At home our poor old King was now blind and quite out of his mind; and in January of the previous year, the Regency Bill was passed, so that the Prince of Wales was now virtually the ruler.
One evening as we were sitting over dinner discussing topics of the day as we often did, my mother turned to a more frivolous topic: “It will soon be time for the birthday party and this year it will have to be a special one. Just think of it. The girls will be eighteen.”
She looked at Amaryllis and me as though we had achieved something rather wonderful in reaching such an age.
“Eighteen!” said David. “Are they really? How time flies!”
“They are no longer little girls,” said Claudine.
My father persisted: “Perceval’s got a point. But now we are at war with America he’s got to be cautious.”
“Wars!” said my mother indignantly. “How stupid they all are! I don’t even know what this one is about.”
“It’s all a disagreement about commerce,” explained David.
My mother sighed. “You would have thought they had learned a lesson, when they quarrelled before about the colonies.”
“History may repeat itself,” said my father, “but it is certain that the lessons it teaches are hardly ever learned.”
“One would have thought,” said my mother, “that war with France would have been enough for those who are so enamoured of it.”
“This war with France goes on and on,” said Claudine.
“Perceval’s a good man but I would say an uninspired one.”
I said that it was strange that good people did not often make good leaders, and good leaders were often wicked in their private lives.
David, who loved this sort of discussion, instanced the two King Charleses. Charles the First such a good husband and father and about the worst King we had ever had, leading us to Civil War; whereas the second Charles’s life had been one of moral scandal, and yet his rule had been really good for the country.
My mother interrupted with: “What colour would you like to wear for the party, Amaryllis?”
“I think perhaps blue.”
“What about white, darling?” asked Claudine. “I can just see you in white. You will look like an angel.”
“Jessica, are you going to have your favourite scarlet?” asked my mother. “Or is it going to be emerald green?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.
“Such matters need weighty consideration,” said my father, “while the country is plunged into war on two fronts.”
“We should never do anything if we waited for those wretched wars to be over,” commented my mother. “And the sooner they have finished one they start another. We’ll go to London to choose the materials. I think we should give ourselves plenty of time. Where are we now … April… Sometime in May. That will give us plenty of time to have the dresses made up. We’ll fix a date. August would be best… somewhere midway between the two birthdays. That’s fair enough.”
There had always been one party to celebrate the two birthdays as they came so close together—mine in August, Amaryllis’ in September; and the parties were usually held at the end of August. Our mothers had started the practice when we were very young and had kept it up.
That was how we came to be in London in the May of that year 1812. There were my mother and myself as well as Amaryllis and Claudine; and as my father never liked my mother to go to London without him, he joined the party. So we all set out in the carriage and in due course arrived at the family house in Albemarle Street.
I had still retained that excitement which I felt when I came to London. The big city always seemed pulsating with life. Everyone appeared to be in a great hurry which always gave me a sense of urgency. I hoped we should visit the theatre while we were there.
The very first day my mother and I, with Claudine and Amaryllis, descended on the shops and after much debating a beautiful white silk was bought for Amaryllis’ dress. It was more difficult to find the acceptable shade of red to enhance my darkness; but my mother said we should not be hurried.
My father always had business in London—rather mysterious business as well as his banking concerns, and one thing we had learned was not to ask questions. We did know that he worked less in the field than he had in the past and that his son Jonathan had lost his life because of his connections with this mysterious espionage. I knew that Claudine was delighted that David had no part in it. Amaryllis had told me so.
I often wondered whether Jonathan’s son, also named Jonathan, who was at this time living with the Pettigrews, was also involved.
However, my father’s interests did not absorb him so much that he could not pay a visit to the theatre and we had a glorious evening watching A Tale of Mystery which was not exactly new but was the first of the melodramas which had since become so popular. It had a wicked villain who the audience liked to pretend struck terror into them when he appeared; and although we laughed we could not help being caught up in the drama, particularly as it was accompanied by the most expressive music which rose in volume for the villain and played sweetly for the unsullied heroine.
When the play was over we all returned home and sat up late drinking hot chocolate and discussing the improbabilities of the plot, laughing heartily at the actions of the villain and the gullibility of the heroine; and admitting that we had enjoyed every moment of it.
The next day was Sunday. We had attended church and afterwards walked in the Park; and my mother said that the following day we really must come to a decision about the material for my dress.
There were callers in the morning and an invitation to dine a few days later.
“And after that,” my mother said, “we must think about getting home.”
“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that when we are at Eversleigh, a visit to London seems very desirable; and when we are here we think how nice it would be to get back.”
“Perhaps anticipation is more satisfying than actuality,” suggested Amaryllis.
“I think you may be right,” I agreed.
“It reminds us that we should enjoy everything as it comes along.”
“Amaryllis, if you are so wise at eighteen, you’ll be a veritable sage by the time you are thirty.”
The callers delayed our visit to the shops but my mother was determined that we should go, so about four o’clock we set out.
We examined bales of material—emerald greens and vivid scarlets, both of which my mother declared were my colours.
I had my mother’s dark hair, but alas, not her vivid blue eyes. Mine were deep set, black lashed but of a deep brown; and I needed strong colours to set them off.
She was determined that I must look my best and she spent a long time selecting the right shade.
It was while we were in the shop, sitting at the counter, that a young man ran in. He was breathless and could scarcely stammer out the important news.
“The Prime Minister… has been shot. He’s stone dead … there in the House of Commons.”
As we came through the streets we realized that the news had spread. People stood about in little groups talking in shocked whispers. The Prime Minister assassinated! Surely not! This could not happen in England. That sort of thing was for foreigners. Spencer Perceval the Prime Minister had not been exactly one of the popular figures in politics. He was no Pitt or Fox. He had been rather insignificant but was no longer so.
My father was not at home when we arrived there. I guessed he would be occupied for a few days, perhaps delaying our return to Eversleigh.
There was a hush throughout the capital. News began to seep out. The murderer had been captured. It had been no difficult task to catch him for he had made no attempt to escape.
He was mad, it was said, a fanatic. Some avowed that it was merely fate that it happened to be the Prime Minister who was shot. It could have been any politician. The madman had a grudge against the government, not against any particular person. The Prime Minister had just happened to be in a certain spot at a certain time.