The whole nation mourned; the people in the street spoke of Charlotte as though she had been a saint. Verses were written of her:
Daughter of England! For a nation’s sighs
A nation’s heart went with thine obsequies.
The darling of the nation was dead. There was nothing to be done but mourn.
When the funeral was over the Queen came to Carlton House to speak very seriously to the Regent.
He received her with a show of great affection and wept affectingly while he talked of Charlotte; he had spoken of little else since her death.
‘My dearest George,’ said the Queen, ‘this is a terrible ordeal for us all and you in particular.’
‘No one can know,’ murmured the Regent. ‘Not even you.’
‘I can imagine,’ said the Queen quickly. ‘But the nation’s affairs must go on and there is little time.’
The Regent was not listening. He said: ‘I have decided to go to Brighton. I want to shut myself away for a while and I am asking Gloucester to spare me Mary for a few days.’
The Queen nodded. Mary, his favourite sister, had married her cousin the Duke of Gloucester last year. Mary had been forty then and had been eagerly desiring to marry her cousin for years, but the King had been so firmly against any of his daughters marrying and in fact there were few possible husbands, the qualifications of being both royal and Protestant proving so hard to fill. Mary had gleefully married ‘Slice’ as those dreadful cartoon people had christened Gloucester (comparing him with a slice of Gloucester cheese) and although Slice was proving quite a martinet of a husband Mary preferred any husband to none at all, so was not dissatisfied.
‘Mary will be an excellent companion and you always have enjoyed her company. My dear George, I understand your reluctance to think of anything but your unhappiness, but I do believe this to be an urgent matter of State. I may not be here much longer …’
He placed his hand appealingly over hers. ‘I forbid you to say such a thing.’
Dear George! Always so charming. How much did he really care? she wondered. But he had such a charming way of pretending that he did that it did not seem to matter. She would rather have George pretending to care than the genuine devotion of any of the others.
‘Your brothers must consider their obligations,’ she said.
‘How I agree with you.’
‘Immediately. There must be no delay. They must marry and produce legitimate children before it is too late.’
‘You are right, of course. Our recent loss makes this necessary.’
‘Unless our branch of the family is to become extinct. It is so extraordinary. All these sons … and not one child among them.’
‘Their duty should be made known to them.’
‘As I said, without delay.’
‘When I return from Brighton I will put the case before them.’
When he returned. It should be now. There was not a moment to lose. But one did not argue with the Regent. He had such a sense of the rightness of everything. First he must mourn the daughter for whom he had not greatly cared during her lifetime; he must shut himself away at Brighton with only Mary to comfort him. He must play his part of bereaved father, before he gave his thoughts to reminding his brothers of their duty.
The Queen decided that there was no need for her to wait so long. She would intimate to her sons that the Regent had certain propositions to put before them; and even the least intelligent of them must realize what they were.
York
THE DUKE OF York drove down to Oatlands, the country mansion at Weybridge which was more his wife’s home than his. When they had realized, long before, that their natures were not compatible they had decided to live apart and the Duchess had consoled herself with her animals, the Duke with his mistress. The years had mellowed their relationship and once they had decided to make no demands on each other they had become good friends.
The Duke had his career in the Army and between that and his ladies he enjoyed life; the Duchess was happy indulging her eccentricities at Oatlands. The house and garden were the home of numerous animals – any stray was welcome; monkeys climbed the banisters and hung from the curtains; she had even added ostriches and a kangaroo. There was an animal cemetery, where each corpse was treated to a separate burial and an inscribed stone was placed above the beloved creature’s last resting-place. Her life was spent between caring for her menagerie and her good works, for she made the welfare of Weybridge her concern and the poor had reason to be grateful to her; she liked to sit on the lawns of Oatlands in summer sewing garments for the poor with a cat in her lap, a dog at her feet and a monkey perched on the arm of her chair. She was fond of the society of people as well as that of animals, though not so passionately, and gave weekend parties, which her husband often attended. She hated going to bed and seemed to need little sleep; she roamed the grounds of Oatlands by night with her protective army of dogs around her ready to tear to pieces anyone who attacked her.
When the Duke arrived at Oatlands he found his wife very sad, for she had genuinely loved Charlotte and the Princess had paid many happy visits to Oatlands. There were no visitors this weekend; Frederica, Duchess of York, was in mourning.
But she was pleased to see her husband. Poor Frederick, she thought, he was showing signs of wear. Who could wonder, considering the life he led. Once she had thought him so handsome; she remembered when he had presented her to his parents – he so tall, she so short. What an ordeal that had been, for she had no illusions about her appearance and her new family were so critical. Smallpox had spoiled her skin and her teeth were brown and uneven but her fair hair and blue eyes had been pleasant. She had been over-elaborately dressed, with her hair piled too high and set with diamonds, and what she remembered most from that occasion were the cold eyes of her mother-in-law, Queen Charlotte, and the silver foil frills on her sleeves which were uncomfortably itchy.
But that was years ago, when the revolution had been raging in France and they had come near to being killed as they passed through that country and were recognized by the mob for royalists. Only the calm courage of the Duke had saved them. How she had admired him then! He was at his best at such moments – the true soldier, indifferent to danger. But ordinary domestic life oddly enough was more difficult than facing a mob of revolutionaries and she had quickly realized what a failure the marriage was.
They had quarrelled; she had failed to produce the desired heir; they had parted, they had lived their own lives and in time come to friendship.
This had been strengthened at the time of the Mary Anne Clarke scandal when she had left Oatlands to stand by him; and while he was facing a serious charge and was dismissed from his post it was his wife who had been with him, comforting him, disappointing the lampoon writers – for of what use was a faithful wife to them?
Now Frederick embraced her in the usual cool but friendly manner and they went into the house together.
‘The poor child,’ said Frederica, ‘the poor, poor child!’
‘I would not have believed it possible,’ murmured the Duke.
‘It is always possible. But she was so young, so full of vitality. How is the Regent taking it?’
‘Badly.’
‘Ah, poor George. Perhaps he reproaches himself.’
The Duke looked surprised. He, who always took his cue from his brother, was now ready to believe that the Regent had been devoted to his daughter and she to him. Frederica was more realistic. Everyone knew of the stormy conflicts which had raged between the Regent and his daughter. Death did not change that.