Maria suffered more than a twinge of uneasiness. She had heard the rumours. It could not be true. Isabella Hertford was such a frigid creature. A fashion-plate it was true and that appealed to him, but she would never indulge in a liaison outside her marriage – not even with the Prince of Wales.
‘Should they not both be guests of honour?’
‘Why … yes … of course. Perhaps you could devote yourself to Hertford.’ He was beaming with pleasure. That would be it. ‘There could be two tables … one at one end of the room with you at the head and Hertford on your right and at the other end my table with Lady Hertford.’
Oh, no, thought Maria. The Prince’s table was the only table at which it would be an honour to sit and her place was at that table. She always had a place there – next to the Prince of Wales. It was his way of saying to the world that he regarded her as the Princess of Wales and expected everyone else to do the same.
‘I think that both Hertfords should be with us at your table,’ said Maria firmly.
But that would not suit him. How could he make verbal love to Isabella under Maria’s nose?
‘No,’ he said coolly, suddenly becoming very regal and the Prince of Wales in place of Maria’s ‘dear love’. ‘I prefer it my way.’
Maria felt indignant. She wanted to tell him that she had already heard the rumours about his growing passion for Lady Hertford. She controlled herself with an effort and said coolly: ‘Lady Hertford herself might not care for the arrangement.’
‘I have already spoken to her.’
‘Without consulting me,’ she said; and immediately cursed her hot temper which Miss Pigot had informed her had been her downfall during the Jersey affair.
‘Did you expect me to consult you about my Carlton House arrangements?’
Oh dear, she thought, we are going to quarrel. And Charlotte is waiting upstairs for him. In a moment he would walk out of the house and Charlotte would believe it was because she was there. Poor child, how dared he treat his wife – for she was that, whatever anyone said – in this way; and how dared he refuse his daughter that affection which she so obviously craved.
She said quickly: ‘Of course I did not. Charlotte is eagerly awaiting you. Please …’
‘And you will agree?’ he asked eagerly. ‘You will come to the banquet as I ask?’
She thought: We are bargaining. Be nice to your daughter and I will be present so that the woman whom you hope to make your mistress is not compromised.
No, she thought. I won’t do it. Then she thought of that young girl who was eagerly waiting now, listening for his footstep on the stair.
What does it matter? she thought. He has been unfaithful before. But that was what she had told herself when Lady Jersey had appeared on the scene and had brought about their parting. But he had come back to her. He knew he needed her. Very well, let him have his flirtations, his infatuations, his light love affairs. He would always come back to Maria.
She said: ‘I agree. And now come and show your daughter that world-famous charm.’
How impressive he was! Charlotte was proud of him. No one else had a father like him. George Keppel had Lord Albemarle, who was all right; poor Minney had no father at all, though she had Mrs Fitzherbert, who was perhaps a great deal more comforting – but Charlotte had the Prince of Wales.
He looked enormous – tall and fat; his eyes were laughing; he looked as though something had pleased him; he had somewhat pouting lips which gave him a petulant air and his slightly tilted nose made one want to kiss him. His clothes were magnificent; they made Charlotte feel awkward just to look at them, because they fitted him so perfectly. His coat of very fine dark green cloth was single breasted and he wore it buttoned right up to the chin; his breeches were of leather and his boots Hessian; his neckcloth was of white silk with tiny gold embroidered stars on it; it had many folds and came right up to his chin. He wore a wig which was a profusion of honey-coloured curls. A truly magnificent figure.
He sat down on the chair and Minney ran to him. George remained decorously in the background and he said: ‘And Charlotte? Come and tell me what you have been doing.’
Mrs Fitzherbert smiled and nodded to her as though to say: Don’t be nervous. And she felt that with that good fairy standing there nothing could go wrong.
So she spoke up and told him about the Bish-Up and Dr Nott, imitating them – and some of the amusing things that happened in the schoolroom.
To her delight he thought them funny too, and so did Mrs Fitzherbert, who started everyone laughing a great deal, and when Mrs Fitzherbert laughed so did the Prince.
‘Why not a game?’ said Mrs Fitzherbert. ‘A guessing game.’
All the children were delighted at the prospect, and Mrs Fitzherbert suggested one at which Charlotte always shone.
So they played and Charlotte won a great many points at which the Prince was surprised and pleased; and Charlotte thought on more than one occasion that Mrs Fitzherbert chose questions to which Charlotte knew the answer. And looking across the room at her seated on the chair – serene and plump but with her lovely figure and her skin as fresh as a young girl’s and her masses of golden hair untouched by powder, Charlotte loved her; and a wish came to her. If this were my home … if these were my parents … But she would not go on with it because it was unfair to her own mother, who had come down to Windsor especially to see her. It was not her fault if she had been turned away.
When the Prince took his leave he was affectionate to his daughter and Charlotte’s eyes were shining with pleasure. It had been such a happy afternoon – she rarely remembered enjoying herself so much.
The carriage came to take her with George and Lady de Clifford back to Carlton House, and when she took her leave she threw her arms about Mrs Fitzherbert and buried her face in that magnificent bosom.
Maria held her tightly for a few seconds in a special grip which meant that she understood. Charlotte was saying ‘Thank you’ and Maria was implying that this was a beginning. She was going to make everything right between Charlotte and her father.
Out into the street they went – Lady de Clifford leading. A little crowd had gathered about the carriage. Someone said: ‘That’s her. That’s the Princess Charlotte.’
She inclined her head and smiled graciously – like a queen she hoped.
‘It’s a shame. Bringing her up to be a Papist.’
What did they mean? Lady de Clifford had grasped her arm and was hurrying her into the carriage. George leaped in beside her, and the horses started forward.
‘No popery!’ shouted a voice, and the cry was taken up by the crowd.
‘What is the matter with them?’ said Charlotte; and as no one answered she forgot the silly people and went over every incident of the afternoon, dwelling on those delicious moments when she had scored points and startled her father by her intelligence.
It was a lovely cosy feeling to think that she and Mrs Fitzherbert were in league together.
George Keppel said: ‘I shall never do my French and Latin in time. I expect I shall be punished in the morning.’
‘Do it now,’ she commanded.
‘I can’t. I need lots of time.’
‘Here. Give it to me.’
She was in such a benevolent mood that she wanted everyone to feel as happy as she did. George had not done very well in the game. She supposed the Prince had thought what a silly little boy he was and how different from Charlotte. Of course he was younger – but perhaps the Prince did not know that. She hoped he didn’t – and then was ashamed of herself.
‘I’ll do the Latin exercise for you,’ she said, ‘while you do your French. There. Come on, we’ll start now.’