The Regent's Daughter: (Georgian Series), page 6
It had all been a mistake, a terrible mistake, he had declared. He had wept; he had knelt. She was his true wife; he demanded she do her duty and return to him; if she did not he would publish the truth. The whole of England should know that she was his true wife and that creature … that coarse vulgar German hausfrau … could go back to Brunswick. Maria had been shocked, for she saw the purpose in his eye and she knew him capable of the most impulsive actions.
‘And your little daughter, the Princess Charlotte?’
‘She can take the child with her, for if I am not married to her mother what is her position here?’
Maria was shocked. ‘That innocent child! Your own daughter!’
‘I have no room in my heart for anyone but you.’
‘What a pity you did not remember that before you allowed them to bring the Princess Caroline to England.’
But what was the use? He was determined; and because she loved him, she knew she would give in in the end. But she had insisted on being treated with the dignity of a wife; and had sent to Rome for the Pope’s verdict on whether or not that ceremony which had taken place in her house at Park Street was valid. The answer had come back from Rome that it was; she had returned to the Prince and for a time they had been idyllically happy.
But knowing it was not in his nature to be faithful to one woman she was always aware that such happiness could not last. He was the lover of all women, as Sheridan had said, so how could he be the lover of one? Maria was however sure that she was supreme in his affections, and however much he might stray, he wanted her there all the time. She was his ‘dear love’, his ‘soul’s wife’, as he was fond of telling her.
Yet she could not rely on him. Was that why she clung to Minney? Did she believe deep in her heart that if ever the Prince left her she would turn to this lovely child whom she looked on as her own? But now they were threatening to take Minney from her. It was one of the greatest sorrows of her life that she had had three husbands and no children.
The Seymours had been Maria’s particular friends and in fact Lord Hugh had expressed his disapproval of the Prince’s public marriage to Caroline of Brunswick so strongly that the Prince had been annoyed by his criticism and had cut him ever since. But the friendship between Maria and Lady Horatia was very deep and it had been a cause of great grief to Maria to see Horatia growing weaker and weaker and to know that her friend was suffering from galloping consumption and had no hope of recovery. Lord Hugh had arranged to take his wife to Madeira for the winter as soon as their child was born.
Little Mary Seymour (Minney) was born on a bleak November day at Brompton. Maria arrived soon afterwards to see her friend and the new baby, and as soon as she took little Mary into her arms she loved her, but like her parents she was alarmed by the child’s frailty.
What a momentous day that was in her life – and although she was so anxious on account of Horatia, how could she be anything but grateful for the turn of fate which brought her Minney.
Horatia had already borne seven children, two of whom were girls, and Maria had often envied her her large family; so when it was discovered that the new baby was not strong, it was decided that she must certainly not undertake the journey which was essential to her mother’s health, but must be left behind with someone who would care for her.
The first person Horatia had thought of was her friend Maria Fitzherbert; she wrote to her telling her of her dilemma and Maria’s response had been immediate. Her dear Horatia must not think of postponing her trip; Maria would take any of the children into her house and they should be cared for until Horatia’s return.
Maria had been in Bath at the time but had set out at once for Portsmouth where the Seymours were staying. There she saw the frail little Mary and took her tenderly into her arms.
‘This is my child until your return, Horatia,’ she had said.
‘I know you, Maria. You will worry yourself to death over her. Perhaps it would be better for her to go with some of my relations who have several children. They won’t be alarmed at any little ailment – and I believe she will have many.’
‘Horatia, you are not going to take her from me now.’
Horatia smiled. ‘You know there is no one with whom I would rather leave my child. I am thinking of you.’
‘Then the matter is settled. Little Mary is my baby until your return.’
Of course Horatia was relieved; and so was Hugh.
‘God bless you, Maria,’ he said. ‘I know we shall sleep more peacefully now we know that the baby is in your hands.’
So Maria took little Mary and in a very short time loved her as tenderly as though she were her own child.
For two years Horatia remained in Madeira and her health improved a little so that she made up her mind that she would return to England, as she was eager to have all her children with her. Maria, glad as she was to see her friend, was desolate at the thought of parting with Mary who had now christened herself Minney; but before Horatia could put her plan into action she died; and a few weeks later Lord Hugh, who had remained in Madeira, also died, leaving little Minney an orphan.
When Lord Hugh’s will was read, it was found that provision had been made for the guardianship of all the children except Minney who had been born after he had made the will. It was however ruled that Lord Hugh had intended the same arrangement to apply to his youngest child and Lady Waldegrave, Horatia’s sister, immediately offered to take Minney.
Maria, horrified at losing the child, begged to be allowed to keep her a little longer. She pointed out that Minney was too young to be taken from one whom she had come to regard as her mother, and the executors, headed by Lord Henry Seymour, agreed that Minney should stay with Maria for a further year before she was passed on to Lady Waldegrave.
Maria’s great hope during that year’s respite was to win the consent of Minney’s family to keep the child. The Prince of Wales, who, since Maria regarded Minney as her daughter, sentimentally wished to share in the parentage, petted the child, played games with her and in every way possible took on the role of affectionate father.
‘If,’ Maria used to say to Miss Pigot, ‘I could only be assured that I was not going to lose Minney, I should be perfectly happy.’
If this and if that! thought Miss Pigot. Why did there always have to be an If?
But she put her faith in the Prince of Wales. He clearly wished the child to remain with Maria, so surely her family would not go against him.
But Lord Henry Seymour was a very determined man. Lady Waldegrave wanted the child and she was her aunt. Maria for all her dignity and respectability was after all in the eyes of the State the mistress of the Prince of Wales. Lord Henry was going to insist on justice being done. The year was drawing to a close; little Mary should go to her aunt.
Minney, realizing the controversy which was raging about her and having some inkling that it was to separate her from Maria, was frightened. She followed Maria wherever she went and could not bear her to be out of her sight: This seemed particularly pathetic to Maria and she was determined to fight.
When she told the Prince of her fear he went into battle on her behalf like the chivalrous knight he liked to believe himself to be.
‘You shall not lose Minney, my dearest love. I shall see to that.’
His chamberlain wrote to Lord Henry that His Royal Highness had decided to settle £10,000 on Miss Mary Seymour provided she was left in the care of Mrs Fitzherbert.
With great delight he took a copy of the letter to show Maria. And what joy it gave him to witness her pleasure. ‘My dearest love, what is £10,000? I would give the whole world for your happiness and that of our dear Minney.’
But Lord Henry was not to be lured by money. He wanted justice. Mary belonged to the Seymours and the Seymours would take over the care for her. Mary, he pointed out, would have enough money of her own; she did not need His Highness’s generous gift.
Maria was now in despair. She had never liked Lady Waldegrave, for the woman was one of those who had refused to accept her as the Prince’s wife; she knew what would happen if Minney went to her; it would be final separation.
Seeing her unhappiness, the Prince declared that he would not allow this to happen. Minney was Maria’s child; Maria had looked after her since her birth; to take her away now would be a tragedy, not only for Maria but for Minney. He would not stand by and see this done.
‘But what can we do?’ asked Maria. ‘It is true they are her legal guardians. Oh, why did I not foresee this? If Hugh and Horatia had known what would happen they would have taken steps to make Minney my child.’
The Prince disliked being frustrated and such an issue as this was one which strongly appealed to him. Now he would show Maria how she could rely on him. He was going to win Minney for her; he was going to show her his devotion to his little family.
He consulted Samuel Romilly, a brilliant young lawyer who suggested that there could be a way out of the difficulty since the will was made before Mary was born, but shortly afterwards the obstinate Lord Henry had employed a lawyer to work for him and the tiresome case of Fitzherbert against Seymour had begun.
Maria could think of nothing else, as with the custom of such affairs the case dragged on.
One point which had been brought out was the fact that Maria was a Catholic and the Seymours were Protestants. Was their child, given into the care of an undoubted Catholic, to be brought up in that religion? Maria had retorted that she firmly believed that a child should be brought up in the religion of its parents. Mary Seymour had had no instruction in the Catholic faith from her and the child should be brought up in the Church of England until she was able to decide for herself.
This matter of religion was undoubtedly one of the main reasons why the Master in Chancery came to the decision that the rightful guardians of Mary Seymour were her own family and although Maria Fitzherbert had brought her up from babyhood, since the child’s own family were demanding her, justice insisted that to them she should go.
When this news was brought to Maria she was desolate. The Prince arrived at the house in Tilney Street to find Minney in tears, clutching Maria and sobbing, declaring that she was never going to leave her.
This was more than he could endure.
‘I tell you they have not won yet. Do you think I am going to allow them to? Henry Seymour is an arrogant dog. He wants to show me that he can flout me. By God, he knows my feelings on this matter. I’ve already seen Romilly. We’re going to take this to the House of Lords.’
Maria lifted her grateful eyes to his. She was fearful because there was justice in the verdict though it ignored human feelings, but she loved Minney as a daughter and Minney loved her as a mother; it was cruel – though perhaps just – to tear them apart. But could the Prince of Wales divert justice?
He believed he could. He was astonished that the Seymours should have gone against his wishes. He would not forget that.
And now while she sipped tea on the balcony of her house on the Steyne and Minney sat with her, she was asking herself what hope there was that the case would go her way and that her dearest wish would be granted.
If I lost Minney, she thought, I should never be happy again. Even the Prince’s love and devotion – and when she thought of that she was a little uneasy although he had shown himself assiduous in his care for her since the case started – could not make up for that.
I want them both, she thought, with me for ever.
And at that moment he appeared on the balcony. He must have stood there for some seconds before they had been aware of him.
She turned and gave a cry of joy. The sight of him never failed to delight her. He was indeed a sparkling figure exquisitely dressed, glittering and scented. He bowed to Maria, his eyes twinkling with love and pleasure. It was the bow for which he was noted and which never failed to impress all who beheld it. It was the essence of grace and charm and it always implied that the pleasure he found in the company of the person to whom he was making it was the reason for its grace.
‘My dearest love …’ His voice was soft and musical.
‘Such a great pleasure, my dearest.’
Minney cried: ‘Prinney!’ And there was no ceremony then. She flew at him and gave a little jump at which he lifted her and she put her arms about his neck. ‘You smell so lovely this morning, Prinney. And this is a beautiful new neckcloth.’
‘I designed it with help from Brummell.’
‘Oh, it is soft!’ She buried her face in it. Maria watched them affectionately. If only Minney were their own child; if only there did not have to be this fearful battle, this tragic uncertainty.
He put Minney down and she brought his chair forward and when he sat, placed herself between him and Maria. She took his hand and examined the rings.
‘Such lovely things he always has, does he not, Mamma? I could look at him for ever even if he were not my dear Prinney.’
He sat back in his chair, eyes glazed with sentiment. ‘Dearest Minney, so you are a little fond of your old Prinney then?’
‘Old?’ said Minney. ‘I had never thought that you could be old … or young … or anything.’
‘So you see, Maria, Minney has placed me among the immortals. I cannot grow old although it seems I have never been young.’
‘Are you going to sing for us?’ asked Minney.
‘Here on your Mamma’s balcony? Do you want to collect a crowd?’
‘Yes, I do. No, I don’t, because then you will have to be on duty and bowing and smiling to them, instead of talking to me. We’ll sing when we are in the drawing room.’
‘Minney has spoken,’ said the Prince.
Why, Maria asked herself, could he not be on those easy terms with his own daughter? Poor Charlotte! She was sorry for the child; and she was a charming creature, too. Perhaps in the presence of the Prince she was gauche and uncertain. Who could wonder at that, considering the state of affairs between their parents?
What ironic problems life presented! Charlotte – an heiress to the throne – separated from her mother and with a father who could not love her because she reminded him of her mother. And her own sad problem – dear Minney who was her child and not her child.
Minney left them after a while as she always did, knowing that the Prince had come to see Maria and would no doubt wish to talk to her.
‘Minney grows more enchanting every day,’ he said when the child had gone.
‘Which makes it all the harder if …’
‘We are going to win, never fear,’ he replied lightheartedly.
‘Oh, if only I could believe that.’
‘My dearest, I have sworn we shall have Minney. Do you think that I would not keep my word?’
She smiled at him fondly, but his words scarcely comforted her. How many times had he betrayed her trust in him. She thought of the infidelities; it was not marriage with Charlotte’s mother which had brought about their painful separation but his infatuation for Lady Jersey. He had once been completely under the spell of that woman whom he now could not bear, sufficiently involved with her to desert Maria. True, he had come back to her, but after such a shock, how could one help wondering when the next would come? So she could only smile at him when he asked her if she could not trust his word.
‘Lord Henry seems so determined. And I know Lady Waldegrave has never been a friend of mine. They are going to do everything they can to take Minney away from me.’
‘Don’t despair. I shall think of something.’
‘I have thought of something,’ said Maria. ‘Lord Henry gives himself airs, but he is not the head of the family. Lord Hertford is that, and he has so far kept out of the affair. I wonder if I called on Lady Hertford and asked her to speak to her husband, it would help.’
‘An excellent idea. And I will let them know my wishes. I fancy you have hit on the solution, Maria, my love. We’ll go over that insolent fellow’s head and speak to Hertford.’
Maria’s spirits rose at the prospect; she wondered why she had not thought of it before.
‘I shall call on her tomorrow,’ she said.
‘And when you have called, I will send for Hertford to come and see me. I am sure of success now, my love.’
He was smiling, wishing to talk of pleasant things. How well she knew him. He never wanted to discuss that which was unpleasant. He began to tell her about Brummell’s new invention to the trouser leg.
‘It is cut at the sides, Maria, and closed by the most exquisite buttons and buttonholes you ever saw. As Brummell says, this gives great scope and he has many ideas for buttons.’
Maria had never liked Brummell; she considered him arrogant and he presumed on the Prince’s friendship she believed; and what had the fellow ever done but become the dandy to outdo all other dandies? But the Prince’s interest in clothes had drawn them together and he was often in Brummell’s company.
He went on to talk of the way in which Brooks’s Club had deteriorated.
‘It’s since Fox went.’ His eyes filled with tears. Fox had had more influence on him than any other man. He had died only recently and since his death the Prince had become even more devoted to him. ‘The wit is not there … how could it be without the incomparable Fox? Sherry is getting old, too. Stab me, that son of his, Tom Sheridan, has the most lovely wife I ever saw – apart from you, Maria. I said when I saw her: “By God, there’s only one woman who excels Tom Sheridan’s wife and that’s my own Fitzherbert.”’
‘You see me with the eyes of affection.’
He was delighted with the remark, his comfort restored.
‘Well, I admit to it, but you are still the most beautiful woman in London to me.’ He sighed. ‘You still look the same as when I first saw you along the river bank. Do you remember, Maria? That was long ago. There have been changes since. Poor Fox gone. Brooks’s is not the same without him. The conversation is dull and so is the food. Beefsteaks and leg of lamb, boiled fowls with oyster sauce. I’ve asked my chef Watier to found a new club and that is exactly what he is going to do.’
