Jean Plaidy - The Regent’s Daughter

He had never been quite like this before.

‘It is a relief to me,’ he said at length, ‘that your mother is out of the country. You must understand these matters now. You are no longer a child, Charlotte. We must be watchful of that boy of hers. While I am alive no harm can be done, but I sometimes think of what will happen to you, my dear, after my death.’

‘Oh, Papa,’ she said quickly, ‘do not speak of it.’

He pressed her hand and took out his handkerchief to wipe a tear which was not there. But again she had pleased him – and without guile too.

‘Alas,’ he said, ‘we must speak of unhappy things sometimes. I shall not be content – and I think of you, my daughter – until I have proved to the world the immorality of that woman. Perhaps you understand now, my child, why I have acted as I have in the past.’

‘Oh, Papa, dearest Papa!’

It was wonderful. They were in accord. He loved her after all. But she knew in her heart, of course, that he was only acting the part of devoted parent. But it served … for the moment. He cared enough to act for her as he had acted for others in the past.

She was weeping and as he never could resist giving an example of how that affecting habit could be best performed, he wept with her.

It was forgiveness. They were no longer enemies.

Life at Cranbourne Lodge changed. It was not now necessary for her to be continually watched; no longer need one of her women sleep in the next room with the door open; she could receive and write letters that were not submitted to rigid censorship.

She was in favour with her father.

Mercer came to see her, and they talked of Hesse, who had not returned her letters.

‘Mercer, what can I do?’

‘We did tell him that if he did not return the letters you would make a full confession to your father. Perhaps that is what you should do.’

Charlotte turned pale.

‘My dear Charlotte,’ said Mercer, ‘he has been in a similar scrape himself and now that he is trying to cultivate your affection is the time to confess.’

Charlotte thought about it. She was fully aware that something would have to be done about the Hesse affair; and she was beginning to wish she had not written such impassioned letters to F. How foolish she had been in the past. She was already beginning to forget F, for quite clearly he had not been serious. It seems very difficult, she thought, for a princess to find people who really love her.

One day during one of her father’s visits he mentioned the name of Hesse and before she realized it she had started to confess.

‘Papa, I have something to tell you. I need your help.’

He smiled warmly. He liked the new relationship with his daughter. It had all come about because that dreadful woman was no longer in England. He wanted Charlotte to understand this and he was constantly mentioning some vulgarity of Caroline’s; and Charlotte had lost that irritating habit of rushing to her defence.

‘Proceed,’ he said. ‘My help is yours as you know before you begin.’

So it was easy to tell him and she described it all: the first meeting with Hesse; her loneliness; his charm; and how Lady de Clifford had scolded her for being as she said too free with him; and how her mother had overheard the scolding and reprimanded Lady de Clifford. If her daughter wished for friendship with a handsome young man she should have it, said Caroline.

‘And Papa, she used to arrange that he should be there when I called; and she helped us to exchange letters.’

The Prince’s expression was grave. ‘My poor, poor child,’ he said, ‘in the hands of such a monster!’

Realizing how much easier it was to confess than she had dared hope, she told him of the occasion when her mother had locked them in the bedroom.

He covered his eyes with his hand.

Then he turned and embraced her. ‘My poor, poor child, what can I say? I did not think even she could be capable of such conduct.’

‘But I do not wish you to be angry with Captain Hesse, Father. He always treated me with the greatest respect, but God knows what would have happened to me if he had not.’

‘My dear child, it is Providence alone that has saved you.’

He then went on to talk about her mother – her eccentricities, her madness, her unsuitability to be the Princess of Wales.

‘Can you wonder, my child, that she revolts me?’

And Charlotte could say with sincerity: ‘No, Papa, I cannot.’

‘She is the most vulgar woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet … and think of my fate, child! They married her to me!’

‘Oh, my dearest Papa.’

So he embraced her. She was his child now. She agreed with him. She would learn to hate her mother as he did; and that was what he wanted.

In a way, she thought, it is the price he asks for his love.

But the Hesse affair could be settled now. An intimation from the Prince Regent’s secretary that he expected the return of his daughter’s letters brought an alarmed reply from the Captain that he had no such letters, that he had destroyed at the time of receiving them all those which were not already returned. He was informed that the Duke of York’s favour would be withdrawn from him if there was ever a hint of trouble on this score.

‘So the Hesse letters,’ said Mercer, who managed to get all such information through her various friends in high places, ‘need worry us no more. He couldn’t return what he hadn’t got and didn’t want to admit that he had destroyed them at the time of receiving them, which was not a very lover-like action.’

‘I begin to believe that men are not the romantic sex,’ said Charlotte, and she was thinking of Leopold.

Even the Queen’s manner had changed towards Charlotte now; she no longer treated her as a child but gave her a kind of sour and reluctant affection. The Old Girls were positively gushing; and it was quite clear that the period of penance was over.

The Regent told Charlotte that in view of the Hesse affair he thought it was time she was married and he wondered whether she would think again about Orange.

‘Papa,’ she said, ‘I would do anything you ask of me except marry Orange. That is something which I can never do. Pray do not press me.’

And he had the grace to be silent.

Then everything else was forgotten for Napoleon had escaped from Elba. News came that he had reached the Tuileries, that thousands of men were rallying to him with cries of ‘Vive I’ Empereur’, that Louis XVIII had left Paris and set up his court in Ghent, and the war was about to start again.

The Regent could think of nothing else. He had long conferences with Wellington. Excitement was in the air. Had last year’s celebrations been premature?

Then came the famous battle of Waterloo and the defeat of Napoleon who flattered the Regent by an appeal to him: ‘I ask for the hospitality of the British nation,’ he wrote. ‘I place myself under the protection of their laws which I claim from Your Royal Highness as the most powerful, the most constant and the most generous of my enemies.’

The Regent ignored the appeal and Napoleon was exiled to St Helena.

There was rejoicing throughout the country and the Regent believed, as he did at such times, that the people did not hate him quite so much as they had before.

WHEN THE EXCITEMENT was over the Regent began to think once more of his daughter. She must be married soon and he continued to hope for the Orange Alliance. It would be ideal, he reasoned with himself; a Protestant union, alliance with Holland, and the Princess necessarily spending some time in her husband’s country. If she were not here, might not his subjects forget a little of their animosity towards him because however much he was seen with his daughter in affectionate companionship they would persist in believing that he treated her badly.

‘My love,’ he said to her, ‘I think often of that most infamous business with Captain Hesse and how necessary it is for you to have a husband. I think it is something that should not be neglected.’

‘But how, Papa,’ she asked, ‘could my marriage affect it?’

‘If it became public knowledge, there would be scandals about you. Only marriage could prevent those scandals. I know one who would marry you at once. You know you did listen to slander about him.’

‘Not Orange, Papa.’

‘They poisoned your mind against him, you know.’

She was stubborn as he remembered her from the past.

‘Never, never will I marry Orange,’ she declared.

He sighed and patted her hand. In his new role it was necessary to be the indulgent parent.

He summoned Mercer to Carlton House and hoped that the flattery of a private tête-à-tête would influence her.

‘Come and sit beside me, my dear. How beautiful you are looking! I want to tell you how grateful I am to you for being such a good friend to Charlotte.’

Mercer blushed with pleasure; she remarked that Charlotte’s friendship was what she valued most in her life.

‘It is so comforting for a father to know,’ he said. ‘Your word carries great weight with her. That infamous affair with Hesse. I shudder to recall it and what might have happened but for the intervention of Providence.’

Mercer agreed solemnly.

‘It is necessary for Charlotte to marry to put an end to any gossip which might arise.’

Mercer looked puzzled.

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘Marriage is necessary and I should like to see her affianced to Orange again.’

‘Your Highness, she would never agree.’

‘Why should she not be persuaded, eh?’

He smiled at her, knowing how flattering it must be to be invited into a conspiracy with the Regent. But Mercer had her principles; she was not going to attempt to persuade Charlotte to something with which she did not agree, even at the risk of displeasing the Regent. Moreover she knew it was hopeless.

‘I am sure, Sir,’ she said, ‘that nothing I or anyone could say could possibly make the Princess change her mind. I know her to be adamant on this point.’

The Prince coolly began to talk of other things. He no longer seemed to find Mercer attractive.

Charlotte could not understand the change in the Queen. She seemed less harsh, but perhaps she was ill. She still went on in her dreary routine; she was still highly critical, but her manner had seemed to soften in some way. It was almost as though she were sorry for Charlotte. She criticized her manners which were decidedly not royal; she lectured her; but on one occasion she said: ‘Your father is eager for the Orange match,’ And as Charlotte shrank from her she went on: ‘Do not be persuaded, my child, to marry a man you do not like.’

Charlotte was startled.

‘One grows old,’ said the Queen as though talking to herself. ‘One learns lessons. One looks back and sees perhaps more clearly. Don’t marry anyone you don’t like. You could ask my help.’

Charlotte could not believe that she had heard correctly. But she was elated. The old Begum was with her in this; and if she was, so would her daughters be.

It was pleasant to visit Oatlands again. The Duchess’s menagerie had grown since Charlotte had last seen it. She had to become once more accustomed to the smell of animals and not be surprised to find a monkey perching on her shoulder.

She visited the pets’ cemetery and saw the new graves; she listened to the Duchess’s account of the ailments of this one and the death of that.

Then one day when the Duchess sat in her chair, a large cat lying against her feet and a dog on her lap, she said to Charlotte: ‘The Duke tells me that a certain young prince wants to ask your father for your hand in marriage.’

‘A certain young prince?’ asked Charlotte, alert. ‘What … who?’

‘I thought I would sound you and tell the Duke how you felt. I believe you met him once.’

‘Please tell me who he is.’

‘He came over here with the Russians. It’s Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.’

The Duchess, stroking the dog fondly, said: ‘I see that the suggestion is not repulsive to you. May I tell the Duke?’

His Serene Highness, Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, feeling cold and ill, left the boat at Dover and stepped into the waiting carriage. Ever since he had received the summons to come to England to ‘woo’ the Princess Charlotte he had been fighting his wretched physical condition. He remembered her so well. A bouncing exuberant young woman of great charm and some good looks which might be converted into real beauty with grace, poise and decorum. She had attracted him apart from the glittering prospects she could offer a prince whose future hopes without a grand marriage were scarcely promising.