The Prince and the Quakeress - Plaidy Jean - Страница 55

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When the doctors came they said they would bleed the King without delay, for it was certain that he had had a stroke. But when they tried to bleed him, no blood came.

Schroder knew what that meant. The King was dead.

Schroder also knew his duty. He had been primed in it by Lord Bute and although he served the King loyally he was not such a fool as to believe that he must ignore the masters of tomorrow for the rulers of the day.

Lord Bute had said: ‘It is imperative that if anything should happen to the King—and he is in his seventy-seventh year so it’s not unlikely—the first to know should be the Prince of Wales. It is your duty, Schroder, to see that is done. So in this unhappy event send a message immediately to His Highness and do not say "The King is dead". Write that he has had an accident...an accident will mean that he is dying; a bad accident will imply that he is dead.’

Those orders were clear enough and it was also clear to a man of Schroder’s intelligence where the orders would come from now on.

So while the doctors busied themselves about the bed and Lady Yarmouth knelt by the bed in a state of dazed apprehension, Schroder wrote on the first piece of paper he could find that the King had had a bad accident and he despatched a messenger with it to Kew, with the instructions that it was to be put in no hands except those of the Prince of Wales.

• • •

George was taking his morning ride in the gardens at Kew when he saw the messenger in the King’s livery riding towards him.

He pulled up and waited. His heart had begun to beat faster. He guessed, of course. They had been waiting for it so long; it had to come sooner or later and there could be no denying that here it was when he read Schroder’s scrawl: ‘Your Highness, the King has met with a serious accident.’

In those first seconds George was aware of a terrible sense of isolation. This brisk October morning was different from any other in his life. He had changed. He was not the same man he had been yesterday. He had become a King.

He shivered a little. He had visualized this so many times, but nothing is quite the same in the imagination as in reality.

There was such a mingling of emotion—fear and pleasure, pride and apprehension; a sense of power and of inadequacy.

But there was one he needed; and it was of him he first thought.

He told the messenger he might return whence he had come and turning to his groom he said: ‘Take the horses back to the stables and say one has gone lame. You have seen the messenger from the King. Tell no one you have seen this...if you value your employment.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

The Prince dismounted and made his way to the apartments of Lord Bute.

His lordship was at breakfast and as soon as he saw George he knew what had happened.

He hastily dismissed his servants and, kneeling, kissed George’s hands.

‘Long live the King!’ he cried. ‘And a blessing on Your Majesty.’

‘Whose first command will be to hold you to your promise, my lord.’

‘My life is at Your Majesty’s service.’

‘Now,’ said George, ‘I feel competent to mount the throne.’

• • •

While the new King and Lord Bute were preparing to leave for London, a letter arrived for George in the hand of his Aunt Amelia.

George took it and read it. It formally announced the death of her father and begged George to come to London with all speed.

Bute watched his protege sign the receipt for the letter, boldly and without hesitation: G.R. A King of twenty two, thought Lord Bute. That could be an alarming state of affairs—but not with George, innocent malleable George.

‘Your Majesty is ready?’ he asked when the messenger had gone.

George answered: ‘Let us leave.’

There was certainly a new purpose about him. The lessons had been taken to heart. How different it would have been if that extraordinary affair of the Quaker had not been satisfactorily settled. Bute grew cold at the thought. That had been a narrow escape from disaster, brought about just in time.

On the road from Kew they discussed the new position. George would have to be firm; he would be surrounded by some very ambitious men; and the most formidable of them was, of course, Mr. Pitt.

The sound of horses’ hooves made Bute put his head out of the carriage window.

He sank back in his seat grimacing. ‘As I thought. They have lost little time. Mr. Pitt is on his way to Kew.’

Mr. Pitt’s splendid equipage with his postilions in blue and silver livery and his carriage drawn by six fine horses had pulled up beside the royal coach. Mr. Pitt alighted—perfectly groomed, his tie wig set neatly on his little head, his hawk’s eyes veiled but glittering.

‘At Your Majesty’s service.’

‘You are kind, Mr. Pitt,’ said George.

‘As soon as the news was brought to me I set out for Kew to offer my condolences for the loss of your grandfather and my congratulations on Your Majesty’s elevation to the throne.

There are certain immediate formalities and I have come prepared to advise Your Majesty on the way to London.’

Pitt was ignoring Bute as though he were some menial attendant. Bute could say nothing in the presence of the King, but his fury was rising. George, however, had indeed been well trained.

‘Thank you, Mr. Pitt,’ he said, ‘but I shall give my own orders and am on my way to London to do so. I suggest that you get into your carriage and follow us.’

Pitt was amazed. He had expected to ride with the King into London. He had thought the young man would naturally have turned to him for guidance. Moreover, it was the custom for the King’s ministers to advise the King; and here was this boy—twenty-two and young for his years—telling the Great Commoner himself that he had no need of his services.

For once Pitt was at a loss for words. He bowed; got into his carriage and while the King and his dear friend Lord Bute rode on towards London, Mr. Pitt had no help for it but to get into his carriage and follow.

Bute was laughing with glee as they rode along.

‘I fancy Mr. Pitt is very surprised. He thought Your Majesty would almost fall on your knees before him. He has to be shown his place.’

‘We will show him,’ said George.’

‘His position is not exactly a happy one,’ smiled Bute, ‘for although he has taken power into his hands it is still that dolt Newcastle who is the nominal head of the government. That will make it easier. Your Majesty should summon Newcastle...not Pitt. Then our arrogant gentleman will realize that Your Majesty has no intention of being ruled by him.’

Indeed not! thought George. He would not be ruled by anyone. He was King. It was what he had been born for...reared for...and now he had reached that high eminence.

He looked at the countryside with tears in his eyes. His land! These people whom he saw here and there, did not know it yet, but they had a King who was going to concern himself only with their welfare. He was going to make this a great and happy country. He and his Queen would set an example of morality which would take the place of all the profligacy which had darkened the country bed

His Queen. He saw her clearly beside him. The loveliest girl in the kingdom—who but the Lady Sarah Lennox?

• • •

Pitt, regarding the new King’s strange behaviour on the road as youthful arrogance and uncertainty, arranged for the first meeting of the Privy Council to be held at Savile House. Meanwhile George, under Lord Bute’s direction, had sent for the Duke of Newcastle to wait on him at Leicester House.

There the new King told Newcastle that he had always had a good opinion of him and he knew his zeal for his grandfather and he believed that zeal would be extended to him.

Newcastle expressed his pleasure and was looking forward to telling Pitt that their fears regarding the new King were unfounded, when George said: ‘My Lord Bute is your good friend. He will tell you my thoughts.’

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