Jean Plaidy - Perdita’s Prince

‘And … Your Highness Prince Frederick. This is a happy day for me.’

‘We are pleased to have an opportunity of speaking with you, Uncle,’ said the Prince warmly.

‘I knew you would be. I trust this will be no isolated meeting. The Duchess and I have talked of you often … with tears in our eyes. We feel for you so much … my dear, dear nephew.’

Uncle Cumberland was determined to be friendly and the Prince had been right when he had said he was susceptible and ready to accept friendship when offered. Uncle Cumberland had quarrelled with the King and the Prince could well understand that, for his uncle represented the great exciting world outside the royal nurseries. He was implying by his words, his looks and his manner that he felt the Princes were badly treated by the King; they were shut away from the world, treated like children. What could be more humiliating to young men of seventeen and sixteen.

‘We hope you will do us the great honour of allowing us to entertain you sometime. There are men … and women …’ Just a little avuncular leer suggesting the delight this could be. ‘… charming men, beautiful women … witty, worldly … who long to make your acquaintance. They have caught glimpses of you now and then … in public places, and been enchanted. But it is not enough, nephews, it is not enough. Why at Drury Lane … where Sheridan’s School for Scandal has been playing to packed houses … there is the most delightful little play actress I ever set eyes on. Mrs Robinson is the most beautiful woman in London and London abounds with beautiful women. You should be meeting the world. It’s a shame to keep such charm … such elegance shut away at Kew. What a coat! What cut! What shoe buckles! I swear I never saw the like … Why Your Highness is the leader of the ton … and shut away at Kew. I have said too much. Why, nephews, I fear I am the most indiscreet man you ever met. But I let my concern for you run away with my tongue … and my pleasure too … my deep, deep pleasure in this encounter.’

The Duke of Cumberland touched his eye with the corner of his lace kerchief and the Prince of Wales was a little affected too.

‘Well, I must not delay you. We are being watched. This will mayhap be reported. I shall be in even greater disgrace. But it’s a sad world when a loving uncle cannot have a word with his two handsome nephews. Adieu, my dear, dear boys.’

‘Let us rather say au revoir,’ replied the Prince.

Cumberland kissed first George’s hand, then Frederick’s; and went back to his coach.

The Prince’s eyes were shining as they rode on.

‘Why,’ he demanded, ‘should we be kept shut away? Our uncle is right. We should be out in the world. We should not be living like children. I tell you this, Fred, I’ll not endure it much longer. The day is fast approaching when I shall demand my freedom. And when I have my rights I shall visit our uncle. It was most affecting, was it not? Why should he be kept from us merely because he fell in love with a woman.’

‘Lady Grosvenor was a married woman.’

‘Ah, love!’ sighed the Prince. ‘How can we be sure where it will appear. Is one supposed to wait for it to come suitably … as our father did with our mother. I hear our uncle’s wife is a most fascinating woman, Fred. I should like to meet her.’

‘It will never be permitted.’

The Prince pressed his horse into a canter.

‘All that, Fred,’ he prophesied, ‘will shortly be changed. You will see.’

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, twenty-eight years old, witty, brilliant and the most successful playwright in London and manager of the Drury Theatre, was on his way to Buckingham House for an audience with the King. He knew what this meant: a royal command performance, always good for business. He was well aware that it was no use offering The School for Scandal. He laughed inwardly, thinking of some of the epigrammatical gems of that piece, of the screen scene, of his adorable but rather naughty Lady Teazle, and imagining the reception this would get from humourless George and Charlotte.

He was going to offer them The Winter’s Tale. It would have to be Shakespeare although he knew full well that the King found the great playwright dull: Still, his subjects expected him to see Shakespeare. Shakespeare was respectable, which seemed a little odd to Sheridan as some of the lines came into his mind – but Shakespeare had his place in the literature of the land and his poetry made up for his bawdiness. Any of the Restoration plays with their cynical approach to marriage would be definitely unsuitable for the King.

Arrived at Buckingham House Sheridan was conducted to the King’s apartments and in a very short time was granted an audience.

‘Mr Sheridan, it is good of you to come.’ The King was always considerate to his subjects and behaved with an absence of arrogance. The epithet homely was apt.

‘At Your Majesty’s pleasure,’ replied Sheridan with a courtly bow.

‘You will have guessed why I asked you to come, Mr Sheridan, eh, what?’ Sheridan was about to speak for one did not realize when first in the King’s company that the queries were merely rhetorical. The King went on without a pause: ‘We are thinking of coming to the theatre … the Queen and myself in the company of the Prince of Wales.’

In the company of the Prince of Wales! Sheridan felt excited. This would indeed be an occasion.

‘Drury Lane will be honoured, Sir.’

The King looked pleased. He enjoyed doing good turns and he knew how these theatre people liked a command performance. They were rare. He preferred the opera and a good concert; but it was his duty to see a play now and then.

‘The point is,’ said the King, ‘what will be played for us? It should be something in … er … good taste, eh, what?’

‘The utmost good taste, Sir.’

The King looked quizzically at Mr Sheridan. He had heard that this young man was a little wild in his habits. There had been some elopement, he believed; though why he should have heard these bits of gossip about a theatre manager he could not imagine. Except of course that Mr Sheridan had taken the town by storm with that play of his. It was his wife of course. One of the finest singers in the country. Mrs Sheridan made Mr Sheridan more respectable in the royal eyes.

‘Well,’ said the King, ‘what would you suggest, Mr Sheridan?’

‘Has your Majesty decided on Shakespeare?’

The King looked scornful. ‘Sad stuff … most of it,’ he said. ‘Eh? What?’ Mr Sheridan was pleased not to answer. The King went on: ‘But the people of this country seem to have made a god of the fellow. Mustn’t say a word against him. He’s perfect, so they tell me. I don’t see it, Mr Sheridan. I don’t see it.’

‘Then, sir …’ Sheridan’s eyes were alight with hope. Why not? Mrs Abington would have to play Lady Teazle of course. And what a player! And Mary Robinson … dear, exquisite Mary Robinson would be Maria … as they were before. Mary would want to play Lady Teazle … but she wasn’t up to the part really … lovely as she was to look at; and for all her cruderies Abington was an actress to her fingertips whereas Mary owed her success to that incomparable beauty. Incomparable but not quite. His own Elizabeth, the wife with whom he had eloped … had perhaps a greater beauty than Mary Robinson’s, but more ethereal. Elizabeth? Mary? Elizabeth would always be first but Mary was so alluring; and a man whose career necessarily brought him into the company of so many desirable women could not be expected to remain faithful to his wife even though she were delightful, understanding, virtuous … in fact all that a wife should be. Elizabeth would understand his weaknesses. But his thoughts were straying. A royal command performance for The School. It would be the crowning triumph and what fun to watch the royal disapproval of the wit … though would they grasp it? What would prim George and dull Charlotte make of the wittiest play in London? How amusing to discover.

The King had interrupted: ‘Yes it must be Shakespeare, Mr Sheridan. The people expect it of us.’

Sheridan sighed. ‘I believe Your Majesty does not greatly care for tragedy, so I will not suggest Macbeth.’

‘Can’t stand the stuff. People killing each other all over the stage, eh, what? I call that even worse than the rest of the fellow’s plays, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Then Your Majesty would perhaps care to see The Winter’s Tale. A charming story of virtue rewarded, Sir. And we have a very good production of this play. It is a favourite of mine, if Your Majesty would allow me to express my opinion. It is a play for the family, Sir. One could take one’s children and not be dismayed.’

‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘The Winter’s Tale. I remember it. A silly story, but as you say nothing to offend.’

‘I have an excellent actress in the part of Perdita, Your Majesty. She has been delighting my audiences for some little time and I am sure will please you.’

The King grunted, implying that he was not interested in actresses. But the voices in his head were telling him that he would enjoy seeing this beauty perform.

She made quite a name for herself as Juliet, Your Majesty; and since then has been a favourite of the public.’

‘Good. Then let it be The Winter’s Tale, Mr Sheridan.’

‘Sir, the players will be enchanted … and a little nervous, I dare swear. I shall take the first opportunity of letting them know the honour that awaits them.’

The King smiled, in a good humour. He liked giving pleasure and discussing the visit of his family to the play was more comforting than those interviews with his ministers.

* * *

Sheridan went back to his house in Great Queen Street … that house which was far more expensive than he could afford. But he was by nature reckless and extravagant.

He went straight to the drawing room for he knew that he would find Elizabeth there at the harpsichord. She invariably was because it was essential for her to do a great many hours practice a day. She was reckoned by the musical world to have one of the most enchanting voices of all time.

He was right. She was there; and she rose at once to greet him, coming forward her arms outstretched. Even now her beauty struck him afresh and he had to stifle a feeling of shame for the infidelities he had practised since their marriage. Not that she would not understand. Not that she would ever withdraw the comfort of her serene presence. Elizabeth was a saint – and how could a man like Richard Sheridan live up to the high ideals of a saint?

‘Elizabeth my love.’ He kissed her hands; he did not have to feign affection; it was there, rising up, swamping all other emotions temporarily whenever he saw her. ‘What do you think? I have just come from the presence of His Majesty, King George III.’

‘A royal command performance?’

‘You have guessed rightly, my dear.’

She drew him on to the sofa and said: ‘Come, tell me all about it.’ Her lovely face was framed by soft dark hair, the sweet mouth and the lovely long-lashed eyes under delicate but beautifully arched brows, glowed with interest.

Sheridan then gave an imitation of his interview with the King, exaggerating it, mocking both himself and the monarch so that Elizabeth laughed immoderately and begged him to stop.

‘The outcome of this historic interview is, my love, that we are to play The Winter’s Tale for the royal family. And the Prince of Wales himself will be present.’

‘This is a sign that the Prince will be seen more frequently in public.’

‘Papa holds the knife that will cut the apron strings. It is poised, but the cut has not yet been made.’

‘I am sorry for His Majesty. He is so good, really, Richard.’

‘Alas for the good! They suffer so much. Unfair of fate is it not? It’s the wicked who should suffer.’

He looked at her wistfully and she understood; but she smiled brightly. She would not show him that she often wondered where he was when not at home; that she trembled when she saw the accounts which came too frequently to Great Queen Street. She did not reproach him for those gambling debts which sucked up most of the profits from Drury Lane. But she was constantly worried about money.

‘Well, my love,’ he said, ‘this should bring in the cash. You know what a help these performances are. Everyone will want to see The Winter’s Tale because the royal family did. And, by God, we need the money.’