There was a pause. The Prince was thinking it was a mighty long hour.
She said: ‘I saw little Maria today.’
‘I trust she is well.’
‘And so delighted to see me. She wept when I left. Sometimes I wonder …’
The Prince said nothing.
‘It was a great sacrifice to make,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to give her up. After all, I am her mother. I think sometimes she wonders … One day I shall tell her of how I suffered because I could not give her the time which most mothers give their children. I hope she will understand.’
The Prince yawned. It should have been a warning.
‘Yes.’ She was warming to her role now. She had risen, and putting her hand to her throat gazed before her. There were tears in her eyes. ‘It was a great decision to make … this renunciation. Husband, child … and virtue … all I abandoned.’
‘I did not know,’ said the Prince coldly, ‘that you so regretted leaving your husband.’
‘He was not good to me but at least he was my husband.’
‘Then perhaps, Madam, you feel you should return to him?’
Danger signals. She changed her tactics. ‘I would never return to him. You must know that better than anyone.’
‘Yet you sounded as though you regretted his loss.’
She went to him and put her arms about his neck. ‘You … you are handsome … all that a Prince could be. How could any woman be blamed for not being able to resist you?’
This was more like it.
‘My angel,’ said the Prince, but he was still a little absentminded.
‘Pray come and sing a little.’
‘Not now. There is not the time. I but called in to see you for an hour.’
‘You used not to be so eager to get away.’
‘Eager? I’m not eager. Or if I am it’s because of all this damned melancholy.’
‘And you promised me not to use bad language.’
‘I only do so in your presence when goaded.’
‘Goaded!’
‘Oh, Perdita, stop being the tragedy queen. You came here because you wanted to. And there’s an end to it.’
She was silent, and going over to the harpsichord played a melody. Even her tunes were melancholy, thought the Prince. Why be melancholy when there was so much in the world to be gay about?
She looked over her shoulder. ‘And where are you going to in such haste? Or would you rather not tell me?’
‘I have no reason to hide my actions. I am going to Cumberland House.’
Cumberland House! And they had not invited her. She knew they called her Propriety Prue and mocked her behind her back. And when she thought that the Duke had once pursued her so relentlessly and had admired her so! Of course it was the Duchess, the woman was jealous.
‘My dear George, do you think you should go to Cumberland House?’
‘In God’s name, what do you mean?’
‘I do not think the Duchess behaves in a manner which could be called ladylike.’
‘She doesn’t have to ape ladies. She’s a duchess … and a royal one at that.’
‘I still think she is a little coarse. And I do not like to hear you talking as she does.’
‘Madam,’ said the Prince, incensed now, ‘I have been treated like a child by my father for eighteen years. I have no intention of allowing my mistress to do the same.’
Mistress! That dreadful word which always unnerved her. She felt the tears brimming over on to her cheeks. They were splashing on to the red velvet. She hoped they would not mark it. It was too good and too new to be given to Armistead just yet. But she could not hold back the tears.
The Prince saw the tears and said in a shamefaced way: ‘Well, you should not attempt to dictate to me, you know.’
She could never stop play acting; she wanted all the best lines. So she said: ‘I have angered you, but I cannot let that influence me when I speak for your own good. The King and Queen do not wish you to go to Cumberland House. This distresses them.’
‘So you are in Their Majesties’ confidence?’
‘Everyone knows it.’
A suspicion came into his mind. ‘They have not given you some command to stop my going to Cumberland House, have they?’
‘Do you think they would notice me! They despise me as so many do … because I gave up my home, my husband, my daughter … everything … for you.’
Because the Prince had known his fancy was straying, because he realized the inconstancy of the vows of constant devotion, he was ashamed of himself and sought to shift the blame to her.
‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that you wish to be rid of me.’
‘Oh, no … no!’ That at least was genuine.
‘I have seen men here … with you. Maiden for instance. You are so grateful to him, I overheard you telling him so.’
‘That was because he had helped us to come together. Why should I be grateful to him for anything else?’
‘So you are grateful for that, are you?’
‘More than I can say. Oh, if you but knew …’ She was smiling through her tears; and now she was very appealing. He wanted to be the faithful lover; he did not wish to break the vows he had made. If only she would not be so melancholy, if only she would not talk so much about her sacrifices.
He kissed her.
‘Please don’t quarrel with me. It breaks my heart.’
He quarrel with her? But she was the one who made the quarrels. Still, she was loving and sweet now, declaring that it was only her anxiety for him that made her so sad.
So they embraced and when she said: ‘Is everything as it was,’ he answered: ‘Nothing has changed. Constant unto death, my Perdita.’
So she was relieved and not sorry too that she had voiced her disapproval of his going to Cumberland House. Lord Malden had told her that that was what had upset the King more than anything and that if the King and Queen believed that she kept him from Cumberland House they might begin to take a much kindlier view of her relationship with the Prince.
But in spite of the reconciliation the Prince would not linger. He went, as he had said he would, when the hour was up.
Saucy Grace Elliott was delighted at the prospect of taking Perdita’s place. The Duchess of Cumberland had explained the position quite frankly for Grace Elliott and Anne Luttrell were of a kind and understood each other perfectly.
Grace was very tall but slender and willowy; her hair was of a delightful gold colour, fine and abundant; she had large grey eyes; the manner in which she walked, gesticulated and talked betrayed her sensuality. A glance from Grace was an invitation and a promise, and as she kept her promises she was constantly surrounded by would-be lovers.
Perhaps her father, Hew Dalrymple, a Scottish Advocate, recognized this, for at a very early age she was married off to a Dr Elliott, who at forty looked fifty, and in any case in years was quite old enough to be her father.
In her mid-teens she was already a lusty creature and marriage with Dr Elliott was not her idea of bliss and as shortly after the marriage she made the acquaintance of Lord Valentia, she became his mistress and eloped with him.
This caused a great scandal because Dr Elliott decided to divorce Grace and at the same time demand damages from Lord Valentia, which he was granted. The escapade with Grace cost Lord Valentia £12 000 and the case was compared with that of the Grosvenors and the Duke of Cumberland. Lord Valentia’s expensive escapade proved to be impermanent, and when he left Grace, unprotected and ostracized by society, there seemed only one course for her to take. She announced her intention of going into that French convent where she had received her education and left the country.
Grace’s character was not exactly suited to convent life and very soon she left this refuge and, living on the fringe of the Court of France, met Lord Cholmondeley who was on a visit from England.