Frederick’s jaw set in a sullen manner. ‘The child will be born at St James’s,’ he said.
For the first time the Princess seemed as though she would go against her husband’s wishes. ‘Frederick, please let me stay here. I can’t move....’
But Frederick thrust aside all hindrance, and commanded that the Princess be carried down to the waiting coach as quietly as possible and as quickly.
He was determined that she should give birth to her child in St James’s Palace.
The Princess shrieked as the coach rattled along at great speed.
‘We must reach St James’s,’ cried the Prince.
‘Oh, Frederick, I am dying ...’ moaned the Princess.
‘Have courage! It’ll all be over soon.’
It seemed to Augusta that they would never reach the Palace. She would die before they did. She should be in her bed at Hampton with her ladies about to minister to her. This was wrong ... to be rattling along in this coach over the cobbles and each jolt an agony.
‘We are here ...!’ cried the Prince. ‘Praise God we are here! Now carry the Princess upstairs. Put her to bed at once.’ His voice had a triumphant ring. ‘Her child will be born at St James’s.’
There were no sheets to be had, but Lady Archibald Hamilton found a pair of tablecloths and with this made some sort of bed. There were no towels, no hot water ... nothing that was required for a comfortable accouchement.
But the child was born—a seven months’ baby—a fragile little girl.
It had, so the Queen thought, been an ordinary evening at Hampton. She and Amelia had been playing quadrille and Lord Hervey and the Princess Caroline had been playing cribbage, a habit of theirs now, and one to which the Queen knew Caroline looked forward with more pleasure than Lord Hervey did. The King was paying marked attention to Lady Deloraine and was playing commerce with her and the maids of honour. It was the sort of evening exactly like so many others.
She and the King retired at the usual time and were fast asleep when they were awakened by a knocking at the door.
The King rose up, startled. The Queen left the bed knowing that something startling must have happened for them to be aroused in this way.
‘Is the Palace on fire?’ cried the Queen.
‘No, Your Majesty, but there is a messenger from the Prince.’
It was Lady Sundon, startled out of her sleep, scarcely believing what she heard could be possible.
‘I have just been told that the Prince of Wales has sent to let Your Majesties know that the Princess is in labour.’
‘I will come to her at once,’ said the Queen. ‘Fetch me my robe.’
‘Your Majesty will need your coach,’ said Lady Sundon. ‘The Prince and Princess are at St James’s.’
‘Are you mad? You’re dreaming.’
‘No, Madam. The Princess’s pains started, so I hear, and the Prince insisted that they leave by coach at once for St James’s.’
The King had appeared, the red of his face seeming to be reflected in his eyes.’
‘What’s all this? What’s all this?’
Lady Sundon repeated what she had told the Queen.
‘The puppy!’ cried the King. ‘The insolent puppy!’ Then he turned on the Queen. ‘This is your fault. You’re supposed to be so clever. Now they’ve outwitted you We shall have a false child put on us, depend upon it. Fine care you have shown for your son William, haven’t you? He will be mightily obliged to you. And you deserve anything he can say to you.’
The Queen did not answer him. She turned to Lady Sundon, ‘Help me dress. I must be at St James’s if possible when the child is born.’
The King did not accompany her but stumped angrily back to bed while the Queen made the night journey to St James’s.
There the Prince met her and coldly kissed her hand. ‘The child is born,’ he said. ‘A girl.’
A girl. That made the Queen feel better.
She went to the Princess’s bedroom where Augusta lay exhausted. Caroline kissed her and said she was afraid she had suffered a great deal.
‘It was nothing,’ said Augusta, smiling.
‘Where is the child?’
Lady Archibald Hamilton brought it wrapped up in an old red coat and a few napkins. She apologized to the Queen, explaining this was all she could find.
The Queen took the baby and kissed her.
‘Poor child,’ she said, ‘you have come into a troublesome world. It is a miracle that no harm has come to the Princess. What a pair of fools! And I’m surprised at you, my Lady Archibald. You have had ten children, you should have explained what danger the Princess was in.’
Lady Archibald Hamilton turned to the Prince and said: ‘You see, sir!’ in such a tone that the Queen was satisfied that she at least had attempted to stop the venture.
The Queen went back to Hampton where her daughters Amelia and Caroline were already up waiting to hear the news.
‘I have seen the fools,’ she said. ‘He is a scoundrel and she, poor thing, has no mind. If she were to spit into my face I should just wipe it off and not hold it against her.’
‘And the child, Mamma?’
‘A poor ugly little she-mouse. If instead of her there had been a brave large fat jolly boy, I should have been suspicious. As it is, I must accept the fact that this son of mine is an arrogant fool, but at least he is not an impotent one.’
Shortly after the birth of the Prince’s daughter, Lady Walpole died. She and Sir Robert had meant little to each other for years and Sir Robert’s immediate thought was that now he would be able to marry Maria.
At the same time he was expected to show some sorrow and the Queen summoned him that she might express her sympathy. This he accepted perfunctorily, but the Queen’s desire to know exactly how Lady Walpole had died aroused his interest.
What had been her symptoms? Was she not young to die?
‘Death,’ said Sir Robert, ‘can strike any of us at any time.’
‘That I know well,’ she said, ‘but she was a woman who fancied her comforts.’
‘She lived ... well,’ commented Walpole.
‘She had had her children. I wondered whether her death was due to ...’ The Queen paused and her manner became almost furtive. ‘Some women,’ she went on, ‘often suffer injuries in childbirth from which they never recover. I have heard of internal ruptures which can be dangerous. I wondered whether this had happened to Lady Walpole.’
‘I know of no such thing.’
‘You do not think that perhaps she kept it a secret?’
‘Why should she?’
‘Oh ... it might be something of which a woman did not care to speak.’
Walpole said: ‘It was nothing of that.’
And he knew then that he had discovered the Queen’s secret. This was the knowledge she shared with Lady Sundon; and she would tell no one, receive no treatment, because she thought it was too humiliating. Or was she afraid that through it she would lose the King’s affection?
It was folly. If the Queen did suffer in this way she should consult the physicians; he believed there was an operation that could be performed.
He went home to discuss this depressing matter with Maria and the exhilarating project of their coming marriage which, for the time, because it would follow so quickly on the death of his wife, they must keep their secret.
Two secrets, he thought. One so morbid, one so joyous; and neither need be secret. Nor would they be long? Soon everyone would know that he and Maria were married. And the Queen? If she did not look after her health the news of her disability would soon become common knowledge.
The Secret Betrayed