The Spider's Touch (8 page)

Isabella was about to deny any such motive. But, mindful of her aunt’s instructions, Hester hastily exclaimed, “How very kind of you to ask, my lady! Perhaps, you have heard that Lady Hawkhurst’s brother, Mr. Dudley Mayfield, has come into town. I know that he would be very glad for a place in his Majesty’s household
...
if one could be found?”

Instantly Madame Schulenberg’s manner underwent a subtle change. Her smile took on a keener shape. “A place vit his Majesty? Vat talents does dis gentleman possess? If he is de broder of Madame Hawkhurst, I do not doubt he hass wery many.”

Hester was completely unprepared to answer this question, not being aware that any talent was required for a royal sinecure, and not having the slightest notion of any that Dudley had.

It fell to Isabella to supply them, which she did ingenuously. “My brother is very fond of playing at cards, and he shoots and is good with a horse.”

A delicate frown marred the Maypole’s brow. “I do not tink his Majesty iss in need off any more gentlemen in his schtable, and ve vould haf to ask Herr Von Kielmansegge, who might decide to be disagreeable. But—” the cloud vanished— “perhaps von of de young princesses vill haf him. I shall be happy to inquire.”

Hester was amazed at how simply the chore she had dreaded had been accomplished. She was grateful to Madame Schulenberg for offering her assistance, which had spared Hester from raising the awkward topic herself. She even felt ashamed for suspecting the lady of mercenary motives.

 Until they began to take their leave, when their hostess mentioned that she had been longing for another lady to keep her company when the King was away. Her niece would be able to fill the post, if only she had the funds to employ her. Two thousand guineas would be required, but she did not dare ask his Majesty for the money. He had been more than generous to her already, and in view of the recent disturbances, she would not care to worry him for something the English people might not believe she deserved.

In the end, Hester was forced to tell her that she would mention the matter of her niece to Lord Hawkhurst, who, she felt almost certain, would be honoured to assist in any wish from such a devoted friend of the King.

Chapter Four

Wits, just like Fools, at war about a name,

Have full as oft no meaning, or the same.

Self-love and Reason to one end aspire,

Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire;

But greedy That, its object would devour,

This taste the honey, and not wound the flower:

Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,

Our greatest evil, or our greatest good.

II. ii.

At the end of May, one month after the riots on the Duke of Ormonde’s birthday and only a week after the incident with the Foot-Guards, Harrowby, Isabella, Mrs. Mayfield, and Hester rode to St. James’s Palace in the gilded Hawkhurst coach with the family crest upon the doors. Four perfectly matched bays pulled it through the gates of Hawkhurst House into the unpaved road known as Piccadilly. Harrowby would have preferred to have six horses under harness, but the coachman had insisted that in the expected crowd, six would be too many for safety. He and the footmen hanging onto the back, however, contributed to the overall splendour of Harrowby’s equipage, since they were decked in new livery in the Hawkhurst colours of brown and gold.

The reason for the occasion was the first birthday King George had celebrated in his new kingdom of Great Britain. His Majesty’s drawing-room was also to be Hester’s first real appearance at Court. Mrs. Mayfield would have it that her daughter, the countess, had conferred too great a privilege on her cousin—one which Hester simply did not deserve. More frightened than ever by the prospect of speaking to the King, however, Isabella had insisted that Hester come, and Harrowby, who did not speak French or German either, was perfectly happy to have a personal interpreter along.

An immediate boon for Hester had been the new dress sewn for her. This afternoon, as she had climbed in the coach and taken her place next to Mrs. Mayfield, nervous as she was about her presentation to the King, she had wished that my Lord St. Mars could be there to see her new gown. She did not expect it to make a dazzling impression on him—how could it, when Isabella would always outshine her? But in her pink, embroidered silk with a neckline scooped low enough to show that, after all, she did have a rather graceful neck, Hester knew that she had never looked so handsome in her life.

The trip was not far from Hawkhurst House to the Palace, but as soon as the carriage pulled out into the street, their coachman had to fight the lines of coaches and horsemen all trying to make the turn into St. James’s Street. Then, as soon as they reached the pavement, and the stone walls of houses bounded them on both sides, the noise from hundreds of clattering hooves, the shouts of angry drivers and chairmen forcing their way through, and the cheers and hoots of spectators lining the street was so loud as to overwhelm them.

Banners and streamers floated from the roofs and windows, while cavalry officers in colourful coats trotted by. Sedans and horses crowded just outside their windows. Every coach was freshly painted, most with gilt, and glimpses of their occupants revealed a rainbow of new silks and satins, shoulder-length periwigs—some powdered and some not—and well-rouged faces with patches artfully placed. Ladies and gentlemen both fluttered their fragile chicken-skin fans for the day was warm, while others languidly waved their handkerchiefs from fingers ringed in gold. Bishops, ambassadors, and judges nodded gravely from their seats. Feathered hats, lace ruffles, and clouded canes stood in relief against a velvet tableau.

As the Hawkhurst carriage inched forward, Isabella and her mother exclaimed at the jewels they saw. Isabella was wearing a close-fitting necklace of diamonds set in gold with matching pendant earrings, which had belonged to St. Mars’s mother. The buckles on Harrowby’s shoes were encrusted with diamonds, rubies sparkled from his heels, and the sword hanging from his hip had a hilt that was jeweled and gilt.

 Among the people who had gathered to watch the nobility arrive, Hester spied members of the Life-Guards and Horse-Grenadiers. They had been stationed among the crowds in both Westminster and London to discourage rioting. Harrowby had learned that morning that constables and beadles were also to be posted at corners to preserve the peace.

Thus far, all seemed well. The watchers, crammed along both sides of the street between the buildings and carriages, cheered mightily for King George, but Hester had no doubt that some demonstrations against him would occur in the counties at least. With so many guards on duty here, however, it would be foolhardy for the Jacobites to start a riot.

Eventually, amidst the clamour and the pageantry, their carriage pulled up at the Palace gate. Hester awaited her turn to descend before she was handed out by Will, her favourite footman. A fair, hulking lad, he had the impudence to grimace behind Mrs. Mayfield’s back after catching sight of her startlingly dark hair. She had rinsed it with the famous Italian water, which was guaranteed to keep one’s hair either brown or black, and while her hair was certainly
one
of those colours, it failed to resemble anything Nature had designed. As Hester gave Will a look of gentle reproof, he cocked a complimentary eyebrow in at her new court gown, and she found it impossible to stay out of charity with him.

 In the very next moment, she had been bustled through the gate, and she forgot about Will in the excitement of her surroundings. She was gently pushed along with the hundreds of courtiers making their way towards the stairs. The air was full of their perfume. Wafts of minced tobacco occasionally escaped from the gentlemen’s snuffboxes, producing sneezes from them as well as from those behind them. Nervous laughter echoed down the well of the Great Staircase as they entered it, and Mrs. Mayfield called to her daughter to guard her skirt from the gentlemen’s swords.

Hester had not expected to be intoxicated by the sight of candles flickering from the sconces or the sound of silk skirts rustling, but she could not deny her excitement even to herself. Today a greater company than usual had come to Court, attracted not only by the promise of a ball and illuminations this evening, but by the certainty that a failure to appear at Court on the King’s birthday would be taken as a serious insult. This was true for any monarch in any year, but particularly now and for this king, for the number of riots protesting George’s reign had increased all month, and he was sure to take note of those who had chosen to absent themselves.

As Hester raised a foot to the first stairstep, she heard the Palace clock strike one. The immediate boom of guns nearby made everyone jump. An eruption of titters and gasps ensued, before the courtiers recalled the scheduled salute to the King in Hyde Park, and they had hardly settled down by the time the three volleys were complete.

A feeling of nervous anxiety seemed to have affected them all, but soon they resumed the murmurs and giggles that were more expected of the Court.

The King’s drawing-room had been scheduled for one o’clock, but the crowds and the traffic had made it impossible for Hester’s party to arrive on time. They could only inch up the Great Staircase, which was truly not so great, Hester thought, as to have merited the name. The marble staircase at Hawkhurst House, with its pillared and arched entryway by Indigo Jones, was far more impressive, and Hester began to understand why so many complained that the English kings were not well housed. Parliament was unlikely to vote money to build a palace that would rival the Sun King’s any time soon, however.

At the top of the cramped staircase she found herself in a chamber paneled from ceiling to floor, with hundreds of weapons hung in circles and other patterns on the walls. A few large windows provided the only light by which the yeomen of the guard had to examine every visitor to ensure that he had dressed with sufficient grandeur to enter the royal presence.

Hester had no real fear of being refused—not in her splendid new gown, and accompanied by the Earl and Countess of Hawkhurst, even more magnificently garbed—but still she could not help feeling a moment of unease. She doubted the King would consider a waiting woman worthy of his notice, even if she was cousin to a countess. She could only hope that no mean-spirited person would inform his Majesty of the post she held in her cousin’s household.

They waited impatiently while a number of people were turned away. It was expected that everyone purchase new clothes for the King’s birthday, and some, either through ignorance or insolence, had appeared in older clothes. A group of gentlemen was admitted, despite the fact that all three were dressed in mourning. It would be impossible for the guard to know if they truly mourned or if they had dressed in black to protest the Hanoverian succession. Today was supposed to signal the end of all mourning for Queen Anne, but this week the gossips had reported that the Jacobites planned to dress in black.

A yeoman finally waved them through, so they passed through the cramped presence chamber, then the privy chamber—neither larger nor more ornate than the previous room—before turning to enter the drawing-room itself. And there, on a throne beneath a grand canopy, guarded by Beefeaters, with the Princess of Wales at his side, and a host of servants standing behind their chairs, sat his Majesty King George.

A hush had already fallen on the courtiers crowded along the edges of the room. Their party had been too late to observe the King’s entrance, but it must have been only moments before, because the poet laureate appeared ready to deliver his birthday ode. They found some room along one wall and took their places just as the reading began, accompanied by music from the orchestra.

From where they stood, they could see the throne, and the look of ennui on his Majesty’s face made Hester guess that he found the ode at least as tedious as she did. It was no more fulsome than a prologue read before a play to thank the author’s patron for his support, but its blatant flattery, purchased at the price of truth, naturally robbed it of any wit. Whether the King understood his laureate’s words or not, however, his counselors had insisted on all the forms being observed.

As soon as recitation was over, Isabella grabbed Hester by the arm. “Come on. Let’s get our curtsies over. Once we’ve paid our respects to his Majesty, we can find our friends.”

“And mind you do it properly,” Mrs. Mayfield said, giving Hester a vicious poke between the shoulder blades, as she bustled behind her through the crowd.

A low murmur had been resumed in the room. Until her moment before the King was behind her, Hester hesitated to look around, but she was tempted to do so by the curious sights. His Majesty’s “young Turk” as everyone called him, a dwarf by the name of Ulrich, was seated on a perch very near the King’s chair, dressed in clothes so fine as to rival any lord’s. One of Ulrich’s many servants, provided by the King, hovered behind his perch.

Isabella’s wish for haste could not do away with the necessity of waiting their turn. His Majesty’s chair was surrounded not only by aristocrats who had come to pay their respects, but by members of his German household. His Turks, Mehemet and Mustapha—who some said were slaves, and others insisted were not—stood behind him dressed in their turbans and exotic robes. They both had been made Grooms of the Chamber, an honour with a handsome salary, which many of George’s English subjects would have been glad to have for themselves. Just as some of England’s ladies would have wished to be his mistresses, if he had not brought his old ones along.

Hester saw Madame Schulenburg standing with her cluster of ladies. She thought the lady, standing near the throne and fanning herself from the heat, with chins like stair steps down her throat, must be the King’s other mistress Madame Kielmansegge, the
Elephant,
as scurrilous pamphlets had named her. Hester tried to find a family resemblance between this lady and the King, and to her consternation found one. But, she told herself, there was still no reason to believe the rumour of incest. Not yet, at least. Perhaps it would have been more credible if the lady had been beautiful, but, then, Hester did not find the King very alluring, himself.