‘A fair-haired country squire kind of man?’
‘Yes, the very same oaf who tried to carry you off. Anyway, he seemed to realise that his friend was making an ass of himself and took him into a side room, where I assume they continued to play. By then the evening had been spoiled for us, so we finished our hand and left.’
‘And nothing was said about a duel?’
‘Good heavens, no. It had been an unpleasant few minutes, that’s all. Nobody thought of duelling. We went to supper and stayed up late over our pipes and our punch talking of this and that. And there it might have ended if we hadn’t been joined by some Frenchmen your father knew. My French is nowhere near as good as his and they were talking away nineteen to the dozen. Something they said seemed to amuse your father mightily so we asked him to translate so that we could all share the joke …’
He hesitated. A barn owl flew over the garden, just a few feet higher than the walls. From further off, a fox barked.
‘I can remember all of it,’ Daniel said. ‘All of the words, that is. Only the tune of it will be wrong, if you understand me. It was still a joke to us then, you see.’
‘Please, every word.’
‘Your father turned to me, pulling a long face. “Daniel,” he said, “you are in very serious trouble. In fact, you will be lucky to escape with your head. Have you any notion of the identity of our spluttering young friend whom you so grossly insulted?” Well, by then we were near the bottom of the punch bowl and we all began imitating the young ass’s bray, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, sir?” Your father sat watching us, grinning over his pipe, until we became tired of it and silence fell. “Well, Daniel,” he said, “my Parisian friends here tell me it is an open secret. He goes by the nom de guerre of Mr Brighton, but his identity is well known to every pawn shop and gambling hell in this fair city. Young Mr Brighton is none other than …” Then he couldn’t go on for laughing. I played the farce out, pretending to tremble, knees knocking. “Don’t keep me in suspense, old friend,” I said. “Who is this gentleman to whom my humble head is forfeit?” And your father, just managing to get the words out between gusts of laughter, replied: “Only the rightful heir to the throne of England, that’s all.”’
‘You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Daniel said. ‘Only I’ve no notion how you did.’ His voice was sad at all that laughter gone sour.
‘Sir Herbert’s desperate to marry him into the family,’ I said. ‘His daughter’s too young, so his stepdaughter has to do, poor thing. She came very near to telling me. Then there was the portrait. As soon as I saw Brighton, he reminded me of somebody. But why should it be poor Princess Charlotte?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you remember when the princess died?’
‘Of course not. I was only two years old.’
He sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how young you are, or perhaps how old I am. I do remember. I was in my last year at school.’ Another sigh.
‘You were sorry?’
‘I had no more strong feelings about the deaths of princesses than I have now. But she’d been popular and people mourned her. Then later there were some ugly rumours going round, so ugly that I’m sorry to have to repeat them. You’re cold?’
I must have shivered.
‘The child Henrietta said she was poisoned.’
He took his jacket off and draped it round my shoulders, in spite of my protests. It smelled comfortingly of violin resin and candlewax.
‘Yes, that was part of it. Charlotte was a healthy young woman, you see, with the very best of medical attention. She and the baby should not have died.’
‘But women do die in childbirth, even healthy ones,’ I said.
‘So they do. But some years later rumours started that she and her baby had both been poisoned just after the birth.’
‘Why would anybody do such a terrible thing?’
‘She was Queen Caroline’s daughter. In some people’s opinion, Caroline was well nigh a lunatic, certainly an adulteress. Certain distinguished persons at court were said to be determined that neither her daughter nor her grandson should ever come to the throne.’
‘But to kill a baby! It’s like something from the Middle Ages.’
‘Royalty is something from the Middle Ages.’
‘Did many people believe it?’
‘It was a persistent rumour, helped by another unfortunate fact.’
‘What?’
‘A few months after Charlotte and her baby son died, the gentleman who’d had charge of the birth, her accoucheur, shot himself.’
‘In remorse for killing her?’
‘No, there was no suggestion of that, even in the rumours. But he was an honourable man and, so it’s said, blamed himself for not foreseeing the plot and preventing their deaths.’
‘Daniel, do you believe this?’
‘No. I believe their deaths were sheer misfortune. But it seems some people, including Sir Herbert Mandeville, are determined to revive the rumour – with one essential difference.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Child, you’ve come so far. Can you not see it for yourself?’
I didn’t want to think. I’d thought enough and every time it seemed to have made things worse. We sat for a long while in silence. The day’s warmth had faded from the brick wall behind us and Daniel must have been cold in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, but he gave no sign of it.
‘Well, Liberty?’
‘The baby didn’t die after all. Charlotte died, but her baby didn’t.’
‘And was spirited away by Charlotte’s friends and brought up safely on the Continent, until the time came to claim what was rightfully his. Yes?’
‘No!’
‘I agree with you. It’s a fairy tale, a horrible, warped fairy tale. And yet it’s what Sir Herbert and Trumper and all the other greedy fools think they can get the country to believe. I’m sorry, Liberty. I’m ranting. But their idiocy has killed your father and could do so much other damage.’
He was trembling now, from anger not cold.
‘But why are they doing it?’ I said.
‘Why do men do most things? Money and power. Sir Herbert and his like have been running the country since the Conqueror. Now they’re beginning to see some of their power stripped away, and it maddens them. When they knew the poor buffoon William was dying and there’d be a mere child on the throne – a girl child at that – they decided to take their chance. Put in another king, one beholden to them, and no more nonsense about reform.’
‘But even if he were Princess Charlotte’s son, why should they suppose people would support him rather than little Vicky? He is hardly Bonnie Prince Charlie, is he?’
Daniel laughed bitterly.
‘So-called Bonnie Prince Charlie was a fat, red-faced, drink-sodden wreck, yet men died for him fewer than a hundred years ago.’
‘And my father died because of Mr Brighton?’
‘Yes. I can’t see any other explanation.