The Prince and the Quakeress - Plaidy Jean - Страница 51

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‘Yes, I see that. I must do my duty. That at least is left to me.’

‘A high and noble destiny. You will find it will be your consolation, your solace. Allow me to investigate this matter and in a day or so we will go to Islington to see the Reverend Zachary Brooke.’

• • •

The Reverend Zachary Brooke received his distinguished guests with many expressions of respect, and it was clear that, in spite of Lord Bute’s comments, he was aware who his visitors were.

‘It is no use attempting to hide our identity,’ said Lord Bute, smiling at the Prince. ‘Your face has become too well known.’

The Reverend Zachary Brooke declared that it was his pleasure and duty to serve his future King in any capacity in which he was called upon to do so.

‘The lady you buried here...’

‘Ah yes. So young and beautiful.’

‘You were with her at the end?’

‘I was called to her.’

‘Who called you?’

‘I believe she had asked for me. The gentleman who was dealing with her affairs sent for me.’

‘Who was this gentleman? What was his name?’

The Reverend Zachary Brooke wrinkled his brows. ‘It slips my memory...’

‘Was it Pearne?’

‘It could well have been. Now Your Highness mentions it, I believe it was.’

‘I see,’ said the Prince. ‘Take me to her grave.’

He and Lord Bute were led into the churchyard to I grave above which a stone had been erected. It was clearly a very new stone and as the Prince examined it he gave a cry of dismay because the name on it was not that of Hannah but Rebecca Powell.

‘This is not the grave.’

The priest nodded. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘But that name...’

‘Will your lordship explain?’

Lord Bute assured him that he would.

‘This is the grave,’ he said. ‘There are reasons why the name on the stone is not that of the lady who is buried here. I will talk to you on the way back. But at the moment rest assured that you are standing at the grave you have come to see.’

It was too bewildering, thought the Prince; it was like a nightmare that was made up of one fantastic scene after another. No sooner had he entered that empty silent house than the phantasmagoria had begun and it went on and on growing wilder and more macabre with every fresh image.

Oh, Hannah, Hannah, he thought, are you indeed under that stone? Is it true that I shall never see you again?

Lord Bute touched the priest’s arm and they left him there.

• • •

On the way back to Kew, Lord Bute talked of the future. A King’s life belonged to his people. He knew that the Prince was a man who would take his duties seriously. He must put the past behind him. He must forget this episode. It was sad in the extreme; it was regrettable. But had the Prince thought of what would happen if Hannah had lived?

He was the Prince of Wales, shortly to become the King of England. His marriage was a solemn affair. Did he not realize this?

Could he have presented a lady of the people—however accomplished, however good and charming—to his people and said: ‘Here is my Queen. We have several children already, born before wedlock and although we have lived together for five...six...or was it seven years?...we have only just sought the benefit of clergy on our union.’

Oh no. That was not the way for a King to treat his people.

He must think first always of the good of his people. He must never for one moment act without considering them. This was one of the penalties of kingship. There were blessings; but a King’s duty to his people came before anything else.

Lord Bute believed that when the Prince had grown away from this tragedy, when he saw it in its right perspective he would begin to see God’s hand in this; and he would cease to mourn as bitterly as now he could not help doing.

‘Hannah would have made a great Queen,’ said George.

‘There is no doubt of it,’ soothed Lord Bute. ‘But it was not the will of God.’

And that was something George had to accept.

A Sad Farewell

All through the summer months George mourned his loss. Sometimes he would awake from a dream in which he had heard Hannah, calling for him. Sometimes he dreamed of a grave in an Islington churchyard…of a new stone on which the words Rebecca Powell had changed to Hannah’s name. There was one nightmare which recurred now, in which he was digging up the grave; in this dream he exposed the coffin; he tore off the lid and there smiling at him was a woman who was not Hannah.

That dream was the most disturbing of all.

He never mentioned his dreams to Lord Bute. It was not that his dearest friend was not sympathetic; it was not that he murmured one reproach; but George himself felt a certain guilt because he had never confided in his friend, who had been everything a father could be to him.

The one person to whom he could most easily talk was his sister Elizabeth and he went to her room as much as possible. She was spending almost the whole time in bed, for she was more easily fatigued than ever. When he expressed anxiety over this she would smile and say: ‘It’s my miserable old body, George. But never mind. Such as I have to live for the spirit.’

And what a spirit she had. She never complained; her face would light up with joy when he visited her, as though he were conferring an honour; he felt humble in her presence and at the same time completely at ease.

He could tell her of the dreams. She listened with rapt attention. ‘As time passes they will cease to haunt you,’ she assured him.

Once she told him—this was some time after that visit to Islington when he had ceased to think of Hannah every moment of the day: ‘George, perhaps it was for the best.’

‘For the best!’ He was aghast.

‘Oh, my dearest brother,’ she begged, ‘imagine it. You, the Prince of Wales...to have married in this way. The people would never have accepted her.’

‘If you had known Hannah...She was so good...so gentle...’

‘I know, George, but they expect a Prince...a King...to marry a Princess, and do you think Hannah would have been happy...as a Queen I Imagine all the scandal, the intrigue. It was no life for her. No, George, I think she would have been unhappy, and you would have been unhappy to see her so. I know it seems hard to accept now, but I do believe that everything has happened for the best. The children are well cared for. You have seen them?’

‘Yes,’ said George. ‘They seem to have accepted their new parents without question.’

‘Children do. Thank God that they are so young. And perhaps in time you will come to thank Him for the way everything has turned out.’

‘Never,’ cried George.

But Elizabeth was sure; and she knew something which he did not; he was already growing away from the tragedy. If, she thought, he could have said goodbye to her, if he could have given her that last embrace at her death-bed, if the affair could have been neatly labelled Finished, it would have been easier to forget.

Mysteries have long lives, thought Elizabeth.

• • •

Elizabeth Chudleigh was in a quandary. She had very successfully skated over the thin ice of her relations with the Princess Dowager. The Princess avoided her as much as possible, but when they did encounter each other coolly affable. I am safe there, thought Elizabeth grimly.

But her luck was out—or was it? She could not make sure. Clever people never waited for luck to come their way; they find a means of making it do so. That was the way she had always worked.

She had her certificate of marriage; the entry was safe in the register; but that irritating old man the Earl of Bristol refused to die. In fact he had recovered and looked as though he would continue to survive for several more years.

‘And I do not grow younger!’ sighed Elizabeth. She had to admit she was well past her first youth. While one remained in the lower thirties one could, if one were clever enough, continue to be young, but when one hurried towards forty...ugh! And she still had not the title she longed for.

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