'yielded to temptation'. He assured his father that the affair with Nellie Clifden was now over, which to some extent was true, as, strictly speaking, I'm not known by that name. His father was much relieved to hear this and told him: 'As the future sovereign of the British Empire you must not, under any circumstances, stray from the path of righteousness. The consequences for this country, and for the world, would be too dreadful to contemplate.'
Discussions immediately got underway at Windsor Castle as to what to do about the future of the Prince of Wales. His father began to arrange for a five month tour of the Near East for his son, and the Queen drew up a list of seven young European princesses for consideration as Bertie's future wife on the principle that if one must yield to temptations of the flesh, it should be done in accordance with God's will in wedded bliss. But all these plans were overtaken by something even more catastrophic.
Prince Albert caught a chill from the cold, wet weather that prevailed during his stay at Cambridge and within two weeks died of typhoid fever at Windsor. Much to Bertie's distress his mother, in her grief, blamed him for the death of her husband, because Prince Albert was on his way to discipline his son when he contracted typhus. In the first stupefaction after the death of her husband she vowed fidelity to all his views and said she would: 'Apply them particularly to Bertie whose future has been planned so carefully by my beloved Albert.'
The Queen went ahead with arrangements for her son's tour, determined to carry out her late husband's wishes. So I was deprived of Bertie's company for five months while he toured Lebanon, Palestine, Egypt, Greece and a number of other countries in that area. When he got back on the thirteenth of June he regaled me with his accounts of shooting wild boar in Albania and shooting crocodiles on the banks of the River Nile. During his tour abroad the Queen had proceeded with negotiations for her son's marriage to the beautiful Princess Alexandra of Denmark.
Shortly after his return to London at his request I took him, one dark night, to see some of the slums where I had lived at one time. Horrified by the degradation of the poor and moved almost to tears, he began to hand out gold sovereigns to the starving ragamuffins who quickly surrounded us. He had to be restrained as I feared we would have a riot on our hands. I got him back into our waiting cab as quickly as possible and away from a demanding crowd that was threatening to get ugly and dangerous.
From the time of his sister, Alice's, wedding to Louis at Osborn House on the first of July until the eve of his own wedding to Princess Alexandra, we were on a constant merry-go-round of private dinner parties and visits to palatial mansions throughout the land. Where the Prince went, I was sure to be nearby. Shrewd hostesses of high society soon got the message that if they desired the company of His Royal Highness at any of their intimate dinner parties or any other social events, an invitation to attend would also have to be sent to Lady Pulrose.
We occupied adjoining bedrooms, usually with a connecting door, when we were entertained by the nobility at one of their country house parties, where flirtation, dancing and practical jokes were the order of the day. Bertie had little time for straitlaced prudes which was just as well for shortly after we all retired for the night, there would be much nocturnal toing and froing along the passageways of these great houses as people left their chambers to join up with their lovers in some other bedroom. There was no scandal for we were all members of an exclusive club of the wealthy elite who conducted their affairs of the flesh discreetly and quietly. Almost everything was condoned provided it was done behind locked doors.
Bertie loved the chaff and levity of this free and easy company with their good humoured wit and gaiety. Nevertheless, within this convivial atmosphere he still expected from his associates a certain deference, tolerance for his own idiosyncrasies, and respect for his royal rank. He did not stand obtrusively on his dignity but any undue familiarity was discouraged with an icy stillness that could be very embarrassing for the I offender. We went from one great mansion to another enjoying the pleasure and comfort and the sumptuous, warm hospitality extended by our hosts.
Like his mother, he had a gargantuan appetite for food. Nothing less than haddock, poached eggs, bacon, chicken and woodcock would do for him for breakfast. This greed for rich food and thirst for claret which he preferred to champagne and brandy was nearly his undoing when he mounted me with strangled gasps and breathless croaks after consuming to the full a twelve course dinner. When he finished with me he was blowing like a grampus with eyes popping out of an apoplectic, flushed red face.
'My God, he is dying!' I thought and, in panic, poured a full glass of brandy down his throat. Which didn't help matters one little bit for he was horribly sick afterwards.
We kept good company at my house in Catherine Place where, in the full glory of the grand hostess, I wined and dined them, doing my best to charm and beguile the Prince's closest friends with a familiarity that I had long taken for granted. Of all his companions, I took to Nathaniel Rothschild most, known to his intimates as 'Natty'. He was a brusque man with strong personality and didn't suffer fools gladly although he could be very kind and generous with those who sought his advice and help.
I was fascinated when, in answer to my questions, he told me a story about his grandfather, Nathan, the first of the Rothschilds to arrive in England. Apparently the Bank of England refused to discount a bill drawn upon Nathan by his brother, Amschel of Frankfurt. His messenger was informed that the bank only cashed their own bills and not those of private persons.
'I am no ordinary, private person,' Natty's grandfather exclaimed, highly indignant. “They will rue the day they refused my bill.'
Walking over to the bank, he took a five pound note out of his satchel and asked for gold in exchange. When the clerk gave him five sovereigns, Nathan then brought out a second five pound note with the same request. He kept this up for seven hours and ended the day with twenty-one-thousand pounds all in gold sovereigns but as he had nine clerks doing the same thing the bank had lost in one day two-hundred-and-ten-thousand pounds from its gold reserves.
Nathan and his nine men were at the bank again the next day. “These gentlemen refuse to take my bills, so I will not keep theirs,' he exclaimed to the restless customers who could not find any tellers free to help them. He solemnly warned the Bank of England that he had eleven million pounds in notes which he intended to change into gold sovereigns with the aid of his employees, even though it would take up to two months of his time and that of the bank tellers to cash the lot. The bank directors were in a panic and quickly agreed to send Nathan an abject written apology and a promise never to refuse a Rothschild's bill in the future.
The financial acumen of the Rothschilds was well known throughout Europe and, indeed, the rest of the world. Following Natty's advice, I increased my fortune considerably by careful investment. I knew the Prince lived far above his means and gossip had it that Natty and his two brothers, Alfred and Leo, often paid the debts incurred by His Royal Highness. As to the truth of this accusation, I cannot say.
Bertie was forced to be with his family at Windsor Castle for the celebrations of Christmas and we were unable to meet each other again until the third week in January of the new year because of other commitments he had at that time. We had a long-standing engagement to attend a house party at Kintburly, aptly called “The Palace of the Shires', one of the greatest of the stately homes of England, the ancestral seat of Lord Wawcott who was noted for his lavish hospitality.
On the train we shared a compartment with Freddie Stanley who had acted as the Prince's messenger when we first met at Curragh Camp in Ireland. He was still in the army and had a batman called Geordie who kept us well supplied with drinks throughout the journey.
I had a long lie in bed the first morning as Bertie was out shooting hares, rabbits or anything else that moved in the long grass of the moorland. A chamber maid informed me as I descended the stairs that His Royal Highness had injured his leg and was limping badly. Supported by Freddie and his batman, the Prince, with his right leg raised, painfully negotiated the ascent to his chambers. Apparently he had stumbled into a rabbit hole and sprained his ankle rather badly. When he got his boot and stocking off, I could see how swollen his ankle had become and applied a cold wet compress to the swelling while we waited for the doctor.
Suffering a great deal of pain, he was confined to his bed for the rest of the day. We ate our meals in his bedchamber and I tried to do all I could to alleviate his discomfort. About nine o'clock the doctor gave him a strong sedative that he assured me would dull the pain and allow His Highness a good night's sleep. I had drunk half a bottle of wine with our evening meal and was feeling heavy with drowsiness when I retired to my own bedroom.
In the fantasy of my dreams I felt skillful hands caressing my body, gently exploring the soft lips of my giny, conjuring a divine rhapsody of tenderness that held me in a heavenly rapture of desire. As if in a trance, my thighs were gently persuaded to open wide to receive angelic kisses that slowly crept up to the apex. Warm lips that, in my dream-like, half-awakened state, seemed real and yet ethereal, thrilled my sensitive private parts with exquisite
