The Regent's Daughter: (Georgian Series) (17 page)

Lady de Clifford shook her head and did not approve of these free and easy manners, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had to have the Princess in good health and she seemed to wilt when she lacked freedom.

‘Just for a while,’ Lady de Clifford promised herself. ‘And now she is getting older, I really think she needs someone firmer than I.’

Poor snuffy old Lady de Clifford! thought Charlotte, and tried not to worry her more than she could help.

Four beautiful grey ponies arrived at Bognor and with them a little market cart. She was almost wild with delight when she saw them.

‘But they’re so beautiful, Cliffy. Do you not think so?’

The messenger who had brought them gave her a note accompanying the gift. It was written by the Prince of Wales. He hoped that she would find this little conveyance useful. He had at an early age derived great pleasure from riding and driving; he hoped that she would find the same in this gift from her affectionate father.

She leaped about with delight, treading on poor Lady de Clifford’s toes, she embraced Mrs Gagarin and she even felt kindly towards Mrs Udney.

Her father had given her a present! He had remembered her existence!

In a more sober moment she asked herself whether Mrs Fitzherbert had persuaded him to give her such a magnificent gift.

But what did it matter? She had her cart and her four lovely greys; and she was going to perfect her riding. She was going to surprise him when she saw him next.

Perhaps it was too good to last. Why did something always have to happen when she was most happy! She had seen the old men in the lanes and they had touched their forelocks to her; she did not see how they could harm her.

But Lady de Clifford had thought it her duty to report to the Queen that there was a home in the neighbourhood for old soldiers who suffered from ophthalmia; she did not know whether the disease was infectious, but she believed that Her Majesty should know.

The Princess Charlotte must not run the slightest risk. None of the King’s sons had produced another heir to the throne and Charlotte was on that account very precious. She should leave Bognor at once for Worthing; and there she should be joined by the Queen and her aunts.

Charlotte wailed in fury. What would become of her freedom under the eyes of the Begum and the Old Girls? What of Mr Richardson’s buns?

There was no help for it. The party left for Worthing.

How different was Warwick House from Mr Wilson’s Bognor
mansion. But perhaps that was because royal etiquette had been introduced into it. It was like Windsor or Kew. There were the Queen’s Drawing Rooms where one must sew and read and Charlotte had to undergo catechism at the side of her grandmother. She had to see that her snuffbox was at hand when she needed it; she had to endure the alternate affection and scolding of the Old Girls.

Even the sea could not make up for that.

Warwick House was at the end of a narrow lane; and there was nothing about the place to suggest that all this royal ceremony was going on inside. It was true two sentries were always posted at the gate; but for them it might have been any gloomy old country house.

‘Charlotte, you are too boisterous. I think you often forget your position.’ This was the constant complaint of her grandmother. ‘Stop fidgeting, child. How awkward you are! I do declare you have the manners of a cottage child.’

Nothing pleased her. Even her daughters talked of her ill temper.

‘It’s her rheumatics, poor Mamma,’ said Amelia, who was always ill herself and could pity others who were.

It was from the aunts that she heard some news of her mother.

‘I doubt not that before long you will be able to see her,’ whispered Aunt Mary. ‘I believe the King is going to receive her.’

‘Why have they been so unkind to her?’ demanded Charlotte.

‘Hush! There are things you cannot understand. You will one day.’

It was exasperating, but if one protested it might stem the flow of information; so the only thing to do was to curb one’s impatience and try to be calm. It would make her very happy to see her mother again.

It was Mary who told her that her grandfather, the Duke of Brunswick, had been killed at Jena.

‘This terrible Napoleon Bonaparte,’ sighed Aunt Elizabeth. ‘He is dominating the whole of Europe. And to think that he thought of invading England too. Dear Lord Nelson put a stop to that.’

Charlotte was well aware of Napoleon’s activities. This was the kind of lesson which she assimilated with ease. She knew full well what the country owed to Lord Nelson and what
sorrowing there had been when he fell only a few years ago at Trafalgar.

And now that wicked man had killed her grandfather – or at least his soldiers had. Poor Mamma, she would be very upset for she had loved her father. She had once told Charlotte that she had loved him better than any man she ever knew. But one could never be sure; she expressed her feelings with such extravagance. One day she loved Charlotte better than anyone in the world and the next it was Willie Austin – or her Willikins as she called him. Still, she would be very unhappy because of the death of her father.

‘And,’ went on Elizabeth, ‘your Grandmamma Brunswick is in England.’

‘Shall I see her?’

‘You certainly will. Your Mother is allowing her to live at Montague House and she is in her apartments at Kensington Palace.’

At Kensington Palace! Then that surely meant that Mamma was received at Court. She was no longer in disgrace.

There was a further surprise. The Prince of Wales sent his own carriage to Worthing to pick up his daughter and Lady de Clifford and bring them over to Brighton where they might visit the Pavilion and see a parade of the Prince’s own regiment.

Charlotte was delighted. First the little cart and the four greys – and now he was sending his carriage for her! Mrs Fitzherbert might well be behind this but what did that matter? She was at last to be given the chance to know her own father. And if when she returned to Carlton House she might visit her mother she could be loved by them both; and perhaps one day their differences would be forgotten because they would both have one great interest in common: their own daughter.

Perhaps that was a dream, but it was a very pleasant one and riding along those country roads often beside the sea, in
his
magnificently upholstered carriage, with
his
coachman very grand in his scarlet and green livery, Charlotte felt she had every reason to believe that her most cherished desire would be fulfilled. Her white muslin dress was very pretty; she had argued with Mrs Gagarin that it would be dirty before the day was over, but Mrs Gagarin had said they should take a chance on that. The Prince would expect his daughter to look her best.
And, declared Louisa fondly, Charlotte looked a real picture with those lovely white frills and flounces and her straw hat with the blue ribbons to match her eyes.

‘Do I look nice?’ Charlotte had pirouetted before the glass and pictured her father’s approval. ‘By God,’ he would say, ‘I have a damned pretty daughter.’

They came into Brighton at a jog trot. There was no place quite like Brighton; here was an exhilaration in the air which was nowhere else. This was the town where the Prince of Wales reigned supreme; he had turned it from a humble fishing village to the most elegant place in England – next to London, perhaps. But it was so different from the capital that it need not regard even that as a rival. Here everyone seemed happy; the ladies were fashionable; and the costumes of the gentlemen made one gasp in admiration. The influence of Beau Brummell and the Prince of Wales was evident everywhere.

It was the Prince’s birthday and therefore a great day in Brighton. He was forty-five years old and that was something the people were determined to celebrate. The streets were hung with banners; the children carried posies; and everywhere there were loyal shouts.

As soon as the carriage appeared they cried: ‘God bless the little Princess!’

‘Wave,’ whispered Lady de Clifford. ‘Incline your head. Smile. Show that you appreciate them.’

Charlotte was waving frantically, beaming on everyone.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Lady de Clifford. ‘Not so violently. Pray remember that you are a princess.’

‘Princes and princesses, kings and queens, they must always please their people,’ said Charlotte in the tones of the Bishop; which made Lady de Clifford sigh even more deeply.

And now here they were at the magnificent Pavilion itself and the band was playing on the lawn. The carriage drew up and Charlotte jumped out. How often had Lady de Clifford warned her that she should wait to be helped and then step daintily down. But Charlotte was far too excited to remember these admonitions.

She had seen her father. He was in the uniform of his own regiment and about his waist was a belt decorated with diamonds. He was clearly very happy, as he always was on occasions like this, and because it was his birthday, and the people
of Brighton had determined to honour him, and in any case had always been loyal to him however unpopular he was in London or any other part of the country, he was prepared to shower his charm on everyone and that included his daughter. He embraced her with emotion – tears in his eyes – but was that for the benefit of the spectators?

Now she was being greeted by her Uncle William, Duke of Clarence. Uncle Fred was not here today, she was sorry to see.

Uncle William’s greeting was not as affectionate as it might have been. She had overheard it once said that some of her uncles did not like the idea of a girl’s inheriting the crown. Well, thought Charlotte, they would have to put up with it, for they could have twenty sons and not one of them could oust her from her position. Not that Uncle William showed any signs of having any legitimate sons. He had several children by the lovely actress Dorothy Jordan – young George Fitzclarence, whom she bullied when she met him, was one of them – but they could never inherit the throne, so there was no reason why Uncle William should dislike her for being the legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales. She thought Uncle William rather stupid anyway and much preferred what she had seen of Dorothy Jordan, who was lovely and had the same warm motherly quality which she had discovered in Mrs Fitzherbert. She wondered whether Dorothy Jordan was here today; if so she would not be far off because although she was merely the mistress of the Duke of Clarence she was accepted everywhere. The Prince of Wales was fond of her and, unlike his parents, he did not consider the absence of marriage lines a reason for banning a beautiful and interesting woman from society.

Now here was Uncle Augustus, Duke of Sussex, who was, next to Uncle Fred, her favourite uncle. He was tall like the Prince of Wales and his complexion was decidedly florid. He seemed pleased to see Charlotte and he had made it clear on more than one occasion that he was her friend and would help to bring about a better understanding between her and her father, but he could behave rather oddly; he was not so simple and straightforward as Uncle Fred in whom she felt she could put greater trust. She was saddened too about his break with dear Goosey, because he had gone through so much for her sake – marrying her against his father’s wishes and having a court case and when it went against them, with the support of his
brothers, setting up residence with her all the same.

The nicest thing about the uncles was that they always supported each other and if any of them were in any difficulties the first person they thought of going to was the Prince of Wales.

And after greeting Uncle Augustus it was the turn of Uncle Adolphus, Duke of Cambridge. She never felt she knew Uncle Adolphus who, in his Hanoverian military uniform, was like a foreigner.

Delightedly she thought how much more elegant, dazzling and brilliant was her own father.

The Prince was smiling as he watched. At least, she thought, he’s pleased with me today. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are going on to the lawn. The crowds will expect to see us together.’

Walking beside her father, Charlotte was happy. Brighton was the most beautiful place on earth on a hot August day with the sea sparkling and glittering before her and the wonderful Pavilion behind her and the dear people cheering them all – especially her, she thought; and she peeped slyly at her father, wondering how he felt about this. Oh, yes, there were more shouts of ‘Long live the little Princess’ than there were of ‘God save the Prince of Wales’.

This was her day, in spite of the fact it was the Prince’s birthday. She beamed and waved at the people – forgetting all instructions to be decorous. Why should she be, when the people liked her as she was? The band was playing; the sun was shining and the people cheering. What a happy day!

Then she thought of her mother who was not here. How strange that was. Her father’s birthday and her mother not here! The three of them should have been together. Wasn’t it a family occasion? But of course the Princess of Wales never went anywhere that the Prince might be.

On such a day one should not dwell on these controversies so she gave herself up to pleasure.

The picnic was delightful. The footmen served champagne to all the guests, who took it in their carriages which were all lined up in order of precedence. Mrs Fitzherbert should have been in the carriage next to the one Charlotte occupied with the Prince and her uncles. But she was not; instead there was the very cold – though she admitted elegant – Lady Hertford, looking remarkably pleased with herself.

The champagne made Charlotte feel lightheaded. What a
glorious day! She trusted she was not displeasing her father by her rather loud laughter. Fortunately Lady de Clifford was not close enough to hear.

She did see Mrs Fitzherbert on that day; she was in her carriage with Minney, not far from Mrs Jordan’s carriage in which the lovely actress sat with several of the Fitzclarence children.

Mrs Fitzherbert inclined her head graciously but the Princess leaped into the carriage and kissed her.

‘My dearest Mrs Fitzherbert, I feared you were not here.’

‘Oh, yes, I still attend functions like this.’