Jean Plaidy - The Prince and the Quakeress

Augusta yawned her way through the races; she was not as devoted to gambling as Fred was. Fred was fascinated by it; it was almost as important to him as women. So while she watched the races she was thinking of George and wondering whether they should consider finding a new tutor for him, for the boy must be made to understand that one day he would be King of England. He was such a good boy; there was no trace of wildness about him; yet he must learn to be a King.

The rain had started. Oh dear, now they would have to wait until it was over.

Bubb was fussily conducting them into the tent. It would soon be over, he said; and perhaps their Highnesses would like a game of cards to while away the time?

Fred declared that he fancied a game of whist but they needed a fourth, of course.

Bubb put his finger to his lips in that rather vulgar way of his and declared that His Highness could safely leave the finding of the fourth member of the party to him.

Fred sat down in the tent, yawning. ‘A pox on the rain,’ he said. Poor Fred, his conversation was obvious; small wonder that wags and wits thought him a little dull. Augusta was content with him the way he was, for she herself was not considered brilliant. She never raised her voice in contradiction to her husband, and from her first coming to England she had made it a point to agree with everything he said. That did not mean that she was not aware of what was going on about her, that she did not see Fred’s failings. The fact that she had so successfully hidden her own ambitions during the years she had lived in England might suggest that she was by no means stupid. She had seen Queen Caroline appear to bow down to her husband’s wishes; she had seen her meekly accept humiliations from the King; but everyone except the King had known that it was she who ruled the country. She, Augusta, had dutifully hated her mother-in-law because her husband did, but that did not mean that she could not admire her and imitate her as far as her own abilities would allow her. So while she echoed Fred’s words she could be thinking that Fred was ineffectual, that he was a little dull and that if he were not the Prince of Wales he would have been a nonentity.

And then Bubb came into the tent with Lord Bute.

There are moments in one’s life when the whole pattern of one’s existence can change. Augusta recognized this as one.

As soon as he entered the tent she was immediately aware of the shortcomings of all other men. Frederick seemed inane as he never had before and Bubb more vulgar than ever.

‘May I present Lord Bute to Your Highnesses?’

She was very ready to be presented. Surely, she thought, he is the most handsome man at Court. Why have I never seen him before? If he had been there, I must have noticed him. Who could fail to do so?

He was tall and his dignity was overwhelming. How much more kingly than Frederick! His manner was grave yet courteous; respectful yet admiring; and he had the finest pair of legs she had ever seen.

‘Lord Bute,’ she said, ‘I am surprised that we have not met before.’

‘I have only recently come to London, Your Highness.’

She knew whence he had come. His accent betrayed him. Surely it must be one of the most charming of accents. She had never thought it so before. Like all the family she had hated everything from beyond the Border, that stronghold of the Jacobites, for Scotsmen had never taken kindly to the Hanoverians. The recent’45 had started up there, and it was they who had harboured their Bonnie Prince Charlie. But Lord Bute was not of that kind. She was sure of it. He would be loyal to the crown. Bubb would never have brought him into the tent if that were not so.

‘You’re welcome,’ Fred told him. ‘Come now, Bubb, the cards.’

‘Your Highness.’ While fussy Bubb produced the cards and dealt, Augusta watched the newcomer’s strong hands. His calm expression betrayed nothing. She refused to admit to herself that she was unduly excited. An interesting man, she thought, whose conversation would surely have been more diverting than the cards.

They talked between games.

He had come down to London, he said, soon after the’45. He had felt that he no longer desired to stay in Scotland after that.

‘Perhaps you should remain there to guard our interests,’ she suggested gaily.

‘There is no need for that, Madam,’ he replied gravely. ‘The Battle of Culloden showed the Pretender what happens to those who threaten the throne.’

‘I see you are a loyal Scotsman.’

He took her hand and kissed it. It was very courteous and gallant and very bold, but they were in a tent and it was an informal occasion. Never had she felt so informal in so short a space of time.

Frederick wanted to get on with the game and was raising the stakes. Bubb was his reckless self and Augusta noticed that while Lord Bute did not betray any anxiety he played cautiously so as not to lose. How wise!

She waited for the game to finish, that conversation might be resumed. Then Lord Bute mentioned the theatre and it emerged that he was very fond of the play and since he had come to London it had been his great hobby to organize masquerades in his own house where he had insisted that all his relations join him and form a company to perform for their own pleasure.

Now Fred was interested. What plays? Lord Bute explained. Nothing was too comic, nothing too tragic. He himself was actor-producer and stage-manager. Even Frederick had laid aside the cards now; Augusta was leaning forward, her cheeks flushed. A fascinating subject made doubly so by such a fascinating talker.

‘You could be useful in our productions,’ Augusta pointed out. ‘I am sure the Prince will agree with me on that.’

The Prince did.

‘The Prince will wish you to visit us and see our theatre at Cliveden.’

The Prince thought that an excellent idea.

It turned out that Lord Bute had lived for nine years on the Island of Bute where he had amused himself studying agriculture, botany and architecture, which, Augusta declared, sounded quite absorbing. The Prince thought so, too. Only Bubb was a little bored but he never liked them to show too much interest in other people, being afraid that he might be ousted from the Prince’s favour.

Augusta sat back in her chair listening to Lord Bute’s musical voice with the accent which had suddenly become so attractive, and the sound of rain pattering on the tent. Such a pleasant sound she would think it ever after. She hoped it would go on because when the rain stopped this pleasant tête-à-tête was likely to do the same.

But the elements were favourable and although Bubb went to the door of the tent and scowled up at the darkening skies, the rain persisted.

So in that tent she learned the background of this most fascinating man. He was thirty-four years old – six years younger than Fred – and had been born in Edinburgh. He was his father’s elder son and his mother had been the daughter of the Duke of Argyll. He had come south to Eton for his education and while there had met that gossip Horace Walpole; eleven years before this meeting in the tent he had married the daughter of Edward and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Augusta, who was conscious of such aspects, immediately thought that he would have married a pretty fortune there. His wife and family were in London now with him; and he had been driven to the races in a carriage which he had hired from his apothecary.

It was a stroke of good fortune, he remarked, that he had come and been so honoured as to have been invited into the tent.

Augusta was delighted to note that Fred was as interested in Lord Bute as she was – perhaps not quite so much, but then Fred was superficial by nature.

She believed that he, like herself, was a little dismayed when Bubb announced that the rain had stopped and they could now start on the homeward journey.

Lord Bute took his leave.

‘The Prince will wish you to call on us at Cliveden,’ Augusta reminded him; and Fred endorsed this.

Never, declared Lord Bute, had he received a command which gave him more pleasure.

‘We shall look for you… soon,’ Augusta reminded him.

He bowed.

‘And where is your apothecary with his carriage?’

‘Madam, he left an hour ago. That was the arrangement we made as he had business to which he must attend.’

‘And what shall you do now?’

‘Find a means of getting back to London.’

‘My lord!’ She was looking at Fred who was never one to fail in hospitality.

He was laughing. ‘We invited you to Cliveden, my lord,’ he said. ‘There’s no time like the present.’

What a pleasant journey. The rain had freshened the countryside, bringing out the sweet scents of the earth as they rode along, Lord Bute entertaining them on such subjects as architecture, botany and agriculture which had suddenly become quite fascinating.

But Frederick soon led him back to the theatre and that was the most interesting topic of all.

And so they came to Cliveden. What a pleasant day! thought Augusta, looking at the tall handsome Scotsman – and all due to the rain!

GEORGE WAS IN the schoolroom with his brother Edward. He was dreaming idly as he often did when he should be studying. He knew it was wrong; he knew he should work hard, but lessons were so tiring, and try as he might he could not grasp what his tutors were talking about. He was watching the door, hoping his father would come in, breezy and affectionate, with a new idea for a play, for George preferred acting to learning lessons. Mathematics were a bore, but history had become more interesting because his mother was constantly reminding him that he, too, would one day be a King, and this brought the aspirations of Henry VII, the villainies, in which he did not altogether believe, of Richard III, the murders of Henry VIII and the tragedy of Charles I nearer home. These men were his ancestors; he could not forget that.

But the lessons he really cared for were those of the flute and harpsichord. Edward enjoyed them, too. And their father was anxious that they should have such lessons; even that old ogre, their grandfather the King, loved music. This love was inherent, and it was said that they had brought it with them from Germany. Handel had been the very dear friend of several of his relations. George was not surprised.

Unfortunately lessons other than music had to be learned, and they were not so congenial.

‘Some persons agreed to give sixpence each to a waterman for carrying them from London to Gravesend, but with this condition: that for every other person taken in by the way threepence should be abated in their joint fare. Now the waterman took in three more than a fourth part of the number of the first passengers, in consideration of which he took of them but fivepence each. How many passengers were there at first?’

Oh dear, sighed George. This is most complicated.

Edward scowled at it and demanded to know why the future King should have to worry about such matters. Was he ever likely to travel in such a way, and if he did would he be so foolish as to make such a bargain with a waterman?

George explained painstakingly that it was not an indication that they should ever have to face such a problem in real life. It was a lesson in mathematics.

At which Edward laughed at him. ‘My dear brother, did you think I didn’t know that?’ Whereupon George’s prominent blue eyes were mildly sad and his usually pink cheeks flushed to a deep shade.

George was a simpleton, thought Edward. But at least he would work out the problem and tell Edward the answer, no matter how long it took him to do it. It was his duty to try to learn, George believed; and he would always do his duty.

George had hoped his father would come to the nursery accompanied by Lord Bute, the tall Scots nobleman who had become part of the household.

George shared the family’s enthusiasm for Lord Bute, who was always so kind and understanding to a boy such as he was. He explained everything in such a way that George never felt he was stupid not to have grasped it first time. His father was kind but sometimes impatient with him, and now and then laughed at his slowness, comparing him with Edward, who was so much brighter. It was not done unkindly, but in a bantering affectionate way; yet it disconcerted George and made him fumble more. Lord Bute seemed to understand this. He never bantered; he was affectionate and kind and… helpful. That was it. Whenever Lord Bute was near him, George felt safe.