"I know. And so does he. But he does not care."
"He behaves like a child."
"Or a very romantic lover" said the Duchess softly.
Fox burst out laughing. "You know, do you not, that the woman is a Tory."
"I know it," said the Duchess sadly.
"A Tory and a Catholic. My God! It might be a plot of His Majesty's to plague us if it wasn't even more plaguing to him."
"Do you think he knows what is happening?"
"He successfully manages to shut himself away in his Palace of Purity at Kew, and is more interested in how his farmers make butter than how his son makes love. The Fitzherbert must become his mistress by some means. Then in the natural course of events the affair will come to its logical conclusion."
"But she holds out for marriage."
"That's the point. We've got to make her give in."
"She is adamant, Charles. I've spoken to her. It's her religion, I really think he is capable of following her to France."
"He can't do it. It's impossible for the Prince of Wales to leave the country without the King's consent."
"He's capable of anything. He has never been so mad about any woman before, Charles. Let's face it. Perdita was the nearest, but he never talked of marrying Perdita."
"She didn't hold out long enough. Perdita was a fool."
"Well, Maria Fitzherbert is not. And the fact that she really means what she says enslaves him more than ever. He senses her inherent virtue, Charles. It confirms his belief that she is the only woman with whom he can be happy. You know the Prince. Gambling, jokes, racing, prizefighting ... he enjoys them all; but his dominating passion is for women."
Charles nodded gloomily. "What about a marriage ... a marriage that was not really a marriage. Some sort of ceremony to soothe the lady's scruples."
"A mock marriage?" murmured Georgiana.
"You could call it that." Charles began to laugh. "My God," he cried, "this is demanding as much of our time as the Declaration of Independence."
"I'm sure the Prince feels it to be a matter of far greater importance."
Charles shrugged his shoulders. "Let us lose the North American Colonies. Let France and Spain come against us. Let the throne tremble and let the Whigs go to hell. What matters it as long as George, Prince of Wales, goes to bed with Maria Fitzherbert."
" I am sure, Charles," said the Duchess, "that you are voicing His Highness's own sentiments."
"I think I will go and see some of the Gentlemen of His Household. Something could be arranged perhaps. Who are they? Southampton, Bouverie and ..."
"There is also Onslow. You could rely on him."
"I will have a talk with them. I have a faint idea beginning to form. It seems wild but perhaps it will fit the situation. I will keep you in the picture."
Maria was ready to leave her house in Park Street. In a few hours' time she would be making her way down to the coast; her bags were already packed. She had been rather surprised to receive letters from her Uncle Henry and her brothers Walter and John and while they did not actually advise her to give way to the Prince they managed to hint that they thought there was nothing dishonourable in doing so. How could they be so deluded, so blinded by the dazzle of royalty! The boys were young, of course, and they had missed a father's steadying influence, but Uncle Henry should have known better. Dear Uncle Henry had always been kind to her but she had always known him for a worldly man.
It was a good plan to go to France. There she would be able to confide in her dear nuns and to talk frankly of her feelings. The more she saw of the Prince the stronger her feelings grew, and she was realizing how painful it was for her to leave him. It would be so easy to love him—far easier than it had been in the case of Edward and Thomas—although she had believed herself to be happily married to both of them. It was as well that she was leaving, not only to elude the Prince but so that she might not become the victim of her own feelings. She must face the truth. She would be very sad without him. But she had made up her mind. In less than an hour she would leave.
She heard the sound of carriage wheels in the street below. It was early yet. She went to the window. The royal carriage was pulling up outside the house. She drew back, shielding herself by the curtains. It was not the Prince who alighted but four members of his household. She knew three of them by sight; they were Lord Southampton, Lord Onslow and Mr. Bouverie; she did not recognize the fourth man.
She heard their voices addressing her footman.
Tray conduct us to your mistress without delay. The matter is of the utmost urgency."
She faced them resolutely. "I am just about to leave ..."
"Madam, the life of the Prince of Wales is in the greatest danger."
"Danger...?"
"He has attempted suicide. He is asking for you."
She looked at them suspiciously and Lord Southampton said: "This is Mr. Keate, His Highness's surgeon. He will tell you that the Prince is on the point of death. He is calling for you, Madam. We fear the consequences if you do not go at once to him at Carlton House."
Maria was alarmed, but a hideous suspicion had come to her. What plan was this? She was to be taken to Carlton House. What would happen when she arrived there? Was it a trick? How could she be sure? And what if he really had attempted to take his life?
She stammered: "I cannot come alone. I must have a ... a lady whom I could trust to accompany me. If you will call at Lady Sefton's house I am sure she will agree to come with me."
Southampton and Onslow exchanged glances.
"I feel the Duchess of Devonshire would come. She is a great friend of the Prince and of you too, Madam. Would you agree to come if she was with you?"
"Why ... yes," said Maria.
"Then we beg of you to lose no time. The Prince's condition is serious."
The Duchess hastily joined Maria in the coach, her face grave.
"But my dear Maria, this is terrible. What can have happened?"
"I know very little. They tell me that he has attempted to take his life."
"How fearful! How dreadful I It can't be true."
"It is true," said Southampton. "The Prince in desperation has stabbed himself."
"Then he is ..."
"His physicians are with him. Mr. Keate came along to urge the importance of bringing Mrs. Fitzherbert to his bedside."
"Are you telling us that he is ... dying?" gasped the Duchess.
"Your Grace," said Keate, "we may yet be in time."
When they reached Carlton House the women were hurried into the Prince's apartments on the ground floor where he was lying on a couch, his face very pale and his clothes bloodstained.
"Maria!" he cried when he saw her; and she ran to him and knelt by his side. She took his hand which he grasped with fervour; and then he lay back, his eyes closed.
"Oh, my God," whispered Maria, "what have you done?"
"Maria..."
"Yes ... yes..."
"Come closer." He spoke in a whisper, his breath laboured.
"Please do not exert yourself."
"I... am better ... now you are here."
Maria looked helplessly at the doctors.
"Comfort him, Madam," said Keate, "He is in a very low state."
Maria put her lips to his forehead and a slow smile touched his lips. She heard him murmuring her name once more.
The Duchess of Devonshire said: "He ... will live?"
The Prince heard her for he murmured: "Of what use to live ... without Maria?"
"Please do not talk in that way," said Maria, deeply agitated.
"How else can I talk when you ... reject me."
"Perhaps," she said to the doctors, "I disturb him. Perhaps it would be better if I went."
The grip on her hand tightened and the doctors shook their heads gravely.
"I wish to die," murmured the Prince.