Sitting on the edge of the grave Charlotte thought of death – other people’s, not her own. Sometimes she believed that she was immortal and would never die; and at others she felt that death was close. It had been one of the latter moods which had set her making her will. That made her laugh when she remembered the fuss; and then she was sad thinking of poor Mrs Campbell who had gone because of it.
How carefully one must behave if one were a princess. Perhaps people like Aunt Frederica were lucky. They had come through the difficult part of life and had made a niche for themselves. Aunt Frederica living here aloof from the family, on mildly friendly terms with her husband, making no demands on him, busy with her charities, her needlework and her beloved animals, was perhaps the most contented member of the royal family.
Charlotte rose and left the animals’ cemetery.
In her rooms Lady de Clifford was preparing for their departure. She was looking very pleased. She did not care for Oatlands. She was sure that the animals carried disease which might harm the Princess Charlotte and she wondered whether she should report this to the Queen. But Charlotte did enjoy staying with her aunt and her spirits had improved. So perhaps the visit had had something to recommend it.
That night Charlotte was awakened by the sound of dogs’ barking in the grounds. She rose and stood there for a while looking out on the strange scene. There was a woman in flowing robes, her hair about her shoulders, striding across the park, and around her were some twenty dogs, some of which had awakened Charlotte with their barks.
Charlotte smiled. She looked like a supernatural being; but of course it was only Aunt Frederica taking one of her nightly strolls. She slept very little and often walked about the park during the night. She was perfectly safe, for several of those great slavering hounds would have torn anyone apart who had attempted to attack her.
Charlotte went back to bed. She would miss this strange household when she went back to the life considered suitable for the heiress to the throne. But it would always be pleasant to think of Oatlands and strange yet reliable Aunt Frederica who had made it quite clear that she was Charlotte’s friend.
Yes, in a way, she had found a substitute for Mrs Fitzherbert.
Summer by the sea
BOGNOR DELIGHTED THE Princess, for there she insisted on more freedom than she could possibly enjoy in the royal palaces. A mansion belonging to a certain Mr Wilson had been put at her disposal and here she came with some members of her staff headed by Lady de Clifford.
It was pleasant to wake up every morning and to stand at an open window and smell the sea. She bathed three or four times a week and she would shriek with delight when she was immersed into the water; she loved to wander along the shore, running in the face of the boisterous wind, sometimes pausing to pick up oddly shaped stones which caught her fancy. She insisted that her attendants kept their distance and Lady de Clifford said that as long as they had her in view all the time she might enjoy this freedom.
This was delightful because it enabled her to meet people and talk to them, often without their being aware of who she was. In her green riding habit and little straw hat she looked like any young lady of a noble house; no one would have guessed by her clothes and manner that she was an heiress to the throne.
She discovered that a baker named Richardson made the most delicious buns she had ever tasted; the aroma of his bakehouse would float out into the street and when she smelt it she could never resist going into the shop.
She had talked to Mr Richardson for a long time before her attendants came bursting in to make sure that she was all right and he realized who she was.
She was amused by his confusion. ‘But, Mr Richardson,’ she told him, ‘the fact that I am the daughter of the Prince of Wales makes no difference to the fact that you make the b … best buns in England.’
Mr Richardson rubbed his floury hands through his hair and put smudges of white over his face, which Charlotte found very endearing. And after that she took to calling in at the shop at the time when the buns were taken out of the oven and she would sit on a high stool eating them and commenting to Mr Richardson on the quality of the day’s batch. It was one of the happiest occasions in her new life – as it was in Mr Richardson’s.
Lady de Clifford shook her head and did not approve of these free and easy manners, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had to have the Princess in good health and she seemed to wilt when she lacked freedom.
‘Just for a while,’ Lady de Clifford promised herself. ‘And now she is getting older, I really think she needs someone firmer than I.’
Poor snuffy old Lady de Clifford! thought Charlotte, and tried not to worry her more than she could help.
Four beautiful grey ponies arrived at Bognor and with them a little market cart. She was almost wild with delight when she saw them.
‘But they’re so beautiful, Cliffy. Do you not think so?’
The messenger who had brought them gave her a note accompanying the gift. It was written by the Prince of Wales. He hoped that she would find this little conveyance useful. He had at an early age derived great pleasure from riding and driving; he hoped that she would find the same in this gift from her affectionate father.
She leaped about with delight, treading on poor Lady de Clifford’s toes, she embraced Mrs Gagarin and she even felt kindly towards Mrs Udney.
Her father had given her a present! He had remembered her existence!
In a more sober moment she asked herself whether Mrs Fitzherbert had persuaded him to give her such a magnificent gift.
But what did it matter? She had her cart and her four lovely greys; and she was going to perfect her riding. She was going to surprise him when she saw him next.
Perhaps it was too good to last. Why did something always have to happen when she was most happy! She had seen the old men in the lanes and they had touched their forelocks to her; she did not see how they could harm her.
But Lady de Clifford had thought it her duty to report to the Queen that there was a home in the neighbourhood for old soldiers who suffered from ophthalmia; she did not know whether the disease was infectious, but she believed that Her Majesty should know.
The Princess Charlotte must not run the slightest risk. None of the King’s sons had produced another heir to the throne and Charlotte was on that account very precious. She should leave Bognor at once for Worthing; and there she should be joined by the Queen and her aunts.
Charlotte wailed in fury. What would become of her freedom under the eyes of the Begum and the Old Girls? What of Mr Richardson’s buns?
There was no help for it. The party left for Worthing.
How different was Warwick House from Mr Wilson’s Bognor mansion. But perhaps that was because royal etiquette had been introduced into it. It was like Windsor or Kew. There were the Queen’s Drawing Rooms where one must sew and read and Charlotte had to undergo catechism at the side of her grandmother. She had to see that her snuffbox was at hand when she needed it; she had to endure the alternate affection and scolding of the Old Girls.
Even the sea could not make up for that.
Warwick House was at the end of a narrow lane; and there was nothing about the place to suggest that all this royal ceremony was going on inside. It was true two sentries were always posted at the gate; but for them it might have been any gloomy old country house.
‘Charlotte, you are too boisterous. I think you often forget your position.’ This was the constant complaint of her grandmother. ‘Stop fidgeting, child. How awkward you are! I do declare you have the manners of a cottage child.’