The Queen had now lost all interest in the music; like most people all her attention was centred on the Prince of Wales who continued behaving in this odd manner, pretending to write; looking as though he were the most miserable of young men one moment and the most joyous the next.
I believe, thought the Queen, he is making signs to someone.
Every now and then the Prince spoke to his brother and Frederick too was gazing as if spellbound somewhere above the royal box.
Then she understood.
The first part of the Oratorio had come to an end. The King turned to the Queen. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Handel’s setting is perfect. Everything he has written has shown his genius. I find this excellent.’
‘I have been wondering about the Prince …’
‘The Prince, eh, what?’ The King shot a glance across the theatre. ‘He’s there. Glad he likes good music. One point in his favour, eh, what?’
‘Oh, he likes good music,’ said the Queen, ‘but he seems to be very much attracted by something above our box. I have been wondering what it can be.’
The King frowned. Then he summoned one of his equerries who had been at the back of the box.
‘Who is in the box above ours, eh?’ he demanded.
The equerry who had not been unaware of the excitement in the theatre – and its cause – was able to answer immediately: ‘It’s a Mrs Robinson, Your Majesty. An actress from the Drury Lane Theatre.’
The King was silent for a few seconds and the Queen watched him fearfully, heartily wishing that she had not called the King’s attention to what was going on.
The King was thinking: An actress from Drury Lane! It would be one of those young women he had seen perform not very long ago. And here she was at Covent Garden and the young fool was ogling her so that people were noticing.
The King again summoned his equerry. ‘Tell the actress who is occupying the box above this one that her presence is no longer required in this theatre. She is to leave at once.’
The music was resumed and the King’s equerry went to tell Perdita that she must leave at once, for this was the order of the King.
Mrs Armistead was surprised to see her mistress’s chair so early. Could she have left before the performance was over? As soon as she opened the door to receive her she had no doubt that something was wrong … very wrong indeed.
Mrs Robinson said nothing but went straight to her bedroom and there tore off the feathers and flung them on to her bed. She stood looking at her angry reflection, her usually pale face under her rouge was scarlet.
Mrs Armistead was at the door.
‘Madam sent for me?’
Mrs Robinson was too angry to deny it. Moreover, it was a relief to talk to someone.
‘Madam is ill. Allow me to help you to bed. The evening was not a success?’
Mrs Robinson looked at her maid in sudden suspicion. Was the woman too forward? Did she feel that because her mistress was a play actress she could treat her differently from the way in which she could a noble lady? She was ready to suspect everyone of insulting her.
Mrs Armistead arranged her features into a look of deep concern, which was not difficult since she believed her mistress’s success at this stage was her own.
Mrs Robinson softened towards her. Armistead was a good servant, good enough to be a confidante too.
‘I have been insulted tonight,’ she said. ‘I have been sent out of Covent Garden. Dismissed. Told to leave. As though … as though …’ Her lips trembled. ‘I wish to God I had never gone.’
‘But, Madam, surely the Prince …’
‘The Prince could do nothing. In fact I doubt he was aware of it until it was over.’
‘Madam!’
‘You may well look startled, Armistead. I have never felt so humiliated.’
‘But who would dare, Madam?’
‘The King’s orders. Very simple. His equerry came to my box. “His Majesty’s command, Madam. But he has no longer need of your presence here. I have orders to take you to your chair.” And he did.’
‘Then …’
Her face softened. ‘The Prince showed too clearly his devotion to me. I admit it was rather obvious. The King must have noticed. Hence my dismissal. I am deeply sorry that I laid myself open to this insult.’
‘Madam, I doubt not that this will but increase the Prince’s affection for you.’
‘I cannot say. But of one thing I am certain. I shall never put myself in such a position again.’
‘Tomorrow it will seem less humiliating. Allow me to help you to bed and bring a dish of warm chocolate. It will soothe you.’
Mrs Robinson sat at her mirror and Mrs Armistead let down the dark hair and helped her into her bedgown.
‘There, Madam. I will have your chocolate ready in a few moments.’
Preparing the chocolate she was thinking: What airs these play actresses give themselves! Does she think the Prince should marry her and make her Queen of England? Did she think the King would give his consent to that! And what of Mr Robinson? How dispose of him? But I believe our dear lady feels this is not impossible.
She sipped the chocolate. Delicious. Then she took it to her mistress’s room.
Mrs Robinson was sitting up in bed, the angry flush still on her checks.
‘There, Madam. Drink this.’
She handed her the cup and picked up the dress and feathers which had been flung aside.
‘Take those away,’ said Mrs Robinson. ‘I never want to see them again.’
In her own room Mrs Armistead held the white and silver dress against her and studied her reflection. A little alteration would be necessary. She tried the feathers against her own dark hair. Very becoming. Perhaps at some future date …
Lord Malden arrived next day. He brought a letter and a package from the Prince.
‘His Highness was most distressed by what happened at Covent Garden,’ Malden told her. ‘The whole company was aware of his anger. When you disappeared from your box he was quite distraught.’
Mrs Robinson bowed her head, her eyes on the letter which she was longing to read.
Lord Malden handed it to her. It was addressed to ‘Dearest and Most Beautiful Perdita’ and begged her to meet him. It was signed as usual Florizel.
Lord Maiden watched her while she read it and then handed her the packet. She gasped with pleasure when its contents were revealed. There was an exquisite miniature of the Prince of Wales painted by Meyer, delicately coloured, accentuating his good looks. The Prince had cut a piece of paper into the shape of a heart and on one side had written ‘Je ne change qu’en mourant’, and on the other: ‘Unalterable to my Perdita through life.’
‘Now, Madam,’ said Lord Maiden, ‘have you any doubt of His Highness’s devotion?’
She admitted that she had not; but at the same time she did not think it was wise for them to meet.
‘His Highness will never accept such a verdict.’
‘And if our meeting should come to the ears of the King?’
‘Madam, the Prince will be eighteen in August. Then he will have an establishment of his own. He cannot be kept at the Dower House at Kew after his eighteenth birthday.’
‘August!’ sighed Mrs Robinson. ‘That is a long way off!’
‘There is no need to wait until August.’
‘You were at Covent Garden, my lord. You saw me ignobly dismissed.’
‘Madam, the Prince will never allow you to be banished from his life.’
‘I think that until he is of age he will have to obey his father. You should tell him that much as I admire him, greatly as I appreciate his gift, which I shall treasure until the day I die, I must advise caution.’