The Prince and the Quakeress - Plaidy Jean (книги полностью бесплатно TXT) 📗

This was a rigorous timetable and one which was not closely adhered to. It was typical of Frederick that having drawn up a list of stern rules he could feel he had done his duty, and when he decided that a game of tennis or cricket would be good for the boys, or it was time they performed another play, he happily interrupted the curriculum he had so carefully arranged.

At this time he introduced Francis, Lord North, into the royal nursery to take charge of his sons.

One bright March day George, with some of the family, went to watch his father at tennis. It was a most exciting game but it was brought to an abrupt end when one of the balls struck Frederick in the eye. There was immediate consternation. In dismay Augusta hurried to her husband, and George stood staring, not knowing what to do. But in a short while Frederick was telling them that it was all right. ‘Just the shock of the moment,’ he said.

However, he did not want to continue with the game, and went to his apartments to lie down for a while.

Augusta accompanied him, and Lord Bute took Frederick’s place on the tennis court.

• • •

That blow from a tennis ball seemed to affect Frederick adversely. In the first place he developed an abscess and he was so low in health that he had a bad attack of pleurisy. From this he recovered and was well enough to go to the House of Lords. It was a cold day and hot inside the chamber; when he returned to Carlton House he changed into lighter garments and lay down to rest on a couch in a room which opened on to the gardens. As a result he caught a fresh cold, and this undermined his health still further. The abscess flared up again and he declared himself to be in great pain.

He was taken to Leicester House and there Augusta called in the doctors. The Prince was suffering from the abscess, they said; and he had a touch of pleurisy; they expected he would recover shortly.

Frederick seemed contented to have Augusta beside him, but he whispered to her that he was uneasy about George.

‘George!’ cried Augusta. ‘He is well.’

‘He is young,’ replied Frederick, ‘and my father is an old man.’

Augusta cried out: ‘Do not speak so. It will be many years before George comes to the throne.’

But Frederick was obsessed by a premonition that it would not be long.

He said: ‘I have a paper for George. It is in my desk. I wish you to give it to him if I should be unable to do so myself.’

‘But of course you will give it to him.’

But Frederick shook his head. ‘You have been a good wife to me,’ he said. ‘Bute will advise you.’

He saw the tender smile touch her lips and he was pleased. He had not been faithful to her. Let her find some consolation if she could. It had occurred to him lately that there was a great deal in Augusta which neither he nor others appreciated. Perhaps Bute did. She was not the gullible fool many believed her to be.

‘The paper for George is in my desk,’ he said, and even as he spoke a spasm of pain crossed his face.

‘Augusta,’ he said, ‘send for Desnoyer...I’d like him to play a little for me. He has a way with a violin which pleases me.’

Augusta sent for the children’s music master and when the man came Frederick smiled at him and bade him play.

In the Prince’s bedchamber the candles guttered; the Prince lay back on his pillows, his face drawn and yellow; Augusta watched, telling herself he would soon recover. It is a good sign that he asked for the music. In the shadows the doctors waited: Wilmot, Taylor and Leigh, with Hawkins the surgeon—some of the best medical men in the country.

He’ll soon be well, thought Augusta, soon taking ‘little walks in the alleys’ with Lady Middlesex while she herself enjoyed one of those stimulating and most delightful sessions with Lord Bute.

The Prince began to cough; the violin stopped; the doctors were at the bedside.

Frederick put his hands on his heart and said: ‘I feel death close.’

Augusta rose in her chair and snatched up a candle.

‘My God,’ cried Wilmot, ‘the Prince is going.’

As Augusta held the candle high and looked at her husband, she saw the glazed look in his eyes as he sank back on the pillows.

He lay still; she stood staring aghast, and it was some time before the numbing realization came to her that she was a widow.

• • •

There was gloom in Leicester House. Everyone was shocked. Frederick was only forty-four years of age. His father was still alive and looked as if he were good for a few more years. And Frederick was dead. His eldest son was but a boy—thirteen years old. Who would have believed this possible, seeing Frederick on the tennis court, acting in plays, fishing with his children, sporting with his mistresses. It was incredible

The Princess Augusta remained stunned. She would not move from her husband’s bedside. She sat in her chair there and no persuasion could move her. It was as though she believed that by remaining there she could by the very force of her desire to bring him back breathe some life into him.

‘Frederick...’ she murmured, from time to time. ‘It can’t be...You must be here. What will become of us...of George, the children...of me?’

In the background of her mind was that grim shadow, that old ogre, the King. Who would protect her from him now? What would he decide to do? What if he determined to take the care of the children out of her hands! This was like a nightmare.

She covered her face with her hands, hoping that when she uncovered it she would see Fred lying there in bed smiling at her, telling her she had had a bad dream-.

But there he was, still, unlike himself. Oh, the honor of looking at the dead face of a loved one! The terrible realization that he will never speak again, that he has gone out of this life forever!

‘No, Fred...no!’

She felt the child move within her...Fred’s child. In four months’ time that child would be horn. Only five months before this man had begotten the child and now he was dc

And the future? It was dark and menacing.

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. She turned sharply. Lord Bute was looking down at her, tenderly, lovingly.

‘Your Highness will make yourself ill,’ he said.

She shook her head and placed her hand rapidly over the one which lay on her shoulder. Hastily she removed it. One must be careful. The very thought of the need for care started to lift her out of her misery. John was here, dear John Stuart, Earl of Bute.

She rose and with him left the death-chamber.

• • •

George walked up and down trying to fight back his tears. It was easier walking, he found; if he threw himself on to his bed he would break into wild sobbing; and he must remember that to give way to his grief would be childish.

Dear kind Papa was gone! He could not realize it. He had known Papa was ill; he had been present when the tennis bail had hit him and that had started the tragic business. But to die...never to see him again! It was more than he could bear. This was the first real sorrow. His father had died in pain, and he could not bear the thought of people in pain. When two workmen had fallen from the scaffolding at Kew he had been overcome with horror and had been affected for days. But this was his own dear Papa.

What would become of him, what would become of them all?

His grief was overpowering; there was nothing but his grief.

Then it was invaded suddenly by another emotion—one of stark terror.

Now that his father was dead he, George William Frederick, was Prince of Wales.

• • •

The King came to Leicester House, setting aside enmity at such a time.

The children were summoned to his presence and he stared at them all, but chiefly at George. He was a terrifying old man—little, it was true, but with a red face and prominent blue eyes, and he spoke in broken English.