Sheridan’s eyes were shining and Fox knew that he would achieve his purpose.
He leaned forward. ‘This, Mr Sheridan, sir, is a turning point in British politics. Our monarchs carry a certain power. True they cannot act without the backing of their governments but the power is there. The King – between men of good sense – is far from clever. I won’t say he’s a fool … not for fear of committing lèse-majesty but because it is not entirely true. George is a simpleton. He should have been a farmer. A good man let us say … who has never known the pleasures of life, and who feels it his duty to see that these are kept from others. A failing of the virtuous, Mr Sheridan, as I’m sure you will agree. But what HM fails to see is that the pleasures a man indulges in are not his whole life. A man can be a brilliant politician in the House, a lecher in the bedchamber and a gambler at the clubs. A politician can set the country’s economy to rights while he’s at his wits’ end to know how to placate his own creditors. Mr Pitt happened to be a model husband and a great politician at the same time. That in itself provided his downfall. He didn’t become Lord Chatham for his own sake … but that of Lady Chatham. And that, one might say, was the end of his career. So you see, Mr Sheridan, this is the greatest gamble and I know that your fingers are itching to have a throw of the dice.’
Sheridan was silent, turning over the possibilities in his mind. It seemed a glittering prospect because this was not merely going into Parliament – it was going in arm in arm with Mr Fox.
Mr Fox continued: ‘As I was saying, the King has a certain power and the King is my enemy, and that of the Whigs. But a new star is rising and to this star shall we hitch our wagon. The Prince of Wales will be eighteen in August. He will be to us what the King is to the Tories.’
‘The Prince! A young man bent on pleasure!’
‘Don’t underestimate him. Bent on pleasure certainly. Young, lusty and so far kept under the stern eye of their Majesties. “Eat this. Don’t eat that.” “Get up at this hour. Go to bed at that.” Now what effect is this going to have on a young fellow whose high spirits are higher than average? There is one answer: Rebellion. Believe me, Mr Sheridan, the Prince has a very good reason to support the Whigs. His father is a Tory. That is the only reason he needs at this stage. Later he will find others. Don’t make old George’s mistake of thinking that because young George frolics with the ladies, selects his shoe buckles with care, has a passion for gold frogged coats and exquisitely cut breeches, that he’s a fool. He has been educated and significantly has made no effort to elude that education. He has the power to make his father feel a dunce in his presence. He is a boy … not yet eighteen … but time does not stand still. In three years time he will be the most powerful man in the country and … our friend.’
‘Our friend, Mr Fox?’
‘Yours and mine.’
‘But I have not yet made up my mind to go into politics.’
‘You will.’
Mr Fox drained his glass and rose.
‘So turtles pair’
WHILE SHERIDAN WAS thinking of Fox’s proposition he received another visitor.
Very different this one – a vision of beauty in muslin and ribbons and a dark silk coat.
‘Perdita!’ Like everyone else he called her by that name nowadays. The Prince had given it to her and it was an indication that everyone was aware of the relationship between them.
He kissed her hands with a fervour which she was too distraught to see was absentminded.
‘Oh, Sherry, I have something to say to you, and I fear you may be a little angry with me.’
‘Never,’ he declared gallantly.
‘I scarcely know how to begin.’ A faint smile curled Sheridan’s lips. Of course she would have been rehearsing the scene for hours before she came. He knew his Perdita.
‘My dearest, you look distrait. Is all well between you and the Prince?’
She threw back her head and a smile illuminated her face. By God, he thought, how beautiful she is when she smiles. She should smile constantly. What a fool she is to cultivate this melancholy aspect! He won’t like it. She won’t last if she is not careful.
‘The Prince is magnificent. The grace of his person … the sweetness of his smile …’
‘Yes,’ said Sheridan. He had heard that before.
‘He is quite … irresistible.’ That was the excuse clause, he thought. She was his mistress – but only because he was irresistible.
‘But you have not come to tell me of his perfections, I am sure, because, as you know, I am well aware of them. Come, Perdita, what is on your mind?’
‘The Prince can be very masterful.’
‘Naturally. He is a Prince and in spite of Papa’s restrictions I’ve no doubt he gets his way with everyone else.’
‘Believe me, Sherry, this distresses me. Not on my own account … oh, no, I am ready to make any sacrifices … but I do wonder how you will receive this news. Oh, my dear, what are you going to say?’
‘I will tell you when I hear what it is.’
She lowered her eyes and stood before him in a pose of abject distress.
‘The Prince insists that I leave the stage.’
Sheridan was silent. He pictured it; the falling off of business. There was Abington and Farran. Perhaps he could revive The School; but although it was a favourite the people were crying out for new plays – though while Mrs Robinson paraded the boards, particularly in breeches, they did not so much care what the play was.
He could not pretend that this was not a disaster.
‘Oh, Sherry, Sherry, what could I do? I remonstrated but he was most emphatic. “No,” he said, “I cannot have other men’s eyes feasting on the charms of my loved one.” You must confess, Sherry, that he has a point.’
‘So,’ said Sheridan, ‘you are leaving the stage.’
‘Oh, Sherry, Sherry, you know I don’t want to. You know that I fought against it. But the Prince was adamant … and in the circumstances you must admit that I could not … with decency … remain.’
Oh, God, he thought, what a woman! She decided on the angle from which she would view life and made everything fit into her cosy pictures. What was she dreaming of now? One would think from her attitude that the Prince was proposing to marry her. Was she thinking that he would behave as his uncles Gloucester and Cumberland had? Did she realize that their Duchesses were very different women from herself? He could imagine her drawing herself up to her full height and declaiming that she hoped she did not resemble the Duchess of Cumberland whose morals and bawdy wit were the talk of the town. In one thing only, misguided Perdita. She is beautiful … and so are you. You lack her mental agility, her wit, her brilliance, her knowledge of the world … everything that has put her where she is. And dear Perdita, have you ever heard of the Royal Marriage Bill? No descendant of George I is allowed to marry without the consent of the sovereign. And do you think His Most Holy Majesty will agree to his son’s marriage with a play actress? Silly little Perdita … moth dancing round the candle. How many months … weeks … before your pretty wings are singed and you fall to the ground? And then … what will you have? A career that is over. Do you think the theatre will allow you to throw her aside and then meekly take you back?
He should warn her, of course. He had been quite fond of her once. Not that it would be of any use. Her mind was made up. She, with all her reluctance, with all her mock propriety, wanted to be set up in that establishment, wanted the whole world to know that the most eligible bachelor in Europe had chosen her. Briefly, Perdita, briefly! But that thought of course must not be allowed to disturb her golden dream.
Sheridan sighed. ‘I could almost thank God that Mr Garrick is not here to see this day.’