‘Well, I do not wish to disappoint … er, Florizel.’
Malden kissed her hand. ‘Madam, this will make the Prince of Wales a very happy man. I must go to him at once and acquaint him with his good fortune.’
Mrs Armistead, listening, heard that her mistress was going to the Oratorio. A step forward indeed, she thought. The Prince will not rest until she is his mistress. He himself will come here.
There would be opportunities; and when Mrs Robinson was at the height of her ambitions – loved by the Prince of Wales – there would be a chance for a woman who was both handsome and clever to climb a little too. Perhaps not to such dizzy heights as her mistress, but … perhaps so. For all her dazzling beauty Mrs Robinson was scarcely wise; whereas her lady’s maid made up in wisdom for what she might lack in looks – only compared with Mrs Robinson, of course, because Mrs Armistead, by ordinary standards, was a very handsome woman indeed.
Her mistress was calling for her. She must show Lord Malden to the door. He scarcely glanced at Mrs Armistead so bemused was he by the more flamboyant charms of Mrs Robinson. But it would not be so with all of them.
As soon as he had gone Mrs Robinson was calling for her.
‘Armistead. Armistead. I have agreed to go to the Oratorio at Covent Garden. The King, Queen and Prince of Wales are to be present.’
‘Madam will wish to look her best.’
‘I thought of lavender satin.’
‘Madam will need a new gown for the occasion. Something which she has not worn before.’
‘Exactly, Armistead.’
‘I think Madam … white.’
‘White, Armistead!’
‘White satin and silver tissue, Madam.’
‘But so pale. I shall pass unnoticed.’
‘Madam could never be unnoticed. I was thinking that the simplicity of your gown would be great contrast to the brilliance of your beauty.’
Armistead stood there, eyes lowered – very neat and quite elegant herself in her black gown over which she wore a white apron.
‘The touch of colour could come from the feathers in your headdress.’
Mrs Robinson nodded. ‘What colours, Armistead?’
‘Well, Madam, that is a matter to which we should give a little thought. This will be a very important occasion and we must make sure that all is just as it should be.’
Mrs Robinson nodded. Oh, excellent Armistead.
For us both, thought Mrs Armistead, who was visualizing not so much the scene at Covent Garden but what would follow … the great men who would come to this house, among whom would surely be some who would realize the quite considerable charm of Mrs Armistead.
Covent Garden! A blaze of Glory. Crowds had gathered in the streets to see the royal cavalcade. The Prince of Wales looked magnificent with the glittering diamond star on his blue satin coat. How different from his poor old father and plain pregnant mother!
‘God bless the Prince!’ the cheers rang out.
The King was pleased. It was good for any member of the royal family to be popular. Good for the monarchy. As for the Queen, she was proud when she heard them calling for her son. ‘He is so handsome,’ she murmured.
It was a glittering company. Red plush and gold braid and the finest musicians in the country; and the most notable people in the land were present.
There was an atmosphere of anticipation engendered by the implication that now the Prince was growing up there would be more of this kind of thing, and there was no doubt that it was what the public liked to see.
‘It was a good idea, eh, what?’ murmured the King to the Queen. ‘The family … in public … together … in harmony.’
The Queen thought it was a very good idea.
In her box sat Mrs Robinson, attracting a great deal of attention, for she had rarely looked so beautiful. Between them she and Armistead had decided what she would wear. The white satin and silver tissue had been a brilliant idea, particularly as her feathers were of the most delicate shade of pink and green.
How much more elegant she looked than some of the women in their bright colours. She felt the utmost confidence as she reclined in her box which was immediately above that occupied by the King and Queen.
And then … the excitement. The royal family were in the theatre. She could not see the King and Queen but when the house stood to attention she knew they were there. And almost immediately he appeared in the box opposite her. The handsome glittering Prince of Wales, and for companion his brother Frederick.
Perdita’s heart began to beat very fast for no sooner had the Prince of Wales acknowledged the cheers of the people than he sat down and leaning on the edge of the box gazed with passionate adoration at Mrs Robinson.
It was true, she thought. But of course she had never doubted it, She had pretended to give herself time to decide how best she could handle this enthralling but very delicate situation. Now she could no longer plead suspicion that the letters were written by someone other than the Prince. He was giving her no doubt of his feelings.
The music had started but the Prince’s gaze remained fixed on the box opposite and many members of the audience quickly became aware of this. Whispers! Titters! Who is this at whom the Prince of Wales is casting sheep’s eyes? Mrs Robinson, of course, the actress from Drury Lane. The woman who had had such an effect upon him when he went to see The Winter’s Tale.
The audience were far more interested in this byplay between the two boxes than they were in the music. They were a very striking pair for the Prince of Wales in his most elegant clothes with the glitter of royalty was the most handsome young man in Covent Garden and Mrs Robinson was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman. And the point which was so amusing was that all this was going on right under the noses – literally speaking, one might say – of the King and Queen, whom everyone knew kept the Prince so guarded that he found the utmost difficulty in following his inclinations.
The King noticed nothing; he was absorbed by the music. Handel’s setting was perfect, he thought. Not a musician in the world to touch him … now or at any time.
The Queen, however, was less interested in the music although she thought it was fine. She had an opportunity of gazing in uninterrupted admiration at her adored first-born. How handsome he looked! How proud she was! Frederick was a good-looking boy too, but he could not really be compared with George. She thought of his odd little sayings when he was very young. Old-fashioned he had been, never at a loss for a word. And how proud she had been of his ability to master his lessons! He was really brilliant. He had been a little wayward. What child was not? She had been upset when he had been beaten and the King had told her she must not be foolish, for to spare the rod was to spoil the child. The King would now say that even applications of the rod had not achieved that purpose and none was more aware than herself of the growing animosity between father and son.
She tried to catch his eye to send him an affectionate motherly smile but he would not look her way. His eyes were fixed above their box. She wondered why.
He was smiling now; he was making strange gestures. What did it mean? Now he was holding the programme up to his face; he was drawing his hand across his forehead as though in utter despair. Extraordinary! And all this was directed somewhere over their heads.
He had lowered the playbill and cast off his mournful expression; now he was smiling in a manner which might be described as pleading. He was leaning forward and with his right hand was actually pretending to write on the edge of the box in which he sat. What was he doing?