Queen in Waiting: (Georgian Series) (30 page)

Margaret Meadows, the oldest of the girls, was sitting up primly in her pew and giving side glances at the girls who, taking their cue from the King, showed no attention to the preacher – on this occasion the renowned Bishop Burnet. Mary Bellenden and Molly Lepel were whispering together. Fair and pretty Bridget Carteret, who was a niece of Lord Carteret, was doing her best to suppress giggles – which was more than Sophia Howe could manage. Every now and then the girl’s choking laughter could be heard. Sophie was very frivolous. I should dismiss her, thought Caroline. But she was the granddaughter of Prince Rupert – although on the wrong side of the blanket – who was a brother of the Electress Sophia, and such a close connection could not be ignored; but the girl would have to be spoken to.

Bishop Burnet had turned his scornful gaze from the snoring King to the giggling maids of honour, and made it very clear that he was displeased with the House of Hanover. Queen Anne had been most devout in her attitude to the church; Queen Mary had been the same; it was true King James had been a Catholic and been dismissed for it; and King Charles had made comments during sermons, but at least they were witty. Bishop Burnet had implied that these were newcomers to England and if they wished to retain their popularity they must show due respect to the Church.

He was right, of course, thought Caroline; but in fact her thoughts were more occupied with George Augustus’s interest in Mary Bellenden than Bishop Burnet’s criticism of her maids.

How far would Mary Bellenden seek to impose her will, she wondered. She was very very pretty and could no doubt have a great influence on George Augustus if she wished. She reminded herself that she had been lucky so far.

The King gave a louder snore than usual, which woke him up; he looked about him, startled for a moment and then saw that the service was almost over, so yawning inelegantly he prepared to leave. The maids of honour – Sophia Howe still giggling – trooped out of their pews, and the royal party left the church for the palace.

Bishop Burnet bowed to Caroline.

‘I am grieved, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘to make this complaint to you, but it is no use taking it to His Majesty whose snoring through my sermons – and those of others – shows clearly that he has little respect for the conduct of his servants in church.’

‘For me too there is the grief,’ replied Caroline. ‘I too have these naughty girls seen.’

‘Your Highness will agree, I am sure, that such behaviour cannot continue.’

‘I agree,’ replied Caroline.

‘The Church is becoming nothing but a meeting place for the purpose of flirtation. It is full now of young men who come simply to gaze at the maids of honour and attempt to make their acquaintance. Your Highness will agree that that is not the purpose of the service.’

‘You are right, My Lord.’

‘It cannot go on.’

‘Do you vish that they stay away?’

‘Stay away and imperil their souls, Your Highness? Those girls are half-way to perdition already. No, their pew should be boarded in and the board should be high enough to prevent their being seen by the young men.’

‘You mean… put them in a
petit
. . . box?’

‘Your Highness might call it that. They must listen to the service but not be seen.’

‘Oh, it is…
traurig.
They are so pretty.’

‘Your Highness, we must not concern ourselves with their physical perfections but the welfare of their souls.’

‘Ah, yes, yes. There shall be this… box, if you say so.’

Dr Burnet left the Princess satisfied with his interview. She was a good woman, a sensible woman; and he would not be displeased when the time came for her to mount the throne as Queen.

The Prince had waylaid Mary Bellenden.

‘You are von pretty
mädchen,
’ he told her.

She made a pert curtsy.

‘I you like very much.’

She took a few paces backwards and, head on one side,
regarded him slightly insolently; but she was so pretty that even thus she was delightful.

‘And you like me? That is veil, eh?’

‘It is the duty of a good subject to honour the Prince of Wales,’ replied Mary demurely.

‘So, you vill this duty do?’

‘It depends how far this duty extends.’

‘Vat is dis?’

‘Your Highness, I am a virtuous young lady.’

‘Ah… yes… you are very pretty.’

‘So I am told, Your Highness. But I am constantly having to tell others how virtuous I am. They won’t believe me. But I have to convince them. And it will be the same with your Highness, I fear.’

‘Vat is dis?’

But she had already made a sweeping curtsy and moved to the door; she smiled at him provocatively for one second before she disappeared.

‘Got damn it,’ said the Prince.

There were wails of protests from the gay gallants of the court when they saw the boarded-up pew but this was something they could not blame on the Hanoverians. This was their own Bishop Burnet who had decided to hide the pretty creatures from sight. The whole object of going to church was spoilt; for it was small consolation to hear the giggles of Sophia Howe, always louder than the rest, behind the high wooden wall.

They didn’t go to church to be bored by Bishop Burnet or any preacher; and the amusement the King had at first caused with his snores and loud conversation during sermon time had worn thin.

Soon the lampooners were busy.

‘Bishop Burnet perceived that the beautiful dames

Who flocked to the chapel of hilly St James

On their lovers alone their kind looks did bestow,

And smiled not on him while he bellowed below.’

There followed more verses to explain what had happened and these ended with:

‘The Princess, by rude importunity pressed,

Though she laughed at his reasons, allowed his request;

And now Britain’s nymphs in a Protestant reign

Are boxed up at prayers like virgins of Spain.’

The King read copies of the lampoon and saw for the first time that these English could mock their own kind, if they thought they deserved it, as readily as any stranger. He saw too that they were no respecters of persons.

He felt a little warmer towards them and was more than usually disturbed when reports of new Jacobite riots were brought to him.

His unpopularity increased with the passing of the months. His two German mistresses were loathed by the people and jeered at whenever their coaches were seen in the streets. Schulemburg, who remained his first favourite, had proved herself to be of a very avaricious disposition and was continually seeking to enlarge her fortunes. George knew this and made no effort to stop her. The English, he said, were the most grasping people he had ever met. He was constantly being pestered by those about him for posts for this and that relation or friend. Therefore he was sardonically amused that Ermengarda should get what she wanted from them.

She came to him one day in a state of some agitation. She had been riding through the streets of London when the crowd had stopped her carriage and shouted insults at her.

‘They call me Maypole,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing new in that,’ replied George. ‘It’s the name they gave you when they first saw you.’

For once Ermengarda could not be placated; her face under her red wig was sweating with indignation.

‘I look from the window and I spoke to them in English,’ she explained. ‘I said this: “Good pipple, why you abuse us? We come for all your goots.” And what do you think they shouted at me? “Yes, damn you,” they cried, “And for all our chattels too.”’

When George understood the meaning of this he laughed
sardonically. They were a garrulous lot, his new subjects. They seemed in love with words; no wonder the lampooners were so effective.

He told Ermengarda that she must not take the matter to heart.

‘For,’ he said gloomily, ‘we are here, and here we must try to stay.’

‘And you think they will not send us back to Hanover?’ she asked, little lights of fear shooting up in her eyes. If they returned to Hanover, what would happen to her plans for amassing future wealth? England was a great milch cow and her dear George Lewis, whom she had truly loved for so long that she was as a wife to him, would help her to the milking.

‘I think some may try,’ said George, ‘but they won’t succeed.’

‘No, we must stop them. It could never be that they should turn you out. Silly people. Do they not know you come for their good.’

‘And their chattels?’ added George with a rare touch of humour.

The King was thoughtful while being dressed by the only two servants whom he allowed into his bedchamber. This in itself was a complete disregard of royal etiquette, for the ceremony of dressing the King had been one of the most important in the household, and those courtiers who took part in it consequently of high standing. And that these two servants should be Turks was yet another insult to English custom.

Mustapha and Mahomet might be a pair of rogues, but they were no more avaricious than the fine ladies and gentlemen who surrounded him. He doubted they had ever learned the art of peculation as thoroughly as the great Duke of Marlborough, a man whom George would never trust. Oh, he was friendly enough now and he had his uses, but there was a man who could turn his coat with more rapidity than most. George had heard that even while he accepted office with him he was in secret communication with James Stuart, just in case the Jacobites should succeed in bringing him back.

Life was very different here from in Hanover. There it had
been far less complicated. There, although he had been Elector of a small community, he had received more respect than he did as King of this great country. The Germans were by nature more disciplined than the English. He wished he were back.

These people had no respect for anyone. Only recently, on the occasion of his birthday he had, because he had been told it was the custom, provided his Guards with new clothing. He was not a man who cared to waste money and naturally he had given the commission to the company which had given the cheapest estimate. It seemed that the shirts were much coarser than those previously supplied and as a result the Guards had marched through the City throwing off their jackets to show the quality of what the lampooners were soon calling ‘Hanoverian shirts’.

That brought Marlborough to the King. One could not, said the Duke, afford to upset the soldiery. It was possible that a small affair like the cheap shirts could be the very spark to set off a munity.

Marlborough, George reflected cynically, must be of the opinion that the House of Hanover was in a stronger position than that of Stuart, for he immediately ordered a double supply of shirts and jackets of the very best quality and added to it an extra donation of beer.

Such incidents made the King aware of the insecurity of his position.

Then again he enjoyed walking but he had no desire to be followed by a crowd who watched him and laughed and talked about him in a language he could not understand.

St James’s Park was beautiful but, in his opinion, spoilt by the people who crowded there and used it as their own. It belonged to the King. Why, he wanted to know, should not the King reserve it for his own special use?

He had talked of this to his Secretary of State, Lord Townsend, who had taken over that office on the dismissal of Bolingbroke; the latter, being a Jacobite, naturally could not retain his position when George came to England.

‘I want to know,’ George had said, ‘how much it would cost to shut up St James’s Park and keep it for my private use.’

Townsend had hesitated only for a second and then replied:
‘It would cost you three crowns, Sire.’

A witty remark such as these English loved – but very much to the point, this one. And it brought home to him yet once more how very precariously he sat on the throne of England.

Mahomet was placing his wig on his head, and George looked at the reflection of the dark face close to that with the heavy, sullen jaw which was his own.

Bolingbroke! he thought. There was a man who could make trouble. And it was not long ago that he had fled to France.

He was an ambitious man, that Bolingbroke; in the last reign he had aspired to lead the government. He had quarrelled with Harley and, helped by that woman of devious character, Lady Masham, might have succeeded very well indeed if Anne had not died, or if he had been able to bring James Stuart to England. He was too confirmed a Jacobite to change coats with sufficient alacrity and naturally he was dismissed – but dismissal was not all he had to fear. Walpole had wanted to impeach him and impeached he would have been had he not taken action. He had known this so he had artfully assumed an indifference he was far from feeling.

‘I shall devote myself to literature,’ he had declared; and had gone to the opera, where he had greeted all his friends and generally called attention to himself by making appointments to see them in the following weeks. But when he left the opera he had gone to his house, put on a large black wig, dressed himself as a valet and made for Dover; and once there he crossed to France.

It was obvious to whom he was now offering his services.

The throne was very shaky.

Well, thought George, if I lose it, I shall go back to Hanover. Herrenhausen would be very beautiful now; it would be good to smell the sausages and sauerkraut cooking in the old kitchens of the Leine Schloss.

And yet…

Was he beginning to have a little affection for this adopted country? Scarcely affection. But he must think of the generation to come – the future Kings arid Queens of England.

Shortly afterwards on a bright September day, Lord Townsend and the Duke of Marlborough called on the King.

Prince James Francis Edward Stuart had landed in Scotland and had been welcomed there as King James III of England, Scotland and Ireland.

Rebellion

ALARM SPREAD THROUGH
the capital. Civil war seemed imminent. There was no longer secret drinking in the cafes. The Jacobites were singing their songs in the open; in every tavern they were drinking their toasts to the King who would soon no longer be the King over the Water but in his rightful place; in the streets fighting constantly broke out between Catholics and Protestants.