And then Bubb came into the tent with Lord Bute.

There are moments in one’s life when the whole pattern of one’s existence can change. Augusta recognized this as one.

As soon as he entered the tent she was immediately aware of the shortcomings of all other men. Frederick seemed inane as he never had before and Bubb more vulgar than ever.

‘May I present Lord Bute to Your Highnesses?’

She was very ready to be presented. Surely, she thought, he is the most handsome man at Court. Why have I never seen him before? If he had been there, I must have noticed him. Who could fail to do so?

He was tall and his dignity was overwhelming. How much more kingly then Frederick! His manner was grave yet courteous; respectful yet admiring; and he had the finest pair of legs she had ever seen.

‘Lord Bute,’ she said, ‘I am surprised that we have not met before.’

‘I have only recently come to London, Your Highness.’

She knew whence he had come. His accent betrayed him. Surely it must be one of the most charming of accents. She had never thought it so before. Like all the family she had hated everything from beyond the Border, that stronghold of the Jacobites, for Scotsmen had never taken kindly to the Hanoverians. The recent ‘45 had started up there, and it was they who had harboured their Bonnie Prince Charlie. But Lord Bute was not of that kind. She was sure of it. He would be loyal to the crown. Bubb would never have brought him into the tent if that were not so.

‘You’re welcome,’ Fred told him. ‘Come now, Bubb, the cards.’

‘Your Highness.’ While fussy Bubb produced the cards and dealt, Augusta watched the newcomer’s strong hands. His calm expression betrayed nothing. She refused to admit to herself that she was unduly excited. An interesting man, she thought, whose conversation would surely have been more diverting than the cards.

They talked between games.

He had come down to London, he said, soon after the ‘45. He had felt that he no longer desired to stay in Scotland after that.

‘Perhaps you should remain there to guard our interests,’ she suggested gaily.

‘There is no need for that, Madam,’ he replied gravely. ‘The Battle of Culloden showed the Pretender what happens to those who threaten the throne.’

‘I see you are a loyal Scotsman.’

He took her hand and kissed it. It was very courteous and gallant and very bold, but they were in a tent and it was an informal occasion. Never had she felt so informal in so short a space of time.

Frederick wanted to get on with the game and was raising the Stakes, Bubb was his reckless sell and Augusta noticed that while Lord Bute did not betray any anxiety he played cautiously so as not to lose. How wise!

She waited for the game to finish, that conversation might be resumed. Then Lord Bute mentioned the theatre and it emerged that he was very fond of the play and since he had come to London it had been his great hobby to organize masquerades in his own house where he had insisted that all his relations join him and form a company to perform for their own pleasure.

Now Fred was interested. What plays? Lord Bute explained. Nothing was too comic, nothing too tragic. He himself was actor-producer and stage-manager. Even Frederick had laid aside the cards now; Augusta was leaning forward, her cheeks flushed A last mating subject made doubly so by such a fascinating talker.

‘You could be useful in our productions.’ Augusta pointed out. ‘I am sure the Prince will agree with me on that.’

The Prince did.

‘The Prince will wish you to visit us and see our theatre at Cliveden ‘

The Prince thought that an excellent idea.

It turned out that Lord Bute had lived for nine years on the Island ol Bute Where be bad amused himself studying agriculture, botany and architecture, which, Augusta declared, sounded quite absorbing. The Prince thought so, too. Only Bubb was a little bored but he never liked them to show too much interest in other people, being afraid that he might be ousted from the King’s favour.

Augusta sat back in her chair listening to lord Bute’s musical voice with the accent which had suddenly become so attractive, and the sound of rain pattering on die tent. Such a pleasant sound she would think it ever after. She hoped it would go on because when the rain stopped this pleasant tête–à–tête was likely to do the same.

But the elements were favourable and although Bubb went to the door of the tent and scowled up at the darkening skies, the rain persisted.

So in that tent she learned the background of this most fascinating man. He was thirty-four years old—six years younger than Fred—and had been born in Edinburgh. He was his father’s elder son and his mother had been the daughter of the Duke of Argyll. He had come south to Eton for his education and while there had met that gossip Horace Walpole; eleven years before this meeting in the tent he had married the daughter of Edward and Lady Mary Wortley Montague. Augusta, who was conscious of such aspects, immediately thought that he would have married a pretty fortune there. His wife and family were in London now with him; and he had been driven to the races in a carriage which he had hired from his apothecary.

It was a stroke of good fortune, he remarked, that he had come and been so honoured as to have been invited into the tent.

Augusta was delighted to note that Fred was as interested in Lord Bute as she was—perhaps not quite so much, but then Fred was superficial by nature.

She believed that he, like herself, was a little dismayed when Bubb announced that the rain had stopped and they could now start on the homeward journey.

Lord Bute took his leave.

‘The Prince will wish you to call on us at Cliveden.’ Augusta reminded him; and Fred endorsed this.

Never, declared Lord Bute, had he received a command which gave him more pleasure.

‘We shall look for you...soon,’ Augusta reminded him.

He bowed.

‘And where is your apothecary with his carriage?’

‘Madam, he left an hour ago. That was the arrangement we made as he had business to which he must attend.’

‘And what shall you do now?’

‘Find a means of getting back to London.’

‘My lord!’ She was looking at Fred who was never one to fail in hospitality.

He was laughing. ‘We invited you to Cliveden, my lord,’ he said. ‘There’s no time like the present.’

What a pleasant journey. The rain had freshened the countryside, bringing out the sweet scents of the earth as they rode along, Lord Bute entertaining them on such subjects as architecture, botany and agriculture which had suddenly become quite fascinating.

But Frederick soon led him back to the theatre and that was the most interesting topic of all.

And so they came to Cliveden. What a pleasant day I thought Augusta, looking at the tall handsome Scotsman—and all due to the rain!

The Family of Wales

George was in the schoolroom with his brother Edward. He was dreaming idly as he often did when he should be studying. He knew it was wrong; he knew he should work hard, but lessons were so tiring, and try as he might he could not grasp what his tutors were talking about. He was watching the door, hoping his father would come in, breezy and affectionate, with a new idea for a play, for George preferred acting to learning lessons. Mathematics were a bore, but history had become more interesting because his mother was constantly reminding him that he, too, would one day be a King, and this brought the aspirations of Henry VII, the villainies, in which he did not altogether believe, of Richard III, the murders of Henry VIII and the tragedy of Charles I nearer home. These men were his ancestors; he could not forget that.

But the lessons he really cared for were those of the flute and harpsichord. Edward enjoyed them, too. And their father was anxious that they should have such lessons; even that old ogre, their grandfather the King, loved music. This love was inherent, and it was said that they had brought it with them from Germany. Handel had been the very dear friend of several of his relations. George was not surprised.