Jean Plaidy: The Regent's Daughter

And now here was Charlotte spoiling the illusion that he was in the heart of his family – a reminder of her mother, the last person in the world of whom he wished to think.

‘The children have all been playing together,’ said Mrs Fitzherbert, sensing his discomfiture and doing her best to dispel it. She was reminding him that he must not blame Charlotte for her mother’s conduct; and she was right.

They would play a game together – the sort of game he played with Minney. Oh no, he could not play games with Charlotte. She would be whooping round the drawing room irritating him and he might let her know it.

So he could only ask Charlotte how she was proceeding with her studies and her riding. He talked about horses for some time, but Charlotte noticed how he avoided looking at her. Mrs Fitzherbert noticed too.

And after a while the Prince rose and said he would leave.

He kissed Charlotte coldly on the cheek; he tweaked George Keppel’s hair when the boy bowed to him, to show that he need not stand on the ceremony his grandmother had warned him he must show; he picked Minney up and held her over his head while she giggled and screamed: ‘Put me down, Prinney. You’re dropping me.’

And then he went out with Mrs Fitzherbert, slipping his arm through hers and calling her ‘dear love’.

And Charlotte, watching, felt a black anger rise in her that was half sorrow, because here was a family circle from which she was shut out.

George Keppel was with his grandmother waiting for Charlotte to join them; she had imperiously dismissed them, implying that she had something to say to Mrs Fitzherbert.

Charlotte stood in the drawing room with the blue ruched satin on the walls and the gilded furniture which seemed royal in the most comfortable way, just like Mrs Fitzherbert herself.

Charlotte knew that the Prince had curtailed his visit because she was there and she wondered whether he had implied to Mrs Fitzherbert that he was displeased to find her entertaining his daughter.

Charlotte believed in saying what she meant. The niceties of diplomacy were not for her. It was not honest, she had long ago decided, to say one thing and mean another; and she would not be dishonest if she could help it.

‘He left because I was here,’ she burst out.

‘He had only called in for a short time,’ Mrs Fitzherbert assured her. ‘He did mention that.’

‘Yes, when he knew I was here.’

‘My dear Princess, surely a father would be pleased to see his own daughter.’

‘Not this father; not this daughter.’ She laughed. ‘We don’t want to pretend, do we, Madam.’

Mrs Fitzherbert did not answer, but she looked sad.

‘Because,’ went on Charlotte, ‘if we did, it would be no use, would it? The truth remains however much we try to hide it.’

She lifted her head defiantly. Mrs Fitzherbert had taken a step towards her, her beautiful face softly maternal, her hand a little unsteady as she laid it on Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte’s defiance suddenly deserted her; she flung herself against Mrs Fitzherbert and hid her face. She needed every bit of restraint to prevent herself bursting into tears.

‘I’m his daughter,’ she said in a muffled voice, ‘and he doesn’t like me. It’s the truth. No one can deny it.’

Mrs Fitzherbert placed her hand tenderly on Charlotte’s head and held her against her. She did not deny Charlotte’s words; she was mutely telling her that it was so and that she was offering her sympathy.

‘Why,’ cried Charlotte. ‘Why … why ?’

Mrs Fitzherbert did not answer. What need was there for an answer? Charlotte knew it already and was not so much asking a question as expressing indignation at such injustice.

Charlotte gave herself up to the luxury of this sympathetic embrace.

Then she said: ‘You … you could perhaps speak to him.’

She looked up into Mrs Fitzherbert’s face and saw there were tears in the lady’s eyes; this was too much. Charlotte began to cry in a quiet, sorrowful and resigned way.

Then they were sitting side by side on Mrs Fitzherbert’s blue satin couch, Mrs Fitzherbert’s arm about her while they both wiped their eyes.

‘You … you will speak to him?’

Mrs Fitzherbert nodded.

‘If anyone could make him like me, you could.’

‘I will do my best,’ promised Mrs Fitzherbert.

Charlotte smiled wryly and thought: People should not have to be persuaded to love their children.

After a while she took her leave of Mrs Fitzherbert and went and joined George and Lady de Clifford in the carriage.

She was silent during the journey back to South Audley Street. George noticed the traces of tears on her face and was apprehensive. Charlotte rarely wept except in sudden anger and then the mood was over almost as soon as it had begun. But it was unusual for her to be so quiet. Clearly this mood was due to her encounter with her father.

Lady de Clifford did the talking. Her turban shook with dismay. The Princess had not been a credit to her governess. Upon her word, it would not surprise her to receive a summons from His Highness to be told that she was not considered suitable to have the charge of his daughter. Oh, no, that would certainly not surprise her, for by the manner in which the Princess Charlotte had behaved, he would most certainly be right.

‘Perhaps,’ said Lady de Clifford, ‘I should resign. Perhaps I should admit my unworthiness before it is pointed out to me.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ snapped Charlotte suddenly.

George looked from his grandmother to the Princess. In a moment Charlotte would leap up and fling her arms round Lady de Clifford’s neck, kiss her rouged cheeks and beg forgiveness. That was Charlotte’s way. Her dear, dear Cliffy must not talk of leaving her. Charlotte would be desolate without her.

Charlotte did no such thing, but she allowed the drive to proceed in silence.

Oh dear, thought George, she is put out. And he longed for Minney’s comfortable society.

In his grandmother’s house he was aware of the seriousness of the occasion.

When they were alone together, she said, ‘I’m angry, George Keppel. I’m boiling over with anger.’

‘With whom are you angry?’ George asked fearfully.

‘With fate,’ she said mysteriously.

‘That’s a funny thing to be angry with,’ said George with a giggle.

‘It’s not funny in the least. It’s t … tragic. You have to soothe your feelings; and that is what we are going to do now.’

‘How do you soothe feelings?’

‘I’ll show you.’ She was mysterious. ‘I’m glad,’ she went on, ‘that we haven’t got that silly little Minney Seymour under our feet.’

‘Oh,’ protested George mildly.

‘I know you think she’s pretty and you want to protect her and all that, which is just what you would do. She doesn’t need protecting. She has Mrs Fitzherbert to do that, and I can tell you this, George Keppel, she’s the best p … protector anyone could have.’

‘All right,’ said George. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Follow me,’ said Charlotte.

‘Where?’

‘You don’t ask questions. You obey your future Sovereign.’

She laughed suddenly, her resentment momentarily forgotten. She could always make George do what she wished by referring to herself as his future Sovereign.

She herself was not certain where she was going. All she knew was that she wanted to soothe her hurt feelings. She wanted some sort of revenge.

Her steps led her to the kitchen – always an attractive place. The servants at South Audley Street were in awe of her and at the same time they were delighted when she came down and ate fresh cakes as they came from the oven.