‘At least one would have been a mother. Better that … than to grow old and never have lived … just to have been a princess in a cage … sitting with Mamma, reading with Mamma, looking after the dogs, stitching, filling the snuffboxes. Sophia is perhaps not to be pitied.’
‘But she looks so tragic sometimes. Do you think that one day she will marry the General? Suppose they did … and the boy was with them. Do you think they would be happy?’
Mary looked over her shoulder. ‘Someone might hear.’
‘They know,’ said Amelia. ‘You cannot have a secret like that and keep it from your household.’
They were thinking of that day some ten years ago when Sophia had confessed to them that she was to have a child. Poor Sophia – almost out of her mind with worry. What would Papa say? What would the Queen say? She had feared the Queen more than their father, for since his illness he had become very meek and sometimes unaware of what was going on around him. ‘It is Papa’s own fault,’ Elizabeth had said. ‘He shuts us away and expects us to live like nuns in a convent. But we are not nuns and this is not a convent.’
Sophia was in love; and to think that the partner in her adventure was one of their father’s equerries and that he was still with them … a member of the suite which had accompanied Amelia to Weymouth. It made him seem like one of the family. Sophia had been just twenty-three then and she had been reckless, for at that age they might have found a husband for her. But as if they would! There were Augusta, Elizabeth and Mary all to come before her. She had been in love with Sir Thomas Garth and despairing of marriage had decided to do without it.
A royal Princess pregnant! It would have to be kept secret. Papa must never know. It would kill him, said Augusta, and Elizabeth believed her. Tom Garth was resourceful. He would make all the arrangements, Sophia must hide her condition, which was not difficult with the fashion for voluminous skirts; she must feign sickness, which was not difficult either for the poor girl was very worried and this in addition to the trials of pregnancy meant that she had little acting to do. The doctor – a friend of Tom’s – had suggested a change of air. Weymouth – a favourite spot, was suggested; and here Sophia had come with Mary, who was always delegated to care for the sick members of the family, and there she had given birth to her boy. It had all been very cleverly arranged. A gentleman’s tailor named Sharland who lived in the town had a pregnant wife and when this wife gave birth to a boy, there was no reason why it should not be believed that she had had twins.
Thus were these matters arranged in royal families.
And Sophia had carried this great secret for ten years. Her boy was growing up. She saw him now and then. Mary was always afraid that she would betray her secret by the very manner in which she looked at him.
As for Tom Garth he was devoted to the boy. He had already taken him from the Sharlands’ and ‘adopted’ him. He was constantly talking of him and planning his education; and indeed young Tom had the stamp of Hanover on his round rather vapid face, and in his wide blue eyes; his lashes were dark though and this was not a Hanoverian feature. (Poor Charlotte’s eyelashes were so pale that one could scarcely see them.) His lips had that sullen expression, except when he smiled and his jaw was heavy, but on the whole he was a handsome youth.
He seemed to wheedle what he wanted out of Tom Garth and the General appeared to want to spoil him in every way because he had royal blood in his veins.
What secrets there were in the family! thought Amelia. The boys were not the only ones who had adventures.
She thought sadly of dear Charles Fitzroy, whom she loved and who loved her – but they were not for each other and they had known it. Charles had married twice, for his first wife had died young after giving him a son and now he had married Frances Anne Stewart, the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Londonderry. He had his boys, George and Robert, and a daughter as well. What was the use of regretting, of saying to oneself: ‘Those should have been mine.’ She was a Princess and although he was a son of the Duke of Grafton and descended from Charles II and his mistress Barbara Villiers, he was not considered worthy to marry the King’s daughter. But was that so? Was it that George III could not bear to think of any of his daughters in the marriage bed? He was a man with strange dark thoughts which sometimes harassed and tormented him to such an extent that they drove him into madness.
For her there might have been marriage with Charles Fitzroy; and dear Mary, her sister who insisted on being with her, nursing her herself, was in love with her cousin the Duke of Gloucester. Why could they not be permitted to marry? Why must they remain in what her brother George called the Band of Spinsterhood?
Was it her father’s strange obsession which sent him on the verge of madness to contemplate his daughters married? Or was it their mother who wanted to keep them about her – her handmaidens, whom she governed and treated as though they were still children in the nursery?
What did it matter? Amelia asked herself wearily. The result is that we remain here in our prisons and even Sophia who briefly stepped outside hers could only step back into it when the inevitable result overtook her.
‘My poor Amelia,’ said Mary suddenly. ‘I have tired you with all this talk.’
No, thought Amelia. It is poor Mary. For I shall die young; and as they become older the resentment will grow. And when George is ready to find husbands for them they will be too old.
There was a discreet scratching on the door.
Mary gave permission for whoever was there to enter.
It was Sir Thomas Garth himself, a loyal member of her suite. Mary said he never forgot anything that was necessary to Amelia’s comfort and if Dr Pope ordered something he would see that it was procured, however difficult. He looked upon Amelia as a young sister.
Both sisters looked a little guilty as he entered, since they had so recently talked of him. He was far from handsome and well advanced into his fifties – a good deal older than Sophia. Couldn’t she have chosen someone more handsome? wondered Amelia. Someone more like her dearest Charles Fitzroy. One could not imagine gentle Sophia with that bluff old soldier; he was scarcely handsome either and had an ugly birthmark on his face.
Poor Sophia! thought Amelia. Poor all of us!
Thomas bowed as well as the package he was carrying would allow.
‘A present, Your Highness, from Brighton. His Royal Highness has sent it on in advance of himself.’
Amelia gave a little cry of joy and held out her hands for the package. Mary came close and Thomas stood watching while she opened it – very unceremoniously, thought Mary, but what could one say to the father of one’s nephew?
There were five pelisses all in delicate and charming colours. Amelia flushed and wrapped a delicate blue one about her shoulders.
‘It’s most becoming,’ said Mary.
‘Trust His Highness to choose the right colours,’ said Thomas.
A letter had fluttered to the floor and Thomas picked it up and handed it to the Princess.
Amelia glanced at the flourishing handwriting, and read the fulsome phrases with pleasure. He could scarcely wait to see his dearest sister. He was coming with all speed the next day. He would be delighted if his dearest Amelia were wearing one of these pelisses which he, with Brummell’s help, had spent two hours in choosing. And so on … flowery phrases from the most charming brother in the world.
Mary smiled to see her sister happy. One could almost believe she were well again.
‘My dearest sister!’
Amelia rose from her chair and was enfolded in his scented arms.
‘George, dearest, let me look at you. Oh … you are magnificent!’