David Dickinson - Goodnight Sweet Prince

For the first time in the meeting Sir Bartle Shepstone, Treasurer and Comptroller of that Household, looked pale. He stroked his beard anxiously. What was coming next?

‘As of this morning,’ Burke consulted an official document in his papers, ‘the Prince of Wales owes Finch’s amp; Co. the princely sum of ?234,578 14s. 9d. That is without the computation of today’s interest. Finch’s would demand the immediate return of all monies owed. By the end of the month at the latest. Furthermore, they would request that the account be closed. And any attempts to obtain similar facilities with other banks would not be welcomed in the City of London. Our community of bankers is a small one, gentlemen. Word gets round. In the City, word gets round very fast indeed.

‘But come, gentlemen.’ Burke had applied his pressure. ‘None of these things need happen. Lord Rosebery may never make his speech in the House of Lords. Finch’s amp; Co. may never make such a request. You have the answer in your own hands. All you have to do is to issue the necessary instructions. All you have to do is to ensure that nothing further happens to Lord Powerscourt or any of his associates. It is quite simple.’

With that, Burke gathered his papers and strode from the room as if he had just left a rather disagreeable board meeting.

‘We can see ourselves out, thank you,’ had been Powerscourt’s final words to the two courtiers. ‘I’ve been here before. I don’t expect to be coming back.’

Bells were ringing from the tower of Rokesley church. Happy bells. Joyous bells.

They could be heard in Oundle. They could be heard as far away as Fotheringhay where the noise shrank till the peals sounded like glasses tinkling on a tray.

Cheerful bells. Wedding bells. Bells for the wedding of Lord Francis Powerscourt and Lady Lucy Hamilton at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with the reception in Rokesley Hall.

Ten days had passed since the meeting in Marlborough House. Powerscourt had gone directly to Lady Lucy’s house, McKenzie patrolling stealthily around the sedate purlieus of Markham Square.

‘Francis! How nice to see you! How is Lord Johnny? Is he better?’

‘He is fine. He is taking a little light refreshment now. Brandy to you and me. But I have serious things to speak of, Lady Lucy.’

‘Serious things, Francis? What serious things?’

‘I have to go away again, I’m afraid. The way things have turned out in this dreadful affair, I think it would be better if I were out of the country for a while until things settle down. People need a period of calm, I think.’

‘Well, I shan’t feel very calm if you’re not here. I shan’t feel calm at all. How long were you thinking of going away for?’

‘I don’t know. Six weeks? Two months? Something like that. Unless, unless . . .’ Powerscourt left his unless hanging in the air. He was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

‘Unless what, Francis? Tell me, my engaged one.’

‘Well, I just thought . . .’

‘Out with it, you old plotter. You’re plotting something behind that sad face, I can tell. Out with it.’

‘The thing is . . .’

Powerscourt, so upright and courageous in Marlborough House that morning, was feeling less brave in Chelsea that afternoon, particularly with those bright blue eyes boring into him. Perhaps he needed some of Fitzgerald’s medicinal brandy.

‘Well, if something happened, then it might all be different . . .’

‘You’re speaking in riddles now like a conjuring person. Robert saw one the other day at a fair. Rabbits out of hats, that sort of thing. Do you have a rabbit, Francis?’

Then she knew. She could never tell how she knew, but she did. ‘Let me try a rabbit for you, Francis. I think what you were going to say might have gone something like this. Might have gone.’

She paused. She wasn’t going to let him off lightly, not after all this delaying. ‘Suppose we were married. Just suppose. It’s only an idea, you understand. But suppose we were married in a church with bells and rings and vicars, all that sort of thing. Then we could go away together on our honeymoon. And you wouldn’t have to leave me behind. You wouldn’t have to leave me behind ever again. How about that?’ Lady Lucy sat back in her chair and smiled a wicked smile.

Powerscourt laughed. ‘You’re right. That was what I was thinking of, exactly that. But then I thought it would be a bit sudden, getting married in ten days’ time. There are arrangements and things.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Lucy Hamilton, keen to be turned into Lady Lucy Powerscourt. ‘I’d marry you tomorrow, Francis, if you wanted. So ten days’ time is no problem at all.’

The Rokesley church clock said five to two. Powerscourt stood nervously at the altar, a pale Fitzgerald at his side. The pews behind them were filled with Hamiltons and Powerscourts, summoned at short notice. Powerscourt’s three sisters and their husbands were all there, the little boys dressed in sailor suits. Powerscourt’s only niece was bridesmaid to Lady Lucy. His sisters’ children, William, Patrick and Alexander, had met Robert on the battlefield of Waterloo in the top of the Pembridge house in St James’s Square a few days before.

‘You could be Marshal Ney who led the last great charge of the Imperial Guard, if you like,’ William had offered generously. ‘Or Napoleon.’

Somehow Robert had not been very keen on becoming Napoleon. He didn’t like the thought of being sent away to that island in the middle of the ocean. Its name temporarily eluded him.

‘I think I’ll be one of the British generals defending the line, if that’s all right,’ he said, looking with amazement at all the uniforms spread out before him.

‘You’ll probably get killed,’ said Patrick cheerfully. ‘Most of them were.’

Robert felt that a British death would be better than defeat and a French exile.

The organ was playing Bach. The choir looked at the music in their stands. The vicar had the happy smile that vicars wear to weddings. Powerscourt hoped Lady Lucy wasn’t going to be late.

‘Francis. Francis. For God’s sake.’

‘What is it, Johnny?’

‘You know I said I’d be fine for this wedding business. Well, I’m not. I’m feeling rather ill.’

There was a rustle at the back of the church. Lady Lucy, escorted by her brother and a trembling bridesmaid, was advancing up the aisle.

‘Hold on to this pew very tight, Johnny. If that’s no good, hold on me.’

Powerscourt saw himself suddenly supporting his bride on his left, trying desperately to keep his best man upright on his right.

Lady Lucy was passing the little boys in their sailor suits, penned in together under the stern eye of William Burke. She smiled at them, aunt-like. Well, nearly aunt-like. Robert was waiting in the bride’s pew, looking very solemn in a new suit.

Fitzgerald was swaying slightly now.

‘Hang on, Johnny. Hang on. The parson’s got to do his bit now.’

‘Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love honour and keep him, in sickness and in health?’

‘I will,’ said Lady Lucy, very firmly, smiling across at Powerscourt.

‘I, Francis, take thee, Lucy, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .’

There was a sudden commotion three pews back. Two of Powerscourt’s nephews were having a fight. William Burke was administering a terrible telling off. The way he frightens the Household of the Prince of Wales, thought Powerscourt, I’m surprised his children dare to breathe when he’s around.

The organ played the Wedding March. A couple of local policemen, watching the proceedings benevolently from the roadway, saluted as they came out. A line of sailor-suited nephews, joined now by Robert, formed a miniature guard of honour. Johnny Fitzgerald limped slowly forward and gave Lady Lucy a huge kiss on the lips.