In any case, Charlotte was glad to have her, and when she was unable to be with Mercer, Notte made a good substitute.

Now riding in the carriage to Carlton House she was delighted to have Miss Knight beside her. It put the Regent in a good mood to see his daughter in such capable hands and Charlotte herself was pleased because dear old Notte was becoming so fond of her. She was always anxious that Charlotte should enjoy life as much as possible.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Charlotte. ‘I do hope Papa will like my feathers.’

‘It is more important that he should like you,’ Cornelia reminded her, and it might have been Mercer speaking, Charlotte noted delightedly.

‘But the Prince Regent cares so much for the right costume that his affections could be swayed by such considerations, don’t you think?’

Miss Knight was not going to be drawn into that.

‘I’m glad you came and not Leeds,’ went on Charlotte. ‘How I wish I could be rid of her. As for her odious daughter – I hate the child. I’m sure she listens at doors. She is always prowling around at night. Little beast! One of these days I shall let my lady Catherine know what I think of her.’

‘Do remember when you sit down not to expose your undergarments.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘My drawers – or rather the showing of them – always caused poor Cliffy such concern. Don’t you start worrying about them, dear Notte.’

‘People watch. They talk of these things.’

‘I’m continually spied on. If it is not the odious Catherine creeping round corners, it’s people.’

‘The penalty of royalty.’

‘I’ve been discovering the penalties all my life. Soon I hope to enjoy the privileges. Oh dear, I wonder if Devonshire will be there tonight.’

‘Your fondness for the Duke of Devonshire has been noticed.’

‘Well, he is rather charming. Not handsome, I grant you, but very pleasant to be with.’

‘Your Highness should be careful.’

‘People notice,’ mimicked Charlotte. ‘Let them. I am after all the heiress to the throne. Why shouldn’t I be with people I like!’

‘Your father would not wish you to be too friendly with the Duke.’

‘Why not? He was once friendly with his mother. Not now, of course. My father is almost a Tory now. What a turncoat!’

The manner in which Miss Knight set her lips conveyed that this was a subject she did not wish to discuss, and when she looked like that nothing could shift her. Charlotte smiled. Cornelia became more and more her dear Notte every day and grew less and less like her father’s Chevalier. Cornelia was going to be her devoted friend, not his. It was strange how everything seemed to turn itself into a battle between them.

Here they were at Carlton House. The Prince was waiting to greet her and the people who had gathered to see the arrival of the ton had loud cheers for the Princess Charlotte in her feathers.

Back at Warwick House Charlotte decided it had been a disappointing evening in spite of the feathers. The Duke of Devonshire had not been present. He had been unwell, she had heard. Was this the truth or had he been informed that his presence would not be welcome? One could never be sure and if people were beginning to notice that she liked him and it reached her father’s ears it was very possible that the Duke had received a hint to keep away. What a bore to be royal! All the fun one had must be enjoyed surreptitiously.

So the ball had been dull in spite of the presence of a number of French exiles and her father’s being particularly gracious to her. ‘Now that you are seventeen,’ he had said, ‘there must be more such balls.’ She hoped her demeanour and deportment had pleased him. It had appeared to – but one never knew. He had probably been warned by his ministers that it would be wise to show that his relationship with his daughter was amicable.

She yawned as Louisa removed the feathers.

‘Tired,’ soothed Louisa, ‘after all that dancing?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘It’s tiring if you don’t dance with those with whom you want to dance.’

‘Any special one?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘I confess to an interest in Devonshire. He’s not good-looking but I like him all the same. And he likes me, too. But perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s just because he feels he must.’

‘Of course he likes you. He couldn’t help it.’

‘Louisa, I believe that if I were a foundling who had been left at your door – the child of a fish porter and a flower girl – you would still love me.’

‘Of course I would.’

‘You are a comforting creature,’ declared Charlotte and on that note of satisfaction retired to bed.

She was dozing when she heard the sound of light creeping footsteps. Someone was coming along the corridor. Charlotte snatched up a wrap and leaped out of bed. Now that she was fully awake she guessed who the intruder was because she had found Catherine Osborne wandering about at night before. I thought I heard Your Highness call,’ she would say if caught. ‘I thought Your Highness wanted something.’ Sly creature! What did she expect to find? What did she hope to find?

There was a certain amount of gossip about Hesse and Fitzclarence and now Devonshire … Could she really think …?

Charlotte flushed scarlet at the thought.

The door was slowly pushed open and Catherine Osborne looked in.

‘Your Highness!’ she was startled and Charlotte smiled grimly.

‘What’s wrong, Lady Catherine? You look as if you expected to find someone different from myself in my bedroom.’

‘I … thought Your Highness called.’

‘Indeed I did not.’

‘It must have been someone … or perhaps I dreamed it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Charlotte tersely. Lady Catherine’s eyes wandered about the room. Did she expect to see Devonshire lurking in a cupboard, Fitzclarence crouching behind the curtains or Captain Hesse under the bed? How the sly creature would have enjoyed reporting something like that to her Mamma.

‘Well, Lady Catherine, having satisfied yourself that I did not summon you and your hearing is at fault or you are the victim of a nightmare, you may escort me to the water closet.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

The creature was looking complacent. She thought she had cleverly extricated herself from a delicate situation.

Charlotte took her arm and led her along the corridor which was cold and draughty, but not as cold as the water closet. Having reached this, Charlotte gave Lady Catherine a little push and sending her in shut the door on her. Lady Catherine gasped as she heard Charlotte turn the lock from outside.

Charlotte went back to her room. And that, she thought, will teach my lady Catherine not to prowl at night.

After half an hour she would go and release her. She did not want the silly girl to die of cold – only to teach her that the Princess Charlotte would not tolerate spies in her own household.

The Princess of Wales had decided, with the backing of Brougham and Whitbread, that this was the time for action. Charlotte was at variance with her father over this matter of her household; the spate of comment in the newspapers was growing; and the Prince was more unpopular than ever. As for herself she was treated shamefully both by her husband and the Queen who never invited her to her Drawing Rooms or any State occasion and who had taken the care of her daughter out of her hands.

Brougham had drafted a letter of complaint which she was to send to the Prince of Wales at the appropriate moment: and that moment had come.

She read the letter through. ‘This will make him take notice,’ she murmured, and smiled to herself. She was ready to go to any lengths to get her darling Charlotte back. It was wicked to keep a mother from her daughter. Occasional visits were not good enough; she wanted to have Charlotte constantly under her roof; she wanted them to be seen together. And why not? It was what the people expected. She had heard that when Charlotte drove out in her carriage the cry of ‘Don’t forget your mother! Cherish and love your mother!’ had been shouted more than once.

That fat coxcomb she had married must be grinding his teeth in rage. They didn’t say ‘Cherish your father’, did they? Oh, it was easy to see whose side the people were on, and princes – be they prince regents and all but kings – had to consider the people.

What a letter! Laboriously she copied Brougham’s close writing.

I should continue, in silence and retirement, to lead the life which has been prescribed for me and console myself for that loss of society and those domestic comforts to which I have so long been a stranger …

She chuckled, thinking of life at Blackheath, Connaught House and the apartments in Kensington where she received her friends. Far more interesting than Carlton House and the Pavilion! Amusing people came to her parties … unshockable, witty, unconventional. But that was not the point. In this letter she was a woman complaining of her miserable and unnatural state and stressing her willingness to accept it but for one consideration: her daughter.

But, sir, there are considerations of a higher nature than any in regard to my own happiness which render this address a duty to myself and my daughter. May I venture to say – a duty also to my husband and the people committed to his care. There is a point beyond which a guiltless woman cannot with safety carry her forbearance …

She laughed. Brougham could certainly write. She imagined the Prince reading this missive. The anger, the irritation, the fury … but he would applaud the style and of course know it was not hers which was all to the good. He would know clever people were supporting her.

She went on writing. He would have to notice this. If not, she would publish it. That would be a good idea. Then there would be trouble. Wait until the people read this letter which they would think she had composed herself and which showed her so clearly as the wronged wife and the heartbroken mother.

… the separation which every succeeding month is made wider, of the mother and daughter, is equally injurious to my character and her education. I say nothing of the deep wounds which so cruel an arrangement inflicts upon my feelings, though I would fain hope that few persons will be found of a disposition to think lightly of these. To see myself cut off from one of the few domestic enjoyments left me – certainly the only one upon which I set any value, the society of my child – involves me in such misery as I well know Your Highness could never inflict on me if you were aware of its bitterness. Our intercourse has been gradually diminishing. A single interview weekly seemed sufficiently hard allowance for a mother’s affection … that, however, was reduced to our meeting once a fortnight; and I now learn that even this most rigorous interdiction is to be still more rigidly enforced …

She was enjoying this. Brougham was making her aware of emotions she had never understood. Of course, she told herself, I wanted my daughter with me. What a dear little baby she was and all my own then … for a time … a little time. Then they took her from me. I wasn’t good enough to bring up a future Queen of England even though she might be my own child.

She went on writing in the same strain, stressing her wrongs and the theme of that letter was: Consider a mother’s feelings and do not separate her from her child.

When she had finished it she sealed it and despatched it to Lords Eldon and Liverpool with the request that they should lay it before the Prince of Wales.

She laughed at the thought of his receiving it. He would pick it up as though it were infected with the smallpox, that expression of disgust on his face because he would be thinking of her.

In her bedroom she took a small figure from a drawer. She set it up against a looking-glass and laughed at it. The likeness was good – the portly figure, the well-shaped calves, the pert nose and the pouting lips. It was the Regent to the life – and exquisitely dressed of course with a necktie worn high up to his chin; the coat was of the finest velvet; even the breeches were of buckskin.

Caroline picked up a pin and thrust it into the figure where his heart would have been. The heads of several pins were visible in this spot.

‘At least,’ she said aloud, ‘it relieves the feelings. Take that, my fat prince. And that … and that …’

She laughed so much that Willie came in to see what was the matter.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you’re playing the pin game again, Mamma.’

She picked him up and gave him loud kisses all over his face to which he submitted resignedly. He was accustomed to these outbursts of affection.