectant.
‘That farce is over, thank God. I should be glad to retire to the country and have done with these boring ceremonies. I am plagued on all sides.’ He looked at Charlotte and the tears came into his eyes. She had a mad impulse to throw herself into his arms and cry: ‘Papa, don’t let us be a plague to each other. Let us love each other. It is what I’ve always wanted.’ But how could she do such a thing? He would think she had inherited poor Grandpapa’s madness and despise her more than ever. He strode past her. ‘And you …’ he turned back to glare at Charlotte, ‘aggravate me. I know of course who encourages you in this. Do not think I do not understand. Of course I know. It is that woman … your mother. Ever since I married her there has been trouble. It was the greatest mistake of my life. That woman … that loathsome woman …’
Poor Aunt Mary shivered and Aunt Augusta uttered a little cry of protest but he dismissed them with a look. He was weary of pretence. He was going to let this wayward daughter of his know what a mother she had, that the source of all his troubles came from her.
He seemed to lose all control. ‘She is vulgar; she is immoral. Let us not pretend. We know the kind of life she leads. We know she keeps that gross creature with her … and why. She says he is the son of some low woman … but that is not so. He is her son and the father is Smith, Manby, Lawrence … what does it matter which?’
Charlotte said in a high excited voice: ‘It was proved this was not so.’
He turned on her in anger. ‘Indeed it was not. It was simply not proved that it was so … which is a very different matter. By God, one day I’ll have the proof I need and when I have it I’ll be rid of her.’
Charlotte felt that irresistible urge to protect her mother. It was always so. When in the presence of one she always felt she owed her allegiance to the other. ‘She is my mother …’ she began.
But he would not let her speak. He cried: ‘You shall see all the papers. You will have no doubt then. Have you ever heard of the Delicate Investigation?’
‘Y … yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘And very indelicate were the facts revealed. If you feel you must speak for her there is only one thing to be done. You must read the papers. And you shall. You shall know what sort of woman you have for a mother. No doubt we know only half the truth but what we do know is reason for divorce and if it were not for my accursed enemies …’
Tears of self-pity filled his eyes; the Old Girls stood by shocked, unable to speak. In front of Charlotte! Mary was thinking; but Charlotte herself put an end to the scene. All ceremony forgotten, she ran from the room. She imperiously summoned Lady de Clifford and demanded that she be taken to Warwick House without delay.
She heard the Prince’s ejaculation as she ran: ‘By God, she grows more like her mother every day.’
Back at Warwick House she started to shiver. Lady de Clifford was flustered. She must be put to bed. The doctors must be sent for. What was this mysterious ‘attack’?
Charlotte lay thinking of them both – hating each other, producing her. They had hated each other even then. She had been born simply because there was a need – in his opinion a revolting need – to produce an heir.