Queen in Waiting - Plaidy Jean (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

George Augustus was trying to rival his father, trying to turn any devotion they might feel towards him to his son.

It was a bitter thing when there was strife between families. His own father had taught him that and by God it was true.

The Peregrine had been a fine sight when it had set out from The Hague with its escort of twenty ships. It was a little less splendid certainly after the rough storm they had encountered—and now here at Gravesend was this accursed fog.

When shall I return to Hanover? wondered the King.

The mist was already lifting and they could go ashore. The sun broke through and it promised to be a glorious day.

The bells were chiming; the guns had begun to boom a welcome. The people of England wanted to show him that although they might not be glad he had come, they preferred him to Catholic James.

It was the eighteenth day of September in the year 1714. Hanover had come to England and this was the end of the House of Stuart. At least it was to be hoped this was so, for who could say what the man whom many called James III was preparing to do even now. George wondered how many of these men who were bowing before him, welcoming him to their island, swearing allegiance to him, would if the Stuart were victorious, turn to him with the same loyal greetings.

George had few illusions.

There was Marlborough, all smiles and friendliness: a great soldier but a dangerous politician. George was well aware that Marlborough like the majority of these men was not to be trusted.

He received them noncommittally—Marlborough, Ormonde, Oxford, Harcourt. They would discover that he was not a man to be led by the nose. He might not speak their language but they should soon become acquainted with his desires for all that.

The King noticed the gracious smiles of his son as the people called a welcome. It was George Augustus who secured most of the limelight.

He must be watched, thought George. He must be kept in his place.

Greenwich Palace was very grand but the King was homesick for the Leine Schloss and Herrenhausen.

"Your Majesty," he was told. "If you would stand at the window with the Prince the people would be pleased."

He stood there—with George Augustus beside him. George Augustus was bowing, smiling, waving—most gracious, most affable. And the King saw that the people liked it, and that it was the Prince of Wales they cheered rather than the King.

On the river craft of all kinds were assembled; crowds jostled each other in the streets; every window was occupied; people shouted to each other; and it was clear that London was in a festive mood. Sellers of pies and ballads called to the crowds to buy what they had to sell. The coffee and chocolate houses were full to overflowing; so were the taverns and even the very select mug houses. Under the brilliant painted signs—Mother Red Cap, The Merry Maidens, The Blue Cockade—knots of people gathered to talk excitedly of what the coming of a new King would mean.

There were the Jacobites who muttered darkly and whispered that this was an evil day for England; but these were few compared with the Protestants who were relieved that a new King had been chosen who would be true to the Reformed Church of England.

But even they talked of Germans. A pity, they thought, that the Stuarts had turned to Catholicism. How much more comfortable if King James's son across the water had never become a Papist; then they would never have been obliged to bring in the Germans.

But today King George was making his entry into London and whatever had happened to bring him here, whatever would be the result was not to be thought of today. For this was a holiday, a day of pleasure; and every apprentice in the capital, every milkmaid, every merchant and his wife were going to see that a good time was enjoyed.

The Jacobites were the only ones who had been hoping for a

dismal day. They would have preferred to see the rain teeming down in torrents or a cold wind to drive the people off the streets. But fate was on the side of the Guelphs that day; and the sun shone brilliantly. It was a glorious, golden September day.

Coaches emblazoned with arms led the procession from Greenwich and the spectators had an opportunity of seeing representatives of all the noble families of England.

There were exclamations and shouts as the coaches trundled by; and breathless with excitement the spectators waited for that which they had come to see—the royal coach.

And there it was—its glass glittering in the sun and on the front seat the Duke of Northumberland and Lord Dorset; and inside—the new King and his son the Prince of Wales.

**So that's the King!" There was a titter of dismay. He was not exactly what they had expected. A man past fifty on whom the royal robes did not hang very becomingly; he had a rather sour expression and it was quickly noticed that although he bowed his head in acknowledgement of their cheers and put his hand on his heart as he did so as a token of his determination to be their very good King, he did not smile.

Beside him was a much more pleasant personality: The Prince of Wales. There was a young man, not exactly handsome, but with a pleasant expression and manner. He seemed to enjoy wearing his magnificent robes, and his gracious smiles showed that he liked the people too. Now there was a man who seemed glad to be in England.

**God bless the Prince of Wales! " cried a voice in the crowd and others took it up.

The young man placed his hand on his heart and bowed.

"Don't do that," said the King sharply.

"But..."

*'I said don't. It is for me to bow. You sit still and do noth-ing.

George Augustus's affable expression turned to one of hatred, but he quickly changed it knowing that he was watched.

"The Prince of Wales!" cried the crowd. He was delighted.

They liked him—not his father. This was triumph. They were accepting him as they never would his father. He wished Caroline were here to see him.

So he must not bow. Very well. He could do as much with a smile. They seemed to think so for they continued to shout for him.

The King noticed and his expression grew more grim.

I'm glad we came to England, thought George Augustus. England is the place for me.

He was already planning the Court he would have to rival that of his father; and the thought gave him much pleasure.

The royal coach passed on and in the cavalcade following it were the coaches in which rode the Hanoverian friends and servants whom the King had brought with him.

In one of these were two women—one very tall and thin, the other short and fat. They made a grotesque sight, the raddled cheeks of one painted scarlet, the purple ones of the other covered in white powder; the wig of one flaming red, the other jet black.

"Who are they?" was the cry; and the answer came promptly: "They are his mistresses."

This was the occasion for which they had been waiting. George had pleased them at last; he had given them something to laugh at and there was nothing they liked better.

"So that's how he likes them. What kind of man is this they have brought us from Germany?"

"Look at her. The Maypole, I mean ... not the Elephant! Though look at her tool Did you ever see the like?"

"Why did he bring those with him. Did he think we could not offer him better than that?"

The King's mistresses had their nicknames—the Maypole and the Elephant and because one was so tall and thin, the other so short and fat, they gave rise to ribaldry which went echoing through the crowds.

In the coffee houses the Jacobites reminded each other, and any who cared to listen, of the King's cruelty to his wife and how even at this time she was languishing in a prison to which he had confined her many years ago.