woo their popularity; and the most elegant of bows would be expected from royalty. She had heard that his father, the King, strolled about Kew and talked to people as though he were a country squire.
She was surrounded by admirers. Not only her beauty was admired, but the fact that she looked so different from every everyone else. The women with their powdered hair, their elaborate styles, were not dissimilar; but Maria Fitzherbert was different. Not only was her hair unpowdered but her complexion, which was flawless, was untouched by rouge or white lead; she had a delightful combination, the youthful skin of a young girl and the fully developed bosom of an older woman. It was impossible not to notice her. Maria Fitzherbert, because she was different from all other women, was the belle of the ball.
The next day a paragraph appeared in the society columns of the Morning Herald. It said:
‘A new constellation has lately made an appearance in the fashionable hemisphere, that engages the attention of those who are susceptible to the power of beauty. The widow of the late Mr F … h … t has in her train half our young nobility; as the lady has not, as yet, discovered a partiality for any of her admirers, they are all animated with hopes of success.’
When Isabella brought the paper to show her Maria was annoyed.
‘It is absurd. I have only just arrived. And to talk of my partiality. It is quite ridiculous.’
‘Such notoriety is something we all have to endure when we become famous, Maria.’
‘Famous. For appearing at a ball!’
But Isabella laughed. Maria was fascinating. She was so different.
Maria surveyed the audience from the Sefton box at Covent Garden. Many eyes were on her. Perhaps, she was thinking, I will curtail my stay in London. It would certainly be more peaceful at Richmond; or perhaps she would go to stay for a while at Brambridge or with Uncle Henry.
Then she was aware of the changed atmosphere in the theatre. She was no longer the focus of attention. Something was happening.
Isabella leaned towards her and whispered. ‘This is to be a royal occasion.’
And into one of the boxes opposite stepped a glittering figure. His coat was of black velvet spattered with blue spangles and on his breast he wore a flashing diamond star.
A cheer went up as he came to the edge of the box and Maria saw a repeat performance of that most elegant bow; he was smiling at the audience which greeted him with such warm affection. So she could no longer doubt that the gallant young man she had met on the towpath was the Prince of Wales.
He sat down and leaned his arms on the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.
Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.
It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.
Isabella was chuckling.
‘Ha, ha cousin,’ she whispered. ‘I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.’
‘This is most … embarrassing.’
‘Many would find it most flattering.’
‘Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.’
The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.
Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.
But not Maria Fitzherbert.
The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if
She was surrounded by admirers. Not only her beauty was admired, but the fact that she looked so different from every everyone else. The women with their powdered hair, their elaborate styles, were not dissimilar; but Maria Fitzherbert was different. Not only was her hair unpowdered but her complexion, which was flawless, was untouched by rouge or white lead; she had a delightful combination, the youthful skin of a young girl and the fully developed bosom of an older woman. It was impossible not to notice her. Maria Fitzherbert, because she was different from all other women, was the belle of the ball.
The next day a paragraph appeared in the society columns of the Morning Herald. It said:
‘A new constellation has lately made an appearance in the fashionable hemisphere, that engages the attention of those who are susceptible to the power of beauty. The widow of the late Mr F … h … t has in her train half our young nobility; as the lady has not, as yet, discovered a partiality for any of her admirers, they are all animated with hopes of success.’
When Isabella brought the paper to show her Maria was annoyed.
‘It is absurd. I have only just arrived. And to talk of my partiality. It is quite ridiculous.’
‘Such notoriety is something we all have to endure when we become famous, Maria.’
‘Famous. For appearing at a ball!’
But Isabella laughed. Maria was fascinating. She was so different.
Maria surveyed the audience from the Sefton box at Covent Garden. Many eyes were on her. Perhaps, she was thinking, I will curtail my stay in London. It would certainly be more peaceful at Richmond; or perhaps she would go to stay for a while at Brambridge or with Uncle Henry.
Then she was aware of the changed atmosphere in the theatre. She was no longer the focus of attention. Something was happening.
Isabella leaned towards her and whispered. ‘This is to be a royal occasion.’
And into one of the boxes opposite stepped a glittering figure. His coat was of black velvet spattered with blue spangles and on his breast he wore a flashing diamond star.
A cheer went up as he came to the edge of the box and Maria saw a repeat performance of that most elegant bow; he was smiling at the audience which greeted him with such warm affection. So she could no longer doubt that the gallant young man she had met on the towpath was the Prince of Wales.
He sat down and leaned his arms on the edge of the box; the curtain rose; and glancing across at the Prince, Maria saw that his gaze was fixed on her.
Quickly she lowered her eyes, but not before she had caught the smile, the look of undisguised admiration.
It was impossible to pay any attention to the singing; she could not but be aware of him. As for him, he made no pretence of being interested in what was happening on the stage but continued to gaze at her.
Isabella was chuckling.
‘Ha, ha cousin,’ she whispered. ‘I see you are making quite an impression on his susceptible Highness.’
‘This is most … embarrassing.’
‘Many would find it most flattering.’
‘Isabella, I do not. I wish to hurry home after the performance. I think perhaps I should return to Richmond.’
The Prince was leaning forward. He had seen that they were talking together and seemed to want to hear what they were saying.
Did he often behave like this? wondered Maria. There was that disgraceful affair with the actress. How very embarrassing! He would have to realize that she was a respectable widow. But how convey this to a Prince who was quite clearly accustomed to having women run when he beckoned.
But not Maria Fitzherbert.
The curtain had fallen. The applause rang out. The Prince joined in it heartily. He had had a most delightful evening and he was grateful to the performers even if
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