He sat down and leaned his arms on the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.
Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.
It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.
Isabella was chuckling.
'Ha, ha cousin,' she whispered. 'I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.'
'This is most... embarrassing.'
'Many would find it most flattering.'
'Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.'
The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.
Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.
But not Maria Fitzherbert.
The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if this was not due to them.
Maria said quietly but firmly, 'I shall leave at once, Isabella. My chair will be waiting.'
Isabella was amused. She wondered how deeply the Prince was affected. After all, Maria must be about six years older than he was. Mary Robinson it was true had been about three but she was only twenty-one at the time of that liaison and Maria must be about twenty-seven or eight—the Prince twenty-one.
'Very well, my dear,' she said. 'But you will certainly meet him at someone's house sooner or later.'
'Not if I return to Richmond,' said Maria.
Her servant was waiting with the chair and she gave instructions that she was to be carried with all speed to her house in
Park Street.
• • #
As her chair was carried through the streets she was more disturbed than the occasion warranted, she told herself. Perhaps he had not been looking at her. Perhaps it had been a mistake. That paragraph in the paper had made her imagine that she really was as fatally attractive as the writer had made her out to be. He had been bored with the Opera and had merely diverted himself.
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill
They had arrived at the house and thankfully she alighted, but as she did so she saw another chair entering the street.
She hurried into the house, her heart beating fast. The door was shut. She felt... safe.'
But she could not resist going to the window.
She saw the chair stop; someone alighted.
Oh no, she thought. It is not possible!
But it was. He was standing there in his spangles and diamonds.
The Prince of Wales, like some lovesick country swain, had followed Maria Fitzherbert home.
&&t
Adventures of a Prince
During the summer of 1783 when the Prince of Wales was approaching his twenty-first birthday he believed that he was the most fortunate man in England, and he was surrounded by men and women who confirmed him in this belief. He was at last escaping from the restraint which his puritanical parents had put on him, and was free to be the companion of the most brilliant men in the country; he could indulge his passion for architecture in Carlton House, that old ruin which his father had flung to him and which he was fast converting into the most elegant residence in Town; he could run his own horses at Newmarket; he could take his place in the House of Lords; and he could, without any attempt at secrecy pursue the greatest diversion of all—women.
Let the King splutter his threats and warnings; let the Queen alternately scold and declare her sentimental fondness for her first born; they could not deter him. He was the idol of the people, the quarry of every fashionable hostess—for no ball was of any significance without him—and almost every woman longed to be his mistress. There were a few exceptions; Geor-giana, his dearest Duchess of Devonshire, among them, but this only made this most delightful of all occupations the more piquant, and while he could sigh for the unattainable he could always soothe himself with the eagerly accommodating.
Life was very good that summer for the Prince of Wales.
Some months before he first set eyes on Maria Fitzherbert his Uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, had suggested he come down to visit him at a house he had rented from a certain Dr. Russell and which was situated in a little fishing village called Bright-helmstone.
'What,' demanded the Prince of Wales of his equerry, the Earl of Essex, 'should I want of a little fishing village called by such a name as Brighthelmstone?'
'I have heard of the place, Your Highness/ answered Essex. 'It is also known as Bredhemsdon/
'Which is no more pleasant to my ear than the other,' retorted the Prince.
'No, sir, but they say the sea bathing there is very beneficial to the health—and it is not so far from London to make the journey tiresome.'
Sea bathing! thought the Prince, and touched his silken neckcloth. Recently he had been affected by a slight swelling of the throat and he and Lord Petersham had together designed a neckcloth which would completely hide it. Hence neckcloths in exquisite designs and colourings were the height of fashion now. The Prince's physicians had suggested that sea bathing might be good for his throat; he had not taken the idea very seriously, but Essex's remark reminded him of it.
'I confess it would be amusing to see how my aunt Cumberland amuses herself in a fishing village.'
'I am sure, sir, that where the Duchess found herself there would she find amusement.'
The Prince laughed aloud. He was fond of the lady who had inveigled his uncle most unsuitably into marrying hep, and being banished from the Court because of her. She was a fascinator—a woman of wide experience; the very manner in which she fluttered her eyelashes which had become a legend since Horace Walpole had referred to them as being a yard long, was in itself a promise. The Prince delighted to call her by what seemed to him such an incongruous title as 'Aunt', and as she was constantly urging him to honour Cumberland House with his presence he had seen her and his uncle often since he had been free to do so—much to the chagrin of His Majesty, of
course, who believed it was just another trick of his son's to plague him, which in a way perhaps it was.
At least his uncle had had the courage to marry the woman of his choice, thought the Prince, whereas his father, the King, by all accounts had meekly given up Lady Sarah Lennox for the sake of that plain German Princess, Charlotte, who was the mother of that large family of whom he, the Prince, was the eldest son.
Yes, he would go to Brighthelmstone or whatever they called it. Perhaps Essex should be one of those who accompanied him. They were good friends, he and Essex. The Earl had served him faithfully as go-between in the affair of Perdita Robinson—Lord Maiden he had been at that time, having recently inherited his earldom. Maiden it was who had carried those letters between them, arranged those assignations on Eel Pie Island and persuaded the lady to do what she had intended from the first—surrender.
The Prince smiled cynically. He would never again be caught in that way. But it was no fault of Essex that Perdita after promising to be the love of his life had turned out to be nothing but a sentimental bore—and a scheming one too. The Prince flushed with anger even now, remembering the humiliating scene with his father when he had had to confess that his ex-mistress was threatening to publish letters which she had in her possession and which had been written by the flowery but very indiscreet pen of the Prince of Wales.