When we left of our beloved if instable Prince George IV had discovered the latest girl of his dreams – the widow Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert. As soon as she saw the direction of his affections, the packed her bags.
*****
Four members of the Prince’s household showed up on Maria’s doorstep before she had a chance to blow town. These worthies had some bad, bad news. The Prince, in a fit of despair, had stabbed himself. The only thing that might save him was the presence of his beloved Maria. His beloved Maria told the gents that, in her opinion, the Prince was loopier than a sailor’s knot and she had no intention of going near him or his fancy house. What would the papers say if she was seen entering that…that den of vice?
They pleaded, they begged, still she refused. One of them hit on the idea of a chaperone. Female, of course. If another lady of spotless reputation agreed to accompany her, what then? She agreed to this, but there was a fly in the ointment. Where would they find a lady of spotless reputation in London?
They finally settled on the Duchess of Devonshire. Why she was chosen, I know not. She must have been above and beyond in the reputation department because they went around to collect her, then returned to Carlton House. And there they found the Prince apparently where they had left him; on the bedroom floor, covered with blood. Someone had thoughtfully left a glass of brandy next to his head.
The Prince was conscious, if not coherent. The question of how it happened was never satisfactorily explained. The Prince himself gave several contradictory versions. What was beyond dispute was that the Prince, still in his nightshirt, was a bloody mess from a self-inflicted wound. What was also clear was that, except for the glass of brandy, no one had lifted a finger to help him. Very suspicious.
At the first sight of the Prince in his dishevel. Mrs. Fitzherbert nearly fainted. This must have been enormously satisfying to the Prince. Not one to squander an opportunity to get what he wanted, the Prince told her “Nothing would induce him to live unless she promised to become his wife, and permitted him to put a ring round her finger.”
Weakly, very weakly, one might imagine, Mrs. Fitzherbert agreed to become Mrs. the Princess of Wales. But, dash it all! There was a hitch. The Prince forgot to buy a ring before stabbing himself! Whatever were they to do? The Prince happened to notice that the Duchess had a perfectly serviceable engagement ring on her finger. And it looked like it might fit.
The Duchess gave up the ring. History draws a curtain over wither she ever got it back. Knowing the Prince, probably not. What is clear, however, is that once she returned home, Mrs. Fitzherbert regretted her decision. She formed the bizarre notion that the Prince and his buddies had grossly manipulated her. Women! They are so temperamental. She set out for France the next day.
*****
I don’t know about you, but if it were me, I’d be running off too.
Alice
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