She was biting her lips, trying to hold back the tears.
"My dearest Charlotte," said the King, 'he is our baby and we love him dearly, eh? But... we have the others...”
She nodded and the King took her hand and kept it in his. And after a while they rose and went to the room in which their child lay dying. George shut himself in his study. There was nothing he could do but wait.
He thought of little Alfred, so trusting, such a good baby. He had the innocence of a child who relies on his parents and has not yet learned how to plague them. The Prince of Wales was growing tired of Mrs. Robinson and she was giving him trouble. Threatening this and that. She would have to be paid off heavily. A lesson to him, eh? Serve him right. Teach him what such women are. It was never like that with Hannah. She had made no demands. Thank God he had not got himself into the sort of trouble which surrounded the Prince of Wales.
But his thoughts now were with little Alfred who had lived long enough to make them love him, so that his passing would be a bitter grief. He sat down and wrote to his chaplain, the Bishop of Worcester, because he found some relief in writing: "There is no probability and indeed, scarce a possibility, that my youngest child can survive the day. Knowing you are acquainted with the tender feelings of the Queen's heart, convinces me that you will be uneasy till apprised that she is calling the only solid assistant under affliction, religion, to her assistance.”
It was true. Charlotte was a religious woman and faith would carry her through this trial and all others. And he too must rely on religion. He needed help. Affairs of state were heavy on him. He would never forget those fearful days of the Gordon Riots. Gordon had been tried for treason last year and because of his very good advocate, had been acquitted. Thank God he had acted with promptitude over that affair, although he had been torn with doubts as to the advisability about calling out the soldiery to fire on the people. It was an example of how one must always do one's duty, however unpleasant.
The cares of his family weighed heavily upon him; he was never sure when he was going to hear of some fresh escapade of the Prince of Wales or his brothers. And now there was this illness of the youngest child which the doctors had told him would be fatal.
The doctors were right. Shortly after the King had written that letter to the Bishop of Worcester, little Alfred was dead. The King paced up and down his apartments. His head was aching, his thoughts were whirling.
"God will never fill my cup of sorrow so full that I cannot bear it, he whispered. "That's true. It must be true." But his mind was filled with doubts.
George's great happiness was with the younger members of his family. He preferred, he said, to hear nothing of the Prince of Wales, for he was very disappointed in that young man who seemed to be of the opinion that the manner in which the heir to the throne should spend his time was at boxing booths, race tracks and gaming houses and, in the company of the most immoral people.
A new Court was being raised about the Prince. It was a Court which, it was universally said, was what a Court should be. Who wanted a staid family establishment consisting of babies and dull domesticity? Who wanted a plain little queen who was rarely seen and didn't behave like a queen, although those who served her had little to say against her except that she was parsimonious within her household and behaved like some impoverished lady of the manor rather than the Queen of England? Who wanted a king who never gave balls and banquets; never rode among his people sparkling with gems; who never provided them with a scandal; and the only excitement he had given them was when he was ill some years ago and rumour had it that he had been mentally deranged?
No, the Prince of Wales had the look of royalty, the manner of royalty. Florid, handsome, already beginning to show signs of corpulence not unpleasant in the young, splendid, with the most perfect manners, with wit and a spirit of adventure! Already he had scandalized the Court over his affaire with Mrs. Robinson; and he could be seen driving a carriage with the pair of the finest horses up Richmond Hill on a sparkling morning to call on another lady love.
It will be different when the Prince of Wales is king, it was said. There would be extravagances; there were already debts, it was whispered, massive debts. But the Prince was worth it. There was nothing dull about the Prince of Wales.
But the King was perpetually anxious and that made his thoughts whirl and his head ache. When anyone came to him on a matter of importance his first thought was: does it concern the Prince of Wales? No, the King's happiness was with the little ones and he could scarcely bear to tear himself away from the heart of his family. What joy to see them in their little drawing room, curtseying, playing their music or listening to it. George had insisted that they all be taught to love music.
His favourite was the little Prince Octavius, perhaps because he was not so strong as the others; and, now that little Alfred was dead, he was the baby.
The family was at Windsor, which was even farther from St. James's than Kew, and George was glad to be there in the Queen's Lodge where there was such a happy family atmosphere. Waiting on the Queen was Elizabeth Pembroke, whom he had known since she was seventeen. He too had been seventeen at that time and had greatly admired her. He had been very sorry when her husband had run away with Kitty Hunter; he had wanted to comfort dear Elizabeth. Pembroke had returned to her and Kitty Hunter had married and faded out of the picture. Poor Elizabeth! Not a very happy life, George used to think. But one of the most beautiful and charming women he had ever known. He liked her to be there, part of the domestic background. She was still lovely and he always thought Charlotte looked particularly plain beside Elizabeth.
In the Queen's drawing room the children were gathered and there was Elizabeth waiting on Charlotte and that woman Schwellenburg 'with whom I could well do without', thought the King.
But poor Charlotte, he supposed, must have some say in the management of her own household.
So she kept her.
The Queen was saying: "I want Your Majesty to meet Mrs. Delany.”
An old lady was making her curtsey; she had bright intelligent eyes and was clearly very aware of the honour done to her, first to be received in the Queen's drawing room and then to be presented to the King. The King sat down and did Mrs. Delany the further honour of requesting her to sit with him. There was an air of goodness about the old lady which appealed to him. She had been brought to the Queen's notice by the Duchess of Portland who was very fond of her, and the Queen had received her on more than one occasion. She had on this day asked the Queen to accept one of her flower pieces, which she believed were quite original, and the Queen had graciously accepted it.
"Perhaps," said the Queen to one of her ladies, "His Majesty would like to see the specimen of Mrs. Delany's work which she has presented to me.”
"Your Majesty is most gracious," said the old lady. "I fear I was over-presumptuous in offering this lowly tribute of my humble duty and earnest gratitude.”
Charlotte, who had taken to the old lady, said that she found the work delightful. Here it was.
Would the King give his opinion? The King examined the specimen which consisted of pieces of coloured paper of all shapes stuck on to a plain piece of paper making a mosaic of delightful shapes and colours.
George was always interested in other people's work and the simpler it was the more it delighted him. He wanted to know how the work was done and insisted that Mrs. Delany explain to him in detail. There was nothing Mrs. Delany enjoyed more than talking of her work and Charlotte watched them benignly, listening to George's continual questions (Eh? What? What?) It was all soothing and natural, although she was always watching that he did not start to speak too rapidly.