Jean Plaidy - Perdita’s Prince

Mr Fox persuaded the Prince of Wales to allow her to remain in the house in Cork Street until some other arrangement could be made. That was a great comfort.

And now there was this terrifying man, Hotham, who wanted to know the extent of her debts and how many of the letters there were and to see some of them (but not to let them out of the house, said Mr Fox) and with whom she could never have bargained, if Mr Fox had not been in the background telling her exactly what to do.

There came a day when Hotham arrived, stern and disapproving and not even glancing at her as though she were some ordinary woman and not one of the most beautiful in London.

‘I have an ultimatum from His Majesty, Mrs Robinson,’ he told her. ‘You will be paid five thousand pounds and on accepting this you will hand to me the bond given to you by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales in addition to the letters he wrote to you and this will be an end to the matter.’

‘My debts alone amount to seven thousand pounds,’ she told him.

‘This, Madam, is no concern of His Majesty nor the Prince of Wales.’

‘But indeed it is. The debts were incurred for the Prince’s pleasure; and for this also I gave up a lucrative career.’

‘The King’s last words are five thousand pounds or, Madam, I fear you may publish the letters and take the consequences.’

‘I will take the consequences.’

‘They will hardly bring credit to you, Madam, I assure you. If you are wise you will take this money, sign these papers and hand me the bond and the letters.’

‘I will consider this,’ said Perdita. ‘Call back tomorrow.’

* * *

Mr Fox came to Cork Street. He embraced her with passion. The consummation could not be long delayed. Mr Fox very clearly showed that he had worked indefatigably on her behalf and that her gratitude was the natural course of events.

She told him of Hotham’s ultimatum.

‘Five thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘Not a bad figure.’

‘But he promised twenty thousand pounds.’

‘I told you to put the thought of the bond out of your beautiful head. It’s practically worthless. The five thousand pounds is for the letters. I think we shall have to consider this very closely.’

He gave the impression that if he stayed the night they could discuss it at greater length. He would have more time for working out a satisfactory conclusion, for although they must not say no to the £5000, they should make it a bargaining point towards a solution.

‘What solution?’ Perdita wanted to know.

Mr Fox said he had no doubt he could work that out.

They had a pleasant supper. Perdita was excited, for she reminded herself that he was an unusual man, and there was nothing to be lost by being his friend. Perhaps if they became more and more friendly she would give him a hint about changing his linen more frequently and bathing now and then.

‘You’re thoughtful,’ he said.

‘I was thinking of the future … when this terrible anxiety is no more.’

‘Our future?’ asked Mr Fox.

And then he began to talk of what he envisaged as his future. England was going to lose America and this would bring down the Government. Then those who had deplored the way affairs had been conducted would come into their own. Mr Fox would doubtless lead a new ministry.

Perdita saw herself queening it in a salon in which she would receive all the most important people in the country. It was a wonderful dream. She saw herself in velvet and feathers. Society’s leading hostess. The Prime Minister’s dearest friend and adviser. Had she really stepped down when she lost the favour of the Prince?

She toasted the future with Fox. For the first time since the Prince had deserted her she was really happy.

And everything depended on this man who was clearly going to be her lover.

* * *

In the morning a gratified Mr Fox had the solution. She would surrender the bond and letters on these terms: her debts were to be added to those of the Prince (which were so enormous that hers would not make much difference in any case) and paid by the Treasury; instead of the £5000 she would accept a pension of £500 a year for the rest of her life and on her death her daughter was to receive £250 per annum until the end of her life. To these terms and these only would she agree.

Mr Fox was a wonderful man.

She was not surprised that he was so universally admired.

The King wrote to Lord North:

I am sorry to be obliged to open a subject to Lord North that has long given me much pain, but I can rather do it on paper than in conversation; it is a subject to which I know he is not quite ignorant. My eldest son got last year into a very improper connection with an actress and woman of indifferent character through the assistance of Lord Malden and a multitude of letters passed which she has threatened to publish unless he, in short, bought them off her. He has made very foolish promises which undoubtedly by her conduct to him she entirely cancelled. I have thought it right to authorize the getting them from her and have employed Lieutenant-Colonel Hotham on whose discretion I could depend to manage this business. He has now brought it to a conclusion and has her consent to get these letters on her receiving £5000, undoubtedly an enormous sum. But I wish to get my son out of this shameful scrape.

The King sat back and put his hand over his eyes. Memories came to him. Hannah would never have attempted to blackmail him. Hannah had been a good woman. Why should he be reminded by this ‘scrape’ of his son’s of that episode in his life?

But he was and the last few days Hannah had begun to haunt him as she had years ago.

He was weary. This continual conflict among the ministers; Fox standing threateningly with the opposition; the family – Frederick in Germany, William at sea. Were they going to confront him with similar episodes like this?

There was no peace …

‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown …’

Didn’t that fellow Shakespeare say something like that? Not that he admired the poet. Too much fuss made of him and he had always said so; but now and then he would say something which was true – and by God, he had when he said that.

What sort of a king would young George make when his time came? It was years away. He himself was not old. It was the Prince who made him feel old. He was in his early forties. That was not old.

And yet somewhere at the back of his mind there was an uneasy feeling, a foreboding of disaster.

There had been a time when a mysterious illness had overcome him, changing him while he was in its grip. It had terrified the Queen so much that she never spoke of it. But he had seen her looking at him oddly sometimes when he became too excited.

It was nothing. It would pass. It was just at times like this … times of great anxiety when his head started to buzz with strange voices and ideas darted in and out of his mind and escaped before he could catch them.

How dared his son add to his troubles! As if he had not enough.

But George was young yet. He had to learn his lessons, and what of himself? Had he lived so blamelessly?

He picked up his pen and added to the letter he had just written to Lord North:

I am happy at being able to say that I never was personally engaged in such a transaction which perhaps makes me feel this the stronger.

* * *

Mr Fox’s arguments carried weight and Perdita’s terms were accepted.

She was happy. She was no longer bothered by her creditors. The Prince would take on her debts. She could live in Cork Street until other plans could be made; she had an unusual lover, and the whole world knew it. She could still ride out in her carriage and people stopped to stare at her.

‘Mrs Robinson has quickly found a new protector in Charles James Fox,’ they said.

When the Prince heard that his old love was Fox’s mistress he was very amused.

‘Why, Charles,’ he cried, ‘if you have done me the honour of taking on my mistress, I have done the same by you, for I believe you were once on very friendly terms with Mrs Armistead.’

It was amusing, said Mr Fox; and more than that, most convenient.

But when he returned to his lodgings in St James’s he thought of Mrs Armistead and he was surprised that he had not enjoyed hearing the Prince discuss her as though she were a woman of the town, lightly to be exchanged from one man’s bed to another.

Yet he had felt no such resentment at the mention of Perdita in the same connection.

He had known from the start that he was quickly going to tire of Perdita. She had little to offer him but her beauty. She was undoubtedly a pretty creature and she had a certain slender talent both for acting and writing. She liked to read her poems to him – sentimental stuff, but a pleasant enough jingle.

Thinking that the day would come when his sojourns at Cork Street would be less frequent he had taken some of her poetry along to various newspapers with whose proprietors he was on excellent terms.

As a result poems were appearing now and then under the name of Tabitha Bramble and the little money they earned was greatly appreciated by Mrs Mary Robinson.

Poor Perdita, thought Fox. So soon to be deserted again. Well, at least I arranged that she should have five hundred a year and see her poems profitably in print.

Not poor Perdita. Lucky Perdita. There were many who would be eager to supplant the Prince and Mr Fox.

PERDITA WAS SAD to lose the companionship of Mr Fox, but he eluded her so skilfully and so gradually that she scarcely realized he had gone.

Even when their relationship was at its closest, there were so many matters to which he must give his attention and Perdita had made up her mind that she would make no demands on him. Therefore she never reproached him when he did not appear. He had done so much that she must be grateful to him for ever. She would never forget the horror of the debtors’ prison from which with a few deft arrangements he had delivered her. He had brought interesting people to her house; and he had allowed her to play the hostess as she had dreamed of doing.

Among the guests had come one of the most interesting men she had ever met. This was General Banastre Tarleton who had just returned from the most exciting adventures in America. He entertained the company with accounts of his exploits and at that time everyone was talking about the Colonies.

In fact it was because of them that Charles absented himself so often; great disasters meant great opportunities; and perhaps she had always known that Charles would rather lose a mistress than an opportunity.

Banastre Tarleton was so gallant. He told her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met; and it was perfectly clear that he was only waiting for Charles to move out before he moved in. It seemed a delicate touch which she would have expected of Banastre. He understood that she was not the sort of loose woman who would have more than one lover at a time.

So although she had not been able to have the political salon of which she had dreamed, there was something comforting about a soldier’s return from the wars, And when Charles was no longer her lover she slipped gracefully and happily into the protective arms of her soldier lover.

* * *

Fox often rode out to Chertsey to Mrs Armistead’s comfortable little residence. He found it very pleasant to sit in her garden or at her fireside whichever the season warranted, and talk to her. She had kept herself informed of politics and he was astonished at her insight. Not that she was inclined to put forward an opinion unless asked. She preferred to listen.

He could talk to her about the worsening situation which he saw developing.

The King and North he said would be remembered by future generations with contempt. It was their policies and nothing else which had lost the American Colonies – for lost they were whatever these two blind dodderers might think.

‘He thinks Cornwallis will beat Lafayette and that he’ll link up with Clinton and together they’ll fight the main force under Washington. My dear Lizzie, it is easy to win battles in an armchair.’

‘How can they be so foolish as not to beg you to take charge of affairs.’