The Prince and the Quakeress - Plaidy Jean (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация TXT) 📗
Listening intently, Mr. Pitt permitted himself a slow smile of triumph.
• • •
In the streets the people were still rejoicing. The old man was dead, and in his place was a young and handsome boy, who had been born and bred in England—a real Englishman this time, said the people. This was an end of the Germans.
There was feasting in the eating houses and drinking in taverns and dancing round the bonfires in the streets. They knew what this meant. A coronation; that meant a holiday and a real chance to celebrate. And then there’d be a marriage, for the King was a young man and would need a wife.
This was a change, when for so long the only excitements had been the victory parades. It was stimulating to sing Rule Britannia, but wars meant something besides victories. They meant taxation, and men lost to the battle. But a coronation, a royal wedding...they were good fun. Dancing, singing, drinking...free wine doubtless...and sly jokes about the young married pair.
Now the people had their King they wanted a bride for him.
Pitt was congratulating himself over the matter of the speech. Bute would be an encumbrance; they would have to deal tactfully with him, but they would manage.
It was a shock when the day after George had been proclaimed King at Savile House, Charing Cross, Temple Bar, Cheapside and the Royal Exchange, to learn that the new King’s first act was to appoint his brother Edward and Lord Bute Privy Councillors.
‘There will be trouble,’ said Pitt. ‘Bute is going to make a bid for power. But I can handle him. The only thing I fear is that the King, through that fool Bute, will try to interfere with my conduct of the war.’
The war! It was Pitt’s chief concern. As long as everything went well on the battle-front, as long as he could succeed in his plans for building an Empire, events at home could take care of themselves.
• • •
At seven o’clock in the evening of a dark November day George II was buried in Henry VII’s chapel at Westminster.
The chamber was hung with purple, and silver lamps had been placed at intervals to disperse the gloom. Under a canopy of purple velvet stood the coffin. Six silver chandeliers had been placed about it and the effect was impressive.
The procession to the chapel was accompanied by muffled drums and fifes and the bells tolled continuously. The horse-guards wore crepe sashes and as their horses slowly walked through the crowds their riders drew their sabres and a hush fell on all those who watched.
Perhaps the most sincere mourner was William, Duke of Cumberland. He was in a sad state himself, for soon after he had lost the command of the army he had had a stroke of the palsy which had affected his features. Newcastle was beside him—a contrast with his plump figure and ruddy good looks. He was pretending to be deeply affected, but was in fact considering what effect the King’s very obvious devotion to Lord Bute was going to have on his career.
He wept ostentatiously—or pretended to—and as soon as he entered the Chapel groped his way to one of the stalls, implying that he was overcome by his grief; but he was soon watching the people through his quizzing glass to see who had come, until feeling the chill of the chapel he began to fret that he might catch cold.
‘The cold strikes right through one’s feet,’ he whispered to Pitt who was beside him.
Pitt did not answer; he was thinking how unfortunate it was that the old King had not lived a year or so longer to give him the security of tenure he needed. But it was absurd to fear; no one could oust Pitt from his position. Whatever Bute said the King would realize the impossibility of that. The people would never allow it for one thing. No, he had nothing to fear.
There was the young King, looking almost handsome in candle light. Tall and upstanding, and that open countenance which was appealing. The King was honest enough, there was no denying that. The point was how much had that mother of his and her paramour got him under their thumbs?
The King was thinking: Poor Grandfather! So this is the end to all your posturings and pretence and all your anger. You will never be angry with me again, never hit me as you did in Hampton.
I will do everything you wished. I have heard that burned your father’s will and that he burned his wife’s, but I shall carry out your wishes to the letter. Lady Yarmouth shall have what you wished her to. I want to be a good King, Grandfather. Perhaps you did too. But you cared too much for Germany, and a King of England’s first care should be England.
Poor Uncle William! How ill he looked. It was sad when one recalled his coming to the nursery in the old days and talking about the ‘45. That was the highlight of his life, poor Uncle William; that terrible battle of Culloden had been his glory. And then he had lost his power and after that his illness had come, and now—although he was not very old when compared with his father the dead King—he was a very sick man. Yet he stood erect, indifferent to his own disabilities, and if one did not see how distorted his face was, which was possible in this dim candle-light, he looked a fine figure of a man in his long black cloak, the train of which must be all of five yards long.
The Duke of Newcastle was bustling about. Dear Lord Bute was right. That man was a fool and no use to them at all. If only he could be as sure that they should rid themselves of Mr. Pitt! There stood Newcastle, crying one moment, looking round to bow to someone the next, shivering with cold and whispering that he would be the next one they were burying, for there was no place more likely for catching one’s death than at a funeral, and the Chapel of Henry VII must be the coldest place on Earth.
George saw Newcastle surreptitiously step on to his uncle’s long cloak in order, the King supposed, to preserve his feet from the chill of the chapel.
Then his uncle was bemused as to what was restricting him and turning found it was the burly Duke standing on his train.
And at last the late King’s coffin was placed where he had wished it to be—beside that of his Queen, that, he had said, they might lie side by side forever.
George hoped that his grandfather was happy wherever he was. His wishes had been carried out and he was laid to rest beside the wife whom he had bullied during his lifetime, to whom he had been constantly unfaithful, but whom he had loved next best to himself.
‘I shall hope,’ prayed George, ‘to be a better King than my grandfather and when I marry to be truly faithful to my wife for the rest of my life.’
Marriage was a pleasant thought, for even in this sombre chapel he could not think of it without thinking also of the dazzling beauty of Lady Sarah Lennox.
• • •
George scrupulously carried out the last King’s wishes. It was surprising that George II had left only ?30,000 when he had always been so careful. This he had declared was to be shared between his three surviving children—Cumberland and his two sisters. Cumberland agreed to forego his share to the advantage of his sisters for he was a generous man and rich enough, he declared. For Lady Yarmouth there was an envelope in the King’s bureau which was found to contain ?6,000 in banknotes.
George made a point of seeing that these fell into her hands and added ?2,000 of his own.
The King’s honesty was noted and doubly admired when his grandfather’s lack of it was remembered, for it was recalled how George II had destroyed his father’s will. Everyone applauded it, and none more than Mr. Pitt.
If the King would put himself into his minister’s hands there would be nothing to fear. Mr. Pitt would like to see the King presiding over social occasions; he would like to hear the people cheering their young Monarch. Rut he wanted to make sure that the young Sovereign did not interfere with the conduct of the country’s affairs.
