‘Yet, Your Majesty...’

‘Oh, be silent, you fool. The boy stays with his mother.’

‘Then if Your Majesty would consider appointing new tutors...tutors whom Your Majesty would choose...’

‘Ah, that’s a different story. If his grandmother vere here...’ The King looked mawkish. ‘There was a voman. I could trust her. I can trust no one else...’

Newcastle thought: She would have led you by the nose while she told you she was following you. Wasn’t that always her way?

‘She vould agree vith me that ve couldn’t take the boy from his mother.’

‘North should go, Your Majesty. Perhaps Your Majesty would consider substituting Lord Harcourt for North.’

The King considered the point, heartily wishing that he had not promised the Princess that she should have charge of the Prince.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ve’ll send the present lot packing, Newcastle, and appoint new ones. The boy struck me as being ignorant, Newcastle. Ignorant!’

‘It’s to be expected, Your Majesty, in the care of a woman.’

‘Bring your suggestions to me, Newcastle. Talk vith your council. Then ven you have them I’ll acquaint the Princess vith the names of the Prince’s new tutors.’

When Newcastle left the King the Duke was congratulating himself.

Very soon he would have the Prince surrounded by those whom he could trust to support him. If the King should die suddenly, the new King must have been imbued with the right ideas, which meant that he must have been brought up to respect the excellence of the Duke of Newcastle.

• • •

George was disturbed by the changes in his household. Dr. Ayscough had been dismissed and his place taken by Dr. Hayter, Bishop of Norwich. He did not dislike Hayter whom he considered sensible; he was the illegitimate son of the Archbishop of York, a very merry man, who enjoyed the company of women and did not allow his calling to interfere with his pleasure. George knew nothing of this; he would have been horrified if he had. Not that he knew much of the world; he was an idealist and was innocent enough to believe that his grandfather’s Court was full of people with similar ideas.

Lord Harcourt had taken the place of Lord North whom Frederick had appointed shortly before his death; he was proficient in little except hunting and drinking—neither of which accomplishments were of much use to the young Prince nor of any great interest to him. His sub governor was Andrew Stone, a brother of the Archbishop of Armagh; and George Scott remained as sub-Preceptor.

The Princess resented these changes and George was aware of her dissatisfaction as he struggled manfully to learn but without much success.

Augusta expressed her disquiet to Bubb Dodington who was constantly in attendance on her.

‘They teach him nothing,’ she declared.

And Bubb did not suggest for one moment that the Prince’s ignorance might in some measure be due to his inability to learn.

‘Oh, the difficulties of bringing up a Prince without I husband to help one!’ she sighed.

But even as she spoke she was conscious of warm satisfaction. She was not so desolate as she liked people to think.

She had her friends. And there was one...

Their relationship had progressed since the death of Frederick, as indeed it was natural that it should.

He was discreet but purposeful; and she had no wish that he should be otherwise. From the first moment he had entered that tent on a certain rainy day she had never wished him to be any different from what he was.

When she had been mourning for Fred, on that first day when she was stunned by the terrible shock and had not yet begun to realize all it implied, she had been conscious of him close to her.

He had waited for her to recover a little, only betraying by a touch of the hand, the softest caress, the meaningful glance that he was standing by waiting.

And then as the days passed he had become a little more daring, taking those little steps nearer and nearer towards complete intimacy—a state neither of them would have considered while the Prince lived. Fred might have his mistresses, but a Princess was different. She had been solely Fred’s wife until the end; even now she was carrying his child.

When that was born...then she would consider herself free.

Bute knew it even as she did. There was in the air a delicious awareness of the future. This little bridge to be crossed to...paradise.

So she allowed herself to be angry with George’s new tutors, knowing that very soon there would be one who not only would be closer to her than the husband she had lost but would also be guide and father to her son.

• • •

Four months after the death of Frederick, Augusta’s child was born; it was a daughter and she named her Caroline Matilda. As Augusta lay in bed, the child beside her, she reflected that this was the end of a phase; and in some measure it was like stepping out of captivity. Already in the last four months she had begun to feel alive as never before. She was a person of importance; she could form her own opinions; no need now to wait until her lord and master voiced his views before she declared her own. Now she could think as she liked, speak as she liked.

This would be the last of her children. That saddened her a little. She liked children; and she was pleased with her brood. They should be hers, entirely hers, she thought passionately; and no one—no King on Earth—was going to take them from her.

They might say that children in such a position needed the guiding hand of a father. They should have it; for she knew of one who would be to them all that a father could possibly be. He would be waiting now...As soon as she was well; as soon as she was able to receive him...The time to which they had both looked forward with such intense longing was very close.

It was perhaps a little unseemly to be thinking of that now, while she lay abed with the Prince’s child. So she would direct her thoughts from such imminent joys and think as the patent of fatherless children should.

George! Her thoughts could always come uneasily to him. She did not like his tutors. And why should she tolerate those she did not like? Why should she allow the boy’s grandfather to dictate to her? She was his mother; she cared for him as his grandfather never could care for anyone except his silly stun ting self. No, she was going to take charge of George’s upbringing, and no one was going to prevent her.

She thought of George’s father, grandfather and great-grandfather. Women! That was their chief pleasure and occupation. There was a strong streak of sensuality in the family; and George must be protected from it.

George at the moment was an innocent boy who knew little of the world. It was true he was just entering into his teens, but he was exceptionally innocent. She was going to keep him like that. He should not mingle with the boys of his own age who inhabited his grandfather’s Court. I hat place was a sink ol iniquity. How long would George keep his innocence there?

No, George was going to be protected, and she his mother would protect him.

What a glorious future! She was free to make her own life. She had done with childbearing and she had a fine family to show for the arduous years. She had cast off her yoke and now she would do what she wished. And one thing she wished was to control her son, the Prince of Wales, so that when the time came for him to be King of England his mother would be beside him—the true ruler of the country.

There might be one other to stand with her. He was coming to see her now. A little unorthodox. Oh, but he had been such a friend of the Prince of Wales!

His presence filled the bedchamber—such poise, such authority, such looks.

His smile was tender.

‘I trust Your Royal Highness will soon be restored to perfect health.’

‘Thank you, my Lord Bute. I am sure this will be so.’