In any case, two prominent—and very fine—men waited upon my answer.
Eighteen
The Prince’s Mistress
1780…age twenty-two
Lord Malden continued to courier the correspondence between the Prince of Wales and myself, though as time went on, his discomfort with such a commission grew more outwardly evident. I sympathized with his predicament; the role of courtier cannot be an easy one, where one has to contain one’s own feelings and opinions. By this time, he was squiring me about, and we were often seen together at many public entertainments, giving rise to malicious gossip—taken as gospel, even by those who knew me well—that I was distributing my favors to the viscount as well as to His Royal Highness.
The Duchess of Devonshire counseled me to stop dithering and come to a decision. “Tongues will wag with less velocity once you make your choice, my dear. If it is to be the stage, you release yourself from any future connexion with the prince, and you may gallivant about with Malden till the sky turns green.” She lifted one of her spaniels onto her lap and began, absentmindedly, to stroke its muzzle. “But if you choose Georgie-Porgie, it will soon be clear to everyone that your new career, as it were, suffers you to be his and his alone. Tell me, my friend, is it love or money that guides your mind in this affair?”
“I’m a sentimental ninny where His Highness is concerned,” I confessed. “But as a mother, with a husband who shuns any form of labor, I must be a pragmatist.” I raised my feet and rested them on a brocaded footstool. “Truth told, I am rather fagged by the demands of Drury Lane. There are times when I think I shouldn’t miss it much, were I to turn my back on the stage door and walk away from the theatre. When I was a very little girl, my father used to tell me, ‘Once you have achieved your dreams, it’s time to set new ones.’ Perhaps I have done that after all. Perhaps it is time to move on, and the prince’s presence in my life has created the spark, as it were, for a brand-new flame.”
Georgiana, never one to shy away from gossiping herself, much as I adored her, lowered her eyes and leaned toward me, smiling like a cat after a particularly satisfying bowl of cream. “I must know—is there any truth to the rumors about you and Malden?”
I shook my head. “None,” I averred. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d started them himself.” I smiled. “He’s…Malden’s chaperonage is intended to distract the hounds from the actual fox.”
“He rather admires you as well.” The duchess chuckled at my metaphor.
“Who?”
“Fox, of course. Everyone’s favorite Whig. Brilliant man, you know. I’m a partial friend, but mark my words. History will claim him as one of England’s finest parliamentarians.”
“He always looks so dreadfully rumpled to me. And those bushy eyebrows! I can never look upon him without being put in mind of a beetle.”
Her Grace waggled a teasing finger. “Though society may judge a man by the cut of his coat, history has never judged a man by his eyebrows.”
That afternoon, Lord Malden arrived, bearing another billet, the envelope thicker than usual. My mind was not arranged for small talk; the duchess’s admonition was all I could think about. I pleaded a headache, and thanking his lordship for his troubles, I ushered him to the door myself. Then, seating myself at my escritoire, I opened the packet and gasped so loudly that Dorcas came running.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” she asked, rapping on the door.
“Yes—yes,” I stammered, bursting into sobs.
“It don’t sound ‘all right.’ Shall I bring Maria to you? You always say it calms you to be near her.”
“No—thank you, Dorcas. Not just yet. I—I must peruse this.”
In my hand I held a document of a most official nature. It was a bond from the prince, most solemn and binding, containing a promise of the sum of twenty thousand pounds to be paid to me at the period of His Royal Highness’s coming of age. True, the date would be some three years hence, but here was a protestation of his devotion so generous and sincere that it could never be sneezed at as merely a tempting ploy to bed me. The bond was the genuine article, signed by the prince and sealed with the royal arms. It was expressed in terms so liberal, so voluntary, so marked by true affection, that I scarcely had power to read it and feared I should mar the ink with my weeping. My tears, excited by the most agonizing conflicts, obscured the letters, and nearly blotted out those sentiments that will be impressed upon my mind until I breathe my last.
My emotions were in complete disarray. The indelicate idea of entering into a pecuniary arrangement with His Highness, on whose establishment I would then rely for the enjoyment of all that would render life desirable, both shocked and mortified me. And yet this was the spur that pricked me to render my decision, though it was not as easy a one as people might imagine.
“I have resolved to quit the stage,” I told Mr. Sheridan. It was the spring of 1780 and the prince and I had been corresponding and meeting in secret for many weeks now—our passion still unconsummated in the most literal sense. His Royal Highness and I had enjoyed numerous bankside walks at Kew, with many sighs exchanged and whispered words of love amid the animated conversations about our respective childhoods.
“I have been kept so secluded
